Walter grimaced and idly scratched the ragged scar on his pockmarked left cheek. “True, but I still say if ye let anyone ken ye were there ye are just asking for trouble.”
“I would like to think that verra few people would e’er believe I could do that to a woman e’en if I was found lying in her blood, dagger in hand.”
“Of course ye wouldnae do such as that, and most folk ken it, but that doesnae always save a mon, does it? Ye dinnae ken everyone who has the power to cry ye a murderer and hang ye and they dinnae ken ye. Then there are the ones who are jealous of ye or your kinsmen and would like naught better than to strike out at one of ye. Aye, look at your brother James. Any fool who kenned the mon would have kenned he couldnae have killed his wife, but he still had to suffer years marked as an outlaw and a woman-killer, aye?”
“I kenned I kept ye about for a reason. Aye, ‘twas to raise my spirits when they are low and to embolden me with hope and courage just when I need it the most.”
“Wheesht, nay need to slap me with the sharp edge of your tongue. I but speak the truth and one ye would be wise to nay ignore.”
Tormand nodded carefully, wary of moving his still- aching head too much. “I dinnae intend to ignore it. ‘Tis why I have decided to speak only to Simon.”
Walter cursed softly and took a deep drink of ale. “Aye, a king’s mon nay less.”
“Aye, and my friend. And a mon who worked hard to help James. He is a mon who has a true skill at solving such puzzles and hunting down the guilty. This isnae simply about justice for Clara. Someone wanted me to be blamed for her murder, Walter. I was put beside her body to be found and accused of the crime. And for such a crime I would be hanged so that means that someone wants me dead.”
“Aye, true enough. Nay just dead, either, but your good name weel blackened.”
“Exactly. So I have sent word to Simon asking him to come here, stressing an urgent need to speak with him.”
Tormand was pleased that he sounded far more confident of his decision than he felt. It had taken him several hours to actually write and send the request for a meeting to Simon. The voice in his head that told him to just turn his back on the whole matter, the same opinion that Walter offered, had grown almost too loud to ignore. Only the certainty that this had far more to do with him than with Clara had given him the strength to silence that cowardly voice.
He had the feeling that part of his stomach’s unsteadiness was due to a growing fear that he was about to suffer as James had. It had taken his foster brother three long years to prove his innocence and wash away the stain to his honor. Three long, lonely years of running and hiding. Tormand dreaded the thought that he might be pulled into the same ugly quagmire. If nothing else, he was deeply concerned about how it would affect his mother who had already suffered too much grief and worry over her children. First his sister Sorcha had been beaten and raped, then his sister Gillyanne had been kidnapped—twice—the second time leading to a forced marriage, and then there had been the trouble that had sent James running for the shelter of the hills. His mother did not need to suffer through yet another one of her children mired in danger.
“If ye could find something the killer touched we could solve this puzzle right quick,” said Walter.
Pulling free of his dark thoughts about the possibility that his family was cursed, Tormand frowned at his squire. “What are ye talking about?”
“Weel, if ye had something the killer touched we could take it to the Ross witch.”
Tormand had heard of the Ross witch. The woman lived in a tiny cottage several miles outside of town. Although the townspeople had driven the woman away ten years ago, many still journeyed to her cottage for help, mostly for the herbal concoctions the woman made. Some claimed the woman had visions that had aided them in solving some problem. Despite having grown up surrounded by people who had special gifts like that, he doubted the woman was the miracle worker some claimed her to be. Most of the time such witches were simply aging women skilled with herbs and an ability to convince people that they had some great mysterious power.
“And why do ye think she could help if I brought her something touched by the killer?” he asked.
“Because she gets a vision of the truth when she touches something.” Walter absently crossed himself as if he feared he risked his soul by even speaking of the woman. “Old George, the steward for the Gillespie house, told me that Lady Gillespie had some of her jewelry stolen. He said her ladyship took the box the jewels had been taken from to the Ross witch and the moment the woman held the box she had a vision about what had happened.”
When Walter said no more, Tormand asked, “What did the vision tell the woman?”
“That Lady Gillespie’s eldest son had taken the jewels. Crept into her ladyship’s bedchamber whilst she was at court and helped himself to all the best pieces.”
“It doesnae take a witch to ken that. Lady Gillespie’s eldest son is weel kenned to spend too much coin on fine clothes, women, and the toss of the dice. Near everyone—mon, woman, and bairn—in town kens that.” Tormand took a drink of ale to help him resist the urge to grin at the look of annoyance on Walter’s homely face. “Now I ken why the fool was banished to his grandfather’s keep far from all the temptation here near the court.”
“Weel, it wouldnae hurt to try. Seems a lad like ye ought to have more faith in such things.”
“Oh, I have ample faith in such things, enough to wish that ye wouldnae call the woman a witch. That is a word that can give some woman blessed with a gift from God a lot of trouble, deadly trouble.”
“Ah, aye, aye, true enough. A gift from God, is it?”
“Do ye really think the devil would give a woman the gift to heal or to see the truth or any other gift or skill that can be used to help people?”
“Nay, of course he wouldnae. So why do ye doubt the Ross woman?”
“Because there are too many women who are, at best, a wee bit skilled with herbs yet claim such things as visions or the healing touch in order to empty some fool’s purse. They are frauds and oftimes what they do makes life far more difficult for those women who have a true gift.”
Walter frowned for a moment, obviously thinking that over, and then grunted his agreement. “So ye willnae be trying to get any help from Mistress Ross?”
“Nay, I am nay so desperate for such as that.”
“Oh, I am nay sure I would refuse any help just now,” came a cool, hard voice from the doorway of Tormand’s hall.
Tormand looked toward the door and started to smile at Simon. The expression died a swift death. Sir Simon Innes looked every inch the king’s man at the moment. His face was pale and cold fury tightened its predatory lines. Tormand got the sinking feeling that Simon already knew why he had sent for him. Worse, he feared his friend had some suspicions about his guilt. That stung, but Tormand decided to smother his sense of insult until he and Simon had at least talked. The man was his friend and a strong believer in justice. He would listen before he acted.
Nevertheless, Tormand tensed with a growing alarm when Simon strode up to him. Every line of the man’s tall, lean body was tense with fury. Out of the corner of his eye, Tormand saw Walter tense and place his hand on his sword, revealing that Tormand was not the only one who sensed danger. It was as he looked back at Simon that Tormand realized the man clutched something in his hand.
A heartbeat later, Simon tossed what he held onto the table in front of Tormand. Tormand stared down at a heavy gold ring embellished with blood-red garnets. Unable to believe what he was seeing, he looked at his hands, his un-adorned hands, and then looked back at the ring. His first thought was to wonder how he could have left that room of death and not realized that he was no longer wearing his ring. His second thought was that the point of Simon’s sword was dangerously sharp as it rested against his jugular.
“Nay! Dinnae kill him! He is innocent!”
Morainn Ross blinked in surprise as she looked around her. She was at ho
me sitting up in her own bed, not in a great hall watching a man press a sword point against the throat of another man. Ignoring the grumbling of her cats that had been disturbed from their comfortable slumber by her outburst, she flopped back down and stared up at the ceiling. It had only been a dream.
“Nay, no dream,” she said after a moment of thought. “A vision.”
Thinking about that a little longer she then nodded her head. It had definitely been a vision. The man who had sat there with a sword at his throat was no stranger to her. She had been seeing him in dreams and visions for months now. He had smelled of death, was surrounded by it, yet there had never been any blood upon his hands.
“Morainn? Are ye weel?”
Morainn looked toward the door to her small bedchamber and smiled at the young boy standing there. Walin was only six but he was rapidly becoming very helpful. He also worried about her a lot, but she supposed that was to be expected. Since she had found him upon her threshold when he was the tender age of two she was really the only parent he had ever known, had given him the only home he had ever known. She just wished it were a better one. He was also old enough now to understand that she was often called a witch as well as the danger that appellation brought with it. Unfortunately, with his black hair and blue eyes, he looked enough like her to have many believe he was her bastard child and that caused its own problems for both of them.
“I am fine, Walin,” she said and began to ease her way out of bed around all the sleeping cats. “It must be verra late in the day.”
“‘Tis the middle of the day, but ye needed to sleep. Ye were verra late returning from helping at that birthing.”
“Weel, set something out on the table for us to eat then, I will join ye in a few minutes.”
Dressed and just finishing the braiding of her hair, Morainn joined Walin at the small table set out in the main room of the cottage. Seeing the bread, cheese, and apples upon the table, she smiled at Walin, acknowledging a job well done. She poured them each a tankard of cider and then sat down on the little bench facing him across the scarred wooden table.
“Did ye have a bad dream?” Walin asked as he handed Morainn an apple to cut up for him.
“At first I thought it was a dream but now I am certain it was a vision, another one about that mon with the mismatched eyes.” She carefully set the apple on a wooden plate and sliced it for Walin.
“Ye have a lot about him, dinnae ye.”
“It seems so. ‘Tis verra odd. I dinnae ken who he is and have ne’er seen such a mon. And, if this vision is true, I dinnae think I e’er will.”
“Why?” Walin accepted the plate of sliced apple and immediately began to eat it.
“Because this time I saw a verra angry gray-eyed mon holding a sword to his throat.”
“But didnae ye say that your visions are of things to come? Mayhap he isnae dead yet. Mayhap ye are supposed to find him and warn him.”
Morainn considered that possibility for a moment and then shook her head. “Nay, I think not. Neither heart nor mind urges me to do that. If that were what I was meant to do, I would feel the urge to go out right now and hunt him down. And, I would have been given some clue as to where he is.”
“Oh. So we will soon see the mon whose eyes dinnae match?”
“Aye, I do believe we will.”
“Weel that will be interesting.”
She smiled and turned her attention to the need to fill her very empty stomach. If the man with the mismatched eyes showed up at her door, it would indeed be interesting. It could also be dangerous. She could not allow herself to forget that death stalked him. Her visions told her he was innocent of those deaths but there was some connection between him and them. It was as if each thing he touched died in bleeding agony. She certainly did not wish to become a part of that swirling mass of blood she always saw around his feet. Unfortunately, she did not believe that fate would give her any chance to avoid meeting the man. All she could do was pray that when he rapped upon her door he did not still have death seated upon his shoulder.
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“Blood Feud” Copyright © 2007 by Hannah Howell
“The Capture” Copyright © 2007 by Lynsay Sands
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Highland Thirst Page 30
