Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  He had to go and find out more about the monk's report of a damaged coach, and soon.

  The more he thought about it, the more he knew he had to set out tomorrow. He knew it might seem foolish – after all, what proof had he that the carriage bore Claudine or indeed any of the duke's relations to their residence? However, he had a sense of urgency that could not be denied.

  Also, he thought as he stood, brushing dust from his tunic as he headed toward the columns and indoors, he had an excellent chance to follow the abbot's sound advice.

  He could gather information.

  It sounded like the best change he had of solving the mystery around Claudine.

  Or of helping her. The two seemed intertwined somehow.

  All the same, despite the graveness of the mission, Francis found he didn't feel daunted so much as inspired by it.

  He might get to see Claudine again.

  Even if I cannot speak with her, which seems unlikely. Seeing her from afar is good enough.

  It would have to be.

  As he hurried into the dark tranquil space of the monastery, the sound of the monks discussing something in the scriptorium floating out peacefully to him, he felt his heart fill with excitement. As well as a bright flame of hope. He would be able to find something out. First, though, he had to make sure the carriage the monks had seen, was safe.

  That was the most urgent matter to hand.

  He hurried to the stables, heart thumping in his chest. He knew it was dangerous to be abroad in a summer thunderstorm. That didn't matter – the danger to Lady Claudine could be far worse. He had to go and assure himself that she was safe.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DANGER AND DARKNESS

  DANGER AND DARKNESS

  The coach jerked to a halt. Claudine woke up. She opened her eyes on the dark leather-lined interior of the coach and Bernadette's distressed face.

  “My lady?” Bernadette whispered. “Are we..?”

  She trailed off. Outside, the coachman alighted with a thump of boots on the hard-packed earth. The sound of his disgruntled mood came, muffled, through the side of the coach. There was silence, then the distant roll of a storm, coming close.

  Claudine looked at Bernadette with dismay. Bernadette nodded tightly.

  “It's the wheel, milady. These roads...with the rain they're so slippery! We're stuck in a rut.”

  Claudine raised her fingers to her lips nervously. “Now? With dusk coming on. Oh, Bernadette. What if..?”

  “Your uncle will send someone soon,” Bernadette said reassuringly. “You see if he doesn't. His own niece, stuck on the road to Evreux? Of course he'll send out woodsmen to look for the coach.”

  Claudine nodded. “You're right, of course,” she agreed softly. All the same, her heart thumped with fear. She could hear the storm growing overhead. In the confined space of the carriage, every small murmur of thunder seemed so menacing.

  Given the propensity of lightning to strike tall objects, we're in deep danger here.

  Claudine shuddered. She had heard and seen of enough strikes here in the southern part of the country to know that the taller a building – or tree, as well – the more likely it was to be struck. In the rolling summer fields, their coach was the highest object for miles around.

  We're in danger.

  She looked at Bernadette, whose eyes were tense at the corners. She knew that, despite the reassuring smile and the soft touch on her hand, Bernadette was as concerned as she.

  And with reason.

  It was not just the danger of instant death that bothered them. It was the danger of a more drawn-out one at the hands of vagabonds and outlaws. Claudine shuddered. Their coach was a prime target.

  She gripped Bernadette's hand and tried to slow her breath. She sought calm and found it.

  Uncle will send someone. The storm will recede. The rain will come and the thunder will end.

  She breathed out slowly.

  Just then, she heard the coachman shouting to the outrider – they had taken only two armed riders as an escort, thinking themselves perfectly safe here in their own landholdings – an alarmed sound.

  “Hey! Francois. What's that there?”

  “A horse?”

  “It's not Benedict. Must be someone else. Go and see.”

  Claudine breathed in sharply. Unlikely as it seemed that robbers would be armed – anyone who could afford to have a horse seemed to have little need to steal – it was possible.

  A fugitive or vagabond might steal a horse as easily as they'd steal our coach now.

  She clutched the fingers where Bernadette's hand rested in hers as if they were a lifeline. Bernadette gripped back. The hoof beats of their escort rumbled and faded into the distance quickly, overpowered by the thunder.

  The two women closed their eyes and started to pray.

  Claudine felt a strange restlessness overcome her. As she heard the men shouting, and the sound of more hoof beats, she felt a need to get out of this carriage and investigate. Her heart lurched, clearly less enamored of the prospect than she herself.

  “Bernadette,” she said, voice soft but insistent, “I've got to get out. I can't just sit here.”

  “My lady,” Bernadette pleaded. “No. It's dangerous.”

  Claudine shook her head. She knew she had to get out of this coach. The inactivity and faceless threat would drive her mad. She had to know.

  “I'll only be a moment, Bernadette.”

  She opened the door and slid out.

  Outside, the world was gray and blue and dark, shot through with the eerie ripple of lightning. Claudine looked around, slitting her eyes against the darkness. A warm breeze blew, flattening the grass of the vast fields. She looked to her left and caught a movement there about thirty paces from the coach.

  There! A horseman, barley within sight.

  Claudine felt her hand cover her mouth in fright as she searched again, locating the shadowy horseman in the mass of grays and blues and charcoal shadows. He was keeping to the foreground of the woods where they approached the road narrowly, the darkness making him blend with the dark of tree trunks, a thing of shadow and fitful illumination and motion.

  She watched as their two guards rode steadfastly towards the shadowed man.

  As she watched, eyes stretched tight with horror, she saw one of the guards ride forward to engage the man with his sword. Light flashed on metal as he drew it, shivering silver down the blade.

  She could not hear the clash of swords as the horseman answered his strike. She only saw the shimmer of light on polished metal as the blade clashed with his own. The sounds of the storm drowned out all other noise.

  “Help!” Claudine breathed out, an appeal to the highest powers that be. She watched the swordsman fight with immense skill. Suddenly, her mind was transported back.

  She was sitting on the terrace, overlooking the courtyard. At the palace, on a heavily aired summer afternoon. She saw the sunshine glint on steel and felt her heart rise to her mouth. She watched the amazing skill of the swordsman she admired for so many other reasons other than his sword-craft.

  Francis!

  The mounted man reminded her of him.

  She shook her head. There was no reason for her mind to associate the two other than wild fancy. Or was there? With the way he wielded that sword, this man could not be a simple vagabond. He was far too adept, far too skilled. Whoever this was had access to a nobleman's training, of that she had absolutely no reason to doubt.

  The fight faded out before her eyes. With the swordsman who seemed like Francis winning, her guardsmen did their best to tackle him. All at once, the Francis-like mounted man retreated sharply. She saw his horse ride away into the woodlands, blending almost at once with the treeline. She sighed.

  Whoever he was, he was skilled. He is gone now. Be thankful, now, Claudine!

  She was safe – the swordsman had retreated. Why did she feel so sorrowful?

  I suppose, she thought, shaking her head rueful
ly, I was pleased to see someone who made me imagine he was here. Francis. That swordsman could have been him from some angles. And when he rode away, especially so.

  She had caught a glimpse of straight-backed posture, wide shoulders, and narrow hips.

  It could have been Francis, except for the fact that Francis was miles away. Why should he be here, logically speaking, when she needed him? Defending her coach from vagabonds.

  So far, the only vagabond was the horseman himself. Now he's gone, we can continue on. At least, that was true if the coach could move once again.

  “Fabienne?”

  “Yes, milady?” the coachman asked roughly. He sounded badly shaken. She couldn't blame him.

  “Are we repaired yet?”

  “Almost, milady,” he confirmed. “I've collected pebbles and stones and branches under the wheel. As soon as the men come back, we'll take the coach back over the pile and see if we can't coax the wheel lose.”

  “Whew,” Claudine felt the tension drain away. “Good. My thanks for that welcome news.”

  He chuckled, through she could see more tension on his face. “Hope so, milady. Now get back in before you collapse. Your uncle would murder me himself if I let aught happen now.”

  Claudine smiled gently and thanked the man, ascending into the carriage with help from Fabienne. When she was in, she turned to Bernadette, who frowned. She was white with fear, her skin in such sharp contrast to the rest of her that Claudine felt an instant alarm for her condition.

  “My lady!” Bernadette said, looking at once relived and horrified. “You're safe. Thank Heaven...” she trailed off, raising her eyes heavenward in thanks.

  Claudine nodded. “Indeed. But...Bernadette?”

  “What, milady?” Bernadette frowned.

  “I...”she paused hesitantly. Should she tell Bernadette what she had thought? That Francis had been there watching over them? She shook her head.

  Bernadette will think me full of fancies. I think the same myself. How could it be him?

  All the same, as the coach rocked back on its wheels and the men without grunted, strained, and then yelled jubilantly, she had to wonder.

  If it was not Francis, she mused, who might it have been? A man on a warhorse, armed with a steel sword, out in the countryside at night near Evreux. If there was some sort of bandit on the loose of that description, they would most certainly have heard more about him. Why would he seem so similar to Francis? So upright and so skilled?

  “My lady?” Bernadette interrupted her thoughts.

  “Oh, Bernadette. Sorry, what was that?” she asked as the coach lurched back and then rocked forward, heading slowly ahead.

  “I was just thinking, thank Heaven that we were so close to home when it happened. We're almost there, I reckon. Those hills look like the hills just out of Annecy.”

  “Annecy?” Claudine stared. She wanted to laugh. Of course! How could she have been so stupid!

  Annecy was ten miles from Evreux. Annecy was the home of the count of Annecy. The home, presumably, of the parents of Francis McNeil.

  She felt her cheeks flush with wonder and joy. The horseman could have been Francis! For the first time since leaving the northern lands near Paris, she felt her heart blossoming with hope.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MAKING NEW PLANS

  MAKING NEW PLANS

  The ride to the monastery took more time than Francis would have liked. Weary and tense following the fight, skin slaked in sweat, he took some time to rest in the woodlands, letting both himself and his horse regain their equilibrium.

  “I can't believe I did that.”

  He sighed. He had engaged the swordsman of his neighbor's guard – two of them, no less. Two, against one, in the storm's light. He was lucky he wasn't dead.

  He chuckled, shaking his head. His blood still fizzed from the fight, his heart light, his head drifting. It was not just the fight that had made him feel so amazing.

  It was the sight of a head of pale blonde hair.

  He couldn't be sure it was her. He couldn't be sure he'd seen it. Could have been a trick of the light, he reasoned, quelling the wild joy that leaped and raced and skittered in his blood vessels.

  All the same, there was the merest thread of possibility that he was right.

  It was her.

  Francis felt his cheeks lift in a grin. He was wet, cold, and elated. He was exhausted, weary, and drained. He still had a good half hour's ride back to the monastery.

  “At least it'll be dry when we get there.”

  The storm had lifted, giving way, as it always did, to a torrential downpour. Francis was soaked to the skin, shivering and grinning like a wild man.

  Was it his mind playing tricks on him, or had the pale-haired figure stared at him?

  He chuckled. “Stop being fanciful, Francis.”

  Why would she have done that? He could barely see her – only a tall, pale shape in the fitful darkness – and so the likelihood of her recognizing him across the gap of thirty-five paces or so was minimal.

  All the same, it has seemed as if the tall, pale-haired figure had watched him. The sight of her had ignited him and made him do his best against the horsemen who came at him as his enemy.

  “I should stop thinking about that...I'm just being daft.”

  Francis chuckled to himself, feeling his cold, damp cheeks lift in a lopsided smile. He was soaked through, wet and water-logged. Yet he was happy.

  “Come on, Nightshade,” he whispered to the horse. He had borrowed one of the monks' three horses, used mainly for messengers. The poor creatures were named for different herbs in the monastery garden: Nightshade, Betony and Aconite. “We need to reach home soon, before we freeze.”

  He couldn't help the elation that surged through his chest. All the way back he was smiling. It must be Claudine! Who else could it be? Even having to dismount and walk through the glutinous mud to spare his horse's muscles was insufficient to dampen his joy.

  Claudine was here. At the manor not twenty miles from his own home! Who else of that description would be in the coach alone? On the road north? With an armed presence to protect them? The thought made the idea of being stuck here in the countryside for the next few months bearable.

  Francis couldn't stop smiling.

  When he reached the monastery, he was greeted by Brother Luc. The man's eyes went wide with horror. Evidently seeing the son of the count, boots thick with mud, red hair plastered to his head, was too much for the poor fellow.

  “My lord!” he stammered. “You're...come inside, before you catch your death of chill!”

  Francis let himself be led inside. He took a seat by the fire. He was soon shivering uncontrollably as his blood started to flow faster again, his body warming up. The monks fetched him a bowl of broth and left him to thaw out. Speech beyond the necessary was forbidden after Compline.

  While he sat there, Francis found himself making his plan.

  He had to go to Evreux as soon as he could. Had to find out more. Perhaps he could disguise himself, infiltrate the manor...

  He sighed.

  Conn, you fool. How could you? You are acquainted with the count.

  It wasn't like he looked like anyone else, either. How many tall, strong, red-haired and green-eyed servants could the count possibly have?

  None. He knew that answer already.

  There was no hope for it. He needed a disguise.

  Or help. He also needed it soon.

  Early the next morning he left the monastery. The ride back was faster than the ride there had been, and he reached his home in high spirits.

  “Francis!” His mother exclaimed as he appeared. “Oh! There you are. You must have got soaked through in this storm. I was worried...”

  Francis kissed her scented cheek fondly. “Oh, Mother! I took shelter at the abbey near Bois. You shouldn't have been worried. I am hard to kill.”

  His mother chuckled, but her eyes were serious. “I would that were so. But no on
e is, my son.”

  Francis had to nod at the truth of that. People could be brought to death distressingly easily. The thought made him all the more concerned for Claudine.

  Later, he sought out his father. He found him in the study with Yves.

  “Son! There you are. You found shelter from the storm?”

  Francis grinned. “Or I'd be in a sorry state, Father.”

  Yves looked up from the book. “You are in a...”

  “Yves?” His father interrupted the old steward's comment. “Don't you have accounts to add up?”

  Yves grinned. “I'm just going, my lord.”

  The two of them waited while he went out. He was still chuckling to himself.

  “You wanted to ask me something, my son?”

  “Yes. Father, I may need to be away for a few days.”

  His father raised a brow. “Very well, Son. I'm staying here until the jousting season. By all means, take time away. Do you need to go far?”

  Francis grinned. He loved his father's ready acceptance. “No, Father.”

  “Well, then. If you need an escort, do tell me. I'm sure we could spare two of the household guard.”

  Francis shook his head. “I'm not going that far, Father.”

  “Well, then. By all means.”

  Francis grinned. “Thanks, Father. Is there anything I can do to help with the accounts?”

  His father made a face. “I don't think so, Son. As you know, I wouldn't take that job from Yves if my life depended on it.”

  Francis laughed. “Exactly.”

  He headed out.

  Upstairs, he packed a saddle pack and then headed to the stables. He found that his heart was racing and his mind couldn't keep away from the thought of that sweet face and beautiful body. He imagined what Claudine would look like naked – those sweet curves uncovered before him, lying on the bed. Her full breasts, with what he imagined to be peach-orange nipples, and rounded shoulders.