“Castle Rossie, home to the barony, is on the River Esk.”
“Is that where you are taking me?”
“Nay.” His voice was gruff again.
She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “Where then?” she asked finally.
“To a safe place,” was all the lunkheaded oaf would say. He started to eat the last bit of cheese, but looked down at Fergus, who had slowly slithered closer to him and away from her. But then she had no food…the traitor.
Montrose eyed Fergus for a moment, then tossed him the cheese. He stood. “Come. The horses are rested and I need us to be in Steering before the tide can delay us for a day.
Steering.God’s bones!She said nothing but closed her eyes and followed him, trusting she could think of something to save her before they arrived there.
They rode on the beginnings of a rough road that started from the standing stones near Callenish, and by late in the day they came near the outer rim of the only coastal hamlet on southern ends of the isle, where they passed by some crofters stacking cut squares of dried peat into carts for the coming winter months, and where the air smelled of fresh soil and firesmoke. Glenna knew the road went through the center of Steering, and wound directly through the traveling market which was there for a sennight in late summer. If she were fortunate, the market would already have packed up and be gone until next year.
The closer they came, the more her hands began to turn clammy and she grew uneasy. Luck was not with her. She couldsee the colorful tents of the summer market, their bright flags waving in the sea wind. Sweat began to drip from her brow. Her hands tightened on the reins and Skye side-stepped. She looked down at her dog. He was as much of a liability as she was.
“Fergus. Heed!” she whispered harshly, panic racing through her. She pulled her hat down lower, then edged her horse to the left side of Montrose, hoping his size and horse would shield her. She should have cut her hair off and ridden hatless. She should have found a way to get Montrose to ride around the village. She should have, should have, should have…
He was a baron, and one who would not pass unnoticed through a village on the mainland, let alone such a nobleman on remote island village. His presence demanded attention, this man whose fat purse would appeal greatly to every single one of the vendors. Sneaking past them? Ha! ‘Twas like trying to hide the sun.
They were but a short distance from the market stalls. Her heart sped. She looked in the opposite direction and kept Skye even with his great black horse, and then the first call came. “My lord!” said the ironmonger. "Lanterns and candleholders. Kettles and pots! Only the finest wares!”
“Fresh pies, my lord!”
“Wool from Flanders!”
“Spices, my lord!” The familiar voice was loud as a fishwife.
Oh no…Glenna closed her eyes.
“Fresh hare and marten furs!”
A moment later a horrific shriek made Glenna wince and hunch down.
“You!“ The spice merchant’s wife was looking at her and she screamed again, grabbing and shaking her husband’s arm. “’Tis him! Look! The thieving bugger! There he is! Stop him!” The woman moved from the stall faster than Glenna thought possible. Leaning low, Glenna kicked her heels into Skye and took off. She did not look back, but from the corner of her eye, she couldsee the barest bit of Fergus’s head; he was staying with her, right at her side.
“Thief! Thief! Thief!” came the incessant shrieking.
Montrose’s cursing sounded like a battle cry and echoed from behind her.
Her heart pounded in cadence with Skye’s hooves. From over her shoulder she saw his horse rear, and a moment later he was thundering after her, his face frighteningly intense.
A sudden cacophony of voices was shouting “Stop! Thief!” The market was utter chaos, as a motley contingent of merchants pursued her, brandishing counting sticks and long knives, brands and candle snuffers, and the spice wife was leading them all, running after her and waving a hatchet. Villagers followed and the crowd grew.
‘Twas common practice to cut off the hand of a thief. And horse thieves had been hung from the nearest tree. Island law was unto itself, with no resident lord to oversee, and few questions were asked. Not that she had any answers.
Chills ran down Glenna’s spine. All were still after her.
Ahead of her, where the road narrowed next to a smithy, a drover struggled with a lumbering hay cart, the cart horse balking.
Think fast.
Montrose was closing in.
“Stay with me Fergus!” She snapped her fingers at him and he barked. She smiled. “Good dog.”
The cart was stopped now, blocking most of the path. She did not slow, but sped past so close her leg brushed the cart.
