Chapter 9

A lot of persuasion on Rob’s part was needed afore he and Guaril came to an agreement, a bargain. By now most of the tents had been dismantled and the wagons packed in anticipation, draining all the colour frae the clearing, leaving drab, muddy surroundings in its stead. The morning couldn’t pass fast enough for Rob. He wandered betwixt the gypsy camp and the cave, unable to stand still, walking as if red-hot coals that he had to avoid or burn scattered his path. Aye, and burn he had frae the moment he found out about the twins—two lads. He hadn’t believed Guaril to begin with, but the gypsy had made him believe.

Harder to understand was the gypsy’s conviction that all would be well with the endeavour—that he would see Melinda soon. Rowena had predicted the happening. Guaril was convinced the lass had the gift of sight, and he put his trust in that the way Rob would trust Nhaimeth with his life. Size had naught to do with it.

Apprehension—a seldom felt emotion—had gripped him over night, the way a hand might squeeze both heart and lungs making breathing impossible and sleep hard to come by. Not even the notion of wrapping up his aching body in the folds of his auld plaid for comfort and the familiar scents of home could help him relax, could stop the question constantly ringing in his ears. Why hadn’t she contacted him, sent somebody to Cragenlaw with a message?

Two sons and he didn’t know what either of them looked like.

What had he done to make her hate him with such vigour that she would keep his bairns’ birth a secret? He was still growling under his breath as Nhaimeth approached with Rowena.

Rob was curious since, to his knowledge, the pair hadn’t spent any time together over the two days since they arrived in a stoush frae the battlefield. Mayhap he was obtuse and short on understanding, but he had assumed they would naturally gravitate together. Idiot. He might just as well have imagined Melinda and Rowena to be friends because they both had green eyes.

The moods he had been suffering frae were to blame.

He couldn’t remember being under such pressure before—too much anticipation, not enough action. It felt as if he were dancing on the spot frae a surplus of energy when at last they reached him. Rob didn’t know why he smiled; mayhap the expressions on their faces. He looked down, the one unpretentiously familiar, the other similar yet distinctly feminine, and both appeared as if they were bursting with news. When finally they spoke, though they stood two hand-widths apart, it was with one voice. “It’s time to leave if ye want to get there afore the Lady Melinda.”

Now the time was nigh, anxiety flowed frae him, a weight lifted off his solid shoulders sliding down to his fingertips and thence to the ground. With little time for preparation, there was a lot that might go wrong with the plan, but he would deal with that as he worked through it. He was a great believer in tying a knot in a difficulty—a make and mend in life. The act of swiftly climbing over the next hurdle that life put in his way he had learned frae his mother. Long afore the McArthur came into his life—afore they bore the same name—Morag had taken him on that journey frae Wolfsdale, keeping them both safe by taking the less travelled byways. At moments like this he felt he was repeating that trek, still waiting to discover his destiny.

“Can ye trust La Mont’s woodcutter? We wouldn’t want to fall into a trap.” Emotion roughened his voice as he remembered the days and nights he had passed here over the summer looking for Melinda, unaware his wee sons were nae distance away. As if to hide his feelings he grumbled, “A repetition of the months I spent under La Mont’s roof is the last thing I want. This time there would be nae honour involved in the visit.”

As the pair of wee folk stared back at him, Rob noticed a soft pout to Rowena’s mouth that would have looked out of place on Nhaimeth. Her voice carried the song of places he had never been and, if this venture went wrong, places he would never go, he decided as she tried to reassure him.

“Chances are ye might know the man. Ronald’s worked for the Barons at Wolfsdale much of his life, supplying wood for both hearth and kitchen, but at his age he’s mostly past such heavy work. A lot of folk won’t have any truck with gypsies, but Ronald respects our differing beliefs and we his.”

He nodded, accepting that fate was pulling at him. “Let’s away then,” he agreed, accepting Rowena’s word, working alongside the others as he saddled Gun-eagal. They were a motely group, Guaril and Rowena leading the way followed by Nhaimeth and him, with his warriors riding at the rear.

Nhaimeth looked solemn. When Rob had been released from his well appointed gaol, the wee man had been waiting a big grin on his face, Jamie Ruthven by his side—friends who had stood with him through thick and thin … for the most part thick, since all three of them were inclined to fall into trouble. Now that Jamie had married Eve, he was less inclined to join their adventures. On their last two ventures south, he and Nhaimeth had been but two, joining the many supporting Malcolm Canmore’s march across the border. For them, both journeys had been more about feeling their oats and letting off an excess of élan than any great cause, and neither ended with any great success. The first had cost the McArthur the amount of Rob’s ransom; this time the price had been the death of a King.

If there was any lesson to be learned frae this latest venture, it was: don’t put yer trust in a Norman. The misfortune of taking that stance was diminished by Melinda being Norman, but if he didn’t get her and his bairns away frae here, his sons would become Normans as well.

With that thought circling his brain and Nhaimeth as usual riding by his side, he followed Rowena and Guaril to the woodcutter’s cottage, though a better name for it would be hovel. The housecarls dropped off the troop and waited farther back, hidden by trees and shrubs, while the rest of them took positions closer to the woodcutter’s home.

It was in Rob’s mind that any decent woodcutter might have made an effort to trim off a few of the drooping branches of pine and larch that loomed over his little house, if only to let the light in. As it was, the surrounding trees worked to their advantage, making guid cover for him and Nhaimeth as well as the gypsies and their horses.

Dismounting, Rowena patted Tinks, her palfrey—a bay very like the one Nhaimeth used to own, afore the McArthur gave him his sturdy palfrey. Mayhap she would be given one of the foals that Gun-eagal sired, part of his bargain with Guaril, who had been mightily taken by the huge black and white stallion, and Rob could see why. Everything about these gypsies was colourful and bright, unusual and eye-catching—an undeniable truth that encompassed the clothes they wore and included the gleaming bands of gold and silver at their wrists and the chains adorning their necks.

Afore entering the woodcutter’s wee house, Rowena went through her process of settling her pony down, finally rubbing the backs of her knuckles down Tinks’ nose—a ritual that appeared to work as the frisky wee pony hung his head, long nose level with its chest as he closed his eyes. Rob couldn’t say the same for Gun-eagal’s mood; the big charger needed a gallop to work the fidgets out of him. That said, if everything went to plan later this afternoon, he’d be riding away with Melinda if not across his saddlebow then in the back of a gypsy wagon.

Time stretched until it seemed Rowena had been gone forever afore he heard the noise of horses arriving at the other side of the auld building. It surprised him that Melinda would even think to enter the broken-down dwelling. He remembered her as being very particular about her appearance, fussy about getting dirty—Rob smiled to himself—except in bed.

Melinda certainly wasnae the first lass he’d had, just the best of a fair few, but she hadn’t been shy with him, told him she loved him, as he had her, and when she smiled that love had come shining through.

Poor Ronald. Melinda’s heart went out to him as she imagined him having to spend his days in this gloomy house, its roof and walls in poor repair. Her father always said not everyone could be as fortunate as they, but Ronald had served them well. Surely the old man, having been the provider of the means to eat hot food and warm their toes at a roaring fire, counted for something. The air in the clearing felt damp, clammy. It smelled of last summer’s rotting leaves, as if the sun never dipped a finger of sunshine into the small space surrounded by thick forest.

Becky pushed back a door of woven willow sticks and went inside, entering first to check for any unacceptable surprises. Melinda followed at her heels as soon as Becky turned slightly, dipping her plump chin as signal that all was well. Inside the cottage, the faintness of the light challenged her eyesight. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust, but that was naught compared to the smell that staggered her, made her want to hold her breath. It would take more than a signal to make that go away.

Impulse saw her taking out a scented kerchief embroidered by her own hands; she held it to her nose for but a moment then desisted. Becky’s reaction wasn’t quite so discourteous, and Melinda realised she had never made any attempt to discover her wet-nurse’s circumstances—too caught up in her own pain and dissatisfaction with the way her life had turned out. Surely the woman’s home couldn’t be this awful. All that mattered was Becky’s kindness. She had gone out of her way to do Melinda a favour. Everyone in here was doing her one by keeping secret the reason for her little jaunt into the forest. To turn up her nose and show them naught but condescension was to do a disservice to these folk who had done naught but help. She hadn’t come to Ronald’s little house as Lady of the Manor, but as Melinda, a mother who had fears and questions about what the future might bring.

“I bid ye good day, Ronald,” she murmured, catching sight of the once virile woodcutter sitting towards the back of his tiny house. The sullen shadows probably hid the worst of his descent into the rigours of old age and poverty—an unimaginable cruelty but one she determined she would do something about after her return to Wolfsdale.

Lifting a shaky hand then setting it back down on the arm of his chair, she heard his mumbled greeting, “I bid ye welcome, my Lady.”

Finally, her eyes became better accustomed to the dim light. Shadows no longer disguised the finely carved wooden chair the old man’s body—naught but a bag of bones—slumped down into—a chair made with such craftsmanship it would match anything in her father’s manor and on the back of that thought Melinda’s realised that Ronald must have carved every stick of furniture by himself—the chair, stools and table included. In times past, it had never entered Melinda’s mind to ask whether Ronald had had a family—a woman to cook and children to sit around the table. She had been too young, too full of her own importance, and took the kindnesses he did her for granted.

Her gaze settled on the figure sitting at the table—another shock as she realised the gypsy awaiting her looked barely more than a child. Her green eyes, however, told a different story. They were old in wisdom beyond her years. “I bid ye good day, Rowena,” she whispered, as if too much noise would cause the shadows thrown by the single thick candle to gather closer.

“Welcome, my Lady. I’m pleased to think I could help ye,” was the Gypsy’s response, her voice soft and melodious, as if she too had a dread of the shadows that flickered against the patched walls. Her crimson kirtle reached just below her knees, bright, gaudy, worn over a yellow shift and under an embroidered lambskin jerkin—a combination that spoke loudly of confidence. With a wave of her hand that set the bands of gold on her wrist jingling, Rowena indicated the second stool. “Please, Lady, sit down and we shall see what we shall see.”

While still quite young, Melinda once had a superstitious maid who delighted in filling her charge’s head with prophecies made by the casting of ancient runes. She saw none of that here—simply the plain scrubbed wood table and the tallow candle, slowly melting down its irregular edges into the carved wooden holder at its base.

The three-legged stool looked none too steady, but since it was matched by the one Rowena perched upon—perched seemed the appropriate word since her feet didn’t reach the ground. Melinda followed suit. As soon as she was seated opposite Rowena, the gypsy signalled that Melinda should put her hands on the table by laying her own hands palm up, knuckles touching wooden boards smooth from long years of use. Releasing a shaky sigh Melinda proceeded to open her palms as shown.

Two women, palms bared to any who wanted to look. Melinda noted hers seemed pale and unused by comparison—the hands of a woman who had naught to do, and did it all day long: sewing, feeding Harry. Melinda expected her palms told few tales if compared with Rowena’s callused thumbs and work worn palms. Immediately, Rowena leant forward to study Melinda’s hands in the candlelight.

The gypsy touched the centre of Melinda’s left palm with a fingertip. “This is what ye’re given…” she murmured, and moved to Melinda’s right hand, touching the heart of it as she had the other, saying, “...and this is what ye do with it,” as she looked intently into Melinda’s face through eyes Melinda realised were as deep as a pool in the heart of the forest’s greenery.

It was the thought of what her father might want her to do with it that disturbed her, remembering the way the knight he had brought home had looked at her across her father’s table. That’s what made her shudder as if a goose had walked across her grave, not the future about to be revealed.

“Ye fear him, and ye have a right to, but push yon fears aside, for if ye follow yer heart ye will find he’s not the man shaping yer future,” Rowena assured her, turning back to examine her left hand. “This is yer past, the life’s path that has shaped ye. Yer mother died young, when ye were but a wee lass. She loved ye very much.” She shook her head sadly. “It was a cruel death at the hands of one meant to care for her. Be careful that he does not bring ye to the same end, for he could if ye do not do what he wants. He’s a man who has no time for folk who refuse to follow his wishes.”

Whom did the gypsy have in mind, she wondered. It couldn’t be Sir Charles; he was too young to have harmed her mother. As for her father, he was a harsh man, but in the few times he had brought himself to speak of her mother, it was always with love and respect—well, respect at least.

“There is a young man here, not too long ago. A lot of turmoil surrounds him, this warrior.” Melinda held her breath as she remembered Charles St Clair at her father’s side, fresh from the battlefield and full of his prowess. His ego and self worth were written in the way he walked, how he carried himself as if expecting lesser mortals to give sway to him.

A man without a skerrick of pity in his silvery blue eyes.

She would gladly die rather than marry him; mayhap her father would kill her if she didn’t. She gave herself a mental shake, as if her father would ever hurt her. Look how kind he had been, refusing to cast her out or even send her to a nunnery because of her indiscretion. And when she gave birth to the twins he had been thrilled—two grandsons—though her heart wished he had shown her a little more sympathy and appreciation for the effort and pain it had cost her to please him. Men had just no comprehension of women’s matters.

“Ye loved this young man, this young warrior, but had to let him go.”

Melinda sighed, a momentary relief as she realised the gypsy spoke of Rob.

Rowena turned her hand to the side and touched the lines beneath the joint of her little finger. “Two sons ye gave him; treasure them, for ye will have no more.” Raising her eyebrows, Melinda huffed, her bairns were hardly a secret, but did her reluctance to have any more show in her face, her eyes?

Lifting her other hand, Rowena studied both palms together, compared them. “Ye have two choices. Ye can do as yer father bids, but that way ye risk losing yer children, for he won’t let them go and yer life with the dark knight will be unhappy and barren. Or ye can follow yer heart with the warrior who will come back for ye.”

The gypsy had hardy finished speaking when the door burst open. Before Melinda could raise her head, a dark length of felted cloth enveloped her head and face. She screamed, clawed at the scratchy length wound around her, binding her arms to her side so she could nae longer move them. But they couldn’t stop her screams, simply muffled them and her pleas until she ceased. Only the sound of heavy breathing penetrated the barrier as strong arms held close. Her silent assailant was strong, proved by the way he hoisted her onto a broad shoulder. Her feet dangled; she kicked them out, but her assailant merely laughed as if he was over-large for her to do any damage.

Her spine hurt where it scraped against the top of the low doorframe. No worsted wrapping could prevent her noticing that they were outside where the air was fresher and the scents were of pine trees and summer’s mouldering leaves.

The only thing she could say with any confidence as her assailant slung her, belly down, across a rider’s saddlebow was that this had been a trap, but who had set it or would want to was beyond the imagining of a brain wracked with the tremors of panic. Terrified of what lay ahead, she wriggled and squealed in an effort to escape.

Taken hostage by a gypsy.

Her heart sank. Most of what Rowena had told her might have been made up, but she hadn’t been far from the mark when she described the man who could only be her father. If he could have her sons without her, would he pay ransom for a daughter he no longer needed?

She could hear someone speaking softly, the conversation muted by the layers of cloth binding her. Then, as the horse moved off, no head covering could prevent her realising she was high off the ground, her head and feet swinging to the horse’s gently loping stride. A strong hand lay across her back, as if to hold her steady. Was it because he minded the discomfort that made her cry out, or merely because her own attempts to recover her sense of balance inconvenienced whoever was abducting her?

Her ribs ached, and if he held her there too long, she might just lose her stomach contents—a perverse sort of justice.

Gradually, she became immune to the discomfort and concentrated her efforts on willing her captor to set her down. The sooner he released her from this uncomfortable position atop his horse, the better pleased her stomach would be. She attempted to take her mind off all the terrible things that could befall her—easier thought than done. The most insistent memory in her head was listening to Rowena talk of her mother, of Ester’s cruel death and to take care she did not suffer the same end.

Even though bound, her breasts ached as her milk filled them with the sustenance her son needed. That’s when she started to cry, for herself, and more, for her sons.

If they had stolen Becky as well, who would be there to feed the bairns? Nobody she trusted to keep them both safe—aye, even Ralf.