The Highlander On The Run (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 1)

by Emilia Ferguson

  He frowned. “What’ll ye do to it?” he asked.

  His curiosity made her laugh.

  “Come and see.”

  They went back to the cave. It was empty now, and her heart ached to see it. Memories of their first night together cut into her and she forced herself to ignore them. She pointed at the edge of the cave, where the river curled round the slope that raised it above the valley floor. They had never been on that side together.

  “Go there,” she said. “I need the water.”

  Alexander sat down on the grass, a long leg drawn up to his chin, and watched her with a sort of fascination. She deftly built up a small fire, then put down a pot and the herbs that, she knew, would make his hair two shades darker as a rinse.

  “Can I get the fire going?”

  “Please do,” she said, frowning as she measured some more out of a pouch. She knew how to make the dye, she’d been taught it by Frere Piers, the French monk who’d trained her.

  “Come on, why don’t you?” Alexander swore at the striker, as he chipped away at it, trying to make a spark. Addie grinned to herself. It was good, to see him again.

  And when I’ve finished with his hair, he’ll be able to enter the castle undetected, or so I’ll wager.

  She finished measuring out her ingredients, and then lifted her silver scissors. They had been a gift from her father, when she was near the end of her training. They were one of the more beautiful items she owned, with a little flower worked into the place where the bolt fastened the blades together.

  “Are ye ready, there?” he frowned.

  “You have to wash your hair, first,” Addie said. She indicated the water she’d set to boil. “It should be clean, so the rinse has a better chance of staying in.”

  “Whatever you say,” he nodded.

  Addie grinned. It was rare to see the blustering, poised Alexander so nervous. She would never have guessed that the bold soldier would be nervous of having his hair fixed.

  She watched as he wet his hair in the basin. Then, taking another small clay jar out, she mixed soapwort and lanolin together, whisking the mix up with a fingertip. She went to him.

  “Now I have to wash it,” she said.

  She scrubbed the mix into his hair. It felt oddly intimate, doing this with him. She heard him draw in a breath, and knew he felt it too.

  And I have sworn not to touch him carnally. Not until we are free to do it honestly and fairly.

  She bit her lip, working the smooth paste through his curls.

  “It’s cold.”

  She chuckled, glad for the relief his comment brought…she hadn’t realized how tense she had been. “Sorry if it is,” she said. “The rinse is going to be warmer. But first, we need to wash this lot off.” She lifted the remains of the warmed water, and held the pot up.

  “Are you going to pour that on me head?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He let her, bending forwards so that the water cascaded over the silky locks. When she’d finished rinsing it, she reached for the linen towel she’d brought along.

  “Now, we need to dry it just a little. Then, the rinse.” She’d already put the pot of herbs on, to boil. This one would take longer to prepare – the water needed to reach a rolling motion, to extract all the powerful ingredients out of the herbs. She bound the towel around his head, squeezing it gently, as she would have with any of the nobles whose hair she dressed. She felt him shift uneasily.

  “When you’re done…”

  “Yes?” Addie bit her lip to keep herself from chuckling. He sounded nervous!

  “Will it really look different? Darker, I mean?”

  Addie grinned. “It’ll be darker. I’ve seen it work. Helps to hide white hairs, too.”

  “I haven’t got any,” he protested. He swiveled round to look at her. She raised a brow.

  “You haven’t?”

  “No!” he looked put out. “I’m no’ that old. Only eight and twenty.”

  “Some people go white at that age,” Addie countered. She’d seen quite a few lords and ladies of his age with more than a few strands of gray.

  “Well, I’m not,” he said.

  Addie smiled. She checked the mixture with a fingertip. It was boiling hot. The color of the water was a rich golden, darkening to brown. It was almost ready. They sat in silence, waiting for the fluid to boil.

  “Addie, I ken you want to do this,” Alexander said slowly. “But…but I hate to think of you in danger. Can ye promise me something?”

  “What?” Addie’s back was to him as she stirred the mixture.

  “I want you to promise me that if it gets dangerous – really dangerous – you’ll tell me. We can always escape if we’re together.”

  Addie paused. Would it fulfill her promise, if she avoided danger, ran off before the bitter end? The very fact that she would wonder made her question her motivation. Was she only seeking martyrdom, to assuage her shame? Or did she really care about Alexander, and the Cause?

  “Very well.”

  “Very well?” Alexander asked softly.

  “Very well. I promise.”

  He let out a long sigh. “Thanks,” he said raggedly.

  They sat quietly for a while. Addie stirred the dye, then lifted the pot to cool it in the stream before using it.

  “Can ye put your head forward?” she asked, feeling strangely deferential as she held the dish up over him. With his hair trimmed short and head bowed, he had the air of a penitent knight.

  “Sure, lass. Is it still hot?”

  She grinned and poured it over his hair, rubbing it into his scalp. The dye had gone a rich, deep brown, and it stained her fingers as she worked. It felt strange to be touching his scalp, a level of closeness that made her body ache. It also touched her heart to see him so strangely vulnerable before her.

  “Here,” she said through a throat tight with emotion. “All done.”

  Alexander sat up. His eyes held hers.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  They looked at each other. The strands of his hair were still wet, but she could guess they would be deep chestnut when they were dry, brown instead of the pale fire of auburn hair.

  “You look different,” she smiled.

  “I do?” his excitement was touching. “Really? Do ye have a mirror? Can I see?”

  Addie bit her lip as she reached into her bag. She’d brought the tiny mirror that had been her father’s gift. Mirrors were priceless, coming from as far across the sea as Italy.

  Alexander stared into it. His brows lifted. He seemed overwhelmed.

  “That’s me?”

  Addie chuckled. “Yes, Alexander. That’s you.”

  “I’m not that bad looking,” he said.

  She grinned. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  They shared a special look. Addie’s heart tightened. In the forest, with the cloudy daylight pouring down on them, there was a moment of peace.

  A calm before the storm of starting their work.

  A PERILOUS GAME

  Alexander watched from the shadow of a tree as the soldiers rode in. It was fully autumn now, the trees clad in russet leaves. The King had left for England, but Berwick was still a hotbed of Englishmen as all communications between the two nations must pass through it. Dressed in the shapeless tunic and unbleached wool trousers of a laborer, Alexander blended in to the castle scenery.

  “What do they think they’re up to?”

  The soldiers he watched were dressed in full chain mail, one of them riding with a helmet on. They rode fast and dismounted swiftly, throwing themselves from their horses to the flagstones in a welter of mail and leather.

  “Those fellows look to be on urgent business.”

  He touched his hair, where the natural color was just starting to grow out. It was perhaps a quarter of an inch longer than when he’d hacked them off, two weeks ago. For two weeks, he’d been working at Berwick Castle undetected. He pretended to be a farrier – a trade in which he
fortunately had experience, having shod his own horses several times.

  He walked, as casually as he could, out of the shadows and towards the entrance. As luck would have it, he recognized one of the squires.

  “Hey, Callum,” he greeted the squire who was standing idly, holding the reins of one of the big horses. He jerked his head at the door. “What’s the matter wi’ them?”

  “Them?” the squire shrugged. A tall youth, his flesh seemed stretched over his bones. Alexander guessed him to be fifteen, and still growing.

  “Aye. The soldiers. Rode in here like wild beasts were chasing them. Were there?”

  Callum grinned swiftly. “They didnae say, McClymond. And if they had been, the wild beasts would be here now anyway.”

  Alexander fought the urge to cuff the youth. It wasn’t his fault – he had no idea Alexander was Baron Raeburne. He really thought he was McClymond, traveling laborer.

  “Just wondering,” he said. “If they’d be needing their horses shod.”

  The youth shrugged. “I reckon no, McClymond. They aren’t staying here for long enough for that.”

  Alexander just raised a brow and glanced at the horses speculatively. “Looks like they rode a long way,” he said. “Should we take them to the stables?”

  “Dinnae muck about wi’ them,” Callum said rudely. “The fellers said they’d be out in a few minutes.”

  Alexander felt his hand clench into a fist and resisted the urge to strike the impudent boy. Nevertheless, he managed to hold his anger at bay. He’d noticed something more important – a saddle bag, clinging to the saddle. Long and flat, it was the sort of thing somebody might use to store documents.

  “Hey! You!” One of the soldiers yelled. Alexander moved back a pace, but the man was looking at Callum.

  “Hey!” he said again. “Get that saddle off, will ye? And you, too,” he ordered Alexander. “We’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  “Fine,” Alexander murmured under his breath. He looked at Callum, who had already started undoing the girth. The big destrier stamped, walking moodily backwards. Alexander watched as Callum lifted the saddle with the bag attached.

  They carried the saddles into the barn.

  “Easy, lad,” he said, and lifted it out of his grasp. “I’ll take that one. You get yourself out there to tend the horses.”

  “I can manage,” Calllum said, and shot him a resentful stare. However, he passed the saddle over willingly enough.

  Fingers trembling, Alexander unfastened the leather container. He looked round the darkness swiftly, then slid the cylinder into his tunic’s sleeve. Walking out stiff-armed, he headed quickly to the shelter of a thicket.

  The letter was written in a language he didn’t understand. Alexander swore.

  Trust Father Kine to teach me to read, and then not teach me anything else.

  He folded the letter up and ran to the castle kitchen.

  The window on the northwest side of the kitchen didn’t shut properly. It was the way he’d managed to sneak in that time weeks ago, when he’d seen Addie in this place. Now, he leaned on the window, pushing hard. It creaked open.

  “…and I cannae fathom what tae do about it,” a voice said from inside.

  “No, Greere…nor can I. We’ll have tae make what we can. You think that we can use it all anyway?”

  Alexander tiptoed across the flagstones. The part of the kitchen on this side was for storage – that must be why the window hadn’t been repaired. It was obscured by barrels and bags, and he guessed the last time it had been opened was probably several years ago. He breathed in the dusty dampness of the and leaned against the wall, listening to the rise and fall of the voices.

  “We can make pastry with it,” the first voice said dubiously. “Nobody’ll notice if the flour’s a bit spoiled. Not if we put enough ale into the gravy.”

  Alexander bit back a grin. He wondered what the King of England would think if he knew they were using moldy flour.

  “Grand idea!” the second voice said, sounding satisfied.

  Alexander tiptoed forward again. He could see two women sitting at the table – he recognized one of them from his earlier visits: the cook, perhaps. The fire cast a ruddy glow on the scene, shining on copper pots and pans. The flames had all but burned out, leaving a bed of glowing coals in the vast hearth. A pot boy slept on the floor, his head pillowed on a sack.

  “Is it that bad?”

  “I’ll show ye,” the cook said. She walked about three paces from Alexander. He froze in place. Closing his eyes to try and avoid her seeing the whites of them, he forced his breathing into slow, shallow breaths.

  “Look here,” the cook demanded, opening a bag of flour. The fine powder spread out as she drew out a handful. Alexander sneezed.

  Two pairs of eyes swiveled round to him. One of the women screamed.

  “Whist,” Alexander said, making a desperate shushing motion. “I…have ye a healer about? I got my leg kicked by a horse.”

  “A healer?” the cook sounded faint. Her eyes wandered from his face to his leg, and Alexander saw her decide to believe him.

  “I was putting a new shoe on the horse, and he kicked me,” he demurred. He took off the cap he wore to cover the growing red curls. Wrung it in one hand in a gesture of humility.

  “Whist,” the cook said, chuckling. “You didnae have to sneak about! I could have died of fright! And Brenna, too.” She indicated the other woman, who was still staring at him round-eyed.

  “Sorry, missus,” he mumbled. “Can ye fetch the healer?”

  “She’s upstairs,” the cook said. “And you can go through the inner door, like the rest of us,” she added, as Alexander headed to the back door.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Looking left and right, he ran up the dark, moldering hallway. He ended up in the entrance hall. He craned his neck up to the vast, vaulted ceiling. His boot soles clicked on the floor, the sound echoing in the cold, gray space. The one side of the space was dominated by a vast staircase. How would he find Addie in this massive place?

  “Only one way to do it,” he said to himself, shrugging.

  He would have to try.

  * * *

  “Sommat bothering ye, lass?”

  Mrs. Pritchard’s voice was soft in the scented quiet of the still room. Addie, distracted, looked up from her work. She was sewing – something that she only did when she had too much to think about and needed something on which she could focus.

  “Och, nothing really,” she said.

  “Oh. Well, ye looked a little worried, is all.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Addie bit off her thread, the row of stitches finished. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t have anything to worry her, as that she had so much to concern her that she didn’t know where to start. The plot that she and Alexander were planning was a constant source of terror, and her work kept her distracted as it was, without the added demands of spying. Then, there were some worrying aspects to her body.

  I think I might be with child.

  She wanted to ask her friend – who knew doubtless more about this than she would – but she had no idea how ask, without her suspecting the reason for her questions. She didn’t want anyone to know, until she had decided what to do.

  “Looks like snow, yonder,” Mrs. Pritchard said, jerking her head at the small window. A space like a slit in the thick wall, it was covered by a pane of semi-transparent stretched leather. Addie could see enough through it to know how dark the sky was beyond it.

  “Aye.” She threaded her needle, trying to find a way to ask Mrs. Pritchard about her condition. At length, she hit on one. “What does it mean, when a woman’s sickening in the mornings?”

  Mrs. Pritchard stared at her. Addie felt her eyes on her, appraising, and she swallowed hard.

  “I just wanted to know,” she said. “A lass asked me. I sometimes collect herbs near their cottage, and she reckons I know such things.” She was surprised by how glib
ly she could tell falsehoods nowadays – being a spy had affected her, even though she’d not been doing it that long.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Pritchard nodded, seeming satisfied with that explanation. “Well, I dinnae ken the circumstances of the lass, but if it were me or mine, I’d think she’s carrying.”

  “Carrying a child?”

  “Aye,” Mrs. Pritchard nodded. “If she’s just sickening at certain times o’ the day – mornings, evenings, and feeling fairly merry for the rest.” She turned back to her own sewing. She was making herself a new dress, the linen spread out on the table.

  “Well…I’ll tell her when I see her again,” Addie said in a small voice.

  “Poor lass,” her friend said, shaking her head.

  Addie was surprised by her anger. She bit back the retort she wished to make – it should be possible for every woman, regardless of circumstance, to rejoice in childbearing!

  “It’s not fair thinking that she might not be happy,” she said instead. “Wouldn’t it be grand if lasses could be helped, so that they didn’t lose everything through having a bairn?”

  “Hush, lass,” her friend said. “don’t let Father Camry hear you say such things. You know how people are about babes born when a lass’s unwed.”

  Addie bent over her work again, feeling her rage fester still further. A pox on Father Camry, who would say a lass deserved suffering! Not when the man was as much to blame as she!

  After a long awkward silence, her friend stood, stretching.

  “A cup o’ tea?”

  “No thank you,” Addie said. She bundled her work into her basket and stood. She felt worried and disheartened. If even someone as dear to her as Ettie would think that way, how could she rightly expect support?

  I can’t stay here and finish my tasks – not for long, anyway. I’ll have to throw myself on the mercy of my aunts.

  “Where are you going?” her friend asked.

  “I have to finish work upstairs,” she said, non-committal.

  Mrs. Pritchard looked sad. “I’m sorry if I said something to upset you, lass. You were doing such grand work here. You’re a fine hand at stitching.