The Enchantress

ISBN
0451197194

Copyright © 2010 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: May McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.www.JanCoffey.com

First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet,

a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc

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To Hilary, our favorite Ross

Fearnoch, the Northern Highlands

December, 1535

The gold coin tumbled slowly across the knuckles of the silent Highlander standing against the sandstone wall. When the group across the open square stopped at a stall containing bundled wool, the coin paused as well, its Tudor rose gleaming even in the shadows.

“The one with a face like a pig’s arse called her Laura, master.” The toothless farmer talking to him spat into the half-frozen mud and glared across the market square. “The lass might be dressed only in the rags they’ve given her, but she’s of quality, there’s no doubtin’.”

Across the cold, windswept square, the two watched the Sinclair men herding the women along. The gold coin resumed its journey along the deft knuckles of the tall Highlander.

“Though she’s a young thing, from the way she talks, there’s no doubt she’s English. If ‘tweren’t for that, I’d wager more ‘n one of yer crofters would have stolen her already from these swine.” He spat again. “Aye, ‘tis a fearful shame, master. Why, if I were twenty years younger, I’d...”

William Ross of Blackfearn left the farmer without a word and, tucking the gold sovereign into his wide leather belt, stepped out of the shadows of Fearnoch Cathedral and into the midday sun. As he strode through the scattered crowds of townsfolk and farmers to a cart by the ancient stone cross at the center of the square, he was immediately joined by two of his men.

“‘Tis
her
, master! ‘Tis the same one you’ve been looking for!”

William absently dug the fingers of one hand into the coarse wool bundled in the wagon.

“And all of them don’t go together. The two other women are nuns from that tumble-down convent near Little Ferry.”

Watching the group stop by another stall, William stared at the hooded Englishwoman’s back. Encircled by the Sinclair brutes, she appeared to be a wee, fragile thing. At this point, though, he didn’t want to even think about the hardship she must have gone through over these past three months, living as a captive among those blackguards. He reminded himself that there couldn’t be any bloodshed. Not while he was trying to rescue her, at any rate. He’d promised his brother that much.

“Should we take her now?” his man continued, glancing at the scar-faced farmer standing with them. The other man’s hand moved to the hilt of a dirk half hidden beneath the red and black plaid of the Ross tartan. His face showed his eagerness for a fight. “They’ve been plenty rough with her. The ugly one shoved her without so much as a ‘by yer leave’--right out of the wool seller’s tent up by the north road.”

“There was talk of the dungeons at Rumster Castle.”

“They’ve been locking her up for months, master.”

“The lass had her hood pulled low over her face to hide the tears.”

“Aye, and her shame, the poor woman.”

“There’s only a half dozen Sinclair men with her. We can take them, master!” the first man growled. “‘Twould be a good deed to help the wee lass and set the bastards back a--”

“Wait here.” William turned his back, leaving the two looking helplessly after him as he strode unhurriedly around the stone cross toward the wool merchant’s stall.

As William approached, the Sinclair men visibly stiffened. They knew who he was. He ignored them.

The two nuns, gathered right outside the wool merchant’s stall, were whispering in French, and William heard snatches of their conversation. They, too, seemed to know him, though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why. He’d never had any dealings with the little group of French nuns living at the convent on Loch Fleet.

Brushing past the Sinclair men, William sauntered into the stall, casually picking up a piece of fleece and setting it down. The Englishwoman, reaching over, immediately picked up the fleece and set it in another pile. Though she was speaking quietly and continuously to the merchant, she appeared resolute about bringing some organization to the jumbled piles of wool the man had carted to market.

Suddenly, William found himself listening intently. There was something captivating about the soft lilt in her voice. Although her timid attempt at mimicking the Highland tongue was charming, her English accent--as Ren, the old farmer, had said--gave her away immediately. Peering covertly at her, he could just see a lock of black hair that had fallen free of her worn hood. Looking back down at her small hands, chafed by hard work and cold weather, he realized that she was sorting the fleece by color and quality.

An amused smile tugged at his mouth.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the leader of the Sinclairs was watching him carefully. William picked up another fleece, one that still retained marks of black tar in the thick wool. He intentionally dropped the fleece on the ground and moved over a step.

The Englishwoman immediately picked it up, but as she did, raised voices could be heard from the square. Glancing around, the Highlander realized that a shouting match between a haughty townswoman and a crofter driving a dozen red shaggy-haired steers through the market square had drawn the Sinclairs’ attention momentarily.

William looked at the Englishwoman. She was standing with the fleece in her hand, ignoring the commotion in the square. She was clearly undecided about which pile the fleece belonged in. Without a word, he took it out of her hands and placed it on the pile of fleece that she’d deemed of the poorest quality.

She turned in shock at his forwardness, a scowl darkening her face. But then, for William Ross of Blackfearn, something stopped, and the world stopped with it. Perhaps it was her eyes that halted him in his tracks. Their deep, violet-blue color was not like any he’d ever seen. Except perhaps for Molly, the wench he visited occasionally at the Three Cups on the Inverness road. Nay, these eyes were even deeper, more violet than Molly’s.

An eon may have passed--William couldn’t be sure--and still he found himself staring. It occurred to him that perhaps it was the surprise in her pale face that made his heart pause for that lingering moment. It was a face of an enchantress, English or no.

William thought she was about to speak, but the woman hesitated as one of her captors eyed her menacingly. She said nothing and looked away.

When he glanced back at the Sinclair men, he saw the nuns had separated themselves from the party, each moving toward a different part of the marketplace. Turning away, William ambled as casually as he could out of the stall, stopping a young lad who was walking about and hawking apples. The uproar had died down, and the cattle were disappearing down the dirt street.

“Hurry on, lass!”

Shooting a quick look back at them, William could see that the Englishwoman was still standing in the stall. The Sinclair men had no patience with her and the leader tugged at her elbow.

“If you’re not back by vespers,” the leader growled, “it’ll mean a dozen lashes...if you understand my meaning.”

With a hasty nod she left the fleece behind, and immediately the group moved through the crowd toward a group of tented stalls belonging to traveling merchants in from Inverness.

At the next stall the woman paused again, but this time only for a moment as she straightened out a display of women’s shoes. The disgusted curses of one of the Sinclair warriors rose above the sounds of the market throng.

Flipping his uneaten apple to a street urchin running by, William crossed the way and slipped into the alley between the merchants’ tents and a low wall behind them. Beyond the wall was a ditch, and a stand of trees was visible beyond that.

Working his way past serving lads sitting idly on half-empty carts of merchandise, he moved silently into the alleyway between the third and fourth tents. A merchant selling brightly colored Flemish cloth was calling out to the guarded woman. The cloaked and hooded Englishwoman drew near the tented stall, and William stepped back into the shadows.

As he did, a gypsy band came to life across the way, their tambourines and bells and flashing-eyed women immediately drawing the gazes of the Sinclair warriors.

The Highlander seized his chance. With a silencing look at the merchant, William reached out, grabbed the startled woman by the wrist, and dragged her in one quick motion into the alleyway.

“I am a friend!” he whispered against her ear.

Covering her mouth with his hand nonetheless, William took her around the waist with his other and speedily backed along the alley. As they reached the low wall at the end, the Ross turned and released the squirming woman, setting her back on her feet and turning her to face him. Her hood was pulled forward, and a lock of thick black hair had tumbled out across her eyes.

“We’ve only a moment before they discover you’re missing. But I’ve horses waiting beyond that stand of trees. You’re safe now.” The Englishwoman was clearly stunned. The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “You’ve nothing to fear. You’ve been rescued.”

The woman’s eyes swept questioningly over him, focusing on the coin that he suddenly pulled from his leather belt. The Tudor rose flashed in the sunlight.

“I’ve no time now to explain. If we’re to get you out of Fearnoch, we’ll have to--”

William Ross’s words died on his tongue as the woman’s full-throated scream--loud enough to be heard in Edinburgh--cut like a sword through the crisp winter air.

Gilbert Ross leaned into the fireplace and tried to peer up the chimney. Seeing nothing, the young priest got up from his knees and straightened the iron pokers leaning neatly against the wall. The smoke continued to back up in the fireplace, drifting into the room and hanging like a pall just above his blond, tonsured head.

The sound of the door opening behind him drew his gaze. Two clerics hesitantly peered inside the chamber.

He gestured to them. “Father John, ‘tis time we sent for the mason.”

The younger of the two men nodded vigorously and withdrew, immediately disappearing down the corridor.

“And Father Francis, if you find this chamber too suffocating for our work...”

“I am used to this, provost.” The older priest stepped into the room and closed the door. “For as long as I can remember, this chimney has smoked. Father Jerome gave up on it long ago, I think.” He shook his head. “‘Tis a nuisance during the winter months.”

Giving up on things had been his late predecessor’s guiding rule, Gilbert Ross had quickly realized after taking over the position as provost of the Church of St. Duthac. Gilbert stepped over Willie, his barrel-chested dog, who continued to snore unconcernedly while his master pulled open a shuttered window. Gilbert filled his lungs with the cold winter air that swept in beneath the escaping smoke.

“One of the fishermen from the village has just returned from the market at Fearnoch, provost. She is there.”

Gilbert turned and found the priest already positioned at his customary position at the trestle table--his gnarled hands untying the black ribbon around an oversized account book.

“And my brother?”

“He is there as well. In the company of Ross farmers already at market, but with
none
of his warriors.”

The hint of criticism was obvious in the old priest’s tone, and Gilbert stiffened a bit defensively. He and his older brother William had been pupils to Father Francis from the time they were lads, packed off by their mother--over their father and their eldest brother Thomas’s objections--to the ancient church school. Even though William was now laird of the Ross clan--and Gilbert himself was now the provost of St. Duthac-- he knew that Father Francis would always view them as lads to be scolded.

Aye, he knew what was coming.

“Gilbert...er, provost...for a man of William’s position to act...”