by Terry Spear
Lord Wynfield gave him a stiff nod, and then allowed them to leave on their own.
“What was that all about?” Rob said in a hushed voice to Marcus as they headed for the entrance to the great hall, but Mary was no longer standing there. The two knights moved out of their way, their expressions full of distrust.
“I will speak to you of the matter when we are on our way,” Marcus said to his cousin in a low voice meant only for his ears.
When Marcus and his men reached the noisy bailey and the stables, he saw Mary rushing to meet with them, a couple of sacks in her arms. “I have brought some provisions for you, my laird.”
“Thank you, Mary. Why did you no’ go with Lady Isobel?” Marcus asked, unable to keep from frowning as he waited to hear her response.
“They are taking her to see King Henry,” she said in a whisper, her eyes filled with tears. “He will find her a husband. If he doesna take her as a mistress first. Her mother wished her to wed you. Her da would hear naught of it, but I dinna believe he would have sent his daughter to live with the king. He wished to know who she wed even if he couldna agree to allow the two of you to marry. I beg of you, find the wee lass and hide her somewhere safe. I fear the same man who killed her da wishes the earldom and the lady as his bride. He cares naught for her, mostly, I believe because of her fondness for you and her Highland heritage, but for the position and the monies her lands receive. If he doesna meet up with her on the road, I fear he will seek an audience with King Henry and attempt to convince him he desires the lass for his wife. The king is always looking for money to aid him in battling his brother. If the lord has enough money, he could easily buy her, thereby gaining her da’s title, the castle, and the revenues from the lands.”
Feeling as Mary did, Marcus nodded. “Do you ken which lord he is?”
“Nay,” Mary said, as Rob took the sacks of food from her and added them to his own bags. “As soon as word reached me that you were here, I had Cook prepare food for you, and then I tried to get your attention. Most feel as you do. That she is in grave danger and they wish you well. The men who escorted her left this verra morning only shortly before you arrived. Lord Wynfield couldn’t decide until today if he should send her away or no’. It shouldna take you very long to catch them. Hide her, my laird. If you can see a place in your household for me when she is settled, fetch me. Please.”
“Aye,” Marcus said, thanking her loudly for the food as if that was the reason for their brief visit.
“She belongs with you,” Mary said again.
“Aye, she does. I will fetch you when the time is right.” He would take the Highland woman to his keep no matter what happened in Lady Isobel’s case, though he didn’t wish to think anything other than that he would find her safe and then he’d hie her away to his home and hers.
With great relief, Mary nodded. He wished he could take her with them now. But it would only make the situation more suspect, and he was certain she’d slow them down.
“God speed,” she said softly. “Take the road through the forest to the west, and then where it branches off south.”
“Aye.” Then they were on their way, but not before he noticed Lord Wynfield had been monitoring their actions the whole time Mary had been speaking to them. Would he send men to ensure the Highlanders went home? If Marcus and his men took the road that Isobel and her escort traveled, would the baron’s men try to stop them?
Chapter 8
Isobel knew something was terribly wrong as she and her escort headed south, the wind whipping at her cloak, the frigid air chilling her, though her escort would not tell her what the matter was. Only that she must serve as a companion to the queen, and she feared King Henry might decide a husband for her. Or worse, he might take a liking to her and attempt to seduce her like he had so many other women. If Isobel could, she hoped to slip away and seek Marcus out. If no one ever learned she had joined him…yet, the way would be so dangerous for a lady traveling alone.
Lord Wynfield would not even allow her to take Mary with her, citing that the woman would not fare well on the journey. If it had not been for that, Isobel would have forced Lord Wynfield to relent and allow her maid to accompany her after seeing Mary’s eyes filled with tears as she tried so bravely to see Isobel off without shedding them. Just as Isobel had fought her own at having to leave Mary behind.
Isobel suspected her father had decided she should wed an English lord and was sending her somewhere else far away so she would never see Marcus again. And that ensuring Mary stayed behind would be in the Highland woman’s best interest. No one would treat her ill in her father’s household, but they might in someone else’s. Mary could very well be ridiculed for her Highland roots. So with a heavy heart, Isobel had left Mary behind, a woman who had been like a mother to her.
Why this morn, of all times with a storm threatening overhead and the weather so bitterly cold would Lord Wynfield have insisted Isobel leave at once.? Why had he not waited until her father had arrived to see her off, if this was what her father had wished?
He had been gone for ten days, which was not all that unusual, but she kept expecting him to return home at any time. And he had not.
Lord Wynfield’s mood had not improved by morn, and he was not one to question when in such a state. Although she did anyway. Which had only earned her more harsh words from him. She suspected it was because he wished to wed her and if she was in the king’s court, Wynfield would lose the chance.
Which made her think about Laird Marcus McEwan again and finding a way to safely slip away.
She knew her father had only allowed her mother to invite Marcus to their holdings because of how close her mother had been to his, and seeing him had helped her mother overcome some of her longing for her Highland home. Her father had respected and admired Marcus’s father and his clan as he had never had any trouble with them, so there was no difficulty there. And it was her mother’s dying wish—so Isobel had been thankful her father had honored it. But her father was a Norman, through and through, and if he hadn’t fallen in love with her mother on one of his journeys to quell the differences between the Scots and the English and met her mother then when she was traveling close to the border, he would have married an English lady.
Isobel and her escort rode at a trot, the wind whipping around them, chilling her through to the bone. It would take them an interminable amount of time to reach Westminster. If she’d had a choice, she would have enough sense to stay out of weather like this. The rain again threatened to spill from the darkening clouds. Creeks that had once trickled through the forest now overflowed their banks.
She shivered incessantly, trying to gather what warmth she could from her horse, drawing her cloak tighter as the three knights, three guards, and one maid rode single-file along the narrow trail.
Although it was dawn, the darkling day made it appear as though the sun had sunk below the horizon again. The men escorting her did not speak a word and their silence unnerved her even more.
The maid, a waspish young woman that hated all things Scottish and who had not held her tongue about such whenever Isobel had been within hearing, was the only one who made a sound. She grumbled and grouched and made the journey even more disagreeable.
“Halt your caterwauling,” Sir Edward, riding behind the maid, said.
Then, except for the howling of the wind through the trees and the clopping of horses’ hooves on the leaf-littered trail, no other sound intruded.
Until Isobel heard an arrow slicing through the air and a knight’s grunt before he fell from his horse. Then the sound of chaos reigned.
Her heart in her throat, she glanced around to see if she could aid the knight and was about to dismount when Sir Edward shouted, “Go, my lady!”
She feared he would not have said so if he didn’t believe they were doomed to fail at protecting her.
Heart racing, Isobel felt a surge of panic. Where was she to run to? She did not know which direction…wait, no, she di
d. The arrows were coming from the east. Her first instinct was to head off the trail to the west through the woods. But she thought to race back toward the safety of her castle in a northerly direction also. Riding along the trail, she would be an easier target though. And she suspected her attackers would assume she’d go that way first.
She fled west away from the only home she’d ever known, her blood chilled, as the rain decided at that moment to add to the chaos and fell in drenching sheets.
She couldn’t allow herself to think of the fate of the men or of the sour-tongued maid as Isobel hurried to make her escape. All she could think of was to hide herself and return to help anyone she could later when the danger was past. If the danger passed.
The sound of swords clashing caught her attention as she continued to ride through the tangled forest. She prayed her men would kill every last one of the brigands and that her own men suffered no losses. When she came to a river rushing south, blocking her path, she headed north, knowing she could never ford the rising waters. She assumed no one in their right mind would be out in this weather, except for those in her escort and the men who had ambushed them, and she would be safe enough on her own, if she did not freeze to death first.
She didn’t stop pushing her horse, fearing her own men hadn’t survived the skirmish when no one followed after her. If she reached a village soon, she could send word to Lord Wynfield about the plight of her escort and herself.
The rain was still coming down so hard, she didn’t see a man’s approach from the east until it was too late.
“Looky what we have here,” he said in a deep, gruff voice. He rode up beside her and jerked the reins from her frozen, mitten-covered hands.
Her heart gave a start, and she realized then how ill-equipped she was to handle anyone out here. Although she did have her sgian dubh, and she would use it if she had to. She didn’t recognize the man, though she was certain he was a common enough thief, his brown hair and beard shaggy, his blue eyes glacial, and his clothes patched and filthy.
“What are ye doing out here all alone?” His eyes roamed over her as if he was sizing her up for the price she might bring.
Still, she nearly sighed with relief. He wasn’t one of the men who had attacked her escort or he would have known who she was and what she was doing out here all alone. That didn’t make him any less dangerous though.
Water streamed down his face because he had no brat to form a hood like she had. Bulky and haggard, he looked like a ruffian, not a trained knight or mercenary or whatever the men were who had attacked hers.
“My escort is back there,” she said, her voice hushed in case any of the men who had set upon her escort were following her as she motioned in the general direction. “They were attacked and our assailants are searching for me now.”
At least she assumed they would be, unless her escort had killed them and were now searching for her.
The man looked back over his shoulder. “Would they pay a ransom for ye?”
“They are armed knights and would no doubt prefer killing you,” she said quite seriously, with no hint of amusement in her tone of voice.
He seemed to think about that for a moment
She again considered her dagger. “I must go. They could catch up to me at any moment.”
He frowned at her. “Would your people pay a ransom for ye?”
Her mouth parted as she stared at him in disbelief, then finally found her voice. “Not to a dead man. Were you not listening to me? These men killed my escort.” Though she prayed it wasn’t so. “They are knights! Think you they would let you live if you knew about their traitorous deeds?”
For a moment, he seemed to consider her sincerity. Then he nodded. “For now, go free.” He let go of her reins and then as suddenly as he had appeared, he melted back into the pouring rain and disappeared into the woods. That’s when she heard horses coming, and she cursed silently to herself for allowing the man to hold her up for so long.
Her blood pounding with fear that those following her would catch up, she rode as fast as she could through the tangled woods, praying her horse would not stumble and injure himself, until she found a clearing and saw a farmer’s cottage. At once, she realized she could not stop there or the men following her would most likely kill the farmer and his family, too.
That’s when she thought she heard a Highlander’s brogue as a man shouted, “Isobel, stop!”
Marcus? It couldn’t be.
She jerked her horse to a stop and turned, not believing it could be who she thought it was.
But it was. Laird Marcus McEwan, his cousins Rob, Finbar, and two more of his kin headed straight for her.
“Marcus,” she whispered, not believing her eyes. “Oh, Marcus.” She wept with joy as she galloped toward him as he rushed to join her.
His grim expression told her they were still in grave danger.
***
Marcus wanted nothing more than to pull the bedraggled Isobel from her horse and hold her close, to assure himself she truly was all right and to assure her he was here for her now. But he had to be prepared to fight. He just had to get her somewhere out of this weather before she caught her death. And he couldn’t believe his fortune that not only had they met up with her doomed escort, only able to save one of her knights and kill their attackers, but that they had managed to find her before anyone else did.
“The men,” she said, her words a whisper and over the pounding rain, he could barely hear her sweet voice.
She was as he last remembered her, except wetter and exhaustion was evident in the dark circles beneath her eyes.
“The brigands who attacked your escort are dead.” He didn’t want to tell her what had become of her own men. “One of my men carried one of your wounded knights back to Pembroke Castle.”
“The others?” she asked, so fretful, he hated telling her the truth.
He shook his head.
“The maid?” she whispered as if it hurt to ask.
“Drowned in the river when she tried to cross it.”
Isobel let out a pitiful gasp, her face so pale he thought she might faint. He drew closer and grabbed her hand. Despite wearing mittens, her hand was cold and wet “We must get you out of this frigid wind and rain.” He feared she would be ill before long. “I would have you ride with me, but it would slow us down. I am afraid others may learn you were no’ taken hostage as planned and come for you. I will have to be free to fight. Can you ride alone, my lady?”
If she couldn’t, he would take her in his arms and gladly. But he still felt they would be better off if she could ride her own horse for longer.
“Aye.” Her voice was determined, but she looked as though she would not make it.
“It willna be long.” But he knew it would. Even traversing a short distance would make it seem as though they rode forever in this kind of weather.
“The cottage,” she said.
“Nay.”
She nodded and they traveled side by side in the open meadow, two of his men following behind, Rob ahead of them, Finbar and Alroy flanking them. They stayed close as it was so difficult to see in the pounding rain, they could easily lose sight of each other.
Marcus was grateful they had found Isobel unharmed, but they were far from being safe from danger. He wanted Isobel to talk to him, to ensure she didn’t drift away into a silent, cold death. But he didn’t want to talk to her about her da’s demise, or anything else that might upset her.
“We will return for Mary and take her to my home the first chance we get,” he finally said.
“Mary.”
“Aye. She wishes it. She said Lord Wynfield would not allow you to take her with you.”
“Aye.” Isobel’s voice shook with cold. “Why…why would she want to leave?”
“Because you had left.” He glanced again at her. She was staring at her horse, her head bent in the driving rain, trying to keep it out of her face, her hood hiding her expression.
“
You will be my wife.” He’d decided the moment he’d learned Lord Pembroke was dead. Nothing would stop him now. Though King Henry could be a problem if some of her suitors brought the issue to him.
She jerked her head around and stared at Marcus, her blue eyes wide and lips parted.
“If ‘tis what you desire.” He tried to smile, but he was so cold himself, he felt his frozen face would crack with the effort. He wished to give her a choice, but if she was not certain about him, he would ensure she changed her way of thinking.
“But…but my father…he will not permit it.”
With incredulity, he stared at her. Lord Wynfield had not told her about her da’s death? God’s wounds, man. Now Marcus was left with the task?
Marcus had been certain the baron would have warned her about it, and the danger she might face on her journey to see the king.
Och, Marcus could not be the bearer of bad news when she could be near death herself. He would wait until they were safe and dry and warm again. He wanted to wait until they were home in the Highlands, but he felt she should know of her da’s death before that.
Would it ease her suffering if he told her the whole truth? That her da was not who she thought he was? He wasn’t sure that was something he should speak of now. Mayhap never. She believed she was the daughter of a Norman earl when she was truly the bastard daughter of a Highland laird. He wanted her to know she was all Highlander, no part of her heritage being of Norman descent. On the other hand, the knowledge she was a bastard and not an earl’s daughter, raised by a man not her da, and shunned by the one who was—might not be the most welcome of tidings for the lass at this point.
She didn’t say anything more, and he lapsed back into silence.
After they had traveled for some miles, Isobel warily asked, “Why are we not headed for Pembroke Castle?”
He thought she realized he was not taking her home. Not when Lord Wynfield had the notion of sending her away. What if he did so again? Marcus knew she’d be in danger all over again. He would not permit it.