Shortly after they left, Robina complained that the cold wind had given her a headache and asked Darach’s guardsman to escort her back to Glenshiel.
“Take care not to become lost along the way,” Aileen teased as the two of them trotted off.
Reining in his horse beside hers, Henri watched the pair depart. “Why do I suspect that those two are definitely going to become lost on their way back to the keep?”
“Ro had best be careful.” Aileen shook her head. “Uncle Farlan is an ambitious man. He will never allow her to marry a mere guardsman. If he catches them together, he will marry her off to some lord in a trice.”
Their small hunting party of four kept riding a while longer, but they found no more quarry, and the pretty dusting of snow that had started at dawn had steadily become heavier. There were several inches on the ground now—and it showed no sign of stopping.
When they came to a clearing in the forest, Magnus looked up into the gray sky, shielding his eyes with one gloved hand. “The winds are getting stronger. And I dinna like the look of those clouds.”
“Aye.” Aileen raised the hood of her heavy cloak against the pelting snow. “We should return to the keep.”
“Without delay,” Henri agreed.
The four of them turned and headed back toward the north. They left the forest behind, riding hard for the river. But the winds began to shift and strengthen, tugging at Aileen’s heavy cloak. The delicate snowflakes she had admired this morning had turned into a mix of snow and hail that was soon falling in thick sheets.
“We need to get back to the stone bridge,” Henri shouted. “Before we cannot even see it in this storm!”
“Nay, I know a faster way,” Brochan argued. “The old monks’ bridge. ’Twill shorten our journey by half an hour. Follow me!”
When they reached the river, they followed it south instead of north, riding as fast as they dared. The banks grew steeper until it became a gorge, the water far below rushing over rocks and boulders and chunks of ice. The winds shifted and then shifted again, seeming to gather strength each time, driving the snow and ice down onto them relentlessly. The pellets felt like tiny arrows, despite Aileen’s heavy garments.
“In France, we would call this a blizzard!” Henri shouted as the storm worsened. “Is there any shelter nearby?”
“We Scots dinna fear a bit of snow,” Brochan retorted. They skirted the edge of the high riverbank. “The old monks’ bridge isna far now.”
By the time they reached it, the falling snow and ice had become so thick, they could barely see the far bank of the river.
“There!” Brochan called out, pointing through the relentless sleet. “We can cross there!”
A narrow bridge finally came into view. ’Twas made entirely of wood, hand-hewn planks supported by tall, spindly tree trunks, with low wooden railings on each side.
“That is a footbridge!” Henri shouted over the wind. “It is not meant for horses and riders—especially not in an ice storm!”
“Exactly how old is the old monks’ bridge?” Magnus asked uneasily
“’Twas built by the whiskey monks—the ones who used to live in the abbey over in the glen.” Brochan nodded to the west.
“That abbey has been empty for almost a hundred years,” Aileen said. “Merciful Mary, I wish we hadna ridden so far from the keep. What was Grandmother thinking?”
“The bridge is perfectly safe!” Brochan yelled impatiently. “I’ve crossed here many times before.”
“In a storm like this?” Henri shouted back. “That footbridge is not strong enough to hold all of us. Especially not when it is already coated with ice. We cannot risk—”
“We dinna have a choice, Frenchman!” Brochan retorted. Apparently done talking about it, he wheeled his horse.
Before any of them could stop him, he galloped straight toward the bridge.
“Brochan!” Aileen shouted, certain that her brother was about to plunge to his death in the river far below.
Heedless of their calls to stop, he spurred his mount and raced across the wooden bridge, his stallion’s hooves striking hard and fast, knocking loose a few of the planks—and dozens of icicles—that plunged down, down, down, before splashing into the river.
“Great suffering saints!” Magnus yelled in astonishment as Brochan reached the opposite shore, still in one piece, his black horse scrambling up into the snow on the far side of the bridge.
Laughing, Brochan wheeled toward them, raising a fist in triumph. “Perfectly safe!”
“You reckless beef-wit!” Aileen shouted at her brother. “You scared the life out of me!”
“No time for being scared, lass! Come along quickly, all of you.” Brochan waved for them to follow him. “Mayhap a bit slower than I did it.”
The three of them looked at each other through the hail that slanted through the air. Aileen wiped melting ice out of her eyes, her heart pounding wildly.
“One at a time,” Magnus suggested.
“Aye,” Henri agreed reluctantly. “But we need to go very slowly.” He reined his horse aside to allow Magnus to take the lead. “My destrier is the heaviest of our horses. I will cross last.”
“Aileen, I will lead you,” Magnus said uneasily. “Follow me—but dinna start onto the bridge until I am nearly off. It mayna hold two riders at once.”
He reined his horse forward, cautiously following the path Brochan had cut through the snow. He paused at the entrance to the bridge. Aileen held her breath as she watched her brother start across, slowly, cautiously.
He was above the deepest part of the river gorge when his chestnut stallion suddenly slipped on the ice. One of its hooves caught on a loose plank.
It tried to kick free and panicked, rearing up.
“Magnus!” Aileen yelled. “Dear God!”
He fought to control the animal but it bucked and lunged, breaking into a terrified gallop across the bridge—which swayed under the pounding force of its hooves. Somehow Magnus managed to stay in the saddle.
But the bridge began to fall apart beneath him.
Aileen was screaming. By some miracle, her brother reached the opposite side of the river, his horse scrambling up the embankment, leaping clear of the bridge—mere seconds before it collapsed. The wooden planks, supports, railings all fell into the river in pieces.
Aileen slumped forward over her mare’s neck, offering a prayer of gratitude that her brother had survived.
Then she heard Henri curse—and realized that while her brothers were safe…she and Henri were not.
She looked up to see that the bridge was almost entirely gone. Only a few jagged pieces of broken wood dangled from this side of the gorge.
There was no way for them to get across.
They were trapped. In a blizzard that was steadily getting worse. And the sun would soon be going down.
They had no way to get back to the castle before nightfall.
“Merciful saints,” Aileen gasped. What had begun as a light-hearted adventure this morn had suddenly turned deadly dangerous. “We could…we could try riding back the way we came, to the north. Try to find the stone bridge—”
“And freeze to death before we reach it.” Henri jumped down from his horse.
“W-what are we going to do?”
“Find shelter,” he said tightly. Taking a length of rope from his pack, he tied her horse’s reins to his saddle. “Get off your mare, Aileen. You’re riding with me.”
She realized that the falling snow and sleet had become so thick, he feared that if they rode separately, they might lose sight of each other in the storm.
On the far side of the river, Magnus cupped his gloved hands around his mouth and called out to them. “Ride to the old abbey! You know the place, Aileen. Straight to the west!”
“Aye!” She dismounted—and discovered that the snow was halfway up to her knees. “But Magnus, we dare not go there!”
“’Tis the only shelter for miles!” her brother insisted.
“Get to the abbey!” Brochan yelled in agreement. “We will look for you there on the morrow. As soon as the storm ends.”
“We will find it!” Henri promised them.
“D’Amboise,” Magnus shouted, “if any harm comes to my sister, I swear I will—”
“I vow on my life, I will keep her safe!” Henri looked furious. ’Twas her brother’s recklessness that had put them in danger.
Lifting Aileen onto his destrier, Henri vaulted up into the saddle behind her, wrapping one arm securely about her waist. Holding her tight against his chest, he pulled his cloak around her to protect her from the pelting snow and ice. Then he dug his heels in, sending his horse forward at a gallop, straight to the west, Aileen’s white mare running along behind.
She tried to find comfort in Henri’s strength, in his fierce, protective hold on her, but her heart was hammering at the danger they were in. She already felt soaked through from the cold, from the unrelenting sleet and wind.
“What is this place we are looking for?” Though his mouth was beside her ear, the wind nearly stole his voice away.
“’Twas once a small monastery,” she shouted back. “Vikings raided it nearly a hundred years ago. No one has lived their since.”
“Why were they called the whiskey monks?”
“They were known more for fermenting barley than for saving souls.”
“And even less for their skills at bridge construction,” he complained. “Remind me to never again trust a bridge built by drunken monks.”
If he was trying to make her laugh, he didna succeed. “Henri, when the Vikings raided the place, there were no survivors. Hardly anyone has dared set foot there since!”
“The Norse and the Scots declared peace a generation ago. You and I are in no danger from Viking raiders. But if we cannot find shelter from this storm before dark…”
He left the sentence unfinished.
“’Tis said to be a placed of spirits,” she warned.
“Well, if there are any ghosts or fairies living there, I hope they are hospitable to unexpected guests.” He urged his destrier to more speed.
“I dinna even know if I can find it in this storm!”
“Prayer might be helpful.”
She clung to his steely arm with all her strength. He was shivering as badly as she was, both of them drenched by the sleet and frozen through by the wind. They rode directly into the storm, her mare valiantly keeping up with his stallion.
As the light began to wane, Aileen began to pray, terrified that they might not find the abbey in time.
Or find it at all.
The last glimmers of sunlight vanished from the sky, choked out by the heavy clouds and the icy mix of snow and hail battering them from above. Night had fallen, cloaking the winter landscape in darkness.
Mon Dieu, please, Henri prayed silently, refusing to give up hope. They had entered the forest some time ago, the trees slowing their pace but offering some slight relief from the freezing wind.
A flicker of light caught his eye, just ahead of them to the right, high at the top of the trees.
“There!” He reined the stallion to a halt and pointed. “The abbey?”
“W-what in the world?” Aileen gasped as she noticed the light, too. “The abbey doesna have a tower. How could there be a light of any kind out here?”
“We are in no position to ask questions.” Henri turned his destrier in that direction, riding as fast as the trees and deep snow would allow.
“A trick of the moon?” she wondered aloud. “Or someone with a torch?”
The moon had only just risen. And the light appeared more like a star to him, twinkling just above the tops of the evergreens. “I do not care, milady, as long as it leads us to shelter.”
They entered a clearing and he spotted a dark shape looming out of the night. A small building.
“’Tis the abbey!” Aileen cried in relief.
They rode toward the ancient structure, its stone walls bleached by time and the unforgiving Highland weather. From what he could tell through the heavy snowfall, it had a thatched roof and no windows. It appeared to be solid enough, though the stone on one side had been blackened by fire.
As they approached the blessed little refuge, Henri felt equal parts relieved, exhausted, and frozen through. “I have never in my life been so glad to see a church.”
“’Tis an abbey, not a church.” Aileen’s mood already seemed lighter, now that they no longer faced the prospect of drowning in sleet before dawn. “You must know the difference. Your sister lived in an abbey for half her life.”
“The abbey at Tours is home to more than three hundred nuns, novices and students. It is somewhat larger than this.”
“Aye, well, things tend to be a bit more rustic here in the Highlands.”
He chuckled ruefully. “So I have learned.” They rode around to the side of the building and found what had once been a stable. Henri dismounted and helped Aileen down from his destrier. They were both shuddering with cold, even before their boots sank into the snow.
The stable’s thatched roof and ancient stone walls looked sturdy enough to offer their horses safe shelter for the night. Inside, they found threadbare woolen blankets hanging from the rafters, and just enough grass in one protected corner for the animals to nibble a meal.
Working quickly, they removed both horses’ saddles and bridles and covered them with the blankets.
“My thanks for getting us here safely, good fellow.” Henri patted his stallion’s flank.
Aileen kissed her white mare’s soft nose. “And you, milady. Well done.”
Henri picked up his leather pack, then they stepped out into the storm. He grabbed Aileen’s hand and they ran for the front of the abbey, heading toward the only door.
“Where did the light go?” Henri saw naught in the sky anymore but snow, sleet and darkness.
“I w-was c-certain I s-saw a l-light.” Aileen’s teeth were chattering, either from the bitter cold or because she was spooked by this place.
“It may have been a trick of the sleet reflecting the moonlight.”
“Or it m-may have been s-spirits.” As they came to stand before the door, Aileen made the sign of the cross. “I t-told you, this p-place is enchanted.”
“Aileen,” Henri chided gently. “You do not truly believe that.”
“I am a Scot,” she declared as if that explained it.
“Well, I believe in being warm and dry. No arguments, milady. Enchanted or not, we are spending the night here.”
He let go of her hand, stepped in front of her, and opened the door. He went through first, one hand on the hilt of his sword, in case they were not the only desperate travelers who had sought refuge here.
The place was deserted.
It was not, however, a burned-out ruin.
Just enough moonlight spilled in behind them for Henri to make out that the abbey looked…surprisingly tidy, even orderly. A torch had even been left in a sconce just inside the door, with flint and steel stored in a small basket hanging below it.
He dropped his pack, spattering melting ice across the stone floor, and quickly lit the torch. As it flared to life, Aileen shut the door behind them, inhaling in surprise as the light revealed the interior.
Henri had expected the place to be a crumbling shambles; instead, it was almost cozy. From the white stone walls to the low thatched ceiling, it was clean and dry. Even the stone floor had been swept. A hearth took up most of the far wall, thick sheepskin rugs scattered before it. There were no furnishings, except for a cupboard in one corner.
“By all the saints and angels,” Aileen whispered. “’Tis the work of the fairy folk.”
“Aileen…” Henri shook his head, grinning. “This is the work of ordinary human folk who have been using this place. Mayhap as a hunting cottage.”
“Oh.” She was silent a moment. “Aye, I suppose that is also possible.”
They walked further inside, looking around in the cir
cle of torchlight.
“It doesna look as if anyone has been living here,” she said in puzzlement. “There are no beds, no tables, no chairs—”
“But there is a hearth.” Henri strode toward it, pleased to discover a huge iron grate already stacked with firewood. Lowering the end of his torch, he set the wood ablaze, almost groaning in relief as the fire began to warm the small chamber.
He removed his sodden cloak and hung it on a set of antlers displayed to one side, which looked as if they had been put there for exactly that purpose. “I will count myself lucky if that dries within a fortnight,” he grumbled. “Aileen, bring me your cloak.”
As the fire in the hearth flared brighter, he noticed a trio of iron braziers in the corner. And a wooden bucket filled with more firewood. Setting his torch in a sconce above the mantel, he pulled the braziers away from the wall, arranging them in a half-circle opposite the hearth. He filled each with wood, then set them alight.
The storm continued to rage outside, but he and Aileen would be safe here until morning, protected from the weather and warmed by the circle of fire he had created.
“Aileen, come here.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It is already warmer on this side of the room.”
She had already dropped her wet cloak on the floor and was investigating the large cupboard. “There is no food.” She sighed in disappointment at finding the shelves bare.
“I have a few things to eat in my pack. And we can melt snow for water.”
“Aye, and I think I have one orange left. And a few sugared almonds.”
“Then we have an excellent chance of not starving before morning.” Chuckling, he walked over to collect her cloak and hung it up beside his to dry.
She opened the bottom door of the cupboard. “Oh, thank goodness.”
“What?”
“Blankets and woolens.” She sighed with relief, emptying the shelves. She carried them toward the firelight. There was a whole stack of woven plaides in various dark colors, and blankets of heavy Scottish wool. She set them down on one of the sheepskin rugs.
Henri removed his sword and hunting knife, placing the sheathed weapons close at hand, from long habit. He started to take off his half-frozen boots. “There may not be any food, but there does appear to be drink of some sort.” He nodded to a pair of small wooden casks near the hearth. “What is in those?”
His Scottish Bride - Shelly Thacker Page 7
