Galeren laughed watching them then reached his horse and unloaded his bags.
“On a more serious note,” Morgann said, coming close to him, “how long d’ye think ’twill be before we have delivered this…novice back to Bamburgh and can take a rest from travel fer a while?”
Galeren saw Padrig leaning in to hear the answer. Galeren understood. They were all in need of a soft body in their beds.
“We should reach Bamburgh and the priory in two days. That brings to mind somethin’ I wanted to discuss with all of ye.” He waited until Mac and Will reached them and then continued. “We are goin’ to a priory. We will behave with dignity. The high steward trusts us to see to the safety of his niece. She is verra important to him.” But for the wrong reasons, he wanted to tell them.
Galeren had heard of her for years—she who was to become a nun and procure John Stewart, High Steward of Scotland, a seat on the church’s council. If King David died with no issue, John, who was the first son of Marjorie Bruce, daughter of Robert the Bruce, would be next in line to be king. With the church’s support, no one would contest him. John was obsessed with becoming king, so he spoke of his niece often. The fact that he didn’t know much about the lass hadn’t stopped him from bringing her up in many conversations.
Galeren knew she had fiery red hair and a temper to match. But Galeren suspected that any lass of ten and four would rant and scream if she was taken from her kin and put into a priory. She was no beauty, with dots across her cheeks and nose and long limbs.
“What is wrong with how we behave?” Mac protested.
Galeren had to laugh–either that or throw up his hands and head home. They weren’t right for this task. They would frighten the poor novice to death.
“Ye were just chasin’ down Will,” Galeren reminded him.
Mac offered him a rare smile. “I wouldna have hurt him too bad. Besides, John’s niece will only be with us fer two days. I think her delicate sensibilities will survive us.”
William jeered at him. “Hell, Mac, can ye not agree to be somewhat more pleasant fer two bloody days?”
“Not with ye around,” Mac replied with a smack across Will’s temple, which Will answered by jumping on him.
“They give not a care to our duty, Captain.” Morgann said with disgust shadowing his cerulean eyes.
Galeren sighed and with nothing but a look of annoyance, signaled Padrig to end it.
“Captain?”
“Aye, Morgann?” Galeren answered and returned to securing his saddle.
“What is a novice? Is she a nun? Because if she is a nun, we are all doomed. Ye realize that, d’ye not? These bastards will incite curses upon our heads!”
Galeren tilted his head and gave him a curious look. He knew the lad was ten and eight—or nine, but who thought such things? “Nuns are not witches, Morgann. There will be no curses, aye?” He smiled at his somber friend and patted him on the shoulder as Mac, Will, and the quiet giant readied their horses to leave.
They would cross the border in England at night. Thankfully, Galeren’s mother had been a border reiver. He had kin along the border. He had already written to them to let them know when and where they would be and to make arrangements for their safe passage along the east Marches. Everything had been set up and put into motion.
Galeren didn’t want to go to Bamburgh or anywhere in England. He hated the English. They ever sought to rule the Scots and the Scots would ever fight to stop them. But he would not disobey John or King David in what he was told to do. He would go to Bamburgh with the men and hope the novice made it to Ayrshire without any damage to her eternal soul.
What other choice did he have? These were his most elite men, his friends. He would not have made an important journey with any other bunch of ruffians. They’d fought in various battles together and Galeren trusted no men like these, save for his kin.
They mounted their steeds and rode southeast. They would sleep outdoors as inns tended to be dangerous for men who thought to challenge them.
Galeren rode in no particular place among the men. If he took the lead, it was usually because there was danger ahead. While they rode, he thought about home and listened to the men around him talking and laughing. He didn’t think of Invergarry but of Ayrshire—his home for the last nine years. Dundonald Castle, where John and his wife, Matilda, raised their three bairns. He smiled thinking of the children, whom he loved. John had only wed Matilda to please the church.
John did much to please the church. Sending for his niece was one of them. He wanted her around to prove to the church that he was a religious man.
“Are ye still goin’ to wed Cecilia Birchet when we return home and the vow is over?”
“I dinna know,” Galeren answered Morgann, looking as solemn now as his friend. “’Tis what John has asked of me. But I dinna love her.”
“Many marry fer peace or some kind of alliance,” Morgann pointed out. “If ’tis what the steward wants…”
Galeren nodded. He would do it if he must, but Cecilia was difficult to get along with.
The only child of John’s closest friend, Lord Edward Birchet of Prestwick, Cecilia was used to having her way. When she didn’t get what she wanted, she threw herself into fits of screaming at her father that he didn’t truly love her. Galeren wouldn’t blame him if he did not, in fact, love her. How could anyone? Galeren didn’t care if she was considered the most beautiful lass in Scotland by most. Beauty faded soon after he got to know her. Oh, she didn’t practice her tantrums on him. Yet. He could see the simmering anger in her gold/green eyes. She always held her tongue with him. He was certain that would change when they were married. He wasn’t sure he could remain with her if she raved and ranted at him. He’d gone to John about it, but the high steward only laughed at his concerns and asked him to ponder how wild she would be in his bed. Galeren didn’t want to ponder it. He didn’t want a life with her. But John wanted their union. King David wanted it as well. He’d asked Galeren to try. Galeren had agreed.
Padrig was mostly always quiet, so his silence was expected.