December 22, 1303
The scent of burning pine, oily and pungent, snaked through the hall. Mhàiri stumbled down the hidden stone staircase, her mother’s hand clasped firmly in her grip. A beeswax candle she’d snatched from her mother’s bedside provided a glimmer of light.
“Dinnae fash, Ma,” she urged. “We will be away soon.”
Lady Burns pulled her hand away and groaned, bringing them both to a stop. She wavered, bracing against the cold stone wall. “Go without me, Mhàiri,” she pleaded, her voice coming in a rasping shriek, words halting. “I cannae last much longer. Ye must save yerself and get word to yer grandda.”
“Nae.” Mhàiri stubbornly regained her ma’s hand. “I willnae leave ye. If ye stay, we both stay.”
The threat spurred Fenella Burns to another attempt, as Mhàiri knew it would. She feared her mother was at the end of her strength, and Mhàiri wasn’t above using threats and bribes to keep her ma upright and moving. A woman of delicate health, Fenella had all but succumbed to a lung ailment earlier in the fall. Mhàiri knew the desire to see her fourteen-year-old daughter cared for had been the only spur that kept her alive.
“Hurry,” Mhàiri murmured, hoping to prod another surge of energy from her mother. The narrow, winding staircase held their only hope to escape the men who had attacked their keep in the dark of night. Someone had obviously provided them entry past the formidable wall, and Mhàiri fervently hoped whoever it was had met a violent end. The reassuring weight of the sheathed dagger at her waist prodded the thought she’d be pleased to contribute to the person’s—or persons’—downfall.
Approaching a hidden bolt hole from the secret passage into the great room, Mhàiri carefully blocked the candle’s flame then moved the wooden disc and placed an eye to the opening.
The tower house, only hours earlier a festive place decorated with holly and mistletoe and full of the scents of fresh evergreens and freshly-baked yule bread, now appeared a pyre of burning timbers and scorched stone. The smell of death filled the air and Mhàiri refused to allow her thoughts to linger on the bodies slumped across the floor, some undoubtedly familiar to her, others unknown.
The important thing was, the battle seemed to have ebbed, whomever had attacked their home clearly the victors. Men, voices drunk with victory, looted the castle. Mhàiri drew back, allowing the heavy piece of wood to cover the hole again. She grasped her mother’s hand and hurried down the passage.
The candle’s flame danced in the breeze of their passage, dripping beeswax down the slender stalk. Incongruous scents of sweet honey drifted to Mhàiri’s nose, competing with the cloying odor of stale, damp air, and smoke. Adding a plea for the stub to remain lit to her list of prayers, Mhàiri continued down the staircase, her slippered feet padding against the dusty stone steps with a whisper of sound.
The nether door appeared as a faint line showing a small moonlit gap at the top where the wooden panel had shrunk over time. Approaching the portal, Mhàiri feathered her fingers across the small shelf beside the door. She found the large iron key and shoved it into the lock. Fenella slumped against the wall, struggling to catch her breath. Mhàiri sent her a look of concern. Her ma waved weakly, urging Mhàiri to continue.
With a murmured prayer for silence, she set the candle on the shelf then clasped the key in both hands. Taking a deep breath, she turned the hasp with slow, steady pressure. A groan escaped as the tumblers shifted rather than the shriek of metal on metal she’d feared. Leaning against the door, she pushed it open a mite, her eye to the opening beyond.
“We must be away, Ma,” she whispered. “The way is clear, but likely not for long. If we dinnae flee now, we willnae escape.”
A spasm of coughing wracked Fenella’s slender frame. Mhàiri patiently held her hand until the paroxysm eased.
“I willnae leave ye, Ma. We will rest a bit and try again.”
Fenella’s breath rattled in her chest and her fingers plucked weakly at Mhàiri’s sleeve. “The brooch . . . .” Her voice trailed off, overcome by the need for air.
“Dinnae fash,” Mhàiri soothed, stroking her mother’s fine, silver hair. “The wall was broached, but we will escape. I willnae let harm come to ye.”
The candle’s flame burned steadily, slowly devouring the beeswax.
“Alan . . . .”
Mhàiri sighed. Her father had been dead this year past, and his loss seemed to have hastened her ma’s decline.
“Can ye give it a try, Ma?” Mhàiri rose and clasped her mother’s arms. Fenella nodded feebly even as she struggled for her next breath.
Whispering a quick prayer for courage, Mhàiri shoved open the door.
Shouts resonant with over-indulgence filled a camp fewer than fifty paces away, nestled in a copse of trees not far from the base of the wall. Horses milled about, stamping in the cold, plumes of warm breath spiraling from their nostrils, steam rising from their bodies. Torches lit the area, exposing stacks of weapons and scattered belongings of those who no longer claimed earthly possessions. Men staggered about, lifting mugs and congratulatory shouts as they toasted their victory and added more plunder to the piles. A macabre dance of moonlight, smoke, and flickering light.
Mhàiri pushed aside the brambles hiding the outer door to the escape passage. The tower house, once overrun with violence and screams, now settled into a posthumous stupor as flames licked hungrily through the narrow stone-framed windows, devouring everything inside. Driven from the waning safety of the secret opening, she stepped forward and rubbed her arms against the winter chill that persisted beyond the reach of the fire. She pulled her cloak about her.
“Lady Mhàiri!”
She whirled at the low, surprised whisper, heart in her throat. “Michaell?”
The young man, his lanky form towering over her, appeared shocked to see her. “What are ye doing here?”
Mhàiri’s brows shot up at the accusatory tone. “Me? What are ye doing here?” Her heart dropped. “The fostering lads—are they—?”
“Most are away.” His voice lowered. “One dinnae make it.”
“Why are ye—?”
“I came back for ye,” he said.
Mhàiri’s heart threatened to burst, spilling her grief and fear and gratitude in a messy puddle on the trampled ground. Tears welled in her eyes, clogged her throat. He was, as always, her protector, the only one who made time for her, whom she looked up to and worshiped as the brother she never had. Everything would be right now that Michaell was here.
He peered into the brambles behind her.
“Where is yer ma?”
“Here,” Fenella replied as she slipped through the doorway, her form wraith-like and indistinct in the shadows.
Michaell’s eyebrows shot up. “A hidden passage?”
“Aye.”
As if suddenly recalling his manners, Michaell tugged his forelock. “My lady.”
Fenella smiled wanly. “We would be indebted to ye for yer help. My husband would be proud of ye.”
He drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. “I am honored, my lady.”
Loud shouts punctuated the danger they’d all but forgotten. Michaell grabbed Mhàiri’s arm and dragged her behind a tree. Fenella followed, leaning heavily against the trunk.
Michaell bent to Mhàiri’s ear. “Where will ye go?”
“My grandfather lives not far from here. A few hours’ ride, nae more.”
“He has the keep at Claver Hill, aye?”
“Aye.” Mhàiri glanced about and shivered. The chill sank into her bones as she realized this was no longer her home. And would never be again.
“I will take ye.” He released his grip on her arm, though his fingers lingered. “There is naught left for ye here. Ye need a horse, and I know how to get one. None will remark me, though they’d grab ye quick enough. Even now, they search the grounds for ye and yer ma.”
Mhàiri shuddered, not caring to consider her or her ma’s fate should they be captured.
Michaell’s fingers
curled beneath her chin. “Dinnae fash. I will help ye both. Come. We must be away.”
She nodded, trusting his youthful assurance as she had many times in their years of friendship, and followed close behind, shadowing his every footstep as they skirted the enemy’s camp. Fenella’s rasping breath sounded, loud as a swarm of angry bees. A new pennant flapped from a pole atop the keep, dark gray against the night sky. Fury burned in Mhàiri’s breast at its insolent triumph, and she wished she could see the design woven into the standard. The color, marks, anything to tell her who had stolen her life. But the sliver moon revealed nothing.
Michaell’s voice soothed the horses as he chose a pair from the picket line. He handed one set of reins to Mhàiri and, lacing his fingers together, formed a stirrup to help her up. She landed on the horse’s broad back, a leg on either side, not at all discomfited at the lack of a saddle. Doing the same courtesy for her mother, Michaell deposited Lady Burns before Mhàiri so she could keep her ma mounted. He then leapt aboard the other horse and they rode quietly away.
Keeping to the trees on one side of the path forced them to ride single file, and Mhàiri’s horse soon lagged behind. They struggled down an embankment to a burn moving sluggishly through the frozen grasses.
Mhàiri’s horse squealed suddenly, throwing up its head as it shied from a burly form rising from the river bank. Mhàiri dug her heels into her mount’s sides, hoping to flee, but the man snatched the reins, hauling the horse’s head downward.
“I’ll take the beast,” he growled, reaching for Mhàiri’s arm. Mhàiri grabbed for her dagger, but her ma leaned heavily against her shoulder, preventing her from reaching the sheath. Realizing she had no choice, Mhàiri dropped from the horse’s back, dragging her ma with her. Pushing Fenella out of harm’s way, Mhàiri yanked her blade free and whirled on the startled man, the steel of her dagger winking soft in the thin moonlight.
“So, the lassie has teeth!” He grinned, showing black gaps where his own teeth no longer resided. He crouched in a fighting stance and beckoned her close. “I like me wimmin ta play rough!”
Mhàiri shook her head. “Leave and I’ll not harm ye.”
The brute laughed. “Ye arenae big enough to bite me arse. Come with me and I’ll teach ye what it means to be a woman.”
Mhàiri did not reply, her mouth suddenly dry with fear. Where was Michaell? Was he too far ahead to notice? Her arm shook but she gritted her teeth. “Go away.”
The man straightened and stuck out his hand. “Give me the knife, lassie, afore ye hurt yerself.”
Mhàiri shrank backward, all thoughts of knife-play fleeing from her mind. She panted hard, her terror growing.
“Little lassie like ye needs to be playing with dolls, not knives,” the man taunted. “If ye’re too old for dolls, I have something else ye can play with.”
Mhàiri’s foot struck a stone and suddenly Michaell’s instruction came flooding back.
Use a rock the size of yer fist, Mhàiri. Take a moment and aim for the spot between his eyes. Together they’d hunted rabbits across the moors, and he’d praised her accuracy.
Crouching, she dug the rock out of the icy marsh soil then sprang to her feet. With only the merest hesitation, she let the stone fly, stepping into her throw, putting all the force behind it she could muster. Before the man could react, the rock struck him square between his eyes and he staggered from the blow.
Without thinking, she charged forward, dagger held before her. She plunged the blade into the man’s soft belly, sinking it all the way to the hilt, then jerking it upward. His hands spread wide, his shocked gaze going to the gaping wound.
“Ye’ve kilt me!”
Horrified, Mhàiri sank to her knees, staring at the blood staining her hands. The man lurched a few steps away then fell heavily to the ground.
Sobbing, Mhàiri stumbled to her mother’s side. Fenella rose to her knees and circled her arms about Mhàiri as she wept. Lost in her fright, Mhàiri didn’t hear the hoofbeats, didn’t know Michaell had returned until he placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Are ye hurt, Mhàiri?”
She shook her head violently. “My hands . . . .”
He took them gingerly and inspected them a finger at a time. Then, as if he understood, he rose, pulling her to her feet, and led her to the burn. He gently washed each hand then patted them dry with his cloak. He hugged her close and slowly his warmth seeped into her, drawing her from her shock.
“I killed him, Michaell.”
“I know, Mhàiri. Ye had to.”
“But I killed him. He bled a lot.”
“Aye. Let’s fetch yer ma. We’ll ride a bit longer and then stop for a wee fire and a rest. We’ll still make Claver Hill before dawn.”
Mhàiri nodded. She found her horse nearby, apparently unwilling to stray into the cold night by himself. She mounted and Michaell handed her ma up. A short time later, they came upon a mound of boulders and Michaell soon had a small fire crackling. The overhang held the smoke low, and the clustered rocks reflected the heat. Too soon he declared their rest at an end and kicked snow over the embers. Feeling as if the night would never be over, Mhàiri dragged herself onto her horse’s woolly back and they set off once again.
* * *
Dawn broke as Mhàiri and Michaell drew their tired horses to a halt. Claver Hill Keep loomed against the pearl-gray sky, streaks of pink tinting the horizon. Michaell slid from his horse. Mhàiri did not dare dismount, for her ma had lost consciousness shortly after their rest and sagged in her arms. Mhàiri’s legs quivered a bit, numb with cold. Michaell caught her elbow and steadied her. She sent him a grateful half-smile.
“I’m sorry I wasnae there to protect ye.” His somber gaze met hers.
“Ye did. I remembered what ye told me.” Mhàiri’s lips trembled.
Michaell took a breath as if to reply, then shook his head. “Yer grandda’s men should notice ye in a moment. Ye will be safe now.”
“Michaell, ye have been such a help to us. I dinnae know how to thank ye.”
Dark auburn hair framed his clear blue eyes. Mhàiri’s heart stuttered. He had been her friend since he’d arrived at the hall seven years ago, lanky even then, his youthful frame only now showing the promise of the man he would someday become. It was suddenly difficult to part from him.
Dinnae go . . .
Michaell placed a palm against her cheek, the pad of his thumb wiping away a tear. He hesitated only the briefest moments, then dropped his hand away.
“Be safe,” she whispered, fighting tears of fatigue and dismay.
“Thank ye.” In a fluid move, he left Mhàiri’s side and sprang to his horse’s back. Within moments he disappeared into the shadows.
CHAPTER TWO
Claver Hill Keep, Scottish Borders
December 18, 1307, four years later
Mhàiri sat at the table next to her grandfather, weariness of the familiar topic dragging at every limb, numbing her to his displeasure.
“I warned Fenella to come home when yer da died,” he grumbled, rejoining the old grievance. “She could have lived out her life among kin. Instead, she chose to linger at Siller Stane. She knew nothing of defending a keep! She couldnae hold it against attack.” George Scott slumped in his chair, favoring his granddaughter with an accusatory frown. As if she were somehow responsible for her mother’s choices.
Mhàiri eyed him askance, wondering what provoked him—this time. Perhaps it was the time of year—the anniversary of the attack on her home only days away—or the festive Yule decorations she’d lavished about the hall. Yule had been her mother’s favorite time of year, and they’d always begun draping the hall on the first of December. Evergreen boughs, mistletoe, and candles in every nook. Cook had joined Fenella’s joy of the season and outdone herself each year with food and drink and tasty treats.
The first two years after her ma had died, Mhàiri hadn’t the heart to decorate, and her grandfather’s people hadn’t seemed to notice the lack. Last
year, she’d gathered boughs and draped them over the mantle in the main hall, twining ivy around the pillars. A few of the women had joined her, and this year she’d made a determined effort to create a proper Yule season.
Fenella had lived almost a month after their arrival at Claver Hill, though she’d scarcely been lucid, drifting in and out of consciousness as her body slowly gave up its fight. Mhàiri’s heart twisted against the relief she’d felt when her ma had finally passed into peace. She still desperately missed her but would not wish her a continued existence such as she’d had.
Howbeit, growing up alone in her grandfather’s household had not been easy. His erratic forays into deep dudgeon were his expression of grief over the loss of his daughter, made all the more disheartening when Mhàiri realized he often blamed her for her ma’s death. Only the occasional appearances of her uncle made her grandfather’s home bearable. When he wasn’t engaged in a shouting match with Lord Scott, that is.
“’Tis the thrice-damned English! A blight on the Percys!” Lord Scott bolted from his seat, fist lifted high. His soldiers came to attention with a clash of steel. “I want that tower razed to the ground!”
Ah, Percy! The Baron of Northumberland. It made sense. The English baron, notorious—and feared—for his heavy-handed tactics, and known to have no love for Scotland or its people, had captured Lord Scott’s son in a raid gone awry. The ransom demanded for his release was more than her grandfather could pay. Who better to blame for the destruction of Siller Stane Keep? Mhàiri sighed.
Lord Scott’s eyes bored into hers, bushy brows thrust together. With a conscious effort, Mhàiri met his gaze. “The English burned the tower house to the ground four years ago, Grandfather,” she reminded him. “’Tis no longer a blight on Scottish soil, as ye so delicately put it.”
She tossed his well-worn epithet back at him, annoyed he still harbored grudges against her father for taking his beloved daughter away. It had been no secret Fenella adored her husband. Alan Burns had not been a wealthy chief, but men from far and wide had sent their sons to him for fostering, recognizing his level of skill with a blade. There likely had been none his rival whilst he strode the moors. A fever from an inflamed wound, brought on by a night spent in a murky hole hiding with a handful of cattle snatched from a neighboring clan, had been his downfall.
Merry Medieval Christmas Page 34
