But I could see only snow cascading from the sky. It fell relentlessly, filling the air with tumbling white flakes as far as the eye could see. It devoured the footprints left by the horse and me, it burdened the trees, it disguised whoever might wish to hide. My heart thundered and I was breathing heavily.
Silence. There was not a sound beyond those I made myself.
The cry had been nothing, I assured myself, a trick of my own thoughts. Yet the hair stood on my nape. He was not here, that imp, for he was dead. He could not be here. He could not have called to me, not as he did that fateful day…
I pivoted and plunged onward, leading the horse at a reckless pace. Desperation made me heedless, even as I knew I could not outrun a specter.
Yet I tried.
Mountainous crags rose on either side of the road, their summits lost in the low clouds, the chill that emanated from the stone enough to make me shiver. The road plunged and climbed, jammed with snow in its depths, icy at its heights.
I heard that phantom cry half a dozen times, and each time I redoubled my pace. I had no need for the stories of locals to taste fear. I yearned for the pungent heat of those taverns and their more pungent guests, the swill they offered as an excuse for fare and ale, the muttering of peasants seizing a moment of pleasure.
There was, however, no question of turning back. Inverfyre was my sole chance of salvation, for it was at Inverfyre that the Titulus was held captive.
My scheme to infiltrate Inverfyre, my plan to approach with caution, was lost in this mad flight. I was consumed with thoughts of warmth and companionship, of heat and sustenance and shelter. I did not know the hour or the day, I did not know how long I had persisted in this folly of fighting the snow. All was white and I had made so many guesses as to where the path lay that I feared I was utterly lost.
The horse and I were encrusted with the snow, nigh as two drifts ourselves, when night began to tighten its cloak about us.
“Gawain!”
Did I but imagine that the voice was fainter, as if weakening, as if realizing that I would not heed his cry? Guilt prodded me but I would not look back. I dared not.
Indeed, I had not looked back when it mattered.
I peered desperately into the flying snow before me, hoping I did not imagine the distant silhouette of a tower against the sky. I lunged toward it with new vigor, nigh running when I spied the gates before us.
Laughter carried to my ears, the laughter of men, the voices of women, and the chatter of children. Surely, there could be no sweeter sight than those fortress gates opened wide, golden light spilling from the homes sheltered within!
I had no time to compose myself, to temper my haste or hide my relief, before a man cried out and pointed directly at me.
My heart clenched, though I could not discern his words. There was no place to which I might flee. He beckoned to two other men, the three immediately turning their steps toward me. The entire company within the walls turned as one to gawk at the newcomer, a stranger identified and singled out.
My heart sank. Evangeline had indeed prepared for my arrival.
But there is nothing to be gained in flinching from one’s fate. I gripped the reins and strode onward as if I had expected to be met at the gates.
Bravado can oft yield unexpected reward, after all.
III
“Connor, you old fool!” the first man roared inexplicably, then strode toward me, his arms wide. I glanced behind myself, but I was his sole potential target.
In a flash, I understood that I had been mistaken for a man known here. My spirits began to lift. It was the manner of moment that made me question whether divine providence might exist after all. It seems absurd that I could be so fortunate, but fortunate I have been in the past, and fortunate I clearly was again.
“What possessed you to take the old road on a day so wretched as this?” this stranger demanded, before enveloping me in a hug so hearty that he nigh cracked my bones.
I laughed, then punched his shoulder as if we were familiar. I had listened enough these past weeks that I could make a fair approximation of their manner of speaking. “Old habits die hard. You know as much.”
He was a tall man, roughly dressed. His grip was strong, revealing that he was well-muscled, and I felt a pair of blades hanging from his belt beneath his cloak. I liberated one of them, just because I could, and slipped it beneath my cloak and into my own belt without his noting my deed.
Habits do indeed die hard.
“Too stubborn by half, that is what you are, Connor MacDoughall,” a second, more heavy-set man, declared gleefully as he too granted me an embrace. “You insisted there was no need of a new road, nor of the tax collected to pay for it. Trust you to prove your own claim, whether the deed killed you or no.”
The three men, all crudely-dressed, gathered round and laughed at my folly, ale vibrating in their voices. The third punched me amiably in the shoulder—evidently he and Connor were not so intimate. They all sounded of an age with me, but their faces were etched with harsh lines from the fierce clime. Swords and daggers hung from their belts, ice crusted their brows and capped their heads. They were virtually indistinguishable from each other, save by their relative sizes, all looking like the spawn of Winter himself.
I realized that if I looked as they did, my own mother might not have recognized me. Therein lay the root of their error.
The horse nickered as the third man scratched its ears with unexpected affection. “I would never have sold Mathe to you, had I known you would try to kill the beast.”
It seemed remarkable that he might have owned this steed before, but I had seen with my own eyes that horses were few in this land and it was not far from York if one rode directly to Inverfyre. To be sure, I was not in a mood to ask many questions. I had made a life of seizing what opportunity presented and I seized it now.
“He fares well enough by me,” I declared, my thoughts racing. Perhaps by the time the snow melted from the lot of them, they would be too drunk to realize that I was not their comrade.
Perhaps I should ensure their drunkenness.
“And this is the greeting I get, after all this time?” I demanded in mock outrage. “Not a cup of ale nor a wench to be seen, just a grousing by way of greeting, even though the beast is fatter than when you sold him to me.”
The men laughed, even the one who had previously owned the horse. He nudged me, a familiar gleam in his eye. “There is ale, but they are wanting a rich price for it on this night. If you have enough coin to fatten the horse, perhaps you have some to share with your comrades.”
“Perhaps I do.” I peered into the village, noting how it had changed since last I was here. Poverty and hardship showed in faces that had once been plump with prosperity. “Where are my comrades? I see only a company of rogues intent upon emptying my purse.”
This was met with much laughter and back-slapping, and we moved as one toward a hut. A crowd clustered outside its open door, the lantern light from within spilling out upon merry faces. The alewife herself was a sharp-faced older woman with little flesh on her bones. There was a blue glaze across her eyes and she held her head at an angle that indicated at least partial blindness, though she moved with such surety that I immediately wondered.
Her prices were high, but I could not blame her for making the most of what opportunity she had in this remote place to better her circumstances. A baby cried from the hut behind her as she ladled out four cups of her brew at my request and her hand shook as she glanced back over her shoulder.
“It is no weather for a sick child,” I said as I deliberately folded her hand over the coins I paid. I knew the moment she realized that there was one too many in her grip. The corners of her tight mouth lifted for a heartbeat, then her fist disappeared into the folds of her cloak.
She peered at me, as if unfamiliar with kindness from strangers, and I wondered again how much she could see. The weight of her gaze made my flesh creep, so odd were her eyes. I
had the sense that she could read my very thoughts, that she knew my identity and my intent. I feared for a moment what she might say.
“No, sir, it is not,” she said. “I thank you for your trade.” She nodded and turned to her next patron.
We stepped away, clicked our pottery mugs together and drank deeply. It was even worse swill than that in York, but I was so glad to have reached my objective that it might have been the richest mead. I drained the cup in one grateful gulp.
“Woho! You will be beggared before the night is through, at such a rate,” teased the first man.
I took a closer look at my companions now. The man who had greeted me first was dark and the tallest of the company, his bushy brows supporting a ledge of snow. Since our greeting, he seemed inclined to listen to the others more often than speaking himself. Indeed, his gaze oft strayed over the village, as if he sought someone. He was a handsome man, in a rough way, and more than one damsel tried to flirt with him while passing. I silently named him “Tall.”
The second was stout, robust apparently in both appetite and manner. He was fair, and his cheeks bloomed with healthy color. His laugh rang loudly and frequently, and he seemed a merry companion. “Fat” would serve as his name.
The third—he who had owned the horse—was quieter and darker, a small, sinewy man who was probably much stronger than he appeared. His eyes were dark and his nose sharp. He seemed to regard all around him with a certain grim pessimism. In keeping with the other names, I called him “Dour.”
“Too many have come to see whether the laird can work a miracle,” said Tall, then drank of his ale.
Miracle? My ears pricked, though I said nothing. Talk of miracles oft indicates that I am in the vicinity of a religious relic worthy of my attention. I wondered…but peered into my cup as if disinterested.
“And thus the ale is in short supply,” added Dour. “Rural folk have no ability to plan for such matters.”
“True enough,” concurred Fat. “Were we in London, or even Edinburgh, the alewives would have made triple their normal batches to ensure supply, but not here.”
Dour frowned into his cup. “Though the town prices would have been no lower than the prices here.”
They laughed together at this truth, then acquired another round from the alewife, each paying for their own this time. Again, I was generous, and this time, she spared me a smile. I asked after a stall for the horse and we walked toward the home of the villager most likely to accommodate me.
In the course of conversation with these rural louts, I learned a considerable amount of useful information.
Item the first—the old laird of Inverfyre had died some five years past and, being without a son, had chosen a comrade of his named Fergus of Balquhidder as the new laird.
Item the second—approval of Fergus’ leadership had not been universal, and that approval had been eroded by Inverfyre’s failing fortunes after the old laird’s death. Fergus lived lavishly while those beneath his hand suffered poverty.
Item the third—there had been whispers Fergus’ lairdship was cursed. It had long been held that the Lairds of Inverfyre were divinely favored as custodians for the relic of the Titulus Croce. Fergus had not displayed the relic upon Christmas and Easter, as tradition demanded, thus feeding speculation that he had lost both it and divine favor.
I shall spare you the tedious and heroic details associated with this custodianship, as they were typical of this ilk of tale. I endeavored to not yawn, knowing full well this first laird had simply pilfered his prize from some Outremer shrine. Not unlike others engaged in such deeds, he had then embellished his thievery with tales of portentous dreams, divine favor, and miracles that flowed as a result of his own extreme piety.
Item the fourth—challenged openly by my newfound comrade “Tall” some weeks ago, Fergus had insisted that he would display the Titulus upon this night—the feast of Paul’s conversion—that the dissenters be converted to the truth, just as Saint Paul himself was said to see the light.
I had inadvertently arrived at the perfect time.
Further, if Evangeline was associated with Fergus and the maintenance of his suzerainty, her motives in stealing the Titulus were very clear.
I sipped of my ale with satisfaction, intrigued that there had only been speculation upon the absence of the relic for the past five years. I knew that the true Titulus had been in my father’s possession for fifteen years.
I stifled a smile at the unexpected cunning of these barbarians. Evidently, the exalted dead laird had seen fit to do a little forgery of his own after my father and I had visited his keep. How interesting. How enterprising. How uncommon.
Perhaps Evangeline had participated in his ruse. Perhaps she was responsible for the ruse and had to recover the genuine relic to hide her guilt. She certainly had the wits for it.
I confess that I found myself even more intrigued with my lovely thief than before.
I looked up at the keep looming high before us. It was built into the side of the hill and had the advantage that it would be spectacularly easy to defend. Why anyone would trouble to defend a sorry piece of turf in this wretched clime was beyond my comprehension, but I can appreciate good construction.
It oft provides boon or bane to my missions. I looked now, assessing the chances of slipping unknown into the stronghold of the keep. It would be difficult, for only one gate broached the wall, and the wall rose high on either side. Behind the main gates and the tower that must be the hall, a pointed roof was starkly etched against the snowy sky. A crucifix graced its summit, just as I recalled. My pulse quickened in recognition of my ultimate destination.
How sweet that the relic was in the same reliquary from which I had stolen it before! I had half-feared that Evangeline would have hidden it elsewhere, but even if she had, on this night it would be in the chapel.
One night was all I needed, after all.
“The truth is that it matters little whether the relic is there.” Tall spoke with such vigor that we all fell silent to listen to his words. He looked suddenly taller, more regal, a man with something to prove. He spoke with the ferocity of a man convinced of his view. “Fergus is a poor leader, either way, a man too far into his dotage to lead Inverfyre.”
“The old laird chose him, Niall,” Fat reminded him.
“The old laird was wrong,” Niall, or Tall, said flatly. He looked both grim and determined. “We should seize whatever tools we must to oust Fergus afore it is too late, and you know it as well as I do, Tarsuinn.”
Tarsuinn, or Fat, looked uncomfortable, and so he should for this was traitorous talk. “He has agreed to produce the relic on this night,” he said, new caution in his tone.
“So he has. What we must decide, comrades, is what we shall do when he fails.” Niall flung aside his cup. “Or what we shall do if he claims to have succeeded.”
The men shifted uneasily, the other two clearly not at ease with Niall’s rebellious tone.
“We owe no less to Inverfyre and the memory of our old laird.” Niall looked fiercely at each of us in turn, seeking support he did not find. I held his gaze for a moment, surprised by the fury in his eyes, knowing that he must be puzzled by the indifference in mine. The chapel bell began to toll and Niall spun away from the group, striding toward the chapel without glancing back.
Tarsuinn cleared his throat. “It will be a relief to know the Titulus where it belongs. Even Niall’s worries will be set to rest.” Dour nodded vigorous agreement to this and Tarsuinn was obviously encouraged. “Indeed, Inverfyre has been blessed as no other holding in all the lands of the King of Scotland.”
I bit my tongue at that. To be blessed was clearly a question of perspective. Sicily is blessed, in my opinion, as are Venice and Constantinople. They are blessed with sunlight and prosperity. No place where a man had to endure such cold as this and such hardship as could be seen in the faces of these residents could be called blessed, not to my thinking.
“It would be a sorry
day that its laird proved himself an incompetent custodian of God’s trust,” Dour intoned, and the pair looked to me.
I smiled. “Let us pray that none are disappointed on this night.”
“There is trouble in the wind this night,” Dour said beneath his breath and even Tarsuinn looked uneasy. I stifled a smile.
Trouble, in fact, had bought them each a cup of ale.
The chapel was of goodly size and solidly built. I pulled my hood over my head as I crossed the threshold, hiding my features in its shadows. Though still damp, the chapel was warm enough to melt the snow and light enough to reveal that I was not in fact Connor MacDoughall.
Whoever that man might happen to be.
He might even be here. How strange a prospect!
I found myself conveniently near the altar, surrounded by fighting men who were clearly sworn to the lord. Niall was not alone in his dissatisfaction, apparently, for there was more than one skeptical expression in this company. The doors were closed behind the assembly of villagers and warriors, allowing a meager warmth to gather. Prayers were murmured all around me, but I did not pray.
Instead, I seized the chance to study the chapel that I would have to raid again without anyone realizing what I did.
The hewn stones that formed the walls were huge but expertly fitted. None of them would be loose, I knew. There was solely one door and the sanctuary itself was simply a large room. There was not so much as an alcove in its walls and no shadow where one might hide. The floor was stone, and I guessed that no crypt was carved out of the rock below.
There was only one window, high above the table that served as an altar. It was small and filled with a colored glass depiction of the crucifixion. The window was quite splendid, if small, and could fetch a goodly price. I was certain it had not been there before, as I had used the opening to fetch the Titulus the last time.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 38