CHAPTER ELEVEN
AT THE SEASIDE
AT THE SEASIDE
The sea rose and fell off the coast near Edinburgh, whispering into silence. The night was quiet. Conn, walking up from the dock, looked around him.
I shouldn't have stopped off here for so long.
He shook his head at himself, marveling at his own foolishness. He had come down to the docks at Queensferry, the port of Edinburgh. He had intended to do some trading, mayhap for some things his mother or father might like. Daggers from Spain. Fine linen. Tableware. The merchants all had warehouses here, and it seemed likely he could get a good price here. However, where there were merchants, there were also bandits. The docks were dangerous enough by day: a man with coins in his purse could expect some violence if he wished to keep them longer than an hour. By night? Violence was inevitable.
Conn drew in a breath. I could get killed.
“You great lummox,” he swore at himself. “This is madness.”
He looked around, scanning the black recesses of shadow pooled beside the warehouse, painting the stone of the quay with dense darkness. The buildings were all silent now, the bustle of the day departed. He heard the scuff of something on wood and looked at the quay, heart thudding. There was no one to be seen, only a small sailboat, riding against the jetty.
Probably just the boat, scudding on wood.
He let out a shaky breath and continued. The night was dark, barely lit by the thread of moon that rose. The whole of the dockyard transformed at night, becoming a shadowy place, visited by formless terror.
Footsteps.
Conn looked around, feeling his heart pounding. This time it was feet. He couldn't deny it.
“Who goes there?” he called out.
No answer. The port at Queensferry stretched out, eerily quiet under an almost moonless night. The sky was sapphire-dark, studded with frosty stars. Even though it was early summer, and not too cold, Conn shivered. A soft breeze buffeted him, snapping his tunic against him. He heard a mournful howl.
It was just a dog, he told himself. It wasn't footsteps. Just dogs, investigating; looking for scraps.
“Come on,” he chided. He looked around, shivering, knowing he had been foolish to come here. He should go now, before something bad truly did happen. He felt a fool: having narrowly escaped outside the town, why did he insist on putting himself once again in danger? This was daft!
He turned away from the dark water and walked, briskly and stiffly, toward the buildings. Where two men stepped out from behind a stack of boards.
“Here, laddie,” a man grated harshly. “Give us yer purse.”
“Aye,” the other man said, grinning to show white teeth, one missing in the lower arc. “We don't want fightin'.”
Conn looked from one to the other. He had brought his dagger, but he didn't want to draw it yet. He lifted his fists.
“Aw, come off it, laddie,” the first man said, not-unkindly. “Gi' it tae us.”
“No,” Conn said stiffly, surprising himself.
The instant he said it, so defiant, he regretted the bravado.
Give them the purse, you daftie. It's silver. They could kill you.
It would be better to live and lose some of his coin than die here on the docks, lost without the chance of ever being found again.
“Come on.”
He shook his head, stubbornly. “No,” he said again.
“Aw, laddie,” the tall man, gap-toothed, said with regret. He raised a fist and, as casually as if he had been hauling nets, struck him.
Conn reeled as the blow knocked him backward. He hissed out a shocked breath, knowing that his eye would be swollen shut, wondering idly if anything was broken. Time seemed to stand still for a moment and then, as the hands made a grab for his pocket, he staggered forward, awareness returned.
“Ugh!”
He howled a cry of rage and struck out at the tall man, trying to kick the shorter, stockier one, who made a lunge for his side, reaching for the pocket at his side, where his coins were housed. The space around him became a hail of fists and kicking legs. He struck one man on the chest and felt a blow connect with his arm, driving him back. He landed a kick on a shin and was returned one.
The three of them stepped apart, circling each other. None was unscathed. Conn's right eye was glued shut with swelling and bruising, while the big man was rubbing his arm. The shorter, broader man was shaking the fingers of his right hand, leaning on one side more heavily, favoring one leg.
“This be a fighter,” the shorter man said, laughing breathlessly. “Gi' it tae him.”
The tall man thumped him hard while the shorter man tripped him. Then, before he could stop them, the shorter man reached into his pocket while he lay on the quay, numb, gasping for breath, and took his coins.
“Got them!” he yelled in triumph. The two men laughed. After kicking Conn in the ribs as an added measure to keep him stunned, they ran away.
“Hey!” Conn shouted, feeling his ribs ache where the bruise from the kick blossomed. He spat out blood and drew himself to his feet. “You bastards!”
“We got it!”
The men whooped with delight and Conn had a last glimpse of them, outlined in silver against the wavering dark blue horizon, before they turned right, heading for the docks.
“Hey!” Conn shouted. It was too much for him. The tedium of the wait, the humiliation of it and of the attack on the road, all added up.
Without thinking, he ran after them.
“You scoundrels!” he shouted. “Give me my purse!”
He stormed down the docks behind them, hearing them laughing, self-satisfied, as they loped off. He paused, judging which way they went, and then headed left. He appeared from around the large warehouse just in time to see them board a ship.
Without thinking, he ran lithely up the gangplank behind them. He was determined to recoup his losses from those two, if he had to fight them hand-to-hand for it. The barefaced brigands!
Conn looked around. He had never been on a ship before – not that he remembered, anyhow. The deck rose and fell, sighing, with the crest and trough of waves. The wind sighed around them. He tried to lurch forward to where the two men gathered at the stern, but he found it was hard to keep balance and he fell, running forward. He scrambled up.
“Off!”
As he raced up the deck, he realized, with some alarm, that the ship was manned as if for sail. The rigging was billowing, a man at the tiller. Sailors were hauling ropes.
“Oh, no...”
He looked round, desperate, just as the plank was hauled in and the ship cast off. The wind was crisp and rising, and it caught the sails with a sigh, cracking the canvas as they creaked from port.
“Hold it!” he shouted. “There's a mistake...”
“Trim the sails!” a voice shouted authoritatively. “Tack south! We've a wind.”
Conn felt his heart sink. He was on board. He was headed somewhere – Heaven knew where.
He had stowed away.
Quite without meaning to, he had illegally boarded a ship and now he was heading, with no provisions or cash, into open sea.
“Wait,” he shouted again. However, the wind was cracking in the canvas and no one could hear him. He looked around wildly.
Somewhere at the end of the deck, he caught sight of the white shirt and brooding musculature of the tall brigand. He strode over.
Without thinking, he hit the man hard in the chest, just below the ribs.
“Ugh!” he shouted. He stepped back, fist out, prepared to strike.
“Hang on, Beiste,” the shorter man shouted urgently. The tall man stopped. Blinked.
Then he started laughing.
“Bless me!” he said. He laughed some more. The shorter man joined him and together they surrounded the dumbstruck Conn, laughing together.
“It's him!” the shorter man said, choking with mirth. “The slim blighter. He followed us!”
“A fine joke!”
the bigger man agreed, grinning at Conn.
Conn, who thought his days were numbered, was surprised. He almost fell when the man gripped his shoulder.
“Welcome aboard, laddie,” the man said genially. “We're for France.”
Conn stared. His heart stopped. He hadn't planned it. Hadn't expected it. Hadn't done anything to make it happen. Nevertheless, here he was, on board a ship, surrounded by companions.
Sailing for the coast of France.
Leona, he thought, mind reeling with shock and amazement mixed. I'm on my way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A SUDDEN SURPRISE
A SUDDEN SURPRISE
Leona looked at the rafters. She was sitting at a desk in an upper room of her uncle's manor. From here, she could just see, through the window to her right, the pale blue of the sky. The hills and woodlands were tender green below, she knew, birdsong washing up from the elegant flower-gardens to floors down.
“...And we should prepare for the event in late summer.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
Leona looked out of the window. She was not here. It was not happening. She was miles away. Somewhere floating above those fields. She was absolutely not sitting at a table with her uncle, discussing her marriage to the Comte, Guy Ferrand.
“I am glad you agree. Sooner is better, is it not?”
“Quite so, my lord,” Leona said quietly.
She heard her uncle move back, pushing back the tall carved-wooden chair on which he sat. “Niece?”
“Yes?” she asked, blinking. She focused on his face. He was smiling at her hesitatingly.
“Does aught trouble you?”
“No,” Leona said aridly. She looked at her hands. No – nothing troubled her. She was consenting to join in matrimony with a frightening man who had threatened to pay her back for a small, inconsequential wounding, who had laid harsh hands on her, forced his attentions on her. She was signing away her life at home, her chance of happiness. Her love for Conn.
Why would she be troubled by that?
She felt a sort of wave of indifference rise in her where once anger would be. She felt nothing. No resentment, no regret. No rage. Only this cold, bare emptiness that had been filling her since that time, three days ago, when her uncle had informed her.
And I gave my consent, Leona, he had said. The Comte is a well-established man. You'll lack nothing.
He had seemed so happy for her. So eager for her to be happy and find contentment in his choice for her. She had been left dumbfounded.
There was nothing I could say.
She had tried to voice protests, but her uncle had waved them all aside. Even her tentative suggestion that the Comte was frightening had been dismissed.
“He is awkward, just awkward, niece,” he had declared lightly. “When you know him further, you will see. You could ask to meet none more affable.”
Affable.
The word now came back to Leona where she sat at her uncle's desk, trying to pretend she focused on him and not on the cold emptiness inside.
Oh, Conn! Where are you?
She wanted to scream it. She had always loved Conn. Never believed she would not see him again.
“Well,” her uncle said now, still looking unsure. “If you're sure. We'll continue planning.”
Leona inclined her head, permitting him to continue. In her mind, she had ceased to be elsewhere. She was present and planning an escape.
I have to get away. I can get away.
“...And of course for the trousseau, you are welcome to avail yourself of the attic,” Uncle continued warmly. “There is all manner of fine stuff up there. Lace, velvet, brocade...you'll find all.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Leona said distantly. She was barely listening. If I can reach Aix, then I can shelter with Danton. I need to find a way to get there.
“And for the dress itself? Bruges lace would become you, dear.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” she replied automatically.
“And if we...oh, I beg your pardon.”
Her uncle stopped mid-sentence, looking at the doorway. Leona looked up to see what the interruption was, and saw a tall, lean-faced man in a fustian robe standing in the shadow.
“My lord?”
“Ah! Father Reynard! There you are. What seek you?” Uncle Marc sounded genuinely pleased to see the visitor.
“I crave a moment, milord,” the tall man – evidently a priest – replied.
“Of course, of course.” Uncle Marc gave Leona an apologetic smile, waving a hand at the incomer. “Apologies, Niece. I must go with Frere Reynard. He has been discussing with me the best way to repair the curtain wall. Only a moment.”
“Of course, Uncle,” Leona said kindly. It was not surprising to her that he relied on a priest to help him in matters of engineering: most scholars were men of the church. When he had gone, she leaned back in the chair. She felt despair. How am I going to get to Aix alone?
Then an idea arrived.
“Frere Reynard!” she whispered aloud. Of course! The answer was here. It was him! The priest came from an abbey not far from Aix-sur-la-Lise. He could take her there!
The instant she thought of the plan, Leona dismissed it glumly. Why would he? She could give him nothing for his pains. More importantly, he would want to ask permission of her uncle, who would never give it.
He could be put to death for taking me away.
Leona shuddered. She couldn't risk it. Not even the father's priestly role would save him if he had wronged a nobleman. Her uncle might forgive him. But the count of Cleremont? She shivered. He almost certainly would not.
Why does that man wish to wed me so obsessively?
It couldn't just be her personage – though he had made it clear he wanted her. It must be some additional scheme against – or with – her uncle. He had wished to wed her before he met her, this much was clear. Therefore, it was not her charms alone.
I have no idea what this is about. All I know is that I will not let it harm me.
It was not fair. For the Comte and her uncle, all of this was a power game, a sort of human chess match. For her, it was her entire life. They might gain land and titles, but she would leave her home, her family, and her loved ones. Her future. Her love for Conn. All for a cruel, heartless man who had threatened her even here beneath her uncle's roof.
I will not let this happen. She would escape. The priest could take her, whether or not he willed it actively.
He couldn't stop her stowing away.
Leona felt herself suddenly smiling, new hope lighting her. Of course! She could hide in his cart! He could leave without any idea she was there. Then, even if they were detained and she discovered, he could say, in truth, he had no idea.
I will not be able to take anything. Only what I wear and carry in my purse. He had come with a fine cart drawn by two carthorses. She would simply climb up, hide in the back. However, all this would have to happen almost at once.
“He leaves tomorrow.”
Leona said it aloud, feeling her heart in her throat, tension unbearable. If she was going to do this, she would have to do it immediately.
Fighting to still her beating heart, she stood and walked to the window. Wiped hands damp with perspiration on her skirts. As she stood looking out, she heard voices in the hallway. She tensed, hearing her uncle and the priest returning.
“...And we'll do best to send them in a casket. What say you?” her uncle asked.
“Good, Lord Comte. Scrolls are susceptible to moist air. Highly susceptible.”
“Quite, quite,” her uncle said distractedly. “Oh! Niece?”
“Yes, Uncle?” Leona walked briskly from the window to the door into the study, which was across the hallway.
“Oh, there you are! Mayhap you can help the good father? He will return tomorrow to the abbey, and will need to take some cloth with him. Stuff for bandaging. Mayhap you can aid his selection, from the attic? I'm sure you know more of material than either of us.
”
Leona smiled at her uncle fondly. For all his participation in this diabolical plan, she could not help but like him. He was kind and had always treated her with care.
“Of course, Uncle.”
“Capital, capital! Off you go, both of you,” he said, waving a genial hand in their direction.
Leona looked at the priest and he looked at her. They both shrugged and looked at her uncle.
“Niece, we'll resume tomorrow. The good father must be off early, and I have to consult my books.”
“Of course, Uncle.” Leona curtseyed and turned to the serious, quiet scholar. “Follow me, Father.”
“Yes, my lady.”
He followed Leona up the flight of stairs to the attic, clearly uncomfortable at being alone with a lady. Since it was Leona's uncle's idea, there wasn't a whiff of impropriety. Even so, he stood stiffly while Leona went to the pile of linens at the back, breathing shallowly so as not to choke in the moldy, dusty smell.
“I think perhaps these would suit, Father,” Leona suggested, selecting a roll of the softest linen from a cask. She wanted to find a way to interrogate him as to when he would leave, and wracked her brains to think of one while the priest stepped, stooping, through the attic door behind her.
“Yes. That is a good choice, my child.”
He felt the stuff for quality, nodding to himself. Leona knew enough of basic healing to know it was perfect for bandaging – soft, supple and absorbent. She waited distractedly while he looked it over. She wanted to shout. Yes, it is a good choice. I need to ask you something!
At length she could wait no more. “Father?”
“Yes, my child?”
“You are traveling a long way tomorrow?”
“A few hours only, my child – eight, to be precise. I shall stop at the inn on the way and complete the journey the next day.”
“Oh,” Leona said quickly. “That is not too bad.”
“No,” the priest agreed, looking bemused. It was likely somewhat baffling that the lady of the castle – for such Leona was – would pay close attention to a lowly priest's traveling plans.
The Highlander’s Dilemma (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 10
