“Oh! Work!” Conn beamed, the idea suddenly settling into his mind. “I fight.”
He patted his sword, mimed waving it around. The man looked startled, then grinned.
“Il est un Chevalier,” he announced to his wife. “Bienvenue.”
Conn blinked, startled, as the man held out his hand and stepped back, waving him ahead into the doorway beyond. Conn inclined his head. “Thank you, sir. Thank you ever so much.”
He felt his heart soar. He had overcome the first obstacle: finding an inn. He had also, after a long hard fight to do it, understood something someone asked of him. And he had learned a word. Travail. Work. He wondered what they had understood his profession to be.
He dismissed the question when the innkeeper's wife appeared, bearing a basket of loaves. He smiled at her. “My lady,” he said softly. “I would like to tell you that you are an angel.”
She smiled, clearly understanding nothing he said, apart from his tone. She blushed and giggled, then placed a loaf on a table and waved Conn to it. “Etre assis.”
Conn assumed she meant him to sit down, and he did so. She beamed happily. Conn smiled back wordlessly. “Thank you,” he said again.
When she appeared again with a jug of ale and a dish of soup, he started to feel anxious. He had nothing with which to pay them for their hospitality.
Mayhap I can work for it.
Deciding that the payment would take care of itself, he broke the small, crusty loaf and dipped it in the soup, then ate heartily. He was starving.
When the meal was almost finished, he heard people start to come into the dining room. A slow procession of farmers, carters and blacksmiths entered, taking places at the tables, chattering excitedly among themselves. One or two of them glanced his way, brows raised. The innkeeper's wife gave these a stern glare, said something which Conn took to mean to leave him in peace, and then chattered away to the next customers.
As Conn finished his meal and stood, dreading the fast approaching time when he would have to explain to these good people he had no money, he saw another customer enter. This man was tall, with a tonsured head and a long beard, the brown robe of a priest draping his tall, thin form.
I wonder if he knows any Gaelic?
It was an extremely dubious possibility: while priests and monks were learned, the chance of him being equipped with something as obscure as knowledge of Gaelic was infinitesimally small.
If you don't try, you can't know, he thought wryly.
Conn cleared his throat. Went over to where the priest stood. “Greetings, Father.”
The priest stared at him. Blinked. Stared again. Just as Conn gave up hope, he said: “You are Scottish?”
Conn wanted to cry with relief. The man could speak his language! He spoke Lowland Scots, not Gaelic, but it was enough.
“Yes!” he said, almost weeping. He smiled at the man, nodded his head emphatically. “Yes.” Hearing a common language, however halted the speech was, felt as if he found water in a desert.
“I don't speak much Scottish,” the priest said carefully. “What are you...doing...here...son?”
Conn smiled at him. He didn't care if he spoke slowly or made mistakes. He could speak to him! “I'm here looking for my cousin,” he explained. “She was taken from her home. I have reason to believe she is in Cleremont.”
“Oh?” the man frowned. “Your cousin. She did...what?”
Conn sighed. He saw people staring at them and inclined his head toward where he had been sitting, indicating they should take a seat. The priest nodded.
“Now,” he said when they reached the table. “Say...again, please?”
Conn smiled at him, still feeling stupid with relief. “I am looking for my cousin. A brigand stole her from her village. I believe they are now in Cleremont. I need to go there. To rescue her.”
“Oh.” The priest's reply sounded grave.
Conn cleared his throat, about to explain further, but the innkeeper's wife appeared and spoke rapidly to him, indicating Conn and frowning, then smiling expectantly at the priest.
“She asks if you are going to the tournament at Calais.”
“Oh.” Conn frowned. She thought he was a knight? “No,” he replied. He couldn't help a small smile playing about his lips. He looked like a knight? Truly? He felt proud.
The woman said something to the priest again and then disappeared back to the kitchen. He turned back to Conn. “My son, I am sorry to...hear of...your...um...troubles,” the priest said. “I am...on my way to Aix. If you wish...you could travel with me a way. I welcome...safety,” he said, raising a shoulder in a shrug and indicating the sword he wore.
“Oh.” Conn stared at him, almost unable to believe what he'd just said. “I can? Truly?”
The priest laughed. “Don't look...surprised.”
Conn laughed and grinned at him, caught somewhere between weeping and celebrating. “I can't thank you enough!”
The priest smiled and waved a hand, indicating that it was nothing. “We help each other, my son.” He looked up as the innkeeper's wife returned with fresh loaves and some eggs. “I had prayed for safety on the road, and the Good Lord has sent me my own knight. You see? All prayers are answered. Have you dined?”
“Yes, Father,” Conn said quickly.
“Well, you can have an egg. And while you eat, perhaps you can...explain more?”
Conn thanked the priest again, feeling his heart soar with happiness. Here he was, his transport to Cleremont at least partway provided. And he even had a second breakfast.
Putting the difficulty out of his mind as to how he was going to pay for his breakfast, he sat and talked to the priest, explaining his story.
When he was through, the man shook his head. “The world can be wicked, my son,” he said gently. “But we must persevere. Bless you.”
Conn bowed his head. “Thank you, Father.”
They talked a little longer and then the priest said he should go to his rest. They would depart in the afternoon. Conn nodded and stood, then went to go and try to explain his predicament to the innkeeper.
After much gesturing and miming, it was agreed he would muck out the stables in return for his breakfast.
Conn set to the work with a will, pitching muck out by the armload, strewing clean hay in place of the old, filthy straw he forked out of the door. As he worked, his worry returned. What was happening to Leona? He had to reach her.
Thank Heavens for the priest. Without him, he would never get to Cleremont. With his help, he could make it there, perhaps by nightfall.
All he could do was pray that was soon enough.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MAKING AN ESCAPE
MAKING AN ESCAPE
It was late morning when Leona woke. The sun was shining through the window onto her face. She sat up, suddenly terrified.
“I'm too late!” She had surely lost her chance of escaping.
She wanted to howl in frustration. If she was planning to escape, she should have done it by now. Surely whoever was going to keep her fed and tended would already have been and gone? She looked round wildly.
No one's touched anything yet.
Nothing had changed or been moved. The Comte's cloak was still thrown over one chair where he had left it the previous night. No one had brought food or a bucket for ablutions. The whole room was as it had been previous, the fire burned down.
Leona's initial elation was replaced with a gnawing fear. What if nothing had moved because no one was coming back for her? What if the Comte had decided to leave her here, imprisoned, to starve to death?
She stood and staggered to the door. Her legs were numb and cramped and her feet ached from lack of blood. She felt stabbing pains through them and all the way along her legs as she limped to the door. At the door, she dropped to her knees, peering through the keyhole.
The hallway was flooded with morning light. She could see what might be stairs, and a window. Nothing else.
She slid d
own the door, sat down. Thought about the problem that faced her. She could either bang on the door, making a nuisance of herself until someone came, or she could wait.
But what if they've left me here to starve?
Leona made a decision. She hobbled to the fireplace, lifted one of the heavy metal fire irons and went to the door. She hit against it, calling out. “Hello? Is anyone there? Help!”
She kept it up diligently; banging, calling, shouting. A few moments later, she was rewarded with the sound of running feet.
“Mon dieu!”
Someone put a key in the door, turned it. The door creaked open. Leona stayed where she was, flattened against the wall behind the door.
“Hello?” the person called in French. It was not the count; Leona guessed it to be a manservant. She waited. Heard whoever it was walk forward, heading toward the fireplace. She held her breath, heart pounding.
Just one more step forward; then I'll have time to escape. Just one more...
She heard the man step to the window, the slight creak as he leaned on the wooden windowsill.
Yes!
She burst out from behind the door, slipped through it and slammed it shut behind her. The key was not in the lock, so she couldn't lock him in and she didn't want to waste time. She ran down.
She heard the man hammer on the door and then heard it burst open behind her. She screamed as he ran down the steps, panting in terror. She was alone in a hostile house. She heard someone clattering down the stairs from an upper story, turned the corner and ran on downward.
The door was opposite the stairs. Just keep going. Just keep...
There!
Leona's heart thudded as she reached the ground floor. She heard feet running on stone and was just in time to see a man racing toward her. She screamed, threw the poker and heard him howl in agony as it landed on his foot. Then she ran to the door. It was unlocked, which was in itself a miracle. She burst through into the garden.
I'm free!
Her elation turned to fresh terror as the door burst open behind her. She stood rooted to the spot a second – long enough to see two male servants, one enraged and hobbling, the other running and gesturing, appear. Then she turned around and ran.
I can't outrun them. I'll have to hide away. They'll catch me if I try and run.
She was tired and alone on a piece of land she didn't know at all. They were rested and on their home ground. She would have to hide.
She ran blindly into the stand of trees, and then ran as fast as she could, trying not to trip on roots. The sound of crashing through the undergrowth told her that she was being pursued.
Heart thudding in her chest, she spied a bush and dove in. The branches tore at her skin and the spindly twigs raked her hair and face, making her itch. She got down on her knees, rolled into a ball.
A set of feet ran past. Leona curled up tight, shutting her eyes so that the shine of them would not give her away. It was a simple hiding place; not likely to stand up to a real search for longer than a few seconds. All she could do was hope her pursuers were too desperate to find her to be thinking clearly.
“For Heaven's sakes, man! Head her off!”
She tensed as she heard the count's voice, imperious and angry, shouting at a servant. She heard hoof-beats and realized with some shock that he himself was on the lookout, chasing her down.
It is a hunt and I am prey.
She curled up and stayed where she was. The sound of footsteps had dwindled. She risked a look.
A man hovered on the edge of the clearing where she lay. She saw it was the man who had come to find her upstairs; recognizing his chestnut brown hair. She felt his eyes touch her. She lay where she was, knowing that he saw her. She wanted to cry. She was finished.
She saw him stay where he was, looking into her eyes. There was recognition there, regret, and compassion. Then he turned. Walked out of the clearing. Went back to the path.
“To the gate, my lord!” he shouted.
Leona felt her eyes suddenly damp with weeping. The man had seen her; she had no doubt about it. He had seen her there, and chosen to let her go.
If I ever get away from here, I will come back to Monte Blois and repay that man. He has saved my life.
The Comte would not kill her, but to marry him would have been a death of heart and soul, if not of body. The chestnut haired man had saved her future. She lay where she was, listening to the commotion as the servants and the Comte converged on the gate.
The gate is behind me. I should go the other way.
Heart thudding in her chest, knowing that she had perhaps a minute or two to make this work, she ran back the way she had come, then paused at the entrance to the copse.
I should go left.
The copse extended a little way on the left, a tangled mass of trunks and branches and leaf-strewn forest floor.
To go out the way she’d entered was foolish. To go out another way might take her that much closer to the far side of the manor.
Slipping through the spaces between the tree trunks, holding her breath with fear, Leona made her way through the small growth of trees and out of the other side.
She found herself in a field. On her right was the country house, its stone walls tall. She could see over some forested land and somewhere in the distance could see a church turret, its stately shape reaching up against the clear sky.
The village is that way.
Her heart thumping with excitement and terror, ears straining to hear what was happening at the gate, Leona wriggled through the tangled mass of branches and out into the field. She was fully exposed to view from one of the house windows. Holding her breath, she ran across the open space toward the next clump of trees.
Sheltering there, she listened, whole body alive with tension, straining for the slightest sound or indication that she had been seen.
Nothing. Not a shout, a cry, a footstep. The forest was a green and gold haven around her.
Holding her breath, still tense and expecting, any minute, a shout as she was sighted, she wriggled between tree branches, heading into the woods. These, it seemed, were proper woodlands. They headed downhill and Leona clung to tree trunks as she slid downhill, uncertain of where she was going.
Somehow, the house has a link to the village. There must be a path. There must be.
Leona walked on, feeling her fears shift from discovery to simply being lost in the woods, unable to find any way out.
There must be a path somewhere. There must be...
Leona stiffened as she heard something, freezing in place. She counted to ten, but nothing happened. Then she carried on walking again.
There must be a path.
She kept on going. She heard the sound again. She looked up.
She had not found a path. What she had found, however, was a woodsman. He had a small pig with him, the creature leashed and sniffing at the ground, which was strewn with oak leaves, soft in sunshine.
“Miss?” he said, staring.
“Hello,” Leona said, giving him what she hoped was a non-threatening smile. “I'm lost. Is this Monte Bois?”
“I...um...yes,” the man said. His eyes were stretched with terror, so Leona could see the whites all round. He was, on reflection, not much older than she was. He was shivering and the pig seemed to feel his tension, for he looked at Leona and stepped back, ears up, body stiff with nerves. “Don't touch me,” he added, backing away slowly.
Leona frowned. “I mean no harm,” she said softly. “I promise.”
“Swear it,” he said. “Swear you're not a ghost, nor a witch.”
Leona sighed. “I swear it,” she said. An idea came to her. She intoned the Paternoster under her breath. The youth relaxed at once.
“My name is Gaston,” he said softly. “I beg your pardon, milady. I come from Monte Bois. I will take you there.”
Leona swallowed. Now that she had given up her status as a supernatural being, she was not sure whether it would be safe to trust G
aston. However, when she looked into his eyes, she saw no danger there, only a genuine desire to please.
She sighed. “Thank you, Gaston,” she said gently. “I would be pleased if you could do that.”
He beamed and Leona followed him as he walked back through the forest, heading for the path. The pig followed him, evidently happy with Leona since Gaston was no longer afraid. The three of them walked through the forest in silence, then, as they found the path, Gaston began to speak.
“My lady, forgive me! I thought you were a specter. These woods are home to many strange things...people see lights here at night, and there are tales of goblins in the mountains opposite.” He pointed. “I farm in the valley down yonder. Phillipé and I,” he said and indicated the pig fondly, “come here for truffles.”
“Oh.” Leona nodded. She listened to his chatter and gratefully followed him along the path, praying all the while that they would be fast enough to reach the village before someone guessed she had gone there.
They reached a point where the path became cobbles and Leona breathed in, smelling the scent of distant wood smoke, the signature of charcoal-burners' huts. She must be near a village.
“I must leave you here, milady,” Gaston said, bowing. “My farm is in this direction. If you follow this road, you will reach the village of Monte Bois.”
“Thank you,” Leona said fervently. She dug in her pockets and found some broken links of the necklace. She passed him three. “Thank you, Gaston. May the Lord bless you.”
The man gulped and stared at the silver. He made the sign of the cross. Clasped it to his chest. “Bless you, my lady!” He looked around, as if terrified someone would appear and take it from him. Then he walked hastily off, as if he thought demons might appear to take back the silver.
If her plight had been less pressing, Leona would have laughed. She had evidently changed from specter to lost village girl to specter again.
Now I'm still in the forest, but at least I know the way.
Not knowing what else to do, she stepped onto the path. Continued walking. The trees grew close alongside it and she shivered, heading toward the smell and the sound of wood being chopped.
The Highlander’s Dilemma (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 15
