by Cathy MacRae
The brooch was worth the price—as was her uncle’s freedom.
Only three days until the winter solstice. If she timed her foray carefully, she could arrive whilst any squatters slept off the good cheer of the feast day. That gave her little more than a day to make her plans. She would tell no one. The travel to Siller Stane Keep was not strenuous, and she knew the way well. Michaell’s lessons made her confident she could fend for herself. Who else would care to be about in such weather and during such a festive time anyway?
Mhàiri hurried inside, her mind churning with excitement. If God was with her—and surely he would bless her attempt to regain her mother’s holy relic—she would soon have the means to pay her uncle’s ransom—and make this the most joyous Yule in many years.
* * *
The promised snow dumped from the sky in a storm the likes of which Mhàiri had never witnessed. Her excitement at stealing away to her old home rose, becoming a fierce determination to succeed despite the danger. Before her grandfather died, she would see his son returned. Gregor Scott was a fierce man several years older than her mother, with neither wife nor child to follow him. A smile threatened as she imagined the braw man cooling his heels in an English prison this past year. It was a wonder he hadn’t been shipped home from sheer frustration on behalf of his gaolers. Or hanged.
She shivered as a tingle of premonition skittered down her spine. She would see to it he was brought home soon, blasted snow storm or not.
After drawing on the heavy, rough trews she’d borrowed from an unsuspecting stable lad, she added thick socks to her feet. Three tunics and a woolen cloak, hood pulled over her head, blocked most of the wind as she slipped across the yard to the stable. She quickly saddled her pony then draped a pair of bags laden with food and grain over his withers, adding a water skin and extra blanket. Taking a firm grip of the pony’s reins, she led the reluctant beast from his warm stall into the frigid morning air. She held to the shadows and slipped through the postern gate without comment from the guard bent over a brazier warming his hands.
* * *
The bitter wind pelted Mhàiri’s cheeks with snow and ice, a stinging assault on her exposed skin. Her eyes watered, tears freezing to ice crystals on her lashes. She lifted a hand bound with strips of woolen cloth and wiped her face.
She glanced at the horizon, a blurred line of swirling gray and white against a fading sky, the imposing bulk of Siller Stane Keep a dark shadow upon the hill. The countryside was blanketed in deep snow, a gift from God to keep folk off the road as she approached the keep. But it had delayed her journey as she and her pony struggled through the drifts that obscured the path.
Her toes tingled in protest against the cold and she urged her mount forward, anxious to find shelter behind the ruined walls. Blackened stone loomed before her, and, to her surprise, the gate was closed. She peered upward and spied a cloud of smoke hanging low beneath the thick clouds.
She frowned. Squatters. They would be huddled together for warmth within the empty keep, but it was possible they’d set a watch on the wall. Would they compromise their comfort with diligence?
Regardless of the guard or lack thereof, the fact remained the gate was not open to her. Undeterred, Mhàiri scanned the base of the wall, seeking the door she and her ma had escaped through four years earlier. Her memory of it was clouded by darkness and terror, but there had been brambles shielding the portal—there!
In satisfaction, she reined her horse to a copse of trees a short distance away, sheltering him in the lee of a thicket. She removed the saddle and wrapped the extra blanket over his back. Pulling a bag of oats from her pack, she left him munching his supper in relative comfort.
Her booted feet left deep depressions in the drifts, but her cloak helped sweep them clear. She rather doubted anyone would notice the footprints as night fell, and she hoped to be on her way back to Claver Hill before dawn. Still, she would rather not draw attention to the hidden passage.
The door had remained unlocked all these years. Pressing her fingertips to the worn wood, Mhàiri was pleasantly surprised to find the door opened with only moderate complaint. She spied the key where she’d left it in the lock, and memory came flooding back.
We must hurry, Ma . . . . Dinnae fash. I willnae leave ye.
She shoved the ghostly voices aside and pulled the door shut.
CHAPTER FOUR
Siller Stane Keep
Earlier that day
Michaell inspected the room with a critical eye. He had no personal knowledge of the bedroom’s previous appointments, but the furniture in the lord’s room had escaped the original fire and was sound—even if the bed was oversized. But then, Muckle Alan Burns had been bigger than life. The hearth was swept clean and the bed hangings had been taken down, beaten and aired, then rehung and tied at each bedpost.
He sniffed the heavy cloth, but the airing—and four long years—had removed the last vestiges of smoke. He thumped the thick mattress, pleased with the dense softness.
Just what a woman likes. And just in time for Yule.
Or, at least, what he hoped she would like. He ran a hand appreciatively over the intricately carved headboard. Birds and flowers competed in a riot of form, detail slightly worn over the years. Two large thistles climbed the far bedpost. He touched the brambled stalks, smiling as his fingertips glided gently over the smooth wood.
Deceptive, isn’t it? Looks like it’d prick me good.
He swore softly as a thorn gave way beneath his finger.
Damned thing broke . . . .
He stopped. It hadn’t broken, only shifted, and the depression beneath the thistle opened. Blinking in disbelief, Michaell stared into the tiny recess, then reached two fingers inside. He flinched as he encountered something velvety and supple—and immediately thought of the corpse of a small rodent. With a grimace, he stepped to the hearth, grabbed a piece of kindling and returned to the bed. He dislodged the soft sack with a quick swipe of the stick and it fell to the floor with a gentle thud.
The bag was the size of the palm of his hand and he marveled to think it had fit in such a small hiding place. He lifted it and carefully untied the drawstrings then pulled them apart and dumped the contents onto the bed. An obelisk-shaped item, wrapped in strips of yellowed silk stared at him from the blanket like a single eye.
Early morning light from the three arrow-slit windows, their shutters folded open, bladed across the bed. Michaell unwound the cloth and moved the object into one of the beams. The heavy gold glowed with burnished warmth and the red and blue stones winked like recently woken eyes. He picked up the brooch and tilted it back and forth, noting the perfect crosses that glittered across each stone. Hefting the piece in his hand, he was surprised by the substantial weight.
This is worth a pretty penny! It must have belonged to Mhàiri’s mother, as the bed was carved shortly after she and Muckle Alan wed. He smiled. Mhàiri will be happy to see it. ’Twill make a grand betrothal gift.
He wrapped the brooch and dropped it in the velvet bag, drawing the strings and tying them securely. He set the bag back in the hole beneath the thistle, then thought better of it and placed it in the pouch on his belt.
He rose and closed the secret chamber, patted his pouch reassuringly, then strode from the room, closing the door carefully behind him. Descending to the hall, he nodded to the handful of servants seeing to the morning chores. Things were coming together nicely, and if all went well, he would be able to approach Mhàiri’s grandfather for her hand just after the new year. He patted the pouch again.
Mayhap sooner.
Whistling happily, he gamboled down the stairs to the first floor where he knew he’d find Aileen, busy in the kitchen. She set aside her task of directing the preparation of the Yule breads and greeted him warmly.
“Ye seem happy this morn,” she said, giving him a playful clout to his ear. “Could it be because yer da willnae likely leave his warm hearth in this storm to visit his favorite wee son?”<
br />
Michaell laughed. “Ye know me too well.”
“And that could be because I swaddled yer bum when ye were but a bairn.” She leveled a floury finger at him. “And that was more than a few years ago.”
“There must be something likeable about me,” Michaell teased. “Why else would ye have left da’s employ to work here?”
“Bah! I’m too old to be doing battle with the Kerr on a daily basis. He likes his meals just so, and it fell to me to remind him the world dinnae bow and scrape to him all the time.”
Michaell shrugged. “I couldnae have gained Siller Stane Keep without his help.”
“’Tis truth. But I heartily approve of yer plan.”
“Da was only too happy to supply the coin and men to take the keep from the English rabble squatting here. Kept him from having to carve up part of his lands to give me a holding and removed a thieving thorn from his side in one stroke.”
Aileen patted his cheek. “Yer da is proud of ye. Pay no attention to what he says. He’s a gruff auld bastard because it suits him to be.”
“He doesnae believe I can defend the keep,” Michaell said, the familiar ache of paternal scorn and lack of worth burning in his gut. “’Tis not my fault he’ll swive anything in skirts and has a passel of bairns to show for it. Good luck to him marrying my six sisters off before they’re dried up and worthless.”
“Michaell! Dinnae speak ill of yer sisters. Yer da will use them as he sees fit, and the Kerr lands and power will increase because of it. Their lives are much worse than yours.”
Michaell bowed his head. “Aye. I am rebuked. I willnae treat my wife as da has his three—four,” he added, remembering the young lass recently wed to the Kerr only months after Michaell’s mother died birthing her fifth child.
Nor will I give her cause to believe she is anything but loved. I willnae further my father’s legacy. The pain bit deeper. Though I dinnae know if I am worthy of her.
“I am anxious to meet this paragon ye have chosen,” Aileen grinned. “To hear of her, she is more beautiful than a sunrise over the abbey, purer than a Highland loch, and sassier than the pup ye brought with ye from home.”
Michaell’s attention was instantly diverted. “Where’s the wee beastie? There’s more storm brewing, and I doubt he’s smart enough to leave off hunting rats merely to avoid a dusting of snow.”
Aileen snorted. “’Twill be more than a dusting by afternoon. The clouds are ripe with snow and again darkening the sky.”
“I will look for him in a moment. I wanted to show you this.” With a quick glance to ensure they were alone, Michaell drew the velvet bag from his pouch and emptied it into Aileen’s outstretched hand.
Her eyes widened as she unwound the cloth strips and gold, rubies, and sapphires glowed against her palm. “Michaell, me lad, where did ye find this?”
“’Twas in a hidden chamber in the lord’s bedroom. It must have belonged to Mhàiri’s mother. ’Twill make a grand betrothal gift, aye?”
Aileen’s eyebrows rose. “’Tis a fine piece, though I am no judge of jewelry,” she replied. “This could set ye on yer feet without a farthing from yer da for the rest of yer life.”
“Och, I doubt ’tis worth as much as that, but the weight of the gold alone is substantial. The stones are quite large and the stars are perfectly centered on each one. ’Tis a craftman’s work of art.”
“A craftmaster’s pride,” Aileen noted. She rewound the cloth and handed the brooch back to Michaell. “’Tis as well ye plan to give it to yer intended. I dinnae know where ye would find a buyer for it here.”
“Aye. I would need to take it to Edinburgh or the like to get a fair price.”
Aileen sent him an arch look. “Would ye do so?”
Michaell sent her a rueful smile. “Och, I daresay ’twill look better on Mhàiri than in a jeweler’s vault.”
“Hmph.” Aileen placed a hand on her plump hip. “I suggest ye find a better place to conceal it than yer pouch. Mayhap a leather thong about yer neck? Hide it beneath yer tunic.”
“An excellent idea.” Michaell planted a kiss on the old woman’s forehead. “Ye always know what is best.”
“Be gone with ye, ye wee scunner! I’ll have none of yer feeble flattery.” Her pleased smile belied her scold.
“Feeble is it?” Michaell arched an eyebrow. “Then who did ye cook the extra Yule cake for?”
“For the uninvited guest, as ye well know,” Aileen scoffed, though Michaell knew the extra cake would appear at his bedside the morning after Christ’s Mass. Likely covered with a linen cloth to keep it warm, and with a mug of steaming ale to go with it.
He grinned, satisfied to have Aileen present in his new home. Thanks to his da’s backing and Aileen’s attention to detail, Siller Stane would soon house its young mistress again—and her new husband.
* * *
Wind hurled enormous snowflakes against the gray stones of the keep and whined through the arrow slit windows. Below, Aileen sent serving girls scurrying to secure tapestries at each window as flames leapt and dodged the bitter breezes within the hearth.
Well-wrapped against the cold, Michaell sat in a carved chair at the head of the table, relishing his full belly and the nip of frost in the air despite the roaring fire halfway down the length of the hall. Henry, the errant pup, curled in Michaell’s lap beneath his wool cloak, adding to Michaell’s sense of well-being. Around him, the small group of people who’d remained to service the keep lolled about in pre-somnolent attitudes. The keep boasted five levels with a sleeping chamber on the first floor above the room set aside for storage of whisky and foodstuffs, but everyone would likely remain on the second floor for the next several nights, huddled near the great hearth and each other for warmth until the storm blew past or died.
Michaell touched the velvet bag strung about his neck, wondering at its history. He had lived at the keep for nearly eight years, arriving as a ten-year-old boy sent to foster under the brilliant tutelage of Muckle Alan Burns. Lady Burns, her health already failing, had had little time or energy for her six-year old daughter, and Michaell, missing his own little sister, had found opportunities to spend an hour or so each day with Mhàiri—despite the derision from his peers over wasting time with a wean—and a lass, at that.
Did Mhàiri know of the brooch?
Michaell moved his cloak aside and stroked the terrier’s head. “What say ye, Henry? Does our lady know of this wee treasure?”
Henry squirmed and tucked his nose closer to his furry feet. Clearly, brooches did not interest him.
Michaell scratched Henry’s chin and the pup rolled onto his back, requesting the same treatment for his belly. Michaell obliged. Henry sighed and twitched a paw.
“Whenever ye rouse from yer slumber, I’ve a mind to check the ramparts before I head to bed.”
Henry flipped another paw, choosing another belly rub over the possibility of going out in the storm.
Michaell leaned closer to the furry ear. “And I’ve a notion to take another look in the lord’s chambers. Mayhap ye can help by checking it for rats.”
This time an ear twitched, breathing suspended as if Henry considered the lure of chasing rats. He rolled to his feet and stretched then wagged his stumpy tail happily.
Michaell used the three flights of stairs to burn the pup’s energy to a manageable level. Mere moments out of a deep sleep, Henry was already excited about the new venture and raced ahead, barking his challenge to all four-footed denizens of the keep.
Reaching the door to the ramparts, Michaell scooped up the wee mischief-maker and tucked him inside his cloak against the cold. He paced behind the low stone wall, nodding to the two soldiers tucked inside a narrow alcove, huddled over a glowing brazier for warmth. He’d seen to it the guard changed frequently during the night.
Peering over the edge, he shook his head at the swirling snow that hindered his view of the surrounding area and made the familiar scape a strange mix of shapes. Soft white mounds hi
d large boulders, the entire area concealed by the almost non-existent moonlight, and shrouded in gray and black shadows. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. This was the perfect time for an attack to retake the keep, and for all his sire’s dire predictions to come true.
Michaell bent his head against the icy wind and spoke with the guards in the alcove. “Take special care tonight. Only an amadan would be out in this weather, but I havenae grand opinions of our English neighbors. Yule or not, they likely still smart from our re-taking the keep six months ago.”
“Och, dinnae fash, lad. We willnae allow William to take the title from ye.” The soldier grinned, reminding Michaell of his father’s threat to turn the keep over to his older brother should his guardianship prove lacking.
“Sir,” the man added, touching two fingers to his forehead.
“The entire English army could be hiding in the trees and we’d not know it,” Michaell grumbled, allowing the familiarity to pass and accepting the belated respect. “All I can say is, if so, they’ll have ruined another Yule, and I hope their frozen bollocks are worth it.”
He bid them a good eve. The guards reluctantly left for another round of the parapet, exchanging their shelter with two other guards who tramped into the alcove for their chance to thaw hands and feet.
Satisfied nothing more than frostbite threatened the keep, Michaell headed toward the lord’s chamber two floors below. Heat from the great hall below warmed the wooden floors, but the air was crisp and his breath hung in frosty steam in the room despite the small fire on the hearth.
“Here ye go, Henry,” he murmured, setting the terrier on the floor. “Earn yer keep.”
The pup bounded about the room, nose to the floor, tail beating the air as he searched for furry interlopers. Michaell watched in amusement. In another year, Henry would be old enough and big enough to join the pack as a fox hunter, but the winsome pup had settled into life with Michaell instead of the Kerr kennels, and carved a space in Michaell’s heart for the nonce.
