He turned and hurried back to the wreck. The car seemed to be wedged in tightly between two big boulders. He could hear the tick of hot metal and the liquid drip of petrol splashing onto the rocks somewhere at the rear of the vehicle. He tried the door handle, but either the door was locked or the frame was so badly damaged the door was jammed shut.
Raising his foot, he found a toehold on the undercarriage and pulled himself up onto the side of the car. Lying on his stomach, he peered in through the shattered window but saw no one in the front seat. As he squirmed to look in the rear side window, he heard a distinctly familiar metallic click which caused the flesh at the nape of his neck to tingle anew.
Lowering himself off the vehicle, he turned to see the young woman now in absolute control of herself. Dry-eyed, calm, she regarded him with a slight, knowing smile. Her hands were doubled beneath her breasts, and as he turned he saw the moonlight glint on the black metal barrel of a handgun.
Fool! he thought, inwardly kicking himself. The danger posed by the wrecked car had masked any other threat; the fiosachd had tried to warn him, but he’d failed to look any further.
“That’s right,” the woman said. “Stand easy.”
“You’re very good,” James told her. “You had me convinced.”
“It’s a gift,” she replied blithely.
“So what happens now? Robbery? Maybe I should have told you, I don’t have any money.”
The young woman’s lips framed a generous smile, but her eyes remained mirthless and hard. “I know — royalty never carries cash,” she replied. “It’s not your money that I want, Your Highness.”
“What then?”
“I want what anyone wants, really. A little recognition, appreciation, understanding. Is that too much to ask?” She moved a step closer. He caught the glint of auburn hair and saw her face in the half-reflected glow of the headlights and knew he had seen her before — at Hyde Park? Had she been in the crowd that day?
“Call your pretty wife down here. We don’t want her to miss all the fun on her wedding day.”
“No,” James said firmly. “You might as well shoot me now and get it over with. I won’t do it.”
“Shoot you?” The red-haired young woman moved a half step to the side. “You’ve been watching too much cheap television. I have no intention of shooting anyone.”
“You’re the one who killed Donald Rothes,” James said. “You killed Collins, too.”
Her smile widened and she stepped nearer; the wild gleam in her eyes sent a quiver rippling along James’ ribs. “Did you work that out all by yourself?” she said. “Or did Merlin help you?”
“Who are you?” asked James, a sick feeling spreading through his gut.
“Most people call me Moira,” she replied casually. “But you and I both know how misleading names can be.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he asked.
“You can do better than that, surely,” Moira replied. “Do you mean to say that after all these years you don’t remember me?”
“Should I?”
“Don’t be tetchy, dear heart,” she said. “You’ll spoil my good opinion of you.”
“Who are you?” he asked again.
Just then there came a call from the roadside high above. “James… can you hear me?”
“Tell her to come down,” the woman instructed. “Tell her you need her to help you right away. Just get her down here.”
James half turned and put a hand to his mouth. “Stay up there, Jenny!” he shouted. “There’s petrol spilled all over. Don’t come down here!”
The butt of the gun caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head, which knocked him to his knees. “You stupid —” she shrieked, her voice echoing like a shot across the glen. She regained possession of herself instantly. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she tutted regretfully. “Now you’ve made it that much harder on yourself — and on your dutiful little wife. I was going to let you buy her life with yours, but now she’ll just have to take her chances.”
“If that’s meant to frighten me, save your breath,” James said. “Jenny’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”
“And they say chivalry is dead.” Moira shifted the gun to her left hand. “But, then, you never were much of a romantic — were you, Arthur?”
The sound of the name made the small hairs prick up on his scalp. Into his mind flashed the image of a woman dressed all in black standing on a deserted sea strand, the waves tumbling the pebbles along the shingle. The day was clear, the sky high and bright and windswept, and the woman with the golden hair was pleading for her life.
The wind was blowing her long hair across her face as she spoke, wildly, violently, spitting hate-filled lies at her accusers. Cal was there — and yet it was not Cal, but Cai — and Gavin, and Jenny, and several others, who also were and were not the people James knew. They had gathered to hold the woman to judgment for her crimes. A name came to him. “Morgian,” he whispered aloud.
“Yes,” she replied with evident pleasure. “Like you, I’m back. Did your precious Merlin never tell you?” The answer to her question appeared on his face. “No? Oh, what a shame. Not that it would have helped you very much.”
The wind gusted, swirling through the glen, and James imagined he heard the rustling sound of wings as carrion birds gathered. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he hugged himself for warmth. “Look, Morgian… Moira — or whoever you are — whatever it is you’re going to do, I wish you’d hurry up. It’s cold out here. I’m freezing.”
From the highway came another call. “James? Are you all right down there?”
“Stay where you are, Jenny!” he called back. “It’s under control.”
“Help is on the way,” Jenny shouted down to him. Her voice sounded as if it were falling from the top of a mountain. “I called Rhys — they’ll be here any minute.”
“You heard her,” James said. “They’ll be here any minute.”
As he spoke there came the thrumming rumble of a helicopter engine in the distance. “Make that half a minute,” he amended. “In which time this glen is going to be a very busy place.”
“A few more seconds is all I need,” Moira replied sweetly. She slipped a gloved hand into her pocket and drew out a single cigarette. Placing it between her lips, she took a plastic cigarette lighter from the same pocket.
“Don’t — !” James began.
“Worried now, are we?” She flicked the wheel on the lighter, and it sparked to life. The small blue flame guttered in the fitful wind, then took hold. She lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled the smoke out through her mouth.
“Farewell, Arthur,” she said, blowing the tip of the cigarette to red brilliance. “I don’t expect we will meet again — in this lifetime, anyway.” With a practiced flick of her fingers, she sent the cigarette flying.
James watched the glowing tip of the cigarette as it spun through the air towards the back of the car, but the fumes, dispersed by the erratic wind, failed to ignite. The cigarette fell to the snow where it merely sizzled and went out in a wisp of white smoke.
“Well,” said James, climbing quickly to his feet, “I guess things aren’t working out the way you’d planned, are they?”
“We can’t have everything,” Moira replied, her face glacial, her eyes livid with hate. She raised the gun, aimed at James’ chest, and pulled the trigger.
Forty-four
James threw himself forward as the gun fired, the percussive crack loud in the rocky glen. He felt a hard jolt hit his shoulder as he fell, and he was already rolling to his feet as Moira fired again. The second bullet tore through the fabric of his kilt, carving a gash in his hip. He heard the slug smack into the undercarriage of the car with a strangely wooden whack as he dived.
The momentum of his scrambling leap carried him into her; he hit Moira square in the ribs with his shoulder and they both went down. James landed heavily on top of her, and she rolled from side to side,
trying to shake him off, while sideswiping his head with the gun barrel. She managed to land one solid blow above his left ear, but James took the blow and grabbed her wrist, forcing her arm over her head. She raked at his eyes with her free hand, and James grabbed that, too, and hung on.
They struggled for a moment, and James became aware of someone shouting from the road high above. It was Jenny, alarmed by the shots. She was calling for him. “Stay there!” he cried.
In the distance, he could hear the thrum of the helicopter, and knew that if he looked back along the glen towards Braemar he might see it now. “It’s over, Moira,” he said. “You might as well give up and save yourself an injury. I’m not letting go of you.”
“Fool!” She spat at him. He felt the heat of her hatred lick him like a flame.
“Give it up. Rhys will be here any second,” he said, and felt her go limp beneath him — as if she had suddenly abandoned all strength. She closed her eyes and stopped breathing.
He looked at her face in the headlights’ glare; she seemed to have lost consciousness. “Moira!” he said sharply, not daring to release his hold just yet. “I don’t know what you think you’re —”
All at once her body went rigid. Her eyes flew open. “Exis velat morda!” she screamed. “Gorim exat fortis!”
At the last word, James was blown bodily away and hurled onto his back a few yards distant. He landed hard against the rock upon which the overturned car rested. By the time he scrambled to his knees, Moira was already on her feet, and the gun was trained on him once more.
In the ravine behind them, the searchlight of the helicopter scoured the slope; the boom of the engine filled the glen with the sound of a great rushing cataract.
“I guess this is good-bye,” Moira said, her lips curling back over her teeth as she extended her arm and squeezed the trigger.
James’ fingers closed on the dagger in his sock. The sgian dubh was in the air before Moira knew he’d thrown it. The blade struck her above the right breast just as she fired the gun. The shot went wide, striking the back of the overturned car.
In the same instant, James felt rather than heard a whiffling rush — as if a missile were streaking toward him. There was a sudden shudder as the air convulsed, and he felt the heatflash bloom across his back.
Moira’s astonished face was illumined in the dirty yellow flare of the gasoline explosion. The blast threw him onto his face and filled his lungs with searing fumes.
When James came to, he was lying beside the freezing stream twenty meters from the burning car. His clothes were smoldering, and his bare legs were singed. His mouth tasted of petrol and smoke, and the cold air stung his lungs. He coughed and spat, each breath an agony in his throat — as if the inside of his windpipe were being flayed with knives.
He was aware of a small buzzing sound in his ears and he felt something snatching at him. He thought of crows picking his flesh — carrion birds stripping meat from corpses on the battlefield. He turned his head and lifted an arm to shoo the birds away. His sword — he must have dropped his sword — he had to find it before the Saecsens returned.
Pushing himself up on his hands, he looked across the black-watered burn. Behind him the fire still raged; he could feel the heat, and the dancing flames made his shadow quiver on the snow and rocks. He made to stand, but his legs would not obey. He was bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, but he could not remember being speared.
It had been an ambush. Cerdic and Hengist had been waiting in the glen, and he had ridden in unaware. He could remember nothing of the battle itself, and wondered what had become of the Dragon Flight. His warriors would never have left him for dead. He glanced around in the darkness, but the only sign of the fight was a single set of footprints in the snow — leading down the rocky bank to disappear in the black water of the swift-flowing Clunie stream.
Bedwyr! Where are you? Cai!
Perhaps they had pursued the enemy or maybe they had gone for help. Where was Myrddin? Where were Rhys and Gwalchavad?
No… not Cerdic… not Hengist or Horsa. This time it was dread Morgian, Queen of Air and Darkness. He gazed around the circle of firelight, but could see no sign of her; nor could he feel her stifling presence. She was gone.
Dragging his legs under him, he raised himself into a sitting position. Taking up handfuls of snow, he rubbed his raw legs. The cold felt good on his blistered skin. The buzzing sound had not abated; the only sound to break the unnatural silence, it seemed to be coming from somewhere high on the ridge above. He turned his head towards the noise and saw a bright light — like a dazzling star — hanging just over the ridge top. In this strange, intense starlight, he saw a figure moving down the sheer, rock-covered slope of the ravine. Someone was hurrying to his aid.
He looked down at himself. He was covered with filth and his clothes were rags. There was nothing he could do about that, but it was not meet that anyone should find him wallowing in the mire like a common swineherd. He was the High King of Britain. He would stand.
It took all his strength and determination, but he forced his unfeeling legs to his will, and climbed somehow onto his feet beside the rushing burn. He heard someone shouting; the sound was all but swallowed in the silent roar that filled his head. He looked up and saw a woman running over the slippery, uneven ground. Relief and apprehension mingled in her expression, and there were tears in her eyes.
As she came into the light, he saw the long dark hair and, although her clothes were strange, he recognized his beloved, and his heart stirred. He squared his shoulders and sought to reassure her with a smile. “It is well,” he said, his voice sounding hopelessly small and distant inside his head. “I am alive.”
She came into his arms in a rush, and he allowed his bruised body to be gathered into her embrace. “I knew someone would find me,” he whispered, the air rasping harshly in his throat. “I did not know it would be you, my Queen.” He put his face against her hair. “Ahh, Gwen-hwyvar…” He sighed, feeling the immense weight of fatigue descending on him. “We have been apart far too long. I want to go home.”
James spent what little was left of his wedding night in the emergency room of the Pitlochry Infirmary. Embries had wanted him to be taken to the hospital in Aberdeen, but neither James nor Jenny would hear of it. “If we go there,” Jenny said, “there will be no way to keep it out of the news. This way, we have a chance.”
“Keeping it out of the news is the least of our concerns at the moment,” Embries said sharply.
“He wants it this way,” Jenny insisted. “Look, just find that woman — she’s got to be down there somewhere. Find her and get her out.”
“we will find her,” Embries replied. “Cal and I will see to police matters here, and follow along as soon as we can.” He gave Jenny’s hand a squeeze. “Go with God.”
She climbed into the back of the Tempest and settled in beside James, who was wrapped in a silver-foil survival blanket. At her instruction, the engine spun to life; Rhys adjusted the angle of the blades, and they lifted off a few seconds later.
The helicopter had arrived at Devil’s Elbow moments after the explosion. Rhys landed on the edge of the highway and trained the spotlight down the slope of the ravine. Jennifer was already halfway down to the burning wreck by the time he and Embries started down. The ambulance Jenny had called arrived two minutes later with Cal right behind.
The paramedics had quickly stabilized the King and, strapped to a rescue board, they had hauled him out of the ravine and secured him in the back of the helicopter for the short ride to Pitlochry. A police car dispatched from Braemar rolled up as the helicopter disappeared into the night. Embries dealt with them quickly and efficiently; he gave them Jenny’s description of the woman she and James had been trying to help, and directed them to comb the area for her body. He then joined Cal for the anxious ride to the infirmary.
“A hell of a way to celebrate your wedding night,” Cal observed, nosing the car around the turn and heading down
toward the Spittal of Glenshee.
“Better a hospital than a morgue,” Embries remarked.
“Oh, aye,” Cal agreed. “What on earth happened down there? I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Strange women, and cars off the road, and who knows what all. Jenny was pretty rattled.”
“The relevant facts have yet to be established.” Embries turned to regard his traveling companion. “But we might as well start with you.”
“Me?” Cal glanced sideways at his passenger. “Man, I know less than you do about this.”
“Indeed. Is that so?” inquired Embries pointedly. “Then I suppose it’s no use asking you who arranged for the King to sneak off unattended?”
“Well, that —” Cal blustered. “It was his wedding night. Even the King is entitled to a little privacy on his honeymoon. I couldn’t very well allow the newlyweds to be hounded by a pack of wild paparazzi, could I?”
“It was a foolhardy risk.”
“Come on,” pleaded Cal. “It’s his honeymoon. Anyway, James knows his way around. They were only heading down the road a wee way. It wasn’t like they were going off to war, or anything.”
“That,” Embries snapped, “is where you are naïve — and wrong!”
Cal turned his head and looked at Embries, his face hard in the dim light of the dashboard. “Just what do you think happened down there?”
Embries was silent for a moment before answering. “I think,” he said at last, “the only person who knows for certain what happened is James. We will have to wait until he feels like talking to ask him.”
It was several hours before they were finally able to see James. He was sitting up in bed, but his eyes were closed and he seemed to be asleep. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, and one side of his head and neck glistened with ointment for his burns.
Jenny was in a chair beside him holding his hand, and in a much more tranquil frame of mind. She smiled as they came into the room. “He’s going to be all right,” she told them. “One bullet passed through his shoulder below the clavicle — muscle damage, but it missed the bone and major vessels — and the other one just grazed his hip. The struggle opened up his knife wound, though, and that’s not so good.” She turned to look at her husband, rubbing his hand. “All in all, he’s very lucky.”
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