Too long. For every movement of the sun across the broad blue sky, she was getting farther and farther away.
Frustrated, angry at himself for letting his guard down--and wanting to whack the little witch for being so quick-witted--he turned around for the third time and went back to the placewhere she had entered the stream. He dismounted and carefully tracked her on foot, walking on the rocks and stopping to examine anything, until finally he found one deep hoof print between some rounded stones, not on the east side as he had expected, but on the west side of the stream.
West? He stared into the trees. He didn’t for a heartbeat believe she would go back toward the abbey. He looked westward, then north, checked both directions for trees with broken twigs and branches, marks that proved she had ridden past, and then searched the areas for hound and horse dung, anything to give a clue of her direction. But he found nothing.
Back by the stream he kicked aside some fallen leaves, hunkered down. There, finally, he saw a trace of hoofmarks that had been brushed away. He shook his head, half admiring her.
The trail led in a wide circle back to the stream. So it was no surprise when he found she had pulled the same trick again further upstream, only this time the hoofmarks were headed north, and again she had covered her tracks back to the stream--which meandered westward before turning into a rock falls down a hillside near the eastern edge of the woods.
He followed her trail, trusting his instincts, which had yet to lead him false. Only when he let down his guard did his plans go awry, he reminded himself. Something to keep in the forefront of his mind when it came to his thoughts and plans and feelings about Glenna.
Eventually he rode out of the woods to face the road to Inverness, the sun far behind him, and he spurred his mount forward, riding hard and fast--a wolf on the scent.
As she saton the wagon seat waiting, a familiar panting sound came from overhead, and she leaned to the side and glanced upward to see Fergus, snout resting on his large furry paws atop the piles of corn, eager eyes wide and lookingdown at her. She could hear his tail thumping on the husks. He whimpered and crawled forward, so she stood and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his fur then letting him freely lick her face.
“I swear I will never again spike a tankard of ale.” She gripped his wrinkled furry jowls and faced him nose to nose. “I am sorry, sweetling.”
From the barber’s open shutters, a loud, drawn-out shout of pain cracked through the air, and Fergus lifted his head, ears perked. Glenna winced, then shuddered slightly, thankful for every tooth in her head, even the crooked two on the bottom.
Time slogged by. She began to tap her feet.
The finally door opened and Heckie came out, a leather flask to his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and climbed up into the wain, the overly pungent scent of usquebaugh tainting his breath.
He sat down and weaved a bit, then gave her a silly drunken grin, revealing a large bloody gap where his bad tooth had been. “Gone. There…see? I’m grateful, lad, for staying with the load.” He inhaled deeply, whistling slightly. “I see your dog is awake. Good…good. Now we’ll be off to find your stables.” He paused, shook his head and moved his mouth oddly slipping his tongue into the space where his tooth has been. “This fresh hole in my mouth is making music. I breathe and whistle.” He inhaled. “There. Did you hear that?”
Before she could agree, he was off talking about the barber and how much the usquebaugh burned his mouth and throat but lessen the pain greatly, except for when the hard grip of the barber’s tool clamped onto his deviled tooth, and he snapped the reins and continued to blather on…only twice as fast and loose.
'Twas not long before Glenna had bid a sweet farewell to Heckie, who drove off to take his load to the mill for grinding, talking avidly to the ox team and occasionally taking another sip from the flask. Skye and Fergus were fed and boarded in backstreet stables owned by the town’s well-trusted alewife, soGlenna moved without worry down the short maze of narrow alleys.
With her coins safely tucked inside her chest bindings, and a few more in her boot (no thief would be fool enough to carry a purse about a market that would no doubt be crawling with divers and pickpockets) she stood at the edges of the market cross and took it all in.
After purchasing apples and root vegetables for the road, the thought came to her that it had been a long time since she’d entered a market without being there to stake out the easiest victims. She felt easy, light of foot and mind, and she hummed a merry tune as she moved from booth to booth. The scent of warm oat and cinnamon honey cakes wafted from nearby and she bought one and ate it like a child given a treat for the first time.
Colorful flags and tent awnings were trimmed brightly to catch the eye. The unmistakable scent of fresh bread and the sweetmeat call of pieseller’s booth drew her into the thick of things, past the dancing of tumblers and the lively song of bonepipe and naker drum, on to the tented booths where huge cheeses were sold by the slice and crusty bread made with light flour were all but impossible to pass up.
Munching on her third mincemeat pie and feeling fat as that spotted sow, she paused at the mercer where silk as fine as hoarfrost hung next to stacked bolts of Flemish velvet softer than feather down, and shimmering metal threads of thin gold, copper, and silver lined the back shelves. What would that silk feel like against her skin?
“You, lad.” The mercer whacked her hand with a measuring rod.
“Ouch!” She pulled back quickly and the pie slipped from her other hand. Wincing and stunned, she rubbed her throbbing hand as tears burned the backs of her eyes.
“Little bugger!” He waved the measuring rod in her face. “Keep yer greasy fingers off the goods!
She bit back the urge to curse him to the bowels of hell and instead looked down to hide her tears. Her pie lay broken in two on the ground. A large boot of oxblood cordovan leather smashed the pie, and she slowly raised her face upward.
A tall knight with bright red hair stood but a hand’s breadth away, staring down at the pie oozing up from the edges of his boot. He looked at her and his dismayed frown faded. “Lady Caitrin!” He gaped at her with an expression that was almost comical…until he said, “We left you at the castle. How did you come here? Surely you are not alone?” He looked around swiftly. “Finn will have your head…wearing peasant clothes again. What were you thinking, woman? He whispered harshly. "You swore you would obey all his commands.” The knight grabbed her arm tightly.
Lady Caitrin?“Let me go, sir.” She pulled on her arm but he had the grip of a giant. “I am no lady. I am Gordie of Suddy.”
“Aye…and I am St Columba facing the great monster of the Ness.” His hand moved so fast she hadn’t time to stop him. He jerked her hat off her head and her braid tumbled down her back.
There was a gasp from the crowd nearby, which was growing, a sea of curious, wide-eyed faces.
She snatched her hat and crammed it back on just as he began to drag her away. “You, my lady Cait, will come with me to find Finn, and you can then tell your husband your boldface lies.”
Oh God… She dug in her feet, and bit him hard on the arm, her hand going for the knife in her boot.
He swore in a huge and loud bellow.
