by Katy Baker
“There ye are!” he exclaimed to the children. “Where have ye been, ye scallywags?”
Wolfie ran up to the man, barking and dancing around his feet. “This is Lady Sophie, Da,” Fergus said. “From the castle. She’s a ‘guest’,”—he said the word as though it was something mighty important— “and we’ve been showing her around.”
“Greetings, my lady,” the man said to Sophie. “I’m Barric and ye have my apologies for any trouble these two have caused.” He fixed his children with a stern glare. “How many times have I told ye about sneaking off to the village? There’s work to be done around here.”
“The healer sent us to fetch something for her from the market!” Fergus replied indignantly, pulling a bundle of dried herbs from his pocket and holding it out to his father.
Barric’s expression softened. “Aye, well,” he said gruffly. “Ye better take it into her then hadnae ye?”
Fergus nodded then he and Joan hurried into the house, the door banging shut behind them.
“I’m sorry if they’ve been pestering ye, my lady,” the man said with a sigh. “They can be a bit boisterous at times.”
Sophie smiled. “Quite the contrary, actually. They’ve been really helpful. Your children are a credit to you.”
Barric smiled wanly. “It’s kind of ye to say so.” He glanced at the closed door of the cottage and anguish flitted across his face. He seemed incredibly sad. Sad and worn out. There was a dullness in his eyes that suggested a man who’d been shouldering burdens for a long time, burdens finally becoming too much.
“Well, if ye will forgive me, my lady,” he said. “I must get on.”
He lifted the sack but as he did so, the seam split with a ripping sound, spilling a load of turnips across the muddy ground. Barric swore under his breath.
Sophie bent to help him retrieve them but Barric said sharply, “No!”
Sophie froze, hand outstretched.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Barric said. “But ye mustnae touch them.”
Sophie straightened, puzzled. “Why not?”
“They’re diseased. Devil’s work if ye ask me.”
Looking more closely, Sophie realized that practically every single one of the turnips had marks of black rot all over them. She rolled one towards her using her foot and then crouched, examining the vegetable intently. She’d studied plant diseases for a semester but she didn’t recognize what might have caused this.
She looked up at Barric. “Are they all like this?”
“All the ones I’ve checked so far,” he said bleakly. “If this goes on, I’ll lose the entire crop.”
Sophie bit her lip. “Would you mind if I took one of these back to the castle with me?”
His eyebrows rose. “Whatever for?”
“I have an interest in plants,” she explained, rising to her feet. “I might be able to figure out what this is—stop it spreading.”
The sudden hope that lit his face made her heart ache. “Ye reckon ye could?”
“I don’t know until I’ve studied it.”
“Aye, of course. I’ll be grateful for any help, my lady.” He used the torn sack to wrap one of the turnips and then handed it to her.
Just then the door opened and a woman stepped out. She was maybe a little older than Sophie, with wild brown hair that fell in bouncy curls onto her shoulders.
“Any change, Rosie?” Barric asked eagerly.
Rosie shook her head. “Nay, Barric. No change. I’ve given her some poppy for the pain and I’ll come check on her again tomorrow. The children are with her now.”
Barric’s face fell and anguish crossed his features. “Aye. Well, I thank ye for all ye do for her.”
Rosie laid a hand on the man’s arm. “Send word if there’s any change.”
Barric nodded and Rosie turned to Sophie with a smile. “Ye must be the laird’s guest that the children have been telling me about. I’m Rosie Sutherland, clan healer. I’m very pleased to meet ye.”
“And you,” Sophie said, giving the woman a smile. “I escorted the children home. There was a bit of bother at the castle with the dog.”
Rosie rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet there was. I’m done here and was just about to walk back to the village if ye would like some company?”
They bade farewell to Barric then turned and began making their way down the path. Rosie seemed lost in her thoughts and although Sophie burned with questions, she wasn’t sure how to frame them. Glancing back, she saw Barric on his knees, collecting the rotting turnips. Her heart twisted.
“You have a patient at the farm?” Sophie asked at last.
Rosie looked at her as if she’d forgotten she was there. “What? Oh, aye. Magda, Barric’s wife. She took sick a fortnight ago and hasnae left her bed since.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What’s wrong with her?”
“I dinna have the first clue. Her symptoms are odd – tingling in the hands, confusion, pain in her joints and abdomen. Naught I’ve tried has helped.” She sighed and glanced back at the croft behind them. “It’s a mystery and if I canna solve it I fear those bairns will lose a mother and Barric a wife.”
A chill swept through Sophie. She was reminded again how different this time was. Here life was fragile, and could be taken away at any moment.
She glanced back at the croft, thinking of Joan and Fergus, then glanced down at the rotten turnip in its bundle. She remembered again the farmers they’d met whose crops had been ruined overnight. A shiver of unease prickled her spine. Something was wrong, she was sure of it. The question was: what?
She was suddenly very keen to get back to the castle.
“I DINNA LIKE IT,” CALLUM said, frowning at the parchment. “This doesnae sound like the MacConnells at all. It isnae their style to harry our borders like this.”
James, Callum’s elderly steward, uncrossed his arms and reached up to scratch the white whiskers that covered his chin. “Ordinarily I would agree with ye but ye’ve seen the report. The crofters down there swear that it was the MacConnells who stole their cattle—and there was a piece of MacConnell plaid found at the scene.”
“That’s easily planted to make us think it’s them.”
“Aye, I suppose so, but if ye dinna think it was the MacConnells then who do ye reckon it was? Who would gain by stirring up trouble with our neighbors?”
Who indeed? There was only one name in Callum’s mind but he didn’t speak it aloud. He stared at the parchment, not seeing the words, his thoughts churning. There were four other parchments just like it scattered over the table in his solar, all with similar tales: stolen cattle and ruined crops.
“That will be all, James,” he said quietly. “I will think on it and decide what’s to be done.”
“But my laird—”
“I said that will be all.”
James nodded, gave a slight bow, and left. Callum leaned his head back against the chair, fighting a headache that began to throb in his temple, feeling like an iron spike being hammered into his skull.
He climbed to his feet and strode over to the window. Down in the bailey Agatha was supervising several maids who were hanging out washing and a stable lad was putting a colt through its paces on a lead line whilst Andrew, the stable master, watched on critically.
It all looked so normal, so peaceful. But it was an illusion. Something was coming, he could feel it. An unseen threat marched closer, all the more dangerous because his people were so unaware of it.
“Curse ye,” he muttered, addressing his comment to the Disinherited. “Why will ye not come out of the shadows? Why will ye not fight me?”
Although James was adamant that the recent cattle raids were the work of a neighboring clan, Callum wasn’t so sure. It didn’t feel right. He suspected something else at play here. But what should he do about it?
There was a knock on the door. He stifled a groan. What now? Couldn’t he be given a moment’s peace?
“Enter,” he called brusquely.
/> The door swung open and Sophie peeked around it. Callum blinked in surprise, unable to stop the sudden swell of his heart at the sight of her.
“Hi. Agatha said to come up. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Nay,” he said quickly. “Come in.”
She walked into the room and shut the door behind her. Mud caked the hem of her dress and she was carrying a round object wrapped in a torn sack. What on earth had she been doing?
She looked around the room, taking in the bookshelves lined with scrolls and leather-bound tomes and the large desk that sat near the fireplace. Finally her blue-eyed gazed came to rest on him.
“Well,” she said. “How should I address you? My laird?”
He winced. He hated that he was no longer just Callum and she just Sophie, but that he’d become Laird Sutherland and she Lady MacCullough. How he wished they were still out in the wilderness together.
“I should have told ye who I am,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Some warning would have been nice,” she said with a faint smile. “So I didn’t look the gawking idiot the first time I heard your title. But don’t sweat it. I suppose there’s still plenty we need to learn about each other.”
Something in the way she said it made him look at her sharply. Their eyes met across the room and warmth uncoiled in Callum’s belly. Lord help him, she was beautiful.
“Would ye like a drink?” he asked, clearing his throat. He crossed over to a bottle and some goblets that stood on the desk. He poured out two and held one out to her.
“No thanks,” she replied. “I learned my lesson at Dun Garnon. I’m not ashamed to admit that you Scots can drink me under the table.”
Callum downed his own shot of whisky, taking a moment to gather his thoughts and his roiling emotions.
“I trust ye are settling in?” It was a lame question and not the one he wanted to ask but he suddenly didn’t seem able to get his thoughts straight.
“I’m starting to find my way around,” she nodded. “I was fortunate enough to meet Joan and Fergus. Turns out they are quite the tour guides. I visited their farm.”
“Ye did?” he asked surprised. “Is their ma any better?” Magda had been ill for some time.
“No,” Sophie said quietly. “She’s not. And that’s not the only thing. I found this.”
She unwrapped the bundle she carried and placed it on the desk. Callum looked down at it, perplexed.
“A rotten turnip?”
“It’s not just a rotten turnip,” she replied. “It’s diseased but it’s not like any plant disease I’ve ever seen and I made quite a study of them.”
He frowned. “What are ye saying?”
“I don’t know. Something about all of this doesn’t feel right. Those farmers we met on the road said someone had deliberately blighted their crops. What if that’s what’s happening here?”
A thud of sudden footsteps cut off Callum’s response. The door slammed open and Baldir burst in, still wearing his mud-spattered plaid in which he’d been training with Callum earlier.
“My apologies for disturbing ye, my laird,” he panted, shaggy eyebrows pulling down into a frown. “But there’s something ye must see.”
“What is it?”
“By...the river,” Baldir panted.
Callum shared a quick glanced with Sophie then strode to the door. “Show me.”
They followed the armorer out of the castle and down to the village, turning right and skirting the outer houses and taking the path towards the riverbank. Sophie strode at his side, looking worried.
A crowd of villagers had gathered at the water’s edge and he could see his guardsmen trying to keep them away from something lying on the bank.
“Move aside!” Baldir commanded, pushing a way through them. “Let the laird through!”
Callum wove through the crowd of villagers, coming out onto the river bank and came up short. The body of a man lay half out of the water, sightless eyes staring at the sky. A ragged red gash tore through his throat.
Sophie gasped, her hands going over her mouth and Callum’s stomach knotted, a sudden surge of dread washing through him.
“Get them out of here!” he snapped, indicating the villagers. “This isnae some carnival show.”
The guardsmen began herding the villagers away and Callum forced himself to kneel by the body.
No. Oh Lord, no. He screwed his eyes tight shut, feeling the awful, acid sensation of guilt that swirled in his stomach. No. No. No.
“I dinna recognize him,” Baldir said beside him. “I dinna think he is Clan Sutherland.”
“Nay,” Callum whispered. “He isnae.”
“Do ye know him, my lord?”
Callum straightened without answering. “Have the men bring something to carry him on. We’ll have him taken up to the castle.”
Baldir’s ruddy face broke into a frown but the armorer merely nodded and then walked off to carry out Callum’s orders, leaving him alone with Sophie. She stepped up beside him.
“You do know him, don’t you?” she said softly. “When you saw the body, you turned as white as a sheet.”
He glanced at her. “Aye, I know him. This is Alfred.”
She gasped. “Your friend who went missing?”
“Aye.” He passed a shaking hand over his face, gazing along the riverbank in both directions.
Oh, Lord. Alfred.
He’d dared to hope that his friend might still be alive, that whoever had captured him would want to bargain for his life. How wrong he’d been.
Oh, my friend, he thought. I’m sorry.
“What’s that?” Sophie said, pointing at Alfred’s chest. His tunic had been unbuttoned and Callum could see some sort of markings poking from under it.
He knelt and gently lifted the garment away from Alfred’s pallid skin. He gasped at the sight that greeted him. A symbol had been carved into Alfred’s skin: a serpent coiling around a dagger.
“My god,” Sophie breathed. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a message,” Callum growled, climbing to his feet. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, resisting the urge to draw it. Every tree trunk, every blade of grass, suddenly seemed to be hiding an enemy. “A message for me.”
Baldir returned with a few of the castle guards, carrying a wide board between them.
“Get the body onto the stretcher and carry him back up to the castle. Lay him out in the chapel,” Callum instructed them.
They moved to do his bidding, lifting Alfred onto the stretcher and then turning to the castle.
“Go with them,” Callum said to Sophie.
“But I—”
“I said go with them!” he snapped. Softening his tone, he added, “Please. I need to think.”
Sophie watched him for a moment. She looked as though she would say more but then reached out to squeeze his arm and turned without a word, following the somber procession.
Callum pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. So. It had begun. He’d told Sophie that the symbol carved into Alfred’s chest was a message for him and he understood exactly what the message said.
The Disinherited had declared war on the Order.
Chapter 10
“Ye are sure?”
The merchant nodded, seeming a little intimidated by the impatience in Callum’s tone. His fleshy face was pale, his jowls wobbling as he nodded.
“I’m sure, my lord.”
“Look at it again. Ye might have seen it on yer travels or when meeting with yer merchant contacts.”
He held up the scrap of parchment upon which was drawn a dagger with a serpent wrapped around the blade: the symbol of the Disinherited. The merchant made a show of peering at it but then shook his head.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I dinna recognize it.”
Callum sighed, shoulders slumping. He thanked the man, pushed back his chair, and made his way out of the inn. He paused outside. The village was quiet today, with most people busy in
the fields, despite the constant heavy showers, and so the place had an eerie calm about it. With a yowl, the inn’s cat jumped down from a water barrel and began winding its way through Callum’s legs. He absently leaned down to scratch it behind the ears.
“What should I do?” he asked the black and white feline. “Any ideas? Because I’m flat out of them.”
He straightened, pulling in a breath. Over a week had passed since Alfred’s body had been washed up on the river bank. He’d seen that Alfred had had a proper burial and given him a place in the Sutherland grave yard, but guilt over the young man’s death gnawed at him. It was made worse by the fact that in the intervening time, he’d come no closer to discovering who’d killed him or where they might be. Despite sending out scouting missions, despite questioning every traveling merchant who arrived at the village, he’d discovered precisely nothing.
Frustration boiled in his veins like bile. With an annoyed grunt, he left the inn behind and began walking back through the village. He couldn’t stomach returning to the castle just yet so instead of making his way through the gates, he turned right, skirted the edge of the curtain wall and entered the thick woodland that hugged the base of the hill on that side.
It was cool beneath the spreading branches and they were bright with green spring leaves. Several wide tracks made by the villagers when they came to collect firewood crossed the area but he ignored these, instead winding his way deeper into the trackless heart of the forest.
Soon he’d left the castle far behind and reached a stand of low-hanging willow trees, their branches forming an impenetrable screen. He paused, glancing over his shoulder to check he hadn’t been followed, then pushed his way through the branches. He came out into a small clearing, completely encircled by the screen of branches. He huffed a breath. It had been a long time since he’d been to the shrine.
A round rock about the height of his waist sat in the exact center of the clearing. Atop this stood a wooden cross but this was a much later addition, added when Christian missionaries from Iona had tried to claim this ancient place for their newer religion.
