True Highland Spirit

by Amanda Forester

  Morrigan hunched her shoulders and stared at the ground. She could not do it. And yet, her people would die if she did not act. The mothers, the children, the babe whose life she had so painfully saved. No, she could not let them die. The bishop was old. He had lived a good life, or at least a long one. It must be done. There was no other choice.

  She held up the bow again. All she needed to do was pull the trigger. She bit her lip and closed her eyes. She must do it. She must. Her eyes shut, she placed her finger on the trigger.

  Suddenly, something hit her in the stomach, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her crossbow triggered, firing the blot harmlessly into the castle wall. She fell backward onto the ground, someone forcing her down, covering her mouth. Fighting for breath, she knocked the man hard on the side of his head and tried to wriggle free. He grabbed her wrist before she could grab her knife and held a blade of his own to her throat.

  “Hello? Is someone there?” called the bishop.

  Instinctively, Morrigan froze, as did the man who held her.

  “Ye be needing me, Yer Grace?” asked a woman’s voice.

  “Och nay, sorry. I thought I heard something outside.” The bishop’s shadow loomed large in the window of light.

  “Probably some animal,” said the woman. “Here, let’s close the shutters afore ye be hurt by some wild thing.”

  The light dimmed, but Morrigan remained still. She would toss off her attacker soon enough, but first she wanted to make sure the bishop had stepped away from the window.

  Her attacker also seemed to be waiting. He smelled of woodsmoke and something familiar. She was engulfed by the vague memory of something pleasant.

  Things were getting out of control. In a swift move, Morrigan reached up with her legs, grabbed the man’s head between her ankles, and flung him and his knife from her. In a flash, she scrambled to her feet.

  The man lunged forward, knife in hand, but stopped himself with a jerk. In the dim light his face became recognizable. “Morrigan,” his lips spoke her name without sound.

  It was Jacques the minstrel.

  Morrigan dove for the crossbow and came up pointing it at the wayward minstrel. He dropped his knife and slowly raised his hands. Only then did Morrigan realize she was pointing an unloaded crossbow at him. Why did he not cry out or run away? She slung back her crossbow and drew her sword. Still he made no movement. Her mind was spinning. What was he doing there?

  She blinked hard to dispel him, but he was no apparition. It was the minstrel. The first man she had kissed. The only man she had kissed. The man who had since warmed her dreams. The man who just saw her try to kill the bishop. What was she going to do with him now?

  She gestured him back toward the gloom of the outer wall and followed him, making sure to retrieve his knife and the bolt that had bounced off the wall. They reached the far wall and stopped. What was she supposed to do? Jacques still made no move to escape and seemed content waiting for her to decide his fate, yet Morrigan was at a loss of what to do next. A true mercenary would kill the witness and return to finish the business with the bishop.

  Her limbs were heavy and her heart pounded. She barely had the strength to raise her sword. She needed to get away and think it through.

  “Climb over the wall,” she hissed to the wayward minstrel. “Dinna try to escape for I can load my crossbow faster than ye can run.”

  He nodded and easily pulled himself up and over the wall in one fluid motion. Morrigan scrambled after him, not easy with a sword in hand but she managed. On the other side he waited for her, making no attempt to run. She gestured toward the forest, and he obliged her by walking into the trees.

  When his back was turned, she quickly sheathed her sword and loaded her crossbow, following after him into the forest. The minstrel made no attempt to escape, even when he walked through thick brush and she lost sight of him for a minute. She rushed after him, sure he would take the opportunity to flee, but she found him waiting for her on the other side, his face obscured in shadows.

  After walking a good ways up a hill through the thick forest, Morrigan deemed it safe to stop. It was time to do what needed to be done. She must kill the minstrel and go back to finish off the bishop.

  Ice flooded her veins, as if she had been plunged into a frozen loch. Morrigan shivered involuntarily in the silver moonlight.

  “The night, it is cold. My cloak is yours.” The minstrel slowly unpinned his brown cloak and held it out to her.

  “Keep it,” said Morrigan. She hardly wanted his kindness. She needed him dead. He had seen her; he knew she was going to kill the bishop.

  The minstrel placed the cloak over a low-hanging branch and backed away. Morrigan took a few steps forward to ensure he did not get too far out of range, catching sight of an ominous shape by his thigh—he carried a sword!

  “Yer sword, drop it!” She held the crossbow with two hands, aiming carefully. Why had he not attacked her with it? “Drop it!”

  The minstrel complied without hesitation and backed away from the sword. Morrigan approached slowly and picked up the sword. It was cold and heavy in her hand. A long sword, a warrior’s sword. Why would a minstrel carry that?

  “What were ye doing outside the bishop’s window?” Morrigan barked.

  The minstrel shrugged. “Enjoying the sights. The bishop’s castle is quite impressive, no?”

  It was a lie, but said so boldly and with such confidence that she had to force herself not to be drawn into merry conversation.

  “Why do ye carry such a sword?”

  “I am told the Highlands are a dangerous place, yet I have found it quite hospitable. That is for most of my visit.”

  Morrigan glared at him. She was getting nowhere. Did he not understand she could kill him? “Why do ye no’ ask what I am doing here?”

  “But I would never ask a lady impertinent questions, in particular when she is pointing a weapon at my head.”

  “A common occurrence for ye?”

  “I should hope not! But I feel I must learn from this for my future edification.”

  “Yer future is quite uncertain, sir.”

  The minstrel’s lips hinted at a smile. “Ah yes, that I can see with much clarity. I fear you may seek retribution for my breaking a most important rule of conduct.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Never kiss the sister of your host.”

  The ice in Morrigan’s veins melted instantly into fire. She gulped the cold night air, trying to cool herself down. It was good they were standing in near darkness because she had a horrible suspicion she would otherwise be caught blushing. Damn that minstrel. She needed to get away for a few minutes and clear her head.

  “Sit down wi’ yer back to that tree,” Morrigan commanded.

  The minstrel complied, casually reclining back against a tree. If he was concerned for his safety, he hid it well.

  Morrigan stepped around him to the back of the tree. “Yer hands,” she commanded, and he readily complied, placing his arms behind himself around the tree. It was almost irritating, his lack of fight. Why would a man carrying such a sword let her tie him to a tree without any resistance? And with what was she going to tie him?

  “My bootstraps might work if there be nothing else.”

  Morrigan exhaled through gritted teeth. “Give them to me.”

  The minstrel did so quickly, which only added to Morrigan’s frustration. She was supposed to be taking him captive, rendering him helpless. Why then did she feel he held the power?

  She tied his hands behind the tree securely. If he thought she would be gentle or did not know how to tie a knot, he would soon learn his mistake. Morrigan stomped off without sparing him a glance, taking his sword and cloak with her. She tromped through the brush, not caring for her direction. She needed to get away from the mysterious minstrel and his confusing actions and befuddling words. Who was he?

  Morrigan sat on a fallen tree trunk and tried to think. She had a mission. She had to kil
l the bishop. And she had to kill… the minstrel? She put her head in her hands. It was all starting to sound like some tragic ballad. How could she have possibly gotten herself into such a mess? The McNab curse. No matter what they did, it always came out wrong.

  In the cold darkness, Morrigan realized nothing about her situation had changed. She still needed to kill the bishop, and if she left the minstrel alive he could tell everyone who did it, which could bring retribution onto her clan. Hellfire, how she hated her life.

  One thing was for sure. The night would end in death.

  Morrigan sat on the tree stump as the night air grew cold, and the silver moon rose above the trees. She considered many different options, but they all circled back into the same set of facts. The bishop must die to save the clan. The minstrel must die because he saw her. Morrigan pressed her head in her hands. Her damnation was complete; she was already in hell.

  A soft rustle in the bushes caught her attention. Without making a sound she picked up her loaded crossbow. A deer, an old buck, ambled into view. She aimed and shot. Dinner was served.

  Morrigan attempted to haul the carcass back to where she had left the minstrel tied to the tree but the animal was quite heavy. She strained but made little progress, cursing the deer, herself, the minstrel, and her general lot in life.

  Digging down with her knees, Morrigan strained to pull the carcass. Suddenly her load became lighter and she stumbled forward, unprepared for the sudden shift in weight. Behind her, someone had lifted the backside of the carcass. Morrigan spun and gasped.

  It was the shadowy form of the minstrel.

  Five

  “What? How?” Morrigan sputtered.

  “I am at your service.” The minstrel smiled as if he had offered to pick up a dropped handkerchief.

  Morrigan dropped her end of the beast, causing the back end to be jerked from his hands. “I left ye tied to a tree. How are ye here?”

  “Yes, my apologies for causing you any unwanted surprise. But see you?” He drew back his sleeve and revealed a sheath for a knife. “I could not remain comfortable while a lady was in need.”

  “I am no lady.” Morrigan spat on the ground for emphasis. “Ye’re free now. Ye can go and tell everyone I tried to kill the bishop.”

  “Ah, but then I would have to say why I, too, was in the garden, and I do not know what my reason might be.”

  “Why are ye still here? Ye could run away.”

  The minstrel gave a quick smile that did not reach his eyes. “Yes, perhaps I should go as you say. But then, I am not sure if the bishop is friend or foe. Can you say why you pointed at him the loaded crossbow?”

  “I do not know what my reason might be,” Morrigan repeated.

  They looked at each other in the dim light of the moon. Morrigan considered drawing her sword or reaching for her crossbow, but her heart was not in it. Besides, she was not sure if she could best him, a chilling thought indeed.

  “What will you do with it?” Jacques asked.

  “Wi’ what?”

  “The deer.”

  “Eat it.” Morrigan’s stomach grumbled with emphasis. It had been a long while since she had eaten meat. Too long.

  The minstrel began picking up pieces of wood and small sticks.

  “What are ye doing?” asked Morrigan.

  “Me, I like my meat cooked. And you?”

  By unspoken consensus, Jacques started a fire while Morrigan prepared the meal. It was shoddy work at best, but she was able to carve out some steaks and soon they were both holding meat sizzling on sticks over the fire.

  The dancing firelight and the welcoming smell of roasting meat enticed Morrigan to relax. She struggled to stay on guard. She did not know the man beside her. She clearly had underestimated his abilities. She did not attempt to disarm him, nor did he ask for the return of his sword. It was a tentative peace at best, forged over the prospect of a good meal. But something needed to be done. A quick glance at his sword in the firelight revealed intricate metalwork and a jeweled scabbard. Why would a minstrel carry such a sword?

  “Who are ye?” she demanded. “Ye are not a traveling minstrel, are ye?”

  The man shook his head. “I am Sir Dragonet, at your service.”

  “A French knight?”

  “I serve the Duke of Argitaine.”

  “But why are ye here? And why disguise yerself as a minstrel? And why…” Morrigan broke off. She was going to ask about what happened in the tower, but she could not, would not speak of it.

  The French knight sighed. “I most humbly ask your pardon for the deception. The Duke of Argitaine plans to make war on the English with the help of the Scots. The English have won much in France. We seek to attack them along their northern border—”

  “And have the English make war against the Scots instead,” Morrigan added, her eyes narrowing.

  “And take the fight to the English,” Dragonet continued. “The duke must know those clans who will support him and those who would betray, so he sent minstrels, such as myself, to determine without revealing themselves, if it might please the clan to join the campaign.”

  “Ye’re a spy.”

  Dragonet ignored her. “By the singing of different ballads, even those songs which were critical of England, I could judge how it was received and discover their true feelings toward England.”

  “And you also took time to talk to the natives, earn their trust, and find out what information ye could.” Morrigan flushed hot. The stick of meat in her hands drooped toward the flames, causing the fat to spit and pop.

  Sir Dragonet avoided her eye and instead carefully turned his slab of meat on the stick. “Yes, it is as you say.”

  “So everything ye said and did was a lie.” Morrigan’s voice was cold.

  The knight’s head bowed slightly, as if her words had stung him. “I have deceived people, yes. But to you, Lady Morrigan, my words and actions have been true.”

  Morrigan sputtered and nearly lost her dinner to the flames. “Look at me, ye daft French knight. I am no lady! I have worked and fought and stole like a man ever since I first picked up a blade. Dinna mistake me for something I’m not. I have faults indeed, but at least I have never pretended to be someone I’m not.”

  Morrigan’s words spilled out like a bubbling pot boiling over. She could tolerate people responding to her with rejection and fear. What she could not abide was a French knight with a polished manner and sweet words that bordered on… kindness.

  The knight became fascinated with his meal, inspecting his roasting job, blowing on it, and taking a bite. The flickering light from the campfire cast him in a warm hue. He was handsome. Strikingly so. A day’s stubble showed on his face, a contrast to his soft, full lips. He paused for a moment in his eating, staring into the fire, his black hair falling over one eye.

  “Your roast, you like it well done?”

  Her meat was on fire. “Oh!” She jerked it out of the flames but the stick was also ablaze. Her sudden movement caused the stick to break and her roast to fall into the fire. “Damn!” Morrigan scrambled up to find a new stick, something to rescue her meal.

  In a flash, Dragonet stood and while she bent over to grab another stick, he deftly drew his own sword, belted at her side. He skewered the flaming meat with his sword, blew out the flames, and held it out to her.

  “It is edible, I believe.” Dragonet stood before her, pointing his sword at her heart.

  Morrigan’s gaze traveled down the sword to the man holding it. A single lunge would kill her. She waited, her eyes focused on his.

  “Or you could have mine, if you prefer.” Somehow he managed to say it with sincerity, not sarcasm.

  With a slow, fluid movement Morrigan drew her knife and removed the meat. Instantly, he lowered the sword and wiped it clean on a handkerchief.

  “What is it ye want from me?” Morrigan asked. No one showed mercy without wanting something in return.

  The French knight sat back down, placed his sword o
n his far side, picked up his own meal, and began eating again. Morrigan gave up and sat a few feet away, taking on the challenge of eating her own charred meal. Their silence was only broken by the occasional pop from the fire, bursting orange sparks into the sky.

  “Did he hurt you?” Dragonet asked softly.

  “What do ye speak of?”

  “The bishop. Would you tell me why you wish to kill him?”

  Morrigan shook her head. She could not speak of it.

  “If I can be of service to you, I will help you as I am able.”

  “Why would ye care?”

  Dragonet finished his meal and tossed the stick into the waning flames. “The bishop, we must know if he can be trusted. Many lives hang in the balance. If he should betray us to the English…” Dragonet let his words hang a moment before continuing. “If you know a reason why he should not be trusted, I am eager in hearing you.”

  “Is that what ye were doing in the bushes? Spying on him?”

  “But of course. Though if called to testify, I am compelled to warn you, I will disavow all recollection of this conversation.”

  “’Tis fair.” Morrigan nodded. “I can speak no ill word against the bishop. In truth I have ne’er met him.”

  “I beg you would forgive my curiosity, but why hold a crossbow to his back?”

  Morrigan shook her head. “I had my reasons.”

  “You decided to spare him?”

  Morrigan frowned, but said nothing.

  Dragonet slid closer to her. “Please tell me your reasons. You are not one to do anything without cause.”

  “How would ye ken anything about me? Maybe I simply enjoy watching a man die.”

  “If such was the case, you should have opened your eyes while you pointed the crossbow. No, you are no murderer. You must have a reason most desperate.”

  “My reasons are my own.”

  “Is it related to your brother being with the bishop?”

  Morrigan’s eyes flew open before she could check her response.

  “You were not aware?” The French knight regarded her carefully.

  It was pointless to lie. “Nay.” Her brother no doubt received the same message—was he trying to kill the bishop too? Morrigan considered her words. “What were the circumstances of ye seeing him wi’ the bishop.”