Entering, he found only a cold morning repast laid out and an army of servants vigorously cleaning every nook and cranny, under the direction of the castle’s shrewd-eyed housekeeper. Lady Alwyn, herself, was rarely seen. In recent years, she’d kept more and more to her chambers in the west tower, eschewing the coarse society of the keep below, where her husband and his warriors did as they pleased, rather than respecting the refined courtly manners and courtesies she had so painstakingly installed when she’d come here as a new bride, or so he’d been told by Kyla. Without the lady’s influence, the stronghold could at times decline into shadows, filth, and shambles, but the pile of stones cleaned up nicely with effort.
Magnus joined a number of the Alwyn’s warriors seated at one of the side tables, and was greeted by a round of nods and grunts. Lorna, the “tyrant in the apron,” took up two empty trenchers from the table, scowling as she hurried about.
“What? None of your magnificent sweet buns this morn’?” he teased as she passed by. “How I can survive the day, without them to start me at my best?”
“Och, ye!” she exclaimed, her mouth breaking into a wide smile. Patting his shoulder affectionately, she leaned closer. “Bide ye reit thaur. A gart a batch, special fur ye, usin’ ’at fine Persian cinnamon ye brooght me frae th’ Torridon market.”
She trundled off.
Diarmid, a happy giant of a man, who in a long-ago skirmish had lost all the fingers on his left hand, leaned close. “Yoo’ll be sharin’ those sweit buns wi’ yer guid friend Diarmid, won’t ye?” He pointed his lone thumb at his chest.
“Indeed. I am looking out for both our stomachs, always.” Magnus grinned. “What is happening here the-day?” He indicated all of the servants, bustling about.
Diarmid shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Ah, don’t ask questions—unless they ur abit food.”
Kyla passed by with a shallow, circular basket, strewing handfuls of herbs on the stone floor. Magnus asked over his shoulder. “Why all this? Are there to be visitors?”
Over his shoulder, because he did not wish her to be reprimanded for flirting and dawdling. It was an unspoken rule that only Lorna could flirt and dawdle.
“Oh, aye,” she answered in a discreet tone. She leaned in his direction, sprinkling a few herbs as she spoke. The scent rose up between them to fragrance the air. “I have heard we are expecting the—”
“Ye are expecting no one, serf,” a man’s voice interrupted, thick and taunting.
The muscles along Magnus’s shoulders tensed. Kyla jerked upright, rigid, the color draining from her face. It was Ferchar, Hugh’s captain, and the same transgressor who had laid hands on Kyla the night before.
Behind him, Hugh and four of his men meandered past, chuckling and smirking, as they made their way toward the chief’s table, closest to the hearth.
Normally they were spared such unpleasantness this early in the morning. Hugh and his band of hangers-on rarely made an appearance in the hall before noonday. Kyla sought to step away, but Ferchar seized her by the shoulders and boldly pressed his body against her back, his hand splayed possessively across her stomach, his features tainted by the split bottom lip and purpled cheek he wore, courtesy of Magnus’s fist.
The maid stood rigid, the basket clenched in her hands, her eyes clasped shut.
“Let her go,” Magnus commanded.
Ferchar cast him a menacing glare through bloodshot eyes. In the dim morning light, broken only by the fire at the end of the hall, his skin gleamed sallow. A deep frown pulled at his lips. Clearly, he still suffered from his excesses of the night before … but he radiated the same dangerous unpredictability as always.
Beside Magnus, Diarmid shifted, his boots scraping the floor, clearly agitated as no doubt others were all about the room. Everyone loved Kyla. It took every bit of Magnus’s willpower to remain in his seat, but he had to show caution. They all did—for her sake.
Magnus did not fear a fight with Ferchar. Ferchar, like Hugh, ate too richly, drank too much, and as a habit, slept overly long.
But he had already humiliated Ferchar the night before, in a shadowed corridor, when the man was very drunk. To challenge Hugh’s man here in the Alwyn’s great hall, in the light of day before a host of witnesses, would not only be a challenge against Hugh, but the Alwyn himself, which could lead to dangerous repercussions not only for himself—but for Kyla, who would certainly be punished for her part in any confrontation, no matter how blameless she might be.
He stared into her eyes, willing her to be strong, all the while feeling boundless hate for Hugh, for sitting by and doing nothing.
“Y’ dare blether aboot the affairs of your betters?” Ferchar growled near Kyla’s ear.
“I meant no offense,” she gasped, clearly desperate to be free of her tormenter, yet the warrior’s grip on her only tightened, digging into her flesh.
Ferchar’s gaze raked downward over Kyla’s shoulder, to her breasts. His lips curled in an outright leer.
“Everything about you … filthy servant, offends me. Especially your smell.” He sniffed exaggeratedly. “Did you know that you stink?” Ferchar’s smile broadened with obvious pride at striking such a nasty verbal blow.
Kyla made a miserable, choking sound. Magnus’s eyes narrowed on her tormenter.
“Ferchar—” he warned, through clenched teeth.
From his table, Hugh shouted. “But that’s tae be expected, when ye lie doon w’ dogs.”
His companions all laughed loudly, nodding their heads in agreement. Boot lickers, one and all.
A shudder rippled through Kyla, and her shoulders twisted as she struggled to be free.
Instead of releasing her, Ferchar laughed—“Slut.”
He licked her cheek.
“Enough.” Magnus lunged from the bench—
Shouldering between them, he swept Kyla behind his back, and stared at Ferchar.
“The lass has offered her apology, as observed by all these witnesses,” Magnus growled. “Are ye not man enough to accept?”
The warrior straightened and spread his shoulders in an attempt to look larger, and more threatening. “I’m man enough a’right. Tae much man, apparently, for her.”
Just then, Lorna entered, holding a basket. “There ye be, Ferchar. See here, I’ve made yer favorite sweet buns.”
Though she pretended to be oblivious to the confrontation she interrupted, Magnus knew she did her part to diffuse the tension. As stern as she was with the girls who served under her purvey, she held them all in great affection and would do anything to protect them.
The room fell silent, as everyone waited for Ferchar’s response.
He sneered at Magnus. “Have ’er, then. It’s not as if she’s some prize. Nay, she’s jist an overused castoff.”
He huffed, backing away … grinning triumphantly, as if he had won some fight.
Yet the pale, grim faces all around told he’d only proven himself, again, to be one of the most reviled persons at Burnbryde.
Turning on his heel, he joined the rest of those reviled persons at the far table. Hugh laughed and nodded in encouragement, while the other four warriors raised their cups in salute, and pounded him on the back like a returning hero.
Magnus glanced over his shoulder at Kyla, who dimly smiled her thanks before hurrying toward the kitchen.
Diarmid muttered under his breath. “Thaur go our sweet buns.”
He’d been so focused on Ferchar, it was only then that he realized Quentin, Adam, and Chissolm stood there, as well with several other of his Pit warriors, their jaws rigid and eyes sharply gleaming toward the men at the far table.
Chissolm edged close, muttering. “We’d have willingly gone to the dungeon with y’, Magnus, if y’d wanted to knock his teeth out.”
“Didn’t know ’e had any teeth left,” Quentin hissed.
Adam muttered, “What a sot.”
Magnus nodded, his hands on his hips. “Being thrown into the dungeon for the next sennight would
do none of us any good. Especially Kyla and the others.”
Suddenly, everyone seated at the benches—stood. The Alwyn had entered, and made his way toward them, his close-shorn gray hair shining in the firelight. He wore a fine woolen tunic of blue, edged with thick gold embroidery at the sleeves and hem, and several heavy chains at his neck. Even as an older man, he was tall and strong, and had eyes that pierced one through.
Magnus’s body tensed and his soul seethed in response, as occurred each time he came in contact with the chief. All his senses growled that this was the man who had conspired to have his father murdered. This was the man who had destroyed the life he would have lived. And yet he welcomed these moments because they allowed him to assert control over his anger and his emotions, with the promise that one day, and one day soon, he would unleash himself and act.
All around him, men offered their morning greetings to their laird. After stopping to speak to one or two warriors along the way, the Alwyn strode directly toward Magnus and his companions.
Chapter 3
The chief must have observed his confrontation with Ferchar. Magnus did not know if, as a result, he would receive a mere word of caution—or a blistering rebuke. It all depended on the Alwyn’s mood, which had been poor of late, as the previous fortnight had been a disappointing one for the chieftain, all in all.
Near a fortnight ago, Hugh’s betrothed had died while at Burnbryde, of circumstances he’d never heard explained. Because the girl—Arabel Iverach—was also Buchan’s ward, the Alwyn feared her death would throw him into disfavor with his ally. Immediately after, the chief had failed to force a marriage between his newly unencumbered son and Elspeth MacClaren, thereby denying him a claim to the extensive lands surrounding Inverhaven, and the magnificent castle there.
“Magnus,” he said in a cool, brisk tone.
Magnus bowed his head. “Yes, laird.”
The Alwyn gripped his shoulder. Magnus flinched inwardly at the touch.
“Today,” said the laird, “I would have you take your Pit warriors and ride down through the valley. Be as visible as you can be among the villages there, stopping to talk to and reassure the people.” His lip curled. “They are increasingly anxious over the pretender’s claim to be the Kincaid. They reside on disputed land and fear he will come with that mercenary army of his, to murder them in the night.” A cold smile turned his lips, and he tapped a finger against the front of Magnus’s chest. “An army that I know … I know he cannot maintain more than a fortnight longer, if even that. When he can support them no longer, they will abandon him, leaving him with the shoddy remnants of the Kincaid clan, and we will be ready.”
Magnus did not know how long Niall would be able to sustain his mercenaries. It did not matter to him. His path remained set, regardless.
“Aye, laird,” he answered. “As you wish.”
The laird nodded, his eyes glowing even brighter now. “And … upon your return, no later than noonday, do y’ ken, hold watch over Glen Comyn. A courier arrived early this very morning with word that we should expect a most important visitor—the Earl of Buchan himself.”
Magnus’s heart stopped. He had known the Alwyn had threatened Niall with intervention by the Crown, and had dispatched numerous letters to Buchan, but had not expected the earl to respond so swiftly.
The laird nodded, looking from one warrior to the next, while Magus silently considered the implications of his announcement.
“When he arrives, you, Magnus, will extend to him a warm greeting on my behalf, and escort him here. Be sure to send one of the men ahead with word so that Hugh and I, and Lady Alwyn, will be prepared to welcome him here, in a manner that befits his royal stature.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Magnus. “So we shall do.”
Already the Alwyn looked away, and proceeded to the table where Hugh watched them, his gaze narrowed in obvious displeasure that Magnus had been given a task of such importance. Once, Magnus too would have looked upon the chief’s order as a great honor, one which might earn him greater respect. Now he could only think of how he would send word to Niall that Buchan—and no doubt a large force of men—were expected to arrive.
“Good morning, son of mine,” the Alwyn called cheerfully, raising his hands in greeting. “Tell me, what marvelous things will you do this fine day?”
Hugh shrugged, unsmiling. “I am here, am I not?”
Magnus turned to Quentin, who acted as his second-in-command. “Let us be on our way then.”
Under a darkening sky that threatened rain, they made their way from farm to farm, village to village. Though none would notice, Magnus hung back, allowing Quentin and the others to offer words of reassurance about the protection offered by their laird. Near noonday, they arrived at an overlook that gave them a wide view of Glen Comyn and its broad, sweeping plain, and they waited. And waited another three hours more, as the wind rose higher and a cold rain fell.
“What do you suppose we should do?” Quentin asked, water streaming over the hard planes of his cheeks.
Magnus scanned the valley. “Send Adam with word to the Alwyn that Buchan has not yet arrived.”
“What of us?”
Magnus lifted one brow. “You know the answer to that. Unless we receive instructions to return, we wait.”
*
“We were to have arrived at Castle Burnbryde by nightfall,” said Sister Grizel, from the pitch-black darkness beside Tara, her tone more fretful than before.
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, tightly bundled in blankets and furs, but nonetheless damp, half frozen and miserable, just as they had for the past six days as they’d traveled in the small, barrel-shaped carriage over increasingly difficult terrain. The horses’ hooves thudded over the earth. With each turn of the wheels, the carriage creaked and groaned.
The carriage gave a hard bounce. They both braced for the violent movement, seizing hold of anything—the wooden window frame, the cushions beneath them—to keep from being tossed off the bench.
“No doubt we will arrive at Castle Burnbryde at any moment,” Tara assured her, peering out through a crack in the window which they’d kept closed against the frigid wind and bedeviling rain. “Otherwise, I’m certain the captain would insist that we stop for the night.”
Not that she had any wish to arrive at their destination—the place where her sister’s life had come to a tragic and early end. Truth be told, she had remained vigilant throughout the journey, looking for any opportunity to steal away, but Buchan’s men had clearly been informed of their duties and watched her relentlessly.
Aye, any journey undertaken alone would certainly be fraught with danger, but she despised her guardian just that much, and would do anything to thwart his control over her.
“I pray that you are right,” declared the older woman, with a weary sigh. “My old bones have had enough.”
Their journey from the priory had been beset by delays. Given the remoteness of their destination, they’d expected their progress to be slow, and the terrain challenging. But their carriage had suffered not one, but three shattered wheels, requiring replacements from the wagon traveling behind them, that also carried all of Tara’s belongings, save for her mother’s pearl and ruby necklace, which she wore around her neck and tucked under her kirtle for safekeeping. With her fortune under Buchan’s control, the necklace was the only true object of value she possessed—and though she treasured it because it had belonged to her mother, it would finance her escape from Burnbryde. There, she would not be watched so closely and at the first opportunity she intended to flee, by land or by sea, before any wedding could take place.
The voice of the driver carried back on the wind, urging the horses on.
“I can smell the ocean,” said Tara, inhaling deeply. “So we must be close.”
She had learned from the kindly old driver that Burnbryde perched alongside the sea.
Her companion sniffed the air.
“Oh, yes.” She straightened in her seat, her
pale face peering out from her even paler wimple. “Yes, dear girl, as can I. If we keep watch, I know at any moment we’ll be rewarded with a glimmer of torches on the battlement.” She waved her mittened hand grandly. “Do open the window, just for this last little while. As a young bride, you’ll forever remember these moments, when you arrive at your new home.”
A home she had no intention of settling into.
But the elderly woman beside her did not deserve such discomfort, and after days and nights of endless damp and cold, a warm bed from which to plot her next move toward freedom would be nice.
She wondered if she would sleep in Arabel’s bed. How she missed her sister. She had spent the hours inside the carriage recalling every possible memory. Every happy time. At times the grief seemed too much to bear, and threatened to smother her, as it did now that she drew closer to the place where her sister had died.
She pushed open the wooden shutter. Cold wind struck her face, heavy with the scent of brine. The sister tucked their heavy furs more securely around them both, and fussed over Tara, insisting on securing her woolen veil across the bottom half of her face, before doing the same with her own.
“I’ve never seen such darkness,” Tara murmured, her breath warm against her lips. “If we strayed from the road, would the driver even know?”
“Don’t even think it. Of course he would,” assured the sister with a nervous laugh. “That’s why we have the outriders, with their torches. To lead us safely along our path. You see them up ahead … don’t you?”
Tara squinted … and stretched to look outward. “No. I don’t.”
Just then, there came the sound of horse’s hooves upon the earth, the rear outrider riding from behind, a lantern swinging from a staff. The wavering orange light revealed tree trunks and branches—a forest all around. His animal carried him at a swift canter, forward and through the trees, out of sight, where she assumed he joined the other two who rode ahead.
The Rebel of Clan Kincaid Page 4
