CHAPTER NINETEEN
Laoghaire pulled up the hood of her mantle to ward off the cold, the breath leaving her body in a vapory wisp. The temperature had plunged, the air laden with an inhospitable dampness. ’Twas the sort of weather that kept most people indoors, close to a blazing hearth.
I am doing the right thing, she told herself, willing to brave far worse conditions in order to prevent her dire vision from coming to fruition.
Because she’d not wanted to leave the castle garrison undermanned, she rode with a small contingent that was comprised of a knight and two bowman; all three of whom had been personally selected by Robbie Guthrie for their loyalty and expertise in battle.
For the last four days they’d ridden through a dreary landscape, made even more dismal by unceasing foul weather, having faced a cold, westerly wind for most of the journey.
Indeed, it had on occasion felt as if the freezing wind had blown right through her heart, enwrapping her like a burial shroud.
What if I’m too late? What if Galen has already met a fatal end?
As she had numerous times already, Laoghaire silently cursed the king for calling his nobles to convene at Castle Balloch.
As the ceann-ath, the war leader of Angus, Galen had no choice but to obey the summons, her husband unaware that somewhere between Castle Airlie and Castle Balloch, he would meet his death.
No! I will not let that happen!
The men who rode with her, unaware of her dark vision, only knew that it was imperative she reach Galen as quickly as possible.
Proving themselves a stoic lot, they’d maintained an almost hellish pace.
And while not a one of them had uttered a complaint—at least none that she could hear—Laoghaire had caught sight of more than a few wishful glances as they passed by the occasional hamlet and had seen the warm glow of peat fires through the dismal gloom.
Under normal circumstances, she would have stopped and sought respite. But this situation was far from normal.
I am on an urgent mission to save my husband’s life.
A strange turn of events, admittedly. Six weeks ago she would have gleefully plunged a dirk into Galen’s heart had the opportunity presented itself. Now she could not envision living her life without him at her side.
When, a few moments later, they came to a fork in the road, Laoghaire raised a gloved hand, signaling the other riders to a halt.
“Which road do we take, milady?” Sir William de Graham inquired, reining in his horse alongside the jennet.
A newly dubbed knight, the young, tow-headed warrior had taken it upon himself to act as her aide and protector.
Although she suspected that if calamity befell them, she would be perfectly capable of defending herself, armed as she was with a well-honed sword.
Peering downward, Laoghaire could see there were deep grooves in the lane that veered to the right, indicating a caravan of heavily loaded wagons had recently passed that way.
Mayhap Galen is not too far distant, she dared to hope, the tracks an auspicious sign.
About to gesture toward the right, Laoghaire instead cocked her head to one side and listened intently. A chilling silence had descended upon them, and she could not hear so much as a tweeter of birdsong or the rustle of a dried leaf.
In the next instant, the tense silence was shattered when Aife whickered, the mare clearly unnerved.
“We will take the western route,” Laoghaire informed Sir William, trying to shake off her unease. “These tracks indicate that—” She broke off abruptly. With no small amount of trepidation, she suddenly felt the ground begin to vibrate.
“Riders approach!” Sir William called out, pointing to the band of galloping horses that had just come into view.
At a glance, Laoghaire could see they were greatly outnumbered, the group of riders numbering eight in total.
Hearing the distinctive sound of a sword being drawn, Laoghaire turned to the young knight.
“Sir William, sheathe yer blade,” she ordered, not wanting to incite an altercation.
Though she could see the approaching party was well-armed, they did not appear to be a band of brigands.
Indeed, they rode with an almost military precision.
“I suspect they’ve been sent by the local lord to ascertain our intentions. ”
No sooner had the utterance been made than the horsemen came to a shuddering halt approximately five ells away from them.
The lead rider urged his destrier closer.
As he did so, the line of men at his backside drew their swords en masse, the air rent with the sound of seven blades being simultaneously drawn.
“I am Simon Blàrach, the sheriff of Strathearn,” the horseman announced. “What business do you men have in this demesne?” A great brute of a fellow, with wide shoulders and a torso as thick as a tree trunk, Simon Blàrach had a visage made memorable by the fact that his nose sat awry on his face.
Realizing that the sheriff had mistaken her for a man—no doubt because she was garbed in men’s clothing—Laoghaire shoved the hood of her mantle off of her head.
The sheriff’s eyebrows rose measurably. “Lo! ’Tis a lady bandit!”
With an impatient wave of the hand, Laoghaire directed his attention to the rampant red lion on the front of Sir William’s surcoat. “We are not bandits, as ye can plainly see. I am the countess of Angus, and I am en route to meet my husband, Lord Galen de Ogilvy.”
Her announcement met with a derisive snicker, Sheriff Blàrach gazing at her in a blatantly insolent fashion. Infuriated with the man’s impudence, Laoghaire felt the blood rush to her face.
Clearly amused, the sheriff smiled, enabling her to see that while he possessed all of his teeth, they were darkly stained. “Forsooth, I saw the earl’s entourage pass through earlier in the day.”
At hearing that, Laoghaire’s irritation was momentarily forgotten as a burst of hope surged through her veins. “Do ye mean to say that Angus is nearby?”
“Yea, no more than three hours ride from here,” Blàrach confirmed. Then, his lips curling in an ugly sneer, he added, “And I saw with my own eyes that the Earl of Angus had his countess with him.”
“’Tis impossible!” Laoghaire retorted, unable to curb her annoyance. “For I cannot be in two places at once, can I?”
“As you say, lady, ’twould be impossible. But you are not the earl’s wife,” the sheriff said, refusing to concede. “For the countess I saw riding at the earl’s side was a lovely lady with shimmering gold tresses and a countenance that was most pleasing to the eye.”
“Knave! That is not the countess of Angus!” Sir William de Graham exclaimed, his cheeks red with fury. “’Twas Lady Melisande Jardin whom you saw riding with my liege lord.”
“And do you mean to say that rather than wed a fair lady your liege lord would instead marry a wench who dresses like a man?” When Sir William made no reply, the sheriff turned to Laoghaire and said, “You and your men would have me believe the fantastical, milady.”
Irked by his mocking courtesy, she shot him a quelling glare. “I am the wife of Galen de Ogilvy, and I demand that ye let us pass unmolested.”
Simon Blàrach glanced dismissively at the rampant lion emblazoned on the front of Sir William’s surcoat. “Your man may wear the red lion of the House of Ogilvy, but I am not convinced that you aren’t a band of brigands intent on robbing the earl’s entourage.”
“’Twould be rich pickings, indeed,” one of the deputies commented, his assessment garnering a bevy of nods from his cohorts.
“Of course, there is another possibility,” the sheriff remarked. “’Tis possible that you are an agent of the English crown sent to slay one of the Bruce’s most powerful allies.”
“Suffering hell!” Laoghaire blurted, using one of Galen’s favorite curses. “Ye cannot possibly believe that to be true.”
“That is for the Earl of Strathearn to decide. As the earl is currently away on business—”
“I’ll warrant ’tis the same business that occupies my husband,” Laoghaire interjected. “Strathearn is on his way to join the king at Castle Balloch, having been summoned there for a Martinmas council.”
“You are well-informed,” the sheriff replied with a hooded expression. “Be that as it may, I intend to hold you in custody until the Earl of Strathearn returns from the king’s council and can properly adjudicate this matter. As is his right as lord of this demesne.”
Worried that the brute intended to lock them up in Strathearn’s dungeon, Laoghaire felt a knot of dread form in her belly. Time was of the essence, and she could not afford to sacrifice so much as an hour, let alone the few minutes she’d already lost arguing with the truculent sheriff.
“Take me to Angus,” she demanded, refusing to argue further with the man. “If, as ye claim, I am lying about my identity, I am sure the earl will richly reward ye for yer efforts.” Not wanting to jeopardize the outcome, she deliberately refrained from mentioning the alternative scenario.
A long moment passed as the sheriff stared at her with a speculative gleam in his eyes. There was something distinctly menacing about Simon Blàrach, the man putting her in mind of a feral animal in search of prey.
“Yea, I’ll take you to the earl,” the sheriff finally agreed, the mention of a hefty reward having clearly swayed him. “But before we depart, you and your men must hand over your weapons.”
Although Laoghaire knew that if they surrendered their weapons, they would be at the mercy of Simon Blàrach and his deputies, she nevertheless nodded her agreement. Too much was at stake for her to stand her ground on a point that she surmised was non-negotiable.
“There’ll be hell to pay,” Sir William muttered under his breath as he unbuckled his sword.
Indeed, there will be, Laoghaire thought, certain that once they caught up with Galen’s caravan, Sheriff Simon Blàrach would be forced to pay the devil his due.