Page 12 of Surrender to the Highlander (The MacLerie Clan #2)

“N o church, Sister.”

“Who cares for your immortal souls then?” she asked.

Margriet had thought to escape the inn, but Thora insisted on asking her all kinds of questions about the convent where they came from and her father’s call home. Thinking to distract the woman long enough to get out, she moved toward the door.

“A priest usually travels through here about two times a year, spring and autumn, to bless the graves or baptize the newly born.”

“And mass?” she asked, lifting the latch of the door and holding it open. “Surely, you hear mass more than that?”

Thora stopped at that, the blush in her cheeks revealing that she did not want to admit to such a thing. Harald called her from the kitchen and the woman excused herself to answer his call, leaving the nuns on their own.

Margriet made her escape as well, turning her face into the breezes that buffeted them along and promised more rain soon. For now, though, she and Elspeth, and Donald, walked down the worn paths of the village, and discovered that it was bigger than she first thought. They had traveled in from the south and headed out to the northeast, following the river’s path. But, the village was not boxed in by the river and had expanded to the other bank. A small wooden bridge connected the two halves over the rushing water. They had just crossed the bridge when the shouting began.

Donald tried to guide them back to the inn, but Margriet wanted to see what was happening in the field next to the smithy’s workshop. Following the noise and the growing crowd, she stopped and gasped at the sight before her eyes.

Sven and Magnus and Rurik, all stripped to the waist, fought each other at the same time. She’d never seen anything like it, she truly did not remember ever seeing men fight with swords, and she watched as they turned one on the other and then back against the third. The clashing of the metal against metal rang out loudly and made her wince with each blow delivered. And they did not limit themselves to only the blows of swords.

Elspeth grabbed her hand as they pushed each other aside and kicked from behind, always trying to gain control. The girl gasped so loudly when Sven tripped that he turned and saluted her with his sword as he regained his footing. Rurik used that momentary distraction to go on the offensive, slashing and thrusting with his sword until Sven had backed up across the whole field.

They laughed like loons as they alternated control of the match. And they called out insults to each other as they moved across the field, insults she tried not to hear. The villagers cheered them on, enjoying the display as much as those who were putting it on for them.

Margriet tried not to stare at Rurik’s naked chest and the way the pale curling hair on it trailed down and disappeared below the belt of his breeches. He wore old-style gold armbands, carved with runes, that outlined the strong muscles of his upper arms. He glistened with sweat in spite of the cool air.

Magnus stumbled once and then again, and then was sent sprawling in the dirt by a blow to his back by Rurik. He climbed to his feet and bowed to the others, leaving the battle to them. When he faced the watchers, he saw them and walked to where they stood. Pushing his sweaty hair from his face, he laughed.

“If not for my recent illness, I could have won,” he boasted to those listening.

“Of course, Magnus,” she said, accepting his explanation as the truth. Margriet did not look away now, for Sven and Rurik moved so quickly that the end could come at any moment and she did not want to miss it. “Who has the advantage now?”

Magnus laughed again. “Rurik but plays as a cat to a mouse now. He can end this whene’er he chooses. See now how he forces Sven to overextend himself.” Magnus’s comment made her watch more closely and she saw the truth in his words.

Now she noticed how the muscles of his legs tensed and relaxed as his stance changed, the power visible even at this distance. His breeches lay plastered against his legs, making it difficult not to see the strength and masculinity there.

Elspeth tugged on her sleeve and she realized the girl had not understood Magnus’s words. When Margriet translated the words, Elspeth paled. Before she could explain any further, the crowd cried out as Rurik delivered two punishing blows to his opponent—the first knocked the sword from his hands and the next sent him to the ground on his back. Even she gasped now as Rurik placed the tip of his sword at Sven’s neck.

“Stop!” the girl screamed shrilly, as she pulled away from Margriet and ran to the two men. “Stop!” she said again, in Norn, as she pushed against Rurik to force him and his sword away.

Margriet and those watching stood in surprise as Elspeth helped Sven to his feet after Rurik stepped aside. She and Magnus made their way across the field and watched with Rurik as Sven and Sister Elspeth walked back toward the inn.

Rurik shook his head and shrugged, while Margriet saw that the danger here had not been the battle at all. Did she try to explain Elspeth’s behavior or not comment and hope it would fade from memory as the men talked excitedly about the battle and who delivered the best blows and who won? Deciding that discretion was her best weapon, she examined them and found both bleeding and covered in dirt.

“Come, it looks like you have wounds that need tending now,” she directed as they both stared at her as though she’d lost her wits. “Look there,” she said, pointing at Magnus’s forearm. “That will need sewing to close it—” looking over at Rurik’s chest and trying not to get lost in it, she nodded at his shoulder “—and there as well.”

“Nun or not, is she not a bossy bit?” Magnus asked.

Margriet held her breath as he spoke the first words since their encounter the night before.

“Oh, aye. Thank the Almighty that you were sick those few days and missed the worst of it.” Rurik winked at her then and she felt a light brighten her soul.

All would be well, she thought, as she followed the men back to the inn. They had each reconciled to the truth of their situation now and all would be well.

They left her to wash in the river and she slowed her pace to catch her breath—the breath that had left her at the sight of him, in tight breeches, moving as one with his weapon. At once, the consummate warrior and strong protector of legend.

The crowd pushed past her as she dawdled along and ’twas then she heard the voices of two of the men who traveled with him from Lairig Dubh.

“That’s the old Rurik,” Leathen boasted to those from the north. “He favors two things in life and does them better than any man I know.”

“And what would they be?” another called out.

“He loves to fight,” Leathen offered as those around him laughed and pushed him about. “And he loves to f…”

The men shouted out, making it impossible to hear the final word, but Margriet needed no one to tell her. She knew without doubt the missing word.

She knew even more now that she’d felt the heat of his touch, the seductive invitation of his kiss and his formidable form and skills in battle. He was a man built to fight men and to f…Er, tup women.

And she prayed with equal measure that she would and would not ever discover it to be true.

The rest of the day passed more easily, now that the fight had both entertained and released some of the tension in the men. Rurik, especially, seemed at ease now, even though she had sewed two wounds to stop their bleeding. He argued that they were but flesh wounds and would heal, but she closed them with needle and thread, stopping short of demanding a bandage on them. Magnus sat quiet under her attentions as she patched his skin back together, as did Sven when they finally dragged him from the weeping Sister Elspeth’s side.

Margriet tried to discourage such a thing with a sharp look and whispered warning, but the girl thought Rurik meant to kill Sven and now endangered their charade with her inappropriate concern for the man. She planned to speak to Elspeth after the evening meal.

The men carried out preparations all day, even as the rain started and stopped. Before dark fell completely, the supplies that would see them to the north coast were readied and packed and all was in good stead for an early morning departure.

Thora had tempted her and Elspeth from their room to eat in the common room with the others on the promise of no untoward occurrences, and Margriet was glad she’d done so. Some of the villagers gathered at the inn that night and Margriet could see that the men enjoyed the camaraderie after many days on the road.

She did notice that none of the men under Rurik’s command overindulged in ale that night. Some, no doubt, were still feeling the aftereffects of the stomach ailment of a few days before. Others knew the morning would come quickly and that they needed a clear head and calm belly to ride out. It did not take long, once they’d eaten their fill and had a cup filled with ale in their hands, for talk to turn to the fight this morning. If she encouraged the direction of the talk, well, ’twas no matter.

“Tell me of Lairig Dubh and the clan that calls it home,” she said while nodding to Leathen. His tongue seemed the loosest and a good place to start. And from his earlier comments, he knew much about Rurik.

“Connor MacLerie and his lady-wife make their home there, Sister. It sits on a hill at the side of a river off in the west of Scotland. Connor is Earl of Douran and Laird of the MacLerie clan,” he said, pausing to lift his cup in a salute. The other Scots joined him and nearly rattled the windows with their cry. “A MacLerie! A MacLerie!”

When she noticed that Rurik had joined them, she decided it was time to find out more, especially about the laird’s wife and the supposed tupping. “Rurik, you lived there?”

“Aye, Sister, and I lived at other MacLerie holdings for my uncle is one of the elders of the clan and counselor to Connor.”

He met her gaze, almost inviting more questions.

She obliged.

“Your uncle is a MacLerie then?”

“My uncle is connected by marriage to the sister of the laird. I pledged to him and the laird when I could hold my sword straight and not embarrass myself—” he looked to the men who enjoyed some private joke at his words “—and better men I have yet to meet or serve.” This time, only he offered the words. “A MacLerie!”

Now she could get to the heart of it. “And the laird’s wife? From what clan did she come?”

His voice lowered to an almost reverent tone then and she could feel his true affection for the woman he spoke of now.

“Jocelyn came from the MacCallum clan, but has made Lairig Dubh her home and the Clan MacLerie her people. A good woman and a fitting mate for Connor,” he finished and put his cup down. He leaned down and spoke words only meant for her ears as the chattering went on around them. “He was called the Beast of the Highlands before she came to him and she proved them all wrong about him and nearly at the cost of her own life.”

“It sounds as though you care about her,” Margriet offered, remembering the words spoken earlier about them.

“Aye, I do care. She is a good friend and a woman worthy to be married to the man I call Laird.”

He emptied his cup and turned it over on the table so no more would be poured in it. He did not move from his seat on the bench, so Margriet thought him not ready to leave.

“And now you return to your father in Kirkvaw?”

She held her breath, waiting to find out if he would answer or not. He’d already said his mother was Scottish, so she wanted to discover more about his father.

“Aye, Sister. I return at my father’s call, much like the prodigal son in your Good Book.” He reached up and ran both hands over his head, wincing as he moved the area she’d sown.

“Does it still bleed?”

“Nay, it does but pull when I move it. As I said, ’tis but a flesh wound and not the worst I have ever suffered.”

The men caught that bit and seized it, offering her story after story of his courage and strength in battle. In each, he triumphed against great odds and she wondered how much was true and how much they embellished the story each time ’twas told. Margriet watched as he laughed at their words, never correcting and never adding to the stories, but nodding in recognition of some parts.

“Is battle like today’s fight?” she asked him. She’d never seen a true battle, only read of them in books or heard stories told of them. Here was someone who had been in the fiery heat of them and lived to tell.

“Nay, Sister,” he began. She noted that he called her that smoothly now, as though he finally believed it her calling. “Today was simply some exercise and training long overdue because of our journey.” He turned and met the gaze of every one of their men before speaking again. “Training that will begin daily from here on. We will not arrive in the north as weaklings who have lost their ability to hold a sword. You teach them words and I will remind them of the sword.”

His challenge was met with cheers. Obviously men cannot pass too many days without their weapons drawn and aimed at each other. Another thing about men she would simply not understand.

Rurik stood now and held out his hand to assist her to her feet. He also took a step to the side, successfully blocking Sven from approaching Elspeth to do the same. He did understand. They allowed, or forced, Elspeth ahead of them, so there was no possibility of her speaking directly to Sven. They entered the room and he stopped at the door. Not certain if he would come in or not, he then began to pull it closed. He stopped for a moment and widened it so that he could say something.

“Sister Elspeth,” he whispered. “Sister Margriet would offer you some good counsel and I would urge you to think on her words.”

Then, he did leave; the latch fell into place as the door closed tightly. Margriet turned to Elspeth, whose expression turned angry.

“Elspeth, you must understand….”

“That this is all a lie, lady? I do understand that,” Elspeth interrupted. “Done for your benefit.”

“And yours as well,” she added. “I promised you a place in my father’s house and a good match for a husband.”

Elspeth tore the wimple and veil off and tossed it against the wall. Never had she seen the girl react like this—showing boldness where before had been only acquiescence. Now, she stood with hands on hips, and her chin thrusted out, looking like someone who would not accept what before had been acceptable.

“I have found a suitable man for husband.”

Margriet gasped at her words. “Elspeth, you cannot think to marry him.”

“He has spoken of his love for me.”

Margriet did not know which pain felt worse within her—the one that said her young servant was going to be destroyed by the worthless words of a man promising love, or the one that spoke of her own destruction in the very same manner. Still, she could do something to prevent this young girl from the same downfall. She removed her own head coverings, taking several deep breaths to calm herself. She folded the items on the chair and began unbuttoning the tunic.

“Has he touched you?” she asked, comprehending the danger in that.

“He kissed my hand,” Elspeth answered on a sigh.

“You are of common blood, Elspeth, and he, of noble. Think you his parents would allow a marriage between you?”

She said it plainly, for she knew that passion was already engaged between them. She did not wish to hurt the girl’s feelings, but a servant girl, born and raised all her life in a small secluded convent, was more suitable a bride to the local farmer than to this nobleman’s son who walked at the highest levels of court.

“We must continue this masquerade until we reach my father’s house. Then, if you still want him and he will have you after finding out the truth, it can be sorted out then.”

“But, lady…” Elspeth began.

“I will hear no more of this,” Margriet said calmly and sternly. “You know the reason I must wear this nun’s habit, for protection against them—” she nodded at the door where the sounds of the men still carousing could be heard “—but also to protect this from disclosure.” She placed her hand on her rounding belly. “I, too, was promised love, Elspeth. You would be wise to see if a man’s promises in the heat of passion are kept to me, before losing all you have to give to someone else.”

Tears streamed down the girl’s face as she stared at Margriet’s belly and the proof of her sin. Margriet’s throat tightened as she waited for Elspeth to accept or reject her words and their agreement of reward at the end. The only acknowledgment she received was a curt nod, before the girl turned away to prepare for bed.

Thora had provided a jug of water and a basin, so they each took a turn, washing their face and hands. Margriet longed for a steamy, hot bath that she could soak in for hours and it was the first thing she would ask for at her father’s house. For now, the small comfort was a welcomed thing. The air was heavy between them now—not a word was spoken through the rest of the time it took to ready for sleep. As she lifted the blankets to climb in, Elspeth approached with a cup.

“Lady, I forgot that Thora left this for you. She said it will help you regain your strength for the journey ahead.”

“But you were the one who became ill, Elspeth, you should have it.”

The girl shook her head and held it out to her. When Margriet would have argued, Elspeth whispered, “Probably best for the bairn as well.”

She sniffed at the cup and was surprised by its pleasant aroma—not like the medicinal potions brewed at the convent. This smelled of cloves and honey and something else she could not name. Margriet sipped a small taste and it washed smoothly over her tongue and down her throat. So smoothly, that she took another and another until she’d finished it.

She would ask Thora for her recipe and for what uses this brew worked, for it was tasty and easy to drink, two that couldn’t be said of curative brews. Margriet thanked Elspeth for it and climbed into the bed, planning to enjoy her last night on its soft surface. They would spend about five more days riding north before reaching any village or town that offered such comforts. Five or six nights of sleeping on the hard—and growing cold—ground. She shivered as she thought of it.

Soon, the men downstairs grew quiet and a deep warmth seeped into Margriet, pulling her, pushing her toward sleep much faster than was her custom. With so many concerns and worries, sleep usually came upon her slowly. This night, she felt it dragging her down into its dark fog.