He eyed Robert up and down, moving his sword to the man’s groin. “Mayhap I’ll sever another part of yer miserable anatomy. Ye’ll not be needing it again to pleasure yer pretty betrothed.”
Robert glanced only briefly at Margaret, but Tannoch noticed it. “I see ye recognize her.”
Stewart shook his head. “She was a child when we became betrothed. I didna ken she was coming. I’d forgotten her, truth be told.”
Affronted by the admission as she was, Margaret deemed it advisable not to protest.
Robert stumbled and fell backwards when Tannoch shoved him hard. “That’s as maybe. ’Tis not for me to decide her fate. I’ll leave that to Queen Joan.”
~~~
Margaret’s face, reddened by the cold wind, turned ashen. She looked to Rheade, her eyes pleading for support. He cursed under his breath. “Ye intend to take them to the Queen?”
Tannoch scowled in response, beckoning two of his cronies to secure the prisoners. “Aye, she’s taken young Prince James to her castle at Stirling. Safest place, I’d say.”
Rheade had always yielded to his brother, but now he was determined to protect Margaret. He braced his legs as Tannoch strode towards her horse. Logan’s nod indicated his support.
The chieftain seemed to sense their intention. He made no move to touch Margaret but stood nose to nose with Rheade. “Ye care for this woman, do ye?”
Rheade clenched his jaw. He’d long itched to tell his brother he should bathe more often. How did Glenna stand the man’s pungent odor? “Margaret Ogilvie is an innocent victim. Robertsons dinna prosecute women who have done nothing wrong.”
Tannoch snickered. “Aye, ye care about her.”
Rheade took a step forward. “What if I do? What’s it to ye?”
To his surprise, his brother backed up. “If she’s innocent, as ye claim, she’ll be declared so. But I’ll nay allow my brother to have any truck with a woman guilty of treason.”
There was a hint of something in Tannoch’s eyes Rheade couldn’t fathom, but then he realized what it was—jealousy, and mayhap fear. Giving Margaret over to his brother would be a mistake. It was likely he would never see her again. Fion’s suspicions regarding Tannoch’s parentage seemed more believable by the minute. Did Tannoch suspect he may not have the right to be laird? “I’ll be Lady Ogilvie’s escort,” he declared.
Tannoch shook his head. “Nay. I want ye and Logan in the Grampians carrying on the search for Graham. I’ll join ye once I’ve delivered these murderers and yer Lady Ogilvie to the Queen at Stirling.”
Rheade fumed inwardly. He’d never disobeyed his chieftain, but it seemed there was more than Margaret’s safety at stake. Once he and Logan were out of the way in the Grampians, he suspected Tannoch would claim he’d captured the Stewarts, mayhap in the hope of securing an earldom. He was glad he’d taken the time to conceal Robert’s sword in the stables. It obviously hadn’t occurred to his brother to question what had happened to the prisoners’ weapons. He decided to ignore the order to search for Graham. “As Margaret’s escort I will see her delivered to Stirling and ensure she receives the welcome due a noblewoman.”
Tannoch gritted his teeth and muttered under his breath, apparently unsure how to deal with insubordination. Rheade regretted it had taken him too long to stand up to his brother’s belligerence. The fear and regret he’d dreaded hadn’t materialized. Indeed, exhilaration surged through his veins.
Logan’s impish wink reassured him further.
Tannoch suddenly turned his attention to his youngest brother. “What are ye grinning at?” he growled. “Take half the men and get thee gone to the mountains.”
Logan looked to Rheade. It was humbling, inspiring and daunting that the youngest Robertson seemed to have already decided where his allegiance lay. He made no move to follow Tannoch’s order until Rheade nodded his consent.
Tannoch glowered at them both then strode away. He tugged on the ropes now binding Robert and Walter Stewart like sacks of grain to two mountain ponies. Apparently satisfied, he mounted his horse. “To Stirling,” he shouted as the column got underway.
“Go with God, little brother. Be wary of Graham,” Rheade shouted to Logan as he and Margaret watched the search party start out for the Grampians.
“Thank ye,” she murmured. “Yer chieftain is jealous of ye.”
“Aye,” he replied. But the pain of what might be behind Tannoch’s behavior was too raw. He wasn’t ready to share it. And Margaret had enough worries of her own. “’Tis the way of brothers,” he murmured.
Margaret frowned, but said nothing.
They fell in behind Tannoch’s men and began the long journey to Stirling.
CRAOIBH
As dusk fell they rode into Craoibh. Despite being swathed in numerous plaids, Margaret was colder than she’d ever been in her life. The terrain had gradually become less steep as they’d travelled south, yet the air remained frigid. The first blossoms of March would be swelling on the apple trees at home in Oban, ready to burst forth.
The cuts on her hands plagued her like sharp needles. She resolved not to complain. At least she wasn’t suffering the fate Robert and Walter Stewart were enduring. The Earl’s lolling head suggested he’d surrendered to oblivion.
It was as well the captives’ undignified position prevented them seeing the Gallows Tree as they entered the village. Fortunate too that Rheade had warned her the remains of criminals might still hang there, despite four months having passed since the October Tryst.
“Look away,” he advised as they neared the tree.
She turned her attention to his handsome face. “Tell me again the history of this place.”
He gestured to the lowlands into which they’d emerged. “At Michaelmas, Highlanders drive their cattle to Craoibh to sell in the annual market. They come from as as far away as Caithness and the Hebrides. Some must come from Oban?”
She thought back. “Mayhap. I never had much to do with cattle. My father’s interests lay in the fisheries. Shaon and Joss would know.”
Rheade must have detected the wistfulness in her voice, but he carried on the tale. “They say the fields and hillsides turn black with tens of thousands of cattle.”
She wrinkled her nose, but wished she hadn’t as a whiff of decay assailed her nostrils. Her eyes seemed drawn of their own volition to seek out the infamous tree that served as a gallows. Surely Rheade was mistaken about bodies still hanging there? “Imagine the smell,” she murmured, not thinking solely of cows.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “thieves, bandits and drunken drovers inevitably arrive at the same time. One of the ancient Mormaers of Srath Èireann—nay the current one bound to a horse with his head dangling in the muck—instituted the practice of hanging those responsible for killings and thefts on this tree. He insisted the rotting corpses not be removed, intending they serve as a warning to anyone entering the village that lawlessness won’t be tolerated.”
He touched a hand to his head in salute to the tree. “God bless ye, and the Devil damn ye,” he rasped.
She eyed him curiously.
“’Tis the tradition among Highlanders when they pass this place to utter such.”
She had to ask. “Are bodies hanging there still?”
“Aye,” he replied grimly. “Just bones.”
She shuddered. “Will they hang Robert in Stirling?”
“In time,” he replied ominously.
“I’ve heard Queen Joan has often intervened on behalf of the condemned,” she said.
“Aye, but I doubt she’ll be merciful this time. ’Tis well known James fell in love with her at first sight during his captivity in England.”
Margaret had never believed in love at first sight until Rheade. “Aunty Edythe is forever quoting the love poem he wrote for her. ’Tis famous in Oban.”
He smiled. “I too have met many a maiden who can repeat James’s Quair by heart. He called Joan his milk white dove.”
Margaret wonder
ed wistfully what terms of endearment Rheade might whisper in her ear when they were abed. But dreaming on such things only led to despair. A vengeful queen waited. “Tannoch spoke of Stirling as Joan’s castle.”
“Aye, ’twas part of her marriage settlement. Were it not for her intervention, James might have languished forever in the custody of England’s King Henry.”
“I remember my father’s elation when our king returned to Scotland and was crowned at Scone,” she said. “Those carefree times seem long ago now.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “These are dark days for Scotland. Joan has proclaimed herself Regent, but I suspect there are many among the Scottish nobility who will challenge her for the right. She’s an Englishwoman, daughter of an Earl and niece of King Henry.”
A terrible possibility rose in her mind. “Will Tannoch be one of them?” she asked.
~~~
Rheade at first dismissed Margaret’s question with a firm Nay, but he fretted over it and feared it would bother him all night. Tannoch Robertson, Regent of Scotland, mentor to the young prince? The prospect sent shivers up his spine. Tannoch possessed no noble title, but capturing the assassins might earn him one as a reward.
They sat on a knoll by the river Earn while they waited for the hunters to return. “Let’s cleanse yer wounds,” he suggested. The bloodied linen stuck to some of the cuts as he peeled off the bandages, but he was relieved they seemed to be healing. “Ye’re strong,” he whispered when she only bit her bottom lip as he dipped her hands in the cold water.
She shrugged. “When a lass has older brothers she gets used to cuts and scrapes.”
He was reminded again of the great loss she’d suffered, but thought it best not to dwell on it. He dabbed at the water on her skin with a clean part of the bandages, then blew on her fingers. “If we were at Dunalastair, I’d apply my mother’s salve.”
She smiled. “Yer mother was a healer?”
“Nay,” he replied, “she had a knack of easing the pain of others.”
“Mine too,” she said hoarsely. “I miss her. She never recovered after—”
Pleased with the progress of her wounds, he pressed his lips to her dainty fingers. She flushed red. “Makes me feel much better,” she sighed. “And I dinna mean the cuts.”
He longed to take her in his arms and whisper words of reassurance. He admired her courage. She’d been thrust into a perilous situation, her life hanging in the balance, and she was unaware of half of the probable reasons. It was evident she was innocent, yet Tannoch seemed determined to prosecute her. A true brother would have done his utmost to protect her.
A man he recognised as a friend of Logan’s eventually brought them hearty portions of the hare the hunters had snared and roasted. He said nothing, but his nod of acknowledgement eased some of Rheade’s anxiety. There were many in the Robertson contingent who’d been loyal to his late father, and shown respect to him.
“The roasting meat smelled delicious,” she said, biting into the flesh. “I didna think I was hungry.” His shaft reacted predictably as he watched her lick the juices off her fingers. She looked at him curiously when he groaned involuntarily. “I was only thinking the grease will help with the healing,” he lied.
To take his mind off his arousal he built a campfire for them away from the other men. He bade her lie down close to the fire and tucked plaids around her. “Someday, my lady, ye and I will lie in a bed of fine furs and make love,” he whispered. “But if I kiss ye now, Tannoch will make much of it.”
She smiled coyly and snuggled into the plaids.
He unfurled his bedroll then lay where he might keep an eye on Tannoch and his cronies. It wasn’t likely they would attempt to molest Margaret or attack him. They were too busy hurling insults at the Stewarts whom they’d tied back to back against a tree. The Earl looked done for. The prisoners had been given nothing to eat or drink since their capture and he’d be surprised if the auld man’s ribs weren’t broken after Tannoch’s beating.
He vaguely wondered if he’d ever have to call upon men of his clan to help oust his brother. He’d never given it much thought, but now it occurred to him the people of Dunalastair fell into two distinct groups. Those who aligned themselves with Tannoch and those, the majority, who tended to steer clear of the chieftain. But such treacherous thoughts were dangerous in these uncertain times. Anyone tainted by the stigma of treason might end up like the skeletons twisting in the wind on the Gallows Tree. He couldn’t see the macabre landmark in the pitch black but it was there.
Margaret slept, if fitfully. He doubted he would sleep when the woman he desired was close and yet untouchable. He prayed for the strength to deal with whatever lay ahead in Stirling.
STIRLING
As they approached the north gate of Stirling Castle after another day in the saddle Tannoch called a halt. He dismounted and strode towards the mountain pony carrying the Earl. He grasped a handful of the auld man’s white hair and lifted his head. “Recognize this place, Kingslayer?” he taunted.
Rheade suspected the Earl couldn’t have spoken his own name, let alone known where he was, but Tannoch persisted, pointing to the castle wall. “Remember, a dozen years gone, yer cousin, Murdoch Stewart, and his two sons executed here by yer order?”
He snorted, let go of the Earl’s head, remounted and led the column forward.
Armed guards challenged them at the gate.
“I am Tannoch Collier Starkey Robertson,” he declared loudly, puffing out his chest, “Chieftain of Clan Robertson and Queen Joan’s loyal servant. Inform Her Majesty I have captured Walter Stewart and his grandson, Robert. I await her instructions.”
Well to the rear of the group, Margaret leaned over to whisper to Rheade. “He didna capture them.”
Rheade shifted his weight in the saddle. “It’s his right as chieftain to lay claim to the arrest.”
She mumbled something under her breath. He wasn’t be sure, but it may have been Bollocks.
The guards gawked until Tannoch snarled at them like an angry bear. Rheade knew what a daunting sight it was, given that many of his brother’s teeth were either missing or stained brown. The obscene mouth and the bushy, unkempt red beard were enough to knock any man off balance.
Two scurried off. The rest ushered the Robertsons and their prisoners through the gate and into the bailey, bowing as if the King of all the Scots himself had arrived.
Rheade was heartsick; the Queen’s men likely judged the Robertsons a barbaric lot. But at least Tannoch hadn’t mentioned Margaret.
He glanced at her. She’d snuggled into the plaids for protection against the cold wind. He wanted to plant a kiss on her red nose. “Not long now,” he reassured her. “I’ll get ye warm once we’re inside.”
She looked up at the forbidding stone walls and shrugged. “Let’s hope I’ll be lodged in a chamber and nay a cell.”
Her brows knitted when a man appeared in the bailey. He was dressed in an ankle length léine over which he wore a heavy plaid. A fine broadsword sat on his hip. The quality of his garments and the disciplined demeanor of the dozen or so liveried guards who accompanied him bespoke a man of some standing. Tannoch’s message had evidently stirred interest.
“Robert, Lord Erskine, Earl of Mar,” the man grunted, addressing his words to no one in particular.
“He’s not looking at Tannoch,” Rheade said. “That willna sit well.”
“Commander of this garrison,” Erskine continued, finally setting his gaze on the scowling Robertson chieftain. “Ye claim to have captured two of the assassins?”
Tannoch cocked his head in the direction of the prisoners. “Aye. The Stewarts.”
For the first time a slight smile tugged at the corners of Erskine’s mouth, but he didn’t look at the captives. “Excellent news,” he declared.
Without another word from the Commander, the guards quickly took charge of the mountain ponies and led the prisoners away.
Erskine and Tannoch carried on a conversation
, but Rheade’s attention fixed on Margaret. A tear rolled down her cheek as she watched Robert’s pony disappear. He put a hand over hers. “Dinna cry for him,” he whispered. “He’s not worth it.”
“I’m nay crying for him,” she said hoarsely. “I’m crying for myself.”
She’d shown uncommon strength throughout the ordeal, but she was a wee lassie, far from home and family in a hostile land. He thought suddenly of his mother and what she’d undergone, a catastrophe he’d known naught about. He knew in his heart his father had protected his wife from the horror. His love had helped her survive.
Mayhap Margaret believed she was without a champion. “I swear to ye, Margaret Ogilvie,” he rasped, brushing the wetness from her cheeks with his thumb, “ye’ll ne’er shed another tear over Robert Stewart.”
She smiled weakly, and he prayed God would grant the fulfillment of his vow.
~~~
Daughter of a wealthy landowner, Margaret had grown up in a comfortable house, but Dunalastair had been the first castle she’d ever entered. It was grand and imposing compared to Ogilvie House, but she’d felt welcome there, until Tannoch’s return home. The grey walls of Stirling cloaked her heart with dread.
They dismounted in the courtyard. Stable boys led their mounts away. Margaret feared she might never see Bàn again. Rheade too fussed over Dubh’s care.
Robert Erskine slapped Tannoch on the back. “Her Majesty has granted an audience. She’s pleased.”
From what Margaret understood of protocol, not to mention good manners, Tannoch should introduce his brother.
The angry frown on Rheade’s face betrayed his resentment of the insult as Tannoch strode off with Erskine. It was a far cry from the relationship Margaret had shared with her brothers. Anxious to bring back the smile that did strange things to her innards, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “Surely he’ll bathe before he appears before the Queen?”
Rheade clenched his jaw, smiling grimly. “Brother,” he shouted.
Pride of the Clan Page 8
