Terri Brisbin - Surrender To the Highlander

A strong breeze carried the nauseating smell to him and Rurik knew the vomit would be harder to remove if it dried into his boots. Looking around the small enclosed yard, he spied a well and walked to it. Since the lady gave no sign of an imminent arrival, he suspected there was time enough to see to it before they left on their journey. As he reached for the bucket, the approach of an old man surprised him.

“She hasna ridden much,” the man blurted out with no warning.

Rurik continued his task, tossing the bucket down the well and pulling it up once it was filled. Tilting it, he let the water pour down his legs and boots, then he used one foot to scrub the mess off the other, continuing until most of the muck was loosened. His other purpose for not responding was that he knew his silence would spur on the old man. It was not long in coming.

“She hasna left here in the years since her da sent her here,” he offered. Rurik noticed the man did not stand straight but appeared wizened with many years of life.

“What has that to do with me, old man?” he asked. Finished with removing the odorous material from his boots, he tossed the bucket where he’d found it and met the man’s gaze now. “Do you think I will mistreat her?”

“The daughter of Gunnar is a prize and should be treated with respect,” the man replied, rising to a height Rurik would not expect possible. “Ye will answer to me for any harm done her.”

The temptation to laugh filled him, but he tempered it. Both knew the man would never be able to best him in any test of skills or strength, but Rurik respected his attempts to intimidate. More interesting, the words and fervor told Rurik much about his true opponent in this confrontation—the lady Margriet.

Rurik bowed to the man and nodded. “You have my word that no harm will befall her while in my care, old man.”

He peered up at Rurik, apparently considering his pledge, and then nodded with a grunt. “Ye’ll do.”

With all the pride of a Highland warrior, the man reached out and offered his arm. Rurik stepped over to his and clasped arms, shaking it. “What are you called, old man? And what is your place here?”

“I am called Black Iain and I tend to the flocks.”

His hair may have been black at some point in his life, but Iain would be more suitably called Gray and Balding Iain now. A commotion, beginning inside the main building and spreading to the yard, interrupted any more conversation. His hand moved to his sword as Rurik turned to face the trouble. As he watched the group of women exit from the convent, he knew a sword was not necessary for this.

The weeping crowd held at its center the woman of whom they spoke. She alone did not cry or make a sound as they moved toward him. Now though, a nun’s veil covered her waist-length black hair and most of her face. Her eyes, the palest blue Rurik had seen, were luminous against her pale skin, at least the skin he could see. The nun’s clothing back in place, Rurik contemplated for the first time that mayhap she had truly taken her vows.

Shaking his head at the waste of it, he whistled to his men and nodded at the gate. Ceasing their antics, Sven and Magnus crossed to the gate and gathered the rest of the men together. Finally, after days of waiting, first for her acquiescence and then for her preparations, their journey would begin. Meeting her gaze over the heads of those around them, Rurik was struck by the sudden vulnerability he spied there. While secure within the convent’s safety, Margriet seemed fearless. Now, when about to enter into his care, her brave face slipped and he was certain that the others were keen to it, too.

Making his way to her, he easily pushed the others out of the way and Rurik took her arm. Guiding her toward the gate, he nearly did not notice when she planted her feet and stopped moving with him. Annoyance grew once more and he turned to face her.

“No more delays, lady,” he demanded. “I thought that was clear in my instructions. An hour, no more, to finish your preparations.”

“Sister,” she said, her lips pursed in an enticing and yet mutinous manner, at once beguiling and infuriating him for his reaction. “You may call me ‘Sister.’”

Silence reigned as everyone quieted to await his response. In spite of the habit and veil, he was still not certain of her standing, but decided to give her the benefit of his doubt. “Sister, then. There are only a few more hours of daylight and I want to take advantage of every moment.” To get you as far away from here as possible and then discover your truth .

Her next action surprised him. She stepped toward him and leaned in closer, until he had to bow his head to hear her words. “I would beg a few more minutes to say farewell to the Reverend Mother.” Margriet met his gaze and he noticed tears gathering there. “I have lived here longer than I did with my father or mother and I beg your leave to speak to her privately before departing here.”

Rurik lifted his head and looked at those who stood watching. Taking a breath in and letting it out, he fought the urge to strike out needlessly. Aye, he and his men had waited for nigh to three days while the woman before him thwarted his attempts to carry out his task. Aye, he wanted to be quit of this place and be on his—their—journey north. But, from her actions thus far, Margriet demonstrated that she clearly did not want to return to her home. Or perhaps the tone of the summons from her father or some words within it were the cause of her hesitancy. Regardless, he would rather be her escort than her warden.

Rurik took a different tact—and turned towards the chapel. “I would like to speak to your reverend mother myself. Perhaps if I assured her of your safety, you would feel less concern over this parting?”

She shook her head vehemently, making the veil wobble a bit to one side. “Nay, sir. She said that you terrify her and she wishes not to speak to you directly.”

“Make haste then, la… Sister . ’Tis long past our time to be on the road.”

Not wishing to give her the complete victory, Rurik turned and strode to the gate. Crossing his arms over his chest, he met the stares of his men, daring them to utter a sound. Wise men that he knew them to be, they did not. Instead they made themselves busy with the final adjustments to the pack horses.

Wise men indeed.

In a shorter time than he thought possible, the lady approached, followed by the younger woman she’d tried to pass off as herself. A chuckle nearly forced its way free as he noticed that both still dressed in habits. Rurik stepped back and allowed them to pass, watching as his men guided and assisted them onto the horses brought for their use on the trek north.

After a few more minutes while the lady’s belongings were secured to her horse, they were at last on their way.

Margriet fought the urge to look back and lost the effort. The place she’d called home and the people who had become her family when her father exiled her to Caithness grew more and more distant. Now her battle was to keep the tears that burned her eyes and throat from falling. After a final glance and a deep breath, she turned back and aimed her gaze at the road ahead.

Slipping another of the herbs into her mouth and chewing it against her stomach’s distress, she struggled to focus on her future life instead of the past. Grabbing on to the thought that this unexpected intrusion into her life might actually hasten the inevitable and that thought impossible, Margriet realized that this was the first time in so many years that she would see the world outside the convent, and see her home and the sea. The thought of crashing waves and surging water shot a burst of hope and excitement through her and she tried to smile at it. Something good would come of this chaotic beginning after all.

The sun’s light penetrated the thick canopy of trees surrounding them and fell onto the damp ground in scattered shadows. Though this part of the road was not new to her, the views of it were. As each of the men leading their group passed in and out of a sunbeam, their bodies were outlined in shimmering gold. Try as she might, she also lost the battle gawking at such male beauty.

In spite of her years of living in the convent, in spite of her previous weakness and the cost of it that was still to be paid, Margriet allowed herself the pleasure of inspecting the warriors who escorted her. At least those introduced to her.

Each one was appealing in his own way, and to a man, they’d inherited the height of the Norse warriors of long ago. Magnus, with his dark hair and eyes that made him appear mysterious and nearly dangerous, except when he smiled and the illusion disappeared. Sven, the opposite in coloring, allowed his wheat-colored hair to fall freely down his back and she’d noticed that his eyes were the color of the blue sky at sunset.

The trees swayed in the wind and the light shifted to surround the leader of her escort. Rurik—he’d told her without telling her his family’s or father’s name. It was not an uncommon name in Kirkvaw or the Orkneys so there was no way to associate him with one family or another unless he revealed it. He resisted when she frowned at the lack of forthrightness and she let it go for the moment. Her father would send only a reputable, trustworthy man and there would be time enough while they rode north to ferry across the sea to her Orkney home to discover his connections. For now, she watched as he rode ahead of her, both guiding and guarding their traveling party.

Margriet’s stomach trembled and her breath hitched as she remembered his strength and his closeness and, most especially, his green eyes that changed from the color of the leaves now surrounding them to the color of the emerald she remembered on the hilt of her father’s battle sword. When the object of her reverie turned as though he’d heard her thoughts, she met that intense gaze and truly lost her breath.

Although certain only a moment had passed by as she stared at him across the distance, Margriet feared others had noticed her perusal. She forced her eyes from his and shifted on her mount. Such scrutiny of a man was unseemly for a nun and she must remember her disguise or it would be of little use and protection for her or Elspeth.

When she next dared to raise her eyes, Rurik still watched her. It was his turn to break the connection that stretched then and he said something to Magnus as he turned away. It seemed that she was the subject of whatever comment had been made, for Magnus moved his horse to the side of the path and allowed the rest to pass him by…until he reached her side.

“Sister,” he began. He did not seem to trip over the word as his leader did. “Rurik asked if you are well enough to increase our pace. We have much distance to cover before the light fades.”

“Well enough?”

“You were ill…before,” Magnus stammered as many men did when confronted by a female and certain ailments. She sat up a bit taller on her horse and cleared her throat.

“Tell Rurik to fear not, I will keep pace with him.”

Magnus smiled then, exposing a pleasing countenance of masculine angles and lines that framed a wide brow and strong chin. His eyes widened in what seemed to be merriment and then, after a brief nod, he rode back to Rurik. From the shared laughter and the glances, Margriet knew for certain that she’d done something untoward. She thought on her words, but could discern nothing amiss in them.

She would never understand them.

Of course, part of her problem was a lack of experience and a dreadful lapse in judgment during her only experience! One aspect about herself that Margriet had discovered was her ability to learn quickly in new situations and circumstances. This journey would give her the opportunity to learn about men and how they acted with each other and toward women they were supposed to respect. She already knew how they treated the common woman without protection.