Love Above All

by Speer, Flora

  “Normans were responsible for all this destruction, weren’t they?” she asked, sweeping out an arm to encompass the wilderness through which they were passing. “If any more of them move into Scotland, they’ll do the same there. That is what my brothers fear. Seeing this desolation, I can’t blame Murdoch and Gillemore for trying to stop the invasion by whatever means they can find, or by any incident they can create.”

  “The king of the Scots invited his Norman friends to settle in the lowlands,” Quentin said. “There is no invasion, only peaceful settlement on lands granted by the king.”

  “The intruders are seizing Scottish land from honest Scots,” Fionna declared, using the argument she had heard so often from her brothers. “Then they refuse to allow free hunting or fishing on the land they claim to own – as if anyone could own birds on the wing or the fish living in a stream! The Normans think they own the people, too. And that, my lord Quentin, is contrary to Scottish custom. Free Scots will not be made into serfs!” That last statement was Murdoch’s rallying cry to his friends.

  At first Quentin did not respond to her remarks, but a little while later he asked, “What did you mean when you said your brothers will try to stop the Normans by any means?”

  “I heard them talking,” she responded, glad of a subject that would keep her mind off her longing for the man who rode so near to her, yet kept himself so distant from her in mind and heart. “My brothers want to stir up trouble along the border.”

  “There is always trouble along the border,” Quentin said.

  “They are hoping if they can cause enough trouble, King Alexander will command his Norman friends to return to England.”

  “He won’t. The Normans who live in Scotland are there to stay. Men like de Brus and FitzAlan cannot be intimidated by a pack of bare-legged savages.”

  Fionna bit her lip, refusing to be drawn into an argument on the subject. Personally, she thought her brothers were savages, but she wasn’t going to admit it to any Norman.

  Another long silence fell between them until Quentin said, “So that’s why they tried to kill you. It was because you discovered what they were planning. It was nothing to do with your sister. Do you even have a sister?”

  “Of course, I have!” She turned in her saddle to glare at him. “How dare you suggest I’ve lied to you?”

  “The story you’ve told me could be an elaborate scheme to draw me back into Scotland,” Quentin said. “Perhaps your brothers never tried to kill you at all. Perhaps you are working with them.”

  “I am not!” She pulled hard on the reins, stopping her horse until Quentin drew abreast of her. She was afraid if she told him the whole truth he’d insist on riding back across the border all alone, to face down Murdoch and Gillemore and their friends. If he did, they’d kill him without mercy. Quentin would surely kill a few Scots before he died. Then her brothers would see to it the incident was inflamed and embellished until the war Quentin wanted to avoid was waged over his body.

  Fionna wanted to know Quentin was safe in England. She wanted her sister to be safe, too. She was taken aback by the order in which she listed those desires to herself. When had Quentin superseded Janet in her thoughts? She took a calming breath and spoke with quiet insistence.

  “Janet is a pawn. She’s to be Colum’s reward for the work he has done for Murdoch. I’ve told you this already. Quentin, please believe me. Janet’s life may depend on us. I’m desperate to find her, to see and touch her, and be sure she’s safe. Why else would I have fled from your protection?”

  Quentin regarded her somberly, wondering if he dared trust anything she said, or if she really was her brothers’ agent. All he knew for certain was that Fionna’s physical reaction to his lovemaking was unfeigned. And she truly was a virgin. But once, in Anjou, while on a secret mission for King Henry, Quentin had known a youthful nun, also assuredly a virgin after spending all of her short life in a convent, who could lie with a straight, pure face while holding a rosary in one hand and with her other hand resting on the holy altar of her abbey church. If a nun could l

  ie, so could Fionna.

  For one brief instant, Quentin wished he had given way to impulse and strangled Fionna when he discovered her in the hut, and had left her there. But he had never knowingly harmed a woman, not even a lying nun, and he’d not begin with Fionna. He vowed to set aside his unreasonable desire for her. Instead of making love to Fionna, he’d conduct her to Wortham and hand her over to Royce for interrogation. Then he’d forget about her. He’d make himself forget.

  They did, indeed, sleep under a tree that night. Rather, Fionna slept while Quentin guarded her. It was raining again, so they couldn’t start a fire. They ate half their remaining bread and finished the wine. Fionna barely spoke to him. Quentin knew he ought to use the time to draw information out of her, but he had no heart for serious questioning. There would be time enough for questions after they reached Wortham.

  The sun reappeared during midafternoon of the next day. A short time later they rode out of the forest and onto the straight road they had left four days earlier. After looking around, Quentin judged they were some distance farther south. He was about to order Fionna to ride next to him so he could keep a closer watch on her, when she exclaimed in surprise. At the same moment Quentin heard the pounding of many hooves.

  “A troop of horsemen is coming this way,” Fionna said. “Shall we hide among the trees until they’re gone?” she added in a sarcastic tone.

  Quentin reached out to catch her horse’s bridle, thus checking any attempt at flight. The ground was too damp to throw up dust as the horsemen drew near, so Quentin could easily distinguish the figures in the forefront – and he immediately recognized the red and blue banner borne high on the lance of a squire who rode next to the leader of the troop.

  Quentin grinned and relaxed, sitting back in his saddle.

  “Do you know those men?” Fionna asked, eyeing him with suspicion.

  “If you really do have a sister in need of rescue,” Quentin responded, “here come the knights who will save her. Norman knights,” he added with a quick glance at her.

  They waited, holding their horses in the middle of the road while the oncoming men slowed and then surrounded them. Never had Fionna seen so much chainmail, or so many faces concealed by metal helmets. She did recognize Cadwallon, who smiled at her and raised a hand in salute, and Braedon, who frowned at her before turning away to speak to another squire. Then Fionna’s full attention was captured by the leader of the troop as he reined in beside Quentin.

  “Well met, old friend!” exclaimed the leader.

  “I’m glad to see you, Royce.” Quentin clasped the other man’s mailed hand. “How did you reach me so quickly?”

  “When you failed to appear at Wortham on schedule I gathered a band of men-at-arms and rode north to find you, in case you stood in need of my aid,” said the baron of Wortham. “Clearly, you have your problem under control,” he added, his gaze moving from Quentin’s face to Fionna’s, and then on to note Quentin’s hand at the bridle of Fionna’s horse.

  “Royce met us along the way,” Cadwallon said, coming close to shake Quentin’s hand. “When I told him what had happened, he decided to join the search for Fionna. Though I see there’s no need for further searching,” Cadwallon finished with a wink for the erstwhile fugitive.

  “I provided a horse for your man, Giles, who is recovering rapidly from his injuries, and then I sent him and your other men-at-arms on to Wortham,” Royce explained to Quentin. “My daughter will see to their comfort until you arrive there. Now, since it’s near to sundown, I suggest we locate a suitable place to stop for the night. We can talk as we eat.”

  “Cadwallon was carrying a report from me,” Quentin said, falling into place next to Royce as they all began to move again.

  “I read it yesterday afternoon and ordered my clerk to make a copy,” Royce said. “The original is on its way to Windsor, though King Henry isn’t expected ther
e for another few weeks. At this time of year there are always delays caused by rough seas between England and the continent. I expect the king will arrive at Windsor Castle at about the same time as your report and the notes I made on what Cadwallon and Braedon told me. What do you think of that open space just ahead? Shall we stop there for the night? I see a stream.

  “Sir William,” Royce called to one of the men-at-arms, “kindly inspect that field and tell me if it’s dry enough for a camp.”

  Fionna listened to Royce’s remarks with great interest, taking comfort from his statement about delays in sea travel. She hoped the rough seas he mentioned meant that Colum would be prevented from returning to Scotland for a long time.

  Sir William, who seemed to be the captain of Royce’s men-at-arms, returned from his reconnaissance to report the field Royce had selected was suitable for use.

  Still mounted, Fionna watched in astonishment as Royce’s men began with brisk efficiency to set up a camp in the meadow. She could see how each man knew what to do without any specific orders being given. Pack horses were brought from the rear of the troop, the baskets they bore were opened, and a group of men pulled out a series of wooden poles, which they began fastening together to make frames.

  Meanwhile, some of the squires began to gather wood, which they used to light fires under metal tripods that held huge cooking pots. Other men whom Fionna decided must be cooks began directing servants in the preparation of the evening meal.

  Most amazing to Fionna were those wooden frames, to which her attention repeatedly returned. The men working on them set them up in neat rows, with canvas lashed to the frames as soon as they were ready. Each canvas was a different, bright color, so the camp quickly took on a holiday air.

  After a brief conversation with Quentin, Cadwallon came to help Fionna down from her horse. Quentin and Royce went off together, deep in conversation, but Cadwallon seemed content to remain by Fionna’s side in the midst of the busy camp.

  “Tents?” Fionna said, gesturing toward the frames and the remaining piles of canvas. “Cadwallon, are we are to sleep in tents tonight?”

  “Royce does nothing by halves,” Cadwallon said, grinning. “Anyone who travels with him can be certain of good food and comfortable sleeping arrangements. Fionna, I told him about your sister.”

  “You did? Why? Quentin questions whether she even exists. Janet means nothing to Lord Royce. Or to you, either.”

  “Well, there you are wrong,” Cadwallon said. “You wouldn’t think it to look at me, considering how brawny and musclebound I am, but my thoughts simmer constantly and I am cursed with a lively curiosity. During our recent travels together you told me so much about Janet that I have decided I must meet her.”

  “Cadwallon.” Fionna placed both hands on his muscular forearm. “Are you saying you’ll help me rescue her, even if Quentin refuses?”

  “Oh, Quentin will do it,” Cadwallon said. “He gave you his word he would, and Quentin never breaks a promise. As I understand the agreement between you, Quentin also promised to speak to Royce about joining us. It’s our good fortune that I met Royce on the road. We have been saved the long trip to Wortham. That happy circumstance means we can reach Abercorn weeks before I thought we would.”

  “Do you believe Lord Royce will agree to help us?” Fionna asked.

  “We will find out tonight, when we dine with him,” Cadwallon said. “He wants to discuss the possibility with Quentin before he makes his final decision. That’s what they’re doing right now.

  “Here, squire,” Cadwallon called to a passing lad. “Bring a bucket of hot water to the tent assigned to Lady Fionna. And be quick about it.”

  The tent which Fionna was to occupy by herself was made of pale blue canvas. It was set between the green tent Quentin was to use, and the red one intended for Cadwallon and Braedon. When Fionna examined the structure while she and Cadwallon waited for her hot water to arrive, she found a man-at-arms posted at the rear of her tent, and another guard at the front.

  “Does Quentin imagine I’ll try to escape him, just when I have some real hope of an armed force to help me rescue my sister?” she asked Cadwallon. She didn’t mention her relief at knowing Royce’s men-at-arms would act as protection for Quentin.

  “Well, you can’t deny that you ran away once,” Cadwallon noted. “But I suspect the guards were stationed by Royce, for your protection, rather than to keep you here. After all, you are the only woman in a camp full of young and vigorous men. Ah, here’s the squire with your water. I’ll see you later, my lady.” Cadwallon bowed and departed.

  Left to herself, Fionna made good use of the soap and the linen towel Lady Agnes had given her before she departed from Carlisle. Having scrubbed away the grime of several days’ travel, she found there wasn’t enough water left to wash her hair. She settled for combing and re-braiding it.

  She decided dinner with Lord Royce was an occasion worthy of Lady Agnes’ green silk dress. The gown lay crumpled at the bottom of her saddlebag and when she shook it out she found bread crumbs caught in the folds. She brushed them away with an impatience born of her realization of the futility of trying to get away from Quentin. She was beginning to fear she’d never be free of him, no matter how far apart they were.

  Royce had brought with him a large, cream-colored tent in which he and his officers dined at a round, easily dismantled table, which Cadwallon told Fionna was specially made to fit the tent. Fionna was seated in the place of honor at Royce’s right hand, with Quentin on Royce’s other side. They ate several kinds of spit-roasted game birds, all bagged along the way, according to Cadwallon. In addition, the camp cook produced a hot vegetable stew served in thick slices of hollowed out day-old bread, and a tray of apples and pears for the sweet course. The wine was the most delicious Fionna had ever tasted.

  “Is this the way you eat when you go to war?” Fionna asked her host.

  “Well-fed men will fight more valiantly than hungry men,” Royce told her, lifting his silver wine cup to salute her.

  Fionna studied him in fascination. Royce looked to be in his mid or late thirties, with lines around his eyes and deep creases running from nose to mouth. Yet there was no grey in his short, red-gold hair, and his form displayed the trim musculature of a much younger man. His charm was evident in his easy manner of speech and his ready smile. Even so, Fionna detected a shadow in his grey-green eyes, as if grief lay always close to him, though he hid it carefully.

  “Now, then,” Royce said to her when the meal was finished and the servants were dismissed, “both Cadwallon and Quentin have told me about your ardent desire to rescue your sister from an abbey.”

  “I pray my brothers haven’t removed her yet.” With hope rising in her bosom, Fionna turned toward Royce. “My lord, will you help me? Murdoch and Gillemore cannot possibly command enough men to withstand all the warriors you bring with you.”

  “As I mentioned earlier, King Henry isn’t expected at Windsor for several weeks,” Royce said. “Until he returns from Normandy, I don’t have much to do. An expedition into the lowlands ought to alleviate my present boredom rather nicely. Yes, I believe I will use my men in your sister’s behalf.”

  “Thank you! Though a mere thank you isn’t enough,” Fionna said. “When shall we leave for Abercorn?” She looked expectantly from Royce to Quentin on his other side.

  “Royce and I, along with most of his men, plan to leave in the morning,” Quentin informed her. “Cadwallon and the rest of the men-at-arms will escort you to Wortham, to await us there.”

  “No!” Fionna and Cadwallon both uttered the same exclamation at the same time.

  “I will go with you,” Fionna declared. “Quentin, you cannot prevent me from going.”

  “Nor me, either,” said Cadwallon. “I’ll not be left behind.”

  “If we run into Murdoch or Gillemore, we may have to fight,” Quentin said. “A battlefield is no place for a woman.”

  “Neither is an icy river,” Fionn
a told him. “I survived one; I will survive the other if our efforts come to violence. I will not go to Wortham until Janet rides with me.”

  “You will do as I tell you!” Quentin exclaimed, half rising from his seat and looking as if he intended to seize Fionna and drag her out of the tent by force. “I won’t allow you to be wounded or killed.”

  “Wait a moment, Quentin.” Royce lifted a hand and Quentin subsided, sitting down again. “In the past I have used women during spying missions for King Henry. I always found them as loyal and dependable, and every bit as brave, as any man.”

  “And some of those women died in King Henry’s service,” Quentin said.

  “True.” Royce looked at Fionna, holding her gaze while he continued. “My lady, I tell you now what I told every woman I recruited for a mission. There is a chance that some or all of us could be killed during this venture. Are you willing to take the risk?”

  “To save my sister, I am,” Fionna answered.

  “Then I say, Fionna ought to go with us,” Royce told Quentin.

  “I will not allow it,” Quentin stated between gritted teeth.

  “I refuse to be ordered by you any longer,” Fionna cried. “I do not belong to you. My lord Royce, there’s an important reason why I should go. I am sure Janet will never willingly leave the protection of Abercorn with men she doesn’t know. She’ll be afraid you are sent by Murdoch, unless I am present to reassure her.”

  “Now, Quentin, you cannot quarrel with that reasoning,” Royce said. “Fionna rides with us.

  “My lady,” Royce went on, turning back to her, “I think it wise to let your brothers continue to believe they succeeded in drowning you. The time may come when the reappearance of their supposedly murdered sister will provide a surprise that will give us an advantage. Therefore, I suggest you travel in disguise.”

  “What a good idea. Shall I dress as one of your squires?” Fionna asked. “Or, perhaps I ought to pose as a man-at-arms in a helmet to cover my face?”

  “Absolutely not!” Quentin shouted at her. “You will never put on men’s clothing so long as I live!”