The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (3 page)

They moved easily through the night, and gradually the horizon turned a dull gray, and when the morning sun pierced the haze, she paused on the edge of a bog filled with bracken and brown reeds. Sliding from her horse's back, she shook off the wet chill of the night’s mist that had seeped through her woolen cloak and then stretched in the sun’s warmth.

Nearby, a burn trickled over the stones.

Removing Diabhul’s bridle, she let the black stallion free to graze on the spring grass and then knelt by the burn to fill her waterskin. The brown water tasted of peat, but it was refreshing all the same.

Most likely, Bree wouldn’t discover her missing until the morrow and mayhap not even till the day after, if Will could keep her secret. Merry often hunted, sometimes staying with the crofters rather than riding home in the dark.

Helping herself to a bannock, she let Diabhul wander a little and eyed the jagged peaks of the Coolins in the distance.

She hadn’t seen Ewan since she was ten. He must have changed. She certainly had. Would she be able to recognize him?

Wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve, she mounted once again and set off south across the moors. For the most part, she was alone, cantering with her steadfast steed through flocks of grazing sheep, seeing only the occasional turf-roofed croft whose occupants would sometimes wave at her in greeting.

By the early afternoon, she’d reached the sandy swatch of beach across from the castle of Eilean Donan. Gulls reeled overhead, their cries mingling with the keening of the wind as she galloped to the ferry landing.

A short, bald ferryman met her, cocking a wary eye at the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Ye’d best hurry, lad,” he said. “There’s a storm brewing in the east.”

It took her a moment to realize that he was addressing her, and with her best, raspy laugh, she lowered her voice to reply, “And a good day to ye, sir. Might I have passage to the mainland for myself and my horse?”

The man eyed her oddly but accepted the coin readily enough, and feeling foolish, she guided Diabhul onto the ferry. 
She’d have to play the part of a lad continually now, and she’d do best to remember that.

Holding tightly onto Diabhul’s bridle, she watched the Isle of Skye recede slowly into the fog for a time before shifting her attention to the ferryman.

His hands were work-hardened, a testament to a lifetime of manual labor.

She glanced at her own hands. Whilst not as soft as a proper lady’s, they were hardly the hands of a working lad.

She’d have to choose a name and spin a tale that suited the lad she must be. She couldn’t sing nor play an instrument, so calling herself a wandering bard was out of the question. Mayhap she should play the part of a messenger? Or an apprentice, escaping his cruel master?

Several times, the ferryman appeared as if he wished to talk, but fortunately, there was too much wind to carry on any kind of conversation, and soon enough, they’d reached the opposite shore.

Galloping along the road, she made it a point to avoid the castle of Eilean Donan. It was too risky. The lord and lady knew Ruan well. Instead, she nudged her horse away from the crack of the waves and seabirds floating on the wind, and cantered south toward England.

* * *

Fortune had favored her journey, and masquerading as a lad had been easier than she’d thought it would be. Her unusual height had certainly helped. After a few awkward attempts at speaking in a low voice, she’d given up trying to alter it. No one seemed to question her.

She traveled quickly, and almost a fortnight from when she’d set out from Dunvegan, she arrived at the old Roman road in the borderlands, less than a day’s journey from Carlisle.

With each passing mile, she met more travelers—an old man leading a string of pack-horses, several creaking caravans, and a company of English soldiers, but to her relief, they left her alone, apparently seeing her as a harmless, gangly youth, most likely a messenger, given her quick-footed stallion.

And then finally, she was at Hadrian’s Wall, and reining Diabhul in, she folded her arms and surveyed the town spread out before her.

Overlooking the River Eden, Castle Carlisle stood in the center of the city, a mighty fortress built to bring law and order to the perilous borderlands. Only, the castle itself had only become a cause for more conflict, with the English and the Scots taking turns at besieging it. At present, the castle belonged to the English, but there were still many a Scot to be found in the area—their allegiances carefully guarded.

‘Twas no small wonder the place was a smoldering fire, ready to burst into a raging inferno at any moment.

Slowly, she rode through the town, eyeing the inns before selecting a small wattle-and-daub establishment sagging over the narrow lane at the southern edge of the town. Each floor jutted out over the last, and the entire building leaned precariously sideways, but the location was a superior one. From it, she could escape from town in a hurry, if the need arose.

Seeing Diabhul settled, she pulled a few coins from her pouch and, smoothing her wrinkled shirt, ducked under the iron sign proclaiming the place to be called
The Laughing Cockerel
.

It had been almost two weeks since she’d had a decent hot meal. She could indulge in that, at least.

She’d avoid the bed later that night, however. As a lad, she’d be expected to share one with at least three other men. It was not a particularly appealing prospect. Instead, she’d sleep in the stables with Diabhul.

The warmth of the inn was a pleasant change from riding in the cold rain and, slipping off her boots, she flexed and stretched her toes out to the fire.

Around her, men and women chatted. She listened for a time, eating a few mouthfuls of mutton stew. But upon learning nothing of use, she put her damp boots back on and decided to survey the castle.

She had to rescue Ewan. She’d thought of nothing else the entire journey from Skye.

But, first she had to learn the exact circumstances of his confinement. She also hoped to find a trustworthy sort—a Scot preferably, who could point out to her those amongst the English guard who could be bribed. The chances of that were not good though, as the Scots who remained after the latest siege were none too keen to take unnecessary risk.

Crossing the market square, her eyes fell upon the market cross.

There, upon its base was nailed a parchment, and her heart stopped.

Ach, she should have thought to come here sooner. ‘Twas likely a notice of pending executions.

Filled with a sense of dread, she ran to the post and scanned the writing.

It was, indeed, a list of those to be hanged at Hairibee the following evening, and with growing trepidation, she ran her finger over the names.

To her utter relief, Ewan’s name wasn’t amongst them, but there was a name she did recognize. Alec Montgomery, the man Ewan had been caught trying to save.

She frowned. Did that mean Ewan was next?

Closing her eyes, she took a deep, calming breath. She didn’t have time to waste. She had to free them both and right quickly!

Steeling her resolve, she headed for the castle.

The river-scented breeze ruffled through her hair as she approached the castle and assessed its walls and the men who guarded them. They were strong, brawny men, but once she had Ewan free, no doubt he’d make short work of them. But still, there were men standing on the ramparts, and they had bows with menacing arrows ready to fly. She scowled.

“Stay, lad!” a sharp voice hailed her.

Taking a deep breath, Merry turned on her heel to see two English guards coming her way.

“What cause do you have to wander so aimlessly about?” one of them asked in a rough tone.

Thinking quickly, Merry lurched sideways. “Good … good-ay, milord,” she hiccupped with a staggering step.

An expression of disgust crossed the man’s face. “The noon sun has barely risen and the fellow is already drunk,” he observed acidly to his companion.

His companion merely laughed. “Who can blame him?” he asked. “I would give my right hand for a flask of that Rhennish wine.”

At that, the first guard’s expression relaxed. “And wouldn’t we all?”

Without another glance in Merry’s direction, they continued their patrol. She watched them go.

Rhennish wine.

Once, she’d seen Ruan angry with the night watchmen of Dunvegan for partaking of too much Rhennish wine. He’d caught them at the sea-gate weaving unsteadily on their feet, and he’d pushed them into the loch as a reward for their carelessness. After clambering out of the cold waters and begging his mercy, they’d never succumbed to the temptation again.

She’d never forgotten it.

Folding her arms, she tapped her fingers thoughtfully.

Bree had often told her that men were such simple creatures. 
Mayhap, Rhennish wine could be of aid. And with wine often came other weaknesses, such as women.

With the beginnings of an idea, she retreated to the shadows to watch the guards. And when the afternoon church bells rang, she’d found the thing she’d sought. 
A particularly comely woman in a green linen kirtle had passed through the castle gates with uncommon ease. Several times.

Following the woman into an alehouse, Merry prepared to approach her, but the woman took note of her first.

“You’re a handsome fellow now,” she called out in a wheedling tone. “Come find me if you need a bedfellow.”

Merry swallowed a snort but sent the woman a roguish grin. “I dinna need a bedfellow at this moment,” she said. “But I would care for a wee bit of company.” Sitting down at an empty table, she tossed a shilling onto the surface.

The woman joined her at once, pouncing on the coin and tucking it away into her bosom. “Tell me why such a fine young gentleman as yourself is in need of company now, will you?” she asked with a flirtatious smile. “With eyes like yours, you’ve your pick of the maidens, don’t you now?”

Merry subjected her to a measuring gaze, but then deciding she really didn’t have much to lose, replied truthfully, “I’ve a friend in the castle that I must see. And ye look like a lass who knows how to open doors.”

The woman’s eyes widened but then took on a greedy glint. “My name is Hulda,” she said, introducing herself. “And I might know how … or I might not.”

“Then ‘tis unfortunate for ye now if ye dinna know enough,” Merry replied with a fake yawn, spreading her fingers just enough to reveal the glint of a silver coin.

Hulda didn’t miss it. Leaning forward, she hissed, “And where might this friend of yours
be
in the castle?”

“Shackled.” Merry gave her the honest answer.

“As I thought, then.” Hulda rolled her eyes. “’Tis plain on your Scotch face.” She fell silent, eyeing Merry speculatively.

Taking another swig of ale, Merry patiently waited for her to continue.

“’Tis easy enough if you have the coin,” Hulda said at last. “But he’ll demand a princely sum. And he’ll just get you in. You’ll have to get yourself out.”

Merry didn’t hesitate. She didn’t really have much of a choice, and mayhap it was all she needed. Ewan and his men were experienced warriors. Once they were free, it would be difficult to catch them again.

“Then if you’re still of a mind, I’ll introduce you to my friend for the price of two shillings,” Hulda proposed. “He’ll be in town on the morrow at dawn, but I’ll have those shillings now.”

Merry didn’t really want to wait that long, but she’d already gone so far down this path, there was no time to choose another. Taking a long drink from her mug, she set it down with a crash. “One now, and t’other then. And dinna think to cross me,” she warned, fishing a coin from her pouch.

She watched the woman scurry away, wondering if she’d just wasted a shilling, but it was too late to do much else that night. She was exhausted, and tomorrow she’d need her strength and wits about her to see Ewan free.

Returning to the
Laughing Cockerel
, she paid more than she pleased for the right to sleep in the stables and, climbing into the loft, settled back into the straw, her saddle for a pillow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she’d secure Ewan’s freedom.

She’d have to buy horses. Ripping the hem of her cloak, she pulled out the last of her coins and, hefting them in her palm, counted them under her breath. She didn’t know how many men Ewan had with him, but she could only spare enough coin to purchase three, maybe four serviceable horses and still have enough left over to bribe the English, if need be. She only prayed that she did have enough.

Wearily, she sank back into the straw.

On the morrow, she
had
to succeed. She refused to think of any other outcome.

* * *

To her surprise, she slept well. 
It seemed only a moment later when she opened her eyes to find the sun had risen and a new day begun.

After a hasty breakfast of cold mutton and stale bread, she wove her way through the gathered throngs and past the boats moored on the quay. Her first item of business was to purchase horses with which to make good their escape. She could only find three suitable geldings, and after haggling an acceptable price for all three, she returned to the inn and tethered them at Diabhul’s side.

Stepping out of the stables, she found Hulda waiting impatiently. “I almost left,” she chided as Merry tossed her the other shilling. “Follow and be quick.”

Turning on her heel, the woman hurried down the narrow, winding lane and led Merry across the town to a refuse-littered street dotted with boisterous alehouses. And then stopping before a green door, she rapped sharply upon it several times.

After a moment, the door was opened by a sour-faced matron with jiggling jowls. Her disdainful gaze swept Merry from head to toe.

“The lad I was speaking of…” Hulda offered in explanation.

The sour woman simply stood there a moment before heaving her considerable bulk to one side, allowing them to pass. “Robert’s there,” she muttered and pointed.

Across the small vaulted room, a middle-aged man with a long gray-speckled beard sat scratching his belly as he watched several men at dice.