Pride of the Clan (14 page)

Espying a copse of hawthorn, he cut away from a bend in the river. Hawthorn trees leafed early and would provide adequate cover. He dismounted, unable to rid himself of the feeling of eyes on him.
 

He removed the saddles and bridles from both mounts and watched them munch on the spring grass. Dubh wouldn’t stray, and if Bàn wandered away, his stallion would soon discourage it. It was more likely the palfrey would stay close to Dubh.
 

He propped the saddle against a tree and sat crosslegged with his back to it, confident his faithful horse would alert him to any danger.

He poked around in his satchel, and pulled out the stale bread and cheese, wishing there was mead left to wash it down, or whisky even better. He finished off the food and strolled to the water’s edge, scooping up a handful or two of the cold water to quench his thirst.

He sauntered back to check on both horses, stretched, then settled back against the tree, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. The light wind dropped as darkness cloaked the glade and frogs struck up their chorus. There was a hint of spring in the night air. He decided he’d imagined being watched as the fragrance of Margaret’s sachet stole into his nostrils.

He wasn’t certain how long he’d dozed when a prickling sensation crept up his nape. Alarm gripped his vitals. Someone had entered the glade. Resisting the urge to jump to his feet, he narrowed his eyes, trying to discern if Dubh was agitated. The stallion seemed perfectly calm.

But wait!

Someone was standing between the horses. A man. Big.

Rheade got to his feet slowly, dagger in hand. He’d have to be wary. The intruder might not be alone. He advanced stealthily, until a deep voice said, “’Tis Joss,
melord
.”

~~~

Rheade inhaled deeply as he sheathed his weapon, his heart thudding in his ears. “Joss,” he exclaimed. “What in the name of the saints are ye doing here?”

The giant stroke Dubh’s neck. “Fine ‘orse,” he mumbled.

Exasperated, Rheade combed a hand through his hair, glad at least that his knees had ceased trembling. Margaret had hinted at her servant’s affinity with beasts, but Dubh was ever leery of strangers, and Joss was stranger than most. “Aye. But how do ye come to be here?” he repeated. “Where’s yer brother?”

Joss’s attention remained fixed on the horse. “Oban.”

“But ye came back?”

“My Lady Margaret.”

Rheade was humbled. Before him stood a man many would deem an imbecile, who’d made the decision to abandon home and family to look out for his mistress. How had he survived in the days since they’d left Dunalastair? Rheade sensed it would be a waste of time to pose the question, but Joss had evidently dogged their movements since then. Had he watched the capture of the Stewarts?

Rheade hadn’t seen him inside Stirling Castle, but that didn’t mean anything. No one paid attention to peasants, and a man with Joss’s brute strength would easily gain employment in the stables. Any ostler would be impressed with his ability to handle horses. “Do ye ken Lady Margaret has been sent to the nunnery?” he asked.

Joss’s expression soured. “Queen.”

Rheade wasn’t surprised. News soon spread from servant to servant in any castle. “Aye, but ’tis temporary. I’m off to the Grampians to help capture Graham, then I intend to prove Margaret’s innocence and wed with her.”

For the first time the giant smiled. “Wife.”

Rheade risked putting a hand on Joss’s beefy arm. “I love her, be assured of it. Now, come rest.”

“Nay,” he replied. “Nunnery.”

He disappeared into the hawthorn, leaving Rheade to wonder if he’d dreamt the whole episode. Dubh stomped a hoof and looked in the direction Joss had gone. Rheade stroked his beloved horse. “Ye trust him, that’s good enough for me.”

THE LABORER

Three days at Emanuel Priory passed with excruciating slowness, but the nights were worse. The Superior was aware Margaret wasn't a postulant, yet she was still expected to wear a habit and take part in the divine offices.
 

Horrendous dreams of the king’s assassination plagued what little sleep she managed to get. Try as she might she couldn’t reconcile the Robert Stewart who’d come to Oban eight years ago with the man who’d committed bloody murder.

She was awakened before dawn each day to dress for Vigils at five in the morning. This office consisted of twelve psalms chanted on one mind-grating note. She seemed to have ended up in a convent lacking a single nun capable of reaching that one note.

Then came a long scripture reading and an even longer commentary on the reading.
 

The nuns were obliged to remain in the chapel for private prayer until Lauds, after which came the first meal of the day to break their fast. Margaret was usually too tired to know what she was eating.

Mass followed, then the short office of Terce.

Next came announcements. The Priory followed the Rule of Saint Benedict and Mother Superior spent most of this time expounding on it. “The nun is constantly to seek God. Whatever she does, she is to seek God’s will in everything, and union with God.”

Margaret prayed fervently for the strength to accept God’s will if it was that she spend her life in this place, but begged with equal fervor such not be the case.

Work followed. Some nuns worked as laundresses, others as cooks, some as housekeepers, others in the Infirmary. Margaret gave thanks she was assigned to help Sister Triduana in the garden. The fresh air revived her spirit, and she enjoyed getting her hands in the dirt. She fondly recalled happier times tending the herb garden at Ogilvie House with her mother. Had Edythe ripped it out yet?

The weather warmed and she hoped Rheade too felt spring’s promise as he trekked the Grampians. She savored the memory of his touch, the taste of his kiss, the musky masculine smell of him. Desire heated her body when she remembered the moment he’d pressed her hand to his hard maleness.

She doubted they’d yet captured Graham. Even in the confines of the Priory there was whispered gossip concerning the trial of the Stewarts and the pending execution which was to take place in Edinburgh. Sister Triduana seemed particularly fascinated with speculating on the horrific punishments Walter and Robert Stewart would likely suffer on that fateful day. Bile rose in Margaret’s throat along with a fear she too might suffer the same fate. Had the Queen given a thought to her now Robert’s speedy trial was over?

But there’d been no mention of Graham, and the prevailing belief was that a man might hide forever in the Grampians and never be found.

She and Triduana came indoors to observe Sext, followed by lunch, the main meal of the day. They ate in silence while listening to reading. After lunch they had free time, and Margaret took to returning to the garden. This seemed to please Sister Triduana who steadfastly maintained more help was needed. “We had a man who helped us for years, Auld Seth, but he died last winter, God rest his soul. We provide vegetables for the whole community. We need a strong back. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Margaret had to agree. It was impossible to gauge Triduana’s age. She was likely no more than forty years, but looked ninety, and with the advent of spring there was much to be done. “Will Mother Superior allow you another laborer?”

“She assures me she is seeking a mon to assist with the heavier work.”

In mid afternoon they scrubbed the dirt off their hands and faces in preparation for Nones, then another stint in the garden until Vespers. After supper the day ended with Compline, a short candlelit office. Silence followed. Margaret welcomed it.

On the fourth day, during announcements, after her usual monologue on the Rule of Saint Benedict, Mother Superior added, “Oh, aye, and we’ve a new laborer in the gardens.”

As she expected, Triduana was pleased and linked arms with her in an uncharacteristically friendly gesture as they made their way outside. She had to bear in mind nuns were trained to be detached, to care only about God and the life hereafter.
 

“She hired us a stout
mon
,” Triduana gushed. “A wee bit simple, but a willing lad.”

A flicker of hope sparked in Margaret’s breast.
 

“His name’s Joss,” Triduana went on. “He’s o’er in the vegetable patch, turning the earth.”

Heart beating too fast, Margaret looked across the herb garden. He had his back to them, but there was no mistaking the broad shoulders, the beefy arms. “Joss,” she murmured.

“Aye. But only speak to him when absolutely necessary. He’s no married, and I doubt any woman would wed with such as he. But simple men have sinful urges too.”

Margaret wanted to slap the silly woman. Her urge was to run across the fields and throw her arms around the faithful servant who hadn’t abandoned her. It was a lifeline, and she should fall to her knees in grateful thanksgiving. She longed to ask him about Shaon, and her aunt and uncle. Mayhap some disaster had befallen them, preventing the completion of the journey to Oban. “But we must recognise God in everyone,” she intoned, echoing Mother Superior’s words, hoping she sounded sufficiently pious. “I’ll introduce myself.”

Sister Triduana pouted, but then conceded. “Aye. Go then. Only a few minutes, mind. Then ye can prune them roses.”

She followed the pathway around the herb garden, hands clasped within the copious sleeves of her habit, deliberately walking slowly, her boots crunching on the gravel. Joss turned as she stepped into the soft earth of the vegetable garden and smiled. He touched a hand to his head. “Lady Margaret,” he rasped.

She’d always been fond of this misunderstood man whom she’d known since childhood, but she’d never appreciated the depth of love and loyalty in his eyes. “Joss,” she replied, her voice hoarse. “Ye came.”

He looked over at the wee shed where they kept the tools. “Aye. There.”

It was a far cry from the cozy cottage Joss occupied on Ogilvie land, and heaven knew where he’d found shelter since they’d left Dunalastair. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I have to go, but I’ll try to speak to ye daily. And ye must tell me any news. About—”

“Gra-ham,” he stuttered, then paused. “And Rheadedonnachaidhstarkeyrobertson.”

It was the longest string of words she’d ever heard him utter and it came out in one long breath. “Aye,” she murmured.

“Loves ye,” Joss rasped.

“I ken,” she replied, tears welling as she turned to make her way back to Sister Triduana. Joss resumed digging. She stopped when it occurred to her there was something she’d never said to him in all the years she’d known him. “Thank ye,” she shouted to his back.

He didn’t turn, but she was confident he’d heard. She only hoped Sister Triduana hadn’t.

THE DREAM

March 23
rd
, 1437 AD

After a brief visit to Dunalastair to gather provisions and leave his saffron
léine
with Glenna for repair, Rheade had spent a sennight tracking his brothers in the mountains. He was chilled to the bone, especially after the warmer air of the lowlands, but he was thankful the snow had ceased. Huddled under canvas at night he cursed Robert Stewart. He’d left his
raser
behind, disgusted with the condition of it after Tannoch’s abuse. Now his beard itched like the devil, adding to his frustration. He’d rather be lying in a bed of warm furs cuddling Margaret.

Rumor was rife at home that the execution of the condemned kingslayers was to be in Edinburgh three days hence. He wondered if Tannoch was aware of it. Despite his resentment of Stewart he’d no intention of being present at the gory spectacle, but suspected Tannoch would likely move heaven and earth to be there.

His suspicions proved to be correct when he came across the search party coming down the trail from Kindrochit. He hailed them loudly, lest they mistake him for Graham, bundled as he was in several plaids.

His brother dismounted as he approached and came toward him. “Took ye long enough,” he growled, grasping a handful of Rheade’s plaid. “Winter’s over and done.”
 

“And greetings to you too, brother,” Rheade said, withdrawing the hand he’d proffered that Tannoch had ignored. He worried his chieftain looked worse than he’d ever seen him. The barbarian had turned into a wild man, his face barely visible amid the unruly hair and beard. His garments were filthy. The gleam of vengeance in his eyes had turned to a glaze that bespoke madness.

Logan trotted into view and dismounted quickly, hurrying to embrace Rheade warmly as he too got off his horse. “’Tis relieved I am to see ye,” he said, tugging on his brother’s beard. “I scarcely recognised ye with such whiskers.”

“And I ye,” he replied, returning the embrace. “How fares our brother?” he whispered into Logan’s ear.

“Middling,” Logan muttered in reply. “Ye must meet Stewart of Garth,” he said loudly. “He’s joined the hunt.”

A tall man approached, his hand held out to Rheade. “’Tis good we meet, Rheade Robertson. I’ve heard of ye.”

Rheade had never met the Black Knight, but had heard of him. He shook the man’s hand. “I doubt any of it was good, especially if it came from Tannoch.”

Garth eyed him curiously, slapping Logan on the back. “Nay. Yon chieftain hasna spoken three words to me since I brought my men to join this merry chase. But yer younger brother has good things to say about ye.”

Rheade wondered if Logan had set the record straight concerning the capture of the Stewarts at Blair Atholl, but his brother’s expressionless face betrayed nothing.

“Yer laird is a man of few words,” Garth continued.

Rheade didn’t like to tell him Tannoch was likely irritated he might have to share the glory of Graham’s capture with someone else. Concealing your own brother had captured the assassins was one thing; it wasn’t likely Garth would keep silent. He had no reason to be loyal to Tannoch Robertson.

“How fares Margaret?” Logan asked.

“Aye,” Garth said. “Logan told me of her. ’Tis a travesty what has happened.”

A spark of hope kindled in Rheade’s bleak heart as the trio perched on a rocky outcropping. “She was well when last I saw her. Ye ken Queen Joan sent her to the nunnery at Linlithgow Bridge?”