“’Twas the right thing to do.” Angus nodded with relief.
“I placed my sword on the ground, near the fountain.” Jonah fixed his gaze on a finely-stitched tapestry of Wolvesley Castle which had long hung over the fireplace. “And whilst Gaunt was taunting me for standing down, Elena picked up my sword and came at him.”
Isabella gasped, slopping wine onto the rug beneath her feet. “So Elena was the one to kill him?”
Jonah looked at her shortly. “Nay, she struck only a glancing blow. Gaunt turned on her in retaliation. And when I saw the devilish intent in his eyes, I had no choice but to step in. I grabbed my sword from Elena and swung it wide. It struck him full in the chest.” He picked up his empty goblet, looked inside and placed it back down. Isabella saw that his hands were shaking. “He died almost instantly.”
Angus glanced up at his son. “Why did you not stay by the body?”
“Because Elena was injured in the struggle,” Morwenna answered for him. She rose from her chair and put an arm around Jonah’s shoulders.
“She was most aggrieved.” Jonah took a deep breath. “She blamed herself. I was worried she might either bleed out or pass out with distress. And then I heard men coming fromthe knights’ sleeping quarters. I did not think, Father. I simply picked her up and ran.”
“You got her to safety,” Morwenna said pointedly.
“Is she badly hurt?” Isabella thought of Hamish, who had been wrongly banished whilst his only sister was bleeding.
“She will heal, but it will take time.” Morwenna guided Jonah into the chair she had recently vacated. “She can stay here for as long as she needs.”
“And I will take whatever punishment you see fit, Father.” Jonah nodded firmly as Morwenna shook her head in distress.
“There will be no punishment.” Angus dragged a hand through his greying hair. “This changes everything.”
“It does.” Isabella could hardly breathe for the urgency of it. “It changes everything. I must go after Hamish. There was no cause for him to leave.” She held out her hands as if warding off an enemy. “Don’t try to stop me, Mother.”
“I have never tried to stop any of my children doing anything they set their minds to,” Morwenna said patiently. “But I will say this, in some hours it will be dark. Pray, take the carriage, child.”
“But there will not be time.” Isabella wrung her hands.
“There will be plenty of time,” Morwenna interjected. “Take the carriage and meet Hamish at Ember Hall. You will find him there, I promise you.”
*
Hamish found ithard to travel north through England with no sword and only a small bag of coin. Luar had been well-fed and well-rested at Wolvesley; she stepped out with all the enthusiasm of a colt on a spring day. But Hamish felt the dampness of the fog seep into his bones and, as they climbed higher over the moors, the desolation of their surroundings burrowed deep into his heart.
To keep despair at bay, he spoke aloud to Luar; telling her of his plans to rebuild Greenock and make a happy home there for himself and Elena. He did not allow himself to dwell on the detail; the lack of coin, dearth of laborers or the simple fact of Elena still being held captive at Wolvesley Castle. Nay, if he focused on the difficulties ahead, he might find himself unable to proceed.
And if he thought of Isabella, he might seize up entirely.
But even as he conjured a roaring fire for the feasting hall and a new roof for the barn, he kept one eye on the sinking sun. These borderlands were notorious for raids and thieving, and the threat loomed larger given his swordless state.
“We will have to take shelter for the night,” he told Luar.
They stopped at a small but hospitable inn by a crossroads, where Luar was led to a large stable, and Hamish was shown to a cramped chamber with a sloping floor. But the food was edible and the landlord seemed happy enough with the coin Hamish could pay. To his great surprise, Hamish slept deeply on the narrow pallet provided. When he awoke, somehow his heart was lighter. The November morn did not dawn brighter; if anything, the mist hung more heavily over the heather. But a voice spoke in his head, telling him that all would be well. Rather than bracing himself against despair, he found himself embracing the possibilities of the day. Luar whickered to him as he came out into the yard; the sound travelling through the blanket of fog. He tossed a coin to the stableboy, who had brushed her coat to a glossy shine, and bid him farewell.
“’Tis a beautiful horse you have there,” the lad opined, giving her a final pat.
“She is that.” Hamish smiled.
They trotted off into the mist, Luar’s hoofbeats the only sound for miles around. Acting purely on impulse, Hamish took the easterly road which hugged the coast. He told himself thathe longed to see the sea, after so long looking only at bleak moorland and barren trees. But the real reason had naught to do with waves, and everything to do with a golden-haired woman whose smile he would never forget.
Perchance he would never again look upon Isabella de Neville. But he could take this final opportunity to look upon the unassuming house where his life had taken such a dramatic turn.
He gave Luar her head as they climbed up a steep road with the mournful crying of gulls echoing around them. Luar was breathing heavily now, her flanks damp with sweat. They had, by necessity, taken the longer route north, following the ancient roads laid down long ago. When they rode this same journey in reverse, Hamish had tracked Isabella’s much more direct route directly over the moors. But he did not know these lands as well as she, and could not risk getting lost in a bog.
Nor did he want to come across what might be left of Alaric.
Closing his eyes to such unwanted memories, Hamish breathed deeply, taking in the tang of sea salt as well as the fresh, clean country air.
