The Rogue (2 page)

Doll and gathering basket in hand, she headed for the path that separated her world from that of the Macarthur clan. As the sun broke over the treetops, she caught the sweet tang of decaying apples on the wind. Were there still enough apples on branches to make the fight through the brambles worthwhile? Mayhap. If not, she could still gather windfalls, carve out what she could for herself and dry the rest for the deer’s winter.

Finally spying light green and gold flashing between the lean black lines of shadowed tree trunks, a sure sign the glen with its rutted path—to where she did not ken—and its old oak stump lay, she hurried on.

At the roadway’s edge she hunkered down behind a dense hedge and listened.

Hearing only the twitter of birds, the whisper of wind in the long-needled pines above her, she gathered her courage and scampered across the clearing to the stump.

Wider than her arms could span, the ancient stump had served as a depository for gifts since her mother’s time; for those Birdi left when the
need
struck and for the tributes she rarely received.

She placed the doll on the stump and retreated into the woods. To wait for the one who would come.

Before long she heard a whistled tune and then footfalls before hearing a lad’s voice say, “‘Tis only one birthday, Meg. Ye’ll have more, many more, and come yer twelfth, Ma and Da will give ye sweet cakes and mayhap, the dolly.”

She heard a sniff and a wee lass whine, “‘Tis a long way away...that day. What if I no longer want a dolly then? What if I’m too old? I’d so wished...”

The footsteps and sniffles grew louder before the lad said, “I ken ‘tis hard wishin’ and not gettin’, but Ma did make bread pudding.”

The lass sniffed loudly. “Aye, ‘twas that.” The footsteps stopped and the lass gasped. “Oh, Jamie, Mama saw me greeting, saw my tears! What if she now thinks I’m ungrateful? Am I bound for hell?”

Birdi frowned. Hell? Where was Hell?

The lad mumbled what sounded like a curse and told the lass, “Ye’ll not be going anywhere but home with me, ye wee imp.”

He must have tickled her because she giggled, “Stop that!” Birdi heard the patter of running feet and a moment later a squeal.

“Jamie, come quick. Look!”

Running footsteps followed. The lass exclaimed, “‘Tis a dolly, just as I wished for, Jamie, with big brown eyes and hair of gold. And see, she even has a blue ribbon in her hair. But who could have—Jamie, do you think...?” The lass’s voice dropped to an awe-filled whisper, “Could the spae have placed it here?”

The spae, the wise healer. ‘Twas better than some names Birdi had been called. Grinning—she now kenned why she’d made the doll—she backed farther into the trees. There wasn’t a reason to stay and every reason to flee.

Birdi hoped the lass’s parents would let her keep her gift as she traveled deeper into the forest following the scent of apples.

Her skirt caught and pain pierced her knee. Turning, she rubbed her leg and squinted at the dark mass at her side. She’d found the thorny hedge protecting the apple tree. Or rather, it had found her.

Since there wasn’t a chance of her climbing over it, she dropped to her knees. The beasties of the forest also wanted apples, and with luck she’d again find their trail through the brambles.

It took a while, but she found their path, an opening tall enough for her to travel through but only on her belly. Pushing her basket in before her, she crawled into the tunnel and prayed she wouldn’t meet a boar coming the other way. Boars were the only beasts within the forest she feared. One, a great rutting bull, had gored her mother.

When she saw sunlight and a hint of bright green, she thanked Goddess and quickened her pace.

The apple tree stood alone in a patch of knee high grass, its gnarled branches so weighted with fruit they touched the ground. She took a deep breath of sweet tangy air and laughed. Tonight she would feast on apples and porridge.

A short time later—her basket and pockets full—she crawled back into the tunnel. Out the other end, she turned toward her croft. With her thoughts on coring and drying the fruit, and gathering and hulling wheat, she startled, hearing a branch break on her left. She froze and tipped her head, strained to catch further discordant sounds.

Squish, squish, squish
.

The fine hairs on her arms stood. Was that the sound of pine needles cracking under a heavy foot? She spun, heart in her throat. No villager, surely, would dare enter her world.

They—adults and babes alike—kenned the rules laid down long before she was born; if she was needed—if a villager was injured or ill—a family member need only stand at the edge of the forest and wish for her. She would, in due course, find her way to the one in need. Her healing done—often with barely a word exchanged—they would give her eggs or mayhap even a bag of fleece in tribute and she would take her leave.

She would then lie abed—often racked with fever or pain for days—always thankful she wouldn’t have bairns. For no babe, no matter how loved, should be cursed with her gift of healing.

For with it came not only pain, but this awful blindness.

A branch snapped on her right. She spun and sniffed the air. Was it man or beast? She cursed the too-still air. Were there two or only one moving quickly? Which way should she run?

Goddess, help me!

The memory of her mother’s tale—of once being caught out in the open—caused her heart to hammer. Birdi had been the result, a constant reminder of that painful day.

Never having had a father or brother—she had, in fact, been thankful she hadn’t one trying to marry her off—she now fervently wished for a protector, someone who could see where she could not, who could warn her of danger where she sensed it not.

A firm hand clasped Birdi’s shoulder.

She shrieked and lashed out, her fingers curled like talons. She swung at her assailant as apples rolled beneath her feet, threatening to topple her.

The hand fell away as suddenly as it had landed. “Hush, Birdi, hush! ‘Tis only I, Tinker.”

“Tinker?” She wanted to smite him for startling her so. Short of breath, with her heart still skipping and thudding she demanded, “What on earth were ye thinking...skulking up on me? I could have clawed yer eyes out.”
My word
!

“Beggin’ yer pardon, dear lady. ‘Twas not my intent.” Tinker’s face suddenly loomed before her, scruffy and as dark as saddle leather. Buried within a myriad of comical folds sat two grass-green eyes, a bulbous nose, and a toothless grin. She tapped the tip of his nose. “Ah, ‘tis ye.”

“Aye, and I’ve a gift for ye.”

“A gift?” She knelt, pulled her basket onto her lap, and started gathering her spilled apples. Tinker knelt to help. “Now why would ye bring me a gift, Tinker?”

“For saving me life is why.” He looked about and told her, “That’s the lot, lass. All yer apples are in the basket.”

They stood and she laced her free arm through his. His coat, the one she’d patched and aired in the sun, once again smelled of wood-smoke and male sweat. “Taking care of ye was the least I could do after falling on ye.” In truth she’d tripped over him—found him more dead than alive, his tools and trinkets gone—last Beltane. “Did the sheriff capture the curs who waylaid ye?”

Tinker snorted. “Nay, and I dinna expect he ever will, what with the number of ruffians about. Nettles all. ‘Tis good that ye keep to the woods, lass.”

“I’ve nay choice. ‘Tis all I ken and trust.” She’d been told the world beyond her woods held castles, princes, and miraculous colored glass, but that it also held untold horrors. Like priests in black gowns, her mother had warned, who burned the likes of her on pyres.

“Tell me,” he said, pulling a twig from her hair, “what have ye been about that ye’re covered in mud?”

She held a flawless red globe out to him. “They hide behind a bramble hedge.”

“Ah.” Grinning, he snatched the apple from her hand. “Thank ye.”

“Come.” She waved in the direction of her croft. “Sup with me. I want to hear about yer travels. Were ye in time for Sterling Fair?” He’d been on his way there when he’d been waylaid. As Tinker had mended, he’d filled her head with tales of fire-eaters, fearless knights, and elegant ladies dressed in gold. “Was there a puppet show and jugglers? Was there pork pies and music? Was there—”

“Whoa, lass.” Around a bite of apple, he mumbled, “I would love to sup and answer yer questions, truly, but I can’t take the time.” He held a large leather pouch under her nose. “I only came by to give ye this.”

Taking the bag from his hand, Birdi struggled to keep her face placid. So many months had passed since last she’d supped with him, had spoken with someone who wasn’t fearful of her. Grinning, Tinker waved an impatient hand. “Open it, lass.”

Masking her disappointment behind an understanding smile, she did as he bid and found a treasure trove: a yard of scarlet ribbon, a shiny silver buckle, a skein of deep green wool, and a foot-long length of palm-wide lace.

“Oh my.” Such prizes left her at a loss for further words.

Tinker’s gnarled finger traced the raised stitches surrounding a delicate lace petal. “‘Tis from Italia. The ladies of Edinburgh don such. Thought ye might find some use for it.” He shrugged. “‘Tisna something most about these parts find useful.”

Tears welled behind Birdi’s lashes, clouding what little vision she had. He lied. Anyone would treasure what she held in her hands. She reached out and stroked his whiskered cheek. “Thank ye.”

Tinker ducked his chin and mumbled, “‘Tis the least I can do.”

“‘Twas a favor ye did me.” She treasured their brief time together. She hadn’t had a friend before or since.

He patted her arm. “Be that as it may, I still thank ye.” He craned his neck to look through the treetops. “‘Tis close to midmorn. I must take my leave or I’ll not make Aberfoyle by gloaming.” He took a final bite of apple, tossed the core, and then took her hands in his. “I truly wish ye well, lass.”

“I wish ye the same.” As he turned away, she asked, “When will ye be back?”

“Next summer, lass. I’ll look for ye then.”

Next summer? Her heart sank. Need a whole year pass before she could again stand close to someone, converse, or be touched? She heaved a sigh as her tears took shape. Apparently so.

She looked up to find him beyond sight and called “Take care, Tinker John.”

When silence answered back, her tears spilled.

Birdi turned toward the heat of the sun and therefore her pool. Mayhap a bath would wash off not only the dirt coating her, but the melancholy now weighing her spirit down.

  ~#~

Angus rousted from a dreamless sleep when something wet brushed his ear. He lashed out with a clenched left fist, his dirk at the ready in his right.

Heart hammering, he rolled to his feet and found Rampage, legs splayed and ears pinned, staring at him as if he’d never seen a man before in his life. “God’s teeth, horse! What the hell were ye thinking?”

Angus sheathed his dirk, shoved his hair out of his face, and settled on his haunches. His mount—head down, eyes still wary—snorted and took another step back. Angus held out his hand. “I didna mean to scare ye, ye big brute. Come.”

Rampage twitched his bruised nose and blew out a derisive snort.

“Aw, come on, lad, I didna mean to clout ye.” Realizing he’d best make amends quickly or he’d be playing catch-me-if-ye-can with his charger, Angus plucked a few tender shoots from the base of the nearest tree and held them out on an open palm. “Peace?”

Rampage, lips twitching, cautiously stretched out his neck to sniff the peace offering. Before Angus could catch his halter, Rampage’s head jerked up and his ears angled toward the glen. As his nares flared trying to catch a scent, Angus heard a splash.

He jerked to his feet and yanked his claymore from its sheath. Hopefully, there were no more than three or four Macarthurs in the glen. Rampage nickered and pawed the earth, and Angus hushed him. Until he kenned his enemy’s number, he didn’t need a hundred stone of charger tromping and snorting announcing his presence. A handful of Macarthurs he could handle. Fighting more would put his and Rampage’s lives at risk.

Heart hammering, blood surging into tensed muscles, Angus crept to the forest edge aware Rampage slowly but quietly followed.

Finding only ripples rolling across the wee pool’s surface, Angus’s gaze raked the glen for intruders. It stood empty but for a few birds and butterflies. He blew out a breath. “‘Twas only a fish, ye bloody idiot.” Feeling the fool, he also felt less guilt over accidentally clouting his mount, who’d started his blood racing for naught.

As Angus sheathed his claymore, the surface of the pool rippled again, this time with far larger waves. Blessed Mother! What manner of fish could possibly make such a wake? Before he could ponder further a dark shape broke the surface on the far side of the pool.

A woman—naked as the day she was born, as pale as a winter moon—rose like a phoenix to stand thigh deep in the water on the far shore.

A
ngus immediately searched the area again looking for the woman’s husband, a guard. Finding none, his gaze returned to the lass.

Years of ingrained catechism demanded he cover his eyes and leave. Chivalry demanded he—a knight of girth and sword—at the very least rattle a bush and warn the fair lady of his presence, but he couldn’t do either. The blood had drained from his head and limbs only to surge in his groin.

As the woman shed water from her rose-tipped breasts and slender arms with long, tapered hands, he drank in the sight. Not usually a man taken to fancy, he found himself envying the water; would have given his sword arm to sluice as the water did down the woman’s glorious globes and across the flat planes of her stomach in such fashion.

He shifted his weight to accommodate the swelling beneath his kilt as she wrung water from her hair.

Black and glossy as a raven’s wing, her locks immediately started to curl across the gentle swell of her hips. His fingers curled in like fashion, palms itching, wanting to grab fistfuls, imagining her hair caressing his chest and stomach as she sat astride him, her long, tapered thighs spread wide across his. Aye, ‘twould surely be glorious.