Morning's Journey (43 page)

Of course! She berated herself for allowing her nerves to make her forget this small yet vital element of her plan.

“I’ve ordered Astarte to be hitched to one of my carts, and I need you to drive it for me.” She gazed speculatively at his half-hand, suppressing another rush of panic as she realized she’d forgotten to take his disability into consideration. “That is, if you can.”

To his credit, he didn’t hesitate. “Aye, me lady.” He broke into a shy grin. “’Twill be me pleasure!”

“Good.” She swallowed her relief. “Wait for me and my traveling companion behind the granary.”

If her choice of meeting places surprised him, he hid it well. “Aye, me lady.” Lughann bowed and turned toward the door.

Only after he’d left did she permit herself the luxury of a sigh, again cursing her nerves.

She wanted the fastest creature on four legs to help her reach her destination and, with any luck, return her to Arbroch before Loholt’s disappearance could be discovered. Naming her new black mare after an ancient Phoenician goddess was perhaps a bit superstitious, but Morghe wouldn’t refuse aid from any quarter. She regretted the necessity of having to use a cart, but Tira couldn’t ride. Besides, a cart would draw far less attention than two women and a baby astride one horse. Having a male driver would appear even more ordinary.

Morghe hoped.

With the sounds of Lughann’s footfalls fading into silence, she shed her cloak and drew a deep breath.

Bent over the bathing tub, she poured a strong chamomile tonic over her hair several times, working it into every strand. She heartily wished one of her maidservants could help her, but by now, they’d be so deep into the maze of market stalls that a pack of hounds would take hours to find them.

She wound a towel around her head, stepped out of her shift, and donned her plainest riding gear. Not exactly peasant garb, but the light brown tunic and breeches would have to suffice. She rubbed cold charcoal into a few places on a frayed gray cloak to make it appear more aged, set the lump aside, and, as an afterthought, brushed her sooty fingers lightly across her cheekbones and forehead. She removed the towel from her head and felt her hair. Almost dry. In front of the full-length bronze mirror, she grinned.

The face looking back at her seemed haggard and much older, framed by dark blonde hair, not her usual lush auburn. She fastened her hair behind her head with an undyed leather thong. Since she normally wore it unbound, this simple trick completed the disguise nicely. Her own mother would have been hard-pressed to recognize her.

Into a pouch suspended by a cord around her neck went a silver ring to be used to purchase Loholt’s safety, an inexpensive bauble and no great loss to her. The means of securing his release, however, required something special.

She poked through the shallow, velvet-lined cedar box containing her favorite jewelry and decided upon a pair of earrings made from exquisite pearls, three on each golden loop. The earrings had been a natal-day gift from her mother, and breaking up the set gave Morghe pause, but they’d serve her purposes perfectly. With one earring staying with the child, the other would serve as proof of—she grinned—guardianship. An earring joined the ring in the pouch. She tied it shut and tucked it into her tunic.

Morghe draped the cloak across her shoulders, pinned it with an unadorned, circular iron brooch, and pulled up the hood. Someone would have to look closely to see her sooty face and altered hair color. She would have preferred to be recognized by no one, but keeping everyone away would have been impossible to arrange, and she couldn’t give the impression of a stranger leaving the ruling family’s living quarters. Fortunately, the guards who normally stood the day watch around the building had been reassigned to the festival grounds.

She grabbed an empty canvas sack, eased open the door, and peered into the hallway. Her luck held; no one was about. She hurried to Gyanhumara’s chambers to reduce the risk of being seen and to stimulate the urgency she’d need to convey to Tira. As the planned words whirled in her mind, her heart began to race.

Without knocking, she tested the door. It wasn’t bolted. Praising her luck, she slipped into the antechamber and gently pulled the door closed.

The door to the sleeping chamber was shut but, as with the outer door, not locked. With her hand resting on the handle, she pressed her ear to the crack between the door and its frame. The muffled sound of sleep-heavy breathing came from within.

She eased open the door, grateful for its well-oiled hinges. Quickly, she surveyed the chamber. Tira and the baby lay sleeping, Loholt in his cradle near the hearth and his wet nurse on a mat beside him. The baby was snugly wrapped in a distinctive Argyll-patterned blanket that would have to be discarded at some point. She couldn’t permit her plans to unravel because of a stupid scrap of fabric.

Tira stirred. Morghe crossed the room and bent down to shake Tira’s shoulder. “Tira! Tira, wake up!” She kept her voice low. Tira looked up through groggy, uncomprehending eyes. “Loholt is in danger!”

The woman sat up, one hand at her mouth and the other clutching her blanket to her chest, her eyes round in fear.

“Who—who are y-you?” The words tumbled out in a strangled gasp.

Morghe smiled less to reassure the wet nurse than in realization that her disguise was more convincing than she’d hoped. “Lady Morghe.” She beckoned. “Come, Tira, you must hurry and dress.”

“M-my lady? It is you! But your face, your hair—”

Though Morghe chafed at the delay, she spared a moment to explain, “Someone wants Loholt dead, and I need your help. This must be done in absolute secrecy, or he won’t be the only one to die.” Morghe hid her satisfaction with Tira’s shocked response; partial truths always worked so much more effectively than bald-faced lies. “Hurry and dress, then help me gather the baby’s things.”

As Morghe rifled through the chest containing Loholt’s blankets and swaddling cloths, the swish of fabric told her Tira was dressing.

“Does Chieftainess Gyanhumara know about this?”

Perspiration trickled down Morghe’s spine. Clutching a handful of folded swaddling cloths, she slowly straightened and pivoted to face Tira. She arched an eyebrow and placed her free hand on her hip. “What do you think?”

Tira looked away, murmuring, “Of course, my lady.”

While the wet nurse stooped to retrieve her cloak, Morghe silently expelled a breath.

“Here.” Morghe thrust the sack at Tira and stepped briskly to the hearth. “Make sure we have enough.”

“For how long?”

Morghe paused in her quest for a cool piece of burnt wood. “A week,” she decided. The fabric could be washed easily enough. That detail wouldn’t be her concern, anyway. As Morghe latched onto a suitable candidate, she noticed Tira stuffing more swaddling cloths into the sack.

As Tira finished, Morghe rose from the hearth. Apologetically, Tira held out the bulging sack, which Morghe accepted with a nod.

“I don’t have time to color your hair.” Tira’s common mouse-brown color rendered the precaution unnecessary. “This will have to suffice for your disguise.”

Morghe applied several ashen streaks across the forehead and cheekbones of a surprised Tira and brushed away the excess. Crude, Morghe realized, but good enough to pass a cursory inspection. She settled Tira’s hood over her head, and the shadows it cast over Tira’s face completed the effect.

Morghe nodded once in satisfaction and gazed into the cradle. Loholt hadn’t moved, probably still sleeping off the valerian he’d ingested through Tira’s milk. Normally an active, happy, curious baby, he looked especially vulnerable and innocent.

She swallowed, her resolve wavering. Arthur should be dealing with this threat. That’s what he bloody well had been bred for.

If she warned Arthur and Gyanhumara, however, Accolon might try to kill her, forcing her to beg protection for herself, as well. Morghe ferch Uther begged nothing from no one. Besides, if she told Arthur about Urien’s plan, he’d terminate the betrothal—and in spite of all this, she still wanted to marry Urien. No sensible woman would jeopardize the chance to acquire that much power.

Tira picked up the baby. He yawned but otherwise didn’t stir. Morghe adjusted the folds of Tira’s cloak to hide the child, taking care to keep the fabric from touching his mouth or nose. Tira again reached into the cradle and pulled up a rag doll of indeterminate gender but well beloved, to judge by its tattered and stained visage.

“Put it back.” Morghe motioned impatiently at the full sack. “We don’t have room.”

“But, my lady, it’s his favorite toy.”

“I can tell.” She smiled wryly. “Leave it here, where it will be waiting for him. We wouldn’t want to risk losing it, would we?”

Tira looked at the floor. “No, my lady.” She drew a breath, lifted her head, and met Morghe’s gaze. “But he’s never been without it. If he wakes up and finds it missing, he will cry, and—”

“And we can’t have that happen.” Morghe stuffed the toy into the sack, tied it shut, hefted it over her shoulder, and spirited her charges from the room.

GYAN’S BOOTS squelched as she tromped down the corridor toward her quarters. Her trews, soaked to midthigh, chilled her legs.

Cynda scurried beside her, chuckling. “You should have seen the look on your face when that rider came flying at you. Priceless!”

For the first time since the incident, Gyan smiled.

She’d been judging horse races, standing inside one of the course’s curves to spot fouls. A rider had failed to navigate the turn and was thrown from his horse. His momentum carried him straight at her. She darted aside, and the rider crashed into a nearby water barrel. He’d escaped with only scrapes, bruises, splinters, and a thorough soaking. Water had sloshed onto her, too.

Gyan hated having to leave her post, but she had no wish to spend the rest of the day pretending to be wading a river.

Besides, it would be good to look in on Loholt. Her smile deepened.

As they reached the door, she could hear no sounds within. Odd; Loholt usually played quite noisily at this time of day. A chill shuddered through her that had naught to do with her sodden state.

She pounded on the door, calling Tira’s name. No response. Nor was the door bolted; also odd. Tira had strict orders in this regard. The only exception had occurred this morning, when Gyan and Cynda had left while Tira was sleeping. Tira should have lowered the bolt as soon as she woke up. Readying a rebuke, Gyan stormed into the room.

Empty!
So was the sleeping chamber. She glanced at Cynda, her worry escalating. “Where could they be?”

“Ach, it’s a fine day, my dove.” Cynda bustled to the chest containing Gyan’s clothing. “Likely Tira took Loholt out for some fresh air.” She pulled out a pair of linen trews and gave them a shake.

Gyan wrestled off her wet boots and trews and accepted the dry garment. As she pulled it on, she couldn’t dispel her apprehension. “Without telling me?”

Cynda shrugged. “Your guards have festival duty. Who else could she have—”

“Anybody!” No. She mustn’t worry. There had to be a logical explanation. “You’re right. She probably forgot.” Gyan resolved to have a talk with Tira later.

Carrying the dry boots, Cynda passed the cradle and glanced down. “Oh and look. His favorite toy is gone.” She handed the boots to Gyan with a grin. “Maybe she’s taken him to the festival. She knows he’ll fuss if he’s without it for very long.”

Gyan sat on the bed to don the boots. “Then let’s find them.”

TREES PASSED in a blur. The cart’s wheels jounced over roots and rocks, forcing Morghe to clench her jaw. Her arms ached from bracing herself.

She glanced back. Tira, one white-knuckled hand clutching the cart’s side and the other arm wrapped tightly around the baby, looked terrified. Loholt screeched and grinned as though this was the most fun he’d ever had.

Morghe turned to Lughann as they approached Accolon’s meeting place. “Can’t you make this rig go any faster?”

Lughann flicked the reins, but the pace didn’t quicken enough for her liking. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Hold on!” Lughann yelled.

The cart lurched, and Astarte let out a startled neigh. Morghe’s eyes flew open to see Lughann straining to halt the mare. A man in plain-looking clothes, astride a plain-looking horse and gripping a not-so-plain-looking sword blocked the road. With boulders encroaching on one side and a wall of trees on the other, Lughann had no choice but to try to stop.