The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  To that end, he had prepared a shock for Doughall, and only time would tell whether his plans had had the desired effect. The first indications were a flutter of bright banners, striped in white, red and black held high above their principle’s head with great pomp.

  “That’ll be Doughall.” Gavyn grinned at him and Graeme, and then explained. “Ever since I spoke to Morag, I keep seeing pictures that can only be from the past. One of them really has to be seen to be believed, but let me tell you, I’m fairly certain Doughall likes lots of colour.”

  Euan allowed himself a moment to glance over Gavyn. So far, every piece of clothing on the man’s back had been black or grey. Today, silver ring-mail, and black tunic adorned with the same silver brooch he’d worn the night afore. Plain, the carving on the brooch showed no more than a raven in flight. The name might have been fashioned by someone other than Gavyn, but he had had made it his own.

  “If that’s the truth of it, my friend, I have trouble imagining Doughall and Comlyn as allies.” It was Euan’s turn to drag a wry pinch of humour out of a bleak day. “Put a Bear and a Wolf in the same pen and, with a mite of good fortune, they will soon be at each other’s throats.”

  Graeme, on the other hand, had a more pertinent comment to make, “We have all agreed the Moor become a catalyst to startle a reaction out of Erik and Doughall. Just play your parts to the hilt, and soon you shall both have your wish.”

  And that was why Euan depended upon his cousin. Some might see Graeme as dour, but in a crisis, no one could have a better man by his side. And, God help his cousin, if anything should befall him or Rob, Graeme would be there to lead the clan.

  Their enemy came down the brae, spreading out into a wide fan of armed warriors across the open ground below the trees. Comlyn’s first act of destruction was to shoot flaming arrows into the dried bracken thatch covering the sod roofs of the villagers’ homes. The conflagration that resulted seemed to tickle their funny bones. They brayed like donkeys, finding humour in the very thing Euan had come to abhor, the use of fire in warfare. How could he not, when it belonged to such a daunting part of his past?

  “Seems, your men had the right of it, Gavyn,” Graeme said, “There’s nary a sign of siege engines, aye.” He nodded, all the while watching with unfeigned interest through the nearest crenel as Comlyn’s warriors advanced.

  A sardonic lift of a black eyebrow punctuated the Raven’s comment, “Perhaps their intention is simply to starve us out.”

  “Let them,” Euan drawled with a twist to his lips. “At the start of winter, there’s no castle better prepared than Cragenlaw. They’ll freeze to death on the brae before we’ve used a tithe of our stores. No, this is a show of force. I doubt if Comlyn’s informants expected Gavyn and his mercenaries to arrive yesterday. At least our folk managed to keep that quiet.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Graeme muttered, but his mind was on the messengers he had sent to Colin Ruthven and the Thane of Stonehaven, a man with the experience of age, long ago promoted to his place by Euan’s father. He would have to depend on both allies’ experience and hope that, if need be, they would meet up and plan a way to attack Farquhar and Comlyn on the ground facing the castle.

  Euan had put a fair bit of thought into the extra issues driving both the men standing against Cragenlaw. Comlyn had begun by wanting power. He still did. He was a man who thought he had long arms and wanted to extend his reach. “For a start, we can depend on Comlyn wanting to retrieve Alexander from the castle. I’m fairly certain he believes his son will be inside these walls cheering him on.”

  On the other hand, he thought, Morag’s brother Doughall is just plain evil, but belikes, easily led. He wanted Rob dead and Morag as well. Vengeance.

  The Moor had no doubt put the notion into Doughall’s head that the lad presented a threat, being the next in line to the barony no matter the lad’s birth. For certain, it had made no odds to Euan. What was good enough for a Norman king was good enough for a McArthur.

  His mouth twisted on the last thought, not quite a smirk, for there was a wry edge to his feelings he couldn’t dismiss.

  He glanced first to one side then the other, at the men standing beside him, before expressing his thoughts. “Doughall probably thinks we’ve taken the Moor hostage. Soon, he’s going to discover his mistake.”

  “God’s blood, will you look at that!” gasped Graeme. His cousin wasn’t easily surprised. Think on when he fell in love with Iseabal Ruthven: the man didn’t ken what had hit him. It simply wasn’t like his phlegmatic cousin.

  Both, he and Gavyn turned to see what had surprised Graeme.

  Euan’s lip curled as he stared at the scene on the brae. To date neither Graeme, nor he had ever gone to war with or beside Comlyn. So the sight was new to them. If they had thought that Comlyn’s usual cloak, made frae both bear fur and claw was pretentious, that was before seeing Astrid’s father’s notion of a war banner.

  The standard, hefted by the squire riding by Comlyn’s side, flared into gleaming gold wings that caught the pale autumn sunlight, and above them, teeth-bared, rode the bear’s head.

  The McArthur caught the Raven’s eye. “Perhaps Erik the Bear and your brother are better suited than I first thought.”

  Gavyn’s eyes glinted, keen. “Will they make a move today, do you think?”

  “I surely hope so.” Graeme puffed his chest. “I’m more than ready for them.”

  “That makes all of us,” Euan replied and signalled both Rob and Jamie. The lads carrying their helms were sharing duties, acting as squires for all three of the McArthur leaders.

  Now, with their helms in place, they all had various duties to perform—Graeme, initially.

  The McArthur descended the same stairs Nhaimeth had used yesterday when the wee man recognised the Moor and, as he leapt from step to step, he heard a rope creak, taking the weight on its end, before catching the breeze as it began to swing.

  In the chapel, Morag sat on a bare wooden bench alongside Nhaimeth. There was not another soul to keep him company through his vigil, everyone else being intent on the war gathering outside their gate. The wee Fool rested his elbows on his knees, his cap twisting between his hands. He wasn’t at prayer, simply wearied. “I wish I could see a happy ending to this day. Yet, I ken when Erik the Bear discovers Alexander is dead, he’ll want to pull Cragenlaw apart, stone by stone.”

  “I think that will be a harder job than even your father can manage.” Morag said, trying vainly to reassure him. “I’ve been thinking that perhaps that’s why we became friends so easily. Neither of us can say we were fortunate in our fathers, since both of them cast us aside.”

  That drew a wee smile from him. “And more fool they,” he quipped.

  “Aye,” she concurred. “We both turned out not so bad, considering.”

  Nhaimeth let out a shuddering sigh, his breath misting the air, silvered by the cool vaulted stone chamber. “Even so, something good came out of all this. For all Alexander had arrived at Cragenlaw a spoiled brat, and the pair of us had more than a few confrontations,” he recalled, “the lad turned out pretty well. I’m fair proud of my young brother.”

  Draping an arm around the Fool’s shoulders, patting his back the way she had to comfort Rob when he was upset. His awkward shape held no fear for her. He was the first real friend she had made at Cragenlaw and had been her main source of support ever since, which she couldn’t say for the McArthur.

  No, she didn’t count Euan a friend … erstwhile lover, perhaps, and when the fighting was over, who knew…

  “I was proud of Alexander as well. He and my son had become thick as thieves, and Rob told me last night that his good friend had died trying to protect him. That was well done, a brave deed. The lad is a hero.”

  “I hope our father calms down long enough to discover the truth for himself. A father should be proud of his son.”

  In the face of such disarming honesty, Morag could think of naught else to say. In her eyes N
haimeth was a hero, but he wouldn’t thank her for saying so.

  Instead, she sat quietly, bowed her head and prayed to whomsoever might be listening, either God or the Green Lady, and asked for the safety of all the other heroes in Cragenlaw.

  Chapter 28

  The deep tranquillity filling Morag’s mind wasn’t long-lived. Despite the thick granite blocks holding up the vaulted ceilings, the chapel walls still weren’t dense enough to dull the sounds of excitement resonating from outside in the bailey. Racing outside, Morag grabbed the arm of the first castle servant to pass by, and spun him round asking, “What has happened?”

  “Och, whaur have ye been? It’s war. Yon Erik the Bear has sent a wee bit o’ a lad to the gate on a horse, an’ he’s waving a white flag. Now, they’re aw saying the Bear wants tae parley with the McArthur,” the words came out in a breathless rush without much in the way of elaboration.

  Her heart surely stopped, for once it started she was breathless, and the blood in her veins felt sluggish, slow.

  Where were Euan and Rob?

  Nothing could keep Morag from trying to find out. Reaching the gatehouse, she discovered Euan and Gavyn already mounted, Rob and Jamie standing by. It appeared both destrier, one black, one grey, sensed something of great moment was about to happen. Restless, their heads swayed and tossed, making the metal on the bridles clink. Meanwhile their weighty hooves chipped away at the cobbles.

  In a show of pretence that her arms felt chilled, needing the warmth of her plaid, Morag pulled it tightly round her burgeoning body. She gripped the worsted in both hands, as to let go meant it falling open. About her, everyone gathering, waiting for the portcullis to lift inside the arched space shadowed by both towers flanking the gatehouse. Even then, no light would filter through into that grey world dividing the warring clans until the drawbridge was lowered.

  In the first instance, Morag had a quiet word with Gavyn. No need to share her fears with those around her. Naturally she was scared. All those years ago, she’d been given an intimate example of the carnage the gods of war left in their footprints. “Please take care, Gavyn. I’ve had no chance, no opportunity to know you again.”

  She tried hiding her fear behind a jest. “There’s so much more to tell you about the days before you became a Scot.” The smile she gave him felt shaky. Was it enough to disguise the emotions surging through her? Time was so short.

  She turned to Euan. “I hardly need tell you that my brother Doughall is not to be trusted.”

  “Hardly,” he agreed.

  He looked so different, almost a stranger. His features seemed set in stone, much like the night Astrid died. His third wife’s death had hurt him, of that she was certain. But Astrid hadn’t betrayed him the way Morag had by withholding the truth of their son. She feared he would always blame her for the death of his wives.

  Or perhaps she was wrong.

  Perhaps she was ladling all her female emotions—mainly guilt—over him. He thought like a man, one who cut a straight furrow between problem and solution. In contrast, Morag’s thoughts were inclined to wander down the little-trodden paths, byways that tempted one away from the main trail.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off Euan, and inconsequentially decided she much preferred the look of him wearing his eagle-feather-trimmed bonnet, the mark of a chieftain.

  Except for that night long ago in the gloaming when she’d mistaken him for Gavyn, she’d seldom seen him wear his helm. A truth that told her how seriously he judged the coming meeting with their enemies. Flag of truce be damned, Euan didn’t trust them any more than she did.

  Morag looked up at Euan. Seeing him as much through her emotions as through the wash of tears filling her eyes, she attempted to put aside the thought that perhaps she studied him for the very last time. The helm’s nose-guard bisected his face, hiding the strongest of his features, yet it couldn’t conceal that his deep-set brown eyes had lost most of their warmth.

  As if setting an example, it came back to her in a rush how King Harold might have won his battle against the Normans, but for that chance arrow that pierced his eye. She wanted to rail at Euan, ‘Don’t go!’

  But a chieftain, a leader, has no choice.

  Then Euan turned, looked at her in a way that made her wonder if he had read her thoughts. The notion whispered around her mind like a chill wind. It skittered down her spine, searched out every nook and cranny, including those beneath the skirt of her kirtle. She pulled her plaid tight again, fingernails cutting into its weave, anguished, her placid expression lying.

  What more could she do?

  Too late to voice her love of him. Too late, to speak of her heart’s desires.

  “Be careful.” I love you.

  “I’m sorry.” Come back to me.

  She couldn’t see her reflection in his eyes. His focus was all on the meeting. Perhaps, if she’d been closer to him, she might have seen manifestations of her brother Doughall, as well as Comlyn, hiding in their depths. He also might have told her that the bailey was no place for women who were trying too hard not to weep and wail. But that was what women did. They let men go about the business of war as if they felt naught.

  All yon women lied.

  Euan doled out words like a miser. “We’ll speak later, Morag. Go back to the Keep.”

  She didn’t, of course.

  She climbed the stairs to the battlements above the gatehouse to get the best view. Archers filled every crenel, strings taut, arrows notched. Behind them, warriors stood, swords in hand, bossed leather shields at the ready.

  All watching. All equally quiet as she.

  Even the castle held its breath, waiting, and naught broke the silence but the body on the gibbet. It swung gently to and fro, as if counting off time like grains of sand in one of yon hour timers she’d heard tell the English had.

  Peculiar to think of the Moor doing aught worthwhile.

  They set out on horseback, but two of them—Euan and Gavyn—across the spit, the other two heading down the brae, slowly, step for step, like a sword dance where one false move could cut you to ribbons.

  Euan heard the ruckus begin when they reached the halfway mark and, behind them, sword hilts battered against shields in a rhythm that had sounded for as long as Highland clans had made war. It was a rhythm to stir the heart, blood, and loins of any true Scot.

  But it worked both ways, inspired both sides of the conflict as the enemy warriors joined in and the din clashed in the air above their heads.

  And so it was they stopped halfway, two horse lengths apart glowering across the distance. Euan spoke first, “What say you, Comlyn, what be you after on McArthur land? Contaminating the ground with this man from the south and his nest of vipers?”

  “We want what’s ours, McArthur.” Erik growled like the bear he aligned himself with. “Otherwise we will lay siege to Cragenlaw until starvation makes you beg for mercy.”

  “I hope you came prepared for a long cold wait, our larders are full for the coming winter, our wells are deep, and when the food runs out there’s fish in the sea.”

  “This man’s nephew, the Farquhar heir, was stolen from him. You have them both, his heir and mine. We want them returned.”

  Euan breathed deeply, inhaling slowly, when at last he spoke, no emotion, naught of what he felt inside coloured his words. “Farquhar sent his catamite not to retrieve, but to abduct and kill his nephew. No man steals from me and lives.”

  Doughall drew himself taller in the saddle. Euan could see where an ambitious man like him would have felt inferior to Gavyn. And what Rob had told him about his uncle’s unnatural proclivities … was it any wonder he needed a snarling wolf on his tunic to pretend he was any kind of a man.

  “‘It’s Baron Farquhar of Wolfsdale,” he blustered, “and as is my right, I sent Kalem, the Moor, to take back what was mine.”

  Gavyn cut in, his voice loud and full of anger, “I challenge your right to lay claim to young Rob, or even the title baron. That title
belongs to your brother, Gavyn Farquhar.”

  “Who are you to challenge me, when you know nothing? My brother Gavyn died years ago at the battle of Paxton, fighting for Northumbria against you Scots.”

  “You know naught, Gavyn Farquhar didn’t die. He lives, though you did your best to put an end to him on that field. Aye, Doughall, I saw you with my own eyes.”

  “You lie! Where is my man? If you think to gain more ransom through this delay, tell me your price, my purse is deep just hand over my nephew and my man.”

  Erik the Bear had never been a man known for great patience, and today it had run out. “God’s blood, what do I care for a Moor, a black man, give me back my son.”

  Euan was done with mucking around. “You want the Moor, I hope you can climb, for there he is on the gibbet.” By pointing on high, Euan directed Doughall’s gaze to the corpse swinging like an ornament the devil might wear.

  One glance and Doughall let out an anguished howl, filled with pain. The noise of rashly drawn steel was a sound as cold as ice, and for a moment it seemed as if Doughall would dishonour the truce and charge them down.

  Let him. Anger made a poor weapon in the hands of a fool.

  As an ally, Comlyn wasn’t such an idiot as Doughall. Before Farquhar could break the truce, the Bear grabbed at the reins of his distraught companion’s destrier and heaved, turning the warhorse’s head and taking the energy from the pain of spurs in its hide. “Devil take you. Do you want to kill us both? Don’t break the truce. My son is a hostage inside there.”

  Doughall was almost past caring, but Euan and Gavyn weren’t about to put him or Comlyn out of their misery. The plans they had put together around the high table showed signs of falling into place.

  “Erik, man, forgive me, for the truth is aught but pleasant, and the turmoil has dredged up many secrets you would surely prefer not be revealed.”

  Euan paused for effect, and Erik jumped into the silence. “Secrets, and what secrets would they be? I think you’re trying to cozen me, McArthur, but I’m too canny.”