A MESSAGE AND A JOURNEY
“When did she leave?”
Dougal shouted it at the man, Len, who tensed, face pale. He regretted his tone – he had Len and his aunt as his only loyal servants and should not look so unappreciative.
“She...” Len licked dry lips. “She left in the morning. Two days ago.”
“I know two days ago, but...” Dougal felt his hands tense into fists, then fall to his side, futile. “I need to know if she is safe. If she arrived. How...” He sighed.
There was no answer, because there was no way of knowing.
All he could do was wait, pray, and hope.
He looked out of the window at the late-afternoon sky. There was perhaps half an hour left of sunlight. He should either act now, or resign himself to waiting.
“She went by the fastest route, sir,” the man continued hesitantly. “She knows it well. Grew up in these parts. She should be safe.”
“I know full well she grew up here,” Dougal said frostily. “She is a woman alone, in woodlands suddenly lapsed in maintenance, in territory she thinks is safe. I do not think it is inappropriate to feel some concern in the matter.” He let a breath whistle through a throat suddenly tight.
The man was looking at him, eyes helpless, throat swallowing hard.
“I apologize,” Dougal said, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I am just concerned.”
“I know, sir,” Len said softly.
Dougal raised a brow at him, trying to discern what the fellow meant by that. All he needed was his staff making insinuations that he and Joanna had forestalled marriage vows. Then his reputation would well and truly be in its death throes and he could walk away from Lochlann, conquered.
The man did not seem to be insinuating anything, however. He looked back, level gaze somewhat confused. Dougal shook his head.
“I need to speak to the men,” he said.
“Good, my lord.” The man waited, evidently unsure if he had been dismissed. Dougal inclined his head and he walked away.
When he had gone, Dougal let out an explosive sigh. Why could he not have kept her here? Now, even as he faced the difficulties in his own castle, half his thoughts would be out there with her in the woods, distressed and frantic with care.
Joanna! Why do you have to be so stupidly stubborn?
He sighed. If she were not the person she was, he would not love her as he did. He knew that as certainly as he knew himself. Her stubbornness, her willful, strong nature was part of what he loved. He loved all of her – the most infuriating habits to the dearest characteristics. Now, she might be anywhere. At her home or in the forest.
He did not let himself think long about that second the possibility, if she was still in the forest it would be since she was wounded. Worse.
“Come on, Dougal,” he said to himself, sighing. “You have to go and see your guardsmen.”
He couldn't let himself worry about Joanna. He had no way to find out where she was.
He went towards the courtyard, hissing a breath as the wound in his side pulled. The priest had taken a look that morning, deemed himself satisfied with their progression, prescribed a rinse of garlic and thyme and left again, praying for his healing.
It seemed to be working.
Dougal winced and scratched the chest wound. The skin was warm, the edges were itchy in a way he knew heralded healing. It was still annoying, though, and it chafed on his already raw constitution as he headed down towards the great hall.
“Fergal,” he snapped at the first man he recognized in the yard.
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you anything to report? Has our prisoner said aught else?”
“He's sticking to his story sir,” he replied. “Says he's a minstrel, come down from the North Country. Says he was taken by a fit of insanity, sir. Not changing his tale.”
Dougal closed his eyes, thinking. They had questioned all three of the attackers. The first man, one of the villagers, had confessed, unrepentant, and had been sent into exile by the priest. The second man, a disaffected sentry, had declared his undying hate for the present rulership, and he had too been sent forth into the woods, an outlaw.
This was the only man who seemed to have no motive. He had come to the castle several days before, clearly intending to stay on. He had performed at the wake and been invited to stay on, something understandable, as all the men liked music and a good story to end the day. In itself, that was not suspicious.
Dougal would have almost believed this tale of sudden madness, but that Joanna had been less inclined to trust him. He wondered why. Joanna often said things that were insightful. She was wise, he realized, and he missed her wisdom. She suspected something about this man and so he could not simply accept his word, tempting though it was. If he were mad, he would hand him to the new priest and have done with it.
He headed down to the cellars, where the man was being held.
“Bring him up,” he commanded the guards there. They jumped to do so. Between them, they marched the man out of the cellar and into the almost-setting sunshine of the courtyard. He was tall, his ragged black cloak gathered about him with an unassailable dignity. The dark eyes that stared into Dougal's were calm.
“You are accused of an attempt to take my life,” he told the man.
“I am not guilty of such an attempt, good sir,” he said levelly. “I was...in a trance. I did not know I did so. It sometimes happens.” He seemed far too composed for either identity – a traveler or a lunatic. He spoke more like a knight, someone of rank.
Dougal squinted at him, trying to tell if he was lying. He could see fresh bruises under the man' sun darkened skin and he knew his guards had done their best, over the last few days or so, to make him change his story. He had not.
Dougal sighed. “You say so”, he said wearily. “Well, there is only one thing I can do to find out if you are right.” He paused, aware the man was worried at last. “Take you to the priest.”
The man looked appreciably relieved. Apparently, whatever he had expected Dougal to say was far worse.
Dougal sighed. He wished he could simply have done with it – cut him down where he stood, end this now. This threat, at least, would die here in the courtyard, unrepeatable. Would that make any difference, though? The woodlands and the towns seemed bursting at the seams with mad and desperate men, straining to end his – Dougal's – own life.
“Men,” he inclined his head, indicating to the guards that they should take him away. “Take him to the priest. Let him determine if he speaks the truth.”
As the men took the minstrel away, Dougal ran a weary hand down his face. He felt as if he was missing something. In all the chaos, there was some thread of connection that he simply kept on missing.
The arrival of the man at the wake. The other attempts on his life. The rumors. The ghost. The frightened staff.
“What can I not see?” he sighed. It all linked up, he was sure of it. He just had no idea how.
As he walked across the courtyard, boots ringing loudly on the flagging, he heard a shout behind him.
“My lord!”
He turned round to see one of the sentries running towards him. He frowned, feeling his heart pounding heavily in his chest. What was happening now?
“Yes?”
“My lord!” the man repeated crisply. “A messenger at the gate! Says he must speak to you. As soon as convenient, sir.”
Joanna. The thought cannoned into Dougal, making his heart beat faster. What if the messenger was bearing news of her? What if she had been found in the forest...?
“Take me to him. At once,” he snapped.
The man looked at him, round eyed, then rushed to do his bidding.
“He's a strange sort, sir,” he said cautiously, walking quickly to keep up with Dougal's restless pace. “He says he worked for us, once, but I can't say I know him, sir...”
“He's one of our guards, he claimed?” Dougal asked, alarm bells in his head. If this was another assassin, then...
“No, sir,” the man said, lifting his shoulders. “Big fellow. Shoulders like an ox, sir. I'd remember him if he'd been a guardsman.”
Dougal nodded. He reached the gate. Stopped.
“Send the messenger to me.”
The guards brought someone forward. The man stood in their midst, tall and unruffled. He was dressed in leather, a cap covering his hair. As the guardsman intimated, he was broad-shouldered, wide-chested, a strong man. He met Dougal's eyes with a stiff gaze.
“Lord of Lochlann,” he said formally. He did not truly bow, just inclined his head a fraction. Dougal appreciated the man's pride.
“That is who I am,” he acknowledged. “Speak your message. I am listening.”
The man cleared his throat. “I was in the woods one evening, sir, doing as I always do – checking the paths, keeping my eyes open for poachers, as I do.” He paused. “I heard voices, then. And saw a woman on horseback”.
Dougal's heart stopped. “What did she look like? Speak, man!” He felt a sudden sense of horror.
“She was tall, sir, with long red hair under a dark hood. She was soft-spoken, like. Beautiful.”
Joanna. He almost shouted her name. It was certainly her, there were no two ways about it.
“What happened?”
“She was set upon, sir.” he held up a hand as Dougal launched forward, ready to spring to the gate, ride out. “I shot an arrow, scared them away, sir.”
“They left? You're sure of that?”
The man met his gaze. His eyes were level but there was compassion there if Dougal chose to look for it. He did.
“I cannot be sure of that, sir. They might have returned. I know not,” he breathed out. “Afore she left, she told me she lived here. Gave me this. I came to return it and to tell you of her plight. Perhaps something could be done to see her on her way.”
“What did she give you? Let me see?”
The man lifted something up, holding it flat on the palm of his right hand.
Silver glinted in the last evening light. Dougal slit his eyes, trying to bring the object into clear focus.
It was about the length of his shortest finger, a delicate shape he could not quite discern. He held out a hand and the man placed it in his grasp.
He lifted it to his eyes, and then let out a long, sobbing breath, knowing what it was an instant before his mind truly recognized the shape of it.
Joanna's brooch.
He hadn't known he knew it – had never really noticed it with the conscious part of his mind. Seeing it now, in the stark light of nightfall, he recognized it instantly. She wore it every day. He had never asked her about it, but he should have done. It was a swallow, the image of the bird delicately wrought in silver, the workmanship something of a bygone age. Seeing it glitter in his palm when it should have been on her shoulder tore his heart. This man had clearly seen her. Saved her life. His heart filled with thanks.
“She said you would know it,” the man said hesitantly.
“I do,” Dougal agreed. “My thanks for bringing it here. Guards?”
The guards snapped to attention.
“Take this man to the kitchens and see he has a good meal. Then, send him up to my office. His service should not go unrewarded.”
The man seemed as if he would protest, but Dougal turned away before he had a chance to do so. He knew his sort: proud, upright, the kind of man who was offended by charity or any slur on his name. Still, he would not let his deed go unrewarded.
“Greer?” he called as he hurried past his office. His steward appeared.
“Yes, Lord Dougal?”
“I am sending a man up to you, seeking a reward. Tall fellow, bowman's arms. You'll know him when you see him. Pay him in silver coin. The bag in the strong box.”
“My lord!” the man paled. The bag in the strong box held a yearly wage for five men. They both knew that. Dougal sighed. He wanted to make a gesture that would equal his thanks.
“Do it. Please,” he added.
Greer sighed but nodded. “Yes, sir.” He looked unhappy with the decision, but Dougal refused to be questioned on this. He was happy to give it all away. Anything, for saving Joanna. He was in a strange mood.
He was about to go upstairs when a thought occurred to him.
The bowman had not said Joanna was safe. He had only said she was safe when he left her.
He ran down the flight of steps, panting as he reached the great hall.
“Master bowman!” he shouted. The tall, hawk-eyed man turned slowly.
“Yes?”
“When you saw the lady, where was she? Where in the forest?”
“She was mayhap three hour's ride from Dunkeld, assuming an even pace.”
“Three hours!” Dougal stared at him, horrified. Those brigands were not going to give up lightly. They could have returned, could have ambushed her...
His heart pounding in his chest, he ran for the gate.
“My lord?” a guardsman called out, looking anxiously after him.
“I need to go!” Dougal called over his shoulder.
He knew he was being stupid. It was night and he had his own dangers to face. Someone had tried to kill him, twice. He was wounded, and still not healed. Nevertheless, he could not risk that aught had happened to Joanna. She had already been gone two days. If those outlaws had caught her then, there might be no chance of ever finding her. She might be dead already.
“Where are you?” he whispered under his breath. “Joanna? Be alive.”
Running to the stables, heedless of the pain that worked into his side with every step, he skidded to a halt at the open gate.
“Saddle my horse,” he shouted to the groom. “I'm going out.”
The man stared at him, clearly thinking he had lost his mind.
In a sense, I have.
He was frantic with worry, wild with care. Desperate to reach her.
Before it was far too late.
His horse was ready faster than he would ever have credited possible. He mounted and rode through the gates, shouting to the sentries to stay alert, waiting for his return.
“Yes, sir!” their shouts followed him, blazing ahead down the hill.
As he followed the winding road that led into the woodlands, he allowed his pace to slow. He had seven hours of riding ahead, still. In addition, night was falling fast.
He had to reach her. Had to make sure she had arrived at home.
He shuddered, thinking of what might have happened to her, in the woodlands here at night, alone.
She could have been ambushed. She could have faltered and lost her way. She could have fallen and even now be lying in the woods, alone and freezing.
His mind did not allow him to consider that she might be dead.
“Hold on, Joanna,” he sobbed, riding down the road, ducking as they walked beneath the trees.
He was on his way.
He just had to hope that he was soon enough.