It was a mistake he would shoulder, one he must fix. “Wait. “ He stood quickly, laughing as if it were a jest, his hand in the air. “Aye it is the same name, and they are not related by blood. My lady wife is merely a cousin by marriage, I can assure you.”
“Oh, you were thinking of the king?” Glenna laughed softly, quickly picking up on the story. “It is true. We are cousins. Distant cousins,” she said firmly—her lies rang uncomfortably true, then she added a jest, “But in both family bond and….” she smiled at the prior with a look that proved her lying was equal to her thieving, “by vast distance….” She paused, then said with a smile, “Is not our king in exile?”
A moment later all the monks laughed at her jest.
“Glenna Gordon Canmore Robertson,” the scribe repeated slowly as he wrote slowly, hunched over his ink pot and writing table.
She watched the scribe as if she were afraid to look away. She was still pale and Lyall wished they were alone.
The prior bent down to take her hand in his. “You have been very ill indeed. You should rest, my dear lady.” He released her hand and straightened, turning to Lyall. “Come, my lord. The scribe is ready for you. You can place your mark on the papers.” He faced the monks. “You may all stand as witness.”
Lyall looked down at his ring, not the baron’s, and he dared not look at Glenna. An imaginary noose just tightened around his neck. On the inside, he was choking.
The prior stood over him as he pressed his seal onto each parchment. “We will keep the records here with all our birth, death and marriage documents,” the prior assured him and Lyall understood there was as much threat in his tone as there was promise.
Unlike Pater Bancho, there was no sweetness in the prior. The man was too sharp-eyed. All the monks surrounded him like harbinger ravens perched upon a hangman’s tree.
Lyall hid his concern and blithely carried on the masquerade to the end. “ ‘Tis very reassuring to know,” he said simply. He kept his gaze hooded, unable to look at Glenna, looking down upon the documents that lay before him, knowing he wanted to burn them into ashes.
12
Donnald Ramsey, Baron Montrose, lord of Rossie, Mar, Brechin, and Kirriemur, rode over the last hill, his knights and men-at-arms flanking him and the pennant of the house of Ramsey whipping in the fresh, rain-cooled island winds. Below him stood a grass-roofed cottage of stone built into the side of a knoll and looking solitary and strangely peaceful considering the plots and skirmishes shadowing the mainland.
His first thought was that Sutherland had been right, for the girl to be stowed away in these barren outlands assured her safety. Yesterday’s downpour had stopped and the sun had baked away the rain on the ground. The ship landed onto the island in the light of a clear morning, and their ride across the slopes and rises of the island had been swift because the leagues of heath and moorlands soaked up the rains and only occasionally did they hit any mud to slow them. He preferred the mud to dust which strayed into the nose and made the chest tight and breathing difficult after a few days of riding in a cloud of it.
Off in the far distance the seas were a misty purple—beyond, the unknown edges of the world—but closer, nearer to the cottage horses pranced about a paddock, the extension of astone and plank stable also topped with a roof of bright green grass and appearing as if the hillside rolled right over it.
The figure of a young man carrying a hayfork came running over the rise from the paddock and another, taller one came around the side of the house as Ramsey and his men closed in, and when the man saw them approaching, he picked up a wood axe and planted his feet apart.
Ramsey was unsure what the two of them thought they could do with a hayfork and woodaxe when pitted against a score of trained knights and twice as many men-at-arms. Amused, he raised a hand as he reined in barely a rod away from the cottage door.
The young man from the paddock stopped next to the other, panting to catch his breath. Clearly they were brothers; their faces were the same, both with sharp, hawk-like noses and dimpled square chins. Only their hair and height distinguished them apart.
“Put down the hayfork,” Ramsey told him. “No one intends to harm you.”
“If you mean no harm, then there is no need for me to put down the hayfork,” he said rebelliously.
The knight and men-at-arms took exception and there was clattering of drawn weapons and mounts shifting into protective positions.
“Quiet, El,” the tall, ginger-haired one said and he stepped in front his brother, eyeing them uneasily.
“I’ve come to speak with Sir Hume Gordon.”
“I am Alastair Gordon and my younger brother Elgin. Our father is dead, my lord.” He lowered his weapon.
“Stand down,” Ramsey quietly ordered, then turned back to the Gordons. “When?”
“Why does it matter?” Elgin Gordon asked.
“Where is Glenna?” Ramsey shot back. Her name all but snapped in the air. In the telling silence the brothers exchangeduneasy looks. Ramsey could smell trouble like one could smell bad fish.
“She is gone, “Alastair Gordon told him.
“Gone?” Ramsey paused meaningfully. “What do you mean she is gone?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to this men. “Search inside and search the paddock and stable.”
“He told you the truth. She is not here,” Elgin said angrily.
“Stop, El.” His brother shoved him behind him and said harshly, “Put down the fork.”
