The Enchantress

by May McGoldrick

  The monk nodded and, frowning, turned his attention back to the window and the road beyond. The shadows were lengthening rapidly.

  “The only complaints that I hear, every now and then, is that our Laura likes to take her time when she goes to Fearnoch. Did I tell you that she is really good at--”

  “You did,” the monk interrupted bluntly and turned again toward the nun. “Did she arrive here with many possessions?”

  “Possessions? Nay, not our Laura.”

  “How much? A trunk?”

  The nun paused suspiciously for a long moment before finally nodding with understanding. “Of course. In taking her back, you need to know of--”

  “How much, woman?”

  “So little,” the nun blurted, appalled. “Nothing that would require a trunk. She had only a small traveling bag.”

  “And that contained what?”

  “Personal items. Necessities. Nothing more.” The nun stopped abruptly and then glared in annoyance at the monk. “I don’t believe the contents of Mistress Laura's traveling bag are anyone’s--”

  “Since she has been here, has she received anything from her mother?”

  “Her mother?” she asked, surprised, before shaking her head. “Nay. I believe that she does get lonely every now and th--”

  “So she hasn’t heard anything from the mother.”

  The monk’s sharp tone again caused the nun to pause in mid-stitch. “That is correct. She has not. You are the first to bring any news of her from the Borders.”

  “Or from her sisters? Has she received anything from them?” He stepped into the middle of the room. “A message? Or perhaps...a package?”

  “A package?” The nun’s eyes narrowed in concern. In an abrupt motion she rose to her feet, dropping her work into the basket on the floor. “I don’t believe I care for these questions. In fact, I think I’ve already revealed more than I should. I certainly have no wish to confide anything Laura would want to tell you herself.”

  “Was there a package?”

  “Laura will be here soon enough herself. If she wishes, she can answer any other questions that you have. For now, you may remain here where ‘tis comfortable and warm. I, however, must go to see to it that there is enough to feed you all.”

  The monk stepped between the aging nun and the doorway, blocking her exit.

  “Was there a package?” The cleric’s face was dark and threatening. “If you will not answer, I am certain I could call in one of your other nuns and get the answers I seek.”

  The woman set her jaw obstinately. “I am in charge of this convent. Now, I don’t know what kind of behavior is acceptable in the Borders--or wherever ‘tis you come from--but here you have no right to speak this way.”

  “Remember that I have been sent by--”

  The nun held up her hand sharply, silencing the surprised monk as her eyes continued to blaze.

  “For someone put in a position of trust by this young woman’s kin, you certainly disappoint me. Now, sit back down by that fire...and compose yourself. I’ll send Laura to you as soon as she returns from Fearnoch.”

  With a curt nod of dismissal, the mother superior of the Convent St. Agnes stepped nimbly around the monk and swept out of the room.

  ****

  “What about my sister?” Dropping the rock into the sand and gravel, Laura knelt beside the sprawling body of the unconscious Highlander and poked his shoulder with one finger. Getting no response, she shook him. “What were you trying to say about my sister? Which sister?”

  There was no answer. Perhaps she hit him too hard, she thought. Moving quickly around to the other side, she peered carefully at the face speckled with sand and pebbles. Laura carefully brushed away some sand that was clinging to the man’s long eyelashes. Cautiously, she pressed her hand against the side of the warrior’s throat. She could feel the blood pulsing beneath the taut skin, but his face had taken on an ashen hue. He looked none too healthy.

  Feeling through the thick waves of dark chestnut-colored hair for a lump--or two--she drew back involuntarily when her fingers encountered the warm wetness of blood on his scalp. Parting the hair, Laura bit her lip at the size of the gash that she’d given him.

  Drawing from her sleeve the finely embroidered kerchief that the mother superior had given her as a token of gratitude, Laura dabbed the gash gently. In a moment the snow white linen was crimson with his blood.

  Looking about her at the surrounding groves of pine as she rinsed out the kerchief in the icy stream, Laura considered her next move.

  She’d delivered the blow, certain that the man must be in the service of vile Sir Arthur Courtney...or another of the English king’s deputy lieutenants. Certainly, the Tudor coin he had been tossing around when he first dragged her out of the market square had hinted as much.

  But now, looking at the insensible creature lying beside her--vulnerable and injured--Laura began to have misgivings about her earlier assumptions.

  What had he said? she thought. He had somehow been under the impression that she needed to be rescued. But rescued from whom, she wondered? And then, his final words before...well, before passing out. Laura was sure he’d said the words "message" and "sister"!

  It was conceivable that Catherine or even Adrianne had indeed hired this man to bring her a message. It was also conceivable that, seeing her in the company of those Sinclair warriors, the man thought that she needed help. Suddenly, Laura began to feel a bit queasy.

  He’d said he was a Ross. Looking at the red and black weave of his tartan, she’d learned enough about the Sinclairs’ rival clan to recognize it. The Ross clan controlled huge tracts of land to the south and west of Fearnoch. And from what she’d gathered from the Sinclairs, the two clans had been feuding over the lands to the north of Fearnoch Firth since the dark days of the Viking marauders. Quickly, she untied the scabbard of his sword from his belt and laid it aside with the man’s dirk.

  Suddenly, everything made sense. As far as her two sisters knew, she had gone not to the Convent of St. Agnes, but to a little convent connected with the Shrine of St. Duthac, just to the south in the village of Tain.

  South of Fearnoch Firth.

  South...in Ross lands.

  The revelation made her feel no better.

  Laura quickly bent down and soaked the kerchief again in the cold, clear water. As she gently cleaned the wound, she chided herself for her error. It was only natural that her sisters would contact someone from the Ross clan. And it was also natural, given the animosity between the Ross clan and the Sinclairs, that this man would think she was being held against her will.

  “Why couldn’t you explain this to me before?” She knelt over the unconscious warrior. “‘Twould serve you right if I just left you here to freeze...treating me as you did!”

  But Laura knew she couldn’t do that. In all probability, no one would be passing through this thickly wooded glen until spring. And though the blood had stopped flowing from one of the two wounds and the man’s color was improving, she had no way of knowing how long he’d be unconscious. If the cold didn’t kill him, some wild animal would certainly drag him off.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Laura saw his horse standing quietly and watching her curiously. “You won’t let me leave him here, will you?”

  The handsome steed snorted and pawed the ground.

  “Very well! Then come and help me.” Stretching one hand out toward the animal, she quietly waited until, after a moment of hesitation, the horse moved across the gravel and came right to her--rubbing his muzzle in her open hand. Taking hold of his reins, Laura got to her feet and, for assurance, tied the animal to a tree branch hanging down from the steep embankment above the rocky ledge. Two large leather bags hung across the steed’s flank, and she turned her attention to the bags’ contents.

  “We can’t take him back to your own people,” she said, pulling a plain gray blanket from one of the bags. The horse tossed his head and snorted in response.

&nb
sp; Laura frowned. “No matter what you say, we cannot do that. I have no knowledge of the roads leading to the south. I have no idea how far ‘tis to Tain. And besides, even if I left it to you to take us there--and we made the trip successfully--my life will be forfeit for certain for dealing such a blow to one of their kin.”

  The animal flicked his ears at the woman and looked away.

  “I am not going south,” she said adamantly, opening the blanket and putting it to the side. Next, she leaned down and again checked the man’s head. The bleeding had stopped.

  “At the same time, it would probably not do to be found by the Sinclairs. Heaven knows what they’d do to your master after all he did to them back in Fearnoch. Then I’d never find out what he knows of my sisters.”

  The horse’s next snort had an agreeable tone to it.

  “Aye. The Convent of St. Agnes ‘tis, then. But I’ll need your help, my friend, to get him on your back.” She leaned over the Highlander again and rolled him onto his back. He groaned as his wound touched the stony streambed, and she paused to look at him.

  By the Virgin, he is a handsome man, she thought self-consciously, kneeling down beside him. But then, she’d known that from the moment she’d first gazed into his deep blue eyes in the market square. Tall and lean with shoulder-length hair framing sunburned and strong features, he had a reckless air about him. Involuntarily, she touched the thin scar that ran along the left side of his jawline. Not just reckless. He’d looked dangerous. Very dangerous.

  He groaned again, and she snatched her hand away and stood up.

  “Leave it to my sisters to pick a man with looks this fine to come after me!” Moving between his legs, she reached down and took hold of both his hands. Pulling with all her might, she managed to get him to a sitting position. But the horse was still too far away, and she realized now that, at any rate, she simply could not lift the man’s dead weight onto the horse’s back. She was trapped. She let go of the man’s hands and winced at the sound of his head thumping on the frozen ground.

  Deciding on an alternative method, Laura rummaged through the Highlander’s travel bag again and took out a coil of rawhide, leaving the man’s tam and an old, oft-mended shirt in the bag. Tying his hands and ankles were easy, but dragging him up onto the narrow rock ledge beside the stream bed was extremely difficult. It took far longer than she would have thought.

  Totally out of breath, Laura hung the man’s legs down over the ledge and sat him up.

  “Stay.” She propped the Ross warrior up carefully. Quickly, she climbed down and maneuvered the horse into a position where she could pull the man across the animal’s back. Standing in one stirrup, Laura pulled the man’s wrists, and--as she fell backward onto the stony streambed--he dropped heavily across the steed’s withers. She eyed the result with satisfaction and scrambled to her feet, wiping the sweat from her brow. The horse snorted and flicked his ears.

  “It serves him right to ride in the same fashion as he forced me to ride. And no matter how sick he gets, we are not stopping until we get back to the convent.”

  Using the remainder of the leather cord, Laura tied the sword to the saddle behind her. She picked up the warrior’s dirk and looked at the weapon thoughtfully. Then, cutting a small slit in the lining of her cloak, she slid the dagger into the opening. Next, she picked up the blanket off the ground and covered the Highlander’s large frame with it. Finally, she climbed up behind the man and, with one hand looped in the belt of her captive, clucked encouragingly to the horse.

  With a quick look at the descending sun, Laura turned the horse’s head northward along the path next to the stream.

  Even if he had lied when he’d shouted to his cronies, even if he’d headed west instead of south, Laura was confident she could find her way back to the convent. Loch Fleet, where the convent was located, stretched a few miles inland from the sea. She knew that she could not fail to find her way home.

  But as she rode northward, the afternoon sun continued to fight its way through an encroaching patch of dark clouds and sink toward the western mountains, and the chill wind of the Highland winter began to bite into her skin. Her passenger had not stirred once since they began, and only the warmth of his body against her legs kept her anxiety at bay. Then, just as dusk began to descend in the forest, they broke out of a grove of trees, and Laura spotted the shimmering waters of the loch. The setting sun reflected warmly on the buildings of the small convent across the silvery body of water.

  Luck was with her, she thought with a smile, for the Highlander had indeed taken them to the west of Fearnoch. Riding around the loch, past the ruins of the old castle on the western shore, would take no time at all.

  It was nearly dark when they drew close to the convent, and Laura eyed the chimney above the chapter house with curiosity. The mother superior was extremely frugal with her fires, and yet the clouds of smoke billowing from the top of the chimney showed that she was still burning a fire there.

  Knowing how little these nuns spent in terms of their comfort, she found that sign of extravagance somewhat alarming. But that was not the only thing that made her pause as she approached the convent’s low stone walls. As she peered through the small orchard past the outbuildings and the chapter house beyond, she could just make out the shadows of a number of horses tied by the convent gates.

  Laura reined the steed to the left, off the path along the loch, spurring the animal along the wall toward the back gate, which led into the orchard and to a small stone hut just inside the walls.

  The Convent of St. Agnes was not like so many other religious houses that entertained a steady stream of travelers. Though the nuns there were not cloistered, the meagerness of their existence was generally known, and better food and lodgings could be readily found nearby. As a result, with the exception of a weekly visit of a few Sinclair warriors coming to escort Laura and the other nuns to market, no one ever stopped here.

  Climbing down from the horse to open the gate, Laura had a vague sense that these visitors were not the neighboring Sinclairs coming to report the news of her abduction at Fearnoch.

  As she led her mount through the gate, Laura was delighted to see Guff, the convent’s laborer, come out of the hut and shuffle hastily toward her.

  “We have visitors?”

  “Aye, mistress. And a miserable lot, if ye ask me!” the farm hand grouched irritably.

  As he took the reins from the young woman, he eyed the horse and the blanket covered body suspiciously.

  “There’s not a man among ‘em, mistress, with as fine a steed as this ‘un. Did you commit murder to get ‘im?” he asked, hitching a grizzled chin at the unmoving body.

  She smiled at the question and pulled the blanket off the Highlander.

  “Haven’t the Sinclairs returned from Fearnoch?” Laura moved around to the other side of the horse to look at the wound on the Highlander’s head, and Guff followed her.

  “Nay, not a soul has returned as yet! I was thinking you got ‘em tied up in one of your ideas. ‘Tis hardly a...”

  Glancing at the farm hand, she frowned to see him standing beside her, his mouth hanging open in shock.

  “He is not dead, Guff. I just laid a small rock against the side of his thick skull...for his own good.”

  “The laird!”

  Laura looked from the farmer’s shocked face to the Highlander and back. “What did you say?”

  “The laird, mistress! The Ross himself! William...William Ross of Blackfearn. His brother’s the new head priest at St. Duthac’s. They are a mighty family to the south--a good one so long as ye’re not a Sinclair. But I do not think murdering their laird will set well with ‘em, mistress!”

  Laura winced at the sudden knotting in her stomach, accompanied by the certain knowledge that something had indeed gone terribly wrong. Glancing back at the Highlander, she hesitantly pushed back the loose strands of hair from the man’s brow and looked into his face. Even in a dead faint, he suddenly looked murdero
us.

  “Whist, Guff! He isn’t dead. Help me bring him into the chapter house.”

  “Nay, mistress. Ye cannot take him there. I do not know who these Lowlanders be, but the rascals have been hanging about here for most of the day, and I do not like ‘em a bit.”

  “Lowlanders?” Laura glanced at the direction of the chapter house. “Do you know what they want?”

  “Aye. You!”

  Laura tried to keep down the bile moving up in her throat. She could feel the fear burning in her face, and she tried desperately to fight off the panic. But then, the memory of her family being torn apart...of her father being taken from them by the English king’s soldiers...of learning later of his death in the Tower...nay, the memories were all too vivid. All too recent.

  “The mother superior came out of there just once this afternoon. But the crabbed old monk with ‘em sent for her right off.” Guff pulled the laird from the horse, hoisting him onto his shoulder. “I’ll take him inside my hut. Ye’d best tie his horse behind those trees and out of sight, mistress. From the looks of things, I do not think it wise to have him found by these blackguards. I’ll tend to the horse later.”

  She nodded quietly, and as soon as Guff disappeared through the low doorway, she led the charger to the grove of trees that the laborer had indicated.

  Lowlanders! And a monk leading them! This could mean many things, none of which gave Laura any comfort. The visitors’ arrival could mean news from her mother, but somehow she didn’t think so.

  After her father died in the Tower of London for defying the king and refusing to sign the Oath of Succession, Laura’s entire family had been forced to flee England for the land of her mother’s birth. Lady Nichola had arranged for each daughter to go into hiding in three remote corners of the Scottish Highlands while she herself would remain in hiding in the Borders.

  From the first day of their initial flight, one thing had been clear. They were not to trust anyone. The danger threatening the Percy family originated not only from the English king and his hatred for the family. Laura, her sisters, and their mother were also being pursued by enemies far more ancient--and far more powerful--than any single king.