Chapter 2 #2
“You are unskilled in the lessons of politics. The king is no coward, but merely a man caught in the turmoil of power, a destiny brought on him only by his birth name. I do not expect you, woman, to understand the vagaries, the glories or the demons that drive men, kings or traitors,” Lyall said darkly.
“I care naught about the king,” Glenna said with a wave of her hand.
“However there is no question, none at all, about who in this room is the traitor.” She glared at Alastair, who hung his head and couldn’t look at her, and for a brief moment Lyall almost felt sorry for him.
Alastair Gordon held all the appearances of a man broken by guilt and hurt.
“I will go with you, my lord,” she continued. “Only because I will not stay a full day longer in this house where I do not belong. But know this. I care nothing for the king or his royal proclamations.”
“I would suggest you find a way to care very much what the king wants and proclaims, Glenna Canmore, because he is your father.”
Glenna lay curled in a ball on her straw mattress, the truth throbbing through her head.
Snippets of thoughts, mostly fears, kept her from sleeping.
Sir Golden Himself, Baron Montrose, lay in a heap across the door.
Light from the fire outlined his still form.
Had he chosen to sleep there to keep her from running away?
No. There were the wooden shutters she could easily crawl through.
And, too, she understood Montrose was not the fool she had called him.
He slept so quietly she wondered if he was asleep at all.
From across the room where her brothers lay on their pallets, she could hear their off-pitched snoring, and she cursed Alastair again for his duplicity, and because he could sleep so easily when she could not.
To be angry with him was safer than thinking about the truth--who she actually was, which seemed impossible--and how the knowledge shook her deep into her bones.
Her father was the king? Nay, she shook her head and tears spilled down her cheeks.
She was frightened, more frightened than she wanted to admit to anyone.
She knew nothing of ladies and manors, castles and kings, only the tales Alastair told her as a child, and what did he know?
Royal women must have servants and silks, and whole armies to protect them, while she grew up pitching hay and shoveling horse manure… and stealing.
She could ride a horse like the wind, but she did not use a needle or thread and would not know what to do with either.
The only gown she owned she had to steal, only to put it on and find it was too big and too long, so she cut the hem with a dagger, and now the gown was shorter on one side than the other and the cloth was fraying badly.
How could her horse skills ever mean even a whit to a king? The king would take one look at her in her peasant’s rags or jagged gown and have her banished, particularly once he saw how poorly skilled she was and that she was so terribly untaught.
What king would tolerate a thief for a daughter? Or he could lock her up in a tower. He was the king. She shuddered at the images that came to her mind: the executioner’s platform, the axeman’s stone. She closed her eyes tightly and her hands tightened into numb fists.
Perhaps he would do even worse than lock her away.
At that thought she lost control and sobbed into her hands, her knees to her chest. It took a will of iron for her to stop shaking.
Her breath caught and she felt like she was dying inside.
Her destiny was done. She could bring nothing but shame to her father, to his name and to the whole court, when her finest qualities were the ability to pick a pocket and steal a horse.
Her silly tears wouldn’t change tomorrow.
Tears wouldn’t bring back yesterday, when her name was Glenna Gordon and she was happy with her brothers.
Crying like a ninny accomplished little more than making her eyes burn and her nose run.
She wiped her face and sat up, pushing open the window shutters above the bed.
Outside, there was a clear night sky, darkness being so rare in midsummer and so fleeting, just a few hours of starlight.
The only sky she knew was this one—great and unending over the one small stretch of land that had always been home to her.
The moors and the sea, the horses she loved and cared for, her brothers with whom she had felt safe and loved…
Now she would have to face all the unknowns—of place and people, an unknown journey with a stranger.
Even her own identity was a mystery. There was nothing she could hold onto that was true and familiar.
She had no idea how to grieve for what she had lost, because the truth was: her life as she knew it was not hers.
The next morn, Lyall checked to make certain all his belongings were in place, in particular, his money.
Though he had left a bag of silver with the Gordons, he wouldn’t put it past those two pilferers to make a switch.
He hooked a plump skin of water to his saddle pouch, and turned as Glenna readied to mount a big, spirited bay Elgin had brought up from the paddock.
Lyall studied the horse appreciatively. “Tell me now if there is a chance I am going to be chased from here to Kingdom Come by the true owner of that horse of yours.”
“You have nothing to fear, Montrose,” Glenna said haughtily, using the title like a seasoned noble. “I was there when she was foaled, and since I have fed and trained her. No one else. Skye is mine.”
“That is well, then. Our journey will be long and I do not relish outrunning a hangman’s noose,” he said. He was jesting, but she did not respond or even look at him. He laughed softly.
She looked up at him. “What is so amusing?”
“Skye, Glenna? Your mount has a name?” He laughed heartily and then thought of his sister, who as a child would have named all the fleas on his dog.
“Why is naming a horse amusing? What call you that one, on which sits your arse? Horse?” Now she was laughing. “Better yet…arse carrier.”
His eyes narrowed. “He is my horse, a fine animal, but nothing more.”
“Then you should have left me be and let me keep him, if he matters so little to you that you cannot give him a name.”
“There is no need for me to name my horse.”
“Perhaps,” she said sweetly. “Had you given him a name by which to call him, I might not have stolen him so easily…my lord.” She reached the other side of the saddle and slung a small bow and a quiver of arrows from the saddle.
"What is that?" Lyall stared at the weapon.
"My bow and arrows."
"You will have no need of weapons, woman."
She faced him. "How do you know?"
"You believe you can save us from attack with those?" Lyall laughed. A broadsword would cut her down before she had notched an arrow.
"I do not ride without them."
"I do not ride with them."
They exchanged the same look, then Lyall said, "Fine. Give them to me." He held out his hand. "I will not ride with an armed woman. Should we meet with trouble, you might shoot me while you're trying to notch that thing."
"You know nothing--"
"Give them to me." He would argue no more with her, for it was like trying to beat down a drawbridge with his head.
She rolled her eyes and handed them to him. "Here, then, my lord. I wouldn't want you to fear for your life because of an armed woman."
That was when he'd had enough of her mouth. He broke the bow in half and all the arrows, then tossed it aside, ignoring her gasp. "Now there will be no reason to argue any longer."
The look she gave him could have caused a fire. He cared naught but sat there staring back at her until she shook her head and looked away, clearly angry.
A bee buzzed 'round his head and he swatted at it, but it landed on his neck and stung him. He cursed and slapped a hand on it, pulling it and the stinger from his skin. He was scowling down at the dead insect when she said with a half laugh, "No doubt lured by your sweet manner, my lord."
She checked the rolled bundle she had tied to her horse, and her leather satchel bags then ran her hands down the horse’s legs and examined the hooves, before she adjusted the bridle again. This was the third time. She was stalling.
“Come now. We can waste no more time dawdling,” he told her sharply. “You should bid farewell to your brothers. They are waiting.”
“I would if I had brothers.” Glenna adjusted the bridle for the fourth time.
He understood pride, and its fall. Watching her, listening to her words and manner, made him vastly aware there was more of her father’s blood in her than she knew, more between them than merely her great likeness to the man.
One thing no one could change was who had sired them.
Blood was blood. He knew that all too well.
“Glenna.” There was true pain in Elgin’s voice as he moved closer “I knew nothing of any of this. I beg you, do not hold me to blame.”
Lyall could see by the forced set of her shoulders she was battling her own bitterness. Silence fell over them and she stood still. She closed her eyes briefly, and then spun around. “Oh, El….” She threw her arms around him and sobbed into his neck.
Elgin patted her back gently. “You must forgive poor Alastair. He loves you well, as do I. Know this, Glenna, you will always be my own sister.” He spoke fiercely and with great heart.
Alastair stood back and away, listening, looking awkward, but clearly afraid to come closer lest she reject him.
Her words must have cut him deeply. Certainly Lyall had felt the lash of a woman’s tongue before, and knew well how guilt could eat at a man long after the words, and even the woman who had spoken them, had died.
Glenna released her tight hold on Elgin and stepped back. He handed her his wide brimmed hat. “Here. Tuck up your braid and travel safe.”