Chapter Five

Tansy awoke from a dream filled with fire and pain. So real had it seemed—so vital—she lay for a moment even after she opened her eyes onto the soft darkness, her heart pounding in her ears.

There—there—was the fire, mere embers left now of the comforting blaze Sir Malcolm had built after nightfall. There, beyond the hillock behind which they’d sheltered, a sea of stars spread wide across the sky. Dawn had not yet arrived, though she sensed it would soon.

Ah, God, such a dream! She’d been chained in a dark place with the memory of pain writhing through her body and the promise of more to come. The screams of others echoed in her ears, and her own lodged in her throat. It must be a foreshadowing of what would have awaited her at the hands of the Commission.

A shudder passed through her, long and powerful. But for the grace of Sir Malcolm Montgomery…

Where was he? Had he deserted her here beside the lonely road north and moved on? He’d insisted she take the single blanket he possessed and—aye—had been sitting up beside the fire when she fell asleep. Not there now.

She pushed herself upright and surveyed the camp site. Sir Malcolm lay stretched, without benefit of blanket or pillow, upon the hard ground at the far side of the fire.

Fast asleep.

A score of thoughts tumbled through Tansy’s mind. She could weave a wee spell, push him a bit deeper into slumber and make sure he stayed there. She could then help herself to everything he owned—that fine horse, the supplies strapped to the saddle, all worth a bit of coin. She would not dare steal the dagger in his belt or the great sword even now laid within reach of his hand, or any gold or silver he might have secreted about him. But she could make off with the rest of it and go to seek her fortune, no longer answerable to anyone, free to be the woman she was.

Usually, she resisted the urge to use the power that slept within her, or to weave any spells at all beyond mere suggestions that encouraged folk to do what she wished. She might magic Ossian to meet her in the dark lane behind the smithy, Ranna to step into a puddle and ruin the new slippers of which she was so proud. Now the ability came to her all too readily, tingled in her fingertips and her mind.

Dangerous.

She’d always known it to be so, even before she heard of the Royal Commission. Did she not have her mother’s example before her? As well as the dark specter of what had happened at the crossroads.

Another shudder wracked her body. Perhaps best to just creep away with what she could carry before he woke, and leave magic out of it.

She stirred and started scrambling to her feet. The knight sat up also, as if connected to her by reins. By the powers! Had he but pretended to sleep?

He moved now like a shadow of himself, smooth enough to be supernatural. They stared at one another across the orange embers, and Tansy’s pulse jagged.

“What is it, mistress?” he asked, his voice husky in the gloom. “What do you need?”

A good question, and one that had haunted Tansy most her life. For she had a need always burning inside, the nameless desire she thought could be answered by Ossian’s company or Ranna’s humiliation. Now she wondered fleetingly if even marriage with Ossian would have satisfied her.

She gestured wordlessly to the dark land beyond the fire. “I need to relieve mysel’.”

He grunted. “Return swiftly.”

He got to his feet even as she finished rising, the sword coming almost magically into his hand. Surely he did not mean to accompany her? But no; he kicked the fire into life. Sparks flew up like the bright dust from a spell.

Tansy slipped off into the darkness, biting her lip in consternation. Having done her business among the fronds of bracken, she came back to find him pacing like a restless wolf.

Ah, what approach to take with this man? Back in Slurt she knew everyone and could predict their reactions at most times. This man, with his dark face and shuttered eyes, made her uneasy precisely because she could not read him.

Yet she did not doubt there must be a way to handle him; experience told her most anyone could be handled.

She sank back down onto the blanket and said, “I am that sorry to have disturbed your sleep, Sir Malcolm. You maun be gey weary.”

“We will need to be on our way soon, by any road.” He fed the fire, which leaped up. A strange feeling stirred within Tansy, in response. Such a handsome man, in his dark, compelling way. Dangerous as the predator he resembled.

“Will you break your fast?” he asked.

“Aye.” She waited while he dug in the pack, and accepted the hunk of bread he passed into her hand. “It is good of you to share.”

No response to that. He sat back down on the far side of the fire and lapsed into his brooding silence. Tansy concentrated on choking down the dry bannock, which stuck in her throat.

Not very good; Bessie baked far better. Surely she could not be longing for home, all because of a bit of bannock?

Yet she remembered the distress in Bessie’s face, distress on her behalf, and her stomach grew tight. Would she ever see her family again? For most her life she’d felt like a cuckoo in the wrong nest. She should be grateful to get away.

To distract herself from her thoughts, she asked her companion, “Why do you ride to Aberdeen, Sir Knight?”

“My home is nearby. I take to my father tidings of one dear to us both.”

A woman? Tansy wondered why the idea bothered her. This man’s business remained his own.

“Have you been awa’ on a quest?”

“I ha’ been awa’ in France, fighting at my father’s behest. With my brother.”

“Och, I see.” And had the brother died in some battle? Did that make up the burden he carried home? No wonder he appeared so grim. “Did he perish, your brother?”

“Worse.” For a moment Tansy believed he would say no more. And why should he? Surely she made a poor confidante for such a man as this. Yet he choked down a bite of bannock and went on, “No sooner had we set foot in Scotland than we were waylaid and attacked. My brother, Mercien, is now the prisoner of our enemy.”

For an instant Tansy could feel his pain—bright and immediate—as if it were her own. Darkness, fire—all too much like her terrible dream.

She gasped in reaction. “How did you escape?”

He slanted a look at her. “I did no’. Our captor has merely released me now in order that I might ransom my brother. By doing the untenable.”

“Which is?”

“I dare not speak of it. And I did not figure on rescuing a witch at the crossroads. That is, if you do be a witch.”

“I have told you I am not.”

“You ha’ told me so, aye, but I will be cursed if I know whether to believe it. Since I am sworn to uphold the weak and helpless, I will take you wi’ me to Crag Corvan and find you a place there. But you maun understand I ha’ no time to embroil mysel’ in your troubles.”

“Aye, Sir Knight. I am grateful for what you ha’ done.” Tansy squirmed; she hated being deemed either weak or helpless. Yet his perception of her as being so may have saved her life.

He said slowly into the darkness, “I could no’ see an innocent woman go into captivity and the kind o’ questioning that would ha’ followed it. The country has gone mad wi’ this persecution o’ witches. Even in France we heard of it.”

“’Tis said the King himsel’ is at the root of it. Will I be safe at this place, Crag Corvan?”

“I hope so. But for the love o’ God, do no’ go telling folk there what has befallen you or of what you were accused. I ha’ no wish to bring more grief down upon my home and family.”

“Have you a large family, Sir Malcolm?”

“Not so many left now. There were eight of us, once. My elder brother died, as did a wee sister last autumn with the sickness in her chest. Three other sisters are wed and awa’. Every loss and parting has taken a bit o’ my father’s heart. I do no’ ken what the news I bring will do to him.”

Tansy experienced an unwanted stir of sympathy. Usually most of her concern centered on herself—pity, longing, indignation.

Now she felt what this man felt and fell respectfully silent.

A cool wind sighed over the land. Far to the east, a tinge of pink appeared on the horizon.

“I will do my best, Sir Knight, to keep from bringing you any further grief. May I ask a question?”

“Ask, lass.”

“Why did your captor let you free but continue to hold your brother?”

Sir Malcolm laughed harshly. “He knows if he holds Mercien, he continues to keep a hold on me. I dread Mercien’s pain more than my own.”

How awful. Tansy’s emotions stirred still more powerfully, like a deep river in her breast. “Were you tortured?”

Again, she thought he’d refrain from answering. He bowed his dark head before he said, “Och, aye. Worse than that, Master Latham of Ballan made certain I could hear Mercien being tortured.”

“Who is this man—Master Latham of Ballan? And why—how—did he capture you?”

“You have never heard of him?”

Tansy shook her head.

“Surprising, as he is a man of some renown. Perhaps Dun Ballan is merely too far from Slurt.”

She shifted on her blanket and tucked her bare feet beneath her. “Slurt is too far from everywhere.” Save, perhaps, the Royal Commission.

“He is naught but a bandit who seized his holdings through devious dealings and violence. As a young man, he murdered his own father to attain his present position. He hates my family because we challenged his right to those holdings. That was before Mercien and I, with a stout company of men, were sent to France by order of the King.”

Tansy said nothing. It felt as if Sir Malcolm spoke to himself rather than her; she dared not interrupt.

“I wonder now if that did not also come about at Latham’s urging. The campaign in France proved disastrous; we lost all our men but two, and they had to be left behind because of their wounds. Mercien and I landed at Dundee alone. We took the road north, only to fall under attack. The attackers knew when we would make port, and were lying in wait. We ne’er had a chance.”

An ill tale indeed. From clear across the fire, Tansy could feel his frustration and grief. And she could feel anger, well banked.

“You were bound for home?”

“We were, and never made it. We spent more than a fortnight in Latham’s dungeons—to speak truth, I lost count of the days. One does, mired in darkness.”

Tansy thought again of the Royal Commission. Such might have been her dismal fate.

“And,” Malcolm went on softly, “Mercien there still.”

“Do you know how he fared when you left? What—what his condition may be?”

“Latham made sure to hold us in separate cells so we could provide one another no comfort or encouragement. He also made sure I heard each time Mercien went under torture.”

“He is a monster, this Latham.”

“You ha’ no idea, mistress.”

“And—and your condition, Sir Malcolm? You were tortured also.”

He shifted uneasily. “Aye but not so extensively as Mercien. Latham gave me but a taste of what he handed out to my brother, so I would be sure to understand what Mercien endured. He always knew Mercien to be his most potent weapon against me. And does yet.”

“Should you not be bound for the King to make complaint? As one of his knights…” She might not know much, but she understood it for an honored place in the eyes of the monarch.

Another rough laugh escaped Malcolm’s lips. “The King? Latham is one of his closest friends, part of his inner circle. He will no’ hear aught against him.”

Tansy’s eyes widened. “Then what will you do?”

Malcolm stared at her hard across the embers. “First I maun speak wi’ my father. And then, Mistress Tansy Bellrose, I fear I maun tame my conscience.”