“We could be under their noses and they'd miss us in this.”
“Who's under whose nose, sir?” Bromley asked. He was riding beside Richard as they headed in together.
“Well, right now, you're under mine. And until we reach camp this evening, it's probably best if you stay there,” he said.
“Aye, sir,” Bromley nodded with a dazzling grin.
Richard laughed. “I'm glad you came along,” he said reflectively. His usual companion, Stower, was in front, surrounded by troops he was going to direct toward the site he and Richard had reconnoitered as a camp the previous day.
“I am too, sir,” Bromley commented. “The roof leaks in our billet, had you noticed?”
Richard shook his head, grinning with surprise. “I hadn't, actually, Bromley.”
“Well it does,” he commented succinctly. “And I, for one, am glad to be away from it, if only for a few nights.”
Richard laughed. “Better to be out here in the rain?”
“The sky never pretended to keep my head dry, sir,” Bromley said seriously. “The roof, however, has played me false, sir. It's supposed to, and I won't stand for it doing otherwise.”
They both laughed and Richard felt his spirits lighten. He was glad Bromley was with him – the man's comments would lighten almost anything.
As they marched, the day cleared a little, though the thick mist persisted. That, he thought with grim satisfaction, was perfect. If it only stayed there until the evening, he could slip away and fetch Arabella from the castle without anyone on either side being any the wiser.
He frowned. The plan seemed simple, but really it was probably fraught with peril. How he was actually going to steal a woman on the night of her wedding, possibly from the feast, and walk out undetected?
“Bromley,” he asked as they rode, an idea forming in his mind.
“Yes, sir?”
“You know the local customs, eh?”
“I know something,” Bromley said cautiously. “I've been here a good fifteen years, sir. I've seen a fair bit in my time. What did you want to ask about?”
“Well, can just anyone attend a wedding? I mean, all the folk of a particular clan?”
“For the most part, yes,” Bromley nodded. “Far as I know, anyways. The Laird's family and household – his servants, grooms and guardsmen – will come first, of course. However, everyone falling under his protection would doubtless be there if they would fit. Not near the top table, but somewhere. Why, sir?”
Richard shrugged. “Just thinking, Bromley,” he said. “That gathering I went to...what was it?”
“Oh! Not a wedding, sir,” Bromley said with a grin. “Or if it was, there never was an odder one.”
“Quite,” Richard commented.
“No disrespect to our dead meant,” Bromley commented.
“Quite, Bromley,” Richard said crisply. In that massacre, he had lost companions as well as colleagues. It was not something he wished to recall now. Especially not when they were fast approaching the chance to avenge them, and he was going to step away from it.
If I step away, no one will be there to give the order. It will never happen.
As much as he wanted to avenge the fallen men, another plan was starting to form in his mind. A plan which would take him elsewhere besides the assault on the fort.
They rode in silence awhile. In the early afternoon, they reached the site he and Bromley had identified earlier as a prospective camp.
“Alright, lads,” he called out to the thirty-four men who'd come with him and Bromley. “Let's get settled. And keep it quiet, eh?” he inclined his head toward the fortress, indicating that he wanted no noise to reach them there.
“Yes, sir.”
They set to work with a will, and while he supervised the setting up of the small, temporary camp, Richard selected four men to make a reconnaissance toward the fort.
“Just go in, see what you can see – count sentries, watch their habits, observe. And, one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
He gave them his instructions and they frowned at him in utter bewilderment. When he'd finished, though, they were nodding with some excitement.
“Yes, sir,” they nodded in unison.
“We'll be right back, sir.”
Richard waited until his men had disappeared and then headed toward where his own temporary shelter was being erected by his man, his head full of thoughts. Where was Arabella, and what was happening now?
He shook himself, not wanting to let himself get distracted. Wherever she was, he had things he had to plan. He couldn't afford to concern himself with the major or what he was doing or where he'd got to.
He had his own arrangements to make. He also had to get them into place soon. Arabella would be lost to him soon.
A PROPHECY AND A WARNING
“I cannot do it,” Arabella said. Her voice was tight and strained. She meant the hand-fasting to Bruce. It was to be that night.
She was speaking to Francine, alone in the solar in the morning light, the strange mist surrounding the fortress, clinging to the turrets and colonnades. Her sister had been quiet for a long time. Now, she lifted those oddly pale eyes to hers and spoke.
“I don't think you'll have to.”
Arabella frowned. She felt her heart stop a moment. “Francine?” she asked.
Her sister fixed her with a steady gaze and Arabella felt her hair rise on her scalp. There were few times when Francine looked at her like that, and all of them had been when the Sight was on her.
The sight. The family spoke of ancient prescience – the gift some of their female members had, passed from mother to daughter, enabling them to see visions of future events. Arabella knew that Francine had inherited that gift. She suspected their cook knew too, though she'd never made mention of it before.
“You won't have to do it,” Francine said now, repeating. “You will leave here beforehand.”
“Leave?” Arabella frowned at her. “Francine, what do you mean?”
“Look to the music,” Francine said. Her voice was sonorous: Older and more commanding than the usual, gentle Francine. “Look to the music and who plays the tune.”
Arabella stared at her, heart thumping in alarm. She didn't know what to do – whether she should call someone for help, or stay. She knew not to disturb Francine – to break the trance could harm her. As she watched, her sister swayed and blinked.
Her vision was clear again – the sight had departed.
“Sweetling?” Arabella whispered, feeling her heart thump in alarm. “What is it?”
“Sister?” Francine frowned. “Did I say something?”
“Yes,” Arabella nodded mutely. “You did. Do you remember?”
“Not really,” Francine shuddered. “I just know I was in a hall, and I saw...people. Strangers. And you. And someone else,” she added, gaze clouding momentarily with her recollections. “I don't know,” she whispered. “I don't understand what just happened.”
“It's alright,” Arabella whispered softly. “You're here in the solar, with me, alone. It was the Sight. You had a vision.”
Francine nodded. “But...you don't understand. It's terrifying.”
Arabella said nothing and sat beside her, holding her while she shivered. They had talked to their cook and mentor about it, years ago, when Francine had her first experience of visions. She was ten and had foreseen an accident in which their maid's brother was hurt. When they suggested mentioning it to their confessor, Mrs. Merrick had shaken her head.
“Fellow will just say it's not to be tampered with,” she said firmly. “Thing is, the way I know of it, this thing, this Sight, tampers with you. No, if you must have spiritual guidance, ask Sister Eugenie.”
Sister Eugenie, a solitary mendicant nun, had offered a very different counsel to the one expected. “All these things are gifts, or they wouldn't be born into innocent babes,” she had said solemnly. “You must be thankful for it and learn to use it for g
ood and not for ill.”
Francine had struggled valiantly with the Sight for ten years.
Now, she tensed in Arabella's arms and turned to face her.
“I don't know what will happen,” she whispered. “I just know you will leave here tonight. I don't want aught to happen to you, sister. Please don't do something dangerous...not without telling me first!”
“Hush,” Arabella said, rocking her as she had when they were small children. “Naught will happen to me, you'll see.”
She knew that was just hollow words. The words of the prophesying confused and scared her. If Francine had seen something, then it would happen. She just had no idea what it was going to be.
I just know I will leave here tonight.
That wasn't planned at all. What was supposed to happen was that she and her bridegroom – how horrible, to think of him now! – would leave tomorrow. She shivered again, drawing close her shawl around her shoulders, though it was not actually cold.
“Arabella?” Frances asked again.
“Yes, sister?”
“Do you have plans to do something?”
“No,” Arabella shook her head. “I would tell you – promise.”
Francine smiled. “I know,” she said sadly. “I was just hoping it made sense.”
Arabella laughed, though it was a sorrowful sort of laugh. “I'm sure it does make sense,” she whispered. “It just doesn't make sense now.”
They sat quietly for a while, both listening to the whisper of ashes sifting in the grate, the crackle of embers shifting as the fire burned out. None of it made sense. The marriage, the prophecy...everything. Her whole future was a senseless maelstrom, or so it seemed – a mosaic of the repellent Bruce Grayling, her indifferent father, and the strange, bittersweet joy she felt whenever she thought of the lieutenant and that so-beautiful kiss.
Arabella shook herself, trying to stop the wearying thoughts. She stood and headed to the door.
“I should go,” she said softly. “Glenna said she'd help me prepare.”
“Yes,” Francine said quietly. Francine had declined that role. They both knew that this was no true hand-fasting. It was of necessity. Not of love. I'll not help you get ready for a marriage you do not want. I'll only celebrate when it's a celebration.
Arabella shivered. Combined with the foretelling she had just heard, it made her wonder what would happen next.
She forced herself to walk slowly back to her bedchamber. When she passed the turret room and heard the voice of Lord Grayling and his son, she wanted to run.
“So, Son. Save your strength for the feasting later, eh?”
“Yes, Father,” Bruce said cheerfully. “I must husband my strength. Else I shan't be husbanding anything.”
They both laughed.
Arabella, cheeks red, feeling tears of rage and shame in her eyes, forced herself to walk slowly to her room.
“Milady!”
“Oh!” Arabella whipped round to find Glenna behind her. “Glenna! You scared me.”
“Sorry, mistress,” Glenna said solemnly. “I was just laying out the bath. Time to get ready.”
“Yes, I know,” Arabella said quietly.
When she was dressed, she stood before the mirror, admiring the gown. It was beautiful in every respect – a wide skirt, slashed to show the silk underskirt, which was gathered in the latest French fashion. The over-skirt was covered with a fine meshing of Brussels lace. More of that adorned the sleeves and the neckline, which was a low oval, as was the fashion. Her hair, as befitted an unmarried girl, was loose around her shoulders. It glowed there, a red fire.
“My, you look a picture!”
Arabella looked down sorrowfully. Yes, she thought. I suppose it does look pretty, in a fashionable sort of way. However, it isn't what I wanted.
Even the dress had not been her choosing – a style the castle seamstress had put together on short notice. It seems she put all the most costly trappings they had in the storeroom together. Father wants to make a statement with this, like with everything else. The silk, the fashion, the lace trimming – they all screamed wealth. Wealth, power and position. That's all he cares about.
Glenna lowered the veil, tied to a band of dried orange blossom, for felicity and fertility in marriage, onto her hair.
Then Arabella headed downstairs to find her family.
Her father, Francine and Douglas were waiting at the foot of the stairs. Douglas, his hair combed, wearing a velvet doublet and padded hose, looked like a courtier. He smiled encouragement at her. Her father gave her a smooth grin. Francine looked down.
“Daughter,” Lord Duncliffe said evenly. “I am a happy man to escort you to your wedding.”
“To my fate,” Arabella said lightly. She meant it, though, and could not keep the edge from her voice. She slipped in beside him, looping her arm through his, as was expected.
Her father smiled, though she could see the flash of anger in his eyes. He controlled it – because, she suspected, of Lord Grayling.
“You say true, Daughter,” her father said, still smiling. “And a beneficent fate!”
“Perhaps,” Arabella nodded. “May it be so.” Her eyes held her sister's pale ones.
Yes, she seemed to say. You do go to your fate. But we know it will be other than what he expects.
Arabella shivered. She wished the dress was warmer, though it wasn't particularly cold in the hallway. With her arm laced stiffly through her father's she headed into the courtyard and thence to the chapel. Walk with your head held high. You are going to your fate.
They headed into a courtyard darkened by summery dusk. The hand-fasting would be held at seven of the clock, the feast thereafter. Arabella drew in a steadying breath and reached for that recollection of her mother as a talisman. If she was there, looking down from Heaven, she would hate her daughter to be condemned to a loveless future.
Someone coughed.
Francine.
Her sister walked on the edge of the family group, trailing back reluctantly. She wore pale blue, a cap of the same velvet on blond locks. Her feet dragged on the cobbles, lagging behind. Douglas turned to hurry her along.
“Come on, sister!”
That was when it happened.
They were under the low arch that led from the courtyard to the chapel, which formed part of the small settlement within the fortress walls. Some castle laborers and craftsmen lined the space. A piper appeared at the back. Arabella noticed him absently, something about his height drawing her.
At that moment, Francine stumbled and fell.
“Whist!” Douglas exclaimed, catching her.
The wedding party stepped back, giving them room. Beside Arabella, her father turned swiftly, letting go of her right arm.
“Daughter,” he said chidingly, “come here.”
That was when someone grabbed Arabella. She was pulled into the darkness.
Screaming, she tried to escape. No sound came out, however.
A hand clapped across her mouth, a strong arm fastening around her. An arm, Arabella noted dimly through the panic, which held bagpipes.
The one who leads the tune.
THE MAN WHO LEADS THE TUNE
The dusk was full of swords, screams, and swirling, stampeding people. Richard, hiding in the arch of a door, watched the wildness and cursed inwardly.
What madness have I let myself in for now?
Armed with bagpipes and a small dagger looped through the belt of the thickly-wrapped kilt, Richard felt as vulnerable as a newborn must feel.
A newborn who'd just stolen a woman.
Arabella.
“Hush, lass,” he whispered. “We're not out of it yet.”
He had the vestiges of a plan. While chaos reigned in the alleyway, he'd double back behind them to the main courtyard, commandeer a horse and escape through the front gate, which was still open to admit late-arrival guests.
“Yah!” somebody shouted, wrenching his attention to his right. A man had seen
them in the doorway and came at him with a claymore. Richard felt a sort of fear mixed with rage that impelled him forward without thought, the dagger in his hand.
He stabbed down, felt the dagger pierce something soft, and saw the man go down, grunting in pain. At least, he thought as he grabbed Arabella's arm and pulled her along the alleyway, he had not made a noise. They had a few seconds to make an escape.
Taking a blind turn to his right, he led Arabella along a cobbled alley that reeked of a tannery. They ran, and he noticed with some admiration that she ran as fast as he himself.
“Wait!” he whispered.
They both threw themselves flat against the wall. Breathing heavily with the exertion, it came to Richard they had found the tanner's yard – the stink was close and horrible.
A crowd ran past on the road.
Arabella gave a sob of panic. Richard, holding her hand tightly, winced as the running feet grew louder. He closed his eyes, knowing that the whiteness of the gown in the dark would be a beacon to anyone searching for them. He knew their only hope was that their pursuers were already drunk, or too enraged to do a proper job.
Both, or at least one, of those conditions must have held, for the group ran past and Richard considered venturing out of the close space. He paused.
Never rush out of a hiding place, his old mentor, Colonel Rochford, said in his head. Linger there a bit. Your enemy's not stupid and he'll like as not wait a little to see if you're in there or not.
Sure enough, another man walked past. They heard the steps, slower and more determined, passing by.
When he'd gone, feet crunching on cobblestones, Richard let out a shuddering breath.
“Right,” he said.
He looked at Arabella. Her eyes were paler than he remembered, big and scared.
“Richard,” she whispered. “Oh, Richard.”
She stifled a sob and he held her hand, squeezing it helplessly as she gasped and then was silent.
“Milady,” he said, unable to let go of her title, at least not now. He stared at her.
The Highlander’s Trust_Blood of Duncliffe Series_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story Page 10
