Chapter 5
Emeric rode through the deepening dusk. The sky was splashed with hues of pink, purple and gold. The beauty of it, however, had a bitter edge. In the opposite direction, the sky had turned black, the storm racing steadily closer. He hoped he made it home before it hit.
His thoughts mirrored the growing storm. The closer he drew to his destination, the deeper his unease became. Part of him longed for the sights and smells of home—but part of him dreaded it too. He was no longer the boy who had watched his father and uncle playing chess at the high table, the boy who had badgered the cooks into giving him fresh bread from the oven and gotten into mischief at every opportunity. He was no longer the boy who had been content in his role in the clan, certain of the future mapped out for him.
There is a choice coming yer way, a choice that will force ye to question everything ye think ye want. It will be a choice that will force ye to heal the division in yer heart, to decide, finally, who ye are and who ye want to be.
What had Irenemeant by that?
His train of thought was abruptly interrupted by a distant cry echoing through the twilight. He pulled back on the reins, Plover rearing his head and snorting.
“Help! Somebody help!”
It was a woman’s voice, filled with desperation and fear. Adrenaline shot through him and he kicked Plover into a gallop in the direction of that shout.
As he rode, the ground began to change underfoot, turning wet and springy. He could smell the rankness of rotting vegetation and decay in the air and knew he had to be careful. He was passing into the swampy ground that bracketed the east end of Mackintosh territory—a place he’d spent many hours exploring as a child but one he knew could easily trap an unwary traveler.
It was a landscape of moaning willows bowed over murky water, and he kept to higher, drier ground as much as possible, until finally, the willows pulled back and a large open stretch of bog loomed before him.
There, sitting in the mud with her feet stuck in the mire, was a woman. Her clothes were sodden and covered in mud, her hair plastered to her face. Her eyes were defiant though, flashing with determination.
“Thank God!” she shouted when she spotted him. “I’ve just about yelled myself hoarse! Can you get me out? My boots are stuck!”
“Hold on!” he called back, swiftly dismounting.
He worked quickly to uncoil a length of rope from his saddle, the fibers rough against his palms. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the rope sailing through the air towards the woman. It landed with a wet slap just within her reach. Withtrembling hands, she grasped at it, her fingers slipping on the wet hemp before finally securing a firm grip.
“Tie it around yer waist!”
Nodding her understanding, she did as he commanded, knotting it securely. Once she had a firm grip on the rope, Emeric tied its other end to Plover’s saddle. The horse snorted and stamped but settled as Emeric took hold of his bridle.
“All right then, lad?” he said. “Ready to earn yer oats?”
With a gentle nudge, he prompted Plover into a slow, steady walk. The horse strained against the weight, his hooves sinking slightly into the soft earth. The rope strained and stretched, wet fibers creaking as they bore the weight of the struggling woman.
“Hold on!” Emeric shouted.
Suddenly, with a sound that was half-squelch, half-suck, the woman’s boots came free of the bog and she was pulled head-first through the mud as Plover heaved.
Emeric kept Plover moving, maintaining tension on the line until the woman was safely on solid ground. She was panting heavily, mud smeared all over her clothes and face, making her look like some wild thing out of a child’s tale.
Emeric approached her cautiously. “Are ye hurt?”
The woman rolled onto her back, arms and legs spread-eagled, making no effort to stand. She snorted. “Yes, I’m fine, although my pride could do with some CPR. I cannot believe I just got myself stuck in a bog! Ugh. If you hadn’t come along...”
