The Princess and the Templar (16 page)

Though Cahira looked away and tried to hide it, relief shone in her green eyes. “Good, thank you.”

Mildread tossed and moaned. Cahira went to her and stroked her forehead. The serving woman quieted, and Cahira sank onto her berth. Sighing again, she reached beneath it, drawing forth her harp.

“Will you play?” he asked.

“Aye, the music soothes her.”

He couldn’t believe his good fortune. For weeks he’d wanted her to play. Each time he’d asked, she’d given some excuse, though he’d often listened outside her solar door when she’d played in her solitary prison. Even through the thick castle walls, her music had touched his heart. How much more vibrant and beautiful would it sound filling this cramped cabin?

“May I?” He indicated one of the trunks.

“Please.” She smiled, and the curving of her mouth softened the anxious and weary lines in her face. “Please sit and make yourself comfortable.”

He lowered himself to the trunk. Slow, peaceful warmth spread through his body. She’d requested he stay. Unlike the times at her castle, he was no longer an outsider, skulking in the shadows. For this one brief moment, he belonged, had been invited.

She plucked the strings randomly, tuning the instrument and deciding upon a melody. He stiffened, recalling the bittersweet love ballads she’d played in the privacy of her solar. If she chose a sad song, he didn’t know if he could bear it. But she bent her head over the harp and smoothed her hands over the strings, bringing forth a lilting, soothing ballad about a lady and a unicorn. He relaxed a fraction.

Listening to her sweet voice and the resonant stirring of the harp, he couldn’t help but take his ease. His eyelids drooped as the music carried him away on a river of pleasure. Even Mildread sighed and stopped thrashing about. Raul found himself sighing, too, while relishing the rich, full notes. Hearing Cahira play and sing was a marvel, and looking upon her was like clutching a tiny piece of heaven.

The pale light from the overhead lamp picked out the golden threads in her hair, forming a nimbus of light about her head. Her fine features were silhouetted by the faint glow—the high tilt of her cheekbones and the soft line of her chin. The rays of light outlined the tender fan of her tawny eyelashes against the creamy perfection of her skin.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the soaring notes of music and the perfection of her soprano voice. The tiny cabin melted away, and in his mind’s eye, a sky blue vista took shape, stretching away to a distant and hazy horizon.

With her hands cradling the harp and the light shining about her, he could believe she was heaven’s sweetest angel, sent to earth. Only the faint seam of the scar reminded him of her iron will and courage.

An iron will tempered by loving kindness. For today, he’d learned an important lesson. Her heart wasn’t filled with arrogance but with selflessness.

Remembering their conversation when they’d set sail, he tried to envision her in a nun’s wimple, with her magnificent curls shorn and her face a stark contrast against the snowy-white habit. Alas, he failed miserably.

For as angelic as she appeared and as good and kind as she was, he’d held her in his arms and tasted the molten heat of her kiss. Too readily, he could imagine her lush with child, her breasts round and rosy with milk. Could envision her bending over and caring for a sick babe as she cared for Mildread.

No, Cahira was not meant for a nunnery. Not meant to be shut away from the earthy joys of life. Thinking thus, he held tightly to the trunk, stifling the overwhelming urge to leap to his feet and tell her how he felt.
Dios
help him, he wanted to offer her marriage and children and all that life could give a man and a woman. But his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

He couldn’t offer her anything because he owned naught—not even himself. And he no longer knew if her marriage to the earl was the answer. For in truth, he had doubts about the Sinclair as a husband. He’d seen and heard too much of the man’s cruel nature. But he couldn’t allow her to waste away behind an abbey’s walls, either.

If anyone deserved to shape her own destiny, Cahira did. And to that end, he needed to find her a good man, noble born, who wanted a wife; a decent man who would care for her and retake Kinsale. He knew his thoughts were dishonorable, knew that if he helped her to find such a man, he would fail his master and forfeit his duty. But that would be a paltry price to see her happy and content.

How he would accomplish this before they reached Castletown, he knew not.

****

Cahira stepped off the wooden gangplank, her gaze scanning the waterfront of Dornoch.

So this was Scotland.

Unfamiliar sights and sounds assailed her. The bustle of the waterfront made her dizzy, and when she put one foot in front of the other, she was surprised to feel the earth tilt beneath her feet. ’Twas as if she was still on the ship. What madness was this? She’d been looking forward to walking on dry land.

Stumbling a bit, she almost tripped over Mildread, who had stopped to kneel on the dock. On hands and knees, her serving woman kissed the rotted wood as if it were a lusty lover. Astonished, Cahira gazed at her servant, recalling stories of travelers who were so relieved to have reached land they kissed the earth. After what Mildread had been through, Cahira understood.

Raul glanced at them and smiled. He wasn’t the only one, burly porters and wiry sailors stopped and stared, too. ’Twas obvious they were fast becoming a spectacle. Cahira squeezed Mildread’s shoulder and urged her to rise.

Mildread clambered to her feet and they embraced, holding each other and swaying a bit. “Scotland’s not a right land, is it?” Mildread asked. “Not like our Eire, ’at stands put. This one rocks like the sea.”

Cahira covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Mildread had summed up the strange sensation, while faulting the new and unfamiliar place. “Aye, Mildread, ’tis strange this feeling of rocking when we’re standing still. But I don’t think Scotland is at fault.”

Raul appeared at their side and took Cahira’s elbow. “Ladies, what you’re feeling is called ‘sea legs.’ Your body grew accustomed to the movement of the ship. It takes a few moments to feel the solid earth beneath your feet.”

“Will it go ’way soon—this unholy feelin’?” Mildread asked.

“Very soon. We’ll wait until you both feel ready.”

His reassuring words and hand on her elbow steadied Cahira. The dock stopped swaying. For Mildread, though, ’twas another story, she grabbed a moss-covered piling and held on.

Cahira couldn’t help but notice how her servant’s plain brown dress hung on her like sacking on a scarecrow. Thanks to Raul’s medicine her serving woman’s sickness had abated, but she’d remained queasy and able to eat little. Cahira worried
for her health.

How could she send Mildread home now? Her maidservant had vowed, repeatedly, to never board a ship again. Cahira sighed. ’Twas yet another obstacle to overcome.

“Are you well, milady?” Raul bent close. “Can you walk?”

“I’m well. I can walk.”

Though her words proclaimed her independence, her heart fluttered with the sign of his regard. And God’s bones, she couldn’t help but savor his touch and the reassuring warmth of his powerful body. She pulled her elbow free. “Shouldn’t you find a cart?”

She must control herself and fight off the Templar’s masculine allure, as she could ill afford her desire for his touch and comfort. She must stand on her own two feet, and for the next fortnight, she needed her wits to plan an escape.

Bowing and excusing himself, Raul wove his way through the throng, seeking a cart to engage. Cahira went to Mildread and put her arm around her shoulder. “Can you walk?”

The serving woman pressed her forehead with the back of her hand, wiping away the perspiration coating her ashen face. “Aye, milady.”

“Good.”

But in truth, Mildread looked as if she needed several days of rest. Slowly, Cahira led her serving woman across the dock to where Raul waited. Sean joined them with the baggage, and Evan led the knights’ horses down the gangplank. After the chests were loaded, and the destriers tied to the back of the cart, Raul turned and offered his hand.

She took it gingerly, steeling herself against the heat of her response at his slightest touch. Releasing his hand quickly, she climbed onto the wagon seat beside the hired driver who greeted her by tugging on his forelock.

“I think Mildread should ride,” Cahira said. “She’s weak as a newborn lamb.”

Raul agreed and helped Mildread into the back of the cart. She wedged herself between the trunks, leaning against one of them and closing her eyes.

The wagon lurched off with Raul and the two knights walking beside. Cahira slid her fingers into the sleeve of her
gown and touched the scrap of rough parchment secreted there, seeking reassurance it was well hidden.

She’d given the ship’s navigator a ring of gold for a land map of Scotland. For two days, she’d poured over it, locating monasteries and abbeys where she could shelter and memorizing the roads and port towns that would lead her home.

Satisfied her map was secure, she glanced up, curious about her first visit to another country. The people looked much the same, though the coppery-colored hair of her homeland wasn’t as prevalent. The Scots’ features appeared sharper, and their faces more angular. Their clothing bespoke a richer living than their counterparts in Eire. And they walked faster, as if they were in a perpetual state of hurry.

The streets were different, too. Most were cobbled, whereas in Eire, hard-packed earth sufficed. At first, ’twould seem the Scots’ were a trifle more civilized. But when she saw and smelled the town’s runoff in the gutters, she changed her mind. At home the good brown earth swallowed most of the filth.

The Scottish town appeared crowded, with every square inch of space allotted to a shop or dwelling. Some buildings even overhung the streets, completely blocking the sunlight.

Rather than intriguing her, the unfamiliar sights made her yearn for home, for whitewashed walls and thatched roofs and flowers at the stoops. The Scottish town struck her as ugly and unwelcoming. Its people appeared brusque and unintelligible, speaking a form of Gaelic weighed heavily by their unfamiliar brogue.

A trumpet blared, interrupting her musings. The carter pulled his horse up, and they faced the central thoroughfare. Mobs of people stopped midstride and waited on the side of the street. Raul came forward and stood beside her.

“What is it?” Cahira asked.

“Must be the royal entourage,” Raul replied.

“Aye, ’tis that,” the carter interjected. “It’s Himself, it is.”

She found the driver’s words garbled and his statement as clear as mud, so she turned to Raul again.

“I think he means Robert the Bruce,” he explained, but his face wore a perplexed frown. “I’m surprised His Highness feels confident enough to parade in public after his defeat at Methuen.”

“Methuen?”

“A battle with the English this June past. Longshanks all but destroyed the Bruce’s army. Rumors have it he’s been hiding all winter.”

“I see.” She turned her attention to the passing cortege.

Cahira watched the impromptu parade of Scottish monarchy with interest. The Bruce’s retinue was sorely lacking with only a handful of knights on horseback. Even more telling, the knights’ armor was dented and rusted, and their mounts nothing more than walking bags of bones. In truth gazing upon the motley procession, she wasn’t surprised this monarch had spent the winter in hiding.

The Bruce’s men-at-arms followed on foot, carrying a few pikestaffs and the odd scythe or two, as if they’d just come from the fields. They wore mostly rags, and some even marched barefoot, in sharp contrast to the well-shod townspeople.

But the Bruce himself was another matter. Seated on the only horse that looked as if it had eaten in a fortnight, he wore a suit of the finest meshed armor, ornamented with regalia of gold. He waved and smiled to the cheering crowd, displaying even white teeth. He was young for a monarch, with sandy-colored hair and a clear, sunburned complexion. His countenance was handsome, and if she ignored his followers and concentrated on the man himself, he would seem to be a noble lord, indeed.

“The Sinclair supports him,” Raul said.

“Not very well, I’m afraid.” She directed her gaze at the men’s bare feet.

“Nothing is simple in this country. The Bruce and his men have been acting the part of outlaws these months past, living off the land.”

“Why doesn’t he shelter his men with the Sinclair?”

He turned to her, a look of surprise in his eyes. “To do that would give his cause over to the earl.”

“What do you mean? I thought you said your lord supported the Bruce.” Her mind whirled. She’d always known politics to be a murky business, but what Raul seemed to be implying bordered on treachery.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he surveyed the procession. “A monarch must never be completely dependent on an earl’s generosity.” Then he lowered his voice. “Better to starve in the field with your loyal subjects, than be warm and well-fed in the wolf’s den.”

She gasped. “Do you know what you suggest?”

He nodded and glanced at the old man who was driving the cart. But the carter didn’t appear to be listening. He was too busy cheering the tail end of the Bruce’s army.

“And you would force me into the wolf’s jaws?” she asked.

His gaze collided with hers. Something moved in his eyes, a peculiar gleam and for one brief moment, she thought he would gainsay her.

Fastening on what he might be thinking, her hopes took wing. But in the next instant, they tumbled to the ground when he directed, “Carter, let’s make way. The parade is over, and I’ve paid you good silver to take us to the abbey.”

The driver muttered under his breath, but he did as he was told, flapping the reins over his horse’s back. The wagon rumbled forward.

Raul glanced at Mildread. “We should get her to bed.”

Cahira smoothed her skirts with a trembling hand. She’d been so close; she’d even caught the scent—the too-ripe smell of indecision. Had she shaken the Templar’s conviction? Had he changed his mind?