Meghan sniffed. This was the honor guard that was supposed to impress the King of England? She glanced at King Robert. He was studying her as if he could read her thoughts.
In answer to her unspoken comment he said, “They may not appear impressive, my lady, but they will serve you well. William will see that your mission succeeds.”
With that encouragement they were off.
They traveled in silence throughout that day and the next. Or rather, Meghan traveled in silence. William chatted amiably with Hamish and the two brothers, Arran and Geordie. He all but ignored Meghan, issuing orders to her through one of the other men. She was awoken, fed, and instructed to hurry by one of the three guards, but Meghan knew the orders came straight from William.
She had no companionship in her appointed servant. During the day, old Mavis clung to her mule with a concentration that prevented conversation and at night, the poor woman was so exhausted, Meghan could do little more than help her to bed.
She had just seen the old servant tucked into her blankets on their second night out and was returning to the campfire when Hamish approached her.
Looking distinctly uncomfortable, he said, “Tomorrow we’ll need to make better time. We’ve uh—“ Hamish looked as though he were translating a foreign language. “We’ve a great distance to cover and a small bit o’ time.” He smiled proudly and Meghan suspected that he had diplomatically delivered the rude message William had issued.
She narrowed her eyes and glared at the offending man across the camp. “Aye, but if we travel any faster, we’re like to kill poor Mavis.”
Hamish frowned. He of course had no response to that. After a moment, he returned to William and relayed her message. As he came back to where she was seated by the fire, he looked aggrieved, as if he were weary of serving as a messenger.
“Mavis is a strong woman,” Hamish recited. “She attended the king on several o’ his battle campaigns and never once complained. She’ll keep pace.”
Meghan would have laughed at his monotone delivery, which spoke volumes in itself, if she were not also growing furious with both William and King Robert. They had taken that poor old woman on battle campaigns? Were they insane? She shook her head, reprimanding herself. She already knew both men were mad. No sense in belaboring that point.
“Nonetheless,” she replied, “Mavis will not be able to keep pace any longer. It was cruel in the extreme to insist that she accompany us and I regret my responsibility for her presence. I’ll not sit by now and watch him drag her to her death!” Meghan turned and stared in the opposite direction in dismissal of Hamish.
After a moment, the stubby man sighed heavily and pushed himself to his feet to deliver her response. She could not hear what he said or what William’s response was, but the exasperation was evident in Hamish’s voice when he bellowed, “Tell ‘er yerself, ye oaf!”
She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling. Thank the stars Hamish had forced William into approaching her instead of the other way around. So caught up in her self-satisfaction was she that she did not hear the footsteps behind her. She emitted a small shriek of surprise when William spoke.
“Ye’ve forced the woman to attend ye, now you must make sure she is able to keep up with us.”
Meghan scrambled to her feet. Her heart was pounding heavily and she had to twist her hands in her skirts to keep them from trembling with rage and nerves. “You’re mad,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’ve forced no one to attend me. In fact, I’d rather travel to London alone than in your company. I—where are you going?”
William quickly gathered up his bedroll and saddle. Without pause he said, “I am returning home. You can travel to London alone.”
“What?”
“Did ye no hear me? I’ll speak more slowly so ye can understand my every word. You’d rather travel to London alone, I’d rather be anywhere other than playing nursemaid to you, so I’m returning home. Tell Arran and Geordie to gather their things,” he said to Hamish who had just sat down with a handful of food. “The Innes heir,” he snarled. “Prefers to travel alone.”
“Ye canna be serious!” Meghan said. Wide-eyed she looked to Hamish for an answer, but the burly man was staring at William with a look of intense aggrievement. “You dare not leave me! The king ordered you to deliver his letter to Edward!”
“Deliver it yourself,” he said, disappearing into the darkness.
She looked back to Hamish who had begun eating as if nothing were amiss. “Is he mad?” she asked.
“I’d say so,” Hamish agreed. “He knows I canna travel on an empty stomach.”
Meghan searched the darkness outside the ring of firelight but she could discern no movement. Had he and the other men already left?
The Innes pride, which her father had instilled in her, straightened her spine and she shrugged her shoulders.
“Leave then,” she said to the darkness. Turning, she resumed her seat on the log by the fire and dug in her pack for something to eat. She had no idea if William was cad enough to actually leave her, but she would not beg him to stay. She would sooner welcome the hiss of a highway rogue’s knife as it slit her throat!
Telling herself she truly did not care if he stayed or abandoned her, Meghan ate her meager meal then retreated to her crude canvas tent to sleep.
In any event, Mavis must have decided not to impede their progress any longer. When Meghan crept stiffly from her tent the next morning, she found Arran and Geordie sewing the old woman into her blankets under the watchful eye of William.
“What are you—“ at the sight of Mavis’ lifeless body, Meghan’s eyes widened. “What have you done to her?” she asked William.
Startled, he looked at her. “I didna do a thing to the old woman. She died in her sleep. Arran and Geordie will take her back to her family.”
Meghan turned so he would not see the tears that filled her eyes. She cleared her throat and said, “We killed her, you and I. I by causing her to travel with us and you for forcing such a grueling pace.”
“She was an old woman. She lived her life and now ‘tis over.” William’s tone was defensive but Meghan was too guilt-stricken to notice.
In silence they watched the two men finish their grim task and then lift the slight body to tie it to the mule. With a few terse instructions, William sent the brothers north, back to Robert’s keep. As she watched the meager funeral procession leave the clearing, Meghan’s thoughts finally shifted from poor Mavis to her nemesis.
“What are you still doing here?” she asked.
“What do ye mean?”
Meghan shrugged, affecting disinterest. “I thought you were leaving last night.”
She could have sworn she saw William’s complexion begin to darken, but then he quickly turned and began packing up the small camp.
“Robert would only send me back to fetch ye out of whatever trouble ye’d managed to find. I figured I’d save myself the extra travel.”
Meghan rolled her eyes, but the effect was lost on both William and Hamish. With another glance down the road and a prayer for Mavis’ soul, she moved to pack up her few things.
Chapter 11
They traveled in silence for much of the morning. Finally, when they stopped to water the horses at a small spring, Meghan approached Hamish.
“Why did both Arran and Geordie take Mavis’ body?”
Hamish shrugged and smiled. “Ye never split up those brothers. They canna live without each other, ye see. Their folk died when they were wee lads and it’s been the two of them since.”
Meghan nodded and inadvertently glanced at William. He was crouched over his horse’s foot, gently prodding a tender spot near the hoof. “And him?” she inquired as if only making small talk.
“Will? Aye, his folks died young too. But he had Robert’s family to raise him. They’re cousins, ye know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“The king trusts Will as he trusts few men. He’d give his own
daughter to Will as a bride were the girl old enough.”
Meghan raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “King Robert would give his innocent child over to Black William?” she injected a wealth of innuendo into the name.
Hamish merely laughed and scratched his belly, which pressed against his rough tunic like a ripe pomegranate about to split its skin. “Oh, that old name. Will came up with that when he was a green lad trying hard to impress the men with his fierceness and the lassies with his manliness. I doubt he ever truly earned the name.”
“Oh really?” Meghan said with a smirk.
“Hamish!” William shouted. The burly man glanced lazily over his shoulder. “Ye gab worse than an old woman! We’re wasting daylight.”
“There are worse things to waste, aye?” he said, glancing appreciatively at Meghan’s backside as she climbed atop her horse.
Meghan pointedly ignored both men.
That evening after they ate a meager meal, Hamish asked Meghan about her family home.
“‘Tis not so grand as the Bruce’s—I mean the king’s--keep, but it was built by my great-grandfather who wanted it to be fit to host a king.” Meghan did not mention that as her father saw little use in the luxuries of kings, he had long since stripped the small keep of its tapestries and cushions, selling them in exchange for more practical things like horses and weapons.
“Aye? And do ye have grand feasts there?” Hamish patted his stomach, which made a hollow sound as if it were empty. He’d done little but talk about his love of food during their simple meal.
Meghan shrugged. “My father is usually too busy—“
”Stealing sheep, no doubt,” opined William.
Meghan gritted her teeth but said nothing. After a moment of silence, she continued. “But I shall plan a grand feast to celebrate his return. And you,” she pointedly excluded William. “Shall be the guest of honor.”
Hamish closed his eyes as if imagining a sumptuous spread. “I warn ye, I eat more than three men.”
Meghan laughed. “Well you shall have enough food to fill the bellies of six men.”
“And music. Will there be music? Nothing helps the digestion like music during a feast.”
William snorted at this request, but both Meghan and Hamish ignored him.
“Of course,” said Meghan, though she knew not how she would provide music—there had been no musicians at Innesbrook since her mother died.
“And will ye sing for us as we sit ‘round the fire?” Hamish’s eyes were still closed and his head was cocked as if he were enjoying a gentle melody.
Meghan stifled a spurt of laughter at his pose. “Nay, good Hamish. I’ll not sing.”
Hamish opened his eyes. “And why not?”
“I canna carry a tune.”
“What’s this?” at William’s question, Meghan jumped. “Ye sing not at all?”
Meghan ignored him.
“Then surely you play an instrument. The lute perhaps? Or a pipe?”
Meghan busied herself with adding more wood to the fire.
“You canna sing or play? I thought all ladies, especially those heir to a wealthy holding partook of the gentler arts. Now that I recall, you don’t dance well either.”
Meghan glared at him but clenched her teeth to prevent herself from retorting.
“I’ve got it. You must be an angel’s artist with your needle. Is that it? Do ye make tapestries fit to hang in the Pope’s chamber? Do ye?” he prodded.
“No!” Meghan hissed.
“Do ye speak true? Ye don’t sing, play, dance or even stitch? What do ye do then at the grand Innes keep?”
Meghan straightened her spine and glared at William. “I oversee the flocks of sheep. I make sure we’re so well provisioned we could withstand a siege for months. I negotiate with traders who buy our wool in exchange for steel for weapons. We’ve the best armed men of any clan!” Her voice rose in indignation. “I can forage for food in the dead of winter and skin a deer if need be! I can even,” she said proudly, for this was her one accomplishment her father boasted of freely. “Hit a mark at two hundred paces with an arrow!”
“But surely you’re not able to sheer a sheep yourself.”
“Faster than you can saddle your horse,” she retorted and then bit her tongue. Too late, she realized that he was mocking her.
“Well, Hamish,” he said, though his sardonic gaze never left her flushed face. “‘Tis no wonder the Innes heir has had no time for such silly things as poetry and song.”
Meghan flicked a glance at Hamish who looked distinctly uncomfortable. With as much haughtiness as she could muster, she said, “And have you managed such artistic endeavors in between seducing nuns and murdering boys?”
William tsked behind his teeth. “I’ve killed no man who wasn’t old enough to grow a beard. As for nuns, I find their habits singularly unbecoming. But in answer to your question, yes, I have managed such artistic endeavors.”
Meghan scoffed. “I don’t believe you.”
“No? Ask Hamish,” he instructed.
Looking like he was caught in the crossfire between two packs of archers, Hamish ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. Glancing at Meghan, he said, “Aye, sadly ‘tis true. He plays the harp.”
“Sadly? And how accomplished is your harp playing that it warrants the title ‘sadly’?” Meghan lifted her eyebrows delicately at William.
“Apparently not as great as shearing sheep,” said William with a bemused look on his face as he witnessed Hamish’s embarrassment.
“Hmmph,” Meghan said and stood to retreat to her tent. “If you’re quite through with the leisurely pace we’ve maintained thus far, perhaps tomorrow we can cover a better stretch of road.” Without waiting for a response, Meghan stalked off. Sitting on the rough ground for so long had numbed her legs and her arrogant stalk was little better than a mincing hobble as her legs tingled painfully.
Once in the confines of her small tent, Meghan congratulated herself. William may have mocked her accomplishments as meager, but she had certainly gained the last word. She was just about to fall asleep when something startled her. Sitting up she concentrated on what the sound was and then realized that a man was singing an old Gaelic love song. Accompanied by a harp. Both of which were performed quite well. Meghan flopped back down and pulled the blankets over her ears, trying to block the annoying noise.
Meghan hated waking early. It was the one characteristic of being her father’s chatelaine that she had never adapted to. Waking at dawn seemed the most ridiculous notion and the bit of productivity achieved by the extra hour of light was, in her opinion, sorely diminished by the sluggishness with which the work was performed. Nevertheless, as she drifted to sleep to the sounds of William’s crooning, she vowed that she would be the first awake come the morn. She would pack, saddle her horse, and face the day, prepared to show that crude boor of a man her mettle. She would push their progress until he called a halt. That line of thought brought to mind poor Mavis and Meghan said a quick prayer for her soul as well as a prayer for forgiveness for the part she’d played in hastening the old woman’s death.
When the first bird of morning chirped his welcome to the pale streaks of light, Meghan forced herself up. Though she stumbled with grogginess, she quickly dressed and rolled up her blankets. The unfamiliar tent cost her more time than it should have—the Innes camping tents were much more cunningly designed—but she was exceptionally fast at saddling her horse. As the shivering grey of the eastern horizon warmed to faintest yellow, Meghan glanced about with smug self-satisfaction. She was packed and dressed, ready to travel and her escorts not even awake. They both lay curled in their blankets by the banked embers of the fire. She pushed a stray wisp of hair out of her face and realized with horror that she’d left her hair unkempt and her combs were packed away. As the longer bundle by the fire stirred, she quickly raked her fingers through her hair, trying to pull the snarls into some semblance of order.
“Did ye battle a badger
?” William asked.
Meghan whirled to find him staring at her with amusement.
“What?” she asked. How had he managed to awake, dressed, looking as relaxed and rested as if he’d spent the night in a feather bed? Even with his perpetually rumpled black hair he was unbearably handsome. His jaw was scraped free of stubble, revealing the full lips that had kissed her out of her senses. His green eyes shone like a barn cat’s, full of mischief. His tartan was wound round his hips, emphasizing their narrowness. She flushed as she remembered them being pressed against her own softness.
“I’d say either way, ye let him nest in your hair.”
Her thoughts wrenched from his appearance, Meghan’s hands flew to her hair and she bit her lower lip in embarrassment and anger.
“Here, let me help—“
She batted his hands away and delivered her harshest glare. “Don’t touch me!”
“Tcha!” he responded with disapproval. “You’re a rude wee thing, aren’t ye? If that’s how ye want it, get your things packed. We leave within the hour.”
“Wait!” she called. How had she lost the advantage? Did he not even realize she was prepared to leave without him?
He stopped just before disappearing into the bushes and turned to face her, one brow raised in question.
“I’m ready to leave now. I’ve not been sleeping away the morn as you have.”
“Sleeping? How could I sleep with all the noise ye made tearing down your tent and chasing your horse about. You’re the loudest woman I’ve ever known!”
The King's Rebel Page 9
