Eoin rolled his eyes. If Lord Huntingdale didn’t hold his tongue, he’d also be sitting with Sybilla in some pearly cloudy place in the sky.
“Did my daughter carry a weapon?”
Eoin raised his shoulders. How would he know? That girl was unknown to him. He supposed she would carry a weapon because most people who wandered off usually carried some sort of knife.
“One thing I do know for sure, my future bride had a tongue in her mouth. And Sybilla’s tongue is sharper than any blade I have stocked in my armoury.”
Huntingdale’s brow drooped. “Have a liking for sharp blades, do you?”
Eoin spun around. What was the old coot implying now?
Huntingdale’s scowl deepened. “Is there something you’d like to confess? Now would be as good a time as any to get it off your chest.
“Confess? What are you getting at?”
Huntingdale’s face was fox-like and cunning. “You kept her disappearance to yourself for too long—just long enough for her trail to grow cold.”
Eoin gritted his teeth. “I told you. She’s been missing naught but a few days, and she’s likely sheltering in a village somewhere. She’ll be chattering the head off a fisher wife or befriending beasts of the field, animals she should be boiling up in a pot. She’ll nay have a thought in her head. You’ll see.”
Lord Huntingdale’s cheeks grew blotchy. “My Sybilla is a thoughtful girl and responsible to her very core. She would nay do as you say. Make haste, you stuffed peacock. You are wasting the day trotting along in all your finery. The creatures in the fields and the serfs about the estates don’t care how you look. And you certainly do not please my eye, no matter what you wear.”
Lord Huntingdale was maddening, considering the fancy whimsy of his own dress. Huntingdale might have the moral high ground for now, but he was a pompous man with many faults. Eoin would bide his time till the old codger slipped up. And then he would strike.
Huntingdale continued on, obnoxious as ever. “I knew a man once whose intended went missing just before their hand fasting ceremony. The man hunted high and low for his future wife. The only place he didn’t look was the very place he’d buried her.” Huntingdale spurred his horse and thundered ahead.
Eoin rode behind Sybilla’s father and his English companion, Lord Lucas, for much of the day. This Lucas friend of Huntingdale’s knew his way around these parts of Scotland. How come? Supposedly, he lived with Huntingdale and his family on the English border. Mayhap he was some sort of English spy. Eoin didn’t like Englishmen. They were a crafty, untrustworthy race. They said one thing and meant another.
Eoin studied their backs as they galloped along, their gold-threaded coats flying in the chill wind. His fingers toyed with the handle of his sword, itching to haul it free from its scabbard.
Lucas turned, seeing him lag behind, noticing that his hand rested near his weapon. Good, let Lucas and Huntingdale worry for their safety.
“Your horse isn’t lame, I trust?” Lucas yelled back at him.
“My horse is the finest coin can buy. I could outride the both of you if I so wished.”
Why did he feel like a naughty lad who’d been caught with his braies down? He had no wish to ride abreast those two English fossils. Yet, it was an insult to be stationed at the rear. Someone would pay.
“There’s an alehouse up above,” Lucas yelled. “We’ll stop there and refresh.”
Eoin watched Lucas and Huntington bark at each other. It looked as if Sybilla’s father thought it too soon to stop. Strange. If he cared that much for his daughter, why had he offloaded her onto the first castle offering marriage?
Lucas must have won that spat because soon enough their party was galloping towards the village.
It was a dour place to visit. Eoin’s mouth turned down. What would the chances be of getting a high-quality meal in a miserable, slum place such as this?
Soon enough, they halted outside the rotting inn. After securing their horses to the rail, they chose a bench seat just inside the door.
Huntingdale gripped his mug of ale so tight, his fingers went white. “I’ve spoken to the brewer. He’s going to spread the word.”
Eoin raised his palms, questioning. “What word?”
Huntingdale’s eyebrows knitted together. “Do not play with me, feather-head. I promise you I shall not be the looser in any game you invent.”
The old man was mad. What had he said this time?
“I don’t know what insults me more, the fact that you have lost my daughter, or that you have done so little to find her.”
Eoin shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Lord Huntingdale shook his head. “You’re like a sword with a missing blade.”
Lucas interrupted. “So, you spread the word about the reward?”
Eoin bit into his pie. “I have. Tis a generous amount we offer, so we should get a result or at least some information we can use.”
Huntingdale watched Eoin prod and poke his pie. “What a funny little thing you are. No wonder my daughter has fled from you. If I was in her shoes, I’d hide as best I could, too.”
Eoin closed his eyes. “All the while we bicker, my betrothed is somewhere out there, desperate to be rescued. Instead of supping ale and eating bellyfuls of old boiled mutton, we should be riding to her aid.” They were fine words, a load of codswallop, but the right thing to say at that moment.
Lucas gave him a conciliatory nod. “I’m sure Lord Huntingdale appreciates how keen you are to find his daughter.”
“Poppycock,” Huntingdale muttered into his ale.
They were about to rise from their bench when a woman strode towards them.
“I hear that you fine men have coin to offer in exchange for information on a missing maiden?”
“Aye,” Huntingdale snapped, sitting up straight.
“And you’ll pay handsomely?”
Huntingdale fished a coin from his belt and waved it under her nose. “Depending on the information of course. We don’t pay up for naught. We’re not mugs, you know. Well, Lord Lucas and I are not, at any rate. I can’t speak for all at this table.”
Eoin rolled his eyes at the wench to make light of the insult, but inside he seethed.
“There’s a cabin in thickets not a mile or two from here. I spotted a maiden, a beauty she was too, hobbling about at the loch’s edge. I watched her with my own eyes. She wandered inside a little stone hut. I watched for a good while, until it grew dark. She stayed inside.”
Huntingdale jumped up. “This cabin—how do I find it?”
“Easy. Tis by Frazer’s loch. The hut’s a ruin and no more than that. No place for a lady, and that be for certes.”
“A lady, you say? You sure of that?”
“Aye. I saw her linen shift. Finer than most could afford. Tis why I was curious about her.”
“Describe her if you will, my good woman.”
“Her lovely long hair hung free. She was holding her arm, so I believe her to be injured.” The wench thought on for a moment more. “Aye, that’s right. She wore the prettiest silver bangle I’ve e’er seen. It caught the sunlight and danced.”
Eoin and Huntingdale stared at each other. They both knew it was Sybilla. That arm adornment was a present from Huntingdale himself, an early hand-fasting gift.
They’d found her.
Eoin forced a look of relief onto his face, but inside he felt as sour as curdled milk. So, the girl was alive and close by. Could this day get any worse?
Chapter 13
Gus cantered past the Alder trees that marked the entrance to his land. The morning mists were thinning, and as gaps appeared in the fog, he caught his first glimpse of home for far too long. His face flushed with pride.
Castle Caithness was
a heart-stirring, grand sight indeed. His castle. His people.
Caithness rose from the hills, a marvel of beauty, of strength, and best of all, of defiance. She shouted out a warning and raised her fist at the low-lingering clouds as they rolled on by. Aye, he was proud of her.
The closer they got, the more majestic she became. Now the turrets were within view, followed by the guard towers and even his pennant flying his colours. His castle was large enough to house a king and his whole army. Aye, Castle Caithness was indeed a bracing sight.
He shut his eyes and basked in the moment, in the sheer joy of his homecoming. It had been a dozen long, lonely months of sleeping away from his people.
But, if he were being entirely honest, beneath the wondrous feelings that a longed-for homecoming brought, he was also feeling the stirrings of trepidation too. How had the castle folk fared? Had his leaving brought them relief from the sickness and from God’s wrath? His loyal friend William had been curt and short with his responses whenever pressed for news. And, truth be told, Gus knew he had not pressed William too hard either. He’d a job to do, a cure to find, and it would have been wrong to let his emotions sway him from what needed to be done.
At long last he’d achieved what he set out to do: find the beautiful young Sassenach woman with the gift for lifting curses. Of course, the credit for finding Sybilla belonged to God. He had led the way.
Gus felt a rush of warmth. Not only had he witnessed her gifts with his own eyes, but folk from Scrabbly Castle had spoken of her powers. Eoin’s own Aunt Heather had labelled Sybilla a sorcerer. Surely, she’d meant it in the nicest possible way. Gus knew goodness when he saw it. Sybilla would rise to this challenge and use her powers to free them all. For certes.
Gus glanced around at the farmlands that supplied grain to the castle, and his smile began to wane.
That field of oats had to be ten feet tall. It was shameful leaving an oat crop to grow so tall. The farmers had a name for oats left thus. Dead harvest they called it. That grain should have been sickled a long time hence. By now, the goodness in the oats would be almost gone. He would have a few words with the farmer responsible.
Gus touched the Christ’s cross he kept hidden under his shirt. God Almighty in Heaven, please let all be well, or at least well enough. Aye, his people were sick still, but let them be on the mend.
Unease continued to gnaw at his belly. Turning his head, he snatched another glance at Sybilla. He never tired of looking at her. Mayhap it wasn’t right that one lassie was born with so much. Her beauty would outshine all the other lassies in his castle, and every other girl in the Highlands for that matter. Was it fair of God to give one lone girl so much? Of course it wasn’t, but Gus found he didn’t care. The girl thrilled his eyes, and more than that, gladdened his heart. Best not to dwell on how uncomfortable she made him feel in other places.
This journey had been rough on her, especially the attack she’d suffered, but she bore with few complaints. He would make it up to her, somehow. Mrs. McBride was probably in the castle kitchen right now, organising the feast to break the nightly fast. A hearty meal and a warm bath would be the beginnings of what he could do for Sybilla.
Gus rubbed his hand over her icy fingers, warming their tips. “Lass,” he whispered, “we be nearing my castle. Look ahead. Is she not a stirring sight?”
Sybilla opened her eyes. He heard her swift intake of breath, and it pleased him greatly.
“Surely that is not your castle?”
“Aye, tis.”
“But it’s huge. So much bigger than Scrabbly. And so grand.”
“Aye.” Pride puffed his chest.
Then she whispered in harsh tones, “I don’t want to think of how many men you and your family must have slain to earn that much favour from the king.”
He shrugged. “If a man’s coming at me with a sword, I’m nay going to duck.”
She turned away.
“Ach, don’t fash yourself. Men kill one another. Tis what we do.”
“Is that so? Well I have it on the best authority that Eoin has not killed one single man. What do you say to that?”
He heard the besting tone in her voice and didn’t like it one bit.
“Verily? Well, Master Eoin better not set foot in the Highlands because if he does, he’ll nay make it through to morn.”
Sybilla released the grip she had around his middle. “You Highlanders wear your beastliness like a badge.”
“I can protect my castle and lands, and I’ll nay be made to feel ashamed of the fact. God may have given you a face fair enough to outshine the sun, but he gave me arms strong enough to weld a fast battle axe. Actually, any weapon at all is my friend. I thank God every day for blessing me with the ability to fight so well.”
She clicked her tongue. “Don’t blame God for your bloodlust.”
Gus turned so that he could meet her eyes. “If God did not mean me to be a fighter, what was he thinking making me this size? I’m built for battle.”
Morgann rode up from behind, nestling in beside Gus. “Brother, look ahead.” He pointed at the copse of trees in the distance.
Gus followed the direction of Morgann’s finger to the nut grove behind the hill.
His sense of foreboding increased. “Tis very late in the season to not have harvested the walnuts. Why, they’ll be spoiling on the ground.”
Morgann nodded. “Exactly. The serfs seem to be asleep on the job. Things have fallen behind since you left, brother.”
Gus encouraged his horse into a faster pace. Another five minutes on, and he spied yet another troubling sight. The barley fields were dead ripe. Such poor farming would not bode well for next year’s food stores. Again, he quickened his canter.
But what he’d seen so far was naught compared to the sorry sight that lay ahead. Once he was upon the grazing paddocks, he saw the sheep. He’d ne’er seen such sickly beasts in his life. Some of his prized, snowy white ewes had blackened body parts. Some were so lame they needed putting out of their misery. He turned to Morgann and together they exchanged fearful glances.
A little while on, and the neglect was all about them. A cow wandered past, right in the middle of the stony road that lead to the castle. It wandered about as if abandoned. The beast was a sorry sight, too, no more than hide pulled over bone. The animal would be lucky to last more than a handful of days.
Sybilla prodded his back. “The cow and those sheep yonder,” she said, gesturing. “Something is amiss with them.”
“Aye, I know it.”
Gus strained to see his castle more clearly. “Sweet Mary. The main gate has been left wide open for any marauder to ride in and take possession.”
The main gates were never left wide open. Surely, they were not expecting him? How could they be? Weight as hefty as standing stones dragged down his shoulders.
“Hold on tight, lass.” He nudged Storm into a gallop and thundered forward.
Both horses sped to the drawbridge and bolted across unchallenged. There were no men at arms on guard, nor anyone about to welcome them in.
The lower bailey was not as he left it. The grass had overtaken the wheel tracks, and brambles and thickets of thorn grew across the well-trodden path. The path, the main thoroughfare, looked like it was barely used anymore. It was as if no folk had ridden here in a while. No cart had been pulled, nor did any animal trot about.
They cantered past the smithy’s shed. Gus noted that the furnaces were off. Normally a thick plume of smoke would be belching out and blackening the air by this hour. And the candlemaker’s hut was partially covered in ivy. Lichen was beginning to form on the sills.
Where was everyone? The lower bailey was as eerie and lonely as a shipwreck bobbing about on calm seas. Gus looked over at Morgann and saw his own grave misgivings reflected in his brother’s
face.
Swallowing the despair rising in his throat, Gus pointed towards the ramp that led to the upper bailey, and encouraged Storm onto the steep pathway. The upper bailey was no prettier a sight. The courtyard couldn’t have been swept in months. The blackberries and brambles grew across the ground in a thorny tangle. He spied remnants of straw, but none was fresh as it should be. The air was fetid with rotting reeds and another odour, too, that smelt akin to cat’s piss. There was no aroma of fresh bread wafting from the castle bakery today. Nor was there anyone about to bake the bread.
The door to the cobbler’s croft was open. They trotted past, and the three of them peered inside, but it was to no avail. Not a soul was to be seen in there either.
“Where is everyone?” Sybilla whispered.
They trod on slowly past the lean-to where the Keeper of the Wardrobe lived; his shutters were barred tight.
“I wish I knew,” Gus said. He’d almost given up hope of finding a living soul, when he spotted his Marshall stepping out of the stable.
“Broc,” he cried and waved at the man in the same way that a castaway might wave at an approaching ship. Broc faced them. There was a weariness about the man’s skin that made him appear older than his years.
Gus could barely contain himself. “Where is everyone, Broc? My namelings—are they in my keep? And my castle, what a state she is in.”
Broc stepped forward, dragging his left leg over the brambles. “Laird, you have returned, praise be the Lord. I pray you have found a cure.”
Gus nodded impatiently. “Broc, my man, what goes on here? You must tell me the way of things, at once.”
Broc moved slowly forward, so he could lean his weary body against Storm. For a man of thirty summers, he was a shock to see. His face was drawn and haggard, each line etched deeper than the last. Gus remembered supping with Broc on the equinox, and back then, he’d been youthful, jesting, and bounding about like a pup. Broc was not bounding now.
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