by Cathy MacRae
The monk gave him a wry grin. “I hope I did not cause harm. Healing is not my gift, I am afraid.”
“Nae. A right-smart pounding was what I needed to get my lungs back in working order,” Kinnon rasped.
Frère Jean laughed. “I appreciate your concern for my feelings, but I can see I have pained you. I will be more circumspect in the future.”
Kinnon eyed the man thoughtfully. “If ye arenae given to healing, what is yer gift?”
The monk smiled and placed his lantern on the floor. Welcome light flooded the small room, and Kinnon blinked his eyes against the unaccustomed brilliance. Frère Jean gathered his brown robes and lowered himself to the floor next to Kinnon. “My gift is that I am temporarily assigned to Châteauneuf and have no pressing duties at this time. And it has come to my ears that men are searching for a Scotsman feared dead.” He stared intently at Kinnon. “Tell me everything.”
Dizzy with unexpected hope, and encouraged by Frère Jean’s news, Kinnon told his tale.
“I shouldnae have disobeyed a direct order—and I wouldnae had it been anyone other than Hervé—but I was verra concerned for the lass’s welfare. I was beaten for my troubles—though it took six Frenchies to do it,” he added, his eyes narrowed angrily at the memory. “I think I remember someone saying I had committed treason, but that is a verra long stretching of the truth.” He stared at the monk, scarcely able to keep the tremor from his voice. “Are ye here to free me?”
Frère Jean looked thoughtful. “I can speak for you on behalf of your lapse of judgement due to your concern for the two women. ’Tis a tenet of chivalry after all, is it not? But the fact remains of your disobedience.” He shook his head and leaned forward, resting his forearms on is thighs. “I confess I did not like your commander Hervé when he was here—pompous little ass, may God forgive me. But things were in quite a turmoil, and he left rather quickly on his pilgrimage to escort Bertrand to his final rest.”
He shifted a bit sideways and propped a knee on the edge of the thin mattress. “I do not know what will become of you, though I will try my best to get word out of your existence. I understand the men searching for you were told you were dead.” He eyed Kinnon’s gaunt form. “Not far from the truth, I believe.” He shook his head. “But for now mayhap I can ease your mind as to the fate of the women you sought to protect.”
Kinnon caught his breath and his eyes prickled with sudden moisture. Finally! An answer to my prayers! He leaned forward, urging Frère Jean’s next words.
“I remember the stir among the men who grumbled of a woman who sicced her dog on a couple of soldiers who were ‘just doin’ their duty’.” His voice lost its educated tones and slipped into the patois of the French soldiers.
Kinnon grinned—and it felt good. Frère Jean shrugged. “I did ask what the duty was that harassed the good woman sufficiently to provoke her to such an action, and they muttered something about a dangerous prisoner.” His gaze returned to Kinnon, eyes rounded with pity. “Prison does not improve the man, does it, mon ami?”
“It has failed to be the best place to recover from my wounds,” Kinnon demurred. He raised one arm, appalled anew at how wasted he had become. Letting his arm drop back to the coverlet beside him, he pinned the monk with a stare. “What of the women?”
“To the soldiers’ great disgust, they were not captured, nor do they remain at the farm.”
Kinnon’s eyes closed, the relief almost too much to bear. “They got away. I knew Melisende would recognize their danger.”
“But it is good to hear it confirmed, n’est-ce-pas?”
“Aye,” Kinnon agreed, his voice choked with emotion.
“Mon ami, I will do my best to get word to your family, but my actions may take weeks or months to reach the proper channels.”
“It is enough to know you are trying.”
“Give me your full name and how I may send word. I will see what can be done.”
“I am Kinnon Macrory of Clan Macrory. My da is Laird Niall Macrory. I pray ye are successful.”
* * *
Later that night, as Kinnon prepared for sleep, he reached for the talismans in his bag. The flat piece of metal grew warm in his hand as he fingered the emblem etched in its surface. He set it aside and reached for the wine plug, drawing it beneath his nose. The scent of wine was gone, but the memories remained.
The carved tail of the tiny wooden horse brushed the back of his hand as he set the trinkets back inside the bag, and he lifted the statue on his palm. The dark was too deep to see the wee horse he’d once carved for his sister, but he knew every curve by heart. She’d given it back to him the day he left for France, telling him to bring it back to her when he was finished traipsing about.
“I am finished, Ree. I pray ye are well and Da hasnae married ye off yet. I do not imagine I will live a long life with my injuries, but I want to live it breathing good Scottish air. Someday soon, I hope to give this back to ye with my own hand.”
Carefully, he stowed his treasures in the bag and stretched out on the worn mattress. A purring sound reached his ears as the tower cat curled beside him.
* * *
Melisende glanced up as the bell on the shop door tinkled. A young man with a leather satchel slung over his shoulder met her gaze.
“Are ye Melisende, Ramon the goldsmith’s niece?” he asked.
Something cold touched the back of her neck and she nodded. He stepped forward, a bound missive in his hand. She accepted it, slipping two coins in his palm for his trouble. Touching his forehead in thanks, he hurried out the door.
She eyed the envelope for several long moments. Her eyes were dry, and her pulse raced. She lifted a slender, jeweled dagger from a display tray and slit the seal on the missive. The dagger clanged against the counter as she set it down, her fingers nerveless.
She took a deep breath and pulled a single sheet of vellum from the envelope and unfolded it. Lucienne’s looping, childish scrawl filled the page.
Dearest Melisende,
I hope you are doing well, and shop keeping has not bored you too much. Raul and I enjoy Italy very much, though money is tight and it is tiresome moving from place to place. We have stayed in some of the most fabulous houses! The clothes are incredible and I change as many as four times most days. The men are completely chivalrous, though the women can be quite malicious.
I thought you would like to know that you are now an aunt. I have no idea when this will reach you, but I believe the babe—a girl—was a bit premature. At least, that is what I told Raul. She is growing, though I rarely see her. There is always a nursery with an over-worked nursemaid to care for her wherever we stay. With her dark hair she looks just like you.
Give my love to Oncle Ramon. Ask him if he could speak with Monsieur Depaul about money. Living completely cut off from one’s family is such a bother.
Your sister,
Lucienne
The page fluttered to the counter top and Melisende’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh, Lucienne!” she whispered. “What are you doing with your life? What possible chance does your daughter have?”
She stared at Lucienne’s careless letter as her heart broke for the little girl who needed her mother’s love.
Chapter 18
Summer 1377, off the coast of Scotland
3 years later
Walking from the passenger quarters to the forecastle had taxed his strength, but the view was worth it. Trees clogged the far coastline as the cog ship turned into the firth. Mists drifted from the outstretched limbs into the clouds, pregnant with the promise of rain. A cool breeze swept the water spray over the tall sides of the massive ship, spattering Kinnon with his first taste of home.
Home.
Soon they would approach a bend in the River Clyde. Soon Scaurness Castle would loom at the top of a cliff overlooking the firth. Soon he’d be home.
Across the water, a red-sailed birlinn hugged the far coastline as it bobbed on the waves. Sunlight broke through a cl
oud, arcing above the beach in a multi-hued rainbow. Seagulls shrieked overhead.
Home.
A man appeared at Kinnon’s elbow, red hair tossed in the wind, the bridge of his nose turning scarlet in the sun. “Sir, we will be ashore soon. We should be able to obtain a few horses from the smithy in the village. Hamish will get them ready.”
Kinnon faced the warrior who had appeared at the door of his tower cell almost three months earlier. “Thank ye, Rory. I am forever in yer debt.”
The man ducked his head. “The men and I have been looking for ye more than a year. We are pleased to bring ye home. Even if the rumors are true and there is another as laird at Scaurness, the clan will want ye to take yer rightful place.”
Kinnon hid his grimace. I dinnae wish to be laird. I have no qualities to instill leadership or faith in men. I have failed in so many ways. But he could not tell Rory this. He could not bring himself to cast away the men’s success. Thank God, their diligence had brought him home.
The cog dropped anchor not far from the rock-strewn beach, and the men rowed ashore. Kinnon gazed about him, drinking in the sights as though he sipped the finest wine. I dinnae know why Brody, Jamie and I thought we had to leave to prove ourselves. Only now do I see my heart has been here all along, waiting for my return.
“Kinnon? We must hurry. Something is amiss at the castle.”
Pulling himself together, Kinnon mounted the proffered horse and gathered his reins. Rory and Hamish flanked him, a younger man bearing a worn blue standard—the symbol of the Macrory clan for generations—to one side. Twenty more men either walked or rode in their wake.
Soft morning light spilled through the lowering clouds, bathing Scaurness Castle in pale gold. A spiral of black smoke twisted upward, and shouts and the ring of steel clashed behind the thick walls. Hamish and Rory looked to Kinnon.
“I think they are having a wee problem, lads,” Kinnon commented, tightening his legs about his mount’s girth. A warning cry rang from the wall, followed by the blast of a horn. A gust of wind whipped the blue standard, snapping the cloth defiantly. Kinnon’s horse plunged sideways at the noise, but he settled the beast with a practiced hand. “They have seen us.”
The small group advanced to the castle gate as the sounds of battle within rose. Without warning, the noise died.
“A Macrory! A Macrory!” The clamor built again.
“Is there treason behind the walls?” Kinnon asked.
Rory shook his head. “Yer father was on his death bed when we left over a year ago. ’Tis possible the lairdship has fallen into contention.”
Kinnon considered the sturdy walls. Nothing short of a siege could hope to open the gates if the men in charge wished to keep them shut. Kinnon’s twenty men had no hope of changing the course of the battle.
Despair, an all-too-familiar sensation, crashed over him. I have failed again—and this time people whom I know and love are likely forfeit. Damn! Damn all greedy, overly-ambitious men straight to hell! He fisted his hand, pulling the reins tight. His horse arched his neck against the strain, prancing in protest. I am sorry, Ree.
His only course of action was to appeal to the king. Yet it would take days of travel to arrive at Dundonald Castle, longer still to present his case and wait until a decision was reached. The prospect was dim, untenable, not worth wasting time over. The Macrorys needed help—now.
Kinnon waved the men forward. “We will do what we can.”
Horses broke into a gallop and men’s feet pounded the turf as they ran, a shout from their throats rising as from one. “A Macrory!”
To Kinnon’s surprise, the portcullis rose.
The massive, iron-clad gates swung inward with a groan. Men, all marked with battle, bloodied and grimed, bristled silently, swords outward, as they faced Kinnon’s group. The stag on the faded standard danced in the morning breeze, announcing their presence as they rode through the gate. A woman’s shriek pierced the air.
“Kinnon!”
With a moan of relief, Kinnon slid from his horse and staggered into his sister’s arms.
Her head came to his shoulder—she was certainly taller than she’d been nearly five years ago—and her dark red hair sprang from the tangles of a braid that hung to her waist. Her arms wrapped tight about his waist, she clung to him with a sob. Kinnon staggered against the force of her welcome, his arms circling her in a fierce embrace. After a moment, he released her.
“What have ye done to the keep, lass?” he asked, motioning to the chaos. Riona’s answer was a choking laugh as she wiped the back of one hand across her face, drawing a line of dirt in its wake and emphasizing the tattered neckline of her gown.
“Where have ye been? We received word ye were missing…or worse.” Her eyes brimmed with tears that reflected longing and fear. And relief. Just then, a small form plunged against her legs and she bent to gather the child in her arms, her hands caressing the red-gold hair.
Exhaustion washed over Kinnon. “I’d like to come inside, if ye dinnae mind.”
“Aye. It seems we have much to discuss,” a deep voice intoned.
Kinnon’s gaze jerked to the man who had appeared next to Riona. Blood matted against the side of his face, and his eyes glinted dangerously. Ranald Scott? The man bore scant resemblance to Kinnon’s childhood friend, the man replacing the youth, but the recognition was there. Without another word, Ranald plucked the child from Riona’s arms and strode to the great hall, his booted feet eating the ground in angry strides.
Kinnon followed as Riona took to her heels, obviously torn between him and the child in Ranald’s arms. He frowned. Riona would have had to marry right after I left to have a child, what, four summers old? She would have only been fifteen. Surely Da wouldnae have asked that of her.
He entered the hall as Ranald plumped the little girl in a chair and stalked away. Riona sat next to her and the child scrambled immediately into her lap. Kinnon took the chair to their left with a sigh, recognizing all the effects of battle lust in Ranald. He patted Riona’s knee.
“Dinnae fash, Ree. He needs time to gather himself. A splash of cauld water will help.”
She shook her head. “He is verra angry with me.”
“Tell me what has happened,” he commanded. Reluctantly, she complied, and her story crushed him to a level he hadn’t known existed. “Merde.” He forced his gaze to meet hers, devastated to see the haunted look in her expressive gray eyes. The eyes mirrored so perfectly in the wee lass in her lap.
His chest tightened unbearably to think of his then 15-year-old sister trapped by the pirate MacEwen, forced into an unwanted liaison by the honorless brute. “I should have been here to protect ye.”
“Dinnae fash, Kinnon,” she said, laying a comforting hand on his. “’Tis in the past, and Gilda is much loved.”
Talk moved to his sire, and Kinnon was stirred yet again by the effect news of his supposed demise had had on the man he’d always seen as indestructible.
“The king sent Ranald to protect the clan after Da died,” Riona said. “But now that ye are home, Kinnon, ye will be laird.”
Kinnon shook his head. “Nae, lass. I’ll not be laird.”
She drew back in surprise. “Why?”
“I may never recover my health, and I have seen enough of killing. I have chosen to enter a monastery.” There, he’d said it. After the slow passage of time in the tower prison, made tolerable only by the occasional visits of Frère Jean and the company of a wee orange cat, Kinnon had no desire to step into the role of laird of Scaurness Castle. There were too many people eager to take over the position, and he did not relish the life-long fight ahead to maintain order. He’d seen all the battle-horrors he could live with. He was no longer an eager-eyed lad. He needed—craved—peace.
A shout from the stairwell drew everyone’s attention. “Laird! He isnae here! The MacEwen is gone!”
From Riona’s story and the knowledge of clan politics, Kinnon knew the pirate MacEwen had long coveted Scaur
ness and the portion of the River Clyde the castle controlled. That he’d tried to win control of the castle whilst Ranald and Riona had been absent—and nearly succeeded—was a fearful thing. At least it now appeared he was gone, though for how long was anyone’s guess.
Kinnon lingered in his chair as Riona stalked to her room at Ranald’s terse command to change, the ripped neckline of her gown exposing her white shoulder. They are in for a long and miserable life if they care no more for each other than this.
Ranald paced the room, anger vibrating about him. A large man approached him, confidence in his step. Instantly, Kinnon recognized him as likely Ranald’s captain, for his rapport was close yet respectful, and Ranald listened intently to the man’s words. They cast an uneasy look in his direction and Kinnon knew they would soon wish to know his intentions.
Rest easy, Ranald. The lairdship is yers. Though I wish ye better days with my sister.
Suddenly Ranald wheeled and stormed up the stairs, the other man hard on his heels.
Apprehension prickled along the back of Kinnon’s neck. He surveyed the room, but nothing in particular caught his eye. Those around him moved with the stunned slowness of people still in shock from the battle. Groups murmured together, a child cried softly. An older woman, whom he recognized as Tavia, the clan’s wise woman and healer, wiped her hands on her stained apron and reached for a tray of supplies on the trestle table beside her. Next to him, the lass Gilda sat in the lap of a lad mayhap boasting nine or ten summers, but his face was bruised and swollen, making him look older.
My niece. Gilda gazed at him with wide grey eyes, her red curls reminding him of Riona as a child. He smiled, eager to know this young lass.
Ranald and his man approached the dais where Kinnon sat. “Have ye seen a man carrying a woman in a shroud?”
A shroud? “Do ye mean a corpse?” he asked. “Nae. A ghillie wouldnae bring one through the hall.”
