Her kinsman mounted the dark grey steed, then departed, all of them spurring their stallions away from the direction of the riders coming this way. They galloped northward to join her father and Moray near Avoch.
Malcolm came before her and squeezed her hands. “Those are English forces coming this way, Tamlyn. That does not bode well for Glen Shane. Something is not right. Make for the passes and protection of the Sacred Mists.”
“Come with me,” she entreated, handing him the claymore.
He shook his head. “I wouldst ride with my sons, but this body is too old. I remain here and will aid Challon in protecting Glen Shane, so our men have a safe haven to return to. You know as well as I, we can hide them for months if need. We must prepare for that possibility. Speed haste to Glenrogha and close the gates until your Challon comes. I ride toward Lyonglen. Your man needs to be here with Longshanks’ men approaching. We have never faced war before, lass. I do not know how strong the warding of the Sacred Mists be anymore. They may not protect Glen Shane. Ride with care—you are not two months from your birthing bed.”
Leaning down, Tamlyn kissed her uncle. “Travel safe.” She waited until he mounted, before turning Goblin toward Glenrogha. Kicking the black mare in the sides, she cantered homeward.
As her palfrey crested the knoll, she could see the pennons of the horsemen in the distance. Her stomach dropped. It was not the golden leopards on scarlet of Edward Longshanks, but the golden eagles of Sir John Pendagast―Dirk’s brother.
“Bloody bleeding hell!” she gasped.
Whilst the storm’s rumble upset Goblin, spooking her, the eerie darkness worked in Tamlyn’s favor. The riders had not sighted her yet. At this point, they were closer to the passes and could reach them before she did, cutting off her avenue of escape. A flash of blinding white light split across the sky, striking the tall pines nearby and ripping into one. Goblin shied. Her knees gripping its barrel, it was all she could do to stay seated.
A second bolt of the jagged lightning hit another tree, even closer. Sparks flying, the top half of the evergreen crashed down to the ground in front of her. Goblin reared, hooves slashing the air, tossing Tamlyn off the horse and slamming her into the ground.
Stunned, Tamlyn forced herself to her feet. The riders bearing down on her had spotted the rearing horse and now spurred in her direction. There was no chance she would reach the passes on foot. Lifting her skirts, she dashed into the protection of the thick stand of evergreens. Her only hope lay in reaching the footpath, which snaked around Lochshane Mòhr.
Tamlyn nearly lost her sense of direction as she ran from one tree to the next, circling, and ducking between the heavy limbs. At one point, she attempted to double back, hoping to sneak behind them. If she could, she might be able to make a run for the passes.
A rider on a white horse suddenly loomed from a turn in the path, nearly catching her. She spun away, forced to turn toward the loch again.
Out of breath, heart racing to where it was painful, she ducked under one ancient pine and hid in the low hanging branches. Shaking, she curled into a ball against the trunk as riders drew closer. Their calls carried on the rising and falling wind. One rider passed directly in front of where she was hidden. She recognized his face as one of the mercenaries that had followed Dirk around. Evidently, he had led them to Glenrogha.
“Aye, that was Challon’s bitch. She cannot go far on foot, Lord Pendegast,” he shouted.
Tamlyn hugged her mantle to her, pulling the hood over her head and around her face. The black wool lined with wolf fur had been Challon’s Yuletide present. Rain came down, lashing the forest. Cold, penetrating. She was thankful for the warm protection of the fur-lined cape as the early April winds were chilling, as if winter refused to let go. And for a change, she was glad her husband had a penchant for black. The color now served to cloak her in this darkness.
Her breasts throbbed. She needed to get home and feed her babes. The pressure from the milk was discomforting.
Tamlyn huddled under the pine boughs, whispering prayers to Evelynour and Annis and hoping the men would pass. Off to the east, the sky turned a lighter grey, warning the storm would soon move on. No longer would she have the shelter of the preternatural darkness. As they were far enough away, she risked leaving the sanctuary of the pines, and stumbled toward the trail to Lochshane Mòhr, praying she could reach the loch before Dirk’s brothers caught her.
♦◊♦
Julian spurred Pagan hard. He had been uneasy since Damian, Destain, Guillaume and he had lost the tracks of the riders. A small force had been camped on the other side of Kinmarch near Lyonglen. At first, they assumed it was Scots rebels hiding out in the woods.
Ever since Wallace started raising hell in the south and Moray in the north, bands of young men were flocking to the woodlands, searching for these rebel rousers, hoping to join up. Trouble was brewing, no doubt about it. If Edward thought he was done with Scotland, he was one arrogant fool.
Moray was drawing scores of rebels to him, many from the nobility. Young men who hated to stand by while their fathers had signed the Ragman Roll or were still held prisoner. With the clear backing of the Auld Celtic Church, he wouldst be the perfect leader to unfurl banners around. Carrying ancient blood of the Picts, he was a new king in the making. One who could fashion a Scotland that might stand against the English power. Wallace drew hordes of commoners to him, enough to refashion the spine of the Scottish army so broken after Dunbar.
When the two met again Scotland would explode, and they would likely kick every Englishman out of the country. Edward would be annoyed in the extreme, as his eye was firmly affixed to France.
“This camp is fresher.” Damian shook his head, and kicked at the ashes of the fire, as the first drops of rain fell. “Shod horses, more than a score. I have a bad feeling about this, Julian. Just does not—”
Julian pressed, “Does not what?”
Damian shrugged, kneeling. Picking up some spilled oats on the ground, where horses had been fed, he crumbled them between his thumb and first finger. His eyes stared off in the distance, not really looking at anything. “I cannot say. Nothing here other than a score of horses and men, some fallen oats, but―”
“Out with it, man.” Julian was to the point of losing his temper.
“Just one of my fey feelings. These are not Scots, Julian. I see no signs here. I just…feel it here.” He thumped his fist to his chest.
Julian nodded with a harsh glare, not meant for his cousin but the situation. “Good enough. Your feelings have borne truth before. Which way did they go?”
“Tracks show they moved away from Lyonglen, heading out of Kinmarch.”
“South?”
“Southeast, but again my Scots sense tells me different than what I see with mine eyes. I get a sense they traveled off in that direction, hoping to lure us into following, farther away from where we need to be. They will split and circle back.”
“Glenrogha,” Julian said, fear crawling up his spine.
Damian nodded once. “We need to get back. Ride hard.”
Destain called out, “A rider comes.”
Whipping Pagan around, Julian drew his sword, ready to fight. So did his brothers. Oddly, he noticed Damian’s sword remained sheathed.
The rider galloped up the rise, as though demons chewed on his mount’s tail. He reined up abruptly, nearly causing the beast to rear as he saw he had stumbled onto horsemen. Then, as the lightning flashed and he recognized whom they were, he spurred forward. “Challon! Thank God! Riders under the pennon of the golden eagle on scarlet.” He passed him the sheathed claymore.
“Pendegast,” Julian hissed, frown at the long sword.
“They make for the passes. The mists might hold them from entering the glen. But something warns me the warding will not hold against them. They come with someone who already kens the way.”
“Thank the gods―yours and mine―Tamlyn is within the walls of Glenrogha—” Julian’s words
died as he saw the priest’s face. “Never mind explaining. Where is she?”
“Nay! She was at Kinmarch Kirk. Out of Glen Shane―”
“By damn! I will snatch the hair from her head.” Julian set spur to his steed. “Sir Priest, speed haste to Lyonglen. Warn them to close the gates.”
♦◊♦
Tamlyn’s foot hit a small rock embedded in the dirt, causing her to stumble. Slipping in the mud, her feet flew out from under her and she crashed hard to her knees and hands. A sharp pain racked her lower leg as her ankle twisted. She grimaced and bit her lip to keep from crying out. The deep abrasions on the palms of her hands stung.
Even so, she forced herself to her feet and onward, up the incline. She could circle Loch Shane, then use the far path to lead her back into Glen Shane. The trail was steep, rocky, but it would see her safely back into the valley.
Gasping for air, she turned to locate where the riders were. Panicked, she was not even halfway to the trail. Five English riders broke from the woods. Fanning out, they rode toward her.
Her heart nearly exploded, as she saw two more horsemen bearing down on her from the left. Shouts came. More riders appeared on the horizon to the right. The storm was still too dark to make them out. She had to act quickly or they would box her in.
The only avenue left was the loch.
Ages ago, her Pict ancestors had built an escape bridge across the loch―the last means in or out of the glen, should the passes be blocked. In the storm’s half-light crossing was dangerous. She had never used the stones except in bright daylight when you could look down into the water and clearly see the path left by the Ancients. She had to enter, land on the first rock correctly, or she would plunge into the icy depths of Lochshane.
Indecision held her rooted as she tried to consider the risk. Glancing around, she realized she had no alternative. Tamlyn rushed to the water’s edge, but paused. It was too dark to spot the first stone. Well, it was trust the ancient knowledge or face Dirk’s brothers.
She knew they did not want her.
They wanted Challon.
She would not gift them with a weapon to use against her husband. Tamlyn lifted her skirts, took a breath and walked out into the dark water.
♦◊♦
The rain stopped just as Julian spotted Tamlyn pause, glance back, then walk straight into the loch.
Hot panic filled him, as he recklessly spurred Pagan down the hillside.
Five riders were off to Tamlyn’s left and closing fast. Paying no heed to them, he knew his brothers and cousin would dispatch them.
“No!” Julian screamed, dismounting his horse while it was still moving.
In a dead run, he followed after Tamlyn. Instantly, he plunged straight into the water’s frigid depths. With the heavy quilted aketon, habergeon, boots and the sword with baldric, he sank like a stone. Floundering, he came up gasping for air. Blinking the water from his lashes, he tried to see.
Kicking hard to stay afloat, he spun around trying to locate her. The fog oddly rolled in, shrouding the loch. “Tamlyn!”
He batted his lashes repeatedly, not believing what he beheld. Treading water so icy it robbed his breath, he watched in utter horror as Tamlyn continued across the loch. Across the loch! The hem of her mantle dragged in the water, as she seemed to stride on through the surface. By the Rood! She walked across the deep loch! The fog thickened, swirled around her, and then, he could no longer see her.
It had not taken long for his brothers to dispatch three of the riders. The other two set spurs to their steeds, riding away as far and fast as their mounts would carry them. Julian dragged himself out of the water, teeth chattering.
Damian jumped from his grey steed and helped drag him up the bank. Behind them, Guillaume and Destain reined their stallions to a halt, leaping from the saddles and running straight for them.
Julian shoved away from Damian. “She is in the loch. Tamlyn is in the middle of that bloody lake. I saw her.”
Damian finally understood Julian was fearful Tamlyn might drown. “Not in the loch. She walks upon the loch.”
“What sort of madness do you speak?” Julian frowned, staring at his cousin as if he prattled in a foreign tongue. Finally, the words sank into his comprehension. “Upon the loch? Are you addled? Where is my wife? Where is Tamlyn?”
Damian grabbed Julian’s neck, pulling his face around so his attention focused upon him. “She walks upon the water…as if it were ground. See.” He pointed to the middle of the dark loch.
Julian saw the eddying fog, hovering close to the center. For an instant, it shifted. The ghostly veil parted to reveal the figure of Tamlyn standing there, the water sucking at her feet. Slowly, she seemed to be gliding away from the shore. Her figure faded as the Highland haar closed behind her once more.
Blood drained from him. Pulled with a siren’s call, he took several steps toward the loch’s edge and waded into the water.
“No, Julian, you will drown,” Damian growled, yanking him around and pushing at his chest.
“Damn it! Let me go. Tamlyn…my life…is out there. I needs must―”
Destain grabbed his other arm, aiding Damian to haul him back. “Julian, listen―”
“But Tamlyn…” A sob welled up through the fury, his mind still refusing to believe, even though he knew what he witnessed. “Tamlyn walked on water!”
“We saw,” Destain confirmed.
Julian shook his head. “She could only move over water by black magic.”
“’Tis an old Pictish trick,” Damian assured him. “I have never seen the likes before, but heard tales of such from my mother. ’Tis a water bridge.”
Looking down at the soggy ground, Damian searched until he found the track left by Tamlyn’s boots, and followed to the exact spot where she entered the loch. Carefully, he stepped into the dark waters. He stood, water lapping over his boots. Feeling his way, he stepped again. Then, a third time. The fourth time he nearly ended in the loch. Arms flapping he managed to keep his balance.
“The pattern moves, meandering.” He called and kept going. Step-by-step, he traveled away from the shore, until he was as far as the length of five men. He stopped and looked down in amazement, a grin lighting his face.
“God’s teeth, can you not see? The Picts built an escape route across the loch centuries ago. Your Tamlyn walks upon huge rocks. Just under the surface. They are black. Scots call it ashlar, what the true Stone of Destiny is made of. Smooth as glass, so they cannot be spotted in the water. One must be careful. They are slippery. The key: three stones to the right, five to the left, then seven to the right. The Picts liked odd numbers. My guess that pattern repeats. Even if someone tries to follow, if they do not see the configuration, you wouldst fall into the waters. Likely, a pursuer would be too fearful to try, thinking it was Highland witchery. I wouldst venture, dear cousin, your lady wife shall reach Glenrogha before we shall, since we have to ride all the way around the loch.”
Remounting Pagan, Julian stared into the mist, hopeful for another glimpse of Tamlyn to reassure him she was all right.
Only ghosts in the fog stirred on the loch.
♦◊♦
Tamlyn had to step carefully. She had never crossed using the underwater bridge in the spring. The water was icy cold and much deeper, sucking at her legs with the power of an undertow. In high summer when it was warm and the loch was down to summer pool, crossing the boulder bridge built by her ancestors was tricky, yet easily managed if you knew the secret. Smooth rocks were just under the crystalline water, the dark stones rendered invisible. You had to know the precise design, or you plummeted into the frigid liquid.
The footing was dangerous since the stones were slick and the spring pool was higher, rising higher, close to her knees in the middle as she neared the shore. The water was swifter, sucking at her legs, to where it was hard to pull her leg up. Each step was a struggle. The water fed from the snows of Ben Shane was glacial. Teeth clacking, Tamlyn pushed on.
>
As she dragged herself onto the bank, Tamlyn fell to her knees, so tired. Breathing hard and freezing, she knew it was vital to get to her feet and keep moving. As she sucked air, she kept telling herself that. Her body was not listening.
A snort of a horse and rattle of bridle fittings alerted her to someone’s nearness. Her heart stopped. Then, boots moved into the range of her vision. Lifting her head, her eyes traveled up the legs to the hauberk, then the scarlet surcoat with the golden eagle emblazoned across his chest.
“Lady Challon, we meet again.” John Pendegast smiled.
A cry of despair came with her exhale. She staggered up, nearly losing her balance and pushed back toward the loch. Prospects of crossing again loomed daunting, since his men were already waiting on the opposite shore. Still, she had to try.
He was on her before she blinked. Tamlyn struggled weakly, but the iciness of the water had sapped all her strength. She went limp as he dragged her to the horses. Dirk’s other brother, Ambroise, waited there. Her body was so chilled, but suddenly her blood turned icy.
“What do…you…want?” She shivered so hard the question barely got out.
John Pendegast grabbed her by the waist and hauled her up, dropping her on her feet. “Want? You, Lady Challon, of course.”
“Why?” She tried to tug her mantle around her body, as he tossed her upon his horse, and then mounted behind her.
John smiled as he set spur to the steed. “Why? Brotherly love, naturally. And all such noble reasons. One does not kill a Pendegast and get away with it.”
“A destrier…ki-killed your…brother,” she argued, desperately hanging onto the saddle, fearing to fall off and being trampled by the horse’s feet.
“Everyone has seen Pagan in action. That horse is as deadly a weapon as the sword your husband wields.”
Her breasts throbbed, painfully reminding her it was past time to feed the twins. “I must go to my children.” She bit her lip, sorry the plea escaped. She would never beg before these vile men, but she was so exhausted and just wanted to be home warm and safe, holding her children.
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 40