Passion's Exile

by Glynnis Campbell

  "Nae," Rose said between clenched teeth. "Ne’er."

  Agatha smiled. "That’s my little lady. Then there’s no harm in it, is there? He’ll wed ye and bed ye, and ye’ll have the bairns..." She strangled on the word, then recovered with a fleeting smile. "The bairns I can no longer bear."

  Rose clamped her lips shut, fearing she might retch at any moment.

  "But ye understand why ye mustn’t tell, don’t ye?" Agatha spoke to her as if she were still a child of six. The last of the sunlight faded from the fissures in the stable walls, limning Agatha’s face with ominous shadows. "We’d lose Averlaigh, wouldn’t we? And we can’t have that."

  If she expected a docile response from Rose, she was disappointed. ‘Twas all Rose could do to bite back a scream of fury.

  "Run along now, poppet," Agatha bade her, patting the top of Rose’s head before she could duck away. "And remember, ‘tis our secret."

  Somehow Rose found the will to rise, collect her falcon, and walk out of the stable. But ‘twas at a nightmare’s sluggish pace that she crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps to her chamber. She closed the door behind her and slumped back against it, her body limp, her senses numb.

  Wink’s impatient fluttering roused Rose from her stupor, and the twisted truth of what she’d witnessed suddenly curdled like poison in her belly. With a sickly groan, she staggered across the room and dove for the basin. There she retched and retched, till nothing was left but the bitter taste of betrayal.

  "Oh, Wink," she whispered weakly. Lifting the jug of water with trembling fingers, she rinsed her mouth and spat into the bowl. Then she wiped the cold sweat from her brow. "God’s wounds, what will we do?"

  She sank onto her bed, loosening Wink’s jesses and letting the bird hop up on her perch. Once she’d seen the pitiful condition of the mews, Rose had insisted upon keeping Wink in her own chamber, and in such close quarters, the falcon had become her closest ally. Even now, the bird, as if understanding Rose’s distress, started scuttling anxiously back and forth along the wooden perch.

  Rose, too, paced across the threadbare carpet, her mind whirling with images of her mother’s depravity. Nae, she’d never accept Lady Agatha’s solution, never submit to life with an incestuous adulterer. The thought of what they’d done...

  "We have to go," she muttered, biting at her thumb. "We have to leave Averlaigh."

  She fingered her battered throat. There was no question in her mind. Sir Gawter was dangerous. He’d meant what he’d said—he’d kill her if she revealed his sin.

  "On the morrow," she decided, “before anyone wakes." Now that she’d made the decision, her heart raced like that of a loosed falcon. But where would she go?

  She could think of only one refuge. "Fernie House. We’ll go back to Fernie House."

  Wink bobbed in agreement from her perch. Rose flung open the oak chest at the foot of her bed and began tossing linen chemises and satin slippers and velvet kirtles atop the mattress.

  ‘Twas a desperate flight, a perilous one. All manner of outlaws and wild beasts frequented the roads. And she had no idea what she’d do once she reached Fernie House.

  But what choice did she have?

  "We’ll watch out for each other, won’t we, Wink?"

  Still, as she stuffed her garments into a large satchel and slipped her eating knife into the small sheath at her hip, she began to doubt the wisdom of such a reckless escape.

  Fernie House was near St. Andrews, at least a four days’ ride. And this time, she wouldn’t be traveling with guards. ‘Twas an enormous risk for any fugitive, even greater for a lass alone. Worst of all, once Sir Gawter noticed her missing, he’d send his men to hunt her down.

  Who could she trust? Who would accompany her? She’d only been at Averlaigh for a fortnight. She knew no one.

  She dropped onto the edge of her bed again, chewing at her nail. There had to be a way... People traveled to St. Andrews all the time.

  Some vague memory teased at the edges of her mind. She’d heard something recently, something about a pilgrimage...

  She sprang to her feet, startling Wink.

  At chapel last Sabbath, the father had announced a pilgrimage traveling from Stirling to St. Andrews. Stirling was only a half-day’s ride from Averlaigh. If she joined that pilgrimage...

  A lass might travel in safety in the company of pilgrims.

  The priest had said they were to gather at an inn for the journey. What was the name of it? The Black Boar? Nae, The Black Hound.

  The pilgrims were leaving the morn of Saint Anselm’s Day. Rose quickly calculated the day on her fingers. Her heart plunged. Tomorrow was Saint Anselm’s.

  But she refused to be daunted. It could be done. She’d have to pilfer a horse and steal away at nightfall. She’d have to pray the road was well-marked and free of thieves and wolves. And she’d have to ride like the wind to reach Stirling before daybreak. ‘Twas a bold plan, full of risk. But she could do it.

  "Besides, Wink," she said somberly, unlacing her soiled blue kirtle, "I suspect we’ll be safer tonight in the woods than within these walls."

  She was mistaken.

  Sir Gawter was already having her watched.

  Rose never noticed the spies’ vigilant eyes as, hours later—clothed in a fresh linen underdress, her best surcoat of scarlet velvet, and her brown woolen cloak—she quietly led her mother’s palfrey from the stable, mounted up, and set out from Averlaigh.

  She’d ridden several miles along the road toward Stirling when she sensed she was being followed. She dared not turn and look. But by Wink’s unrest, she could tell someone was there. Who, she wasn’t sure. It might be Gawter’s men or common thieves or drunken ravishers. But one thing was certain—no person on honest business rode with such stealth in the middle of the night.

  Rose clucked to the palfrey and whispered, "A wee bit faster, love." She nudged the horse to a brisk walk.

  A furtive glimpse under cover of her hood a moment later told her that the riders—two of them—had quickened their pace as well.

  At present, they were a hundred yards back, but that could change at any moment. What could she do? She was still miles from the haven of Stirling.

  She spared her pursuers one more glance, and in that instant, her worst fears were realized. Even at this distance and in the meager light of the waxing moon, she could see that the men wore Sir Gawter’s colors.

  She stared straight ahead, her heart in her throat. If they were Gawter’s knights, they’d be riding warhorses—strong, powerful animals that could easily outrun the palfrey. ‘Twas useless trying to lose them.

  She considered turning around and bargaining with them, doling out a generous portion of the coin she’d brought with her to ensure her freedom and their silence. But Sir Gawter had far more wealth to barter with than she, and if they’d come to slay her as she feared, they’d simply steal her silver when she lay dead and bleeding on the road.

  Shivering, she peered ahead to the place where the curve of the road dipped and disappeared beyond a thick stand of trees. ‘Twas a good furlong away, but if she could make it as far as that bend...

  Rose tucked her falcon into her cloak so the bird wouldn’t startle. What she planned was mortally perilous, but she had little choice. Wrapping her hands tightly in the reins, she whispered a prayer and silently counted, one...two... Wink ruffled her feathers abruptly, almost startling Rose from her mount, but ‘twas too late to delay. Three!

  She dug her heels sharply into the horse’s flanks. But instead of bolting forward, the animal reared in protest.

  "Come on, come on!" she commanded, struggling to stay atop the unruly beast and hauling sideways on the reins. Finally, the horse turned and surged ahead, galloping down the road, while Rose leaned forward over the horse’s pumping neck.

  "Faster!" She kicked at the palfrey. "Faster!"

  The horse’s hooves thundered on the hard-packed dirt, and Rose’s hair whipped against her cheek as her hood fell back.
The scenery jerked by, and shadows raced past her head like veils in a frenzied dance.

  She dared not look back. She knew they were coming. And though she rode with the speed of a coursing river, the bend in the road still stretched far before her, an eternity away, while the menacing storm behind loomed closer and closer.

  What she proposed was hopeless. She knew that now. But ‘twas too late to withdraw, and she had no intention of surrendering. Now the curve seemed to rush toward her at breakneck speed, and she searched desperately for an opening in the dense woods. But the moonlight was shining on the wrong side of the road, and the trees flew by so rapidly, ‘twas nearly impossible to find a break in the forest.

  When she turned at the bend, she saw she had no options, for beyond the curve, the road extended in a straight line away from the haven of the forest. ‘Twas now or not at all.

  She hauled back hard on the reins. The palfrey whinnied in complaint, skidding in the dirt. Its hindquarters dipped low, and it took all of Rose’s strength not to tumble backward over the croup. She slid down, unmindful of the way Wink’s panicked talons dug into the tender flesh of her arm as she flung her hand to release the bird into the air and toward the safety of the woods. With trembling fingers, she unpinned the cloak from her shoulders and whirled it over the palfrey’s withers.

  The cloak pin tumbled to the ground. Rose dropped low, still clinging to the reins. She patted the ground desperately for the pin, unable to find it, fearful the horse might spook and charge off at any moment, dragging her down the road.

  She glanced frantically back over her shoulder. In another instant, the riders would turn the corner and run her down. She had to escape. Now! Where was the cursed pin?

  At last her fingers closed around it, earning her a painful prick. She snatched up the piece and, with hopelessly clumsy fingers, finally managed to stab it through the wool of the cloak, securing the garment about the horse’s neck. Then she gave the palfrey a hearty slap to send it barreling down the road.

  Which it refused to do. Instead, the contrary nag snorted in complaint, standing its ground.

  "Bloody hell!" Her heart in her mouth, Rose drew the small eating dagger from her belt and jabbed at the horse’s hindquarters. With a startled snort, it bolted, charging off at a gallop.

  Then Rose ducked into the cover of the woods to wait.

  She didn’t wait long. She held her breath as the pursuit roared closer and closer. Finally the riders passed in a maelstrom of rocks and dirt, thankfully gulled by Rose’s cloak, which still flapped atop the fleeing horse like a passenger. How long the riderless palfrey would keep running, she didn’t know, nor could she guess how soon Gawter’s men would discover her ruse. She had to move away from the road at once.

  Wink had perched in a nearby oak. Rose retrieved her, and the two of them fled through the dark forest.

  Rose ran for what felt like miles, until she grew breathless and could no longer see the thoroughfare. Her lungs burned, and she pressed her palm to the sharp ache in her side.

  "I think...we’ll be safe now," she gasped, perusing the woods surrounding them.

  Unfortunately, there was little to differentiate one tree from another. If she found her way to Stirling, ‘twould be by God’s grace. If she made it by morning, ‘twould be a miracle. Surrendering the horse had not only banished her from the main road to Stirling—it had cost her precious time.

  She gazed up at the small patch of the heavens visible above the treetops, at the stars twinkling like gems. She hoped she remembered how to find...

  "That way is north." She pointed toward the northern star. "Stirlin’ lies to the south." She moved her arm in a half-circle to the right. "That way."

  Naturally, her finger pointed toward the densest, deepest, darkest part of the wood. She swallowed hard, vividly imagining the fierce wolves that were probably licking their chops even now.

  Then she frowned. There was no point in fueling the fire of her fears. Besides, hungry animals weren’t her only problem. She’d sent most of her belongings down the road on the satchel affixed to the palfrey. All that remained with Rose were her falcon, a purse full of coin, and the single surcoat on her back. She couldn’t afford to get lost in the woods, not with so few provisions.

  "Come along, Wink," she said with forced optimism. "‘Twill be an adventure. We’ll find the way. Ye keep watch for wild beasts." She glanced up once more toward the night sky to get her bearings. "And I’ll keep prayin’ to Saint Christopher to get us safely to The Black Hound."

  CHAPTER 2

  This eve, the night before Saint Anselm’s, marked two years since he’d left Mirkhaugh, but for the man known only as Blade, it felt like a lifetime. Anselm was a fitting saint to commemorate the beginning of his own exile, he thought, as he pissed out his third pint of ale against an oak tree in back of The Black Hound.

  The cursed longing for Mirkhaugh was strong in him tonight. Whether ‘twas being so near the manor of his birth, the significance of the date, or just the extra tankard of ale he’d drunk, he couldn’t say. But he felt the beckoning tug of home like a chain wresting a hound to heel.

  A dying star streaked across the indigo sky, and he shivered, less from the unseasonably cool breeze than the doubt plaguing his spirit. Change was clearly in the air.

  Perhaps Wilham was right. His trusted brother-in-arms had told him ‘twas time for Blade the Wanderer to die, and for Sir Pierce the Knight to be reborn, to return home. Two years, he’d said, was long enough for the people of Mirkhaugh to forget, long enough for them to forgive.

  Maybe he could go back, Blade thought, staring at the stars twinkling in the dark sky.

  But then the bloody image that was never far from his mind invaded his hopes, and he closed his eyes against a wave of pain. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. He couldn’t forget what he’d done. He couldn’t forgive himself. And until he did, he couldn’t return.

  The inn door swung out suddenly, and the subsequent rustle in the bushes startled Blade, prompting him to close his braies and quickly tie up the points. The Black Hound was crowded, and there was no telling who else might wander outside to make use of the bushes.

  Before he could clear his throat in warning, he overheard a harsh whisper.

  "‘Tis settled then. We’ll travel with the pilgrims."

  Blade hesitated. Someone whispered back, words too soft to decipher, then the first replied.

  "O’ course ‘twill work. Nobody would think to look for us on a pilgrimage.”

  The second whispered inaudibly again.

  “People go missin’ all the time,” hissed the first. “No one will know what we’ve done. In a year they’ll stop lookin’ for him.”

  Blade frowned, wondering what mischief was afoot.

  “I swear to ye,” the first continued, “by the time we reach St. Andrews..." The voice took on an ominous tone. "Archibald o’ Laichloan will be dead. Dead and forgotten."

  Archibald of Laichloan? Blade knew that name. Laichloan was a stone’s toss from Mirkhaugh, a sizable chunk of land with many tenants, ruled by a rich nobleman, Laird John. Archibald was John’s son, a lad of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years and the heir to Laichloan.

  Was some villain threatening to kill the lad? God’s bones, if Laird John lost his only son...

  “Naught will go awry,” the first whisperer said. “Ye’ll see.”

  The second murmured in reply.

  “We won’t be caught. St. Andrews is a crowded place.” There was a pause. “Ye fret too much.”

  Before Blade could confront the scoundrels, they scurried off in the dark, slipping back into the inn like a pair of crafty mice.

  He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard them. True, he was no longer the laird’s neighbor. He hadn’t seen John in two years. But he couldn’t let harm come to the man’s son. He had to do something.

  So he told himself. What he didn’t add was that he’d welcome any excuse to delay his return to Mirkhaugh. Hunting
down assassins sounded like reasonable justification for staying on the move. Besides, he thought—reverting to his mercenary habits—Laird John would probably offer a sizable reward for the return of his heir.

  He entered the inn, thinking the culprits would be easy to spot. But in the clamor and confusion of the crowd, ‘twas a hopeless task. He scowled, cursing under his breath. Damn his eyes, he didn’t know who he was looking for, didn’t know their size or sex or age. Their whispers had been indistinct, and the night had been too dark to discern their features. All he knew was that there were two of them and that they had dire plans for the son of Laichloan.

  "Ach, there ye are! I got us a table." Wilham gave him a wink, pressing a tankard of ale into his hands. Then he wrapped a companionable arm around Blade’s shoulder, nudging him toward a corner of the room.

  The last thing he needed was another pint, Blade thought as they squeezed through the crushing throng. But that didn’t stop him from wanting one, and ‘twouldn’t stop him from drinking one.

  "Not bad for a halfpenny, eh?" Wilham gave the wobbly table a shake.

  Wilham spoke in jest, of course. He’d had to pay far more than a halfpenny for the luxury of a table in these cramped quarters and the lodging he’d procured for the night. But though their mercenary livelihood necessitated that they travel light, subsisting on what they could carry on their backs, their swords earned them more than a comfortable living. They’d earned enough coin in the last year alone to live in affluence the rest of their days.

  Even at that, the table was little bigger than a merlin’s perch. Still, it served to hold a tankard and two elbows, both of which Wilham planted on the ale-sticky surface as soon as they were seated.

  "Well?" Wilham prompted, his brown eyes twinkling expectantly.

  Blade intentionally ignored him, melting back into the shadows to scan the crowd for dubious-looking characters.

  "W-e-l-l?" Wilham drawled impatiently.

  "Well, what?" Blade grumbled distractedly.

  "Ye know what." Wilham sighed. When he got no answer, he muttered his frustration into his cup of ale.