Chapter 5

“This way my bonnie lads, I believe he wants us to follow him,” Rob yelled, his heart full for the first time that day as for nae rhyme or reason he put his spurs into his mount’s flanks and Gun-eagal leapt. His huge horse took off as if he’d been preparing for Rob’s urging frae the moment the stag came into view like a ghost, wreathed in mist that rose frae the burn and swirled at the foot of mossy brown cliffs.

Living in the Highlands had made Rob sensitive to these creatures that folk at the Scottish court—Queen Margaret especially—would more than likely dismiss as myth or legend. Not Rob, he had seen the Green Lady for himself, and both he and Nhaimeth were witness to the ravens that had followed them through the hidden tunnels at Dun Bhuird—birds that had practically told them to place Lhilidh and Kathryn inside the stone circle where they would be safe frae any more harm—and they were right, for the Norsemen were superstitious about entering yon ancient markers that towered over man and beast alike.

Rob was first into the rushing water that came up to Gun-eagal’s hocks and cleansed the battle stained white feathers about his hooves. He heard Nhaimeth whoop behind him as his palfrey followed into the burn and the louder splashing of the clansmen’s steeds as they plunged frae the bank without hesitation, all of them after the stag.

Easier said than done. It bounded ahead of them then disappeared into what Rob had thought was solid rock, a fact that didn’t slow him down in any shape or form. Myth or not, where the stag went he intended to follow, and so he did.

Hidden frae view by a jut of rocky cliffside was a narrow entrance.

Entrance to where he had nae idea, he simply dug his heels into Gun-eagal’s side and pulled hard on the reins, turning the big beasts long nose till it pointed into the cleft in the rocks.

Rob’s shield scraped as he held it high to avoid an overhang, a noise that made his teeth clench, pitched high and sharp amongst the yells of his men as they saw what awaited them. Yet none of their mounts whinnied frae rough use of the bits in their mouths, as the men funnelled through the cliffs and out the other side into an opening scattered with beech and ash whose bare limbs reached for the rain-laden skies.

Of the stag there was nae sign.

Pulling to a halt, Rob raised his face, wondering whether the branches truly reached the clouds, and for once the large drops of rain spattered his cheeks left bare by mail and helm felt a relief instead of a nuisance. Taking a sniff of air thick with wet forest smells, he turned to Nhaimeth, who had halted his palfrey on Gun-eagal’s left side. “Can ye smell that?”

“Smoke, aye,” Nhaimeth nodded and pointed, “coming frae the other side of yon conifers.”

Rob’s eyes followed the direction of his friend’s gesture and watched as a twist of grey smoke escaped dark green pines. “Let’s follow it then.”

Nhaimeth laid a hand across the hilt of his sword. “Do ye think it’s safe?”

“Mayhap the battle has dulled my mind, but I think this is where we’re meant to go, where the stag has led us.” He spoke to them all, “Keep yer hand on yer sword if ye must, but I mean to have a look. How else will we discover what’s on the fire,” he said with a grin he’d lost since the battle began and looked around at the other two. “I don’t know about the rest of ye, but I’m starving. I wouldn’t say no to a bite of hare, and one of La Mont’s deer would be even better. What say ye to that?”

Rob shouldnae have felt surprised. The evidence had been there the last time he visited the cave. He had made note of the flat stone hearth in the clearing, and the cold ashes inside it. Two summers past, when he’d hidden out in the cave, he’d formed the notion that it was used as naught but a temporary encampment—a clearing used by hunters or charcoal burners. He’d been mistaken. Frae the look of the tents and pedlars’ wagons circling the column of smoke, he came to the conclusion this little hidden vale was being used as a winter retreat.

He searched through the recesses of his mind back to his childhood and something his grandfather had told him. Gypsies he’d called them. The name had stuck in his mind though he had his doubts it was what they called themselves—folk frae a land called Egypt, forced into Northumbria by Vikings and abandoned when the sea-wolves left.

Rob laughed inwardly, remembering the Moor’s indignation when, not knowing any better as a lad at the age of ten, he asked his Uncle Doughall’s ‘friend’ with his dark golden skin if the gypsies came frae the same land as him. “I am a Moor! Born in Andalucía. These miserable excuses for human beings may have been Egyptians, and if so they were among the lowest of the low.”

The Moor had always thought highly of himself, and after death that’s where the McArthur had hung him, frae the highest battlement atop the gate tower at Cragenlaw—the Moor’s punishment for abducting Rob and killing his friend Alexander Comlyn. He could still remember the terror of being bundled into a pedlar’s wagon not unlike the ones sitting in the clearing.

“Whist now, lads. I think this is a camp of those they call gypsies.”

Nhaimeth brought his palfrey up alongside Gun-eagal and stared at Rob, his heavy eyebrows in a crooked line above eyes creased with worry, and a skerrick of wonder. They had escaped death once that day, and for all he knew, the men in the tents and wagons could signal another threat. “I’ve ne’er heard of such folk.”

Rob nudged Gun-eagal into a walk. “I’ve seen them only once, when I was a boy and my grandfather still lived.” Closer now he saw a spit straddling dancing flames that licked at the carcass of a small pig. He winked at Nhaimeth. “Smells good. I hope there’s enough to go around.”

Within the blink of an eye, brightly clad men armed with both sword and axe strode betwixt the wagons, their stocky stature hiding the fire. Their bearing was confident, as if they felt nae need to blend into the forest background.

Rob’s memory suddenly dug up a picture of folk such as they visiting Wolfsdale, peddling a variety of wares to the peasants. They played music on a stringed instrument—soft, yet heart-stirring in a way the pipes could never be—music frae a distant land.

The biggest man appeared to be the leader. He wore a brightly patterned cloth tied over his black hair, and his moleskin jerkin jingled with splashes of silver coins, but neither his garb nor the scattering of black hair on the backs of his big fists drew Rob’s attention frae the axe he wielded.

That axe looked capable of doing as much damage as some of the knights on horseback frae whom they were in the process of escaping. The gypsy stopped a few paces away, his black eyes glaring with a fierce light as he held Rob’s gaze, making Rob’s decision for him. He let the reins lie across Gun-eagal’s neck, lifting his sword hand high to show he posed nae threat. He had nae notion whether they were aware that Gun-eagal was a fighting horse, one he could control with a tightening of his knees, as much a weapon as his sword or the battle-axe his father had given him, now hanging betwixt his shoulder blades. “We mean ye nae harm,” he said, then remembered how superstitious folk could be and added, “We followed the white stag here. Did ye see it?”

The leader turned his head, left then right and the other men with him also shook their heads. Mouths that had gawped suddenly tightened as the tall gypsy, hand rubbing the smooth handle of his axe in a way that promised naught but trouble, asked, “Were ye after killing it?”

Vehemently Rob denied such a repulsive notion, “Nae. It led us here away frae the Normans who seek to kill us. I wouldn’t harm such a rare animal even if it were possible. It’s a messenger of the auld gods.”

The gypsy’s dark eyes widened and he nae longer held his axe so tightly. “If yer not Normans, who are ye?”

Rob relaxed slightly but didn’t shift his gaze frae the gypsy’s face, intent on reading any change of expression. The McArthur had taught that an opponent’s next move could be read on his face and in his eyes afore he lifted a hand. “We are Scots frae the northeast following King Malcolm Canmore’s standard. Malcolm Canmore that was the King of Scots is dead, killed in an ambush by a man he called friend. Ye ken Normans—their ambition makes rubbish of any handshake of good faith.”

A slight lowering of the man’s chin, a half-nod, told Rob he understood. “Didn’t ye hear the horns? They were hunting us like beasts for the slaughter, terrified some Scots might escape to give voice to De Mowbray’s treachery.”

“We heard nothing.” He turned to the others and again all shook their heads nae, then the leader cocked his head. “Did the white stag lead ye from the battlefield?”

“Nae, it met us at the burn and led us through the narrow cleft in the cliff, but I ken there is another way through. How else could ye have got yer carts into the clearing.”

Rob could tell he had pricked the gypsy’s interest, his gaze narrowed yet didnae lose its intensity. “How would ye, a Scot, know that?”

“I am but half Scottish, my mother’s father was the auld Wolf. Wolfsdale is the place where I was born, and I lived there until my grandfather died.”

Some of the gypsies began to murmur in a language he had never heard before, and a lot of head nodding and arm gestures went on until their leader said, “Silence.” His eyes travelled over Rob and the big destrier he rode then alighted on Nhaimeth and his jaw dropped for a moment afore he spoke again. “So yer a Farquhar.”

“My mother is and I was. Now, I’m a McArthur of Cragenlaw and heir to the same; I was looking for a cave I know on the edge of this little vale. I stayed there the summer afore last.” Rob recognised by their expressions that they had been aware of someone’s presence as the rest of the band began speaking again.

“Aha, last winter I saw we’d had an intruder during the better weather. I was surprised ye did not use our hearth but made yer own close to the cave.” He swivelled on the heel of his soft leather boots, and with a low, growled word sent the others running away. Turning back to Rob, Nhaimeth and his Scots warriors he said, “Let me make ye welcome this visit, yer men likewise, though it should be otherwise, for aren’t ye the true heir of Wolfsdale?”

“Nae, that’s my uncle, Gavyn Farquhar, but that’s a long story. Mayhap I can relate it to ye over a bite of food.” That said, Rob dismounted and the other McArthur men did the same.

They walked into the encampment leading their horses, the gypsy showing them the way and where the horses could be tied to graze, yet all the while he wore a small smirk on his face and the laughter lines on his face deepened.

“Is there some jest yer not telling me?” Rob asked.

Now laughing aloud, their host waved his hand toward the hearth, saying, “It was yer mention of the gods. They most definitely kenned ye would arrive, for this very morn they sent us a nice young boar—plenty of food for all.”

Silently thanking the gods, Rob walked into the circle of wagons and tents, his mouth watering at the aroma of roasting pork and his mind slipping this morning’s cares way to the back for a moment as everyone came out to welcome them.

Nhaimeth was fascinated frae the moment they entered the circle of tents and wagons. Women and children who had been hiding inside them came out to greet them. First it was the colours they wore that fascinated—bright, almost tumultuous. A swirl of reds blues and greens flashed as their wearers flitted around the fire pit preparing the meal, laughing. Their every movement reminded him of a dance. Aye, the men of the Highlands danced, but not the lasses, and the plaids a Highlander wore at home were woven in colours that sprang frae the hills, the heathers, brackens and mosses that made them blend into the background.

Next to him Rob spoke up a storm and as Nhaimeth listened he realised why—Rob’s grandfather, the auld Wolf, had befriended this man, and the connection was proudly proclaimed by Rob’s sigil. The Wolf had returned to his land but this time in a young body.

“I heard it was the Moor who killed him for yer mad uncle Doughall. We kept away from Wolfsdale while he was in control. We returned to our camp during the winter months only along the secret paths that few folk apart from our small band know. Gypsies are what folks have named us. A small number, including yer grandfather and yer mother, didn’t scorn us. It’s a secret place, here for folk in need. I remember Morag, yer mother, flitting through the trees to tend her lover after a battle such as the one that just took place—Scots from the north against the folk of the borderlands. We helped her with a few herbs to cool his fevers. But for that, we left them alone. I was a young lad then and got a cuff round the ear frae my father for being over-inquisitive.”

“That was my father, Euan McArthur, now chieftain of Cragenlaw.” Rob huffed out a long sigh and Nhaimeth could tell he was thinking of Morag risking the auld Wolf’s displeasure to save his father’s life. The McArthur had a lot to thank the lass he’d made his leman for—mistress of Cragenlaw yet never wed to the man she loved because of a curse that killed three McArthur wives and their sons. The roots of Morag and the McArthur’s love must run deep through this land.

The gypsy raised a brow and squinted at Rob in the light of the fire, his upper lids shading his dark eyes. “Yet he never returned for yer mother.”

Nhaimeth watched Rob’s face, could see him bite back a curse, and it showed when he barked out, “Ye seem to ken a great deal about them.”

The silver pieces on his jerkin jingled the way bells once rang on Nhaimeth’s Fool’s garb. Guaril spread his arms wide, palms open and facing up. “Those in our small band see a lot...” he tapped his forehead, “...and ken more. We can read the heart—he ran a finger across his nut-brown palm, the lines on it even darker—“and the hand where the future is written.”

With a shake of the head, Rob dismissed the gypsy’s assertion. The lad might believe that the auld Celtic gods sent the Green Lady, ravens and the white stag, but that our fate was written on our palms and our minds could be read went against all he had been taught, so he chose to ignore it.

“The McArthur didn’t know about me. If ye know everything ye will know that. And then there was the curse, and all the wives and bairns he lost to it.”

As the flames in the fire grew low, Rob recounted the story of the curse to the gypsy as well as all that had come after, and from the look of him, he was aware, as always, that the story would get passed around fires and grand halls alike as a legend—for who would believe all that had happened to them was true unless they had been there.

When Rob finished, the gypsy nodded his head as if putting the final mark on the tale, saying, “There is no doubt whatsoever that yer gods have sent ye here. I feel that this is the place where the final part of the tale will come to be. I can see now that when ye came here in the summer ye were searching for something, though ye were not quite sure of what. So the gods have sent ye back again to the place where the story started. For wasn’t it here that the McArthur planted his seed in yer mother’s womb and Wolfsdale the place where ye were born and later planted yer seed in Melinda La Mont’s womb?”

Even Nhaimeth held his breath as Rob’s face blanched under skin tanned by being out in all weathers. Finally he spoke, “What am I supposed to take from that last remark? For I’ll tell ye for naught, I lay nae claim to reading minds.”

The gypsy leaned forward and whispered something in Rob’s ear he wanted to share with naeone but Rob. Nhaimeth knew for certain Rob would let him in on the secret later. That didnae stop him frae wanting to leap to Rob’s side when it appeared his guid friend couldn’t be more surprised if the gypsy had stabbed him through the heart with the dagger at his waist.

Nhaimeth soon discovered there was a rash of shocks going around that evening. The next occurred as he looked up at the lassie handing him a mug of ale. His eyes didnae have to travel far to see a female version of himself, but bonnier—much bonnier. He found himself staring into eyes as bemused as his own. It was a strange sensation—one he felt in his heart as well as his head.

For once the gods hadn’t left him out of their plans.