into her neck, he thrust her distant. Not that he had anything to fear from her now she pried with both hands at that which denied her breath.
He was strong, being of good height and breadth, and when she kicked, he was barely jostled.
Did something else pop in her head? Certes, the darkening of her sight was not imagined. Nor her grandfather’s words. “Only enough to silence her, Gerald. Good use can be made of the half-breed.”
What use? she questioned, then all went black on this day of sunshine, sorrow, and horror.
Behind closed eyes instinct told her not to open, Marguerite commanded herself to listen and resume the breath of sleep so it appeared she remained unconscious.
“Malcolm will retaliate,” said one whose voice identified him as her uncle. “You killed ten of his men, Father, and all know he is fond of my niece.”
Rough laughter sounded. “Let him come. He will find no bodies to prove they were here. And that half-breed…”
Marguerite shuddered where she lay on the floor of what she guessed was the gathering hall. She had known her grandfather did not like her for her Scottish blood and the manner in which her sire took a Norman bride, but here was hatred of much poison. For this, which she had not fully understood when last she was here, her mother had been almost cruel in ordering her to stay on her side of the border.
Had Marguerite known her namesake was dead, she would not have come. However, privy to Edgar the Aetheling’s plans to take the English throne that was his right more than that of King Harold who had yielded it to William of Normandy three years past, she had feared for her mother. And King Malcolm, fond of the daughter of the man who had long served as his protector, had relented and provided her an escort.
A worthy escort, she assured herself. They could not have known how treacherous and emboldened my kin by the Normans’ grip on England.
“We have only to keep her hidden until Patrick comes for her.”
Marguerite nearly gasped. This another reason her mother had not wished her here. Her grandfather liked the Irish little more than the Scots, but his dealings with the man who had looked uncomfortably close upon his granddaughter were lucrative. And slavery was among those things in which Patrick dealt.
He will give or sell me to him, she thought.
“It could take weeks for the missive to find him,” Gerald said, “and weeks longer before he arrives.”
The older man grunted. “For that, we will not hold her here. We take her west on the morrow.”
“What if one of our men talks?”
“Some are greedy enough to betray me for a handful of coins, but brave enough to venture forth if Malcolm presents here? Brave enough to journey to Scotland and, surviving that, stand before that savage king who might believe they were one of those who put arrows in the backs of his men?”
“Still—”
“You worry like a woman!”
Bitter laughter ending on a harsh cough alerted Marguerite another was here and much nearer than the other two. “Heh, Gerald,” he creaked, “our father thinks little better of you than he does me.”
It was her younger uncle afflicted with a wasting sickness since boyhood. More for him than his aging father, her mother had returned to her Norman family when her own mother passed here. Marguerite liked Claude better than her grandfather and Gerald, but he was too sullen and demanding for her to feel kindly toward him beyond comparison to ones whose actions surely granted her permission to hate them.
Almighty, forgive me, she silently beseeched, but eleven are dead for no reason other than serving as my escort.
Aching for all, especially Cannie whom she had not been allowed to hold as the woman departed the living, Marguerite nearly sobbed. The ball of pain was so immense, it proved nearly impossible to choke down.
“You are untouchable, Claude,” Gerald finally spoke. “That is nothing to be proud of, wee brother. Were you not—”
“Were I not infirm, we would resolve this out of doors, whether with fists or swords,” Claude gave threat as she had only heard him do with her mother and servants. “And as I would be stronger of body than one who eats more than he moves, you would fall more heavily than I.”
Boots pounded the floorboards, but her grandfather’s bark of, “Gerald!” halted him and scattered rushes.
“Ask your brother’s forgiveness, Claude!”
“You first told he behaved a woman, Sire. Do