Tamed by the Barbarian

by June Francis

  ‘How far do the trees stretch?’ asked Mackillin of Jack.

  ‘Two hours’ journey maybe.’

  Mackillin looked up at the darkening sky and Cicely guessed what he was thinking. It would be nightfall within the hour. She noticed that he still clasped his sword and wondered if he feared there were outlaws hiding in the forest. She thought that they would have to be mad to do so in this weather, but hopefully there might be a woodcutter’s hut or a charcoal burner’s cottage. The horses’ heads were bowed with weariness as they entered the trees. Dead leaves muffled any sound as they picked their way gingerly to avoid roots spread across their path. Cicely thought of the songs sung by travelling musicians about Robin of the Hood and his merry men living in the greenwood, robbing the rich to feed the poor. She smiled inwardly, questioning whether such a hero had ever existed. But surely there must be friendly folk who would give a Christian welcome to three weary travellers in this forest of Pendle?

  They had been moving stealthily for a while, when the trees opened on to a clearing and there, a hundred feet or so in front of them, was a hut with a lean-to attached. She was not going to allow herself to hope too quickly and glanced down at Mackillin, a question in her eyes. Dusk had deepened and she could barely read his expression but guessed his feelings must be similar to hers—they were going to have to spend the night here.

  ‘It appears deserted,’ said Jack, dismounting. ‘I’ll take a closer look.’

  Before either of them could say ‘wait,’ he sprinted across to the hut.

  ‘There’s no one inside,’ he called.

  Mackillin dismounted and helped Cicely to the ground. She swayed against him and he put his arm round her and half-carried her to the hut. Jack had already opened the door and vanished inside. Now he looked out of the single-window opening with its shutters askew. He signalled to them, then went back to the door and held it wide and waved them inside.

  ‘It’s no fine hall, but at least we’ll have a roof over our heads for tonight,’ he said.

  ‘You two stay here,’ said Mackillin. ‘I’ll fetch the baggage.’

  She was only too happy to do as he said and entered the hut and tried to make out shapes in the darkness. She tripped over a circle of stones in the centre of the earthen floor and realised it was a primitive fireplace. The atmosphere struck chill, but better to have some shelter than sleep in the open on such a freezing night. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dimness and she noticed what appeared to be a wide ledge running the length of a wall. On closer inspection she noticed a space beneath it and discovered what felt like logs and kindling.

  ‘Have you seen this, Jack?’ she asked.

  There was no answer and she realised he must have gone outside to help Mackillin. As soon as his lordship reappeared with the baggage she told him of her discovery.

  ‘Well done!’

  ‘You do have a tinderbox?’ she asked.

  His teeth gleamed whitely in the gloom. ‘Never travel without one. A fire’s essential even in hot countries when out in the wilds.’

  She showed him where everything was and helped carry over the makings of the fire. Then she sat on the ledge out of the way, gazing at the dark crouching shape that was Mackillin. She imagined his lips pressed tightly together and his eyebrows knotted with concentration as he attempted to conjure up light and warmth for the three of them. She could even picture him in the role of one of those primitive men who had lived in caves performing the same magic. He would have worn animal skins and so would his woman. She would have roasted the wild animals or fish he caught. Afterwards they would have slept on furs in each other’s arms for comfort and warmth. She felt a ripple of sensation in the pit of her stomach and ran her tongue around her dry mouth. She mustn’t allow her thoughts to stray in that direction. Thank God for Jack’s presence.

  She heard Mackillin give a grunt of satisfaction and soon the kindling was cracking and popping and a scent of pine filled the small room. She watched as he lit a stub of candle and could see his face clearly. He looked in her direction and smiled. She felt happiness ripple through her and, astonished by its depth, got up from the ledge to fetch more wood, so he would not see it shining in her face.

  Mackillin placed the candle on a blob of melted wax on the crude table that was there and she resumed her position on the ledge. The smoke spiralled its way upwards into the dark thatch of the roof and through a hole there. Even so, some of it weaved its way round the room and she coughed.

  He glanced over at her. ‘The remains of the food are in my pack. There’s also a couple of flasks, one of water and one of whisky. I’ll try to fasten that broken shutter. We won’t be able to keep a fire burning all night and it’ll be freezing towards dawn.’

  She watched him disappear outside and went over to his pack and found the food and drink. When he returned he was accompanied by Jack and had a cord in his hand. She sat on the ledge, watching his strong hands drag the broken shutter towards him. Jack held it shut whilst Mackillin tied it up as best he could. How skilful those large hands were, thought Cicely, not the least bit soft and white like she had imagined a lord’s to be. It was only when he had completed his task that he looked her way. ‘The food and whisky?’

  ‘Here,’ she said, picking them up from the ledge beside her.

  Jack took them from her and he passed them to Mackillin. That done, his lordship came and sat beside her. ‘You’ve no tasted whisky?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Is it like mead?’

  ‘It’s not sweet, but it lights a fire as it goes down the throat and burns nicely in the belly. Too much and it gives you a thirst and a head fit to burst.’

  ‘Then I’ll not touch it,’ she said with a light laugh.

  He grinned. ‘A dram won’t do you any harm if you have a drink of water with it. Besides, I’ve not enough aqua vitae in my flask to give any of us a bad head.’

  ‘Aqua vitae! Doesn’t that mean water of life?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Glad you know your Latin, laddie,’ said Mackillin, unscrewing the top of one of the leather flasks. ‘Taste it and see, lass.’

  She hesitated, but the challenging light in his eyes caused her to reach out a hand and take the flask. Cautiously she took a mouthful and felt the cold liquid trickle on her tongue. Then she gasped as it slid to the back of her throat and down her gullet, warming a path to her belly. She would have taken another gulp if he had not removed the flask from her hand. ‘Not too much at once when you’re not used to it and on an empty stomach,’ he admonished. Taking a swig from the flask, he closed his eyes and then opened them again and smiled. ‘Now food and water.’

  Mackillin handed the flask to Jack. ‘A mouthful, Jack. That’s all I have.’

  Jack thanked him and took only a sip.

  When it came to the food there wasn’t much of that either. Cicely would have given his lordship and her brother the bulk of the food, but Mackillin insisted on equal shares. They all ate the food slowly, savouring every mouthful. Jack sat on the ledge with his back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  Suddenly Mackillin touched Cicely’s chin with the tip of his finger and then held out the digit to her. She spotted the crumb of fish and found herself remembering, when the twins were being weaned, how her mother would soften meat for them by chewing it before offering it to them on her finger. Sometimes the babies would bite her finger with their tiny teeth and her mother would squeak like a mouse and Cicely would laugh. She felt a smile start inside her and attempted to lick the crumb off his finger, but it escaped her and she sucked it up. It gave her an odd thrill, and when she looked up at him she saw that he was gazing at her from beneath drooping eyelids.

  ‘When I was a lad I used to creep through the long grass to the edge of Loch Trool and tickle trout. I liked it best in the early morning when I had the loch to myself. Sometimes there would be mist on the water and there was a different kind of magic about the place then. I was always hungry in those days, so I’d s
truggle to get a fire going and cook a couple of trout out there in the open.’

  ‘I’d like a trout right now,’ said Cicely, lowering her gaze and fiddling with the girdle about her waist. ‘The loch you mentioned—is it a pretty place?’

  ‘Aye. I deem it so…although there’s those from the Highlands who’d claim their lochs are grander. I do not care about that—for me there’s no finer place to be on a spring morning when the bluebells are blooming and the eagles are soaring above the crags. Even Robbie Bruce, the greatest king Scotland ever had, is said to have spent time there, finding sanctuary in a cave whilst hiding from his enemies.’

  She forced her eyes open. ‘By enemies, you mean the English?’

  ‘Och! Not only the English, Cissie. He had enemies aplenty in Scotland. When they wouldn’t accept him as king, he killed them.’

  She shivered and drew her cloak closer about her. ‘I would not like to move in royal circles. It’s not safe.’

  ‘Aye, ’tis not,’ he said heavily.

  He forced himself to his feet and fetched his sleeping gear and placed pallet and blanket on the ledge beside her. ‘You can use these. I’ll do well enough with my cloak by the fire.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s kind of you, but I have my cloak and will be warm enough.’

  He frowned. ‘Don’t argue with me, woman. I saw your face earlier. That kind of cold seeps into the bones and I don’t want you catching a chill.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ she whispered, glancing at her brother who appeared to have fallen asleep. ‘Anyway, I need to go outside.’

  Without more ado she got up and hurried out of the hut. The cold took her breath away and she glanced towards the trees that creaked eerily in the wind. An owl hooted, scaring the life out of her. She wanted to rush back inside where Mackillin waited and it was safe. Instead, she wasted no time scuttling behind the lean-to where the horses huddled together for warmth. After relieving herself, she wiped her hands on the wet grass and hurried back to the entrance where she found Mackillin waiting outside the door. She was touched that he had kept watch and was reminded of that morning when he had picked up his bedding roll from outside her bedchamber. He ushered her inside and then his gaze swept the clearing before closing the door.

  He was aware of Cicely’s eyes on him as he shot the bolt. Then she lay on the pallet he had rolled out on the ledge, thanked him, and wrapped her cloak round her and closed her eyes. He sat on the floor and put another log on the fire. The heat released the resin in the wood and it hissed, flaring up and lighting the room and filling it with that scent of pine once more. ‘That smell brings back memories,’ he said softly.

  ‘Of your childhood?’ she murmured.

  ‘Of my travels. When I bought my own ship I journeyed into the hinterland of foreign lands and slept under the stars. We’d keep a fire burning through the night to ward off wolves and bears.’

  She could imagine him making some makeshift shelter near a stream or river and living off the land, and thought it could be a great adventure in the right company. ‘I always longed to travel and see how other people live,’ she said wistfully.

  A faint smile lightened his face. ‘Some of the most interesting places I’ve seen are those I never intended visiting.’

  ‘You mean you got lost.’

  ‘Aye. Fortunately I always found my way again.’

  She prayed they would have no trouble finding the right way on the morrow. She would have liked to have heard more about his travels, but she could feel herself drifting into sleep.

  But for Mackillin sleep would not come. He could not stop thinking about her, imagining the feel of her in his arms. At last he rose and placed the last of the logs on the fire. From the sound of their steady breathing she and Jack were both asleep. He made his way to the ledge, but could see little of her. She had wrapped herself completely in her cloak. He reached out with a gentle hand and touched her head. She did not stir and, with a sigh, he returned to the fire and curled himself up on the floor, praying that sleep would take him.

  It was the scream that woke him. Instantly he reached for his sword. The room was pitch black for the fire had burnt itself out and so had the candle. ‘Wha-what’s that noise?’ asked Jack, roused from sleep.

  ‘Wolves and men’s fearsome faces hidden amongst the trees,’ responded Cicely, starting upright.

  ‘There’s no wolves here, Cissie,’ said Mackillin. ‘You’re having a nightmare.’

  ‘I know I must be, but it was still frightening,’ she said. ‘Sorry to wake you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mackillin. ‘I’ve had many a bad dream in my time.’ Impulsively he made his way over to her in the darkness and sat beside her.

  ‘That is you, Mackillin?’ she asked, sensing him close by.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘The dream felt so real.’ Her fear was abating.

  ‘I’ve heard it said that there are no wolves left in England,’ murmured Mackillin.

  ‘But there are men who are savage and would devour a woman, such as Husthwaite and my northern kin,’ whispered Cicely. ‘I thought you were one such when I first set eyes on you, but now I know better. Tell me—are there wolves still in Scotland?’

  ‘Possibly. But they avoid the places of men.’

  ‘I’m glad of that. I would like to see this Loch Trool you spoke of,’ she said sleepily.

  ‘That would mean your visiting Scotland.’

  ‘I know.’ Her head rested against his shoulder.

  He could feel the outline of her breast touching his arm and had difficulty restraining himself from bringing up his other hand and caressing its rounded softness. The thought of kissing its rosy peak aroused him and he knew he must move away, otherwise the temptation might prove too great. ‘You’re safe. Now go back to sleep. We’ve got to be up early in the morning.’

  ‘Of course. You’re right.’ She yawned and gathered her cloak around her.

  He moved away from the ledge and curled up on the floor and closed his eyes. When he slept it was to dream that Cicely was being torn from his arms by a man in a wolf’s mask and he couldn’t do anything to prevent it because his hands were tied and he had no idea of where he was.

  When he woke again it was still dark. He yawned and stretched, wondering how long it was to dawn. Then he noticed a faint lifting of the darkness around the shutter and beneath the door.

  Silently he got to his feet and, taking his leather flask, went over to the door. Carefully, he drew back the bolt and went outside. The wind had dropped and the first faint rays of the sun were slanting between the trees, dispelling the gloomy atmosphere of the previous night. He went and checked on the horses before scouting around the immediate area and was relieved that the only tracks he found were those of woodland animals. He discovered a stream a short distance away and filled his flask with fresh water and returned to the hut. As he entered Cicely started awake and reached for her knife, but then she saw it was Mackillin and smiled.

  Her smile was one of such sweetness that his breath caught in his throat. He had to clear it before he offered his flask. ‘Fresh water. We’re going to have to make a move soon.’

  She thanked him, drank some of the water and rose from the ledge.

  Jack woke suddenly and gazed at the pair of them. ‘Is it time to get up?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said Mackillin.

  Jack’s eyes went from one to the other, but he could not gauge from their behaviour how they had spent the rest of the night after the disturbance. He watched his sister fold Mackillin’s pallet and hand it to him. Then she smiled at her brother and said, ‘Hurry up.’

  Soon they were riding in the opposite direction to the rising sun. There were few signs of human habitation, but they did come upon a man setting traps for rabbits. They paused to ask him for directions to Clitheroe and had to repeat themselves several times because he appeared not to understand what they were saying. Eventually he went with them and in no time at all
they arrived in the town.

  Mackillin gazed along the high street towards the castle on a limestone crag. ‘Which lord lives in that castle?’

  Neither Jack nor Cicely knew. ‘Whoever it is, his allegiance will be to King Henry for this is Lancaster country,’ said Jack. ‘After Mother died, Father brought us this way to his aunt’s house. He put in some orders for fustian cloth while we were here.’

  ‘I remember it well,’ said Cicely, glancing at Mackillin. ‘Father’s sister had taken care of us whilst he was in Europe. When he returned she told him that he had to find us a new mother as she was planning to marry again. So my father found himself a new wife.’

  ‘Diccon’s mother?’

  ‘Aye,’ she murmured. ‘We met the Fletchers in Liverpool in company with Owain ap Rowan. I was ten summers old. Diccon was five years older and fair of hair and face. He was kind to me. Within weeks our parents were wed and Diccon came to live with us for a while.’

  She fell silent, thinking that it had not been until she was fifteen that he had seen her as a potential bride, months after his mother had died. It had been Christmastide and they had been playing Hoodman’s Bluff. He had kissed her. At the time she had believed all her dreams would come true. Never had she suspected that one day he would be so rash as to become involved in the quarrels of York and Lancaster. He had spoken only once to her about not wanting to depend on her father’s provision for them both. So he really was fighting for fortune and glory as Jack had suggested.

  They lingered in Clitheroe only long enough to eat some cheese patties washed down with ale and then they set out along the old Roman road that led to Ribchester, and so they made good time.

  In less than two hours the church of the market town of Preston could be seen and after crossing the River Ribble, Jack told Mackillin that they had less than seven leagues to go. It was mid-afternoon when they reached the summit of Parbold hill. There they rested the horses and stretched their legs. Cicely walked the short distance to where the south-west Lancashire plain fell away below her, stretching to the horizon where the sun reflected off the Irish sea.