Ruthless (35 page)

Hakon cleared his throat. "Chief Olaf insists
ye deliver her unharmed so he may have the pleasure of, uh,
witnessing her punishment."

"I leave at first light. When I find her,
I'll bring her back. She won't be able to hide the truth from
me."

Magnus hardened all thoughts of Muriele in
his mind. From this time on, she became a stranger, one who killed
her new mate and mayhap her best friend. He would hunt her as he
would if a filthy lout had killed Feradoch.

He knew he would find her. His instinct had
always told him when she was near. It would aid him in tracking
her. But he could not stop the sickening chill spreading through
his body.

"You're nae going alone," Sweyn said.

"Muriele is a canny hunter and can move about
the forest in silence. I will track her fastest alone. Two horses
are easier heard than one."

"Aye. Still, you're nae going alone," he
repeated.

"I order ye to stay. The Chief needs ye
here." Magnus looked at his father to get his support.

"Huh! I dinna need Sweyn. He goes with ye. I
wouldna have yer anger surface and have ye do something
unthinkable."

Magnus gritted his teeth and threw up his
hands. There was no arguing with the chief of the Morgan's. He was
even more stubborn than Magnus himself.

Thunderstorms came in over the Loch and swept
away dawn as easily as a servant used her broom made of twigs to
remove debris from the keep's steps. But the ominous darkness did
not stop the travelers.

Four knights accompanied Graemme to Kinbrace
with Sir Hakon. Magnus stopped growling about not needing a
guardian and was grateful to have Sweyn as company in such a
miserable undertaking.

Their saddlebags overflowed. Oiled hides
covered the rolls of blankets and supplies Magnus deemed might be
necessary when they captured the lass. He wiped Muriele's name from
his mind and concentrated on ignoring memories of their time
together.

Between the noise of the drawbridge lowering
and the shrieking of the portcullis rising, it was useless to
speak. As the drawbridge thunked to earth, Graemme gripped Magnus'
shoulder.

"Dinna believe all ye have heard, brother.
Living these years with Feradoch, I dinna trust
anything
about him."

"Not even his death?" Magnus' eyes held
surprised questions he had no time to ask.

"Nay. Not even his death," Graemme shook his
head. "'Tis the reason I ride to Kinbrace. I will search out the
truth of it all."

"Take care, Brother. The Guns are easily
angered when questioned."

Magnus thumped Graemme's shoulder and turned
to bid his father farewell. The two brothers mounted and rode over
the drawbridge. Graemme and Hakon's men turned east, and Magnus and
Sweyn south.

The lass was clever. She would have left
Kinbrace and headed west first then make her way south to the
Lowlands. The weather had already turned colder. In another month,
winter would be upon them. A man traveling alone would find it
difficult to hunt his own food, find shelter for the night and
avoid the churls and varlets searching the forests for easy
takings.

'Twas unlikely the lass could survive
alone.

His jaw twitched and icy dread prickled his
back remembering the sight of Lady Ragnhild's body when he and
Sweyn buried her.

When she entered the dark forest, Muriel
didn't stop. She was familiar with the paths and knew where to
avoid every dip in the ground. Bolt might be old, but he had a
warrior's heart. He sensed her fear and trod carefully.

Once they were far from Kinbrace, she
followed Loch Badenloch south until a glimmer of moonlight showed
her a place she had crossed often when hunting from Blackbriar.

Bolt was reluctant when she urged him into
the cold water, but her murmurs close to his ear and constant pats
on his cheek soothed him. Her clothing seemed to draw up the water,
for she was soaked to her waist when they finally reached the other
side.

Fortunately, she had pulled her cloak high
around her breasts and kept it dry. Shivering, she dismounted. She
hated to lose any time, but reasoned she wouldn't be able to save
herself if she caught an ague and fell where her pursuers would
easily find her. She stripped and wrung as much water from her
clothing as possible then put her hunting clothes back on. She tied
the rest to the saddle horn, and when she gained the saddle, she
spread the warm cloak around herself making sure to cover Bolt as
well.

Fear told her to travel straight south, the
shortest route to the Lowlands. It might be the shortest, but it
would also be the most obvious. Likely, the Gunns would head to
Blackbriar believing she would seek familiar ground.

She took a deep breath and made her plans. If
she headed southwest to Dalmore, west again to Lairg then east to
Tarbott, they would not expect that. Though she'd never been very
far from Blackbriar, she'd heard men talk of their travels and knew
how to make her way to the border.

She kept to the path for the first days,
going as fast as Bolt could. When he began to tire, she went far
into the woods, found a stream and let him drink and rest before
they continued. Late each day, any time she spied a cave she drew
her short sword and made sure of its safety then took refuge in
it.

Food was easy enough to come by. When she
stopped for rest and water, there were hares aplenty deep in the
woods. She retrieved her arrows and kept her kill for cooking when
it was dark enough no one would see the smoke. The next day, she
ate what she had saved from the night before.

Several times, she thought someone trailed
her. She stopped to listen, and if she heard anything but regular
forest sounds, she got off Bolt and put her ear to the ground. On
hearing horses' hooves, she took the reins and walked deep into the
trees.

Bolt might be an old horse, but he was quick
to learn. After several days, if she put her arm on his neck and
urge his head downward then touched his forelegs gently with her
foot, he settled on the ground. She gathered branches and leaves
and used them to cover the horse and herself so prying eyes would
see only the cluttered forest floor.

She could swear the faithful horse held his
breath as much as she did.

The Gunn's would expect her to circle around
the high mountains when she came to one, but she tried to do what
they wouldn't expect. Once high enough, she made sure she and Bolt
weren't visible and scanned the countryside as far as her eyes
could see.

How many sennights had she been gone? She no
longer awoke at night with the urge to wail like a halfling. Her
clothing had more than a few rents. She had no way to mend them.
When she needed to wash, she stopped long enough to bathe, beat her
garments on a smooth rock and ring them as dry as possible.

Attaching her wet clothing to the back of her
saddle, it was nearly dry by the time the sun lowered. She
alternated her hunting clothes with a woolen kirtle she slashed
down the center to cover her legs as she rode astride.

Each day seemed colder than the last. Wearing
her plaid wrapped around her as the men did, she carried her
weapons close to hand. She avoided close encounters and worried
most about lawless knaves. They traveled silently and gave little
warning.

Afore she chose a spot for the night, she
climbed the highest tree and scanned the treetops around her. If a
flicker of light or a stream of smoke wound its way through the
leaves, she walked Bolt in the opposite direction.

One night, she found nothing out of the
ordinary. After picking the small bones of a grouse clean, she
banked her small fire. Content, Bolt grazed on lush grass close to
a stream.

When she noted his ears twitch and his eyes
flicker, she sat quietly. Eyes watched her. She drew her legs
closer to her body, seemingly getting more comfortable. Her hands
on her thighs looked relaxed, and they were—for she had only to
curl her fingers around the hilts of her daggers strapped to her
legs.

"Och! I ken them wood sprites done left us a
gift."

Muriele smelled the bearded man before she
saw him step from behind a nearby tree.

"They be special kind. Look at the fine
horse!"

Another man, equally as filthy as the first,
appeared from the woods. He eased slowly up to Bolt and reached to
take his bridle. Bolt's head flashed. Much to Muriele's surprise,
he bit the hand when it came close.

"Aggh!" The man backed away. "Ye son of
Satan!"

He kicked out at Bolts legs. The old horse
snorted and stomped. Rising up on his hind legs, he twisted and
struck out with his hooves. He hit out until he knocked the man to
the ground then proceeded to stomp on him. Surely, the man's
screams would alert anyone for a league around! She expected to
hear horses crashing through the woods as other varlets sought
them.

"Ye'll pay fer my friend's death, ye scrawny
witch!"

The filthy churl was near atop her, his hands
reaching for her hair. When he bent over, Muriele brought both
hands up, a knife clutched in each, and struck as hard as she
could. One blade entered his chest, the other struck up below his
right collarbone.

He fought, clawing for her throat. Fire raked
across her cheek as his mangy nails tore her delicate skin. She
kicked and twisted. Visions of Esa's struggle to breathe made her
fight the harder. If she gave up, no one would be there to pull him
off her in time. Grunting and shoving, she forced the knives
deeper. Finally, he went limp. She took great gulps of air, turning
her face away from the greasy head resting on her shoulder.

The sickening smell of blood made her swallow
back vomit. She had no time to be a helpless woman! With a great
heave, she rolled him off her.

Scrambling to her feet, she pulled hard to
remove the knives from his body. After wiping them on his filthy
clothing, she checked the second man. Both were dead. She listened
to the night sounds. All was quiet. Moving from tree to tree making
an ever-widening circle, she looked for their camp. She came across
a small fire, nearly died out. Cautiously, she felt the ground
around it. Still warm. She covered the dying embers with dirt to
make sure it didn't burst into flames again. Two grungy blankets
assured her. The eejits had been alone.

Making her way back to her campsite, she
dragged the men deeper into the brush. After covering them with
their filthy blankets, she found branches and leaves aplenty to
hide them. Once she finished the chore, she waded in the stream
fully clothed. As she stripped, she soaked the blood from her
clothing.

She paid special attention to cleaning her
stinging face. As she smeared a salve on her cheek, she thanked
Grunda silently for adding as many salves and unguents as she could
to the supplies she'd prepared for her.

Putting on her dry outfit, she doused the
fire and dragged a branch around to hide any footprints. She even
covered Bolt's hefty pile of shite.

"What a masterful horse ye are, Bolt. Ye must
have been a warhorse in yer younger days to fight like that!" She
hugged his neck and checked him over, making sure he was unharmed.
She quickly saddled and readied him.

"Come, my braw old man. We must leave."

Taking his reins, she led him into the
stream. In a short while, her feet felt near frozen. She ignored
it. Bolt hadn't rested enough to carry her.

She kept her eyes on the moon's movement.
When she knew they were far from where they'd stopped, she scanned
the sides of the stream looking for caves. Luckily, she found one
near hidden by small trees.

'Twas lucky, for it would make a warm place
for them to sleep.

The next morning, she discovered it was a
perfect spot to rest a day. She searched along the streams banks
and the damp woodland for moneywort. When she found a cluster of
the rounded leaves growing in pairs along the stems, she collected
enough to make a poultice for Bolt's front legs. Tearing strips
from her smock, she wrapped them tightly around his forelegs and
tied them there. Given a day of rest, Bolt would be strong enough
to carry her again.

As Muriele traveled farther south, she hoped
the Gunns wouldn't come this far searching for her. The weather was
so cold she feared she and the horse would freeze during the night.
She wore breeches and her hunting jacket and gathered the warm
plaid around her waist. Pulling her hair tight behind her head, she
tied it with string then bound her head with cloth cut from a heavy
chemise. Anyone who didn't study her closely would think she looked
like any young man. For certs, she was tall enough to pass for
one.

The next village she came to, she dismounted
and strolled with long-legged steps to the closest hut. There she
found an older man and his wife. He was struggling to chop wood
with one arm. His left looked to have been injured and not yet
healed.

When she approached him, her voice surprised
her. It was as husky as Esa's from not talking above a whisper for
so many days. She offered to look at his wound and treated it with
her salves then suggested she cut wood in exchange for food and a
night in their lean-to for Bolt and herself.

When the old woman called her inside to share
their meal, she learned another elderly couple was hoping to find
someone to travel with them and their newly widowed daughter to
Dumbarton. They had family there but were afeared to start out on
their own. The old man's hands were unsteady, and he could no
longer forage for food nor protect the women.

'Twould be easy to lose herself amongst
several people, for she would be seen as a male of the family. The
next morning, the couple happily accepted her offer. They would
leave in two days time.