His eyes met those of the boy on the ground. The boy looked behind him, nodding to Duncan. He seemed to want Duncan to turn. Duncan turned round. He saw the horse behind him. The man was not paying attention, listening to the testimony of the man-at-arms across the patch of earth where Duncan and the men stood. Duncan understood the youth.
Bending to retrieve the sword, which he had dropped when he went to help the youth, he turned to face the guardsmen. The apparent leader was watching him intently, but the man with the horse was still distracted, still listening to the guardsman's involved tale of beggars and cloaks. As he moved, the men suddenly noticed him. However, by then it was too late. Duncan charged the man on the horse.
It was almost impossible to do it with the sword in his hand. Wishing he had a scabbard, knowing he did not, he thrust the thing through the ties of his breeches and prayed it would stay there. Then he launched himself at the horseman, wrapping his arms around him.
He was on. He was seated behind the man, who was already trying to turn, snarling, his hand on his sword-hilt. Duncan had him in a grip and, being taller and with the advantage of already having a grip on him, he let himself fall sideways. The man resisted, leaning right to pull against him. Duncan simply let go.
The man fell. Dazed, exhausted, relying on his years of horseback riding, Duncan took the reins and bolted for the rear gate.
Which was, by some miracle, unblocked. The guards who were meant to be around it had joined the battle. Duncan rode through.
His heart pounding in his chest, terrified, elated and awed, Duncan bolted out of the rear gate and into the night.
He heard four horsemen following him. Tensing his jaw, praying that his horse was accustomed to riding in woodland, that the way through the forest was unblocked, and that his belt would hold up and keep the sword beside him, he shot into the woodland.
The four horses plunged after him.
Duncan waited until he was just enough ahead for them to not see him clearly and veered sharply left.
Waiting in the gap between trees, Duncan held his breath. The rumble of pursuing feet rose and slowed.
He waited, dragging in breaths. His horse was as exhausted. Head down, ears lowered, the poor creature panted and the two of them stood in silence, waiting for the silence to descend around them in the most dangerous of places: the woodlands at night.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A DISCOVERY
A DISCOVERY
Morning light poured, soft and gray, through the high, thin windows of the turret room at Castle Dunwray. It shone on three women, seated on the settee or on carved wooden chairs, a fire roaring in the grate beside them.
“I have missed this,” Amabel sighed.
She sat on a settee opposite Alina and Chrissie, padded cushions all about her. With her long red hair in comfortable disarray, her hands settled before her in her lap, she looked completely at peace. The pale morning seeped through the windows, playing little flecks of gold along her hair.
Alina smiled at her. “I, too, sister.”
She paused. The previous night had disconcerted her, or perhaps she would have noticed earlier. Looking at her sister now, she could not believe she had not. Her eyes rested at her sister's waist, and in that moment it was as if lightning struck and she saw, in that lightning, the girl-child of her dreaming. Joanna.
“Sister?” Alina asked, raising her eyes to her elder sister's face. The two stared at one another. Amabel looked worried.
“Alina? What?”
Alina shook her head. Smiled. It was wonderful news! Her sister was expecting a daughter! She should not be so dire about it all. She glanced sideways at Chrissie, trying to decide if she should say something. “I am sorry,” she dismissed her worried face lightly. “It was nothing. I think I am tired.”
Amabel gave her a pointed look as if to say she did not believe her, and then raised her linen to her eyes, squinting at the stitches in a way that was so typical of her Alina felt a smile lift the corners of her mouth. It was so good to see her again.
“Well I, for one, am glad of an excuse to rest here a while,” Amabel said, stabbing the linen with a needle as she spoke. “These visitors, and Broderick's endless hunting parties!” she shook her head, pulling a face.
“This is one of many?” Alina asked.
Amabel sighed. “The whole autumn has been an endless procession of them! I tell him we'll run out of living things for him to shoot at, but do you think he listens?” she shook her head, running a hand through the wildfire of her hair.
Alina had to laugh. Much as she wished the hunting party was not there, and wished very much to forget their presence, she could not help finding the exasperation amusing. “And of course they expect to be fed each night,” she said, guessing how her sister both loved and hated the demands of that.
“Quite so!” Amabel nodded vigorously. She pulled cotton through the linen with a flourish, looking up at Alina and Chrissie with a face that was at once exasperated and smiling.
“You have parties every night?” Chrissie asked wistfully.
Alina and Amabel laughed.
“It isn't as much fun as it sounds, I tell you,” Amabel said, smiling at Chrissie. “I declare that if I hear 'Oh, lassie, come wed me' played by Old Norries on the fiddle once more, I shall run him through with the bow of it.”
Alina couldn't help a snort of laughter. Soon they were all giggling.
“Oh, sister,” Alina said, wiping her eyes with a kerchief, tears of mirth streaking her face. “I would we saw each other more often.”
“We should,” Amabel said shortly. “In fact, the two of you should come and visit on a hunting party yourself.”
“Amabel!” Chrissie said happily. “Could we?” She looked from Amabel to Alina with blue eyes wide.
“I do not see any reason why not,” Amabel shrugged, lifting slender shoulders under a green velvet gown.
“We could arrange something,” Alina agreed peaceably. “And perhaps we could even agree to exchange musicians with you a while. Uncle would love a chance to torment his guests, and you would get Webster again.”
Amabel scowled. The old violinist at the castle was possibly even more tortuous than the new one at Dunwray. Alina chuckled.
“Don't you dare,” Amabel teased.
Alina batted her eyelids innocently. “Would I do that?”
They all laughed.
As Alina sat stitching, the warmth and comfortable company around her, she felt at peace, more so than she had for a long time. I wish things could stay like this forever, she thought wistfully.
If she married Duncan, she and Amabel would be able to share endless mornings like this, sewing in the tower together. It would be wonderful. She did not have to lose this. Where was Duncan now, though? She closed her eyes, thinking about it, but she could see nothing; a gray, swirling blank. Is he awake? Unconscious, somewhere? The thought distracted her, and she stabbed her finger with the needle. She put it to her mouth, tasting blood.
Amabel saw the gesture. “Horrid tough linen!” she dismissed the cloth crossly. “Would you like a thimble, dear?”
Alina shook her head. “It is well. Just a tiny mark,” she said, looking at her finger. She bent her head to her sewing again. The silence continued around her, broken only by Chrissie, counting stitches.
“One, two, three...”
Alina smiled, looking at her with her head bowed over the linen she worked, the light glowing softly on hair and skin. The girl was growing fast and who knew where her life would take her? Hopefully, not too far away, Alina thought. She loved Chrissie, somewhere between sister and daughter, and she did not wish to think of losing her from their merry circle.
The other change, of course, would be when Joanna was born. As Alina sat here, watching Amabel, she could see the way the pregnancy had already touched her body. Her skin glowed and she seemed suffused with a contentment she had never seen in her before. She looked comfortably happy. The child's prese
nce was like a second glow within her, a hesitant, sparkling one.
I think she has only been with child five months. Perhaps six. No more. Alina counted up, guessing she would give birth in January at the latest. If she looked carefully, she could see it now, a soft swelling under Amabel's protective hand across her waist.
The child in my vision had been Amabel's daughter. It was obvious now. The long red hair was like her mother, only her hair was straight, not waved, like Amabel's was. She had a delicate face and, if Alina thought about it carefully, grave gray eyes. When she saw her in her dreaming, she was perhaps ten years old. However, she had been on the edge of the picture, a vision of what would be possible, not what was. She was part of a future that would never happen, if Duncan's quest sparks warfare.
Alina shivered, though the room was warm. What would happen to bring about the fact that this child never lived was too terrible to contemplate. Would Amabel be killed? Wounded? Lose the child? She did not want to think about it. All the possibilities were as horrible as each other.
I will not let such thoughts intrude on me here, robbing me of now.
She leaned back, looking around the room. Amabel looked up from her stitching.
“I am pleased the riders are out so long,” she said. “I think the party will only return at nightfall. Young Bronn is an interesting fellow. A scion of the Duncraigh's, distantly.”
“Oh?” Alina stared at her. “Truly?” That was the name of the assailants who had attacked Lochlann! She was sure of it.
“Yes,” Amabel nodded. She looked at Alina strangely. The news of the attack would not have reached here yet, Alina knew.
“He visits here often?” she asked mildly. Chrissie was looking at her with her lips parted. Evidently, she wanted to say something about the attack and wondered why Alina hadn't. Alina gave her a firm look. “I am surprised, since they are two days' ride from here at least.”
“Yes, he does. Not exactly regularly, I should say. Last autumn and this one again. The visits are irregular, but long.” She smiled. “We have plans, Broderick jokes, to make him an honorary MacConnoway, since he practically lives here more than we do.” She smiled. “Uncle would like that.”
“He would?” Alina was now bemused. Her uncle and the Duncraigh's were apparently fierce opponents. Why would Uncle Brien wish them to welcome Bronn?
“He always talked of an alliance with the Duncraigh's,” Amabel explained, not seeming to notice how confused her sister looked. “At least, I remember him mentioning them. I was in the great hall, perhaps for the first time.” She smiled wistfully at the memory. The ladies of the castle would start attending dinners at thirteen, learning etiquette and the ways of society, learning the ties of allegiance and duty.
Chrissie smiled faintly, looking from Alina to Amabel. She was considerably their junior, and tales of their younger years clearly interested her. “Uncle wanted to ally with them then?” she asked.
“Yes,” Amabel agreed. She had laid her embroidery aside and flapped it in her hand as she thought. “I remember him mentioning it once or twice then. It stayed with me because I recall when he stopped talking about it,” she added. “It was quite frightening, actually. I was seated at his left hand that night, and the man on his right, some thane or earl – I don't recall who – asked him: 'how's the allegiance with the Duncraigh's coming along?'. What I recall most was Uncle's face.” She paused, lost in memory. “He went stiff. You know, the way he does when he is about to lose his temper. He had been smiling before then, but the smile disappeared and his eyes went all flat. He said it was ended. He said nothing else. When the man prompted him for more, he spat the words at him. 'It is ended,' he said. He turned away and asked the servant to refill his glass. He sat brooding all evening. I have rarely seen him so vexed.”
Alina leaned back in the chair, thinking. She had certainly seen Uncle that angry, at least, or more – he was fond of Amabel, it seemed, but clashed with Alina often. What Amabel said interested her. Why had he wished to ally with the Duncraigh's, and then turned away so sharply? Had his plans for making the alliance been turned aside?
There was one main way to seal allegiance, and that was through marriage. Alina blinked, surprised. At the time Amabel discussed she had been twelve years old, Amabel thirteen. Chrissie had been six. Aunt Aili was widowed and living in seclusion. Who would he have used to secure that alliance? Of all the family in the castle, most were too young, deceased, or under solemn vows. Everyone, she realized slowly, except Uncle Brien.
He was the most marriageable person in the castle! The thought amazed her. She brought her hand to her lips, hiding a surprised smile.
“Alina?”
“Mm?” she raised big eyelids mildly.
“What is it? You look lost in thought.”
“I was just wondering about the weather,” she said. “If it will rain, or if a ride after luncheon would be possible.”
“A ride!” Chrissie said happily. “I want to go for a ride.”
They all laughed. Alina smiled at Amabel. “You should see her! She is quite expert now.”
Chrissie blushed. “I'm not an expert, Alina. Not exactly,” she moved her feet, clearly feeling embarrassed at the attention.
Amabel smiled. “I am sure you do very well. Alina does not exaggerate.”
“No,” Alina said dryly.
They all laughed.
Sitting there, in the warmth and peace, with two of her most favorite people around her, Alina felt content. I only wish that Duncan could be here. That he could be safe.
All she saw when she thought of him was the uncertain, wavering gray. She had no knowledge of where he was, if he lived. When he would return.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RIDING HOME
RIDING HOME
The mist was thick and wavering. Duncan, riding beside his companion, could not see a foot ahead through the wavering, shifting gray that banked around him. He turned to ask Blaine a question, but he was not there.
“Blaine?”
“Yes, milord?”
A voice echoed through the mists. He was three feet or so behind Duncan. As he waited, resting his horse, he heard Blaine ride towards him.
“This is the plain before the castle, is it not?”
“Blessed if I know,” Blaine said innocently. He looked around. “I think so, sir,” he said after a moment. “There are those oak trees. The tall, hollow one. That's it, yes?”
Duncan strained to see where he pointed. The mist hung thick and white-gray around them, but it cleared higher up, so that the tops of trees drifted through. The fir trees were halved, so that he saw pointed tops the seeming height of children, where behind the mist were ancient woods. Before the plain they crossed was a forest and strangely, on its edge had grown a stand of ancient oak trees. As his sight cleared, he saw the shapes against the white-gray of the mists. Blaine was right.
“Whew.”
He sighed, leaning forward on the pommel of his saddle, letting the relief drain him of tension. He had been tense since before they reached the castle. The night within it had been an ordeal he did not want to remember, full of flame light, blood, and conflict. The pursuit through the woods had, if anything, been worse. He had ridden in the woodlands for about an hour, looking for Blaine. It was by some miracle that he had ridden out of them and, after half an hour of whistling, using their planned signal, had found him again, waiting calmly for him as if nothing had happened.
“Long night?”
Duncan pulled a face. Realizing Blaine probably couldn't see him, he sniffed. “Why d' you say that?”
Blaine laughed. “Sorry, sir. It must have been terrible.”
“Yours was bad enough,” Duncan allowed gruffly.
Blaine chuckled. “Yes, but it was all my fault! Fancy getting moved on because of a fox.”
Duncan laughed. Blaine had told him what had happened as they rode out of the woodlands and towards the plains. He had waited in position as he had said he
would. He had disabled the guards on the rear gate – knocking them out in quick succession with a wood staff. Then a fox, of all things, had come out, seeing the men, no doubt, and thinking they were something edible. The sentries had seen the movement as the fox dragged the body and Blaine had tried to scare it off. They had been alerted and came running to the gate. Blaine had gone back through the woods to wait until the sentries cleared off. He had been trying to find the gate again when Duncan found him.
“It was good, though,” Duncan nodded. “Imagine if I'd burst out on horseback with you there. Besides, I might never have found my way around if you had not been where you were, waiting for me.”
Blaine chuckled. “You'd have found the way. But the fox saved me, right enough! I'm sure those sentries wondered why in Heaven they'd gone pouring out of the gates for a fox!”
Duncan grinned. “She did save us,” he said. “And we're almost back.”
“I know.” Blaine agreed. “And you have it!”
Duncan nodded, feeling for the hilt of the sword. He had shown it to Blaine as soon as they were a good distance from the castle and together they had fashioned a scabbard of sorts, wrapping it in strips of cloth from their cloaks and making a strap whereby it could hang round Duncan's shoulder. Concealed beneath his cloak, they hoped it would escape notice.
“How's your shoulder, sir?” Blaine asked.
Duncan sighed. “It's not too bad, Blaine.” In truth, it ached, bruised and battered from where someone had struck him, hard, with the flat of a sword during the fight. He had cuts lacing his hands and a wound on his side, but nothing that needed immediate care.
“We should go back, sir,” Blaine said. They had started riding again, risking no more than a walk, wanting to save their horses for a pursuit. They also did not want to risk riding too fast when everything a foot ahead was hidden by the mist. They had both experienced riding into marsh or fences they did not know were there. At high speed it would be fatal.
The Highlander’s Challenge (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 10
