The Heather Moon (52 page)

William led the rest onward. All four rode Romany horses, hearty and swift, trained to obey the slightest shift of the rider's leg or hand. Tamsin rode to his left now, and he glanced at her. Despite his concern for her safety, he was glad that she was there.

When she looked at him, he gave her a little smile and tipped his helmet. Then he surged ahead, knowing that she and their Romany companions came fast behind him.

He heard a shout, and looked back to see Perris and the guards riding not far behind now. William waved them all onward.

Within moments, they joined forces with the royal guards. Few words passed between them, since time did not allow it. Command and consent were made by gesture, expression, and intuition. They rode together, swift and quiet, and came on the heels of Hamilton's guardsmen.

The royal guards cut into them like reivers into a herd of cattle, splitting them apart, driving them away. Lances and swords flashed in shadow and moonlight as guard met guard. William stormed through their center, twisting only to wave Tamsin out of the way, and to gesture to John Faw and Baptiste to keep her back.

William saw Hamilton on a pale horse and edged toward him, hampered by the tumultuous movements of the horses around him. Hamilton sliced away from the group and took off over the moorland, his bundle secure in his arms, his helmet glinting as he repeatedly looked behind him.

William urged his horse after him, clearing past the other horses at last. He launched out over the moorland, his mood grim, dark, determined. Within moments, he noticed that Baptiste, John, and Tamsin rode beside and behind him, their speed in keeping with his, hoofbeats thudding, quickening his heart to a fierce pace. The other guards had ridden in pursuit of Hamilton's men.

As he drew nearer, he saw the pale blur of a tiny head, heard a small cry snatched back by the wind. Fury, desperate and pure, rolled through him. A profound need to defend and harbor that small soul poured after it, filling him to the brim with steadfast purpose. He rode onward, the horse responding to subtle commands.

He did not look to see who rode with him. The thunder of their combined hoofbeats seemed to shake the very earth.

Then, as the shadows thickened and the moon rose higher, William felt as if the horse slowed, as if its long, sure strides became less certain. He heard it snort. Sensitive to the horse's signals, as the black was to his, William glanced down.

The tufted, uneven ground gleamed in the moonlight. Ahead, where Hamilton rode, the dark shadows of the grasses mingled with tiny, endless chains of shimmering pools like black mirrors.

Marshland,
William thought, and swore aloud. Of course, he thought, for they rode eastward toward the sea, where the watery, treacherous bogs that plagued much of Scotland increased. He pulled up gradually, allowing his horse to pick its way through the morass. He looked down and saw the horse's feet dipping deeper with each step into the bog.

He called out and whirled to warn the others back. They too glanced down and saw the danger, and hesitated, a few of them retreating to the more solid ground that they had left.

Tamsin rode forward on her horse, a black twin to his own. She looked at him, and he saw that she felt the same resolve that he did. Danger surrounded them, and the earth had its own power to draw them down and defeat them, but they would not stop.

He nodded in silent affirmation when she sent him a pleading look. Together they urged their horses over the soft ground, riding cautiously, glancing down, then ahead. If Hamilton could ride onward, William thought, so could they.

Moonlight created a wide path to follow, turning the watery patches to polished jet, while the tufted ground had a rough texture. The horses moved carefully, while William scanned the gloom, looking for more certain ground.

He saw Hamilton skimming the marshland like a shadow, like a fool, riding too fast, forcing his horse ahead, glancing backward nervously. Then, as William watched, Hamilton's pale horse stumbled, recovered, then stumbled again, floundering, forelegs sinking in the bog.

William pushed the black then, taking the risk, praying that the horse's instincts were as good as he thought they were. He did not look behind him, but encouraged the horse with knee and hand and voice. He kept his gaze intent on the man and child, and the faltering horse, not so far ahead now.

He heard Hamilton's horse neighing as he drew nearer. Hamilton struggled to handle his mount, balancing the bundled child in his left arm. The pale horse floundered again, its back legs sinking now. It lurched sideways, strained to climb out, and tipped rider and bundle into the thick black water.

Behind him, Tamsin screamed. William felt the ground slide beneath his mount's hooves. He flung himself from the horse, booted feet sinking to the ankle, and took a step, dropping to his calf, pulling up, running on. As he crossed the bog, he sank again and again, to the ankle, to the knee, once to the hip, every step uncertain in the oozing mire.

Ahead, the pale horse found solid ground and pulled itself free, loping away in the darkness. Hamilton, though, stayed in the dark slime, shouting out, waving.

"Malise! I am coming!" William called. He was not the only one in the watery part of the bog, now, for he heard shouts and splashes behind him, and turned to see the others dismounting, leaving their horses behind.

He ran on, sinking, rising, until he was covered in muck and wetness, mired and slowed by the weight of his wet clothes and the mud in his boots, which pulled him down with each step.

He was within twenty feet or so of Hamilton now. He saw the man's face in the moonlight, saw the infant's small, pale head. When he heard her thin, angry wail, he felt a rush of relief.

"Malise!" he shouted again. "Stay there! Wait!"

He lurched forward, but fell again, his strength and power working against him now. The thick, porridgy mass began to suck at his legs and hands as he tried to gain a hold. The musty odor was overwhelming. No matter how hard he strained, he could not seem to get closer to Hamilton.

He saw Hamilton struggle too, sunk chest-deep now in a black hole of watery muck. He held the baby high while she cried plaintively. William turned in desperation, and saw the others coming toward him, saw them sink and fall and stumble.

"Stay back!" he yelled. Seeing a rough patch of grass, he rolled onto it, lying on his side. He tried to slither ahead, but felt his hands plunge into the ooze.

"Will!" He looked behind him. Tamsin crawled toward him on her belly. Baptiste and John Faw were behind her, both sunk to the knees, dragging a long, thick, leafy tree limb. Someone must have gone off to cut the thing, William thought gratefully, knowing the branch would be useful.

Tamsin inched closer. "William!" she called.

He began to protest, but realized that she could help. He twisted on the relatively firm bit of earth he had found, and stretched out a hand toward her.

"Come here," he said. He caught her wrist and pulled her toward his little turf island. She slithered up and half sat, leaning against him, both of them coated in slime.

"Tamsin," he said. "You can reach Hamilton and the bairn. You're lighter than any of us here. We're sinking with each step, but you can go farther, and more easily."

She nodded, breathless, understanding. "Could they drown?" she asked. "Can he not climb out?"

"He's sinking," he said, wiping a hand over his face. He had lost his helmet somewhere, he suddenly realized. "He canna find a hold to climb out. We have to reach him soon."

She nodded without comment. Once again, he was struck by her ease of acceptance, by her ability to handle strain and fear. A reiver's daughter, he thought proudly, and rested a hand on her shoulder in a quiet gesture of love, reassurance, and gratitude.

Behind them, Baptiste edged the end of the tree limb toward them. William caught hold of it and got to his knees.

Ooze seeped through his breeches, but the scrap of ground, tufted with long grasses, was secure. He hefted the sturdy tree limb and began to slide its length over the treacherous stretch that lay ahead, hoping to discover, with its far end, another solid place to anchor it like a bridge.

"Will! Will!" Hamilton called out, waving an arm. "Jesu, help me here!" He hugged the infant close to his head as he shouted. She worked an arm free and batted about, screaming. Hamilton nearly lost his grip on her writhing little body, wrapped in wet silks.

"Oh, God," Tamsin said in a choked voice.

"He willna let her go," William said, trying to balance the heavy tree limb.

"He willna let her go." Tamsin repeated the words while William eased the long limb toward Hamilton. The frontmost end hit fluid, tilted, and began to sink.

Tamsin left the turf patch to slip feet first into the bog, while William held one end of the tree limb fast. She slithered forward into black water, breast-high. With one hand on the tree limb, she glided toward Hamilton. At the other end, she strained to lift the limb out of the mire. It was stuck fast, and sinking deeper.

The baby cried, an insistent whimper now. Hamilton's face was pale and stricken, his hands dark with mud as he tried to keep the baby above the level of the bog that sucked him deeper.

Tamsin pulled, futilely, at the tree branch. William slid into the bog with her. The mud sucked at each wading step he took. He sank chest-high in muck. He felt the tree limb jostle behind him, and looked back to see John Faw and Baptiste stabilizing it.

The infant's tremulous wail piped across the bog in an eerie echo. That helpless, frightened sound ripped through his heart. William forgot who the child was, what she represented. He responded only out of his profound need to protect. Even toward Hamilton, in that moment, he felt only the natural pledge of one human toward another in need.

He gave a powerful groan and surged through the bog, breaking its clinging grip on his feet. And found, through some miracle, a firmer base for his step.

He dipped down in the ooze and shifted a shoulder under the tree limb, lifting it free of the mire. He slid it forward, balancing it on his shoulder.

Hamilton reached out to grab the far end. William pushed it steadily closer, balancing, waiting. Tamsin extended her left hand toward Hamilton.

"The bairn!" she called. "Give me the bairn!"

Her hand was clearly exposed in the moonlight, a narrow curving wedge and thumb. William saw that she was not even aware of it, nor did Malise notice.

"Take her!" Hamilton cried. He held the little flailing bundle toward Tamsin. She strained her arms to the length of her reach, and a moment later, swept the child into her embrace. Securing the baby in her left arm, she snatched hold of the tree limb with her other arm and began to shift backward.

William stretched his hand out to touch Tamsin's shoulder. He grabbed hold of the soggy back of her gown and dragged her toward him, while she held the wailing infant, who clung to her neck. He shoved them toward Baptiste, and John Faw, who crouched behind him on the solid, grassy patch.

Once Tamsin and the little queen were pulled to safety by the Romany men, William turned back. He felt a lurch of the tree limb he still held as Hamilton pulled on it. William strained to hold the heavy branch up, his feet sucking down again.

As Hamilton dragged forward along the tree limb, William stepped back, shifting by increments, like a giant with the weight of the globe on his shoulders. Muck slopped at chest level as he sank farther himself in his efforts to pull the other man free.

Then he felt a slight lift in the burden. John Faw and Baptiste had hold of the tree limb, and now drew it back with steady, reliable power.

"Rya!"
John Faw yelled, reaching out to him. "Take hold!"

William stretched an arm back and grasped the man's wrist. The old Romany was like a bull, powerful and compact. He strove to pull him until William felt the bog give up its hold.

Soon he shifted up to sit on the grassy patch, and took hold of the tree limb with the Romany men. Together they pulled Hamilton closer. John Faw and Baptiste slipped away, heading back to the shallow part of the bog.

William turned to watch Hamilton heave himself onto the solid patch. They sat beside each other, breathing heavily, coated in slime.

"Dear God," Malise said. "By hell. I am a fool."

"Aye." William sniffed, wiped his arm over his brow.

"I meant her no harm," Malise said. "I spoke with some Scottish nobles, who convinced me that if the wee queen were to wed my nephew, the regent's small son, things might go well for Scotland, and for the Hamiltons, and for Mary Stewart too."

"Ah," William said. "Is that what this was about?"

"Aye." Malise lowered his head. "We thought to keep her safe, we did, with this plan. Safe from King Henry."

"Foolhardy," William said. "The lot of you."

Malise put a hand over his face. "By God, Will Scott, I owe you my life. And you and the gypsy lass saved our queen."

"The gypsy lass," William said, "is my wife."

"Aye. Your wife." Malise slumped. "Katharine's stepmother."

"She is that." William looked at him. "I've taken bairns from you before, Malise. Your own daughter, and then the rights to your granddaughter. For those, I am sorry. But for this last one, you'll have no apology from me. And you'll face the dowager queen and your government. And your regent." He got to his feet and held out a hand.