Meryl waited until they reached the safety of the room before she spoke. “What was that all about?” she hissed at him.
"I'm sorry I was rough out there. It's the only way some of those louts understand.” Tristan sneezed. “The landlord was quick to inform me why the town is so busy.” He sneezed again.
Meryl muttered an ‘uh oh’ under her breath. She couldn't see him when she glanced about the room, but Dinks had to be close by. “Well,” she prodded, “what did he tell you is going on?"
"There's to be an execution tomorrow. William Wallace."
Meryl paled at the horrible thought. Her knees gave out and she sank onto the bed. History had been one of her favorite subjects but it was one thing to read about it—another to live it. She was familiar with most of that particular story. Wallace's own men betrayed him into the hands of the English king. Edward had been relieved to finally rid himself of the Scottish thorn in his regal paw.
By midmorning, one of the inn's maids knocked on the door and, receiving no answer, went in to quickly fill the pitcher and leave clean cloths. On the middle of the bed, sat the largest black cat she had ever seen. The cat snarled softly, but didn't move. Its green eyes glowed. The maid backed out of the room quickly and shut the door. No one had brought in any pets the night before; the landlord wouldn't tolerate it. How could anyone sneak in such a large cat without being noticed? Perhaps she was still feeling the effects of too much ale the night before and imagined the animal. The maid listened carefully. Hearing nothing, she slowly opened the door again and glanced in. The bed was empty. She glanced about the room, not wanting to see the cat again—if indeed it was a cat.
Something made her look down. What looked to be a tuft of fur hanging in mid air floated steadily toward the door, bouncing, as if it dangled on a piece of string. The maid's eyes widened in fright and she threw herself against the wall, crossing herself. She gathered her skirts and ran down the stairs. Someone else could see to the room.
* * * *
Tristan tried to avoid the throng but he and Meryl were caught in the surge of spectators moving toward the town square. It was either follow the crowd or be trampled by them. He glanced in the direction of the stable and found the distance growing wider, being filled with more spectators. For a small town, there were a good many people here. He wanted to protect Meryl from the milling, jeering crowd, and was grateful they blocked her view from the gruesome sight. There was nothing he could do to stop the sound. He sensed the fear and disgust weaving themselves about her and felt her shake uncontrollably. She hid her face against his chest. Her arms slipped around his waist and she wept softly. Sounds of the heavy steel axe being driven into the block were mercifully muffled by his shirt, and his cupped hand over her other ear. No one should have to die in such a horrid manner. This shouldn't have happened. How could the Highlands be united with traitors in their midst; men who turned on their leaders and betrayed them to the English? Tristan felt he would never understand how such treachery could take place.
Tristan couldn't hide from the execution. With his height, he could easily see over the heads of the shorter English. He turned his head away. He had watched men die in battle, but the hideous sight turned his own stomach, all the more so because he knew the heroism of the man they put to death. The English made examples of those who defied them, in the hope of ending any ideas of resistance or rebellion. They hadn't counted on the Scots being a stubborn lot.
He wrapped his arms around Meryl and held close to him in a protective embrace, offering what comfort he could. He felt the shudder of her despair and the wetness of her tears soaking through the front of his shirt. What had he done in bringing her here? He should have gathered the supplies they needed for the rest of their journey and left London right away, rather than staying the night. Maybe she was right to want to return to her own time. Tristan felt torn between his promise to his dying mentor, and a young woman's vulnerability to the unknown. He sighed softly as his sense of duty won out. He couldn't return her now; he had a job to finish. He harbored some doubt she would be able to help the Scots, but he would give his life, if necessary, to keep her safe.
They broke free of the mob at last. Wallace's death was a terrible way for her to face the harsh realities of the times. Better she realize it now, then later, he silently argued with himself. Tristan held a firm grasp on Meryl's wrist and led her toward the stables. The sooner they got there, the sooner they could leave this place.
* * * *
Famhair made himself comfortable on a pile of straw in an empty stall, and rested his head on his paws. He raised only his eyes and looked up at the preening cat sitting before him. “You should have seen her!” Dinks began. “She came into the room expecting to straighten it up and be on her way. She didn't expect to find something like me sitting on the middle of the bed looking so menacing, but innocent—"
"There is nothing innocent about you,” Famhair cut in. “Everything you do is calculated to get the most of a situation."
"Ah, you already know me too well,” Dinks purred with pride. “Anyway, as I was saying. She took one look at me and dashed out of the room. I don't think she went very far, because a moment or two later, she entered the room again, very cautiously. By that time I was no longer visible and I left the room, under her very nose. She saw only the tip of my tail and ran to the end of the hall and down the stairs. I think it's highly unlikely she'll return to that room any time soon.” Dinks licked one paw and rubbed it over his ear, grooming his fur. What passed for a feline grin showed great satisfaction in his latest adventure. He continued to groom himself as if nothing had happened.
A rumble came from Famhair's throat. “At least you can play games and get away with it. I sometimes envy you your abilities.” Famhair raised his head and growled at the noise coming from the doorway of the stable. “You had best disappear if we are to continue this charade. I sense our owners approaching.
* * * *
Meryl suddenly decided she'd had enough and pulled back, trying to free herself from Tristan's grasp. Other people pushed and shoved their way through the square. Some were determined to return to their work while others saw the execution as an excuse for a holiday, and made their way toward the inn or the nearest tavern to celebrate. Tristan's hold on her remained taut as he pulled her along, determined to get to the stable.
As soon as they had gained access to the building, Meryl dug in her heels and tried to pry his fingers loose. “Let me go!” she demanded.
Tristan half dragged her to the first empty stall, spun her around and shoved her against the nearest wall. “What did I tell you about saying anything?” he growled at her. Famhair looked up at his master surprised to hear such a sound emanating from the human. Tristan ignored the dog's interest in their arrival.
"Are you trying to get us both arrested? If the wrong people should hear you, we could easily be accused of treason and end up like Wallace. Is that what you want?"
"No! I want you to take me back. I don't belong here."
"I couldn't take you back, even if I wanted to."
"There must be another gateway that can send me back to my time,” she insisted.
"Get it through your head, Meryl. I cannot take you back. There are several gateways but they all go in one direction—here. There are none to take you back. I have a job to complete. You will continue this journey to its end. Once we arrive at our destination, you will become someone else's problem."
Tristan stared down at her, his green eyes dark with anger. Not only was she putting their lives at risk with her attempts to flee him, his anger was also directed at himself. He felt an attraction to her he preferred would die a quick death, or at least go away and leave him in peace. There was no room in his life for any woman, especially a woman as stubborn as this one. He had to give her credit, though, she was no simpering miss, ready to faint at the first sign of trouble.
Meryl wished he would release her and back away. She didn't like him being so close to her that
he could feel her tremble. Would he think it was from anger or something more? ‘Something more’ wasn't on her agenda. Her breathing quickened as he closed the small distance between them. She didn't know what she expected then, but a moment later, she felt a cool draught when he stepped away, after releasing her wrists.
"Let's go. We're leaving now, as soon as I can get you on Laoch's back. I don't want to be here later when these people are drunk enough to start trouble.—and I can promise you, there will be trouble before the day is out."
Tristan let the stallion out of his stall. Famhair stood lazily and stretched his sleek body, then waited for a command from his master.
Tristan carelessly tossed Meryl onto Laoch's back, forcing her to catch her balance before she tumbled off the other side. He led the stallion out of the stable, just beyond the main door, then mounted behind his reluctant companion and directed the horse to the nearest gates. Meryl glanced about, still hoping for a means to get away. The crowd had thinned a little, leaving a clearer view of the staging where the execution had taken place. Meryl's stomach did a quick flip-flop and she glanced away.
In front of one cottage, not far from the inn stood a weathered old man, dressed in dingy grey robes. His gaze met Meryl's and held it for a moment, but he offered no hope. She looked away, disappointed. Then again what could she expect from anyone when she was a total stranger? These English weren't known for their friendliness to strangers.
Meryl sat ramrod straight before Tristan. Despite her horror of the day's events he knew she was hiding behind her stubbornness, refusing to give him the satisfaction of giving in to despair. If there were some way he could redirect her thoughts away from the horror of the earlier execution, he'd do so, but at the moment he could think of nothing. Even Laoch's plodding gait seemed to echo the attitude of the couple on his back.
The Scots’ best hope for unity, William Wallace, was dead, betrayed by a man he trusted. His death was only a small part of what the highlanders were experiencing. Let her have her tears now, they would give her strength to face the battles to come.
Tristan's arm about her waist, tightened ever so slightly. “It will be all right,” he whispered. “We aren't beaten yet. No matter what they do, the English will not beat us into submission.” His soft voice took on a hard edge. Tristan wished he could believe his own words, but without Wallace, there was no one strong enough, or willing, to take his place. What would become of Scotland? Of the Highlands? Did they have any hope of surviving?
"Why did you bring me to this time and place? There's nothing I can do for these people. I don't belong here.” She saw no reason to remain. Maybe now, this Scot would change his mind and return her to her home. Her life was seven hundred years in the future. If she did stay, she, herself, could die a witch's death.
Tristan's mouth tightened into a thin line. Once again he was tempted to take her back and forget the promise he'd made. He hardened his resolve. “You are needed here. Once you've laid claim to your inheritance, you'll be able to help these people."
"What can I do that your own people cannot?” Meryl turned and looked over her shoulder to stare deeply into the warrior's green eyes. Windows to the soul. He truly believed what he was saying.
Meryl's knowledge of Scottish history made her well aware of the Highlanders’ failure to unite their clans. Despite what she knew, she couldn't use the knowledge to help anyone. She shouldn't change what was. Could history be changed? She pondered the question, but arrived at no sort of conclusion. No matter what the future, what was done here today would live on in infamy and never be forgotten.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The last five days of travel were leaving Meryl stiff and sore. If she never got on a horse again, after they arrived at their destination, she would be eternally grateful. The dismal weather managed to keep the sun away, leaving the air damp and dreary. This late afternoon was no exception.
"How do you know where you're going?” Holding on to the edges of her cloak, Meryl's arms reached around Tristan's waist while she tried to keep from being bounced off Laoch's bare back. She'd finally gotten over her mad and made herself as comfortable as she dared. The thick, chilling mist had become their constant companion, swirling about them and making her shiver in the dampness. Meryl leaned against his back, enjoying his warmth. She was grateful for the woolen gown, that several days earlier she'd thought crazy, and she made a promise to herself that she would never again complain about summer heat. How she wished she had some now.
Tristan glanced over his shoulder. “Don't worry. I won't get us lost.” He grinned at her look of doubt on her face. Moments later the fog vanished as if they had exited a cold storage room into a warmer one.
Meryl leaned a little to one side, careful not to lose her balance, glanced around his arm and drew a sharp breath. “What happened to Kansas?” A dozen or more huts were scattered across the rocky hillside.
"You're not in Kansas anymore,” he chuckled and dismounted.
Tristan's response surprised her. He seemed familiar with the well-known movie quote, but how could that be? And how did he know what Kansas was, never mind where? It was almost two hundred years before Columbus would be searching for a route to the West Indies. Meryl's thoughts scattered when curious villagers approached.
"Tristan! You've returned!” A young girl ran to him, her face flushed with excitement. Strands of light brown hair escaped the leather tie at the back of her neck. Joy showed in her hazel eyes as she hugged the warrior. “Were you successful?” she asked, never looking away from him.
Tristan caught her slender waist and made sure to keep a respectable distance between them. The top of her head barely came to his shoulder. “I certainly hope so, lass. If not, I've traveled a long way for naught.” He turned to the stallion to help Meryl dismount.
Meryl kept her features neutral when the younger girl spotted her. The newcomer had no idea what sort of reception she would receive from these people. If this girl's initial response was what she could expect, then Meryl's purpose here, whatever that was, was all ready destined for trouble.
"Everything will be fine, Meryl.” Tristan's quietly spoken words did little to assure her. When he stepped aside, she got a clearer view of the village. “Rose, this is the Lady Meryl."
"Don't look much like a lady to me,” Rose commented, taking in Meryl's wool gown. Her contempt was obvious.
Meryl bristled at the insult. “Where I come from,” she told the girl, “the word lady is a term of respect and has nothing to do with nobility."
"Tris,” Rose's eyes narrowed at the set down, then turned to Tristan, ignoring Meryl. “She's so young. We thought you were bringing back an old woman.” Tristan laughed at Rose's obvious disappointment.
Meryl realized the younger girl was jealous. Not five minutes in this strange place and she felt as if she were already in trouble. Her thoughts were disrupted by a black blur shooting past her toward a group of children. It stopped short in front of them. Famhair jumped between them and growled a soft warning. The children huddled together, too afraid to move. The cat sniffed the air, intrigued by the scent of these small humans.
"Dinks. To me,” Meryl ordered the animal. Dinks sniffed once more, reluctant to leave the smaller, fascinating creatures. “Dinks, now.” Both Famhair's growl and Meryl's stern command held notes of warning.
"Where did the beastie come from?” Tristan muttered in English.
Meryl shrugged. Her pet had remained out of sight when she'd ridden off with the warrior. She knew Dinks would successfully follow, no matter where he wandered. The cat sat by her side. Rose stepped closer to Tristan, keeping her distance from the cat, never taking her eyes from it. Her hand rested lightly on Tristan's sleeve, supposedly in fear, but Meryl saw it as the possessive gesture it was meant to be.
"He won't bother with you,” Meryl assured her, playing the same game.
The cat purred contentedly while its mistress scratched behind its ears. Meryl spoke softly to her
pet while guardedly watching three women. They stood apart from the rest of the gathering villagers, speaking quietly with one another, and occasionally glanced her way. The eldest of the three nodded finally and walked toward Meryl.
The woman had a sense of power about her, but she didn't flaunt it. Meryl watched the small groups of villagers speaking with one another in hushed tones and glancing her way. Meryl was shocked to find she understood everything they were saying that she could overhear—not that she was eavesdropping. When Tristan taught her a few words, she felt as if knowledge of the language had been unlocked somewhere inside her. She had no idea where she might have heard it before. Something in the recesses of her memory tried to call out to her, something she should be able to grasp but couldn't.
A warrior approached at the same time and Meryl smiled brilliantly. Without a doubt he was handsome, but she found herself comparing him to her captor. The newcomer spoke quietly with Tristan in Gaelic. Meryl caught a few words, enough to guess the stranger asked about her. He had the bearing of a powerful warrior. His thick blond hair was cut shorter than most warriors. His eyes reminded her of an autumn day when leaves were burned. The smoky gray color hid many secrets. She smiled when he turned his attention to her, but already she sensed some distrust in him. She glanced about, and felt the same misgivings among the staring villagers. She thought it odd she hadn't picked up on it moments before. If they didn't trust her, then why did they want her there?
"Welcome...” the warrior hesitated, her small hand resting easily in his larger one.
"Meryl,” she supplied and was presented with a courtly kiss. His eyes and smile held a promise of friendship. “I'm pleased to meet you...” Her sentence trailed off when she realized he hadn't mentioned his name.
Tristan laughed. In their short acquaintance, he'd never seen her look nervous. “This,” he said, clapping the other man on the shoulder, “is my good friend, Graeme Sinclair."
Graeme's eyes widened in surprise when he recognized the pendant's engraved design. So this is the woman they had been waiting for. He had to agree with Rose. Meryl didn't appear so young in London, with shadows playing across her face. No sense of power surrounded her. Either Tristan had found the wrong person or she had the ability to hide the truth of who and what she is. Or perhaps, she had yet to come into her own. Graeme's curiosity surpassed Maisri's. He had more at stake than the rest of the villagers. Graeme gently squeezed her hand. “A pleasure, my lady..."
The Spellbinder: Highland Eyes Page 7
