The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  Watching the horses clatter out into the bailey, their steel shoes striking sparks of the cobbles, Rob wished he were going with them. His own mount had stood by patiently while the others bustled about, and now that they were gone, Rob began grooming the mount he’d been given as his own.

  The McArthur had seen to it that Rob didn’t stand out as being the only squire with no family behind him, supplying him with arms and clothes as well as horse. Naught he wasn’t used to, for Wolfsdale’s wealth was no secret on the borders.

  He was humming one of Nhaimeth’s ditties under his breath as he worked, when the Moor struck. Rob recognised him at once by the colour of the skin on the arm that hooked around his neck, cutting off his breath. Certain, knowing it for the truth, knowing men of the Moor’s heritage were few and far between in Scotland. Morag’s worst nightmare was coming true, and, to Rob’s dismay, he was in the middle of it.

  A shudder ran down Rob’s spine as he listened to, “So you ran, little wolf cub, but not far enough. As you can see my reach is infinite.”

  The Moor was of a much slighter build than Rob, but taller, with muscles like whipcord. For a few blurred moments, all he could remember was the incident that had set him and his mother on this road. Morag had sought to protect him from this man, but some villains simply wouldn’t be gainsaid. Then Rob’s training resurfaced, in particular the wrestling moves Graeme had taught the squires and that they had practiced against one another. He couldn’t let this killer take him down without a fight.

  Most of the women in the crowd around the wagon were after something warm, hardwearing and cheap. Morag, on the other hand, had something a mite softer in mind. Plucking a corner of white fabric from a bolt, she smoothed the delicate weave over her fingers. Mhairi pushed through the throng to stand by her side. With finger and thumb, she tested the weft against the warp. “Fine enough to pass through a wedding ring. Purchase a guid length for wee gowns.”

  Her faded eyes scanned the contents visible in a pile in the back of the wagon. “Get a piece o’ that lace for trim, Euan won’t argue. Comes frae across the water that does, bonnie isn’t it?”

  Morag looked askance at the auld nurse. “I know fine where it comes from. Belikes it was wove in Flanders… but lace?”

  Mhairi’s eyes lit up for once, like sunshine breaking through morning fog. “Eh, lassie, auld age is nae just aches and pains; it’s an accumulation of experience. But time will tell I’m right. Buy the lace,”

  Mhairi was always tossing hints at her but this one lacked subtlety. Nonetheless, it startled her. A wee lass? Could it be that the notion Morag had hinted at with Euan, and never given another thought, might be correct? What skills had she to pass on to a daughter, she who’d lived most of her life without a mother by her? She’d run wild, been faster on her feet than her nurse. Witness the day she’d found Euan among the dead on that battlefield.

  She’d just decided that she had done enough soul-searching for two lifetimes, when an excited shout brought an abrupt end to her latest cogitations. Two horses burst frae the stables. “Make way! Make way, the mercenaries are nearly at Cragenlaw and we’re riding to meet them with the McArthur.”

  A quick glance at the faces told Morag Rob wasn’t one of their number, but she had hardly a moment to wonder where he was, because the women bustling about at the back of the wagon began complaining at the pedlar’s next words, “Come along there, lassies. I have to be on the road to Comlyn’s hall before darkness falls.”

  The pedlar’s eyes shifted from left to right, watching their faces, moving back and forth behind the wrinkles that had formed on the ill-used piece of leather that passed as his face. Then he smirked at them. “Does no one here ken there’s going to be wedding? Comlyn’s daughter, Kathryn, is to be wed.”

  Auld Mhairi turned to face Morag, who could see the nurse had been caught off guard. Mhairi prided herself on being first with any news going, be it true or not. “Well, now, there’s a surprise. It will take a brave man to marry Kathryn. She’s a wilful madam.”

  Morag’s mind was wrenched away from fabrics and fripperies, as she pondered the news. Around her, women rushed their purchases and dispersed, while Morag wondered who Kathryn’s groom might be. Eligible bachelors whom Erik the Bear would consider worthy were few and far between. Comlyn must have arranged a marriage with someone from outside the area.

  Had Euan heard?

  A new alliance could mean a new enemy.

  She turned around, gaze scanning the bailey, looking for Euan, but of course he had gone. She did, though, see a disgruntled Alex leading his horse back to the stables.

  Rob let out a grunt at the back of aiming an elbow at Kalem’s ribs, and tried not to show his alarm. He’d be fortunate to survive this attack alive.

  Kalem the Moor. Aye, if there was ever a man that would carry a grudge this far, and not just the distance from Wolfsdale, it was the Moor. Grimacing, Rob’s struggles took him closer to the hay bales. He’d shoved his short sword into one, out of his way, while he brushed the dust from his horse’s hide.

  The Moor’s arms were like iron bands around his chest, Rob pushed a heel behind him between Kalem’s legs, but the Moor was onto that trick. He refused to stand still long enough for Rob to hook his foot around his enemy’s ankle. When that failed, Rob dropped to his knees, the pain as he hit the cobbles, taking both his weight and the Moor’s, was excruciating, but he crushed it down.

  There would be no pain when he was dead.

  He could see the hilt of his sword.

  Better yet, he heard fabric rip and remembered the iron nail he kept intending to pull out of the wooden post outside the stall. Just a little closer, he decided, flexing his fingers as he imagined grasping his short sword. Then, he heard Alex yelling, “You wouldn’t believe it, Rob, this brute has thrown a shoe, can I borrow yours?”

  Rob didn’t know whether to be annoyed or happy when the Moor twisted at the sound of Alex’ voice, for the movement made him lose sight of the sword.

  “God’s blood, what’s this, a fight and you didn’t deign to invite me?” Alex’s next mistake was to draw his sword. He had no notion of the kind of man he was confronting.

  “He’s a killer,” Rob yelled to his friend, warning Alex, even as the Moor slammed Rob’s face into the post and his world stopped.

  McArthur housecarls and warriors both lined the battlements above the gatehouse, high above the spit with the sea roiling under it. From where they stood, it was possible to watch the mercenaries arrive. Nhaimeth was among them, and jovially joined in the asides, casting aspersions on the mercenaries by making jokes about their gender, laughing over the tiny size of their pricks and demonstrating the measure between finger and thumb. It was only understandable that the McArthur men would be a worrying about the men from the south showing them up.

  Nhaimeth’s thoughts on the matter were coloured by his experience with the Ruthven clansman who had tried to feel more than his hump, as he’d confessed to Rob. It was the size of Nhaimeth’s cock that had held the brute’s interest. Even now, he was ashamed he hadn’t told Rob everything, after the secrets the lad had shared with him.

  It had been bothering him for a while, had crept under his skin like a wee worm that asked if it was worth the cost of Rob’s friendship. The lad had matured out of all recognition since he’d begun training with Graeme. His easy manner had even captured Alexander’s friendship, and Nhaimeth was surprised to find he didn’t grudge his young half-brother Rob’s comradeship. Free frae Comlyn’s influence the lad had improved out of all sight.

  The mercenaries marched between the walls of the spit while waves broke on the wedge of cliffs that rose from the sea. The captain leading them was attired in silver helm, breastplate and hauberk, all shining in the afternoon sun. Now, there was a man who would be hard to ignore.

  A flash of colour moving across the outer bailey caught Nhaimeth’s eye. For a change the pedlar was cutting his visit short. Nhaimeth huffed down his nose
. No doubt he’d grabbed all the silver he could, and was away again afore anyone had the cheek to grab it back.

  No matter, he could see this turning into a merry grig when the two met either side of the gatehouse, for there wasn’t a skerrick of room for both. He wished Morag were there with him; it had been a while since they had had a laugh together. With that thought in mind, he left his place on the battlements and started down the steps into the outer bailey for a closer look at the kerfuffle that was sure to ensue. It was unusual for the pedlar to bring a servant, and one so finely dressed—a red-hooded cloak covering him from head to feet.

  The stairs were steep and the depth of tread more than his wee legs liked, which meant slowing his eager pace to watch where he was going. Next time he looked, two warriors were at the heads of the pedlar’s horses’, holding them back. Halfway down now, Nhaimeth could look down on the wagon, and noticed a rip in down one side of the red cloak. Teach him right, for trying to dress like a lord.

  The horses champed at the bit.

  Level with the servant’s hood, Nhaimeth paused for breath. The servant’s hands fidgeted on the rains, passing them from hand to hand. Nhaimeth stared, curious to see such pale nails on hands that were so dark brown they might have been gloves. Few dark-skinned people travelled this far north. In truth, the only one Nhaimeth had heard of was the Moor Rob had spoken to him of. The Moor.

  For a moment he stood stock still, gulping down air, breath after breath, as if to prevent his heart dropping into his stomach. At the foot of the stairs, he ran as fast as his wee legs could go, hoping Morag would be in the Great Hall.

  Running under the arch that opened into the inner bailey, he looked over his shoulder. Mercenaries, too many to count, poured over the drawbridge, swarming past their leader on his huge grey destrier. Any moment now the wagon would leave.

  Nhaimeth ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Chapter 25

  Inside the ironbound chest, the one Astrid had used to store her weaving, Morag placed her purchases for the baby. Somehow, it seemed fitting that she add some of her precious soap. For wasn’t it the elusive scent Euan remembered that had drawn him back to her without conscious thought. It would appear the workings of mankind’s senses were complex beyond measure.

  Morag washed her face and hands then combed and braided her hair. By that time, she felt presentable enough to sit by Euan’s side at the high table and help him entertain his new guests, as she had done while Colin and Iseabal Ruthven visited Cragenlaw. She left the solar, determined Euan would not find her skills as a hostess lacking.

  As she hurried down the winding stairs, veil flying behind her, a picture of all the men who had poured into Cragenlaw sat at the back of her mind. A word with Duncan would surely ease it. The seneschal was a canny man and, with winter on its way, all these extra bellies wanting filled meant the storehouses would need to be full to overflowing.

  The herbs among the rush-covered floor smelled sweet, but by the end of winter the hall would smell of unwashed bodies and woodsmoke. It always amazed her how brave men would turn tail at the sight of an ice-covered water butt.

  “Morag!” The shout came from the wide stone entrance. Nhaimeth’s voice had a sharp edge, foreign to the wee Fool, whom she had never seen hurt, angry or anything but jovial since the night Astrid died—except when she and Rob were in danger. She ran toward the short figure silhouetted against the light. “Nhaimeth, what ails you?”

  “Not me, I’m worried about Rob. The man he told me about, the Moor, I think he was here.” She gripped his hand and squeezed tight, fear for her son giving her strength she didn’t normally possess.

  “Where did you see him?” her hand went for the small knife she’d worn under her plaid as she travelled to Cragenlaw, no longer there. Not since she had begun to feel safe, both in Euan’s arms and his castle. She had become smug, but now it seemed the past had caught up with her and Rob if, God save her, her son was still alive.

  “He was driving the pedlar’s wagon, like a servant, yet he kept his face hidden, shielded by a hood.”

  “I was at the wagon and never noticed.” She felt the colour drain from her face. When had she become so complacent?

  Nhaimeth lifted her hand, spread the fingers wide, giving her bloodless nails a rub with the fat tip of his short thumb. “Coming down the stairs from the battlements, I looked down on him, saw his hands holding the reins, the pallid nails and brown skin.” He looked down at his own white freckled hands. “I’ve never seen a man of his colour afore, but then I remembered what Rob told me.”

  “Well done, Nhaimeth. If our luck holds, Rob may yet be safe. The pedlar left in a huge rush, when he could have sold more. I think it must have been because of the mercenaries.” She tugged his hand, pulled him with her. “Come, we’ll look first in the stables.”

  “Aye, he still haunts the place, can’t stay away from the horses,” Nhaimeth confirmed.

  A cold chill enveloped her as she crossed the bailey, Nhaimeth trotting at her side as she silently prayed the wee Fool’s words were not prophetic.

  “Rob, Alex, where are ye lads?” Jamie shouted at the top of his voice as he reached the stables, blood still running with excitement from his short swift ride with the McArthur to greet the mercenaries and their leader. The Raven—now there was a true warrior—a knight gleaming in silver and black. Jamie had never seen its like afore.

  He had Diabhal’s reins in one hand as rode in, yet to his surprise, neither lad answered his shout. Tying up his mount, ready to tend to Diabhal afore his own horse, as was expected, he ducked, gingerly, under the destrier’s neck. The beast whinnied in distress, refusing to enter the stables, yet still no one came to his aid. “C’mon you two, this big bastard is digging in his hooves.” He yelled, as Diabhal reared, putting all his weight on his haunches. “God’s blood, it’s not my fault neither of you managed to gang with me.”

  But the stables remained silent. The atmosphere felt eerily at odds with the usual bustle. That and Diabhal’s strange reluctance to enter made the hairs rise on his neck.

  Jamie gave up the struggle. Tying the destrier where he could do no damage, he entered the stables sword drawn. The interior was grey as a rat’s back, and there were a fair few o’ them in here. Cautious, Jamie looked around the stalls. The palfrey that Euan kept for Morag, swung its head from side to side, nervous, which didn’t calm Jamie’s own fears. Then, he noticed a boot, realised a foot filled out its shape, and rushed over.

  Alex’ blood spilled over the cobbles, the straw greedily sopping it up. Jamie’s hand shook as he knelt by his friend, scared to touch him in case he was dead. Then he noticed the other sword, Rob’s, and felt even sicker than when he found Alex.

  He sucked in a breath, had Rob killed him? He bent over Alex, hoping to detect air coming from his lips. Then he heard him, “Rob…” This wasn’t what Jamie wanted to hear, he couldn’t believe Rob would hurt either of them. But Alex hadn’t given up. “A dark man took Rob … and killed me.”

  “I’m here now, you’re not dead yet, Alex.” Jamie’s heart pounded, pushed up into his throat, he had to swallow to stop panic spilling out. “You’ll be fine. Stay where you are. I’ll fetch help,” he said, immediately feeling like an idiot. There was no way Alex was going to move from that spot.

  Jamie untied Diabhal and leapt onto his back. The McArthur was needed to save the day, Jamie thought even as his heart denied it. For Alex, today might never end.

  Christ’s blood, someone had started a war. Euan had Jamie up before him, no time to waste. If Alex was dying, as Jamie surmised, Comlyn would definitely be on them like the bear he claimed to be, all teeth and claws and, God help them, he prayed that they had time to get ready. Wasn’t it bad enough that the mercenaries had seen another band of armed men heading north? And Euan with no notion of what that was about. If Comlyn had formed another alliance, then it wasn’t with a near neighbour. Euan practically dismounted before Diabhal stopped, throwing
the reins at Jamie. “See to him.” A destrier should be well used to the scent of blood, but to smell it in his stall, a place of safety, had stirred the great brute’s restive streak.

  As his feet hit the ground, he glanced over his shoulder to discover Morag and Nhaimeth running toward him. Morag’s hand cradled her belly as she ran. One look and his worries multiplied. It wasn’t enough that Alex might be dying. It meant that they would have to go to war with Comlyn.

  What if Morag lost the baby? His gut clenched. Long ago, he’d thought that the curse had blighted his life and it could not get any worse. He was wrong.

  She saw Euan gallop to the stables with Jamie and panicked. Was her worst nightmare about to come true? Had the Moor killed Rob?

  The formalities of meeting the mercenaries and greeting their captain over, the McArthur had shed his helm, but not his hauberk and plaid. On his shoulder, a silver pin emblazoned with the McArthur crest proclaimed his stature, but none of that slowed him down.

  Morag raced to intercept him afore he entered the stables. Covering her mouth with her hand, she struggled to catch her breath. Euan’s expression could only be described as harsh, stony. In contrast, Jamie’s wholesome face was ashen, which didn’t bode well.

  Something in the air was wrong, not the smell of wet straw and horse pish. She was used to that. The overlying smell was sweetly putrid, one she had never forgotten. Death.

  She threw herself at Euan, crying out, “Something bad has happened, I can feel it, please tell me it’s not Rob?”

  Morag heard the tears in her voice, but fear left no room for the secrets, regrets, weighing on her conscience. Since that ominous afternoon when she and Rob trudged through the storm to the castle gatehouse, she sensed their journey had been taking them toward this very moment.

  “No, now let me inside, lass. Alexander is hurt.” He set her aside, his long strides taking him into the stables with Nhaimeth at his heels. She followed, her own pain submerged by worry for the lad, and Nhaimeth. She doubted anyone else was aware of the close kinship between the two—no, not another soul, apart from her and Rob.