Small buckets were dunked into rain barrels, gathering water to throw onto both fires. People ran in various directions, doing what they could to save the encampment from being reduced to black cinders.
And at the edge of the panic and chaos, Jasper leered.
Heart thundering in her chest, Cailin twirled and ran into a tent to grab some blankets. She emerged and handed them to the nearest person running by. She ducked back into the tent and pulled out another blanket, handing it over. This time when she disappeared into the tent, she crawled under the back flap, popping up between the tent and a caravan and out of the general flow of bodies. Panting with anticipation, she closed her eyes and tried to steady herself. I can’t do this! Fear swarmed over her like a dark wave and sucked her under its suffocating influence.
Cailin gasped as a firm hand gripped her arm.
“What are you doing back here?” Margeret screeched.
“I’m looking for more blankets!” Cailin hissed.
“Come with me now, child!” Her handmaid’s face contorted with fear. “There’s no doubt something’s amiss. Let us get you back to the castle.”
Before they could take another step, an acrid musty odor assaulted Cailin’s nose as a sack went over her head…and all went black.
Chapter Six
At least two hours after the chaos began, James grabbed the bucket handed to him and threw the water on the last struggling bit of flames. They hissed and died. Thank God it rained again last night. “Is everyone well?” he asked, twirling around and scanning the crowd. “Did anyone get hurt?”
Many heads shook, indicating the guests were all right as they looked around to assess the aftermath.
“Cailin!” James maneuvered through the crowd of guests and Gypsies, not finding her among them. “Cailin!”
Panic-stricken, his future mother-in-law dashed between people. “Cailin! Cailin!” Davina’s worry-laced calls turned to wails of despair. She fell to her knees in the mud, sobbing, repeatedly cursing Campbell.
Rosselyn rushed to her sister’s side and enveloped her in her arms. “Margeret is nowhere about either. Perhaps she took Cailin back to the castle.”
“Search the area!” James ordered. “Look for tracks! Spread out in all directions!”
Many did as he instructed, fanning out and searching the grounds.
“I need a horse! I’ll check the castle.” He pointed at Nicabar, who waved for him to follow. Grabbing the reins of a mount tied to a caravan, Nicabar threw the leather straps at James. He hoisted himself onto the back of the protesting animal and charged out of the camp and up the road to the castle.
“Open the gate!” The large oaken doors swung inward and he navigated to the stables. “Fife! Get my horse ready. Now!”
The old stable master nodded as James leapt from the Gypsy mount and dashed in through the kitchen entrance. Kitchen maids screeched and he held his palms out. “Cailin! Is she here?”
Wide-eyed, they shook their heads and he cursed. Taking the stairs three at a time, he bolted to his bedchamber and grabbed his saddlebags, stuffing anything inside he thought would be useful to help recover Cailin—a blanket, some drying cloths and salve for wounds which he kept in his satchel.
Hastening to her chamber, still hoping to see her safe with Margeret, his heart dropped when he entered the empty room. He searched her wardrobe for some practical shoes, grabbed a chemise and working gown before heading back downstairs.
Surely Fife would have his horse readied by now. James skidded to a stop in the kitchen, wrapped a few dried meats, pieces of fruit and a loaf of bread into a cloth and shoved the bundle into his bags. He snatched a bladder of water on the way out the door.
“Fife!” He sprinted across the courtyard.
“Aye, lad!” Fife handed James the reins once he secured the saddlebags.
“Give me those two bottles of lamp oil there!”
Fife tossed the glass bottles to James, who wedged them into the side of his saddlebags. Mounting his gelding, he kicked its side and galloped through the front gate.
James yanked on the reins when he bounded into the camp. Nicabar approached, clutching a scrap of parchment in his hands. “This had a dagger stuck through it on a caravan.” He handed it to James as Davina ran forward.
“Still no sign of Margeret, James.” Tears stained her pleading face. “They may have snatched her thinking she was me.”
James had also mistaken Maggie for Davina at a glance. He read the note aloud. “Glen Morin.”
“’Tis nothing else?” Davina grabbed the note. “Glen Morin?”
“Does it mean anything to you?”
She shook her head, her brow furrowing even more and tears welling anew in her eyes. “Oh, saints help us, this message is for Broderick alone. Somehow they knew he was gone.”
Guilt crept into James’s soul. He had told his father as much before he knew Alistair was bent on revenge. He was somehow behind this. James clenched his jaw so hard it ached.
“James!” Rosselyn waved frantically from down the road to the north. “Here!”
With a quick kick to his mount, he approached Davina’s sister, a crowd of people drawing up behind him.
“Look! This must be Cailin’s!” She ran forward and handed him a green, glass-beaded slipper.
“Aye, ’tis hers! Where did you get it?”
Grabbing her skirts, she ran forward. “Here,” she panted, pointing to the ground. “I found it here.”
James eyed the muddy road and trotted along, studying the various tracks. With the multitude of marks from foot and hoof, it was difficult to discern which—if any—belonged to Cailin’s captors. He increased his gait and continued several yards until the tracks thinned down to what appeared to be four sets of hooves. These went for a long stretch, cup-like tracks imprinted into the mud, and he darted his eyes from the hoof prints to the road ahead and his heart lurched.
“Hah!” he barked to his gelding and kicked his horse forward. Pulling up short, he jumped from the saddle and picked the soiled green shoe from a peak of mud. He mounted, galloped back to the pursuing crowd and tossed the shoes to Nicabar.
“This is the path they took!” He turned his gaze to the sobbing but hopeful face of Davina. “I shall get her back, my lady.”
“Be watchful, James!” she warned. “He is obviously not working alone and may have other surprises along the way.”
He nodded and wheeled his mount around, hastening down the path after his betrothed.
* * * * *
Cailin’s head pounded. Her body bopped up and down in an uncomfortable rhythm and something pushed against her midsection in the same aggravating tempo. Nausea roiled in her stomach and she ached. Blinking her eyes didn’t help. She was still surrounded by darkness. An acrid, musty odor accompanied the gritty dust in her mouth. The thumpity-thump of horse hooves seemed somewhat in synch with her bobbing and her memory rushed to the forefront of her mind.
The shouts. Maggie trying to get her to safety. The thwack against her skull.
Based on her position, she was slung over the back of a horse and her hands were bound in front of her and tucked under her stomach.
“Should we not pick up the pace?” Cailin recognized Alistair’s voice and remained still, as uncomfortable as this was.
“They won’t know where we be takin’ them.” That was definitely Jasper. “That note only had a name and I’m guessin’ Davina and Cailin are the only ones who know about Angus’s childhood home. Since they be with us, no one should be following.”
Dread gripped Cailin’s heart. Nay, they could not have taken M’ma! Only me! It was only supposed to be me!
A moan sounded and Cailin guessed that to be her mother.
“Hold up,” Jasper said and the horses slowed to a stop.
Some rustling, some footsteps, and a pair of rough hands gripped her calves, yanking her from the saddle. Thankfully, she fell into a pair of arms and the sack was jerked from her head.
/> She inhaled cool, clean breaths of fresh air…at least until Jasper’s yellow-stained grin and sour breath assaulted her. “Ay there, ducks!”
She coughed and turned her head to recover from the stench. “M’ma?” Cailin turned in Jasper’s arms only to be dragged to the side of the road and thrown to the muddy ground. Lying on her arms while on the back of the horse had rendered them useless, for now they ached and refused to respond to her wishes. Margeret was also pushed to the ground at Cailin’s side.
“’Tis not Davina!” Alistair shouted, pointing a finger at her companion. “’Tis Cailin’s handmaid, Margeret!”
“I thought ye said that was Davina!” Jasper accused.
Alistair paled and shook his head. “It looked like her. I swear, I thought it was her.”
Yanking a dagger from his belt, Jasper stepped forward and grabbed Margeret’s hair.
“Nay!” Cailin scrambled on her bound hands and knees to reach Jasper, but Alistair beat her to him.
“What are you doing?” James’s father grabbed Jasper’s wrist, staying the dagger.
“’Tis a dead weight she is.” Jasper’s eyebrows scrunched in disbelief. “Angus willna let her live and she’ll only slow us down.”
“What do you mean Angus won’t let her live?” Alistair retained Jasper’s wrist in his grip, Jasper’s other fist still in Margeret’s hair as she whimpered.
“Slitting her throat will be an act of mercy, my friend. Angus will torture her just for amusement.”
Alistair’s mouth twisted with rage. “You never told me any of this! What kind of man is Angus that he would do this?”
Cailin groaned inwardly. Alistair obviously didn’t know what he was getting into, joining the likes of Angus and his henchmen. What lies had Jasper told Alistair?
Jasper released Margeret and lowered his knife to his side. “What did ye think this venture would be about, lad?” A cold smile crept over his mouth. “Ye didna think this through? Ye must have known people were going to die.” He placed a comforting hand upon a bewildered Alistair’s shoulder. “Come now, Alistair. Remember why yer doin’ this. Think of poor Fiona’s throat slashed open. This is what ye wanted and it may be difficult, but ye have to see this through. Revenge is a nasty business.”
Alistair stared at the ground. But when Jasper stepped to grab Margeret’s hair again, Alistair grabbed his shirt. “Wait! Why do we have to kill her? Let her go. Let her fend for herself out here.”
Cailin scanned the horizon, illuminated by the setting sun, and a chill skittered through her body. They were indeed in the middle of the wilds with no civilization for miles.
“The night is coming and she’ll be alone.” Alistair glared at Margeret. “She’ll not survive, but I’ll not have her blood on our hands.”
Jasper shook his head, assessed the whimpering Margeret, and then nodded. “Very well, Alistair.” With the hilt of the dagger in his fist, he clobbered Maggie on her head and she slumped into Cailin’s lap. Blood oozed down her temple, staining her cheek.
“Maggie!” Cailin struggled to hold onto her handmaid as Jasper yanked Cailin to her feet, her bare toes dragging through the mud.
“Now get yer sweet little arse up in that saddle.” He grabbed Cailin’s shoulders, forcing her to face him. “An’ if ye dinna listen to what ol’ Jasper tells ye to do.” He grabbed a handful of her breast and she struggled to free herself from his hold. “Then ol’ Jasper is finally gonna have his way wit’ ye.” Laughing, he whirled her around and urged her to mount the horse. “Up wit’ ye now or I toss yer skirts where we stand!”
Repulsion catapulted Cailin into the saddle and she kicked her leg when Jasper’s rough hand smoothed over her calf. He chuckled and handed the reins of Margeret’s horse to Alistair.
Taking Cailin’s reins, he snickered then tied her horse to his saddle and mounted. “Come, lad. We need to keep movin’. I dinna wanna take any chances someone may still be on our trail.”
Hands still bound before her, Cailin squeezed her knees to stay firmly astride and looked over her shoulder at Margeret’s body retreating in the distance. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she choked back her sobs. Please, Lord. Watch over her. Give her enough daylight to find a safe haven.
* * * * *
The wind whipping past his cheeks and tugging at his hair, Broderick continued on his trek through the English countryside toward the destination of Stanenges.
“You are sure to see it on the horizon,” the English farmer had told him, pointing down the road. “Though they are not much to look at—just large stone pillars in the middle of a field—they are a curious site. Must have taken a hundred men to move just one stone.”
Now, two hours after sunset, the said stones loomed ahead, tall silhouettes on the horizon. Slowing to a cautious stroll several yards from the site, he studied the area. No sign of anyone. Stepping into the circle of monoliths, he rotated, gazing at each towering figure. “Curious to be sure,” he mumbled.
“Well met, Vamsyrian.”
He spun to face a robed figure holding a lantern. Where did she come from? He nodded and eyed her suspiciously.
“I am Malloren Rune,” she said with a husky British accent. She pushed her hood back to reveal a head of long, coal-black hair with silver streaks at the temples. Judging by the slight creasing at the corners of her eyes, the subtle lines in her forehead, this handsome woman had to be in her late forties. “I am whom you seek.”
Cocking an eyebrow, he stepped forward, his eyes darting around as he approached. “Greetings, Mistress Rune.”
“Please, Malloren will do.” Her dark-brown gaze assessed the stone giants. “This place will one day be known as Stonehenge.” Locking her eyes with his, she stepped forward and a small grin crooked the corner of her pouting lips—pouting lips that held a trace of familiarity. “But that is another time. Come with me, Broderick.”
After pivoting on her heels, she marched out of the stone circle, not looking back. Obviously, she expected him to follow without question. Taking another glance around the area for signs of anyone else, he pursued her across the field for a goodly distance. She knelt down, pulled a large iron ring and opened a grass-covered door. The hatch was suspended by two chains attached to the edges of the door, the other ends spiked into the ground. Still not acknowledging Broderick’s approaching, she descended into the earth on an iron ladder. The light of her lantern retreated into the hole.
Broderick harrumphed. “Even more curious.” With a sigh of resignation, he followed the mysterious woman into the darkness and closed the hatch behind him.
“Please latch the door.” Her voice echoed up to him as he perched on the ladder.
Though dark, through his immortal eyesight, the latch she spoke of remained visible and he slid the well-oiled mechanism into place. Rung by rung, Broderick descended into the earth a near fifty feet before he reached the bottom. He stood at the end of a stone corridor lit by wall-mounted oil lamps, the orange glow guiding his way as he proceeded with cautious steps. He reached out with his immortal senses, not detecting any other Vamsyrian presence. The corridor curved and opened to a high-ceilinged chamber.
Row upon row of bookcases held an endless array of scrolls and leather-bound tomes. The unmistakable aroma of parchment, leather and age wafted through the chilled air. The library rose three levels, various finely finished ladders scattered about the platforms, giving the keeper of this collection access to a wealth of information. More oil lamps—multitudes of them mounted between each bookcase—lit the massive room enough to satisfy any need for study no matter where one stood. Small tables sat against iron railings on each platform and were arranged evenly about each level to provide plenty of opportunities for perusal of the written materials. In the center of the massive room, and a level lower than where Broderick stood, were larger tables piled with more volumes and scrolls in what appeared to be active stages of research and reading. Malloren Rune stood behind one of the tables, the lantern sittin
g on the corner, serenely waiting with her hands clasped before her.
“Impressive,” Broderick said, his deep voice echoing in the vast space.
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I am a Keeper of Secrets.” She spread her arms wide, presenting her collection. “A prophetess who sees visions and records various bits of knowledge about supernatural and magical beings through the ages.” She strolled around the bottom level, touching books as she passed. “This underground chamber dug from the earth, and these rooms lined with stone, were crafted over a one-hundred year period. I am the twelfth generation of prophets, my mother before me, her mother and so forth.”
By taking the stairs down to the lower level, he met her beside the table and performed a quick calculation of years gone by. “So you are a tradition stretching back approximately two-hundred and fifty years?”
A knowing grin spread across her lips, and again there was something familiar about her pouty smile. “No, Broderick MacDougal. The first prophetess was born over one-thousand years ago.”
“One-thou—” He redid the math, originally estimating a generation to be rounded to near twenty years. Twelve twenty-year generations would be two-hundred forty years, so he had been generous on the estimation. Confusion mixed with wonderment. Malloren Rune may not be as young as he supposed.
“I am one-hundred, two-and-sixty years, Broderick,” she replied to his unanswered question.
“But you are mortal,” he protested.
Malloren removed her cloak, pulled down the neckline of her robes and bared her right shoulder. Markings, in what appeared to be made from black ink, branded her skin with the same design on the amulet he’d left with Cailin. “I am a member of the Tzava Ha’or, and as a prophetess of the Army of Light, I have a longer life span than most mortals.”
“Most mortals?” Broderick was astonished at this world opening before him. “What other mortals have such long lives?”
Her soft chuckle swarmed around the illimitable chamber as she righted her gown. “Your kind is not the only miraculous species on this planet. There is much to know about this strange world in which we live, Vamsyrian.”
MIDNIGHT CAPTIVE: Book 2 of the Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles Page 11
