“Remove your leery hands from the girl.”
Morgann smiled, ignoring the blood now trickling down onto his chin. “Aye, delectable she is. No wonder ye want to keep her all to yourself.”
Gus pressed, and the blade slipped deeper, causing even more blood to flow. “I’ll no tell you again, Morgann. Remove your hands from Sybilla.”
With a shrug, he let go. Then in a show of confidence, he shoved the blade of his brother’s sword away and raised his eyebrows in humour. “I do believe that Fergus Gunn, Laird of Caithness Castle, is smitten.”
Sybilla backed away from the stranger, ran into the hut, and pressed herself against her pellet, putting as much distance between herself and Morgann as she could. This time when she looked back, it was Gus she stared at, and she was wearing that challenging look, the one he oft saw before copping a barrage of questions.
He braced for the assault, and studied his boots. That ‘smitten’ comment of Morgann’s wasn’t good either. It likely unsettled the girl, and besides, it was a touch embarrassing. Was he really smitten? His cheeks coloured. He must remember to show Morgann his fist in repayment next time they were alone.
Morgann grinned at the two of them, clearly enjoying the awkward moment. Then he piped up again. “You look surprised, my sweet hen. Has he not told you who he is?” Morgann shook his head. “I don’t believe it, Fergus Gunn, Laird of Caithness Castle, is being modest for a change and not shouting his name from the rooftops.”
“Shut ye mouth, Morgann, or I’ll shut it for ye.”
“Wee girl, he’s a laird. Your jailer’s a laird, no less. What say you to that?”
Gus prodded the front of Morgann’s tunic, the tip of his blade cutting into the threads. “More importantly, brother, how did ye track me down, ye rogue?”
Morgann stepped out of the blade’s reach. “As always, you underestimate me, Gus.”
“He’s your brother, really? You’re not at all alike.”
“Aye, sweet lass, I’m really his brother. Although not by blood. Ye see, I’m married to his bastard sister.”
“Dinna call Brenda that.”
Morgann turned away from them both as if bored already and began rustling through Gus’s food supplies. When he spied the Hessian sack on the stone table, he greedily tore at the drawstrings. Grabbing a bannock, he bit into it. Crumbs flew from his lips, and with his free hand, he reached for a goblet.
Between mouthfuls of bread, he said, “Tis what my wife is, no more and no less—a bastard.”
Gus batted the goblet from Morgann’s grip. It clanged to the floor spilling its liquid.
“I’ve no idea how you tracked me down, dog, but seeing as ye did, out with it. What bad news have ye brought me this time?”
“Can’t I visit my fancy brother in friendship? Must I always bring hard tidings and trouble?”
“Aye, that be your way. And no more dallying. Out with it.”
Morgann squeezed around the table and peered into the earthenware jug. “Well, I shan’t disappoint you then. Here is the news you seek. Brenda is in trouble.”
“In trouble again, ye mean.”
Morgann shrugged and continued his fossicking. “I can’t praise your hospitality, brother,” he said, raising his forehead. “Do ye not even have a honey cake, at least?”
“What’s Brenda gone and done this time?”
Morgann found another stash of food to search through.
“Your sister has gotten herself into a spot of bother. She’s angered the good folk of Caithness Castle. Again. But problem is, you’re no there to protect her this time.”
Gus rolled his eyes. “No doubt she’s earnt their wrath. What’s she done?”
Morgann raised a dried oat cake to his lips. “They accuse her of storm raising. The storm they speak of was like none I’ve e’er seen before. Aye, it was mighty vicious and unrelenting. The winds and hail wrecked most of the grain crops. Mayhap you heard ‘bout the storm. Twas the very one that killed the king’s nephew?”
With his mouth full, Morgann spat out the rest of his tale. “The castle folk held their own court and judged Brenda on the spot. Cunning they were, taking advantage of your absence. If you ask me, they’ve been itching to deal Brenda some harsh justice for a long while. Ye’ve been gone for so long, and heaven knows where to, so what could ye do to stop them?”
Gus held his tongue. Mayhap his people had done what he’d wanted to do himself, many times over. “Go on with ye story.”
“Well, then they pronounced her guilty of storm raising, and her punishment was a good watering.”
Gus’s brow drooped. A watering was too much. His sister was troublesome, true enough, but a watering was too strong a payment.
“Has she been watered yet?”
“Aye. They drowned her, or near enough. She lies in your dungeon now, gravely ill. She’s been asking for you, brother, when she’s able to talk.”
Gus closed his eyes and tried to control his temper.
“I’m fearful that she might die soon, so it’s best we ride home god-speed. And bring that pretty, white witch of yours along. I presume that’s what she is. Am I right? After all, it’s why you’re here, is it not? Our castle could certainly do with a little magic-making right now.”
Gus refused to explode in anger. As if his clan wasn’t in enough trouble already? Now, it appeared, they’d decided to turn on each other.
“I take it Brenda’s been pretending to be a tempestarii. And no doubt relieving the good folk of Caithness of their possessions.”
Sybilla tilted her head. “A tempestarii? What on earth is that?”
Gus ignored her. Instead, he jabbed his finger into Morgann. “I’ve warned you afore about that farce. Brenda’s nay a storm raiser. She can nay control the weather any more than I can, and it be dangerous to claim otherwise. If you let my sister playact again, you leave me no choice. I’ll come after ye, brother. You’re the one who will suffer next time, not her.”
He shoved Morgann hard into the wall. “And I’ll no be gentle with ye next time. We’ll call it punishment for not protecting my sister like ye should.”
Morgann shrugged. “Our little deceit was just our way of getting by. We needed possessions to trade. How else were we to feed and keep ourselves safe once we fled Caithness Castle? Tis not easy surviving on the road. One needs goods to trade in order to eat.”
Gus shoved Morgann again, pushing his head into the crumbling stone. “This is the last time, you hear me? No more tricking folk. I’ll nay come to your rescue again.”
Sybilla watched on with little interest, as if it was commonplace for her to see grown men wrestle in frustration. Mayhap she had brothers.
She sighed as she oft did before beginning one of her long speeches.
He released Morgann, so that he could turn and listen.
“Okay,” she began, “So Brenda is not a tempestarii, not a real one, if such a thing exists, which I doubt. But now that we’re on the topic of all things spooky and unreal, now is a good time for the two of you to realise something. Please listen carefully because what I’m about to say is the God’s honest truth. I am not a witch-not a witch at all. I’m not even a little bit witchy. I have no tricks. None.”
They stared at her. Gus forced his mouth to remain closed. If he were being honest, he’d admit to being a little shocked. More than a little. Sybilla had said ‘God’s honest truth’ and ‘not a witch’ in the same sentence. That was outright blasphemy.
“And furthermore,” she continued, “if you’d like me to help you, you’d better not call me a witch again.”
Both men looked about the cave, everywhere other than directly at her. If that is what she wanted, he’d not label her again, not to her face anyway. Gus looked back at Morgann and raised his brows in war
ning. Satisfied that she was facing the other way, he mouthed, “Don’t call her a witch.”
Now that that little matter was dealt with, Gus went back to threatening his brother.
He raised his fist, shoving it close to Morgann’s cheek.
“I’ll help you and Brenda this last time, but if you e’re play tempestarii again, I’m washing my hands of the two of you. Understand?”
Sybilla bit down on her thumb. “If you’re a laird, a true laird of a fiefdom, why are you living here like a serf or a pauper?”
Gus released his brother again and dusted himself down.
Morgann straightened himself too, brushing the crumbling stones from his tunic.
“He hasn’t told you much, has he, my sweet? He’s living rough because he’s in hiding. He’s trying to find and capture a Sassenach white witch, one who can sort all his problems.”
“Not an easy find,” Morgann added, “as you can well imagine.”
Gus saw the question in Sybilla’s eyes.
“Trust Gus to find himself one too. A Sassenach witch, no less. And on top of that, you’re a sweet sight for sore eyes. Ha, who’d have believed it possible?” Morgann slapped his brother on the back. “Well done, Gus, my man.”
She shook her head. “He’s wasted his time. As I just said, I’m no witch. I have no tricks or spells. I’m not even a cunning woman. Don’t you see, you’ve made a huge mistake? I’m not even clever with herbs.”
“Now, Sybilla,” Gus interrupted, “tis not right to deny your gifts. Instead ye should be grateful for what God has bestowed upon ye.”
Morgann smirked. “Enough chitchat, you two. No more dallying and playing Touch the Turnip.”
Gus gave his brother a thunderous scowl. She was a maiden, after all, and she had likely never even heard of Touch the Turnip, let alone played it.
Morgann ignored his brother’s black look. “Time we left this hovel and got on the road, afore my wife dies, hmm?”
Sybilla’s hands fisted at her sides. “I’m not going anywhere. Take me back to Scrabbly Castle, at once.”
Morgann’s fork-like tongue flicked from his lips. “I think not. Now chop-chop, young lady. Prepare to leave at once. Do you have a bag of potions we must carry or a wand, perchance? Or are the spells inside your head?”
Sybilla spoke through gritted teeth. “I will say this one last time. I am not a witch, not a black one or a white one or a witch of any colour.”
Gus gave his brother another warning glare. There was nothing to be gained by frightening and harassing the girl.
“Lass, we’ll agree to nay call you a witch again, if that pleases you. But you must come with us and help. I cannae let you go.” He reached for her hand.
She pulled away, tucking her arm behind her back.
“Sybilla,” Gus said, “please, my people are dying. They have an illness, an incurable illness. Tis a curse placed on my clan by the Almighty himself. I do not know who else to turn to. You are my last hope.”
She was silent.
Gus waited, sure she had more to say, because she always did.
At last, she sighed, and then she raised her palms in the air. “I’d help you if I could. But I cannot. I have no special power or knowledge. There is nothing I am able to do for your clan or for anyone else. Truly, you have to believe me.”
“All I ask is that you try.”
She groaned. “You are mistaken. You are wrong about me.”
“Do this one thing, and I’ll ne’er forget it. If ye ever need my help in the future, I’ll come running. I’ll no turn my back on ye, no matter the weight of the problem.”
She stared at him, and Gus could see she was sorely tempted. Such a promise would be a comfort to a wee lassie like her. Sybilla was a foreigner, a Sassenach girl in this land of fearful Scots. Twas only a matter of time before she would need his protection.
To help convince her, he added, “I’ll take good care o’ you on the long journey home. I’ll nay let any of the thieving, rutting curs on the road lay a finger on ye beautiful body.”
Morgann pulled the stopper from a skin and raised the flask to his lips. The mead glugged down his throat. Then he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Me too, I’ll save you.”
To emphasise his promise of protection, Gus raised his sword and shouted a short war cry.
Sybilla jumped, her eyes stretched wide.
“I swear it, if any man as much as leers your way, sweet Sassenach, I’ll lop off his head. Aye, and I’ll enjoy doing it too.”
Slowly, she lowered herself onto the pallet and closed her eyes.
“I’m not sure that cutting off heads will be necessary, but fair enough, I’ll agree to go with you and do what I can for your people.” Then she muttered, “Anyway, it’s not like I have a choice.”
Gus rolled back on his heels, feeling satisfied. English lassies were no the same as tough Scots girls. English maidens were way harder to fathom. He’d best tread carefully around this one. The girl took offense at all manner o’ things. Why, she was even offended by her own God-given, curse-curing talents.
The journey home would be long and arduous, and once they arrived, she’d need to use her magic straight away. Aye, she had a huge task ahead.
Despite her stubbornness and the trouble she was certain to cause, he couldn’t help liking her. If truth be told, he liked her a bit too much. He’d need to watch himself, especially if they spent all their days together. It would take a strong man with a special kind of strength to sleep beside her on the road, and yet turn from her charms. He only hoped he was that man.
Chapter 9
They’d been on the road north all day, and by dusk Sybilla could feel the roughness of the track in her lower back. Her thighs and bottom, not used to so many hours in a saddle, ached too.
The air about them was chill and dreary, the mist hanging in cloudy wads. The fog made everything look wavy and unreal. Every now and then, a copse of trees would burst out of the mist, and Gus would somehow steer his horse clear just in time. If the reins had been in her hands, they’d both be splattered against a tree by now.
She was grateful for the wool cloak he had insisted she wear. Of course, it was far too large for her tiny frame, but all that extra material kept her warm. She also welcomed the heat from his body. The man’s size was a formidable buffer against the cold. There was something primal about Gus, unsophisticated for certes, yet strangely, she’d never felt so safe. Something about the man warmed her very soul—not that she’d admit to those thoughts to anyone.
She studied the back of his head and his unkempt hair flying in the breeze. She could picture him in the practice yards of his castle, shirt off, teaching the young warriors how to wield a broadsword.
Gus had a poor opinion of Morgann, that much was obvious. She’d love time alone with the brother-in-law, so that she might learn more about Laird Caithness. There were many questions whirling inside her head. Was he a good man? A popular laird? And strangely and much more urgently, she wanted to know if there was a lassie or two waiting for him at home?
But what did it matter? There could only ever be one future for her. She would be Eoin’s wife. She would marry into his Border Reiver clan and fulfil her family’s commitment. That was her set path, and she’d do well to remember it.
Stick to the plan, Sybilla, and do not let your imagination run wild. After the current Border Reiver laird dies, you will become Lady of Scrabbly Castle. Many had a fate worse than that. She would make the most of it because, well, she had little choice.
But her kidnapping had the potential to wreck everything. Both Gus, and now Morgann, truly believed she was a white witch. What a ridiculous pagan notion that was. Of course she wasn’t a witch because witches did not exist. Try telling the two of them that, though.
For that matter, try telling most folk north or south of the border that their beliefs were naught but myth and superstition.
Even her father, a powerful English lord, feared clever or unusually skilled women. Father thought midwives altogether too good at what they did and therefore only a few strokes above the devil. He truly believed in God and was a devout Christian, but the old pagan ways refused to leave him.
Father spoke of religion loudly, but his actions were oft not charitable at all. Once when they’d been out riding, a twisted spinster burst out of a thicket, startling the horses. The poor old crone was near starved and desperate for food. Distressed at the sight of her wizened arms and bony face, Sybilla had fished into her basket for picnic leftovers. But Father had cast his eyes away and, even worse, held his breath. By time they rode on, Father was near blue. Sybilla knew what he was doing. He was afeared of breathing in her evil spirit.
So, what did Gus and Morgann expect of her? Did they really believe she could cast spells, and not only save the swindling half-drowned Brenda, but could also cure a whole castle of ailing folk? Sybilla was the first to admit that she had a way with animals, but unless petting a bad-tempered cat or catching a field mouse was enough to save Brenda, then Brenda and the rest of Caithness Castle was in a whole midden of trouble.
If they’d only listen, she’d tell them, loudly, that she knew little about healing, no more than the average woman. And she knew nothing whatsoever of magic.
Pretending. That was the key to this dilemma. It would be her way out. And fortunately, pretending was one of the few things she did well. After all, she’d had plenty of practice. Hadn’t she always had to pretend in one form or another?
Just like Eoin, her father liked a whore or three to warm his bed. She’d lost count of how many half brothers and sisters she had. Sybilla had known, from way back, that she was not one of her father’s favoured children. All these years she’d pretended not to care about that.
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