To Love a Highlander (8 page)

“He sounds bonnie.” Maili smiled.

Mirabelle watched her slip over to the archway and peer into the public room. She didn’t tell her that even Highland graybeards and dotards spoke so beautifully.

“Saints a mercy!” Maili glanced back, her eyes round. “Ne’er have I seen such a man,” she spoke low, her cheeks blushing. “Come take a peek.”

Curious, Mirabelle stood and crossed the little room. She saw at once why the serving girl was so intrigued with the big Highlander sitting alone at a corner table near the long room’s peat fire.

Mirabelle had never glimpsed such a man.

Big and burly as were many Highlanders, this one looked fierce. Clearly a fighting man, he had unusual smoke-gray eyes, wild black hair, and a great black beard, braided with silver beard rings Mirabelle knew warriors made from the weapons of slain enemies.

“Oh, my…” She gripped Maili’s elbow. “He is a sight, isn’t he?”

“If he weren’t so dark, I’d think he was a Viking.” Maili leaned in, whispering in her ear. “Don’t they also wear wolf pelts slung around their shoulders? Isn’t that a Thor’s hammer at his neck?”

“It is.” Mirabelle narrowed her eyes to better see the shining silver talisman that glinted against the warrior’s mailed shirt. “Perhaps he’s a mercenary, passing through?”

“I hope he’s in a mood for company.” Maili was eyeing him up and down, her excitement palpable. “I like a big, rough-looking man…” She let the words trail off, frowning when William Wyldes strode over to the newcomer’s table, plunking down a steaming bowl of meaty stew and a large tankard of ale. “Botheration!”

Mirabelle understood the girl’s frustration.

A large man himself, the innkeeper blocked their view of the huge, big-bearded Highlander.

Hovering in the shadows of the archway, the two women watched as the innkeeper stepped back, planting his hands on his leather-aproned hips. They still couldn’t see much of the Highlander, only the edge of his broad, wolf-pelt-covered shoulders. The sword and war ax he’d propped against the wall behind his table, the weapons proving they’d guessed rightly that he was a warring man.

One who possessed the courtesy to remove his arms without having been asked, even if they remained within easy reach.

Mirabelle also spotted the top of dagger’s hilt peeking up from his boot.

Still, something about the solemn-faced giant told her he wouldn’t leap up and attack the innkeeper, or her father and his party.

Though rough-hewn, he was a good man.

That much she could tell.

“I should go offer to top his ale.” Maili stood back, dusting her skirts, arranging her low-cut bodice to dip even more. “Suchlike as him will surely drain his tankard in one draw.”

“Will you be having aught else?” William Wyldes’s voice boomed then.

Maili paused, waiting just inside the door arch.

She slid a glance at Mirabelle, winking. “He’ll be asking for a warmed bed. That means—”

“I hope so, for you.” Mirabelle returned her smile, knowing well that a “warmed bed” at the Red Lion included a soft and naked female body to comfort the traveler.

“Aye, I’d have a word with you,” the Highlander returned, not giving the innkeeper the response Maili desired.

“Later, fine.” Wyldes thumped the table, good-naturedly. “I’ve business yet this day with thon group of nobles.” He jerked his head toward Munro MacLaren and his guardsmen. “I’ll sup with you at gloaming, what?”

“That’s good enough.” The Highlander lifted his tankard in salute. “I should be back at the inn by then.”

“You’ve dealings hereabouts?” The innkeeper hovered.

“Aye, of sorts.” The man set down the tankard, leaned back in his chair. “I’m Grim Mackintosh of Nought Castle in the Glen of Many Legends. I’m looking for a man rumored to frequent this inn.”

“Who might that be?” Some of the friendliness left the innkeeper’s voice.

“A Stirling man.” The Highlander met Wyldes’s gaze, his own calm and steady. “He’s a court bastard by all accounts. His name is Sorley the Hawk.”

W
e part ways here, my friend.”

Sorley gave Roag a look that brooked no argument as they drew their horses to a halt well before the string of hovels that were all that remained of the once-thriving riverside settlement belonging to the Abbey of St. Mary.

“So we do.” Roag slipped down from his beast, stroked the aged horse’s neck, and gave him a carrot. Glancing at Sorley, he flashed an annoying smile. “Dinnae think I’d have gone any farther.”

“I’d no’ have let you.” Sorley glared at him, irked that he hadn’t thought of bringing a treat for his horse. As always, Roag strove to outdo him.

Proving it, the lout fished a second carrot from inside a small pouch fastened to his saddle and sauntered over to offer it to Sorley’s beast.

He didn’t look at Sorley, his attention on feeding the horse. “Truth is, I’m no’ riding any deeper into thon village because I prefer that as few folk as possible see me in these dung-rags. You, though…”

He stepped back from the horse, eyeing Sorley up and down. “I do believe they become you.”

“I’ll stuff them up your arse when we’re finished here.” Sorley slid off his own horse, taking the same care as Roag had done. Wyldes swore the creatures were sturdier than they looked, but he wasn’t convinced.

He did know the abbey ruins and the sad little hamlet tore his heart.

Set in a broad loop of the River Forth, the ancient holy site was a maze of tumbled walls and rubble. Thorn bushes, bracken, and stinging nettles raged where magnificent arches and spires should’ve soared to the heavens. The marauding English had even savaged the sanctity of the abbey burial yard. Ornamental grave slabs were toppled everywhere, their highly carved surfaces barely visible through the thick deer grass choking the ground.

Proud effigies had fared no better, some of them defiled, missing sculpted heads and feet. Even several of the Celtic standing crosses had been knocked over, moss and mud marring their sacred stone.

“Hurts the eye, what?” Roag tucked his thumbs into the corded belt of his beggar’s robe.

“For once I agree with you.” Sorley felt anger brewing inside him and almost whipped back his own cloak to draw his sword, Dragon-Breath. Named for the man who’d gifted him with the blade, a battle-hardened knight who styled himself Dragon and aye had onion breath, the brand would serve Sorley well when he reached the traitor, Lockhart. The King trusted him to put a sure end to the faithless noble’s treachery, and he would. Fenris work was swift and silent, always efficient. But until he went toe-to-toe with Lockhart, he’d keep his fury at bay.

This particular Fenris mission required a humble, subservient mien.

A shame he wanted to throw back his head and roar at the cloud-chased sky.

Roag strolled over to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. For once, the lout knew better than to rile him. “Fiends didn’t leave much of anything.” Roag glanced toward the Forth, where a large stone slab slanted at a weird angle near the river’s edge. In better times, it’d been part of the abbey’s watergate. “I’m no’ sure I want to wait there, seeing how thickly the nettles are growing o’er the ruins.”

“You can hie yourself back to the Red Lion.” Sorley let his gaze travel down the narrow beaten-earth road that curved through the hamlet. “Maili is aye glad for your attentions. You’ll find no such comfort here.”

“Must you aye think the worst of me?” Roag leaned round to peer into Sorley’s face, affecting an expression of injury. “My bones tell me you’ll be glad I’m along this day.”

“Mine say if I cannae take a swing at the English, I sure can make Lockhart scream like a woman.” Sorley spat in his palms and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Nae, make that ten women.”

“See?” Roag straightened, sounding amused. “We are again of the same mind.”

“A rare exception.” Sorley kept his gaze on the low, rough-stoned cottages lining the road. Built of more turf than rock, they looked more like cow byres than anyone’s home. He was sure herds of mice lived in the roof thatch. Worse, the wind had changed, bringing not just the smell of rain but the reek of the communal cesspit.

Still, enough folk went about their daily chores. He even noted trade on the rotting wharf. Several clunky, blunt-bowed cargo ships were tied to the remaining posts, their hulls rocking in the strong-flowing river.

Chickens and goats ran between the hovels and along the road. A cluster of stout, work-worn women carried wicker washing baskets down to the river. And a big-bellied, red-faced man hawked bowls of stewed mutton and ale, drawing a fair crowd to his little cart.

Sorley wished the man well.

He also knew the largest gathering would be around the bend in the road, near the old market cross where Sir Henry Lockhart plied his deceit, calling down miracles while passing on the King’s secrets.

“Do you think he truly floats in the air?” Roag had his thumbs in his belt again, proving as so oft that he could read Sorley’s mind. “Folk claim he’s touched by the gods.”

Sorley snorted. “The only thing that’ll touch him this day is the cutting edge of Dragon-Breath.”

“Many men have witnessed the wonder.” Roag shrugged. “He may be a traitor, but he must also be a wizard.”

“If he is, the beady red eyes of every pig in the land will turn into spears of flame and sear the first farmer who tries to make them bacon.”

“Good men have said—”

“I say he’s a crafty fraudster.” Sorley flashed a glance at his archrival, amazed he’d allow that Sir Henry could sit in midair.

He wasn’t about to share how Sir Henry hovered about the ground.

Or that he’d pried the answer from the sweet-bottomed daughter of an English ironsmith who lived just across the border from Scotland. The smith helped Sir Henry in interest of his own land and loyalties, making him blameless.

Sorley turned toward Roag. “If you dinnae interfere with my work, mayhap I’ll show you how—”

He broke off, for Roag was already leading their horses to a patch of grass near one of the still-standing Celtic crosses. He watched as Roag tethered them, once again treating the beasts to a handful of carrots. Then he turned to Sorley and touched the rim of his beggar’s hood, a half-smile on his face.

“Gods save me,” Sorley swore beneath his breath as he
returned the salute, annoyed there were times he almost liked Roag.

Above all, he enjoyed righting wrongs.

Eager to begin, he tossed one last look at Roag.

True to his word, Roag was perched atop the slanting slab of stone that was once part of the abbey’s watergate. He’d drawn up one leg and let the other dangle free, somehow managing to look like anything but the tatty-robed wretch he was supposed to portray.

Anyone would recognize him for what he was.

A cocky bastard.

Hoping he’d stay put, Sorley drew a deep breath and adjusted his cloak. Then he assumed his best humble mien and a suitably crooked posture and limped over to the road, easily melting into the crowd.

“Blessed saints, have mercy on these good folk. Lift their cares, cure their ills! I call upon your greatness. Reach through the veil of mysteries to heal them, bringing wonders as only you can!”

Sorley stood at the edge of the crowd, paying scant heed to the ringing words of the raggedy-cloaked monk he recognized as Sir Henry Lockhart, traitor to the crown. The fiend had whitened his face, no doubt to better conceal his identity. Not that any of the clamoring villagers would guess he wasn’t a wandering friar, gifted with God’s ear. They’d never suspect he was a deep-pursed, land-rich courtier who allowed greed to govern his loyalty.

All they heard were promises of miracles.

What they saw convinced them he could deliver.

Why would anyone doubt when the noble appeared to sit in midair, floating high above a colorful tapestry spread across the muddied ground?

Guised as a monk, his hooded face lowered and his berobed legs crossed, he clutched a long staff as if to steady
himself against the wind. He did present an astonishing spectacle. If Sorley didn’t know his trick, he’d have also found himself with his jaw on the ground.

Gullible country folk believed what their eyes showed them.

They were also tossing their hard-earned coin into a battered bronze cauldron Lockhart had set atop the brightly woven rug.

Sorley’s blood boiled, watching him.

Deceiving and stealing from those who scratched a living out of the cold, bitter earth was a worse sin than selling the King’s secrets to the English.

No king had to worry that his children went to sleep hungry at night.

His bile rising, Sorley willed the rage from his features and then began to limp forward, taking care to appear as bent and distressed as possible.

He dragged one leg, secretly proud of his inspiration to do so.

His best plans came when he was angry.

Rarely had he been so furious. He worked his way past hopeful villagers, many thrusting sickly bairns before them. Others fell to their knees, their arms raised in supplication.

“Gracious monk!” Sorley reached the edge of the rug and used the voice of a weary, pain-riddled man. “Can you heal a poor leper? I’ve lost toes dragging myself into your sainted presence.”

As he’d hoped, his words sent the crowd running.

Even Lockhart appeared to blanch beneath the thick white paste he’d painted on his face. But he caught himself quickly, lifting his free hand, palm outward in the accepted gesture of a blessing.

“I can heal all men, even you.” His voice boomed, surely so that his words would carry down the miserable little road, now so deserted. “It is not my power that casts out ills and
demons. The saints use my words and my breath, spending their miracles with grace.”

“Their grace must be great, as they allow you to fly.” Sorley huddled deeper in his cloak, letting his hand search through the voluminous folds, seeking his sword hilt. “I have ne’er seen such a sight.”

Unaware of Sorley’s loathing, Sir Henry tipped his cowled head toward the river. “As thon waters roll, my son, so does God’s mercy. All things are possible when one is chosen to perform His benefice.”

In the shadows of his cloak’s hood, Sorley felt his lips twist hard. He turned briefly to the river, gliding silently past on the far side of the sad little market square. If he faced Lockhart now, the bastard would surely sense his anger and disgust.

And the King, in his goodness, had made him swear he wouldn’t act unless Lockhart’s treachery was proven beyond a doubt.

His guise as a floating monk would be forgiven, the King’s mercy generous.

Betraying Scotland to weight his own purse was unpardonable.

So Sorley schooled his features into a semblance of hope and humility and limped closer to the colorful rug with its coin-filled cauldron.

“Such as I dinnae have much,” he murmured, dropping a coin atop the others.

“Soon, lad, you’ll have all you desire.” Lockhart nodded sagely, his free hand rising in another blessing. “Your health restored, and your prosperity.”

“I am grateful.” Sorley nodded thanks, then moved slowly around the carpet, limping less with each step. He stopped in front of Lockhart, meeting his eyes with a gaze that was steady and calm.

Sorley let a small smile quirk his lips, then lowered his voice, speaking in the clipped tones of the English. “It is said
that heather blooms sweeter on the south side of the Tweed.” The damning words tasted bitter on his tongue. “And ale flows more freely, the women…”

“Are a pleasure untold,” Lockhart finished, the coded answer sealing his fate.

Sorley just looked at him, not surprised the courtier recognized the secret phrases used for identification between spies, men who acted in the name of their own English crown and the Scottish vermin who served them, selling their souls for coin.

“A shame you’ll ne’er again know such delights.” Sorley switched to his own voice. “Your days are done.” Stepping closer, he threw back his hood, revealing his face. “The King’s wolves are hungry.”

“You!” Lockhart jolted, his eyes rounding.

“Nae, the Fenris.” Sorley gave a slight bow. “You have heard the name?”

“See here…” Lockhart’s demeanor changed, turning sly. He glanced up and down the empty road, across the deserted market square. “All know you appreciate good living. There’s a fine sum for—”

“For what?” Sorley moved quickly, clamping his hand over Lockhart’s tight-fisted grip on the staff. “Posing as a miracle-caster to meet with the English King’s spies? Betraying Scotland? Turning my back on the country I love more than life itself?

“There is no recompense for such treachery. Less”—he kicked the carpet, scattering coins—“for putting false hope in the hearts of innocents. There is only one way to deal with such perfidy.” Sorley squeezed Lockhart’s hand, stopping just short of breaking the traitor’s fingers. “It’s the reason King Robert keeps ravening wolves. Men known as the Fenris, my lord.”

Lockhart’s bravura faded. “You can’t mean to…” He didn’t finish, clearly too cowardly to voice his doom.

“I can and shall.” Sorley whipped aside his cloak, drawing Dragon-Breath.