He smiled as he lifted his boot into the stirrup, grateful that he had adopted the English style of saddle. Without the help of the stirrup he knew he would never have gotten astride. He was light-headed, dizzy as a leaf in the breeze. He clutched the pommel in one hand and offered his free hand to Meghan. She put her bare foot on top of his boot and swung up beside him.
“Put your arms about me, lass, I have need of the anchor,” he whispered.
Meghan grasped him firmly about the waist as he asked and Revelin smiled again. Why he had ever objected to the pleasure of her embrace he would never know.
The O’Neill clansmen fell into step with them, two before and behind and one on either side. When the one on her right reached for her reins, she handed them over gratefully, for it was all she could do to support Revelin’s weight.
*
The morning was dawning in clear soft shades of green and blue as Meghan sipped the last of the dark ale from her wooden cup and watched the moon slide down behind the low-rolling hills. Not content with the capture of five strangers, two separate O’Neill reiving parties had added over a thousand head of cattle to their band. For two days and nights they had ridden, stopping only for meals at dawn and dusk. She had learned to sleep in the saddle and contain her normal bodily functions until she thought she would burst, but she had little to complain about compared with the others.
She glanced at the other captives and then away. They were tethered to a nearby tree, as were their horses, and though they ate in silence, she felt their eyes constantly on her in damning accusation that it was her fault that they were so mistreated. Only during meals were their hands and mouths freed, otherwise they rode trussed and slung across their saddles. It was better than other methods their captors might have devised, but that fact gave little comfort. A woman’s laughter echoed through the camp, and Meghan knew that Flora had made her own peace with the O’Neills.
Meghan soothingly stroked Revelin’s damp brow as his head lay in her lap. The sweat was a good sign. He had become feverish within hours of attack, and she had not been able to give him water or tend his wounds until the next morning. She lifted a corner of the peat-moss bandage she had made for his sword arm and saw with satisfaction that the wound had begun to heal.
“Mount up!”
As the order rang through the camp Meghan groaned. Her arms and spine ached from holding Revelin in the saddle. Yet she knew they must rise or be subjected to the same humiliation as the Englishmen. She ran her fingers across Revelin’s brow one last time and bent to lay her cheek on his. “We must ride. Please wake up.”
Revelin stirred, weary beyond measure. “Not yet. Another hour.”
Meghan prodded him. “No, no! Now, Revelin. Now!” She dumped him from her lap without regard for his head and stood up, aware that the Scotsman named Colin MacDonald was striding toward them. He had not approached her since the night of their capture. Meghan eyed him cautiously. He must want something.
It had been too dark to notice much about him the first time they met, and now she studied him curiously. He wore a long shaggy mantle that brushed the ground, and his fair hair, bare of the steel helmet, flowed about his shoulders. Her gaze lowered to the telltale red leggings he wore and she knew her guess had been right. Colin MacDonald was a galloglaigh, a man raised to be a soldier by one of the many warrior clans of the Scottish Isles.
His face was burnt red by the sun, and the irregular features left much to be desired in the way of handsomeness. A long scar cut across the bridge of his nose where a sword stroke had broken it. His skin was seamed by old battle wounds, but his eyes were very alive. His smile deepened as her gaze lingered on his face, and she suddenly realized that he was appraising her in a way that made her very conscious of being female. Disconcerted, she looked away.
“What ails the lad?” he demanded.
Meghan shook Revelin’s arm with her foot but he merely rolled onto his side away from her. “He’s had a fever. He needs rest.”
“He’ll ride.”
Meghan caught Ualter by the scruff of his neck as the brawny warrior bent down and lifted Revelin easily into his arms. Revelin moved restlessly, muttering, “Meghan?” Colin grinned at Meghan through the wiry tangle of his blond beard. “He’s a great babe, yer lad.”
Refusing to join him in a jest at Revelin’s expense, Meghan regarded him solemnly. “How’s yer wound?”
Colin chuckled. “I’d forgotten it.” His expression grew serious. “I came to give ye this back, lass, but I warn ye not to use it again. I might have killed ye.”
When he lifted her skean from his belt and held it out to her, she took it and slipped it into place under her sleeve.
“Aye, that’s the way of it,” he said in approval. He turned and heaved Revelin into his saddle. When he looked back at Meghan, there was warm interest once more in his eyes. “Ye’ll do well at Lough Neagh.”
“Lough Neagh?” Meghan echoed in surprise.
“Ye know the place?”
“Aye,” she answered softly. Was it only a fortnight ago that she had longed so fiercely to return home? Now she had no wish for it at all.
By day’s end the shimmering surface of Lough Neagh shone in the distance. The lake was huge and irregular, its fingers embracing a dozen small isles. On one of the larger was built the O’Neill island fortress. But the O’Neill warriors turned off the path that would have led to the lake’s edge, and, picking up the pace, they rode through the wet woods until a glow in the distance made the men around her give the ear-splitting whoop of the O’Neill war cry.
“What is it? Another battle?” Revelin questioned, jarred awake by the racket.
Meghan tightened her arms about him, her voice dry with trepidation as they halted at the edge of a clearing filled with tents. “Nae. ’Tis only that we’ve arrived.”
She looked beyond the tents to the huge column in the center of the camp. She had never actually seen one before but she knew what it was. Taller and broader than a man, its flame rising more than a foot into the crisp night air, was the great King-Candle, symbol of the O’Neill of Ulster.
Chapter Seven
Meghan gazed about in fear mingled with amazement. The sounds of so many so close frightened her. On every side, people rushed the dismounting warriors, their boisterous voices filled with congratulation. On the journey the clansmen had taken care to keep their distance from Meghan. Now, forgetful of her presence in their joy to be home, they rudely jostled her mount.
Meghan gulped down a cry of fright, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to stop her trembling. Raised in near solitude, she was unaccustomed to the noise and stench of a crowd. The odors of unwashed bodies and stale breath of horses, cattle, and men clogged her nose until she felt she would suffocate. Not even Revelin’s presence could still the terror rising within her. The urge to flee, always poised at the edge of her mind when in the company of strangers, overwhelmed her. As a clansman grabbed the reins from Revelin to lead their horse to the center of the crowd, she slipped backward from the saddle.
She was unprepared for the shock of her legs folding bonelessly beneath her weight. She had believed herself inured to sore muscles. Now, as she dropped into the muck kicked up by the passage of hundreds of hooves, she realized she had not toughened up, only become numb from the waist down.
Revelin turned as he felt her slip away, but the milling crowd prevented him from seeing what had happened to her. “Meghan?” he called out as he turned sharply and started to lift a leg over his saddle. “Meghan, answer me!”
“Now hush, laddie,” he heard Colin MacDonald say behind him. An instant later the heavy weight of the warrior’s sword hilt connected with the back of his skull and Revelin slumped forward in his saddle, unconscious.
“Ah, my God! Ye killed him!”
Meghan’s outraged cry drew Colin’s attention. “Ach, lassie, don’t look at me like that. ’Twas only a precaution. The laddie has a voice which carries, and him a prisoner and all,
how would it look?” He sheathed his sword and then reached down to lift her from the ground with a hand on either side of her waist.
Alarmed and embarrassed that he handled her so familiarly, Meghan struggled in the big man’s grasp. “Let me be! I can stand!”
The Scotsman’s grip tightened. “Easy, lass. Ye’re no’ a fool.”
His gruff voice, unusually quiet, held a warning, and Meghan looked up to find a half-dozen clansmen watching her. A prickling of alarm went through her as their predatory gazes held her. They were probing, looking for weakness. If she appeared helpless, they would no longer regard her as a threat. Their wariness was all that kept her safe.
Meghan straightened up, grinding her teeth as blood swept in a stinging rush through her legs and feet. When the stinging subsided, she said, “Let me go.” When Colin released her, she backed away and into the path of a pair of clansmen.
“Watch yer step, lass!” one of them cried. When Meghan lifted her head, he shrank away. “Name o’ God! The suit trom. And ’twas me sword arm she touched!”
“Aye, that’s an ill omen!” the second man remarked.
The conversations about them died abruptly as other warriors overheard their conversation. Frightened, Meghan raised her hand to her face.
“Ach, none of that!” The man she had bumped grabbed her wrist and wrenched her hand away from her face. “Look me in the eye, lass,” he demanded, and shook her hard when she did not respond. “I’ll nae go into battle with yer ill luck on me. Pray for me or be damned!”
“She’ll no’ be wanting to please ye, if ye frighten the wits out of her,” Colin offered with a smile. He paused in the process of lifting Revelin from his saddle, his gaze lighting significantly upon the hand squeezing Meghan’s wrist, and her captor reluctantly released her.
When Colin spoke again, he raised his voice for the benefit of the circle of men. “Ye’re no’ so superstitious as to harm the lassie? Let her be. She’s no account to curse ye…yet.”
Meghan did not object as he reached out, gripped her chin, and, jerking it upward, turned the right side of her face toward the men. “There now. Where would ye be finding a bonnier cheek? Smooth and pale as cream!” He playfully tapped her cheek. “Smile for the laddies.”
Meghan swallowed the knot of fear that constricted her throat but she could not unlock the fear-tensed muscles of her face.
“Ah well, ’twould seem ye’ve given her a fright, laddies. I’d best be keeping me distance till she’s no’ so afraid.”
He turned away from the group as easily as he had joined it and the clansmen melted away after a moment, their wary looks and mutterings disappearing with them.
Meghan stepped to the Scotsman’s side. “Thank ye,” she whispered nervously.
Colin looked down as he lifted Revelin’s limp body from the saddle. “’Twas no’ so great a thing. Ye’re a braw lassie or ye would no’ of slipped yer skean under me mail when I held a sword more than half yer length. Ye’ve a trick there, with that mark. Use it to yer gain.”
Meghan looked at him in astonishment as he winked at her. There was no fear in him when he gazed at her. The knowledge warmed her, and unconsciously she smiled at him before turning her attention to Revelin. She reached out and gently brushed a lock of hair from his forehead after Colin had heaved him over his shoulder.
Colin frowned at the gesture, his thick reddish brows drawing together. “Stay where ye stand, lass. I’ll come back for ye.”
The order aroused fresh fears, and Meghan grabbed his sleeve. “Where do ye take him?”
Colin’s eyes widened innocently. “Him?”
She pointed at Revelin. “His name is Butler.”
“Butler, it is?” the Scotsman murmured. “’Tis a name not unknown to us. Now I’d thank ye to stand a bit, lass, else I’ll show ye the way of it that ye won’t like.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the milling throng.
Ualter, who had stood patiently beside Revelin’s mount, started after the man carrying his master. Then he halted and looked back at Meghan. His tail drooped and his head dipped in apology before he turned and trotted away.
Meghan slumped against her mount, but the horse objected and side-stepped, exposing her to the bustle of men and women. As before, they paused, some startled, some anxious, all curious.
Meghan looked down, concentrating her gaze on her toes. But, after a few minutes, curiosity got the better of her and she shyly raised her head to look about.
The woodland near the lough teemed with people, more than she had ever seen in one place at one time. They were camped in the open. In the light cast by dozens of fires she saw that peasant men, women, and children, as well as warriors and their families, filled the camp. Of course, she remembered suddenly, it was nearing time for coshering. As was traditional in the spring and summer, whole communities were preparing to move from their homes in the valleys to take advantage of the new grasses growing in higher elevations. Meghan glanced at them and then quickly away, aware that staring would draw their attention.
In spite of her fear, hunger lured her toward the center of the encampment, from which the aromas of beef and pork arose. As soon as she passed the first set of tents, she spotted one of the communal cooking fires. Tied by three corners to stakes driven into the ground, a cured cowhide suspended over a fire served as a vessel for boiling meat.
They will eat well, she thought in fleeting envy. Butter and barley bread had been the staples of her life before this, and she had had little of that in recent days.
When two soldiers passed several feet away she paused. Their voices were low and serious, and when they turned to gaze at her, her heart skipped a beat and she hurried anxiously away. What had become of Revelin and Colin? There were no familiar faces among the press of people, only the droning of voices, the ripple of occasional laughter, and the distant swirling of a lone bagpipe.
“Lass!”
Meghan spun about to face Colin MacDonald. “I’ve known nary a lass that could keep her word.”
“I was hungry,” she answered softly.
Instead of answering, the Scotsman motioned her to follow him and she did. When he turned away from the camp and the night quickly closed around them, Meghan fingered the hilt of her dagger, grateful that he had returned it to her. If he meant her harm, he would again feel its sting.
When they were beyond the reach of the campfires he stopped and turned to her. In the dim light she saw that his expression was thoughtful, even frowning, but the darkness cloaked the look in his eyes. He gestured toward a fork in the roots of a huge tree. “Ye’ll sleep here.” He unwrapped the woolen mantle from his shoulders and offered it to her. “’Tis better than nothing, and there’s nae fire for ye.”
Meghan took the heavy mantle from him. She had no fear of the night or the dark woods, but Revelin’s disappearance worried her. “Where is Butler?”
“And are ye a whore for the Englishman?” he asked testily.
The word was unfamiliar to Meghan and she shrugged. “He saved me life.”
He studied her for a moment before answering. “He’s safe enough. Only I’ve me doubts ye’d care to join him.” Before she realized what he meant to do, he reached out, lifted her off the ground, and brought her tight against his chest as his mouth swooped down on hers.
Meghan felt no fear, only a momentary shock. His lips were warm and hard within the scratchy nest of his beard, lingering on hers a long moment before he raised his head and set her back on the ground. “Well now, I ken ye’re no’ so surprised by that as me. Mayhap ye’re a fairy right enough!”
He turned and started away, then paused and shook a finger at her. “I’ve nae cause to chain ye, have I?”
Meghan shook her head.
When he was gone, she huddled in his mantle, taking what comfort she could from his warmth still trapped in its folds. She knew that before morning she would be more grateful for the mantle than she was now. She did not mind the solitude. She had been
too much with people these last days. She was well rid of them…all except Revelin.
The intruder who came crashing through the underbrush gave her no time to flee. She had no more than sat up with a half-cry when he was upon her, all damp paws and tongue.
“Ualter!” she exclaimed in relief as she flung her arms about his neck. “Where’s yer master?”
She leaned around the dog’s bulk, but there was no one following the animal. For a moment she considered ordering the dog to find Revelin and following him, but she quickly rejected the idea. Colin had left her unbound. Betraying his trust did not bother her; if he was foolish enough to accept her word that was his weakness. But—and the exception killed her desire for adventure—her power to influence the Scotsman was a tenuous thing. If she was caught escaping, she would be shown no mercy, and no power she possessed would save her…or Revelin.
She put a hand to her lips, lightly tracing their outline. The Scotsman’s kiss was not as pleasant as Revelin’s, but it was not unpleasant. She smiled.
She huddled deeper in the rough wool mantle and pulled the fox-fur hood up over her bedraggled curls. When Ualter settled down, his stomach covering her bare feet, she sighed and closed her eyes.
*
“Revelin? Rev, man! Wake up!”
Revelin awoke slowly, his senses sluggish. He lay on his side, his face half-buried in the cold mire of a bog. He coughed and lifted his head to clear it of the mud, only to choke as the rope about his neck tightened. He was bound hand and foot, his wrists and ankles chained together behind his back and attached to the rope that collared his throat. “God’s Grace!” he whispered, realizing that any violent move would strangle him.
“Feeling better, then, I see.” Robin’s ever-amused voice rose from the darkness beside him. “John and I were just speculating about what you’ve done to join us after so pleasant a journey.”
Rose of the Mists Page 13
