“Perhaps the doors were locked out of an excess of caution, and only this first night. You must know you are greatly valued. A treasured prize. You are the ward of the Alwyn’s royal ally, to be married to his son. He would not want any misfortune or illness to befall you.”
“Such as befell my sister.” She exhaled, sounding miserable. “And yet despite all of the locks, that fate already befalls me, I fear.”
If he were her, he would be none too pleased at the prospect of marrying Hugh, especially after he’d welcomed her so memorably, spilling his stomach onto her shoes. Even so, her words struck him as overly fatalistic.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
She did not answer, causing his mind to hone in even more intently on her last words.
“Mistress Iverach?” he queried. “Answer me. What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know you, or trust you,” she answered. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“I am—” Faelan Braewick of the Clan Kincaid. “Magnus. Tell me what you meant when you said—”
“Tell me, Magnus, did you know my sister? Arabel?”
He replied, “I did not. For me to speak to her … to approach her … well, it would’ve been considered an affront to her betrothed.”
Hugh would have gone into a rage. While Hugh had displayed no affection for the girl, Hugh made clear to all what belonged to him. He took great pride in the idea of the possession of fine things.
“Do you know anything about how she died?” she said, her voice going husky. “Certainly people talked about her passing. The circumstances.”
At hearing her question, he felt a stab of sympathy for her—and regret over his paltry response. In truth he had felt very little at hearing of Arabel Iverach’s death. He had only ever seen her once, perhaps twice, and from a distance. Perhaps callously, he’d thought the girl was better off, as death had freed her from marriage to Hugh. He had not thought of her outside of this place. That she might have family. That someone might have loved her, and loved her still. In forgetting that, he’d been wrong.
“A fever, or so I heard. I’m sorry I do not know more.”
She sighed.
“Who are you, then, Magnus?” she asked. “Here, in this place. Within the Alwyn clan?”
A simple question, with a complicated answer. One he wouldn’t share with her, because likewise, she was a stranger and strangers weren’t to be trusted, no matter how well he liked them.
“A warrior,” he replied. “That is all.”
“And are you loyal to your laird?” she asked pointedly.
He straightened, intrigued by the unexpected question, which he answered carefully—and honestly. “All good and honorable warriors are loyal to their clan. To their blood.”
“Well, then, Magnus,” she answered in lower voice. “I’m very tired, and since this window is locked, and you are a good and loyal warrior who won’t help me escape this tower or my betrothal to that buffoon, then I have no wish to discourse with you further. I am going to bed.”
Escape.
She wanted to escape. Could he … would he help her?
Though the idea of helping the girl rebel against a common enemy held great appeal, what would the implications or benefits be? If she disappeared from Burnbryde, would Buchan respond swiftly, with an army of men to address the matter … or simply rage from far away, and possibly even sever his longstanding alliance the Alwyn?
Och, he must consider everything, and understand her better, before committing himself to such a plot and endangering himself on her behalf. What if, on the morrow, she changed her mind, and decided she indeed wished to be the future lady of Burnbryde? What if she told Hugh or the Lady Alwyn or a servant that he’d encouraged her to flee and offered to help her? That would be the end of him, and any vengeance he aspired to achieve for the Kincaids.
No, he could risk nothing.
“Good night then,” he answered.
He heard nothing more. No shuffling. Not a breath. Was she still there? He thought so. He’d almost forgotten. There was one thing his conscience demanded he say.
“Mistress Iverach?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry I kissed you.”
“Sorry?” she answered softly. “You needn’t be. It was a … very nice kiss. My first, do you know? And likely the only nice kiss I shall ever receive.”
He heard them then, her footsteps, faint and … distant, as they carried her away.
*
At dawn, Magnus stood enshrouded by fog, looking at Tara’s window.
He’d never actually come to this patch of earth and stone before, to see the other side of his window—to know there was another one, off to the side and just above it, at the base of the north tower. There’d never been a reason to. There was nothing here, but a triangle of wasted, overgrown earth, and ivy growing up the walls that from a distance, concealed everything.
He stepped closer—not toward his small, square window, but to the larger, arched one she’d spoken through the night before, and stood on his toes to take a closer look, but it was just … too high, without a ladder.
Backing up, he squinted, looking as best he could … yes, there was something there he wished to examine more closely. Moving close again, he jumped … grabbed the ledge and with a curl of his muscles, pulled himself up to look.
Indeed, there was a lock, there at the base of the iron frame, and etched in the metal beneath the keyhole, the image of a crescent moon. He dropped down, landing with a thud.
If anyone were to be in possession of a key stamped with a crescent moon, it would be the Lady Alwyn’s steward, Gilroy, a bull of a man who saw to his mistress’s affairs outside of the north tower, and who often personally delivered word of her wishes—and demands—to the laird, to the laird’s never-ending annoyance.
He’d not made a decision about whether to help her, but the information was useful to know. He backed away, looking higher, thinking perhaps to catch a glimpse of her. But no face peered out of a tower window.
That was because there were no windows.
Chapter 6
Morning arrived and with it, a brief visit from Lady Alwyn, who unlocked her chamber door and brought Grizel to her, and servants bearing breakfast.
The moment Lady Alwyn left the room—this time leaving the door unlocked—Sister Grizel closed the door, and turned toward Tara, her shoulders pressed flat against the wood.
She hissed, “What pit of vipers has your guardian fed you to?”
“I am so relieved to see you,” Tara answered rushing forward, still dressed in her night rail, to embrace the old woman. “Where have you been?”
She had never embraced the sister before. On the journey here, they had only exchanged the politest of conversation. There had been no sharing of confidences or sympathies. But suddenly it seemed as if Grizel were her closest friend. Her stomach clenched, knowing that soon the old woman would leave her to return to the priory, as her only given task had been to deliver her to Burnbryde.
“There, there.” The old woman patted her back comfortingly. “When I tried to enter the tower last night, I was turned away and given a place to sleep belowstairs. This morning, only after threatening God’s wrath was I allowed to enter.” Pulling away, she examined Tara’s face. “You look as if you haven’t slept.”
“I couldn’t,” Tara answered, agonized. “Hugh came here last night when I was sleeping—”
Just speaking the words brought the unpleasantness of the moment back. The idea of seeing him again made her feel ill. She pressed a hand to her stomach.
Sister Grizel’s eyes flashed fire. “Did he force himself on you—”
“No, thank God. But he is horrible.” She seized Grizel’s sleeves in her hands. “Sister, I cannot marry him. If I am forced to marry him … I don’t know. I feel as if I will die.”
“Just like your sister,” Grizel whispered, turning away.
Tara froze, and cl
osed her eyes. Yes, just like her sister.
Grizel shook her head. “I have a very bad feeling about this place. About these people. I can only believe my thoughts are being guided by the Lord.” The nun paced, her heavy skirts whooshing over the carpet. “Let me think. Let me think.” She let out a shaky breath, and turned, lifting a hand and fisting it in the air. “Oh, for now … since your new gowns were stolen by thieves, I asked the girl out there—Anna—if any of your sister’s clothes remained. I was given these.” She pointed to a small trunk she had brought with her. “Let us get you dressed before the lady comes looking. You are to join her for prayers after you break your fast.”
Tara stared at the trunk, hesitant to touch it. Her sister’s things. Seeing them would make her death seem all the more real. Grizel lifted the trunk’s lid, and pulled out several gowns. “This one will do, I think.”
Yes, she agreed, her gaze slipping over the sleeves, bodice, and skirts. The gown was dove gray, and plain, while the others were fashioned of the rich colors she and her sister both loved, and embellished with trim. But the gray suited her mood, and would draw no particular attention upon her. She wanted to be completely invisible to Hugh, if at all possible. She accepted the woolen kirtle from Grizel’s hands, and sank her fingers into its warm softness. Perhaps Arabel had thought the same thing when she wore that gown.
Lifting the garment to her nose, she inhaled. The familiar scent struck her through … rose and nettle. It had been so long since they’d seen one another, but in that moment she envisioned Arabel’s face as she remembered it from years ago.
“What happened to your poor dear sister?” Grizel mused, taking the gown from her and unfastening the corded ties along the arms, and the bodice. “Or like Buchan, have they already forgotten?”
The words struck her through the heart, and yet she felt immensely grateful for Grizel’s understanding, and willingness to talk honestly, rather than mindlessly urging her to be happy and to submit.
“A fever, I am told.” The words felt false on her tongue.
“Hmm,” Grizel responded, her lips pursed.
“Indeed,” she answered. “I cannot shake the feeling the truth is being concealed from me.”
Her sister’s memory, and death, did not deserve to be swept away like some piece of rubbish. Without answers, Tara feared her grief would never rest.
“The maid below could only say that one day Arabel was here and the next, she was not.”
Tara’s gaze met Grizel’s. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither did the girl, it seems.”
Together they worked the kirtle over her lèine.
After, Sister Grizel adjusted the garment along her shoulders, and in doing so, stepped closer, tightening the shoulder fastening of a sleeve.
“I know ’tis a sin for me to even speak of such things,” she murmured. “But … did you know your guardian is rumored to have sired some forty illegitimate children?”
“Forty!” Tara exclaimed in shock. “I did not know. Why did no one ever tell me?”
“Because you are an innocent girl, and we wished to preserve that rare and precious state for as long as possible.” Grizel took the ties of the other sleeve in hand. “But clearly, now it is in your interest to know he is a man ruled by selfish impulse, rather than wisdom or care for those around him. I would tell you, in confidence, that he is responsible for no less than five of the repudiated wives who’ve been left in the abbey’s eternal care.”
Tara’s head spun, hearing the old woman’s words. Why would her parents have left her and Arabel in the care of such a man?
“In my interests, yes. But why, specifically, are you telling me this now?”
“Because women must fight for one another, when they have the power to do so. And while we held out hope for your future here, Sister Agnes sent me along with you for a reason, empowered with a certain degree of discretionary authority. This because we suspected that any ally of the earl would be as equally lacking in moral judgment as he.”
The sister turned her round, and grasped her by the shoulders. She peered straight into Tara’s eyes.
“That suspicion has been all but confirmed, has it not?” she whispered. “I think it is true to say, we both fear for your safety.”
“Yes, you speak the truth.” Tara nodded, left breathless by the intensity of the moment.
Grizel squeezed her shoulders. “I will act accordingly, as Sister Agnes and I agreed that I would. Buchan’s wishes be damned. We will not allow you to be sacrificed on the altar of his ambitions.”
“What are you saying?” Tara asked, her pulse pounding with excitement. With hope.
The sister lifted her chin and her eyes gleamed with purpose. “I’m saying to listen carefully, child, because I have a plan.”
*
After breaking his fast, Magnus left the great hall, intending to go straightaway toward the stables, and then on to Inverhaven as he and the laird had discussed the night before. In doing so he made it a point to pass by the laird’s council chamber, for the laird had not made an early appearance in the great hall, as was his custom.
The Alwyn’s voice carried into the corridor.
“… and I again request, with all urgency, that his lordship, with full approval from the king, assist in ousting Niall Braewick, the pretender who falsely claims to be the dead Kincaid’s eldest son, from the lands which lay north of Alwyn territory.”
As always, two members of the chief’s personal guard stood outside. Magnus moved closer to the door, listening.
“Already at it, is he?” he murmured to the guards.
The laird did not normally go into his chambers so early to hold council or issue correspondence.
“Since daw-day,” the older man on the left, Seorais, responded.
Typically the oldest guards accompanied the laird wherever he went within the stronghold, from bedchamber to council room, or great hall, while the younger ones, like Magnus, provided escort and protection and a more impressive display of brawn outside the walls.
The muscles along his shoulders tensed. Damn. Since dawn? He cursed himself for being distracted by Mistress Iverach and her plight, when he must remain focused on his own. What had he missed? Magnus considered his absence a loss because every word, every insight, might be of use to him.
Quietly, Magnus entered the chamber, where he found the room scattered with men and hounds. Several of the older, gray-haired members of the council slept—and snored—sprawled in their chairs.
As one of the laird’s personal guard, no one would question his presence here. One thing he had learned about the Alwyn was that he appreciated an audience at all times. He joined two of his younger warrior peers, who leaned against the wall near the hearth. Thus far, the missive sounded exactly like the one the laird had dispatched by courier to Buchan three days before. And the one, several days before that. Perhaps he had not missed anything at all.
“Do you have the words down, just as I’ve spoken them?” the Alwyn demanded.
“Yes, laird,” answered his scribe. “Exactly as you’ve spoken them. Would you like me to read them back to you?”
“No, no, not yet,” the laird rebuked. “There’s more. Also add the following … uhhhhrrrrr…” He exhaled through his nose. “I should respectfully pray that his lordship will remember…” He paused, as if considering the composition of the words, or … whether to use them at all.
But he carried on, his bearing rigid and his countenance like stone. “… the events of the past. In particular, past agreements that were made between us, which never came to pass, in the full manner in which they’d been promised.”
“Go on, sir,” murmured the scribe, nodding.
The Alwyn continued. “Recalling those past agreements, I beg your just and right decision that the lands seized by the imposter from the defeated Laird MacClaren, now be chartered by the Crown to the Alwyn clan as was most certainly intended those many years ago.”
Magnus had heard the words before … the Alwyn’s claim that some portion of the Kincaid lands, intended for the Alwyn, had gone to the MacClaren. The laird even claimed to have an old map, showing that the Alwyn clan was to have been given Inverhaven, and its magnificent hilltop castle, though Magnus had never laid eyes on the map himself.
Yet now the words fell on his new Kincaid ears …
Past events. Past agreements.
Past promises.
Promises from the king, or from—
Buchan?
His heart paused in its beating for one moment … and then resumed. He had always assumed the Kincaid lands were parceled out after the treachery against his father had been carried out, and that Buchan facilitated that process on behalf of his father, who at that time had been a new king, just taking the throne.
He’d assumed that was when Alwyn had ingratiated himself to the earl, and gained him the favor that had lasted until this day.
But … what if his assumptions were wrong? What if the agreements and promises the laird referred to had been made with Buchan before his father’s death?
Then … Buchan had been involved.
Of course he had.
The large force that had come down from the hills—bearing no identifying banners—to massacre the Kincaids had been loyal to Buchan.
His pulse hiked with excitement.
If his suspicions were true, Magnus’s plotting became all the more dangerous, and his enemies all that more powerful.
But why would Buchan, a son of the king, want the Kincaid dead and his clan destroyed?
The Kincaid was known to have spoken out against David II, the predecessor to Buchan’s father, Robert II. About what, specifically, he did not know, but he would assume the Kincaid’s complaints had to do with taxation inflicted upon the Highland clans to pay for royal excesses and the general foolishness that David and his queen, Margaret, their subsequent divorce, all of which brought about a threat of a formal interdict by the Pope.
The Rebel of Clan Kincaid Page 9
