Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  Something of her sadness must have shown on her face, because Shirlei patted her shoulder. “You must come again. I am sure the children will be asking about you, particularly Sinana.”

  “She is a sweet girl.”

  “Aye. A shame about her parents. She lives with her grandfather, but spends most of her time with her horse.”

  “What happened to her parents?”

  Shirlei shook her head. “’Twas a terrible accident. Her parents fashioned the most beautiful jewelry.” She held out her arm, displaying the silver and amethyst bracelet. “They made this. One day, something in their workshop caught fire and exploded. They were both killed at once.”

  “How horrible.”

  “Aye. And Sinana’s grandfather is quite old, even for one of us.”

  “There is no other family?”

  “No. Someone will take her in, though, when needed.”

  Someone like me, Aimili thought, then inwardly chided herself for such an impossible notion. “I should go, but I shall return one day soon.”

  “We shall look for you.”

  Aimili smiled and walked away. She should return to Castle MacCoinneach, she knew that, but… She paused and looked around her. Surrounded by grassy fields, stone cottages in the near distance, the sun changing from pink to violet, she found herself wishing she was simply walking back to her home, a snug, warm cottage close to the sparkling blue sea.

  D’Ary had been right. He’d known Paroseea would draw her.

  Paroseea and the image of an orphaned fairy child by the name of Sinana.

  Padruig leaned against the rail and watched two of Aimili’s mares play. One trotted over to Padruig, batting his arm with her head, then rubbing against him. The other horse joined them to see what was going on.

  “Argante likes you,” D’Ary said as he walked up.

  Padruig chuckled as the horse continued to rub on him. “She has an itch.”

  “She likes to do that, but I have only seen her do it with Aimili.”

  “Aimili has a way with the horses.”

  “I suppose that is one way of describing her talent.”

  Padruig blew out a breath and gazed out across the bailey. “Where is she?”

  “Paroseea.”

  “Why did you not go with her?”

  “’Tis not necessary. She is in no danger there. Asides, she needs to find her own way.”

  And he definitely did not want her sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch husband to be with her, Padruig thought, wincing inside. He wondered if she would even come back.

  She would, but not for him. She would return for the horses. They were the ones who held her devotion.

  And why not? They did not take advantage of her innocence, fail to protect her, force her into marriage with a man she could never love.

  “Laird!” a voice shouted.

  Padruig looked to see Ivarr running toward him, his gaze dark and angry. “Something is wrong,” Padruig told D’Ary, walking toward Ivarr.

  “Laird, ’tis the MacVegans,” Ivarr spat.

  “What has happened?”

  “A group of the bastards attacked the sheep. Killed Diarmad’s son.”

  Padruig clenched his jaw. By the saints, Diarmad’s son was but ten and two. “How many sheep did they steal?”

  “None.”

  “What?”

  “They slaughtered six and left them lying in the field.”

  “I thought the whole point of these raiding parties was to steal food,” D’Ary said.

  “It is,” Padruig told him. “This is odd.” He turned back to Ivarr. “Gather a score of your men.”

  Ivarr rushed off.

  “Can you use a sword, or are you mostly for decoration?” he asked D’Ary.

  The other man grinned. “I can wield a sword. Many in Paroseea consider me the best, in fact.”

  “Hmm. Well, let us see you display some of that skill upon the MacVegans this day.”

  Within a short time, Padruig led his men to the spot where the MacVegans had attacked. Padruig dismounted and walked between the bloody sheep carcasses to where three men and a woman stood. Beyond them, a boy watched the remaining sheep.

  One of the men had his arm around the woman, clearly holding her up. Padruig could see the boy’s body on the ground.

  “Diarmad,” Padruig said “I am sorry.”

  Diarmad’s gaze glittered with rancor. “Damn MacVegans. Why kill a boy? Hate, ’tis all it is.” Because of you, Diarmad’s eyes said, though he did not voice the accusation aloud. His wife keened, and crumpled to her knees.

  Padruig shoved down the familiar feeling of shame. This was a day for revenge. “Who else was here?”

  Diarmad gestured to the boy across the field. “Taogh. He came to fetch us.” Diarmad’s expression dared Padruig to rebuke the boy for abandoning the herd.

  Padruig ignored it and walked over to the boy. As he got closer, he saw the boy’s shoulders shaking. His eyes were bright with tears. Padruig pretended not to notice.

  “What did you see?”

  “The bastards just rode up and k-killed Gilles. Didn’t even say nothin’. One of them pulled a sword and just ran poor Gilles through. Then, they laughed.” Tears leaked down the boy’s cheeks.

  “Did you hear any names?”

  Taogh shook his head. “I ran, Laird.” His voice was almost inaudible.

  Padruig put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Taogh, you did the right thing. There was nothing you could do to help Gilles. You were unarmed.”

  “I should have been able to do something.”

  “Your task is to take care of the sheep, not fight off armed enemies of the clan. That is my responsibility.”

  “You will find them, Laird?”

  “We ride now. And from now on, you shall have at least one guardsman out here with you.”

  Taogh visibly slumped with relief.

  “Do you know why they slaughtered the sheep?”

  “No. Don’t make no sense. Mayhap they just wanted to kill somethin’ else. Gilles weren’t enough for the bastards.”

  “Alasdair will be here shortly to collect the sheep. We shall not let them go to waste. He will give you a portion for your family.”

  “Thank you, Laird.”

  Padruig wished he possessed some magical words to comfort the boy, but there was nothing more to say. Diarmad was right. The MacVegans hated each and every member of the MacCoinneach clan and lived for the chance to rid the world of one, though attacking unarmed boys tending to the sheep was low, even for them.

  He nodded to Taogh, marched back to his men, and mounted Thor. “Randulf, have you tracked their direction?”

  “Aye.”

  “Lead on, then.”

  Though Randulf was a skilled tracker, anyone could have followed. The MacVegans had made no effort to conceal their trail. By late afternoon, they’d come to the edge of MacVegan lands, but there was no sign of the men.

  “What think you?” Padruig asked Randulf.

  “I think there is a village not far from here.”

  “They would be fools to stop there, so close to our land.”

  “They were fools to slay an unarmed boy and a handful of sheep.”

  “Aye. Let us ride on, then.”

  Padruig held up a hand to halt the men on a rise overlooking the village. It was a sizeable one, with a large stone tower in the center, presumably to provide the villagers with some refuge. They looked down on fields of wheat, empty now but for broken pieces of stalks.

  “They are there,” D’Ary said.

  Magic, Padruig thought. “Ye cannot know that.”

  D’Ary pointed. “The hoofprints lead right there.”

  “They probably stopped to refresh themselves, then continued on.”

  “Mayhap.”

  “We shall find out.” Padruig drew his sword and directed Thor toward the village.

  At the sight of him and his men riding down a path into the village, people scurried insid
e, grabbing children and running for doorways.

  “Stop,” Padruig told a woman, driving Thor to block her flight.

  She clasped her hands as if in prayer. “Please, do not kill me. I have children; I—”

  “I do not slay innocent women,” Padruig bit out. “Even if they are MacVegans.”

  The woman’s face lost all color as she realized just who she faced.

  “We are looking for a group of men who attacked my holdings, killed a child. Are they here?”

  “Kill … killed a child?”

  “Aye. Just a boy tending the sheep.”

  The woman crossed herself. “They are here,” she said, her voice hard. Pointing down the dirt path, she said, “In the center of the village, next to the green is a tavern. They are there, drinking and whoring while they wait.”

  “Wait? For what?”

  “I, uh, please, Laird, I can say no more.” She darted under Thor’s neck and disappeared into a wattle-and-daub house.

  Padruig exchanged a glance with Randulf. “What do you think she meant?”

  Randulf shrugged. “I think we’d best see to this business and return to our own lands.”

  “Agreed.” Padruig spurred Thor forward. Just as the woman had said, the road led to a large green. On one side sat the stone tower, and on the other, a squat timber building with tables set up outside. Four men sprawled on benches, cups and jugs in front of them.

  One of them spotted Padruig and let out a shout.

  Within moments it was over. The villagers had been wise enough to stay out of the fight, and the MacVegan guardsmen were too sotted to adequately wield a sword. Padruig took two, D’Ary one, and the other was no challenge at all to the other MacCoinneach guards.

  The tavern owner emerged from the building, his eyes wide.

  Padruig dismounted. “We mean you no harm,” he said. “We do not war on the innocent.”

  The man’s throat worked, and then he turned and yelled something into the building. A boy rushed out. “Fetch a wagon,” the tavern owner told him.

  The boy cut a frightened glance toward Padruig and ran.

  “Oh, my God!” a woman’s voice screamed. Padruig whirled about to see a young woman. Her gown was splattered with blood, her dark hair in disarray around her face. She took one look at Padruig and bolted.

  He chased her down, easily capturing her arms. She kicked back into his shins. “Let me go!” she shouted.

  Instead, he dragged her back to his men, who had found seats and were in the process of helping themselves to ale.

  “Do you need aid, Laird?” D’Ary called.

  “Nay.” He winced as the woman’s boot tramped down on his foot.

  She tried to yank her arm free. “Leave me be.”

  He shoved her onto a bench and crossed his arms. This was no simple villager, he thought. Even splattered with blood, he could see her bliaut was a finely woven wool. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. I was assisting with a babe.” She tried to rise, but he pushed her back down.

  “Who are you?”

  She cut a glance to the bodies of the men and said nothing.

  “They were waiting for you,” D’Ary said.

  “No.”

  “You are a MacVegan,” Padruig said.

  “Obviously.”

  Something in the woman’s eyes, her voice was familiar. “What is your name?”

  Before she answered, a man ran to the tavern owner and whispered something in his ear. The owner briefly closed his eyes and nodded.

  “You must leave,” he told Padruig. “Men from the castle approach. I want no more battles in my village. If you must kill each other, do it elsewhere.”

  The woman made to run, but D’Ary wrapped a hand around her wrist. “I suppose we will have to take her with us.”

  Padruig nodded.

  “Nay!” the woman shouted. “You cannot!”

  “Actually we can. Your men came onto our lands today. Killed an unarmed boy.”

  She paled. “Nay. They were to stay here.”

  “They became bored, my lady,” the tavern owner explained, spitting on the ground. He shook his head. “Go now, all of you. We want no more trouble.”

  D’Ary flung the girl onto his horse and mounted behind her.

  Padruig tossed the tavern owner a coin and pressed Thor into a gallop.

  On arriving back at Castle MacCoinneach, Aimili headed directly to the stable. Spending the day instructing the children on Paroseea had made her realize she’d been neglecting her own horses of late. Too caught up in the tangled mess of your life, she thought in disgust.

  She stepped into the stable and halted, allowing the familiar sounds and smells to wash over her. A low nicker, a sigh of contentment, the flapping of hungry lips searching the ground for a missed piece of hay, the earthy scent of horses.

  A stable had always seemed like another world to her, whether it was a sturdy, plain structure or the lavish quarters she’d just seen on Paroseea. Either way, a stable had long been her special place, her refuge from demands she could not or would not satisfy. The horses had their own unique way of life, a much simpler view of things. Most importantly, they accepted her without censure and without lies.

  Mist poked her head out and gave a nicker of greeting. How do you fare, my lady?

  Well enough. Aimili stopped to stroke Mist’s velvety neck.

  What is that smell? Mist pulled her lips back over her teeth and stuck her head out.

  Paroseea.

  Who?

  What, actually, and a long story, my friend. Do you feel like a ride?

  Aye, but I suggest you take out Loki. Run some energy out of him. He is in a lather over Argante and she wants nothing to do with him.

  Aimili chuckled. She will in a few days.

  You’d best keep a close eye when that happens. He is about to jump straight out of his stall.

  I will. Aimili moved down the row of stalls, stopped at Loki’s, and burst out in laughter. What in the heavens are you doing?

  What does it look like?

  Oscar came up beside Aimili and peered into Loki’s stall. His young face turned pink and she saw his lips quirk as if he was trying to hold in his mirth.

  Loki ignored them and continued with his task. His erection stuck out from his lower body and he was trying without success to rub it against the side of his stall.

  You are going to injure yourself, Aimili told him. Or get a splinter. I am not digging it out, either.

  He snorted and lifted his back leg, then stretched it behind him.

  “Do ye think he’ll fall down, my lady?” Oscar asked.

  “I doubt it, but I also doubt he will succeed in his endeavor.”

  Naysayer, Loki cursed. He tilted more to the left, and tried again, almost managing to reach the wall. Just a little farther, he said. He leaned farther over.

  I know what you are doing, Argante shouted.

  Loki jerked and landed on the straw with a grunt.

  At that, Aimili was laughing so hard tears trickled from her eyes. Oscar gave up his attempt to be mature about the whole thing and snickered. Be patient, Loki.

  Easy for you to say.

  When she didn’t respond, Loki heaved himself to his feet and gazed at her. Oh. I am sorry.

  ’Tis not your fault my husband does not want me.

  Fool. Loki shook himself all over, like a dog emerging from the loch and throwing off the water.

  Ready for a ride?

  Might as well. I am surely not gaining anything by standing in my stall staring at that obstinate wench across the way.

  Aimili glanced over and saw that Argante was standing as far back in her stall as she could get, her gaze carefully averted. Soon, my friend.

  Loki just sighed.

  “Are you goin’ to take ’em out, my lady?”

  “Aye. He needs to run, do you not agree?”

  Oscar grinned. “At the very least. You’d best stay within the castle walls though.”r />
  Aimili looked around the empty stable. “Where is D’Ary?”

  “Rode off with the laird and a band of guards, my lady. Those damned MacVegans attacked. ’Tis said they killed one of the lads watching the sheep as well as some of the animals.”

  “A boy and some sheep?”

  “Aye. Filthy whoresons they are, pardon my language.”

  Aimili shivered. Even though she knew the MacVegans had been feuding with the MacCoinneachs since the day Padruig killed Symund MacVegan, she’d not really understood the danger. For the first time, she gave some credit to Padruig’s insistence that she not ride out alone. “My husband went after them?”

  “Aye.” Oscar pumped out his chest. “Dinnae worry, my lady. The laird will see that those bastards get what they deserve.”

  “Of that, I am sure.”

  With Oscar’s aid and Loki’s cooperation, it didn’t take long before Aimili was mounted and steering Loki toward a long grassy area close to where the men trained.

  Where are we going?

  I thought you might benefit from work on a straight line.

  They passed a group of men training, their swords clanging, curses ringing equally in the air. Aimili squeezed Loki into a trot. Come on boy, carry yourself and me. She pulsed the outside rein slightly back, then released it. Think about where your feet are.

  On the ground.

  Ah, a jest. You must be feeling good.

  “Good” is not the word I would use. He sounded so frustrated Aimili had to smile. Think lift, and by the saints, pick up that hind end. You act as if you are dragging your rear along on the ground. That will not impress the mares.

  Loki came up under her. Yes. That is it. Step up.

  It does not feel right.

  It is. You are not used to it.

  I can do this?

  Yes. She pushed him into a canter. Just try to stay straight.

  Again, he came through. It was such a different feeling, Aimili felt like cheering.

  Suddenly, from the training field she heard shouting. Angry shouting. “You bastard!” one the men yelled. “That was a low trick.”

  “Only because I bested you.”

  Aimili turned Loki in a big circle and brought him down to a trot. The first man, whose name she didn’t know, delivered a punch into the face of Huwe, another guard. Huwe tackled him, and the two men rolled across the ground, pounding and cursing each other.