The Knight and the Seer (5 page)

She’d been strangely affected by Andrew’s voice when first she’d heard it. Even though his words had been flung as a threat, there had been something about that deep timbre that had touched something inside her. Was it the similarity to her father’s voice? Or was it just so different from the voices she’d grown accustomed to? Whatever the reason, she seemed mesmerized whenever he spoke.

She stepped out of bed and found her own clothes, freshly washed and carefully folded on a small chest. All sign of soot and ash had been scrubbed away. Even her kid boots were polished to a high shine.

She dressed quickly and ran her hands through the tangles of her hair, doing her best to smooth it before making her way down to the public room. Inside there were half a dozen villagers breaking their morning fast. They eyed her with interest as they continued to eat.

“Ah, good morrow, my lady.” Duncan, the tavern owner, hurried over and poured a mug of steaming tea. “May I offer you some mutton?”

“Thank you.” She glanced around. “Has Andrew Ross awakened yet?”

“Oh aye. He was up at dawn, eager to begin work on his fortress.” He paused. “He said that you would be leaving, my lady. In fact, he left a pouch of gold as payment to my wife’s brother, William, who agreed to accompany you.”

His words left her oddly deflated. She’d been so looking forward to seeing Andrew again. To hearing his voice, just once more, before being returned to her kingdom. She’d thought that if she could reason with him, she might be able to persuade him to allow her to remain, at least for a little while longer.

Still, why did she need his permission to remain here?

She gave the tavern owner her sweetest smile. “Tell William I’m grateful for his kind offer, but I’ve decided to stay.”

“That’s most generous of you, my lady. Will you be helping at the abbey?”

Before she could think of a reply Duncan nodded toward the men at a nearby table. “The laird has offered work to anyone in the village who can spare the time from their flocks and crops. As soon as they’ve eaten, all of these men will be driving their teams up to Ross Abbey.”

Without taking time to think about the consequences, she asked, “Would you ask if I might ride along?”

Duncan returned her smile. “I’m sure any one of these men would be happy to take you.”

Minutes later a woman approached bearing a loaf of freshly-baked bread. Her hair was untidy, a sheen on her face from the heat of the kitchen. “Good morrow, my lady.” She set down the bread and began to slice it. “I’m Mary, Duncan’s wife.”

“Good morrow, Mary. My name is Gwenellen, of the clan Drummond.”

“My husband told me about you. He said you’d arrived last night with the laird’s son.” She gave her a long, steady look. “How is it that you and Andrew know each other?”

“We first met at his castle.” Gwenellen decided not to try to explain further, and was delighted when the woman seemed to accept her answer as sufficient.

“I hope your clothes were cleaned to your satisfaction, my lady.”

“Aye. I thank you.”

The woman leaned close, keeping her voice low. “I pride myself on my dressmaking skills, but I confess, I’ve never seen a gown so fine as yours. Who did the weaving of this cloth?”

“My mother is the weaver.”

“The cloth is so fine, she could even dress the queen.”

Gwenellen’s smile was radiant. “I do thank you, Mary. I’ve always thought my mother had a rare talent, but it’s nice to hear it from a stranger’s lips as well.”

“Andrew said you’d be returning to your home, my lady.”

Gwenellen hesitated for only a second. “I believe I shall stay in your lovely village awhile.”

“We’re honored.” The woman set a second slice of bread in front of Gwenellen, and as an afterthought offered a dab of honey before moving on to the next table.

At her kind gesture, Gwenellen couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps this world wasn’t so different from her own after all. At least they indulged their love of sweets.

She bent to her breakfast, intent upon being ready to leave whenever the villagers beckoned. After all, what would be the harm of remaining here for another day or two? She’d already had a taste of Andrew’s anger. Though she’d been alarmed and more than a little afraid, she’d survived. She would survive another bout of temper. And if he should banish her, at least she’d have the satisfaction of having tried.

Andrew hauled the smoldering timber outside and placed it in the growing pile. Already more than a dozen villagers had arrived to lend a hand, with the promise of more when their farm chores had been tended.

Though the damage to the fortress had been extensive, he’d been pleased to discover by the light of morning that much of it could be salvaged. Because so much of the building was made of stone, the outer shell was sound. Fires had been set inside the castle area, torching the tapestries that had once lined the walls, destroying most of the wooden beams and much of the furniture.

Such things could be replaced, he reminded himself grimly. And would be. But the things that mattered most in his life could never be restored. He felt again the twin tugs of pain and guilt. Pain at the loss of his father and loyal servants who had been with his family for generations. Guilt that he and his father had parted in such anger. Now he must put aside his anger at his father and direct it against his enemy.

He silently vowed that the one who did this cruel thing would be caught and punished.

At the clatter of horses and carts he looked over to see more villagers arriving. In their midst sat Gwenellen, talking and laughing with the women as though she’d known them all her life.

His frown deepened as he stalked over to confront her. “Woman, what brings you here?”

“I wish to help.”

His voice lowered, for her ears alone. “I warned you. I can’t see to your safety.”

“Then I’ll just have to see to my own.”

“Are you simply a little fool? Or is your defiance of my wishes something more?”

She lifted her head like a queen. “I know not what you mean, sir. The call went out for help, and I simply answered it. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

She started to step down, and was forced to catch her breath as his big arms came around her waist, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a wee child. Again she felt the most amazing flutter around her heart at the mere touch of him.

She found it difficult to speak over the constriction in her throat. “Thank you, sir.”

He set her on her feet and studied her with a growing frown. How pretty she looked, all fresh-faced and refreshed from her night at the inn. Not that he had time to enjoy the sight. He had more pressing issues than this annoying woman who called herself a witch.

“A warning, my lady. You might refrain from trying another of your spells, lest you find yourself on a distant mountain top, or swimming in a strange loch.”

Though there wasn’t even the hint of laughter in his eyes, she knew that he was having fun with her. “You’d best mind your tongue, sir, or I might be tempted to try one of my spells on you.”

“I believe you already have. How else to explain why I didn’t have you banished the moment I saw you?”

He turned away and stalked off to join the workers, leaving her to stare after him.

One of the women from the village called out to him, “With your permission, we would like to take the tapestries back to the village, to see if they can be mended.”

“Aye.” Andrew nodded. “Though I’m not certain any can be salvaged.”

“Some are badly burned. But others are merely charred. Most of our women are deft with needle and thread, and we wish to do what we can to restore the castle to its former beauty.”

“That’s kind of you, Mistress. I am most grateful.”

Just as the woman walked away, one of the men summoned him to settle a dispute over the best way to remove one of the larger timbers.

As Andrew joined him, Gwenellen followed the women inside the castle which, she learned, was composed of two buildings; one an ancient abbey, which was largely unused; the other a newer addition built within the past hundred years to serve as both home and fortress.

Soon she was caught up in the scrubbing and polishing, sweeping and cleaning. Sleeping chambers on the upper level were stripped of their sooty linens and window coverings and scrubbed to a high shine before fresh rushes were added to the floors. In a corner of the walled garden, village lasses were busy hanging the wash that fluttered in the breeze.

So many people, Gwenellen thought. And all of them working toward a common goal. She found the work oddly satisfying, and was soon laughing and chatting with the others.

In the great hall charred timbers were hauled away, while in the nearby forest new ones were cut and hewn before being loaded onto wagons. Along with the timbers, the village men loaded several stags that had been brought down by hunters’ arrows.

While crofters planed and shaped the giant timbers, and struggled to set them into place, the stags roasted over several fire pits.

By the time evening shadows began to gather, the rooms of the abbey were warmed by fires burning on the giant hearths. The fragrance of bread baking and meat roasting perfumed the air.

Andrew clapped his hands for silence. “My friends. You have labored long and hard. Before you return to your homes, you must allow me to thank you. The women have prepared a feast. And Duncan has unearthed several casks of fine ale.”

With shouts and cheering the men and women eagerly followed him into the great hall and settled themselves at long tables, while the younger lasses hurried about serving food and ale.

Andrew disdained the lone head table, choosing instead to sit at a table in the middle of the room, surrounded by the people who had worked alongside him throughout the long day.

It occurred to Gwenellen that even without any visible sign, it was apparent that Andrew Ross was a leader among these people. Despite the anger that simmered just beneath the surface, and the soot that once more stained his clothes, as well as the raw and blistered hands from his painful labors this day, there was about him a manner, a bearing, that set him apart as a man others would respect.

Duncan stood and lifted his goblet, waiting until the others grew silent. “We are truly sorry for your loss, Andrew. Your father was a fine man, and a fair one.” The old man glanced around at his friends and neighbors. “Many of us lost loved ones who had attended your family, and we grieve along with you. We have spoken among ourselves, and have agreed to pledge to you this night our loyalty and our weapons. With the old laird gone, we declare you laird of the Ross clan. When you are ready to move against Fergus Logan and his hated clan, we will join you in seeking justice.”

The men got to their feet, adding their voices to Duncan’s before emptying their goblets.

Gwenellen saw the look that came into Andrew’s eyes. A dark look that no amount of cheering would dispel.

It would appear that the mere mention of his enemy had his blood hot for revenge. It was obvious that the laird of Ross Abbey would not be satisfied until those who had committed their foul deeds were made to pay.

She thought about the words his father had spoken from his grave, and realized her dilemma. If she were to admit that she could speak with the dead, there would be many in this world who would condemn her as evil. Yet how could she convince Andrew of his father’s wishes without revealing her gift?

Agitated, she slipped away from the great hall and made her way along the empty corridors until she found herself in the small, walled garden littered with fresh graves.

At once the voices assaulted her from all sides.

“Please, my lady, inform my wife and children that I watch over them still.”

“A moment, my lady. I have a brother in the village who isn’t doing his duty towards my granddaughter. You must remind him that she needs him to look after her, now more than ever.”

“Hold, lass.”
An old man’s voice, as soft as a whisper in the wind, stopped her.

Recognizing it, Gwenellen paused.

“Ye must tell Andrew to accept the decree of his people and accept the title of laird. But he must not march against Fergus Logan. It is important that he remain here, close to those who look to him for guidance and protection.”

Gwenellen dropped to her knees beside the mound of dirt where a handsome man sat on the boulder that marked the grave. Gone were the hideous wounds and bloody flesh she’d seen on the lifeless body of Andrew’s father. This man looked years younger, and more like Andrew’s brother than his father. Still, she recognized him at once.

“You’ve changed.”

“Have I?”
He stroked his chin. Smiled.
“Age is something only experienced in your world, lass. Now I’ll be eternally young and strong.”
His voice lowered with passion.
“Now, about my son. Ye must convince him to accept his role as leader and remain here, rather than going off with some foolish notion of vengeance burning like a fever in his blood.”

“It isn’t only vengeance that drives him. He feels he must rescue your wife.”

“The lovely Sabrina.”
Something in his tone changed.
“Rest assured. She’ll not be harmed.”

“How do you know?”

His eyes narrowed.
“I know.”

“How can I tell him so without appearing mad?”

“What does it matter how ye look to him? It only matters that he believes ye.”

“But how am I to make him believe? He’s too filled with anger and bitterness to listen. Besides, he believes me a charlatan.”

“Then tell him the truth.”

“That I can see you? Hear you?”

“Aye. What’s wrong with that?”

“You know what’s wrong. He can’t see you, and he’s your own son.”

“Ye’re the one with the gift, lass. What good is it if ye can’t use it for those who most need it?”

His question left her without an argument. She pondered it a moment, then nodded. “Aye. What good, indeed?”

There was a long moment of silence.
“Ye’ll tell him?”