by Ashley York
Chapter 8
Iseabail was left in an empty room with her mouth hanging open and her cheeks hot. She stared at the door Seumas had slammed shut behind him. He was so angry. She sat down on the stool and hid her tears in her hands. He knew her true identity, and he was angry with her. Would he turn her over for the ransom? Perhaps he did not know about it.
It had been a gamble to share the facts—well, some of the facts—with this stranger, but she had felt safe with him. He had been so kind to her. Right up until he began finding fault with every choice she had made.
Not that there had been much of a choice, at that. What else could she have done but come into the castle? She and Calum had got along living in the woods, despite the rain and wind, but the sudden brutal cold was more than they could bear. They’d had to seek shelter, and pray their disguises survived closer scrutiny, or court death from exposure.
And now it seemed her prayers had gone unanswered. He had not been shocked by her true identity. Was she so obvious? So inept at concealment? Or, perhaps, he was simply that astute. She had been in hiding with Calum gone two months now, and Seumas was the first to uncover her deceit, so she must have been doing something right.
No. They had been watched over by angels from the first time they had overheard talk of the price on their heads right up to Seumas protecting her last night. It had not been their own doing that kept them safe, and well she knew it. She needed to learn wisdom from all this, not dissolve into a sobbing mess.
Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she spotted the washstand. When he had seen her without the grime of living in the wild, he had commented on her beauty. Iseabail chastised herself for the little thrill that gave her. She lightly traced her cheek where he had caressed her. The memory warmed her face again. Of course, now he believed she was ignorant and arrogant. Take her over his knee? Not likely.
She wrapped her cloak tightly around her, and the leather-wrapped parchment safely hidden within bobbed against her knee. She headed out the door with determination. If he did plan on turning her in, she would not make it easy to find her. She followed the back steps out of the castle. It didn’t take long to spot her brother, who was playing near the stables.
“Now just what are you about, young Calum? Are ye getting up to no good again?” Iseabail stood, hands on her hips and her sternest mother’s look on her face.
Calum gawked at her. “You sound like Maw! I remember her.” His little face screwed up into a grimace and tears rolled down his face.
Iseabail ran to take him in her arms. “Oh, Calum, I am so sorry. I was only playing with you. I did not mean to upset you so.”
Calum would not be consoled, and his companion looked away, unwilling to shame his new friend by acknowledging his tears.
“I miss home so much.” Calum’s lip quivered as he spoke. “Can we please just go home?”
The pained look on her brother’s face nearly broke Iseabail’s heart. She would do anything for him, but giving in to his plea would be the worst thing for all of them in the end.
“You have to know that I will take you home as soon as I can and not a minute later.” She crouched down in front of him. “Do you hear me, Calum? I want to go home, too, but we cannot until we take care of our business.” She glanced over at Robbie. He did not appear to be paying attention, but she lowered her voice just in case. “When things are settled, we will be able to go home again. But first, we must find help. Do you understand?”
Calum’s tears slowly subsided as he listened. “I am sorry. I promised Iain I would look out for you, and one night in a warm castle is all it took to break down my determination. I beg your pardon. I was wrong to cry. You are a woman, and I need to protect you. It is the call of all knights. You have it far worse than I to be on the road and living hand-to-mouth.” Calum stood a little taller, as if to physically fill the big shoes he was expected to wear. “I shall not fuss again, I promise.” Calum hugged her and sniffled one last time.
Iseabail’s heart was lightened by his sincere display of fortitude. She smiled as she saw Robbie kicking at a rock, waiting patiently for his friend to return to him.
“Now, you have eaten, I hear?” Standing, she brushed hay out of her little brother’s hair. “And I see either you have either fed the horses or taken a roll down a haystack.”
Calum beamed up at her. “Aye, I did both.”
She smiled back at him. He was so innocent. He wanted to spend some time playing. She glanced around. No one could really see them here behind the barn. Perhaps, for a bit longer, he could be normal little boy.
“Play with your friend, but then we must be off.”
She did not miss the dark cloud that crossed his face before he nodded his acceptance of his fate. Someday she hoped he would have friends and be allowed to learn and play, but for now, they could not be out in the open for too long. Iseabail was still a prize in her uncle’s eyes. There was no reason to believe he would have given up his search for her. His greed would not allow her to slip through his fingers.
Iseabail settled on the ground at the far side of the barn, hoping to be inconspicuous while she waited for her brother. She leaned her head against the barn and looked out over the hills. There was movement in the trees, and she wondered if it was someone from the castle. Perhaps even Seumas.
*****
At the crest of the hill, Seumas led the group down the steep bank surrounding Murphy’s castle.
Murphy.
Seumas cringed inwardly at the memory of this pompous Lowlander-turned-English-supporter. Like so many other Scots seduced by the power and positions established in England, his greed outweighed his loyalties. Then again, a king schooled south of his own border did not help to encourage local Scottish pride. Lord Bryon sought this man’s support in his struggle for English titles, but it went against Seumas’s honor even to be here.
“Hold,” Seumas ordered, assessing the scene before he approached the castle.
The gates were open but unprotected. Two people sat outside, leaning against the city wall. Upon closer inspection, the land was otherwise devoid of people. No one in the towers. No one in the surrounding fields. It looked as if everyone had up and left. Following his signal, the men advanced slowly toward the two, who showed no sign of seeing them. When they were almost upon them, he realized why.
Both men appeared to have been dead for several weeks. Much of the flesh on their arms and legs had been picked clean. Seumas knew the unease of the men behind him as they shifted in their saddles. His arm went up. The men held back as he dismounted and moved in closer to inspect the corpses.
Adorned with exotic silk and carrying a Scottish harp, these were no beggars but wealthy men. Why would that be? Seumas grimaced at the stench and held his breath. He moved in closer until he was level with the corpse still clutching the clarsach. He gasped. A telltale bulbous sore was clear on the man’s neck. Seumas stumbled back from the infectious bodies. He pulled his cloak up over his nose and shouted, “The pox!”
He reached his mount and turned it away from the castle and out to the open land, spurring him as if chased by the devil himself.
The others had already made the trees when his conscience subdued his fear. He reined in at the top of the hill and looked back. Could he really leave this place without knowing if someone inside needed help? If he was smart, that was exactly what he would do, said that self-serving part of him that ran much stronger in his mercenary underlings, who were already out of sight. He sighed and covered his face as protection from any noxious fumes. No, he could not just leave without investigating. He slowly returned to walk his destrier through the castle gates.
The smell was atrocious, a fetor he could not have missed earlier had they not been downwind. As his horse walked among the debris-strewn bailey, Seumas found it all too easy to imagine the scenes that had caused the sights before him. Bodies of adults and children alike were piled here and there, some partly covered with mud kicked up by the last storm.
It looked as if an attempt had been made to keep the dead separate from the living, but when he approached the inner bailey, he saw it had all been for naught.
Showing fewer signs of decay, body upon body had been left where it fell, overtaken by a sickness that caused one to be a little tired and congested at breakfast and dead by supper. He peered through the windows. Bodies lay in beds in their own feces, hands outstretched as if to ask for help from anyone who would stay. None had.
The wind blew stronger through the open doors and windows but carried no sound of life with it. He approached the eerie silence of the barn, a shiver sliding down his spine. All the animals were gone—either someone had left with them or come and taken them. Wearier with every step of his horse, he felt overwhelmed by the loss of life engulfing him.
Seumas paused in the outer bailey. These people had died in excruciating pain, with no one to care for them, stay with them until they died, or cry over their passing. It was every man for himself. This was a visible death, but, like a punch to his gut, the realization dawned that his own life was no different. His position as a mercenary was also a kind of death. No one cared for him or would cry over his passing. When a life was spent killing for someone else, fighting someone else’s battles, there were no attachments or loyalty or honor.
He longed to be out among the heather, hearing the lowing of cows and bleating of sheep, growing barley for his own spirits instead of wasting every night with the castle cast offs. With ignorant, self-serving men who cared about nothing and had no scruples about whom they accosted or how they treated others.
Seumas was tired. He wanted out. He steered his horse through the open gates. There was no one left alive, and if Seumas did not leave this way of life, he would soon join them.
He gave his horse its lead. It knew the way back to the castle. A plan formed as he relaxed in his saddle. He would resign and gladly return his wages to Lord Bryon. The man was greedy beyond reason. He had to pay for loyalty because he treated those under his control so cruelly. He did not know how to garner respect from his men, only how to order them around. Seumas had turned a blind eye to the mistreatments he had witnessed, had chosen to stay in the castle, which made him as guilty as Bryon. That was something he thought he had left behind with the rest of his memories of his pilgrimage to the Holy Land.
The Crusade.
Seumas had heard the stories about that first papal-inspired pilgrimage ever since he was a little boy. At his grandfather’s knee, he had imagined the call from the Pope to the noblemen, the battles and hardships that ensued, and the triumph of winning back Jerusalem from the infidels. That had been a noble fight. He had wanted the same thing, but his experience had been quite a bit different.
In the spring of 1147, Seumas had answered the call of Pope Eugenius III for the Second Pilgrimage to the Holy Land. He had left Portsmouth, England with a mixed group of men full of passion and righteousness—aside from Stephen, the greedy, silver-tongued lord who led them.
They met the first battle at the siege of Lisbon. After three months, the men Seumas had held in such high regard walked away loaded down with riches they had taken. Stephen had encouraged them. Although he had enticed many noblemen to his side with words like “defending” and “honoring,” he actually believed slaughter and pillage was their right. The idea that God created the world and everything in it seemed a lesson the man had missed.
Seumas often wondered if Stephen’s story would have changed had they found Christians along the way. He could not help but believe the man would have justified slaughtering them as well. There was no stopping Stephen’s ambitions. He was not a follower of God, but Seumas found that out far too late. Young and naïve, he had been filled with the righteousness of God but led by an avaricious man.
Shame filled his heart as memories assailed him. Once, he had been able to come before God, with all his unworthiness, and experience His sweet grace…but now, after the atrocities he had allowed and been involved in, he could not even imagine the possibility that God still loved him. Seumas’s life no longer had meaning. The injury that had left him impotent was of little consequence compared to the punishment he deserved. And yet… He would take no wife, have no children, but perhaps he could still fill his life with purpose and honor. Perhaps God was offering him grace.
Seumas took in the beauty of the forest around him, the glistening patches of early frost among the fallen leaves that crunched beneath him. The mavis’s song grew more distinct, filling the space around him, resonating within him. Yes, it would do him well to leave this life behind and start anew. He hoped he could find the courage and wisdom to do so.
Chapter 9
Iseabail leaned against the barn. The sun warmed her face, and the cold spell from the night before faded into a slight chill. The sweet smell of hay surrounded her. Calum played on the slope in front of her. The horses in the barn munched loudly on their breakfast of oats and hay. She closed her eyes to enjoy the moment of stolen peace.
With a deep, relaxing breath, she worked to push all her concerns away. Unbidden, Seumas’s piercing blue eyes and broad smile stole into her mind. He was a very handsome man, and the memory of resting her head on his shoulder as she slept caused her heart to skip a beat. In bed with a man who was not her brother? And he had not even had his way with her? Iain would never believe it. He would surely have had the man’s hide.
Oh, Iain.
Where was he now? For the hundredth time, she went over those last few minutes with him. There were no answers. She pushed the thought away.
If her father had lived, men like Seumas, so rugged and strong, would have been part of her life. Men, both local and from far-flung clans, would have courted her, their attention causing her no second thoughts. Her father would have taken her wishes into consideration, making her a good marriage. A happy marriage. Perhaps to someone like Seumas. A life so different from what she had now.
The cries of the falcons soaring overhead pierced the calming scene, jerking her into wakefulness. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, but the sun hung much lower in the sky. The sight of the riders coming out of the woods at a recklessly fast pace set her heart to pounding.
She stood at once, alert and ready for flight. The men either brought important news or they were in pursuit. Perhaps they were even after Calum and her. They had been sleeping in the woods to the east of the castle for a week before finally seeking shelter last night. Had these men found signs of their encampment?
Calum appeared out of nowhere to stand at her side. Robbie ran to the inner courtyard to assist the riders as needed.
“You fell asleep.” Calum sounded defensive.
“You should have awakened me.”
“You looked like an angel.”
She glanced at him with a lopsided grin. “And you were not just enjoying playing with your friend?”
He avoided her gaze. “Perhaps.”
“Could be trouble.” Iseabail’s peace lessened with each rider passing over the bridge.
“It may not be about us.”
“True.” She did not want him to worry needlessly, but her pulse quickened as her own panic increased. “Is that the same man from the last village?” She pointed a slightly shaky finger at the rider in black who wore no colors to distinguish his allegiance. “He is the same size.”
“Aye, it could be him.” Calum turned to her with worried eyes. “He is the one spreading our names about, telling everyone we are murderers.”
Fear rose. They could not stay here, but she hated to put Calum in distress. “Methinks he is from Uncle Henry.” She smiled at him, preferring to treat their escape as a lark. “He will not catch us this time either.”
Calum nodded with determination, eager to play. “Is it time to leave, then?” he asked, his gaze back on the eight riders now making their way into the outer bailey.
“So it seems.” Iseabail wiped her sweaty palms on her cloak. “I wonder if there is an easier route of escape tha
n passing these fine gentlemen.”
Calum snorted at her sarcasm. They exchanged knowing glances. “Usually is.” Calum grinned. “’Tis a shame you are so clean, though.”
She bowed deeply, much to Calum’s amusement. “You are too kind.”
He giggled but tipped his head in acknowledgement.
Calum led the way alongside the barn until they had reached the back of the castle. A young girl came into view, and they dropped into a crouch behind the rain barrels. Iseabail rolled her eyes as the girl dumped a pile of kitchen scraps down a hole in the stone wall, and the putrid odor wafted into the air.
“Mayhap it is only breakfast,” Calum whispered.
Iseabail made a face. “Humph.”
Still, she did not hesitate to follow as Calum dropped feet first into the hole. Both slid down the muck, the ooze slipping between their fingers, until they came to a stop on top of a warm pile of castle slops and other discarded refuse. Ducking low, they ran to the cover of the forest. The trees smacked sharply against her, the branches dragging at her cloak. They slowed only slightly with the thickening forest as they headed to the river. Out of earshot now, they paced themselves as they had learned from their two months in hiding. Running too fast did not get them as far as being steady. Calum had a shorter gait than Iseabail, so they were well-matched with her legs hampered by long skirts and cloak.
Neither dared stop…until they heard the growling. They froze. Iseabail could not find the source, but it was close by. Too close. Its menacing snarl raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
