Joss scratched his head, nodding towards the far end of the stables.
The fellow was indeed out of earshot. Rheade suspected he didn’t hear much in any case. “Good, now why are ye here? Ye have news of Lady Margaret?”
“Misses ye,” Joss replied.
Rheade had dreaded dire tidings. His too-rapid heartbeat slowed. “I miss her too,” he said, sounding a bit too much like a lovesick swain for his liking. They might have only a few moments. He cleared his throat. “But there must be another reason ye came?”
Joss closed his eyes and chewed his lower lip. “Blair,” he announced, opening his eyes and looking satisfied.
Rheade pressed his finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. “Aye,” he replied, trying not to sound impatient. “This is Blair.”
“Blair,” Joss repeated. “Bhac.”
“Back? Back where?”
Joss stared blankly.
“Back where?” Rheade repeated, worried by the confusion on Joss’s round face.
“Rock,” Joss whispered.
“Rock?” Rheade asked.
“Loch,” Joss said.
“Lock or rock? Which is it?” Rheade asked, ready to explode. If Margaret had an important message to send why hadn’t she written it down?
Joss shook his head. “Burn.”
Feeling like he’d aged fifty years in the past hour, Rheade sat down on a bale of hay. “Let me see if I understand. There’s a locked—”
“Nay,” Joss shouted, his face red. “Loch Bhac, west, burn, rock.”
Rheade glanced over at the auld man but he didn’t show any signs of having heard the outburst. A spark kindled in his brain. A memory of a remote wee loch surfaced. “There’s a rock near a burn on the west side of Loch Bhac where we’ll find—?”
“Gram,” Joss declared.
Elation filled Rheade’s heart.
But hold on. “Margaret told ye this?”
Joss nodded.
“But how can she ken where he is?”
“Braden,” Joss replied without hesitation.
Rheade feared he might retch. “Her dead brother?”
Joss went back to brushing the horse as if he hadn’t just told Rheade a dead man had passed a message to Margaret. When he started to whistle a jaunty tune Rheade came close to jumping up and throttling him. He dug his fingers into the side of the wooden stall. “I’m supposed to organise a search of Loch Bhac based on a message from a dead man?” he asked sarcastically.
Joss turned to look at him as if he were the simpleton. “Aye.”
APRIL
April brought showers and warmer weather, but it didn’t thaw Margaret’s chilled heart. Since Joss’s disappearance, Triduana had treated her with suspicious disdain, leaving her isolated. She and the gardening nun hadn’t been close, but there had been an ease of conversation between them.
She sensed from the way the nuns eyed her word had leaked out about her betrothal to Robert Stewart. The gossip concerning the execution of the Stewarts had turned to discussion of the whereabouts of Robert Graham. The consensus seemed to be he had fled to France.
If it were true, what would Rheade think of her message, assuming Joss had reached Blair Castle? She scarcely believed Braden had appeared to her in a dream. Rheade would deem her mad, or somehow complicit in Graham’s plans.
Corryvrechan a portal to some future time? She’d certainly no intention of ever mentioning the notion to Rheade, or to anyone.
She closed her eyes, once again seeing Braden standing beside her pallet, as large as life. But he was dead! Perhaps the nunnery was where she should stay. People who fell into madness never recovered. They got worse.
Digging in the dirt eased her melancholy. She looked forward to escaping to the outdoors, even venturing out in the rain. She inhaled the fragrance of the burgeoning apple blossom, delighted in the appearance of snowdrops, bluebells, crocuses and daffodils. Triduana grudgingly showed her how to divide perennials. Some of the roots were difficult to separate, and had to be cut apart with a sharp dirk. Several were kept for the purpose in the tiny tool shed. Margaret slipped one into her sleeve as they were finishing work for the day, hoping Triduana never actually counted them. A woman never knew when she might need a weapon. Once inside, she hid it in the tiny cubby by her pallet.
In a month or two summer would come to Linlithgow. Would she still be here by then? She’d lost track of how many days she’d been at Emanuel, but guessed it was less than a month. She’d grown up with three brothers and was comfortable with men. Perhaps it was the reason she’d been immediately drawn to Rheade.
Women were more difficult. The prospect of spending her entire life as a religious filled her with dread. It was something she’d never contemplated, but then she’d never imagined falling in love with a brave highlander. She’d believed Robert Stewart was her destiny, and look where it had landed her.
She craved Rheade like the winter-hardened earth craved the sun and the rain. Without him she would wither and die. At night, alone on her pallet, she imagined his body curled around hers. She wished he’d taken her maidenhead. She might never get another chance to feel his manhood inside her. She remembered the hardness of him. How was it possible for a man to penetrate a woman? Her brothers had assured her that was what happened, but her mother had shared nothing. The idea of discussing such matters with Edythe was laughable, and the nuns, well, enough said.
She wondered if any of her brothers had ever made love to a woman before life was snatched from them. She snorted with laughter. Knowing the ruggedly handsome Braden, the answer was definitely aye!
Wherever he was, she hoped he was happy.
~~~
After breakfast the following day, Margaret was summoned to Mother Superior’s office. While it was a welcome relief not to participate in the scripture readings before Mass, the unknown reason for the summons made her nervous. Had Queen Joan decided to send her for trial, or was she bound directly for the gallows? As she followed in Sister Belinda’s waddling wake she imagined the announcements later in the day.
And by the way Lady Margaret Ogilvie is to be hung after Lauds on the morrow.
Most of the nuns likely wouldn’t be listening anyway. She had the impression the majority spent their days in some sort of trance. She wondered how many had come willingly to the Priory.
Belinda ushered her into the office then left. As usual, it was impossible to read anything from Mother Superior’s expression. If the other nuns did indeed know of her betrothal to Stewart, the news could only have come from this office, and she doubted the elderly woman had ever confided any secret to anyone.
She bowed her head. No point being antagonistic. “Mother,” she whispered reverently.
“Sit, Lady Margaret.”
The news was dire if she needed to be seated to hear it.
She looked around quickly and opted to perch on a tall wooden stool, the only piece of furniture in the office other than a well upholstered chair she was certain she wasn’t expected to choose.
“Her Majesty has summoned ye back to Stirling Castle.”
Since the stool had no back or arms to grip, it was fortunate she’d anchored her feet on the bottom strut. “Stirling,” she echoed.
“Aye. Yer clothes are on yer pallet. Change now and be ready to leave within the half hour.”
She opened her mouth to ask how she was to travel, but Mother Superior swept out of the poky chamber so quickly and quietly it reminded Margaret of the bats at Ogilvie House. They were gone before you knew they were there.
She hurried to the dormitory, earning annoyed glares from the nuns going into Mass. “Goodbye,” she wanted to yell.
Taking off the uncomfortable habit came as a relief. Once it was folded and laid out neatly she yanked off the stiff coif and wimple, scratched under her chin, then raked her fingers through her hair, thankful she hadn’t been forced to cut it short.
Her léine and plaid had been cleaned. She retrieved the garde
n dirk from her cubby, and tucked it into the girdle at her waist. She covered her head with the plaid and wrapped its sweet smelling warmth around her. It would be her mantle, her armor against whatever lay ahead. She only wished Rheade was with her. She needed his courage, his strength. But at least she had the knife.
At the last minute, she decided to filch a small jar of Triduana’s spikenard ointment. She’d been punished for a crime she hadn’t committed. May as well give in to one naughty urge. It would be a memento of the sometimes cantankerous nun, and the scratches from the thorns hadn’t healed completely.
She savored the sweet elation of freedom as the iron gate of the Priory clanged shut behind her. The fare-thee-well had been as cold as the welcome. But the experience within its walls had strengthened her. She’d survived, and learned a great deal about plants, and about herself. She wasn’t the Margaret Ogilvie who’d left Oban. She was stronger, and she was in love. Whatever obstacles lay between her and Rheade Robertson she resolved to face them with courage.
Braden had been sucked into Brecan’s Cauldron and survived—somewhere. Incredible as it seemed, the notion lightened her heart.
A handful of burly highlanders awaited outside, probably Erskine’s men. “Lady Margaret Ogilvie?” one of them asked gruffly.
She was tempted to retort that since there wasn’t a flood of women exiting the convent, who else might she be but Lady Margaret Ogilvie, but at least the man had greeted her. “Aye,” she replied.
“Angus Roy,” he said curtly as a palfrey was brought forward for her. “We’ll be escorting ye safely to Stirling.”
The palfrey wasn’t Bàn, but looked to be a decent mount, and he’d said escort, leading her to believe she wasn’t a prisoner. She accepted his assistance to mount, though she didn’t need it. “I thank ye, Angus Roy.”
He mounted his own horse, indicating she should ride in the midst of the group as they set off for Stirling Castle.
LOCH BHAC
“Ridiculous,” Tannoch exclaimed, his beefy arms folded across his chest. “It would be a complete waste of time.”
Garth poked at the peat smoking in the hearth. Despite the warmer April weather the nights were still chilly at Blair Atholl. “Mayhap not,” he said. “We’ve looked everywhere else.”
“Nay,” Tannoch replied gruffly. “I hate to say it, but the rumors of Graham’s flight to France might prove to be true.”
They’d gone back and forth with this same argument since Rheade had suggested searching around Loch Bhac two days before. He was sick of it and ready to set off on his own. He toyed with the idea of revealing why he’d suggested the loch, but decided it would make matters worse. He heard the taunts now.
Message from a dead man, eh? Conveyed to ye by a moron?
Trouble was, he wouldn’t blame them. It was ludicrous, and yet, how did Margaret learn of Loch Bhac? It was small, off the beaten track. There were likely many locals who were unsure of its location. And how did she know a burn emptied into it on the west side?
He knew of the loch because Da had taken him and Logan there once when they were boys. They’d fished and hunted. He couldn’t for the life of him recall why Tannoch hadn’t gone along for the journey.
He tried again. “Loch Bhac is indeed the perfect place to hide. Garth didna ken of its existence. It’s isolated and difficult to reach, yet there’s fresh water and a forest teeming with game. The mountains are close by if a body needed to flee quickly. But it’s not as remote as the Grampians. A man hiding there is within striking distance of the coast or several large towns.”
“I agree,” Garth said.
“As do I,” Logan confirmed.
“On the morrow then,” Rheade suggested.
Tannoch pouted, staring into the smoking peat. At length he scratched his fuzzy head and muttered, “Aye. May as well.”
~~~
Twenty men set off at dawn, some on ponies, most on foot. They followed the River Garry as far as Coille Chreithnich. The climb had been gradual, then they went downhill for a while before striking out to the west, skirting the mountains above Loch Tummel.
As the going got steeper Rheade was relieved he hadn’t brought Dubh. In this rocky terrain, he had confidence in the stocky mountain pony he rode.
He’d barely slept, yet he was filled with a sense of peace, certain deep in his heart they would find Graham. It was a daunting prospect. The fugitive wouldn’t surrender willingly.
Logan rode behind him on the narrow track. “Ye seem verra sure about this,” his younger brother called out to him.
“I am,” he replied, recognizing Logan’s curiosity but not yet willing to explain his reasoning.
Tannoch led the column. He’d steadfastly maintained the excursion was a waste of time and hadn’t turned around once to converse with anyone.
The higher they went, the colder it got. “Still winter up here,” Logan yelled over the wind.
“Aye,” Rheade replied, “but look yonder. Hares, already shedding their winter coats.”
“Yer right,” Garth called from behind Logan. “I espied ptarmigan a while back with half their winter plumage gone. Comical sight.”
“It will get colder yet once we turn north to the loch,” Rheade said.
“How does Tannoch ken the way if he’s never been there before?” Logan asked.
“I went over the details with him last night,” Rheade explained. He’d done so out of respect, knowing his brother wanted to lead, despite his insistence the trip was futile. He hadn’t shared Tannoch’s revelations with Logan, still unsure about the implications. He fingered the sachet to ensure it was still firmly attached to his plaid. A faint trace of Margaret’s perfume lingered, his only link to her, and it bolstered his determination to track down the last of the assassins.
It took seven hours to climb to the limestone outcropping that cradled the loch, but they’d decided to camp away from the water, lest the sounds of their activity alert Graham. Cocooned in an eerie silence, they watched darkness creep over the Bheinn a’Ghlò mountains beyond Blair Atholl and the River Garry far below, then turned to watch the sunset bathe the distant snowcapped peak of Schiehallion in glorious pinks and golds.
“Home of Caledonia’s Fairies,” Tannoch rasped. “I love this bluidy country.”
No one else spoke but Rheade knew the same passion flowed in the veins of every Highlander present.
They set up camp in silence and no fires were allowed. Garth and the Robertson brothers sat crosslegged, huddled into their plaids.
Rheade had suggested searching near the burn on the west side of the loch, but there was a danger they might waste hours unless he pointed the searchers in the direction of the rock. The longer it took, the greater the likelihood Graham might escape. “If I remember correctly, there’s a giant rock near the burn. Forms a sort of cave,” he whispered. “Mayhap that’s where he’s hiding.”
“I dinna recall a cave,” Logan said. “To my recollection, we didna explore that side of the loch with Da.”
Rheade elbowed him, hoping his brother would get the hint. “Och, ye were a wee laddie.”
Tannoch studied him. “’Tis as though ye’ve had a vision, Rheade. As if someone told ye exactly where Graham is hiding.”
Rheade shrugged and curled up on the rocky ground. “Aye. A vision. I’ve the second sight. Now shut up and go to sleep. We’ll needs be up before dawn.”
In the darkness he sensed after a few minutes Tannoch was the only one still sitting upright.
“Aye,” his chieftain rasped, unexpectedly grasping Rheade’s ankle. “Ye may have been gifted with the second sight just in time. This is a perfect place to hide. We’ll see on the morrow.”
~~~
The marshy shores of the loch made the going difficult, especially in the half light just before dawn. Rheade cursed under his breath more than once when his foot landed in ice cold water.
“I dinna recall any o’ this,” Logan complained.
“’Tis
dark,” Rheade hissed back. “Once the dawn breaks, ye’ll recognise the place.” In truth their Da had never brought them to the western side of the loch, but Rheade hoped they’d have Graham in their custody before Logan’s complaints raised doubts.
He considered the punishments Queen Joan likely had in mind for the assassin. To his surprise, Tannoch hadn’t spoken of the Stewart executions, but the barbaric details were told and retold by many who were there. Had Graham heard the hellish stories up here in this paradise? Even if he hadn’t, capturing him would be no easy matter.
With the advent of a weak sun, invisible insects rose up in swarms to plague them. “I’ve a thousand needles pricking my legs,” Logan whined.
“Aye,” Tannoch grunted, “and if one more tree branch pokes me in the eye—”
They heard the rushing waters of the burn before they saw it. Rheade raised his hand and pressed a forefinger to his lips. The men stood stock still.
He’d feared this was a wild goose chase, a macabre jest played on him by a woman robbed of her wits by grief. Or mayhap he’d completely misunderstood Joss’s message.
Then he smelled it.
“Woodsmoke,” he whispered to Tannoch.
His brother’s eyes brightened. “Aye.”
They advanced slowly to where the waters of the burn cascaded into the loch. Tannoch motioned for the men to remain there, and he, Rheade, Logan and Garth stepped into the water to begin the trek to a large rocky outcropping a few yards away.
Rheade made the sign of his Savior across his body. He had no doubt Robert Graham was minutes away from capture. There truly were things in this life beyond a man’s ken.
They were confident the water masked the sounds of their footsteps, but suddenly a group of men burst forth from the shelter of the rock, and fled into the forest. Four, mayhap five.
“Shyte,” Tannoch growled as he cupped his hands to his mouth. “To the woods, lads,” he bellowed.
The men waiting at the lakeshore sprang into action and disappeared into the trees, yelling like demons loosed from Hell. Rheade drew his dagger and followed his brothers into the forest, his heart beating too fast.
Pride of the Clan Page 13
