Chapter 23
Gellir hated to resort to such brutal tactics. He felt like the worst sort of betrayer. But he had to get Merraid to safety. And he knew very well she wasn’t going to listen to reason.
Finding the shackles among Adam’s things had been a stroke of good luck. On the other hand, considering his cousin could produce almost anything out of his infamous satchel, it should not have been surprising.
She still fought him, of course. She screamed with rage and flailed and kicked at him. It would have been easier to catch an eel with his bare hands than to subdue the wily, writhing lass who’d learned all of Feiyan’s sly tricks.
In the end, with her arms bound and in overlarge chain mail that hampered her efforts, he managed to wrest her to the ground and pin her there with his weight. Then he used a piece of rope from Adam’s satchel to bind her ankles.
She spat and cursed him to the devil. But what nearly unmanned him was the hurt he saw in her eyes. Hurt that no amount of vehement oaths could hide.
Eventually she silenced. Eventually she stopped struggling. Then she resorted to her deadliest weapon of all—impaling him with the sharp blue daggers of her eyes.
He told himself it didn’t matter if she despised him. Her hate was far less dangerous than her love.
Still, he strained to choke out his words. “Go, Merraid. Go back to Darragh. Live your life. Be free.”
An angry tear slipped from the corner of her eye and dripped onto the ground. “Ye’re makin’ a mistake,” she bit out.
“’Tis mine to make.”
“So ye want to be married to a Sassenach?”
He blinked. That was what she was worried about? That he’d be wedded to an enemy against his will?
Shite. He doubted he’d live to be married.
Malcolm wasn’t going to compromise. He wasn’t going to return the lands he’d given to England to the earls.
Not after the English king had rewarded him with knighthood.
And once the earls learned that, they would take their rage out on Gellir and probably tear him to pieces.
But he couldn’t tell Merraid all that. He couldn’t tell her her plan would never work.
“I don’t care who I wed,” he lied. Then, seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he decided it wasn’t enough to encourage her to go.
He had to push her away. Swallowing back regret and cursing the circumstances that drove him, he told her coldly, “I never have. ’Twas entertaining for a while—Feiyan bringing me prospects, you reviewing each one.
But to be honest, as long as my bride spreads her legs and gives me bairns, she can be a Welsh hag for all I care. ”
“That’s not true,” she whispered.
It took all his willpower to ignore her. But he had to stay strong. He couldn’t let her powers of persuasion divert him from his course.
He sighed. If she hated being bound, she was going to detest being gagged.
He used a silk veil from Adam’s satchel, one that by chance matched the color of her glaring eyes. Though she resisted biting him, she didn’t make the task easy.
Then, scanning the pavilions, he spotted a peasant beside a two-wheeled haycart, chewing on a piece of straw and watching the altercation with mild interest.
“You!” Gellir called out, gesturing him forward.
He dug in the satchel and found a few loose coins. “These are yours if you hide her in your haycart and take her to Kinross.”
Merraid squealed in protest.
The man’s eyes widened as he licked his lips and reached for the coins. Gellir closed his fist. Then he held up his sword. “This is yours if you fail.” The man hesitated. “Do you understand?”
“Aye, sir.”
He opened his hand and gave the coins to the man. Then he hefted up Merraid, carried her unceremoniously to the cart, and placed her among the sheaves of hay.
“Be safe,” he wished her before shifting hay over her glowering face.
Merraid had no intention of riding all the way to Kinross in a haycart.
She might be shackled. And bound. And gagged. And half-buried in hay. But she was a fighter. One way or another, she meant to escape and return to Perth to speak to the king. And to rescue Gellir. Even if he didn’t want rescuing.
The way the warp-wheeled cart limped along the rutted road impeded her efforts. She swore the man chose to trudge over every bump and pit along the way. Thankfully, he was too preoccupied with singing to notice her movements. And at last she thrashed her way free of the hay.
By then, they were already in the forest. The treetops peered down at her as she lay there, as if wondering how she’d come to be so helpless.
But helpless she was not. If she could manage to maneuver onto her knees, she could loop the chain of her shackles around the man’s throat and force him to stop.
She twisted onto her belly. Then, using strength developed from her disciplined training, she slowly inched her hips up and slid her bound ankles forward until her knees were under her.
The wheels hit a rut, and she banged her knees on the bottom of the cart. But she bit back a curse and stayed rigid, determined not to lose the progress she’d made. Then, pushing against the wood with her shackled hands, she began to transfer her weight to her knees, uncurling her spine.
Balancing carefully, she straightened. Then, without a sound, she lifted her shackled hands above her. The oblivious humming haycart driver was inches away. All she needed to do was lunge forward. Drop the shackles down over his head. And pull the chain back against his throat.
In another instant, she could have done it.
But someone suddenly leaped down from the trees and shouted, “Halt!”
Shite. An outlaw.
The startled driver stopped abruptly and dropped the cart handles, which sent Merraid hurtling forward out of the cart and tumbling onto the road face-first.
She groaned in pain as her shin scraped on the edge of the wheel and her cuffed hands were crushed beneath her.
But she was more angry than hurt. The outlaw’s timing could not have been worse. Why the devil would a thief want to rob a haycart?
With her cheek lodged in the dirt, she spit the dust from around her gag and opened one eye.
The black boots planted just inches before her were familiar. As was the voice.
“Merraid?” Feiyan pulled down the black mask obscuring her face and crouched beside her. “What are you doing here?”
Relief flooded her veins. Feiyan had come. She would understand. She would make Gellir see he was making a mistake.
Merraid grunted, indicating her gag. Feiyan reached behind her head to untie it.
“M’lady,” she choked out, “ye have to save him.”
“Save who?”
“Save me, m’lady,” the haycart driver pleaded. “Don’t take my passenger. The man who paid me for her will cut my throat.”
“What man?” Feiyan asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know his name.”
Feiyan nodded at Merraid. “She was about to cut your throat. That’s why I stopped you.”
The driver clutched his throat and gave Merraid a horrified leer.
“I wouldn’t have,” Merraid assured him, “and neither will Gellir.”
“Gellir?” Feiyan scowled as she drew her dagger to sever the rope around Merraid’s ankles. “What the hell is going on?”
“There’s no time to waste, m’lady,” Merraid said. “I can explain on the way.”
“On the way?”
“To Perth.”
Feiyan helped her up and nodded. “Perth. ’Tis what I feared.”
She gave a loud whistle then, and out of the woods emerged the company of Rivenlochs from Darragh.
Laird Deirdre and her husband Pagan led the clan.
They were flanked by their young niece and nephew, Isabel and Ian.
Hew’s sister Jenefer followed, armed with her bow and arrows.
Her husband Morgan carried an enormous broadsword.
Gellir’s brother Brand tapped his fingers restlessly on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
Behind them marched a dozen Rivenloch knights wielding swords and axes, war hammers and flails, bows and spears. They’d come prepared for war.
“Och, m’lady,” Merraid said. “I think ye misunderstand. There’s hope for peace.”
“Aha!” Isabel smugly chimed in. “I told you. I said love would win the day, didn’t I, Brand? And I just knew—”
Laird Deirdre jostled her shoulder to quiet her. Then she confronted Merraid. “Peace?”
“Aye, m’lady,” Merraid replied. Explaining was going to take a while, and Gellir was in danger. So she nodded toward the road back to Perth. “Will ye not walk with me?”
Lady Deirdre agreed, motioning the others to follow.
Merraid didn’t much like the idea of showing up at Perth with a contingent of armed clan warriors. Especially Rivenloch warriors, who had a fearsome reputation.
Perhaps by the time they arrived, there would be no need for fighting.
As they hurried down the road, Feiyan muttered to Merraid, “If ’tis so peaceful at Perth, then why did Gellir pay a man to cart you away?”
“Gellir doesn’t believe ’tis possible, m’lady,” she confided. Then she turned, skipping backwards to address the clan. “But I believe peace can be achieved. And so does Adam.”
Feiyan stopped her. “Adam? What does my brother have to do with—”
“I knew it,” Ian exclaimed. “Adam found some clever disguise, didn’t he? And—”
Pagan scowled the lad into silence.
Feiyan wheeled Merraid around to resume walking. “I wondered where he’d gone off to this time.”
Merraid explained to Laird Deirdre, “Adam came with me to Perth.”
“Why Perth?” Deirdre asked, as if she already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it anyway.
“We were seekin’ an audience with the king.”
“Mm-hmm.” Deirdre’s lips were tight.
Merraid gulped. Clearly, the laird didn’t approve of their plan. She turned to Feiyan. “M’lady, ye know how ye’ve always taught me that confrontation is a last resort?”
“Aye.”
“Not to use a sword when ye can use fists?”
“Aye.”
“And not to use fists when ye can use words?”
“Aye.”
“Well, for the king, I used words.”
Feiyan looked as if she was going to cast up her breakfast, something she’d done a few times in her pregnancy.
“What words?” Laird Deirdre’s eyes had an icy calm.
Merraid’s mouth went dry. The warrior maid’s Viking origins were obvious now. No wonder she commanded an entire clan.
“What words?” she repeated.
Merraid told her, “The words o’ the only man more powerful than the king.”
Deirdre frowned.
Feiyan frowned.
All of Rivenloch frowned.
Merraid explained. “His Holiness?”
She expected Laird Deirdre would be impressed. Instead, the color drained from her face. “Where’s Adam now?” she breathed.
“Och, he’s safe, m’lady,” Merraid rushed to assure her. “The monk’s robes suit him well. And he’s quite good at Latin. The king will ne’er suspect he’s not the emissary from the Pope.”
Deirdre’s jaw tensed.
Feiyan paled.
Even Isabel and Ian gasped.
Then Deirdre called over her shoulder to the others, “Make haste!”
They sped along at a lope then, though Merraid couldn’t understand why everyone was in such a panic.
After all, the king and the earls had already arranged a temporary truce.
Merraid had chosen the words of the edict wisely.
And Adam had played his role to perfection.
What could go wrong?
Gellir rubbed an anxious hand across his jaw.
So much could go wrong.
He paced at the back of the pack of soldiers, trying to get a better look at what transpired between the king and the earls.
He squinted at Adam, straining to make out what he was saying. In the midst of the two warring factions, his cousin held the parchment out like a shield, valiantly intoning what a maidservant had tried to pass off as the edict of His Holiness.
Damn it. He was too far away. If the earls turned on Adam, Gellir would never be able to get to him in time.
Finally, reaching the end of his decree, Adam lowered the parchment.
Gellir held his breath, praying no one would attack the messenger.
Much heated discussion followed.
The earls wagged their fingers.
The king raised his hands, silencing them.
The advisors consulted with the king.
The earls shook their heads.
The king held up a finger.
The advisors scratched their heads.
The earls rubbed their chins.
The king nodded.
And then, miraculously, the earls began clapping each other on the shoulder and grinning at Malcolm.
Gellir was too astounded to move. Even when the warriors around him realized they’d won—laughing and shouting and dancing in victory—he stood with his jaw agape.
Had Merraid done it? Had a maidservant made peace between the king and a pack of angry earls? How?
All he could imagine was she’d somehow managed to appeal to the young king’s love of chivalry and his religious devotion.
Gellir looked up to see the earls returning. Their faces were wreathed in self-satisfied smiles.
Behind them came Adam in his monk’s robes. Gellir dared not acknowledge his cousin, lest he reveal his guise. So as he passed, Gellir exchanged neither word nor glance, but furtively slipped the satchel into Adam’s hands.
Behind Adam came the king with his entourage of advisors.
It had been a long while since Gellir had seen the young monarch. Though Malcolm was nearly Gellir’s age, with his sweet face and weak stature, he always seemed somehow less a man and more a child.
Still, he was Gellir’s king. As he approached, Gellir lowered his head in reverence.
Malcolm stopped before him. “Is this the man who fought so bravely on our behalf?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Aye, Your Grace,” Fertech said. “’Tis Sir Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch.”
“Grim Gellir!” the king said in delight. “We should have known.”
Gellir, like most Scots, squirmed at his use of the royal “we,” meaning “God and I.” Malcolm had doubtless learned that from the English monarch, who believed in the divine right of kings.
“The greatest warrior in all Scotland they’ve dubbed you,” the king said. “And the very flower of chivalry.” Gellir flushed at the praise. “But where is your companion? The wee one with the curious fighting style?”
Gellir opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t very well tell the king the truth—that he’d bound and gagged her and sent her away in a haycart.
“Here, Your Grace!”
The familiar cry made Gellir whip his head around.
Merraid?
How could she be here?
Hadn’t he bound and gagged her and sent her away in a haycart?