When Fate Dictates (10 page)

We lay by the fire until the embers were
little more than a faint glow, eventually falling asleep in each
other’s arms.

The fire had subsided by the time we awoke
and I pulled the coat higher over us. Simon stirred, pulling me
into the crook of his arms. “Good morning,” he whispered.

“Good morning Simon. Did you sleep well?”

He smiled down at me, tightening his arm
around me. “Better than I have slept in a very long time wee Corran
and for that I have you to thank.” I took his meaning and had to
confess, if only to myself, that I too had slept far better than I
had in a very long time. Feeling a little awkward and slightly
embarrassed I hastily changed the subject, turning my eyes to the
gray, cloud-laden sky.

“It looks as though we are going to be riding
in the rain today,” I said, in what even I had to admit was a very
feeble attempt at idle conversation.

He laughed, “Since when have we made idle
chatter about the state of the weather?” A flush of embarrassment
rose in my cheeks. “Come here,” he said, planting a kiss firmly on
my lips. “Help me find some dry wood to fuel this fire before we
both freeze to death.”

For days we rode through the countryside.
Passing fleetingly through so many different villages that I soon
lost track of the names of the places through which we passed. In
the evenings, when we were able to easily find one, we would sleep
and eat at an inn. On the frequent occasions that we were unable to
secure lodgings, we would sleep under the cover of rough camps, in
fields, forests, and derelict barns and once in the ruins of an old
church.

Simon was usually able to snare us a rabbit
or hare, occasionally a bird or two, but some evenings we slept
cold and hungry.

During the days we rode, double, through
rough countryside, avoiding the roads and well-trodden paths of
other travelers, in favor of more private routes. It was not so
much that we avoided the company of other travelers but more
Simon’s concerns that we may meet with a highwayman or two.

I had given Simon the gold nugget back for
safekeeping, but each day and night we remained on the road left us
vulnerable to its loss.

On our first morning in England, after we had
saddled the horse and left our rough camp in the rocky hills of
Northumbria, Simon asked what I initially considered to be a rather
odd question. “Are you any good with a needle and thread?”

I smiled, thinking to myself that if my
grandmother had taught me anything in life it was how to sew. “I
think I can sew alright, at least my grandmother always told me I
could,” I replied, wondering what reason he could possibly have for
asking such a question. “Why do you ask?”

He planted a light kiss on the top of my
head. “You never change do you?”

“What do you mean by that?” I said
defensively.

“You can never just answer my question or
follow my orders; you are always questioning.” I swung round in the
saddle to look at him and was relieved to see a smile of jest on
his face.

“I am not questioning your authority
Simon.”

“You know as well as I lass, that you don’t
like to be told, by me or anyone else, what to do.” It was
difficult to argue with him because fundamentally I knew he was
right. Despite my best attempts, pride and stubborn determination
always drove me to argue.

“That is not...” I began in response, but he
ignored my words, simply talking over them.

“I need you to sew the gold into my
trousers,” he said in reply to my earlier question.

I opened my mouth to ask why but was again
stopped when his break for breath did not prove long enough to
facilitate interruption. “If we meet with a highwayman before we
reach York, the nugget will be safely hidden in the hem of my
trousers.”

I nodded in agreement, but wondered privately
how practical he would find the weight of the gold dragging on his
hem. Nonetheless I bit my tongue not wishing to be chastised for
arguing again.

“We will find an inn in Newcastle and in the
city I will get you a needle and thread,” he said, “and whilst we
are on the subject of stitching, I think you will also need to have
a dress. I don’t want to be arriving in York with a lad on my arm.”
I smiled at this, thinking as I did that my grandmother had been so
very right. She had once told me that all men were proud beasts,
who would never pass up the opportunity to show off their lasses to
other men. However, whatever his reasons for wanting to buy me a
new dress I was not going to argue. The trousers and cotton shirt I
was wearing had not been washed since I put them on and had become
rough and uncomfortable over the weeks of riding and sleeping in
them. I longed for the softness of new wool and clean, crisp cotton
against my skin and dreamt often of the comforts of my home; the
simple pleasure of clean, well-mended clothes, a familiar shelter
over my head. The memory of the smell of my grandmother’s cooking
tore savagely at my heart.

“I would like that very much Simon, thank
you,” I said gratefully.

“It will be my pleasure. I look forward to
seeing you wear it,” he said with genuine sincerity.

That night we camped in the barren hills of
the Northumbrian moorland. It was a cold night and the moon shone
brightly from a cloudless sky. The ground was icy beneath us as we
huddled like spoons together for comfort and warmth under a thick
woolen blanket. We tried to sleep, but Simon could not settle for
worry of highwaymen. His constant uneasy shifting kept me as much
from sleep as it did him and I knew that he would not rest now
until we reached Newcastle.

“Simon?” I whispered, feeling him move
against me. “Simon, are you awake?”

He grunted irritability. “Aye, I am
awake.”

“Why don’t we give up on sleep and pack up
the camp? You are so restless that I can’t sleep and I am sure you
are not getting much sleep with all the moving you are doing.”

“Aye, I can’t sleep well tonight,” he said,
rolling onto his side. Facing me he draped his arm across my
waist.

“Shall I saddle Percy?” I asked.

“I can think of other things I would rather
be doing,” he said, the meaning of his words becoming abundantly
clear as he slid the point of his finger up the small of my
back.

“No Simon, you don’t want to be doing that
now. If we ride now you will get to Newcastle much sooner.”

He kissed my forehead gently. “You are a very
lovely creature, do you know that?” he said his voice thick with
desire.

I smiled back at him with a glint of promise
in my eyes. “Is that so, Simon?”

“Come here,” he said, grabbing my arm and
drawing me against him. “I have no interest in Newcastle just now,”
he whispered.

“Well what do you have an interest in then?”
I asked in feigned ignorance. He laughed a deep throaty laugh.

“Do you really need me to spell it out for
you lass?” he said, dropping his head to my raised nipples, kissing
them lightly through the thin cotton shirt. “How would you like me
to show you just what I have an interest in?” he asked, sliding his
hand through the gap in my shirt and circling the tight peaks of my
breast. A moan escaped my throat as he slid the corner of the shirt
off my shoulder. “You are mine wee Corran, and I intend to have
you.”

******

We rode into Newcastle three days later. Its
coal industry boomed around us like a giant black monster. Its wide
airy streets and tall brick built houses with their chimneys
tirelessly smoking the fumes of the black fuel.

Simon pulled the reins to the side, steering
the horse toward the marketplace in Newgate Street. I gasped in
shock, staring wide eyed at a set of gallows on which a young woman
stood before a jeering crowd, her face sodden and stained by tears
of hysteria and terror.

“Don’t look,” he whispered, his arm closing
around me for support. I drew a sharp, silent breath as the hangman
dropped a looped rope around her head. She struggled frantically,
pulling at the ropes that bound her hands behind her back.

“Why are they going to hang her?” I asked my
voice panicked with terror.

“I have no idea Corran, but it’s not our
business,” he said firmly, tightening his arms protectively around
me.

“Simon, she is only a girl. She can’t be as
old as I am,” I protested.

“Hush! I told you, it is not our business and
I am not about to make it so.”

“But Simon we can’t just sit here and watch
her hang.”

“Now listen to me, Corran, I am not planning
on telling you again. We stay out of this. Do you hear me?” he
warned, as a coal wagon clunked nosily past us, dropping lumps of
its load into the road as it went. I looked down from our vantage
point on the horse and noticed a beggar man chasing the wagon,
frantically collecting its spill. A vast amount of ragged traders
hustled their goods, the old and crippled lay abandoned in their
own filth; tiny half-starved, urchins littered the streets with
their mothers, half-dressed, peddling the oldest trade known to
man; and then my eyes traveled back up to the young girl on the
gallows. I watched in frozen bewilderment as the wealthy, well-fed
and dressed men and women paraded their way through the streets,
their purposes unaltered by the carnage through which they
walked.

We found a room in a modern inn; the building
and design totally embodied the outward prosperity of the city. Our
room was lavishly furnished, boasting the largest canopied four
poster bed I had ever seen. Its bedding so opulent and heavy in
material, color and design that I had to wonder how Simon was
planning to pay for the room.

A large fire fueled by the black gold that
paved the city streets warmed the room. The mantle displayed a
lavish woodcarving of entwined roses etched on a lattice background
of imitation lace. Some of the flowers were splayed, boldly
blooming their treasures for all to see. Others lay shyly in the
shadows of their companions, their petals tightly closed to the
eyes of the world, their mysteries hidden for another day. Then,
finally, the buds on the brink of blossom; their secrets
half-revealed, half-hidden, offered a tantalizing hint of the
promise they held within. It all matched perfectly with the floral
lacework pattern of the paper which lined the walls of the
room.

“Would you like to come with me and see if we
can find you that dress?” he asked soon after we had arrived in the
room.

“That would be nice Simon, thank you,” I
replied, still staring wide eyed and open mouthed at the opulence
of the decor.

“You can close your mouth now,” he said
smiling down at me.

“It all looks very expensive,” I said rather
pathetically.

“That’s good then,” he said, “because it is
all very expensive.”

“Simon I really don’t mean to nag,” I
started, as he opened his mouth to interrupt me.

“But you are going to do so anyway, aren’t
you?” he finished.

I sighed, realizing that he was right, but
unable to help myself. “It’s only that I can’t help but wonder how
we are going to pay for all this. I mean, you can’t want to waste
the gold on one night’s comfort and we have no other money to speak
of?”

“Well I have enough money to buy you a new
gown and that is what I would like to do now,” he said, ignoring my
question.

My hands went to my hips and a frown creased
my brow. “Simon, will you please tell me where you are planning to
get the money to pay for all this,” I said, my voice becoming high
and shrill with frustration.

“You know you are quite beautiful when you
are mad,” he said, moving toward me.

I stood my ground refusing to let him
distract me. His hands encircled my waist and he pulled me hard
against him. “I think you need to take this shirt and trousers
off,” he said.

I pulled at his arms, trying to wriggle free.
Tightening his hold on me he lifted me off the ground and dropped
me on the bed. I smiled as I scrambled, playfully trying to avoid
him, but he grabbed my wrists in his hand. I squirmed as he lowered
himself on top of me; dropping his head he kissed me hard.

“You want me now then?” he groaned.

I nodded helplessly, my eyes fixed on his
strong, taut shoulders. He smiled down at me, kneeling and leaning
onto his thighs, straddling my legs.

“Dear God but you are beautiful,” he said, as
he brushed a golden lock of hair from my face.

We lay together naked on the great four
poster bed, its curtains draped around us. The crackle of the coal
fire was the only sound, save for the gentle rhythmic rasp of our
deep breathing. He held his arm out for me and I slid my head into
its crook, my tangled hair splayed untidily behind me.

“You are so wicked,” he said, lifting his
head to kiss my forehead.

“I am not,” I feigned in protest. Giggling
and squirming I pretended to wriggle away from him. He pulled his
arm from around me and rolled to tower above me, pinning my body
beneath him.

“Oh, yes, you are,” he said.

We slept then, for how long I do not know,
but when we awoke, night had fallen. The only light in the room was
a dim glow from the smoldering coals of the fire. He kissed me
lightly and then rose from the bed, making his way toward a water
jug and bowl.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I am going to have a wash and shave.”

“You are going to shave, now?” I questioned.
“What point is there in shaving now?”

“There is something I must do,” he said,
pouring water from the jug into the bowl, “And it will be better
achieved if I don’t look like I have just had a lass in bed with
me.”

I frowned at him, growing annoyed. “What
could you possibly have to do at this hour?” He ignored my question
and reached for his blade.