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The McGregor. As a woman of Northumbria Roselyn was familiar with the custom north of the border for chieftains to assume the name of their clan. And of course this warlord was a McGregor, for that was the clan Lady Joan hailed from prior to her marriage.
“Where…? Where are you taking me? What about the others? Please, you cannot harm them, they are innocent, and—”
“Enough. I have said where ye are bound. You will be taken to my keep at Duncleit. There I shall establish the extent of your guilt in this matter, and the appropriate penalty.”
Roselyn jerked as though he had struck her, though he laid not a hand upon her. She knew full well the extent of her culpability, and there could be but one outcome.
* * *
Roselyn became intimately acquainted with the sacks of flour and grain with which she shared the small cart. Over the next two days she clung to the rest of the cargo to gain such comfort as she might, but still she was bumped and jostled ceaselessly as the procession of loaded horse-drawn wagons made their way across the hills, lanes, and meadows of the Scottish borders. She knew they were bound first for Mortain because the Scot had said as much, there to unload the supplies retaken from Etal. He had also mentioned another destination, his keep at Duncleit. She recalled Joan having mentioned her childhood home in the Scottish Highlands but Roselyn had no idea how long the journey to reach there might take.
How much farther was this Duncleit? What manner of a place was it, and once there would she be imprisoned in the dungeons? She might be left there, forgotten until someone eventually got around to meting out the punishment she deserved. Roselyn cared not about the dark, but she hated to be cold. Most of all though she feared the vermin she could not see but imagined would scurry all over her body were she to be incarcerated below ground.
What manner of death would her captor consider fair and just? Would it be swift, a merciful end? Or might he decide to drag it out, to ensure she had the time to properly repent her misplaced and selfish act? What had possessed her to disclose to Alan details of the rich pickings to be had at Mortain Castle?
She had been desperate, not thinking straight, but regardless of her reasons, she should never have resorted to such wickedness. There was no excuse, and now she was to pay for her stupidity. She had been a fool, and others had suffered mightily for it. Even if her captor was inclined to show mercy, how could she ever forgive herself?
Roselyn lay in the cart, bewildered, disoriented, adrift from the familiar scents and sounds of Etal or Kelso. She was accustomed to her world of darkness and normally managed well enough, but she had never before been so alone and so frightened. She willed herself to remain calm, to listen, to absorb what she could of her new surroundings.
Soon her keen ear was able to discern five distinct voices among the guards assigned to escort their small convoy, though they spoke in a tongue she could not understand. Occasionally they uttered words in English, though their dialect was almost as impossible to decipher as their native speech.
The Highland warriors treated her well enough. She had been given food, a little watered ale to drink, and allowed to leave the cart for brief periods to relieve herself in the bushes at the side of the lanes. She had no illusions that she was afforded privacy at those times. She knew that at least one of the men entrusted to guard her would be close by, but she had no choice in the matter and did what must be done. Her hands would be unbound and she was led a few paces from the cart, then instructed to be quick. She was, wasting no time in seeking comfort after the bumping and buffeting of the journey. Each time she stood and straightened her skirts a hand would take her elbow and guide her back to the cart. She would be assisted back onto her perch on the sacks, usually offered something to eat. The fare consisted of bread in the main, with occasional pieces of meat if one of the guards had managed to take any game as they made their way through the forest. A rabbit, perhaps, or a few mouthfuls of pigeon. Roselyn appreciated that they did not intend to starve her and thanked the guards for their kindness.
The only other conversation she had was with the peasant from Etal assigned to drive the cart. His name was Wilfred, and he was not known to Roselyn prior to this. In an undertone he explained that his usual labour was in the fields. He and his family lived in the village beyond the castle walls and rarely ventured within the confines of the keep itself. He appeared to harbour no real fondness or loyalty for her brother and had not been unwilling to embark on this excursion with The McGregor’s men. He was unable to offer any reassurance regarding the fate of the rest of their household as their convoy had departed Etal just as the flames began to lick the base of the stable walls. He admitted he had looked back when they crested the first hill and had seen most of the castle ablaze by then. He doubted much would remain by the first nightfall.
The guards discouraged conversation so much of the journey took place in silence. Apart from when she ate or saw to her personal needs, Roselyn’s hands remained bound. She knew their caution to be unnecessary, but made no protest.
They reached Mortain on the third day. The acrid stench of burning hung in the air as they approached and Roselyn shivered despite the warmth afforded by the blanket she had been given on their first night sleeping in the open. She pulled the woollen rug up to her neck and inhaled the dispiriting odour which pervaded the atmosphere all around. Mortain smelt of death, of grief and sadness and suffering. And she was responsible.
It would not have surprised her had she been hauled from the cart and handed over to the survivors of this unfortunate keep for them to exact retribution as they saw fit. That was apparently not their intent however, because the guards allowed her to remain in the cart as they, the drivers from Etal and the Mortain villagers unloaded the cargo. If any of the remaining inhabitants of that troubled settlement harboured curiosity about the presence of a captive noblewoman in their midst they did not express it, at least not in Roselyn’s hearing. For the most part, she was ignored to glean what information she could from snatches of conversation and the shuffling of feet as people passed by her lonely perch.
They were soon on their way again, though she could hear no rumbling of wheels from other carts as she had on the way to Mortain. She could only surmise that all but the cart wherein Roselyn rode had been left behind at the burned-out keep. Wilfred, too, was no longer with them and one of the guards took over the reins of the small wagon. The ride was even less comfortable now that the sacks of grain were gone. Roselyn sat on the bare planks of the cart, her knees bent up by her chest and her arms hugging them. She yelped as they bounced over one particularly vicious rock in the road.
“Ye may ride up here alongside me if ye wish, lass.”
Roselyn was surprised at the offer, but nodded in gratitude. The man halted the wagon and aided her onto the narrow bench at the front. It was scant improvement, but better than her previous seat.
She listened to the conversation around her, or at least those brief snatches which took place in a version of English, as the five Scotsmen continued on toward their home. From the banter which they tossed to and fro she gathered that one had a wife called Meg of whom he was heartily afraid, especially when the woman became riled, as she was inclined to on those occasions when her husband had imbibed too much fine whisky. Another was married to Agnes who was about to bear his third child. He had two daughters already and hoped for a lad this time. A third man was yet to wed, though the rest of his companions seemed to believe he had his sights set on the daughter of the ghillie who cared for the McGregor lands. Their light-hearted ribbing helped the journey to pass, though with every turn of the wheels beneath her Roselyn sensed her fate coming closer and closer.
The men slept on the ground, leaving Roselyn to herself in the cart at night. On the second night after they left Mortain the rain started, and soon settled into a cold, penetrating drizzle which drenched everything. The guard who usually sat beside her produced a length of sacking for Roselyn to wrap around herself. She was pleased and a little surprised when she felt the texture of her covering to realise that it was waxed and therefore offered decent protection from the elements. When she thanked the guard he just grunted and reminded her of their laird’s instructions. She was to arrive at Duncleit safe and well, which to his mind meant ensuring she did not succumb to some ague on the way there.
At one point the cart rolled to a halt and Roselyn was helped to clamber to the ground. She stood, clutching her waxed sacking around her shoulders as she shivered in the chill northerly breeze, listening to the soft lap of waves close by and inhaling the salty tang of the sea. Gulls shrieked overhead and male voices conferred in low tones, in a tongue she could not understand. The ground beneath her feet shifted, she stood on soft sand rather than solid earth. They were at the coast.
One of the guards lifted her in his arms and set her in a boat which rocked and swayed beneath her. She huddled on the floor of the vessel as the motion became stronger, the breeze harder. The splash of oars, the sense of motion, of movement, the grunts and sighs of the oarsmen as they pulled the craft across the waves told her they were afloat, bobbing about on the water. It was the first time Roselyn had experienced such a mode of transport and she whimpered in fear, convinced that she would surely be tipped into the cold water to drown in the inky depths. This must be the end The McGregor planned for her.
“Be not afeard, lassie, we shall see ye safe across.” The guard from the cart sought to reassure her. His words did little to ease Roselyn’s mind, and the crossing seemed to her to be interminable.
At last, though, she was violently jolted as the bottom of the boat struck sand. The oarsman brushed past her then there was a splash as he vaulted into the water to haul the craft onto the opposite shore. The guard lifted Roselyn from the floor of the boat and carried her back onto dry land. Roselyn curled her numb fingers into the rough wool of his plaid, terrified lest he might even now drop her into the frigid deep.
He did not, and soon she found herself perched once more upon a small cart, though not the same one as that which had brought her this far. This conveyance was higher, smaller, and considerably less comfortable. Within moments they were on their way once more.
“Are we getting close to Duncleit yet?” Roselyn had resisted seeking information as the men who accompanied her clearly preferred to talk among themselves. The only words directed at her were in the main instructions or concerned her basic needs, and she was content to remain silent. But the journey seemed never-ending, she was exhausted, afraid, chilled to the bone, and every part of her ached. Surely they must be close.
“We’ll be there soon enough, lass,” came the taciturn response.
Roselyn huddled back within the thick plaid they had supplied for extra warmth at night and resolved to ask no more questions. What did it matter in any case? The outcome was inevitable.
“We should be there by tomorrow evening.” One of the guards on horseback took pity on her. “Just one more night on the road, then we’ll be at Duncleit.”
