The Laird's Daughter

by Temple Hogan

  “This girl tended the geese and the lambs in the spring,” he said urgently. “Her name was Annie, like yours. You’ll become Annie, the goose girl, until we find a way to get you to safety. D’you understand what I’m telling you, girl?”

  She made no answer.

  Only later, when they’d found lodging in the stables, did the good father understand the girl had gone mute. ‘Tis just as well, he thought, and crept back to the chapel to tend his dead laird. He must find some kinsmen for the girl, he thought, but where to begin? Robert the Bruce had disbanded the clan. Their history was scattered. The MacDougall clan was no more.

  Chapter One

  The woods were deep and silent with the promise of danger. Rafe Campbell signaled his men to halt and sat listening, head cocked. A sudden wind soughed through the pines nearly hiding the unnatural silence. Leather creaked as Gare Campbell edged his mount closer. Both men bore the mark of the Campbell clan in their coloring and dark piercing gazes, but Gare sported a beard while Rafe’s strong jaw was smooth from daily shaving.

  “Not a sound, cousin.” Gare’s voice was low, and his glance darted along the path apprehensively.

  “Aye, and that’s what’s troubling.” Rafe’s sharp gaze swept across the forest floor, sorting the shifting shadows. “Where are the birds and squirrels playing in the trees? Something has sent them to ground.” He held up a hand to steady his men and tightened his knee grip on Bhaltair. The steed tossed its head but otherwise remained still.

  The silence was a living, breathing thing then the sound came again—the rattle of a pebble against stone, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot.

  “There’re creatures out there, but not the kind we need.”

  “Aye,” Rafe ordered without raising his voice. “Ready the men for attack.”

  The word was passed back among his riders. He drew his claymore and nudged Bhaltair forward with his booted heels. Gare fell in behind him. The gloom of the forest was cut by shafts of light that pierced the overhead foliage and hung like shimmering curtains along the path. The pale illumination was both a comfort and a curse for the shadows moved, startling both horse and man and playing tricks on the eye.

  The men were tense. They’d heard tales of the woods of Oban. Ghosts and apparitions traveled here. Rafe guessed that although they were battle-seasoned men, they had no wish to engage some nebulous being from another world.

  They moved forward about a hundred feet when a battle cry was raised, high and wild, curdling Rafe’s blood. Though the call was inhuman, the painted, half-clad figures that fell from branches and leaped from behind rocks were human enough. Rafe spurred Bhaltair forward, swinging his great claymore in a wide arch that cut down the man before him. His men seemed to take heart at this proof that their attackers were mere mortals after all and not to be feared. They fought with skill and courage as they always did, but so did their attackers.

  Rafe noticed one man in particular seemed to bear a certain mark of leadership despite his slight stature and ragged tartan. A cap covered his head, and he was clean-shaven, though his face was smeared with dirt and blood.

  He wielded a slender blade instead of the heavier claymore most men used, but seemed to be at no disadvantage for his arm was quick and sure. His thin blade slid easily between the ribs of first one Campbell soldier then another.

  Rafe wheeled Bhaltair, intent on striking down the leader, but another renegade leaped between them, barely missing Rafe’s head with a swing of his claymore. Rafe swung his own weapon and saw shock ripple across the man’s face as his severed arm fell to the forest floor. Immediately, the renegade leader was there, his slender blade pressing against Rafe’s shoulder, his eyes hard and black with rage. Nor did he blink as he held Rafe’s gaze until other renegades came to lead their wounded man away. Only then did the rebel leader remove the blade point and slip away into the trees. Surprised, Rafe stared after him. Why hadn’t the man taken advantage and drawn his blade across Rafe’s neck? A high yodeling call rang out, and the renegades withdrew, taking their wounded and dead with them as they disappeared into the forest’s shadows as quickly as they’d come.

  “Stay, don’t give chase,” Rafe ordered his men, mindful that the withdrawal could be a ruse to draw them deeper into the woods where additional forces could be waiting. “How many wounded and dead?”

  “We’ve three dead and five badly wounded.” Gare stood on the path staring up at Rafe. “If we don’t tend them properly, they’ll die before we reach your uncle’s castle.”

  “We have no choice. We have to move on. We’re open to another attack if we’re caught here in the wood after nightfall.”

  “Aye.” Gare nodded as if he’d known all along that must be the way of things.

  “Come, we ride to the castle,” Rafe called to his men. “We’ll be safe there tonight.”

  The wounded men were helped into their saddles, and the dead draped across horseback. They moved more quickly now, not wishing to see darkness fall over them in the woods.

  When they broke free of the dense trees, they found themselves moving through poorly planted fields as they passed cottages in disrepair. Ragged children halted their labors to stare at the horsemen as they rode by. The village was little better. Thatched roofs sagged over stone walls, and weeds grew where once garden patches had prospered. There was little evidence of livestock and the villagers they did see stared at them with dull, uncaring eyes and moved listlessly from the village well back to their hovels.

  “God’s blood.” Rafe cast a glance around the poor village. “Is this evidence of the MacDougall land wealth I’ve heard so much about? My uncle got a poor bargain in the King’s bequeath. These peasants seem to have no inclination to work. They’ll surely starve in the winter.”

  “Aye, and the better for it, if they’ve no heart to work for what they need.” Gare’s disdain was unshielded.

  “Still, the peasantry need the direction of the Laird,” Rafe said. “Though ‘tis true my uncle is a warrior by nature, I would think him capable of managing his holdings better.”

  “Mayhap the unrest in the land has crippled his attempts.” Gare had always held Archibald Campbell in high esteem and couldn’t countenance a word against him.

  “Aye, mayhap.” Rafe made allowances for his friend’s loyalty. “The message said there had been some trouble.”

  “Look, there’s Dunollie now.” Gare stood up in his stirrups to get a better view. “Aye, it’s a bonny castle. Now I understand the source of MacDougall pride. Sir Archibald has done well for himself.”

  Rafe said nothing, but his gaze took in the lines of the fabled stronghold. Though not of the grand size of some fortress castles, Dunollie’s high stone walls and steep, lichen-covered roof were further enhanced by conical topped turrets and round towers that rose free of the corbelling often affected by some castles. Black and brown jumbled stones had been used in its building adding strength and character.

  One day, if he came to own a castle, he’d wish for one such as this. He put away the thought. He was a warrior, a mercenary. Home and hearth were not for the likes of him. Such musings were born from a temporary need all men have to sit before a fire with a full belly, a tankard of wine and a willing wench to bed. He nudged his heel against Bhaltair’s side and waved his men forward.

  No one came to greet them as they approached. Only two men guarded the outer gate, and they made a faint-hearted demand that Rafe identify himself before waving him and his men across the bridge and into the courtyard. Even here there were no signs of concern that outsiders had ridden into their midst. No stable hands came to take their horses. No one inquired about their business.

  Gare exchanged glances with Rafe, signaling his unspoken criticism. Rafe studied the castle windows for any sign of recognition of their arrival.

  “Stay ready,” he told his men and motioned to Gare to follow. Dismounting, Rafe led the way to the small double doors set in the northwest wall. Inside, a low dark tunnel led
to a set of steps.

  Puzzled that even here he wasn’t challenged, Rafe climbed upward to a landing that opened into a spacious hall that would have been light and pleasant save the windows were shuttered and a foul stench of rotting food rose from the rush-covered floor. The hall had been furnished with long, trestle tables while benches with wooden armchairs had been placed before a stone fireplace where a fire roared in a wanton inefficiency of flames.

  Three uniformed men and a woman were seated at one of the tables, loudly disputing the outcome of a game of dice. Only the woman glanced up when Rafe and Gare entered. Two large mastiffs lay near the hearth growling and gnawing on bones long since chewed clean of any morsel. A man occupied an armchair, his foot propped on a stool, a patch covering one eye. Nearby, a small table held a goblet and a half-empty flagon of wine.

  The dogs noticed their presence first and leaped to their feet, baying a welcome or warning, though Rafe wasn’t sure which.

  “Beagan, Cronan! Come,” the man called and peered, with his one good eye, through the dark shadows at his visitors. He made no move to rise and greet them. Indeed, he seemed not to recognize them.

  “Uncle,” Rafe said, crossing the hall to stand before him. “Dinna ye recognize yer own kinsman?” Still, the man looked puzzled. “’Tis Rafe. Did you not send for me?”

  “Rafe!” Relief flooded Archibald Campbell’s bloated face. “You’ve come, God bless ye, lad.” He tried to get to his feet, but his great bulk and the swollen, gouty foot prevented such a courtesy. He cursed in frustration, his words slurred.

  “Don’t try to rise, Uncle,” Rafe said kindly.

  The laird fell back against his chair, breathing heavily with obvious relief.

  “I received your message and came at once with Gare and two dozen of my men,” Rafe continued, “although I daresay there are not that many of us now for we were set upon in Oban forest.”

  “Set upon?” Sir Archibald seemed lost in an alcoholic haze and unable to focus then he slammed a hand down on the arm of his chair. “Those devils! How dare they attack my clansman and a warrior at that? Their impunity knows no bounds. Baen!”

  One of the men at the table glanced up then went back to his game.

  “How did they know we were arriving?” Rafe asked, settling himself in the chair across from the once great warrior chief. His sharp gaze noted the signs of dissipation evident in his uncle’s mottled completion and puffy body. The nobleman’s tunic was badly stained and his braies snagged and ragged. Altogether he made a pitiful figure.

  “Bah! They know everything.” Sir Archibald moved his foot and grimaced. “Damned gout.” A look of petulance crossed his face. “Don’t think they don’t know that I’m chair bound and can’t hunt them down. They think I’m weak and can’t repel them. Why they’ve even sent assassins to kill me, but I fooled them. They depend on my infirmities to keep me from punishing them. Their heads hang on the east tower wall to show the blackguards what happens to traitors and spies. Baen saw to that. Baen, where are ye?” He rapped the stone floor with his cane.

  The gamers fell silent, and a tall man wearing a captain’s marks rose and sauntered to the fire with a slowness that denoted insolence. Rafe’s lips tightened at this lack of respect for the Campbell chief.

  “What do ye want, old man?” the man asked brusquely.

  “Baen, ‘tis Rafe, my kinsman and his lieutenant, Gare Campbell, come to help you put these scoundrels down once and for all.” Archibald’s swollen features stretched in a triumphant smile. “We’ll soon have these insurgents in hand.”

  “I told you, I have no need of help.” Deliberately ignoring Rafe’s outstretched hand, Baen glared at the old laird.

  He was a tall, fierce looking man, rough-hewed with heavy shoulders and a sullen air about him. An ugly scar began above one eye, drawing the lid down and distorting the pox-marked cheek before disappearing beneath an unkempt beard. His long hair was thick and matted, impatiently hooked behind hairy ears. He looked Rafe over with a derisive sneer, as if noting his saffron shirt, chest mail armor and clean-shaven jaw and finding it wanting.

  “You’ve a pretty lad here, Archibald,” he said loudly. “I’ve no need of the likes of him.”

  “It seems you do,” Rafe replied quietly, his gaze steady.

  Baen’s face darkened at the challenge. His lips tightened in a snarl.

  “I saw the way of it in the villages and fields,” Rafe went on without waiting for a reply. “There’s no sign yet of crops being planted or of cattle. Have you no herds, Uncle?”

  “Aye, pitiful though they are. They dwindle day by day while the outlaws fatten themselves on my cattle.” His thin lips worked in a show of self-pity. His rheumy eyes darted glances around the room but refused to meet his nephew’s.

  “We rode past villages where damage and rot affected nearly every croft. There were no gardens planted or milk cows. What will these people live on come winter?”

  “That’s the point,” Baen said loudly. “They harbor the very renegades we seek. We’ll starve the lot of them then see how well these rebels fight when their bellies rub their backbones.”

  “But you starve the women and children as well,” Rafe said, his tone even, his face unreadable.

  Gare glanced at him, sensing his kinsman’s rising anger at the injustice of all the villagers starving to weed out a few rebels.

  “Aye, maybe so, but we mean to punish those who would overthrow me.” The ailing laird glanced at his commander as if seeking approval that he’d recited his lesson well. “With you here, we’ll put them down quick enough and have things back to normal.”

  Rafe pushed away a wave of impatience. The condition of the holdings had not come to this sad state in a mere few months. Years of neglect and lack of leadership showed plainly in the poorly managed villages and even the castle itself.

  “I need you, lad. ‘Tis glad I am you’ve come. You and your men can reinforce Baen’s men and together you’ll put down this uprising.”

  “Aye, we’ll do our best to help.” Rafe glanced at the glowering captain. “That is if Baen doesn’t object.”

  “Of course, he doesn’t object, my boy. Why would he?” Archibald wheezed heavily from his efforts to speak. “Do you, Captain?”

  Baen scowled. “Just stay out of my way.” He stalked back to the table and poured himself a full goblet of ale.

  The woman had also left her place at the table and came to stand behind Archibald Campbell’s chair, one pale hand lying possessively on his shoulder. During the conversation she’d remained silent, her lips curved in a discreet smile, but now she swayed closer to the old laird, her bold gaze meeting and holding Rafe’s.

  “Are you not feeling well, Uncle?” she asked, smoothing down Archibald’s thin, graying hair with her long, pale fingers.

  The old chief looked surprised at her solicitation then shrugged her hand away.

  “Rafe, this is Maid Dianne, my niece, come to visit for a time. Dianne, ‘tis your distant cousins, Rafe and Gare Campbell.” Introductions done, Archibald seemed to lose interest in his guests and reached for his goblet with a trembling hand.

  Dianne Campbell made a deep curtsy, bending lower than was required and revealing a tantalizing glimpse of creamy rounded breasts. She was a petite woman blessed with the dark beauty of the Campbell women, and she had a sprightly air about her.

  “My lady.” Gare bowed over her slender hand, eyes sparkling as he looked appreciatively at the lovely wares that had been so wantonly displayed. “’Tis a pleasure to meet a cousin.” He grinned, so the deep dimples in his cheeks flashed. Taking hold of Dianne’s hand, he bent to kiss it. But her gaze was on Rafe. She made a pretty moue with her full lips and watched him expectantly until he stepped forward to brush his lips against her knuckles.

  “You must excuse us, m’lady. My men and I have traveled far this day, and I must see to my wounded and dead.” Preoccupied, he barely noted her scowl of displeasure but turned away from the beau
tiful noblewoman. Gare grinned again.

  “Uncle, have you a midwife or surgeon?” Rafe asked.

  “A midwife. I expect she’ll manage well enough.”

  “And my men and horses need food and shelter. There was no one about in the bailey when we arrived.”

  “A lazy, shiftless lot,” Sir Archibald muttered. “Look for Annie. She’s generally around. She tends the fowl, and she’ll roust the others for you. She’s a mute, but she’s a fine one for getting things done.”

  “Annie?”

  “Aye. She’s that poor, raggedy little goose girl you likely saw when you arrived.”

  “I’ll find her, and I’ll return once my wounded men, and our mounts have been seen to.”

  Rafe sketched a bow to Dianne and strode across the rush-strewn floor with Gare following quickly behind. When they reached the bailey, Rafe drew a deep breath but even here the air was tainted with soiled stables and courtyard. A few sullen servants had ventured into the bailey, but more out of curiosity than to offer hospitality.

  Rafe glanced around and saw a girl standing near the gate. Her head was tilted downward so the strands of hair that escaped her untidy braid spilled across her face. Her shoulders were thin, her slight figure looking even more insignificant in the loose clothes meant for a woman much larger.

  “Are ye Annie?” he called to her.

  Her head jerked up then quickly lowered. She made no answer, but Rafe suspected she saw more than others might imagine.

  “Come here, lass,” he commanded and slowly, with a great show of reluctance, she hobbled across the courtyard, adroitly sidestepping the piles of horse dung.

  Up closer, he could see her poor clothes were held fast at her waist with a cord and were surprisingly clean. Her hair, though in disarray, reflected a golden shimmer of sunlight. The breeze carried her scent, which was most pleasant. When she stood before him, she fixed her gaze on his dusty boots and waited for his biding.