The Chase (2 page)

Blake did a brief scan of those present, searching for the woman he was to marry and spend
the rest of his life with, but there seemed to be none present. Other than a servant or
two, the great hall was entirely inhabited by men. It mattered little, he reassured
himself. He would meet her soon enough.

Blake moved toward the head table, slowly gaining the attention of man after man as they
nudged each other and gestured toward him.

Ignoring their rude behavior, he moved up the center of the room until he stood before the
grizzled old man he suspected was the laird, Angus Dunbar. The room had fallen to silence.
A hundred eyes fixed on and bore into him from every angle and still the man did not look
up. Blake was just becoming uncomfortable when Rolfe moved to his side and cleared his
throat.

“Greetings again, Lord Dunbar.”

Angus Dunbar was an old man with shoulders stooped under years of wear and worry. His hair
was gray and wiry, seeming to stand up in all directions. He took his time about finishing
the chicken leg he gnawed on, then tossed the bone over his shoulder and raised his head
to peer, not at the man who had spokenbut at Blake himself. Blake immediately had to
revise his first opinion. Had he thought the man old? Worn down by worry? Nay. Gray hair
he might have, but his eyes spat life and intelligence as he speared Blake where he stood.

A brief flash of surprise shot across his face, then his mouth set in grim lines and he
sat back. “Soooo,” he drawled. “For guid or ill ye finally shoo yersel'. Ye look like yer
faither's whelp.”

Blake took the time to translate the man's heavily accented words. Once he was sure he
understood, he gave an uncertain nod.

“Weell, 'tis too late.” His pleasure in making the announcement was obvious. “Clockin'
time came an' went an' the lass done flew the chicken cavie, so I ken ye'll be thinkin'
linkin'.”

“Cavie? Thinkin' linkin'?” He turned to a frowning Rolfe in bewilderment.

“He said hatching time came and went and the girl flew the chicken coop, so he supposes
you'll be tripping along,” the other man explained, then turned to the laird, anger
beginning to show itself. “What mean you the girl flew the cavie? Where is she gone?”

Dunbar shrugged a dismissal. “She dinna say.”

“You did not ask?”

Angus shook his head. “ 'Twas nigh on two weeks ago noo, the day after Lady Weeldwood
arrived”

“Lady Wildwood is here?” Rolfe's surprise was obvious. “She was to wait for us to fetch
her back to court.”

“Aye, weell, an' surely ye've taken yer time about it, have ye no? We expected ye back
more than a week ago.”

Rolfe tossed a dirty look at Blake, muttering, “We were unavoidably delayed.”

“Weell, while ye were 'unavoidably delayed,' Lady Weeldwood was forced to flee fer her
life.”

“You do not mean Lady Margaret Wildwood?” Blake interrupted, and was surprised when the
Scot nodded. He had met Lord Wildwood and his wife several times at court. Lady Margaret
had been there often while the queen had still lived. From what he had seen and heard, the
couple had been happily married for some twenty years. Lord Wildwood would never have hurt
his wife when alive and certainly could not now he was dead. Blake knew the older man had
died in Ireland but a few short months ago. “Lord Wildwood is dead,” he spoke his thoughts
aloud. “Who would threaten Lady Wildwood?”

Rolfe frowned and seemed to debate what to say, then sighed. “Know you Greenweld?”

Blake nodded at the mention of the Wildwood's neighbor. He was a greedy, immoral bastard,
not well liked by anyone.

“He forced Lady Wildwood into marriage,” Rolfe told him. “He separated her from her
daughter, Lady Iliana, and used the girl's safety as a means to keep Lady Wildwood from
protesting the marriage and to keep her in line.”

Blake was stunned by the news. “Surely he didn't expect to get away with it?”

“But he did get away with it,” Rolfe said. “Until Lady Wildwood managed to get a letter to
the king through a faithful servant. The message recounted her predicament. Richard
immediately arranged for Iliana to marry Duncan, Lord Angus's son,” Rolfe explained, with
a nod toward the seated laird. “Thereby removing her from Greenweld's grasp and threat.
The king is even now seeking to annul the marriage Greenweld forced.”

“Which is most like what got her beat,” Angus commented grimly. “He wid see her dead ere
givin' up Wildwood.”

“Aye.” Rolfe nodded. “That may be the case, if he caught wind of it.” He considered the
situation before glancing at Angus. "She headed here for protection, I presume? Why did
she not head for court? The

king would have protected her."

Angus shrugged. “I doona yet ken. She fled here with her maid an' the maid's son, but she
fell under a fever along the way. She's been restin' since arrivin' an' I have no yet
spoken to her.”

“I see,” Rolfe murmured, his expression tight with displeasure. “Is she well?”

The Dunbar pursed his lips. “Alive. Barely. He near knocked the life out o' her. 'Tis why
she anticipated yer rescuin' her an' fled here to the safety we could offer as kin.”

Rolfe and the bishop exchanged a glance, then the younger man asked, “Have you sent a
messenger to the king with news of her presence here?”

“Nay. I thought to wait for ye to arrive. 'Twill be best to give him all the news at one
time. He may wish ye to escort her back to court once she's recovered.”

Rolfe nodded. “You are a wise man, Angus Dunbar.”

The laird's lip curled. “An' yer a fair diplomat, lad. 'Tis why yer king sends ye out on
such fool chores.”

“Hmm.” Rolfe's displeasure at being saddled with such chores was obvious as he peered at
Blake. “We had best see to this one now.”

Angus grimaced. “Aye. Weell now... that could be a problem. As I was tellin' ye, Seonaid
took advantage of the uproar Lady Wildwood's arriving caused. The day after the lady
arrived, the men an' I took to bowsin'. The chit waited until I was fou, then come gin
nicht she flew the cavie.”

“What?” Blake asked, with both confusion and frustration.

“He said she left the day after Lady Wildwood arrived”

“I understood that part,” Blake snapped irritably. “What the devil is gin nicht?”

“Nightfall. Laird Angus and his men were drinking and Lady Seonaid waited until he was
drunk, then at nightfall she flew the”

“Coop. Aye, I understood that.” Turning back, he glared at the older man, who was eyeing
him with open satisfaction. Blake liked to think of himself as something of a master of
words. He used them often and well to gain his way in many things. It was the height of
irritation for him to find himself unable to understand what was being said, and he
suspected the Dunbar knew as much and was enjoying himself at his expense. “Am I to take
it, then, that you are breaking the contract and are willing to forfeit her dower?” he
asked.

Dunbar sat up in his seat like a spring. “When the devil sprouts flowers fer horns!” he
spat, then suddenly went calm and smiled. “To me thinkin', 'tis ye who forfeit by
neglectin' yer duty to collect yer bride.”

“But I am arrived to collect her.” He flashed a cold smile.

“The lass has seen twenty-four years,” the Dunbar snarled. “Ye should have come for her
some ten years back.”

Blake opened his mouth to respond, but Rolfe touched his arm to stop him and murmured
smoothly, “We have been through all this, Laird Angus. Been and back. You agreed to the
wedding taking place here, and Lord Blake has come as requested to fulfill his part of the
bargain.” He frowned. “I do not understand why you are being difficult. You had agreed to
the wedding by the time I left. Duncan agreed also. Only Seonaid was wont to argue the
wedding taking place when last I was here, yet now you appear to be against it as well.”

Angus shrugged, amusement plucking at his lined face. “Aye, I agreed to it. Howbeit, I
dinna say I would be makin' it easy for the lad. He's tarried a mite long for me likin',
an' 'tis an insult to every Dunbar.”

There were murmurs and nods of agreement all around. Rolfe sighed. It seemed the laird
would see the deed done, but not aid in the doing, which was not good enough in his
opinion. “I understand your feelings, my lord, but I fear Lord Blake is right. By aiding
your daughter in escaping her marriage, you are breaking the contract, her dower will be
considered forfeit, and”

Laird Angus silenced him with a wave of disgust. “Oh, save yer threats. I'd see the lass
married soon as you would, 'tis well past time.” He glared at Blake. “ 'Sides, I'd have
grandbabies from her, even if they are half-English.” He paused to take a long draught of
ale from his tankard, then slammed it down and announced, “She ran off to St. Simmian's.”

“St. Simmian's?”

“ 'Tis an abbey two days' ride from here,” he explained with amusement. “She asked for
sanctuary there an' they granted it. Though, I canna see the lass in there to save me
soul.”

“Damn,” Rolfe snapped; then his gaze narrowed on the Scot. “I thought you knew not where
she was.”

“I said she dinna tell me,” he corrected calmly. “I had one o' me lads hie after her when
I realized she was gone. He followed her trail to Simmian's but had no luck in gettin' her
out. Men're no' allowed inside, ye ken.”

“Aye, I know,” Rolfe muttered irritably.

Angus Dunbar turned his gaze back to Blake, his eyes narrowing on the small signs of
relief he saw on the man's face and in his demeanor. “Well? Ye ken where she be now, lad,
why do ye tarry? Go an' fetch 'er; she must be bored by now an' may e'en come out to ye.”

Blake glanced at Rolfe. He had been thinking that he might have just slipped the noose
they would place on his finger, but the expression on the other man's face and his
would-be father-in-law's words told him he had thought wrong. They expected him to fetch
her out of the abbey to wed. To his mind, it was rather like asking a man to dig his own
grave, but it seemed he had little choice.

Sighing, he turned to lead the bishop and Lord Rolfe from the room, but at the door to the
keep he paused and waved them on before he returned to face the Dunbar. “You say the abbey
is two days' ride away?”

“Aye. Two days.” “Over lands friendly to you or not?” Angus Dunbar's eyebrows rose in
surprise. "Friendly to me. Though no always friendly to the King o'

England,“ he added with amused pleasure. ”So I wouldna be wavin' yer banner o'ermuch."

Blake nodded. He had suspected as much. It would no doubt please the Laird of Dunbar and
his daughter no end if he died in the attempt, forfeiting the lands promised by his father
should he fail to marry the wench. “I would have your plaid then, sir,” he said with a
predatory smile of his own.

Angus Dunbar blinked at him in surprise, then frowned. “Now, why would ye be wantin' me
plaid?”

“If the lands we cross are friendly to you, I would wear your colors to prove we travel
under your protection.”

There was dead silence in the room and even a bit of confusion; then the men seated at the
tables began to murmur amongst themselves, whispering something through the hall until it
reached the man to the left of the bewildered laird. His bewilderment seemed to clear as
soon as the man leaned to whisper into his ear. Whatever the fellow had said, Angus Dunbar
found it vastly amusing. Throwing back his head, he roared with laughter, as did every
other man in the room.

Still laughing, the grizzled old man stood, and with little more than a tug and a flick of
the wrist, drew the plaid off. Left wearing only a long shirt reaching halfway to his
knees, he tossed the brightly colored cloth across the tabletop.

His laughter slowed to a stop as Blake caught the plaid and grimaced at the stench rising
off the blanket, then turned to leave again.

“Here!”

Blake paused and turned back. “Aye?”

“Would ye leave me standin' here in naught but me shirttails?” Laird Angus asked, his
brows beetling above his eyes.

Blake stared. “What would you have of me?”

“Yer doublet and knickers there.”

Blake glanced down at his gold doublet and braies with dismay. Both were new. He supposed
he'd thought to impress his bride-to-be with the fine new outfit. “ 'Tis a new doublet,”
he protested. “ 'Tis but a few weeks old.”

Angus Dunbar shrugged. “ 'Tis a fair trade for me colors.” He and the other men laughed
again.

Sighing, Blake reluctantly handed the plaid to Little George, who had followed him back to
the table, then began working at removing his clothes.

“He be bigger than he first looked,” one of the men commented as Blake shrugged out of his
doublet and tunic to stand bare-chested before them.

Glancing at the man, Blake recognized him as the older man on the wall who had said he
favored his father in looks. It seemed some of the men who had lined the wall had followed
them inside, though he had not noticed.

“Hmm,” was all the Dunbar said. Taking the vestments from Blake, he handed them to one of
the men to hold and quickly shrugged out of his own shirt. Tossing the stained and soiled
top to his would-be son-in-law, he took the tunic back and tugged it on.

Blake caught the shirt and nearly groaned aloud at the smell coming from it. He would
guess it had not been washed since being donned. Probably some three years ago, he
guessed, then braced his shoulders and tugged the shirt on before turning his attention to
removing the braies and hose he still wore.

“A mite tight, but no' a bad fit.”

Blake glanced at Angus Dunbar as the older man finished doing up the doublet over the
tunic. His eyes widened as he saw the truth of the words. It seemed his would-be
father-in-law was of a size with himself.

“Quit yer gawkin' and give me the braies, lad. My arse is near freezin'.”

Realizing he had been staring at the older man, Blake turned his attention back to
removing the rest of his clothes. He gave them up to Laird Angus, then took the plaid back
from Little George and began wrapping it about his waist.