by Amanda Scott
Ivor was still frowning. To her surprise, though, when she stopped talking, he nodded and said, “You are right about seeking another route from Dunblane, lass. Whilst we shelter in yon woods, we’ll talk more. Wolf also suggested considering alternative approaches to St. Andrews.”
“Captain Wolf?”
“Aye, but before we talk more, we’ll change the look of our party.”
When they rode out of the woods a half-hour later, their party looked as if it numbered nine persons instead of ten. Ivor and Aodán led the way, and Hetty and Marsi followed them. Hetty had changed her gray gown to a rose-colored one and wore a formal caul instead of her usual plain white veil.
Marsi had donned a russet-colored kirtle and wore her hair in plaits coiled at her nape with Hetty’s veil to cover them. A braided blue band across her forehead secured the veil, concealed her hair, and gave her a young maiden’s look.
Both women wore their hooded, fur-lined cloaks and gloves, but Marsi wore hers with the fur lining outward and the gray wool inside.
Although the men had kept their breeks and fur-lined boots on for riding, they wore tunics under their blue-and-green great kilts, or plaids. The voluminous Highland all-purpose garments consisted of long woolen yardage, kilted up and belted, with the remaining length flung over one shoulder to flow behind.
In the Highlands, few men rode because much of the landscape was too rugged for any but the sturdiest, most sure-footed Highland pony. So men wore their plaids every day there and slept in them if they were out overnight, wrapping the garments around them like blankets to sleep.
At present, much of Ivor’s excess yardage ballooned behind him as he rode, because he had apparently sat on the end of it when he’d mounted his horse.
The other men in his tail rode behind the women, his squire Sean Dubh first with Ivor’s sword slung across his back, Sean having strapped his own weapons to a sumpter pack. The four men-at-arms rode two by two behind him, one of the latter pair leading their three sumpter ponies in a string.
The nine riders had covered half the distance from the woods to the bridge when a muffled voice behind Ivor muttered, “One dislikes tae complain, but ye ought tae know that it be fearsome hot under all this wool.”
“Be glad I did not sling my sword across my back,” Ivor retorted.
“Aye, well, it would look gey odd if ye had,” James said. “Wi’ your plaid billowing out as it does whilst ye ride, I’m no as noticeable as I’d be were your claymore sticking out across me.”
“Hush now, riders are approaching us. Keep your head tight against my back and your feet well in, lad. It will not do for a foot to poke out now.”
“Aye, sure, they might think ye’d got an extra one, and mayhap a few other extra parts as well. How far do we ha’ tae ride like this?”
“Until we go far enough,” Ivor said. “Think of your discomfort as penance for drawing so much attention earlier. Now, hush. They’re upon us.”
As Ivor said the last few words, he glanced at Aodán, so that anyone who could see that he was talking might assume that the two of them were conversing.
Aodán met his gaze with blue eyes atwinkle.
“Did you want to say something to me?” Ivor asked him dourly in Gaelic.
Aodán grinned and replied in the same tongue, “I doubted that wrapping him up in your plaid like that would serve, sir. The lad is a good sport.”
“It’s his future at stake—if he will face it under Albany’s thumb, or not—and he knows it. But keep smiling, Aodán. It appears to be a busy day for travelers, so keep your eyes skinned, and if you see any taking undue notice of us, speak up.”
“The lass… that is, I did hear her ladyship suggest we go to Kincardine Castle. I know it lies off the Perth road near Auchterarder. How far is it from Dunblane?”
“Barring trouble, a day’s ride through Strathallan. But I don’t know Sir Malcolm Drummond, and her ladyship barely does. Also, I must decide if we’ll need Wolf’s help. He said I could send him a message through the Abbot of Lindores.”
“Sir Fin and his lady may be in Perth by now,” Aodán said when Ivor paused.
“I may need him, too, before this is done. Let me think now.”
Marsi glanced at Hetty and saw that, although she held her head high and looked as much a Highland noblewoman as any Marsi had met, she also looked tense.
They had heard Sir Ivor talking with Aodán, and she wondered if he assumed that neither she nor Hetty spoke the Gaelic. The Drummonds were a Highland clan, too, after all, albeit not from as far north as Clan Mackintosh.
She knew little about the tribes of Clan Chattan other than that they were scattered through the high country from Strathspey to Strathdearn and paid more heed to the Lord of the North than to the King of Scots or lords of Parliament. They were a fierce clan. The banner flying now showed a Highland wildcat on its back legs with its claws extended. Their motto was “Touch not the cat but with a glove.”
Trying to picture Sir Ivor as a cat of any sort strained her imagination. But from the deeply respectful way that his men behaved when his temper was short, she easily believed that he possessed the wildcat’s ability to snarl when angry.
The Drummonds were more civilized, or so she had been told, and were much more important, having given Scotland two queens. Even so, men respected the ire of the Drummonds, whose motto—also a warning to others—was “Gang warily.”
She smiled at the absurd image of Sir Ivor “ganging warily” in her presence. He was unlike any other man she knew. He was clearly not one to bow before those of higher rank. But she did not think he was uncivilized or of lesser importance than any Drummond. Not in the least.
He had advised her to look straight ahead as if she had no interest in the town or castle of Doune as they passed through. She was not, he had said, to look at any passerby, let alone to smile at anyone. True Highlanders, he said, kept themselves to themselves even in the Highlands and lower glens.
Although she obeyed him as well as she was able, she could not help noticing that people stared at them, and she wondered if any might recognize her. Highlanders were a colorful lot, and she knew by the way that people gaped that they would be unlikely to remember much about her or Hetty. Even so, drawing so much attention after trying to avoid drawing any made her a bit nervous.
They passed through the town of Doune without incident and pressed onward.
The sun had gone down before they reached Dunblane. In the lingering dusk, with no more than a glance back at Hetty and Marsi, Sir Ivor turned northward through the narrow streets of the village.
As they passed Dunblane Cathedral with its tall, square tower overlooking the Allan Water, Marsi breathed a sigh of relief and said quietly to Hetty, “I think he does mean to go through Strathallan rather than heading straight across Fife, don’t you?”
“Aye, perhaps,” Hetty muttered. More quietly yet, she said, “My lady, ye must not expect too much of Sir Malcolm. He may help ye if he’s of a mind to. But he is a man who seeks his own benefit, not that of others. For all that he is our dearest Annabella’s brother, he may be unwilling to set himself against Albany.”
“But he need not confront Albany, Hetty. He need only speak to his grace and remind him that Annabella promised…” The words dried in her mouth. She had told his grace, the King, what Annabella had promised, and he had replied kindheartedly. Even so, he had said that Albany was determined, as if that were that.
Pushing the dark thought out of her mind, she added firmly, “Uncle Malcolm will understand, Hetty. He cannot want Cargill to go out of the family.”
Sir Ivor and Aodán were turning into the yard of an inn at the north edge of the town, and lackeys ran to attend their horses. Marsi watched as Aodán dismounted and went to take James when Sir Ivor handed him down.
If the lads running to help had noted the boy concealed beneath Ivor’s plaid, none seemed to think such a thing was odd. Mayhap they thought that Highlanders’ bairns always
rode that way, or else the lowering clouds and the icy chill in the night air suggested that the lad had ridden so just to keep warm.
She was smiling at the thought when Sir Ivor turned to her. “Art tired, lass?”
“It has been a long day,” she said. “But I’m not as tired as I am hungry.”
He smiled then and put a hand to her back, steadying her as she deftly shifted her offside leg over and turned so that he could lift her down. “We’re all hungry,” he said. “Let us see what they can produce quickly for us to eat.”
Aodán had relayed their needs to the landlord. So, after the men took their belongings upstairs, Hetty, Jamie, and Marsi saw to their personal needs and settled into the two rooms allotted to them. It occurred to Marsi as she plumped a pillow on the bed she would share with Hetty that she was getting used to staying at inns and alehouses. The amenities were not what she was accustomed to at Cargill, Turnberry, or any place she had stayed when traveling with Annabella. But the hostelries served their purpose, and for the most part she was enjoying herself.
Once again, they took supper in the common room.
Three other men were eating there, too, who seemed to be friends traveling together. But Marsi was not surprised when, the minute Ivor saw them, he said he thought that perhaps she and Hetty would prefer to sup in their room.
Marsi had said reasonably, “We cannot sit in our room, sir, except on the bed, which takes up most of the space there.”
Hetty nodded agreement. “The bed is large enough for the two of us, but it is a tiny wee room, sir.”
“Very well, you may take your supper down here. But we won’t dawdle over the meal. Our lad looks as if he may fall asleep at any moment.”
“Nay, I’ll do,” Jamie said, straightening. But Marsi saw him cover a yawn a moment later and knew that he was as tired as the rest of them were.
Glancing at Sir Ivor, she saw that he, too, had noticed the yawn. When he looked at her and smiled, she felt its warmth spread through her, stirring other, less familiar feelings as it did.
Holding Marsi’s gaze, Ivor wondered what it was about the lass that kept drawing his attention to her even while James remained his primary concern. The lad was staring at his food as if he wondered what it was. But Ivor knew that James was just tired. It had been a long trip and one fraught with circumstances wholly unfamiliar to a lad who had been cosseted all his life.
The incident with the townsman had upset him, too. Although he had protested against riding under Ivor’s plaid, he had soon fallen silent and had slept at least part of the way. Once, Ivor had felt him slip and had clapped a hand over the two linked smaller ones at his waist to hold James if he slid any further. But James had steadied himself, and if he dozed again, Ivor had not noticed.
Conversation was minimal until James said, “I think it is going to snow.”
The weather had begun to look threatening shortly before the sun had dropped behind Ben Lomond in the west. Clouds that had hovered above the mountain all day had provided a colorful sunset then. But before the light had gone, the clouds had lowered and darkened. The air was definitely colder, as well.
“You may be right, lad,” Ivor said. “We’ve been fortunate so far, meeting nobbut occasional flurries.”
“Will we have to ride on tomorrow even if it does snow?” James asked.
“We’ll see,” Ivor said, hoping that he’d not have to make such a decision. Bad weather could hold them up for days and give Albany’s men more time to find them. The fact was that they had been extraordinarily lucky so far to have avoided the worst that Scotland had to offer. Although it was nearly the first of March, winter might linger for another eight weeks even in the lower glens.
He had not liked the look of those fretful, thickening clouds.
Marsi, watching Sir Ivor, could almost hear his thoughts and knew that he was worried about the possibility of snow. But if they did travel through Strathallan toward Kincardine, they would avoid the Ochil Hills to the southeast and others north of Strathallan that were even higher.
If the weather turned bad, those hill routes would be icy, snow-packed, and as good as trackless to anyone who did not know them well. So those routes would be more dangerous than the lower one along the Allan Water.
When they finished supper, Ivor went to be sure his men had settled in while she, Jamie, and Hetty went to their rooms. From her window, Marsi could not see a single star in the sky. The air was so cold that she wished the room had a fireplace.
She performed her evening ablutions quickly. But no sooner had she begun to unlace her kirtle than she heard a burst of hastily stifled, boyish laughter from the next room. Turning to see that Hetty had her head cocked as if she, too, had heard the laughter, Marsi said, “That was Jamie, I think. But I have heard no one else pass our door, have you?”
Hetty shook her head, and since she had taken off all but her shift, in which she customarily slept, Marsi said, “I think I will ask Jamie what was so funny.”
“Dinna be long,” Hetty said. “Sir Ivor is likely to return at any moment.”
Marsi knew that, and she knew, too, that she was rather hoping that he would come up before she returned to Hetty. That thought fled instantly from her mind, however, when she opened Jamie’s door with only a perfunctory rap and looked in.
Her gaze alit first on Jamie, who sat on the sole narrow bed, grinning. But his grin vanished when he saw her, and his gaze shifted abruptly, drawing hers with it.
On Jamie’s pallet, with his knees up and his arms wrapped around them, sat the boy Jamie had tried to rescue from the irate townsman.
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Chapter 12
Noting Marsi’s tension, Ivor looked to his right to see the four men enter the common room and recognized them as Albany’s men as quickly as Marsi had.
Will glanced over his shoulder. Then he stood, picked up his trencher and a basket of bannocks that a maidservant had just set on the table and, as casually as if the strangers had naught to do with aught, disappeared into the kitchen.
Sitting between Will’s place and Ivor, James had his back to the four. With his mind on what he wanted and his gaze fixed on Ivor, he paid no heed to the men or to Will’s departure but said tersely, “But why can I no have Will—?”
Before he could finish, Ivor surged up and caught him by the shoulders, taking care that James would not face the newcomers.
Giving him a shake, Ivor snapped, “I told you that I did not want to hear another word, my lad. Mayhap, this will help you learn to obey me.” Holding James close, he gave him a sound smack on the backside, followed by a second one.
James yelped, whereupon Marsi, sitting across from him, leaped to her feet. “Let be, sir!” she cried. “He did naught to deserve such brutality.”
Catching her eye with his sternest gaze, Ivor said, “You will hold your tongue, too, my lass, especially before these others.”
Seeing her grimace, he knew that she had recognized the men for what they were and had simply reacted impulsively to his “brutality” toward the boy. His sharp command had swiftly recalled her to the danger.
Even so, she said as curtly as he had, “I won’t be silent. I have every right to speak my mind, for you are being cruel to him, as these others can see as well as I do.” Turning to the four, who had halted at the threshold, she made an elaborate gesture toward Ivor and James, saying, “Just see how he treats the poor laddie!”
While she went on in the same way, Ivor leaned nearer James, maintaining an angry expression as he murmured, “I’m going to send you away, lad. Take care not to let those men see your face. Now, yell as if I were blistering your backside.”
He gave him a few more smacks, and James yelled with gusto.
Hoping the smacks thus seemed harder than they were, especially with Marsi carrying on as if he were the most brutal man in Christendom, Ivor gave James one last spank. Then, urging him toward the stairway with a hand on his shoulder, he said, “Get on
upstairs now. And do not let me hear your voice or see your face again until you can keep that tongue of yours civilly behind your teeth.”
Stomping up the stairs, rubbing his backside dramatically, James obeyed.
Marsi, arms akimbo, said, “I hope you are pleased with yourself. Doubtless, that poor bairn will not be able to sit a horse again this sennight!”
“I told you to be silent,” Ivor said in a near growl. “You would be wise to heed me, lass, unless you want the same lesson I just gave the lad.”
Her chin shot into the air. But as she began to reply, the leader of the four men said, “Afore ye attend tae the saucy wench, sir, ye may ha’ noted by our garb that we serve their royal lordships, the Duke o’ Albany and his son, the Earl o’ Fife. Having learned that ye fly the Mackintosh banner, we would ken your name and place o’ residence. So, if ye will be so kind as—”
“If he will?” Marsi exclaimed with an air of surprise. “Faith, he is so proud of his ancestors that he thinks all the rest of the world lies beneath his feet to be trodden on. Who else should he be but mine own husband and that poor lad his own son by a previous, most contentious marriage. Sithee, the lad has reason to behave as he did, having had such a mother as that one! Why, I could tell you tales of that hellicat that would curl your livers. He was much wiser in choosing to wed me, for I come from nobler and more respectable kinfolk than that nettlesome slink who went before me.”
“What happened tae her?” the leader asked, looking speculatively at Ivor, who was having difficulty maintaining his stern demeanor.
“What happened to her?” Marsi’s eyes widened. “Why, the very thing that should come to such women—a bad end! One so bad that I shall not sully my lips to relate the details. Moreover, I warrant my husband would be gey wroth with me if I did,” she added, casting a dramatically wary look at Ivor that nearly undid him.
Lowering her voice as she turned back to the men, she added, “You have seen for yourself how the man reacts to the slightest dissension. ’Tis a pity that he did not treat her as he treats that poor bairn. But, so it is with men like him.”
