The path broadened out a bit and she rode up next to the portly monk. The sun was no longer directly overhead, and she gazed ahead at the next series of hills. Catherine knew that if she wanted to open this school, she would need to perform the tasks her two sisters would normally have done. She frowned and then sighed, missing them more than ever.
One thing that she had not dared to mention to her husband yet was that once she had the school open and functioning smoothly, she hoped to bring her sisters to Balvenie to stay. Laura and Adrianne were as accomplished in their studies as she was, herself. There was no reason why Catherine couldn’t put them to work as tutors in the school. John Stewart surely could not have any objection to that...she hoped.
First things first, though. She had to open the school. Catherine had received her husband’s approval to do it. Now, the most crucial step lay in getting the bishop’s aid, as well. This, she knew, was something she had to achieve in all haste. Something told her that if she were to leave it to her husband, it would be many months and the birth of an heir before he might feel inclined to speak on her behalf.
“To the bishop...” she murmured, more to herself than to her companion.
Brother Bartholomew turned and peered at her a moment before speaking. “Now, mistress, I hope that you understand that I’ve never met Patrick Hepburn, the new bishop here.”
Catherine nodded. “I know that, Bartholomew. But do not worry. Without divulging my intentions to a certain young woman whom I accompanied north, I did learn a few things on my own about him. I believe he will be agreeable to our cause.”
“I know that he was the son of the first earl of Bothwell, mistress. You don’t know him through your mother?”
She smiled at him. It amused her once again that every English monk she’d ever met had been so captivated with the scope of her mother’s connections. As far as they were concerned, Nichola Percy must be known to every nobleman in Europe.
“I don’t know if my mother has met him or not. Lady Nichola is an Erskine and not a Bothwell, Bartholomew. But from what I’ve been able to gather, a distant cousin of mine was at St. Andrew’s at the same time as Bishop Hepburn was the Prior there. So anyway, using that connection, my mother has notified him of our desire to open the school...and our need for his assistance.”
“We would have been much better off bringing Brother Egbert and Brother Paul with us, mistress,” the monk admonished. “‘Tis one thing for a man in his position to react affably to a letter, but faced with a woman of your tender years, he might simply hesitate. It would not be unreasonable for him to question your ability to undertake such a large task.”
“Unreasonable?” Catherine could hear the sharpness in her tone. “If that is the case, Bartholomew, the presence of two more English monks will do little to put his mind at ease. Nay, you and the good brothers came to the Highlands at my request. I believe it must be my qualifications and beliefs that convince him in the end.”
Brother Bartholomew gazed at her reflectively and then nodded. If he was going to cast his lot in with her, she thought, then he and the other two monks would have to recognize that she would be treated as an equal in teaching their prospective students.
“Aye, mistress. You’re right, of course. And this dream of yours will become a reality, I’ve no doubt of it.”
Thank the lord, she thought. At least someone was reading her mind at the proper moment. And she was certain that this monk, at least, believed in her.
“...And having the earl of Athol, not simply as your patron but as your husband, adds so much to your support and your qualifications. Why, to have a husband as wealthy and powerful...”
Catherine sighed and urged her mule on ahead. It was her own fault. If she’d not been quite so hasty in departing this morning, asking the early riser, Brother Bartholomew, to escort her, she might have had Brother Egbert or even Brother Paul to accompany her, and then she wouldn’t be listening to the portly monk’s old-fashioned ideas. Although the man had been true to his promise to their father when it came to teaching Catherine and her sisters so many years back, the monk still held onto a bag full of ancient notions about the place of women in a man’s world.
Well, so be it, Catherine thought, again nudging her mount faster along the path. He was here, and she was going to put him to work in the school as much as she possibly could. She’d known from the start that she couldn’t manage a school single-handedly.
This train of thought ended abruptly, and she reined her mare to a halt. Ahead in the distance, a stand of trees edged over the ridge of the hill. There, along the line of undergrowth that spilled downward into the glen, something had flashed in the midday sun.
As the vulnerability of their position struck home, Catherine yanked the head of her mule around and spurred the beast back in the direction they had come. Seeing a wooded hollow down the hill, away from the glen, she gestured for Brother Bartholomew to follow in silence. In a moment they were hidden in the shadows of the trees.
She didn’t know what danger--if any--lay ahead, but she was no fool. She was not about to walk blindly into any trap.
******
John Stewart had been understanding when his wife had missed the morning meal. More than likely she was still abed, he’d decided with a satisfied smile, trying to catch up on the sleep that he’d deprived her of for most of the night. But when she failed to join him for the noon meal as well, he found himself becoming a bit worried about her health.
Hell, he thought, ignoring the surprised looks on his men’s faces as he abruptly left the Great Hall. Waving off Tosh, the earl stalked toward the stairwell.
As he moved up the dark stairs, he scowled at his own foolishness. Nay, it wasn’t foolishness. He could at least be honest enough to admit that he’d missed her this morning, he told himself. So what if--during the entire time he’d spent listening to the troubles and resolving the disputes of his crofters--his mind had continued to wander to thoughts of Catherine. So what if--even later, when he’d been training with his men--her face, her eyes, her smile had continued to flash before his mind’s eye.
Hell, there was nothing wrong with a man being infatuated with his own wife! Of course not! By the devil, the newness of marriage alone was better entertainment than any he’d ever had.
A moment later, Athol paused upon reaching her chamber door. Lifting his hand to knock, he frowned, suddenly feeling like a fool to be knocking at a door in his own keep. He should just go right in, he thought, still hesitating. But then, what if she were still sleeping? A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. Wouldn’t it be much more pleasant just to slip quietly in and awaken her using some alternative method? The thought of making love to her now sent his hand immediately to the door handle.
“She’s not in there, m’lord.”
Athol immediately turned and faced the approaching serving woman. “Nay? Then where is she? Is she with my mother?”
Jean shook her head. “I just came from the dowager’s bedchamber. She hasn’t been seen there all morning!”
“With Susan, then?”
The serving woman ran her fingers over the bolts of wool cloth she was carrying. “The last I saw of her, m’lord, was last night. When I helped her dress to join ye in the Great Hall.” The woman stared at the cloth. “She...she didn’t appear to be needing me later. But this morning, when I came to see if Lady Catherine wanted help in dressing, all I could find were the clothes she wore last night.”
Athol felt the knot of worry forming in his gut. “Have you checked everywhere? The courtyard...the garden...the chapel?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“And you never thought to let me know?”
Jean flashed a defiant look at him. “When she wasn’t anywhere else. I thought she’d simply chosen to return to your chamber, m’lord.”
“Of all the...” Athol pushed into the chamber and scanned the room. By the bed, he stood still. Her presence hung in the air like a sweet mist. His concer
n suddenly grew tenfold.
Jean stood in the doorway. “If she’s not in your chamber, m’lord, then I do not think she’s still in the castle.”
He shot her a killing look. “What do you mean by that?” he snapped.
“Her traveling clothes...her cloak...they’re missing, m’lord.”
Athol fought to keep his anger from boiling over. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
The serving woman gave a small nod but did not lift her eyes.
“Where?”
“She’s been talking about the opening of the school...and asking...many questions about Elgin...about the best route to travel to the cathedral. She said she had to get there...sometime, m’lord...to see the bishop. I never thought, m’lord, she would even consider doing it alone!”
Stifling an urge to bang either his head or Jean’s against the wall, Athol strode from the room, glaring at the serving woman as she scurried out of his path. Turning his steps toward the Great Hall, the earl considered the stubbornness of the woman...of his wife. His mind flooded with all the dangers she might already have encountered on such a foolhardy jaunt. His shouts were fierce as he broke into the Hall. And of all things, it had been only yesterday that another crofter had spotted the bastard Adam of the Glen roaming the hills around the Balvenie Castle.
He would kill him. With his own bare hands, he would tear his throat out. If Adam ever dared harm his wife--even touched a hair on her rock-hard head--the villain would suffer a death that even Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor, would blush at.
Charging out of the Hall and into the bright sunlight, John Stewart cursed himself for allowing this weakness for a woman to creep into his heart. Why couldn’t he just keep her at a safe distance from him? Why did he have to become so damned attached to her? The last thing in this world that he needed was entanglement with a headstrong woman, particularly the woman he was married to!
The feelings that were bordering on panic as he crossed the courtyard to the stables told him that it was too late to question what was past. The fact was that he was indeed bewitched by his wife, and he would get her back if he had to chase Adam of the Glen to the very gates of Hell.
CHAPTER 12
The last vestiges of the sun’s light were being beaten back from the forest path, and darkness was pressing its claim on the two weary travelers. Catherine, placing a hand under the heavyset monk’s elbow, helped him to climb over a fallen tree. With a resolute sigh, he halted.
“I cannot go any farther than this, mistress. You’ll rob me of even my last breath if you force me to walk so much as another stone’s throw.”
“We are almost there, Brother Bartholomew. At the top of the last hill, we could see the smoke from Elgin. In fact, I’m certain I could see the very walls of the town.”
The man shook his head and planted his wide arse on the tree trunk. “Nay, Catherine. I saw nothing. Let me rest here.” The monk puffed out his rosy cheeks. “I say we are lost, and we are never going to get there. In fact, since midday I have been asking myself how I could let you talk me into leaving our mules behind in the hills. At least, with those animals carrying us, we might have had a chance.”
“I told you before, Brother Bartholomew. They would have made far too much noise.”
“Ah! And bring down the wrath of your imaginary thieves on our heads. I still think ‘twas nothing more than your imagination that we were in danger. The things you have forced me to do! Climbing those steep hills! I think Lucifer’s legions could not have devised a more devilish punishment. And all the time, the gentle paths of the glen below...beckoning...” He shook his head. “Nay, mistress. I have been all the way to Rome, and an experienced pilgrim like myself should never have...”
“Hush!” Catherine’s sudden gesture silenced the complaining monk. Taking the man quickly by the hand and dragging him from the path, she pulled him behind a large tree trunk. “They are coming! I heard a horse. Do you hear them?”
“Nay, but I’ll believe you. And when they come by, we can ask for help. Beg for a ride, perhaps. As good Christian men, they’ll be certain to pity us and...”
“Nay!” She adamantly shook her head, and then peered through the trees in the direction they had come. “As an experienced traveler, you surely know what robbers and cutthroats do to wayfarers who fall into their bloody clutches! Good Christians, no doubt! These must be the same good Christians who were waiting to pounce on us in the hills. They are searching for us, Brother Pilgrim.”
“For us?” For the first time, Catherine’s earlier warnings appeared to have sunk in. Clutching on to Catherine’s cloak, Brother Bartholomew looked anxiously into her face. “But what should we do? Where can we hide?”
She took only a moment to study their surroundings. “There is no place to hide here! Surely, we cannot climb these trees, for even if we did, they are certain to discover us.”
“Then what shall we do? Tell me, Catherine. What shall we do?”
“I say we run! Push for the walls of the city! And I believe we have not a moment to waste! Come, Brother! Run for your life.”
The words had not completely left Catherine’s mouth when the monk started up the path with more energy than she’d seen him exert all day. Finding this much better than his earlier whining, she fought down a grin and started after him.
Falling in behind him, Catherine considered their situation. Elgin had to be fairly close now. She hadn’t really seen or heard any indication that those waiting in the hills were pursuing them, but going at this pace, she and the portly monk were certain to arrive at Elgin Cathedral before nightfall.
And the first thing she had to do when they arrived was to send a messenger to her husband at Balvenie Castle. The last thing she wanted was to have him worrying about her after all the pleasantness that had passed between them last night!
Nay! Worrying him was not something she ever intended to do!
*****
Entering his own ornately decorated Great Hall, Patrick Hepburn, the young bishop of Moray, came to an abrupt stop at the sight of the irate earl of Athol.
“I assume, my good earl, that you are not here to congratulate us on the finish of the cathedral’s thirty-year restoration. You did see the middle tower, did you not? Aren’t the figures of Bishop Innes and...”
“Aye, I saw the blasted thing. And you assume correctly, Patrick. I’m not here for any such thing. I am here to retrieve my wife.”
“So!” A slow smile broke out on the youthful face of the bishop. “So the rumors we’ve heard are true. You have taken an English cleric as a wife. Really, such an act is so unusual...so progressive--”
“I’m happy to be able to amuse you, Your Excellency,” Athol growled, speaking through clenched teeth in his effort not to unleash his fury on the jolly bishop. “But Catherine Percy, my wife, left Balvenie Castle this morning to--”
“Oh, a woman?” the bishop said with mock disappointment.
“Aye, of course, a woman!”
“Without you? She left the castle without you?”
“Aye, without me!” Athol barked. “And she was accompanied by a damned English monk--”
“You are very kind, Athol, to be providing shelter to every English refugee fleeing...”
“I am not providing shelter to the bloody English monks. I was just trying to...”
“I, too, believe ‘tis a worthy cause.” The bishop nodded approvingly. “With those henchmen of Henry Tudor’s tearing through the abbeys in the south of England, ‘tis only a matter of time...”
“Right now, Patrick, I do not give a tinker’s damn about Henry Tudor, Suleyman the Magnificent, or the devil himself!” Seeing the bishop draw breath to reply--no doubt about the merits of helping clerics--Athol barreled on. “What I want to know from you is whether my wife has arrived here yet!”
“You believe that she was headed here?” Still thoroughly amused, the cleric looked down at his soft, white hands. “I hope she’s beautiful, my
good earl. A beautiful woman is the rarest of God’s creatu...”
“She was...she is!” John sputtered. “She was headed here. As I tried to say earlier, she left Balvenie Castle this morning with a blasted monk named Bartholomew, and they were definitely heading for Elgin Cathedral!”
“How delightful! But why would she want to come here without you?”
“‘Tis not so much that she wanted to come here without me as to the fact that she’s eager to solicit your help in starting a school at Balvenie Castle and...”
“How fascinating! And your feelings on such a project...?”
“Catherine has my consent. But still...”
“Is she not the eldest daughter of Nichola Erskine?”
“She is, Patrick.” Athol felt his temper about to explode. “Before nightfall totally descends, I need to know if she has arrived here at the cathedral!”
The bishop waved a hand vaguely in the air. “I remember receiving a letter from the mother. Based on what I recall of the letter, your wife is a very educated woman, quite capable of accomplishing the task she has chosen for herself.”
“I have no argument with anything you say. Is she HERE?!”
“No need to shout, John. I can hear quite well.”
Athol tried to calm himself, though his fingers itched to throttle the rosy-cheeked cleric. Suddenly, thoughts of Catherine’s threatened annulment raced through his mind. Nay, he thought, trying to dismiss the idea. They had already consummated their marriage. She had even seemed fairly...well, pleased with the arrangement now. Nay, their passionate moments did not speak of a woman unfulfilled. Still, he had to assure himself that she was not here. That this all too worldly priest was not providing her with a refuge against him.
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