Page 21 of Highland Fire

“Why dinnae ye leave here?” asked Moira.

“We are bound to our laird.” The man shrugged his bulky shoulders. “And even those of us who feel he has broken his bond with us dare not leave. The mon has made enemies of all who live about us. We are encircled by those who hate us. If one of us is found outside of the laird’s lands, we risk being murdered. Ye keep on walking. Get away ere someone begins to think ye are one of us or deal with us. There are spies aplenty round here.”

“I had hoped to get my wife something to put on her feet and mayhap just a wee bowl of porridge,” Tavig said, looking up and down the road.

“Weel, ye could try the widow Giorsal. She abides in the last hovel on this side of the road. She had but one child, a son, and he was killed by the laird last Michael-mas. She may need something done for her. She willnae ask it of us for she feels ’twould be done in charity, and her pride willnae allow that. She has no coin either, but she would have a bed and a wee bit of food.”

“Thank ye, sir.”

“No thanks be needed, son. A last warning—dinnae show your bonnie face or that of your wee bride too freely. ’Twas having too fine a face that got the widow Giorsal’s lad murdered, and dinnae let anyone try to tell ye elsewise. Aye, and my sister’s prettiest girl child was dragged up to yonder tower after the last harvest and hasnae been seen since. A bonnie face can be a curse in this land.”

As they walked away from the man, Moira whispered, “Mayhap we should leave.”

“Let us try to gain a meal and a bed from the widow first. Ye need both. Aye, and so do I.”

Their progress was slowed by a knot of people outside a small church. A young woman shook her head as people mournfully told her how lovely her tiny daughter was. Tavig started to shake his head over the oddity of it all, then looked at the little girl in question and tensed. She was a healthy, beautiful child with golden curls and a rosy complexion. As she stepped into the road, he felt the chill of premonition streak down his spine. The little child waved at a lanky young man across the road and started to toddle over to him. Tavig was not sure why, but he knew he had to keep the little girl out of the road.

“Nay, child,” he said, grabbing the sweet-faced child by one dimpled arm. “Stay here.”

“Papa,” she cried, vigorously trying to pull free. “I go see me papa.”

“Nay. Ye must stay here.”

The mother rushed to Tavig’s side. “Let my bairn go. Are ye one of that devil’s men? Cannae ye at least let her grow into a woman ere ye steal her away?” She reached for the child.

Tavig yanked the girl into his arms, holding the squirming child out of her mother’s reach. “Nay, I dinnae try to steal her. But wait a moment. I cannae tell ye why, but the child must stay out of the road.”

“Are ye mad, then? She wants to go to her father.”

At that moment the lanky young man arrived and began to struggle with Tavig, who clung to the little girl. He could see Moira’s face through the gathering crowd. She was pale and clearly afraid, but she moved to try to keep people away from him. By doing so she showed that she believed in his foretelling ability no matter how much she disliked it. Tavig knew she could never understand how much that meant to him.

Just as he feared he would lose his grip on the now-screaming child, a low thunderous sound began to steal people’s attention away from him. Even the child’s parents although still keeping their hands on their daughter, turned to look in the direction of the sound. A large troop of heavily armed men galloped down the road from the laird’s tower. They rode heedlessly through town, kicking up clouds of dust and slowing for nothing in their way. An old man was knocked aside, and several chickens were trampled beneath the hooves of the men’s horses. Tavig knew why he had felt compelled to keep the child out of the road. She would never have made it to the other side in time, and the scowling men-at-arms would have ridden right over her.

The men rode out of the village, disappearing into the surrounding wood. For one long, tense moment after they were out of sight no one said a word. Everyone slowly turned to stare at him. Tavig released the child to her parents and felt Moira slip her hand into his. He saw the suspicion and fear begin to settle on the people’s faces. He heartily wished he had never brought Moira into the village.

“Witch,” whispered one old woman.

“Nay,” snapped Moira. “Ye old fool, he but saw the men riding this way.”

“He kenned what was to happen,” said a plump, graying woman, pointing an accusatory finger at Tavig. “No one else saw those men. He is a witch.”

“Get out of here, Moira,” Tavig ordered, nudging her away from his side. “Run, lass.”

“I cannae leave ye,” she protested.

“Run for your life, ye fool lass,” he snapped, but, even as he spoke, he knew it was too late. “The woman has naught to do with it,” he cried as the people swarmed around them, grabbing Moira as well as him. “Let her go.”

He fought to break free of the two men holding him, but two more moved to help them. The sight of Moira being roughly restrained by a burly man enraged him, and he struggled all the harder. When he saw one of his captors raise a thick club, Tavig braced for the blow.

Moira screamed when the man hit Tavig on the head. Tavig slumped in the arms of his captors, blood trickling down the side of his face. Moira tried to wriggle free of the huge man who had her pinned in his arms, but he just tightened his grip.

“Be still, witch, or ye will get the same as your mon,” her captor growled in her ear.

There was no doubt in Moira’s mind that the man meant exactly what he said. She went very still, barely breathing. A youth pulled forward an officious-looking little man who decided she and Tavig should be kept in the storage hole at the inn until the priest could judge them. As she and Tavig were dragged to the inn, she listened closely to what the people were saying. Moira bit back a cry of horror when a man said the priest was not due to pass through the village for a fortnight or more.

The innkeeper would not meet her eyes as he opened the hatch in the floor of his tavern. The people crowded around her did not even wait for him to lower the ladder, callously pushing her into the hole. Moira hit the packed dirt floor hard. Winded and unsure of how badly she was hurt, she scrambled out of the way as they tossed the unconscious Tavig in after her. She cried out a protest as the hatch was shut, leaving her and Tavig in complete darkness, but no one paid her any heed.

Fighting a stomach-knotting panic, Moira took a moment to examine herself as best she could in the dark. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was only bruised and battered; no bones were broken. She groped her way through the blackness until she felt Tavig’s limp form. It was difficult, but she slowly, carefully, ran her hands over his body until she felt certain that he had no broken bones, either. The wound on his head felt sticky with blood, but she could not feel any new blood flowing from it. She prayed she was guessing correctly that it was only a small wound and he would soon wake up.