The Rogue

by Sandy Blair

  Feeling like a lead yoke had just been dropped onto his shoulders, Angus slowly rose. He patted Rampage’s thick neck, then reached into his saddlebag and withdrew the last of his bride gifts, a three-yard roll of white satin ribbon.

  With a heavy heart, he held his bride gift out in the palm of his hand—only five feet from Birdi’s nose. “I found an apple. One of the lasses must have dropped it. Would ye like it?”

  Birdi, babe in her arms, shook her head as she smiled at him. “It looks good, but nay. Ye can have it.”

  Angus’s heart stuttered. The beautiful and resourceful Birdalane Shame was as blind as a mole.

  ~#~

  Ian Macarthur, having no appetite for anything but news of his missing spae and the bastard MacDougall, shoved his untouched trencher away.

  His men had been on the hunt for two days and should have found them by now. How long could it take to find one wee woman and a bastard knight?

  He still couldn’t believe she was gone. Not after what he’d done to ensure she was as powerful as possible, more so than her bitchy dame. Were it not for his efforts, the one who called herself Birdi would never even exist. How dare she do this to him?

  And when he got his hands on MacDougall, the man would wish he’d never been born. Aye, he’d not simply kill the bastard; he’d take Angus the Blood apart, joint-by-joint, limb by precious limb.

  Relishing the agony MacDougall would suffer, he reached for his tankard, found it empty, and threw it across the room. The three women clearing the tables scattered like startled chickens before him.

  “God’s teeth! Need I do everything myself? Fetch me more ale, woman!”

  The stoutest of them, he thought she might be the smitty’s wife, muttered, “Aye, my lord.”

  He didn’t care for the sullen look she gave him as she passed to do his bidding, but he looked away rather than call her to task. His hold on the clan was already tentative at best. He needn’t go looking for trouble.

  Since the Campbells had forced the Macarthurs off their lands and out of Dunstaffnage Castle during his father’s time, little had gone right for his sept.

  With his coffers empty and deplete of warriors, his father had been given little say in what lands his sept would then control. His father was told to occupy this place and built a meager keep. Unfortunately for Ian, his father’s heir, the clan still wasn’t content. The Macarthurs were bred for the sea; they were fisherman and smugglers, not shepherds and farmers. And the land was nay better suited to tilling and harvesting, either. It generated little beyond what they consumed, so he had no ready source of revenue. And there were taxes to pay and tithes. He’d had little to draw men to him.

  Until he’d discovered the spae.

  With her at his beck and call, he remained fit and could guarantee the health of a strong man and his family’s in return for his fealty. In a life filled with pestilence and war, that was no small matter.

  And now she was gone—like his right hand. He had only one man to blame.

  Chapter 9

  As they entered the village of Inveruglas, Birdi looked over her shoulder. “What now troubles ye?” Angus, having spent the day clarifying his position on giving the babe away and breaking the handfast, was now unusually quiet.

  “I know not, but something is not right here.” He paused before a stone building with a thatched roof and dropped to the ground. “Wait here. I need check something.” He took several steps, then turned. “I mean it, Birdi, dinna get off that horse.”

  “As ye wish.” Good stars, he was getting testier by the hour. Had it something to do with their kiss?

  Aye, she, too, had found it disturbing, but in a new and wondrous way. Minnie had called yearnings evil, but what if she’d misunderstood her mother’s intent? How could something so pleasant and warming possibly be evil? Birdi huffed. This not kenning and having no other woman to ask would be the death of her.

  She caught the scent of roasting meat on the faint breeze, and her stomach growled. “Do ye ken this family?”

  Mayhap they had something she could use to better feed the babe. Might even offer a bit of meat. She’d been foolish refusing food earlier and now had a pounding head.

  “Nay, ‘tis not a home but a hostiel—an inn.”

  Ah, Tinker had spoken of inns; large crofts that people could—for a coin—find refuge in for a night or two. The possibility of spending the night with a real mattress beneath her and a fire at her feet brought her a small measure of comfort.

  After Angus disappeared through the inn door, Birdi shifted her attention to her surroundings. The village’s thatched cottages appeared close to one another, stout brown blobs strung along the wide roadway. Dark green—what she kenned to be forest—loomed behind them. Before the crofts and to her left still lay Loch Lomond, a wide swatch of glistening black. Before meeting Angus she hadn’t kenned lochs could be so grand.

  Hearing feet scamper, she turned toward the sound. A woman yelled, “Ye’d best hie, Willie, or ye’ll be getting yer bottom blistered.” A child answered, “Comin’!” and then all fell silent again but for a dog barking at a distance.

  A moment later a familiar tightness encircled her heart and her hands began to itch.

  Ack! ‘Twas the need again. In no mood to heed it, she muttered, “Sheet.” She liked the hiss and tension of Angus’s word on her tongue. Aye, ‘twas a good word, sheet.

  “Sheet, sheet, sheet.” It expressed her frustration with Angus MacDougall and her reluctance to heed the need very well indeed.

  But Angus was right about one thing. Something was definitely wrong here.

  There should be clatter, more comings and goings of clan folk. More than just a mother, a bairn, and a few dogs barking. Why were there no bairns at play, no women laughing as they gossiped, as there had been on the few times she been in the Macarthur’s village? From what little she’d gleaned during her visits to her neighbors—and despite the Macarthur being an unhappy and not particularly caring man—his clan was boisterous, the village noisy.

  Aye, something was very wrong here.

  ~#~

  Angus hunched to get through the inn door. Finding himself in an anteroom he pushed through the next door and was greeted by raised voices, one shouting, “The man’s a berserker! I’ll not pledge me fealty to the likes of him, no matter what he threatens!”

  Forty or so clansmen were packed into the low-beamed room. A stout, flame-headed man finally noticed him and yelled, “Welcome, sir!”

  All fell silent.

  “Good day.”

  Hands on broad hips, the man asked, “Who be ye and what can we do for ye?”

  Angus assessed the room’s occupants: all were men, some young, some old, most were flushed. A few shifted their hands from their tankards to the hilts of their dirks while they awaited his response.

  “Sir Angus MacDougall, on my way to Beal Castle. I recently passed through Ardlui and am disturbed by what I found there.”

  Angus wasn’t sure if it was the mention of his name or the mention of Ardlui that started the shouting match once again, but start it did. Above the din, someone slammed a tankard on a table and demanded silence. All heads turned to the barrel-chested, white-haired gentleman sitting in the corner. He rose and the men parted.

  Coming abreast of Angus the gentleman said, “I’m Connor Fraser, leader here, and you, sir, if I’m not mistaken, are the infamous Angus the Blood. Aye?”

  Angus’s gaze quickly slid around the room; all the occupants now had their hands on dirks. With effort, he kept his hands loose and at his sides. “Aye, sir, I am, and ‘tis a pleasure to make yer acquaintance.”

  The older man took his time eyeing Angus from forelock to shoes. “I knew yer father, fought beside him at Sterling.” He then grunted. “He was a fine and honorable man.”

  Some of the tension eased out of Angus’s shoulders. “Aye, that he was, sir. I still miss him.” Had for nigh on a decade now.

  Connor Fraser asked, “Wha
t news do ye bring from Ardlui?”

  “‘Tis gone. All are dead and the place is naught but ash and burnt timbers.”

  The room exploded. Everyone was shouting, most were cursing. One man bellowed, “The bloody bastard!”

  Fraser held up his arms. “Quiet! All of ye! Now!”

  The room slowly quieted, though grumbling could still be heard in the far corners of the plastered and beamed room.

  Fraser, his voice gruff and commanding, declared, “We need ask this man what he saw, then we can make plans to deal with the Gunn.”

  Angus’s jaw muscled twitched. “‘Tis the Gunn ye’ve been having troubles with?”

  The Gunns were a notoriously unruly lot, had been since the dawn of time; the clan supposedly descended from the Pictish tribes of long ago. He didn’t doubt their reported heraldry, given their taste for war.

  “Aye, they’ve been driven south and are trying to reestablish a fife here through coercion and force. We’ve already lost three men fighting their efforts.”

  Angus blew out a breath. “That explains it.” In great detail, he told the men what he’d found in Ardlui and how he’d dealt with the bodies.

  Fraser, in turn, assigned three men to travel north to bury the dead. “And take the priest with you.” Grumbling, “I’m weary of trippin’ over him,” Fraiser waved Angus to a seat.

  Uneasy about leaving Birdi unguarded, Angus said, “My lady awaits me outside. I need to bring her and the babe in.” Not until he’d said the words did he realize he’d claimed Birdi yet again. God’s teeth!

  Fraser nodded. “Please, she’s most welcome.”

  “Is there stabling available for my horse?” The goat could be tied to a fence post if need be.

  “Aye, just to the rear.”

  Angus turned and a glassy-eyed man of about twenty years blocked his path. He tensed when the man placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Are ye certain about all at Ardlui? My brother...” Tears welled in his eyes.

  Angus relaxed. “I’m verra sorry, but there wasna a man left alive.”

  The man took a deep, shuddering breath in an apparent effort to harness his grief, then moved away.

  Mentally cursing the beastly men that had inflicted such pain, Angus stepped outside.

  Birdi had slipped back in the saddle so she could bounce Wee Angus between her thighs. As he approached them, Birdi planted a smacking kiss on the babe’s cheek. Wee Angus gurgled and returned the favor with a sloppy kiss of his own.

  Shaking his head, Angus said, “We’ll rest here for a wee bit.” He’d yet to query anyone about a wet-nurse or a sacred well. As he reached for Birdi he noticed her palms were red. “What’s wrong with yer hands?”

  Scratching, Birdi mumbled, “‘Tis nothing. Did ye learn what’s wrong here?”

  He lifted her from the saddle and set her on the ground. “Aye, another clan is trying to move into the area by force. The men inside believe the bastards destroyed Ardlui, the burned out village we found.”

  As he guided her toward the inn’s door—he didn’t trust she’d find it on her own, Birdi asked, “But why would they slaughter when all they need do is ask permission to stay? There’s more than enough land about.”

  Angus rolled his eyes. Birdalane Shame wasn’t only as blind as a bat, but as naïve as the laddie in her arms. How she’d managed to survive this long was beyond kenning.

  “Land is power, Birdi, both political and financial. Whoever holds sway over this loch controls the water and a primary food supply for hundreds. Men have been known to kill for less.”

  Birdi shook her head and muttered, “Minnie was right again. Men are fools.”

  He grinned. She might have a point. Here he was, risking his future to see her and the babe safe, and for what? A kiss and an opportunity to see gratitude in winter-blue eyes.

  Birdi, scrubbing her free palm against her tunic, entered the inn. Hearing the deep growl of angry men all talking at once, her stomach flipped then quivered. She couldn’t tell how many were before her in the dark, close space, but decided there were definitely too many.

  When Angus took her elbow and tried to guide her further into the room, she balked. “Nay, I need stay by the door...should the babe cry.” Or I need bolt. If she went any deeper into the room she’d likely get trapped.

  “As ye wish.” He left her for a moment, then returned with a stool. “Sit. I’ll find us some food.”

  Birdi only nodded, too agitated by the need and by the boisterous crowd to trust her voice. When she sensed Angus had moved away, she snaked out a hand to the right. Feeling a breeze seeping along a thin space, she relaxed a bit. Angus had placed her stool next to the door.

  With one fear—of being trapped—managed, she tried to ease the heavy feeling within her chest with deep breaths, but the need continued to grow. Someone was crying out for help, needed her, but she couldn’t help. Not now. She had to stay well. She had to care for the babe and she had precious little time to convince Angus she was right and he was wrong about her keeping the babe and about their handfasting.

  Angus MacDougall was nothing like she’d been taught to expect. After their initial encounter, he’d been kind for the most part. When he wasn’t being totally considerate of her, he’d been only grumbly, more angry or impatient with himself than with her. Too, when he did smile it was as if a candle had been lit behind his eyes. They were so bright and warming, like a fire at gloaming. She sighed.

  She had so little time and so much to accomplish.

  Birdi started bouncing Wee Angus on her lap as she easily imagined the three of them living within her croft, Angus hunting, Birdi tending a small garden, and Wee Angus growing tall and strong at her knee. Quite pleased, she kissed his cheek and gave voice to the song she’d heard a villager sing so long ago.

  Dance tae yer daddy

  Ma bonnie laddie

  Dance tae yer daddy, ma bonnie lamb!

  An ye’ll get a fishie

  In a little dishie

  Ye’ll get a fishie whan the boat comes home.”

  Drooling, Wee Angus giggled, and Birdi’s heart soared. “Ah, so ye liked that, did ye?” She stood him on her lap and kissed his cheek.

  “Ye have a pleasing voice.”

  Startled, Birdi leaned over Wee Angus’s head to find a white-headed man with very sad eyes kneeling before her. Heat infused her cheeks. “Thank ye.”

  Holding a gnarled finger out for Wee Angus to grasp, the man murmured, “My grandson enjoyed that ditty as well. His name was Brion...Brion Fraser. He would have been one year come Christmas.”

  When Birdi frowned in confusion, he, apparently thinking she was having difficulty hearing him in the crowded room, said a bit louder, “Christmas, just before Samhain.”

  “Ah.” Birdi still had no idea what Christmas entailed but Samhain, the midwinter solstice, was one of her days to pay homage to Goddess.

  Something deep inside warned not to ask the next obvious question, but the words came anyway. “What happened to the babe?”

  “He died of a chest flux just three days past. We—his parents and I—kenned it could happen. He was born frail so we’d been warned it could, but we still were not prepared for it. He was so sweet and...”

  A tear slid down the elder’s face as he struggled to restrain the sob. Birdi’s heart wrenched in sympathy. Suspecting he was the source of the deep grieving need tormenting her, she asked, “How are ye faring?”

  The man shrugged. “As well as an auld man can when he outlives much-loved bairns.”

  “And his parents?”

  “Parent. Collin...the babe’s da...he was killed in a skirmish with the Gunns two days ago.”

  Stunned that the man shouldered such great loss, Birdi touched his wet cheek. Aye, he ached with bone-deep grief, but to her great surprise his grief wasn’t the one calling out, reaching for her. This man was ready for death, awaited it, would have welcomed it. “I’m so verra sorry for yer losses, sir.”

 
; “Thank ye, but I didna come over to ye to garner sympathy. I spoke with yer man, MacDougall. He tells me ye are seeking a wet-nurse for the babe, and my Kelsea has milk.” He took a deep shuddering breath. “I dinna ken if she’ll agree, but...”

  Birdi stopped listening. A fearful dread scurried through her blood. Her breath caught and her palms began to sweat. Her heart and mind were screaming nay so loudly she could hear nothing else.

  She hauled Wee Angus off her lap and clutched him to her chest.

  Nay, Goddess! He belongs to me! Mother of All, you gave him to me! Tears welled in Birdi’s eyes as fire tore at her throat.

  The old man stroked Wee Angus’s cheek as tears once again flooded his eyes. “We can ask her.”

  Birdi shook her head, then jerked, hearing Angus say, “I think we need ask, Birdi. I’m sorry, lass, but ye ken the babe canna grow as he should living on goat milk dripped from yer fingers.”

  She tried to focus on Angus through watery eyes. “I canna...I need time.” The rest stuck in her throat.

  She wanted to tell him she had a lifetime of untapped love to give this bairn and so much to teach him...about Goddess and chants, and so much to share...where the apples hid, how to find the softest flax, when to hunt for elderberries. But the words simply wouldn’t take shape.

  Angus knelt beside her. “Come, lass. I ken this is hard, but ye must do it for the babe’s sake.” Taking her by the elbow, he brought her to her feet.

  ~#~

  Birdi, the struggling babe clutched to her thudding heart, looked about the comfortable earthen-floored room she stood in. It smelled of recently roasted meat, tallow candles, and peat fire, but how she came to be in the room, she could not have said.

  The man with white hair motioned to his left. “Come, Kelsea’s in here.”

  Unwilling, but kenning she must, Birdi took a deep breath and placed one foot forward. She dragged the other after it. To her dismay, Angus whispered words of encouragement at her back as he followed them. She tried to shut them out.

  At a doorway she heard the old man say, “Kelsea dear, we have company.”