Chapter 2
He had the thieving witch right where he wanted her.
But angry as he was, he forced himself to remember she was the reason he was there.
She began to scream and bite and kick, so he set the fork aside, shifted his grip on her and ripped the sleeve from her tunic.
Were he less angry, the panic in her eyes would have stopped him, and he might have eased her mind.
Clearly she thought he intended to ravish her.
But he was in a foul mood, walking naked for too long in the hot sun, so he let her think the worst. She needed to be frightened and to understand who was in power after that escapade in the cove.
He gagged her with the torn sleeve, grabbed the hayfork again, and with her squalling under his arm, he carried her outside.
Halfway back to the cottage he pulled her head back and checked the gag.
She wiggled and kicked, but was still pinned to his side, and he swatted her for good measure as well as vengeance.
But she retaliated by pinching him blue and viciously twisting his skin.
“God’s legs, woman,” he muttered and shook off her hand, then he struggled, tossing her this way and that like a sack of turnips until her arms were pinned at her sides and she was tucked safely back under his arm.
The element of surprise was in his favor.
He crossed over the rolling hill and was soon outside the cottage, with her still fighting him.
In one swift motion he kicked in the cottage door, standing in the open doorway, the woman now clamped to his chest and the hayfork against her pale throat.
He was angry as hell and naked as the day he was born—he and his ‘poor wee ballocks.’
“Do not move if you value her life,” he warned the two young men who were frozen in their seats.
The dog rose up from the hearth, growling and baring its long teeth.
“Hold back the hound.” He pointed the hayfork toward the dog, and the girl cried out behind gag and tried to fight him. He tightened his arm around her.
“Fergus! Down!” One of the men said, and the dog obeyed, but stayed with ears perked and eyes sharp.
“Where is Sir Hume Gordon?”
There was a heartbeat of uncanny silence and the man who had called off the hound darted his gaze to the girl, who was still as a rock.
Lyall waited, before he said in a calm, deadly voice, “You move your hand under the table again and you will be dead and bound for hell before you can think to move again.”
“Our father is dead,” the other one said quickly. “I am Elgin Gordon. He is Alastair, the eldest. You are holding our sister, Glenna.
“I know well who she is. She is the reason I’ve come to the godforsaken ends of the earth. I am Baron Montrose of Rossie, the king’s vassal, here to provide protection and safe passage for her. And she is no more your sister than I am.”
He heard her gasp, but did not look away. The flicker in the elder Gordon’s expression and the slight fall of his shoulders told Lyall all he needed to know. Alastair Gordon knew exactly who she was. “You may cease with your lie,” Lyall told him. “I’ve come by order of the king.”
Glenna was still as a rock.
“What lie? Alastair? Surely Glenna is our sister,” Elgin said, looking back and forth between them.
“Montrose speaks the truth,” Alastair told his brother, then ran a hand through his hair and shook his head dejectedly, looking at Glenna with worry in his eyes. “I beg you let her go, my lord.”
“First, hand me my sword.” Lyall leaned the hayfork against the wall but did not release his hold on it.
Alastair stood and reached for the scabbard.
“Wait!” Elgin grabbed his arm.
“He will not harm her.” Alastair handed Lyall the weapon and turned back to his brother. “God’s eyes, El, give the Baron Montrose his clothes.”
The emphasis Alastair Gordon made on the word baron was obvious to all. Lyall watched Elgin shed the leather jack so quickly it was almost comical.
The younger brother gathered the rest of Lyall's stolen clothing and dropped them at his feet before backing away two steps. “Now you will let her go, my lord,” Elgin said protectively, trying to stand taller. Still, he would only come to Lyall’s shoulder.
Lyall released her and she scrambled away, but did not seek her ‘brothers.’ She backed away from them all, looking unsure and frightened, like a wounded and cornered animal.
He chose not to feel anything for her. Any wounds to her mind and heart made by the truth were not his problem.
She would have found out she was no Gordon at some point.
He dressed quickly and moved to the table.
After a day of walking too many uncomfortable miles across the moors and through the bracken, the sun burning his skin and briars piercing his bare feet, he was in no mood for talk.
He was starved, so he downed a half-full mug of ale, refilled it from a ewer, and helped himself to the meat and bread.
When his belly was close to full, he turned, watching her as he sopped his last morsel of bread in the ale.
She said nothing. Her eyes occasionally followed his motion, though her expression stayed stubbornly blank.
Only once did he see her composure crack--she had angrily pushed her brothers away, then turned her back on them when they tried to talk to her.
Those two nitwits had so brainlessly included her in their thievery band, especially horse-thievery, which was punished by hanging.
Would that have not made a great and welcoming tale for all and sundry, particularly for the returning king when he once again set foot on Scots’ soil?
‘Greetings, Sire, your eldest daughter was hanged by the neck for stealing horses, among other things.’
Their plunder was on every thick shelf and cranny in the room, stacks, sacks and large chests, all filled with what could only be the results of their thievery, much of what he could see was organized by type of item: the quivers and arrows in one corner, next to assorted daggers and knives, maces and swords, though none of the weapons as fine as his.
Hanging from the walls were copperware and leather-bound clusters of iron torches and candle holders, door and cabinet hinges, door locks, iron baskets and fire tongs, branding rods, pots and pans and kettle stands.
Two long brass horns, a lute, drums, mouth organs and a small harp leaned against wall near the interior doors.
Leather goods, shoes and boots, bolts of woolen cloth, bags, satchels and small wooden chests with sturdy locks stood in a precise line on wall shelves, beside a whole row of locked spice boxes that looked as though they were plucked from a village fair display.
He had caught the scents of cardamom and nutmeg the moment he‘d first stepped into the room.
Beneath those spice tins were salt barrels, sacks of peppercorns, and heavy jugs of vinegar, along with burlap sacks bulging with apples, and turnips, onions and other root vegetables.
The back rooms of the stable had been much the same, with neat rows of saddles and bridles, barrels of oil and bags of feed.
As a lad he remembered walking across the castle courtyard to the kitchens, where the cook and the kitchen lackeys had, by order of his own mother, neatly arranged all the foodstuffs, wines, ale barrels, and salted meats in regimented lines along the shelves and in the cellars.
He suspected Glenna with her woman’s mind knew the exact placement of every single stolen item.
He poured another mug of ale and said, “You should pack your belongings, lass. We leave in the morning.”
"Where?"
"The order is from the king."
"What king?" she laughed.
"William of Scotland."
"Ah...the exiled king who lives in England with his close friend Henry. He is not my king. Has he stepped a foot on Scottish soil in my lifetime? Nay, he has not."
"Glenna," Alastair Gordon said with a warning.
The look she gave him would have crack stone. She faced Lyall. “I have not agreed to go with you.”
“The choice is not yours," Lyall told her. "The king has so ordered it.”
She stepped closer, hands on her hips, her head high. “And why should I obey a king who has not been in the land for years, and who I have never seen or known? This king of yours is nothing but a fable to me.”
“Glenna!” Alastair said.
She spun toward Gordon, walking over to stand but a foot away.
“Do not speak to me like the older brother you feigned to be. You lied to me. Every day of my life you have lied to me. You made me believe I was safe and loved and bonded to you by our blood.” Tears ran freely down her face and her voice was shaky.
“I have loved you like a sister, blood bond or no blood bond, and because I love you, I warn you. Even women are hanged when they speak as you have just spoken about the king,” Alastair told her.
“They hang women, too, for horse-thievery,” Lyall cut in harshly.
“Anyone who steals merely a walnut can lose a hand, whether the thief be a woman, a man, or a child. The axeman cares not. She might curse you for lying to her, and that is between the two of you, but I expect the king would dole out his own punishment for involving her in a life of thievery. Look at all this. Both of you are idiots to involve her in your larceny. What were you thinking?” He pointed a finger at Alastair.
“If you knew the truth, Gordon, then you also knew your father swore to protect her. I assume it was you who sent news of her over the years. Someone has been communicating. There were letters signed by Sir Hume and stamped with his own ring.”
“Alastair has my fath---“ Glenna seemed to choke on her words. “--his father’s ring. And I will speak however I may about the king, for his exiled ears are not even in his own land and haven’t been for too many years to count. What good is a king who runs from his land?”