The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  “The word is you’ve picked this southerner out for Kathryn, but perhaps, you should be aware that Alexander is dead, killed by that man on the gibbet, the man whom your companion holds in such high esteem.”

  The Bear roared.

  Comlyn’s battle-axe leapt into his hand, swinging, chopping, but Doughall was wily, fast, more fox than wolf. Sword still in hand, he came in low, wheeling his mount’s shoulder into Comlyn’s destrier. Though Comlyn had released the other one’s reins, he was still too close to move away with impunity.

  Once, in the days when Astrid still lived, Euan would have gone to Erik’s aid, but the Bear had bared his teeth, turning on him, showing a side he’d always kept hidden before, deceiving him.

  Now, Euan simply stood back, observed, waiting to pick up the pieces when the other two were done.

  Doughall pursued his attack on Comlyn’s mount, slashing at the belly-strap fastening the saddle, with no care for either beast’s health. The screaming destrier reared, aiding Doughall’s efforts, unseating its rider. Comlyn’s bulk, his weighty regalia of bearskin, weapons, mail and plaid, was his undoing. He hit the ground with a crash, rolling under his own mount’s hooves.

  “Attack me, would you?” Doughall screeched, wheeling his mount to follow the old chieftain.

  Everything that Euan stood for roared at him that he couldn’t sit there and watch Astrid’s father be stuck like a pig instead of the bear he saw himself as.

  Watching, Gavyn’s mind dredged up a memory long forgotten of lying on his back on the battlefield, tossed from his horse and Doughall…

  Aye, the last he remembered was Doughall standing over him, sword raised in both hands and that ridiculous tunic, emblazoned with a snarling wolf, red maw open wide, ready to bite. Both hands on the hilt, his brother had brought down the stroke of the blade that killed him … but not quite.

  And for the life of him, Gavyn found he couldn’t bear to stand aside and watch him do it to another man who had trusted him.

  He spurred his horse onward.

  Was this a family frailty, one brother determined to kill the other? He wondered as he closed on Doughall, swinging his spiked flail around his head, roaring the Farquhar war cry, as if he had never forgotten it, never forgotten who he was.

  Gavyn’s reputation as the Raven, the most feared Scots mercenary to face in battle, had been hard won, and he never took it for granted, yet for once, he felt God was on his side.

  The chain of Gavyn’s flail twisted around the lifting double-edged blade before it could strike the Bear. With one massive tug, he wrenched the sword out of Doughall’s hand.

  But he hadn’t finished. As his brother’s sword fell to the ground, arm still raised, Gavyn’s short sword found the weak point in Doughall’s chainmail and pierced him through the links into his armpit.

  Enough … for now.

  The war would seem to be over, all bar the celebrating, for the bailey rang with cheering voices, men whooping and yelling, jubilant. All Morag felt was relief.

  Doughall was dead. It sounded simple, but naught ever was. There would be consequences, and Gavyn would have to sort them out. A notion bloomed at the back of her mind. Perhaps he would need her help, someone to persuade their people he really was back from the dead.

  Who else could confirm his identity?

  Dear God, was she actually perceiving this disastrous day as an answer to what would surely befall if she stayed at Cragenlaw. She could see no reason for Euan to pardon her. She had deceived him, kept his son from his knowledge.

  What man could forgive that?

  Rob would soon have twelve years under his belt. In less time than that, Euan had lost three wives, three sons, all for the sake of an heir for the McArthur Clan. She needed to know if he blamed her for their deaths.

  But she couldn’t stand in the bailey worrying about the future, surrounded by all this guid cheer. They had laid Comlyn on a bier and four men were presently carrying all that weight up the long slope of the spit. She would be needed to help the midwife tend to his wounds.

  The Bear still lived, but how long could he survive being trampled by both his own and Doughall’s destrier? She hurried to the Keep. She needed to keep busy, needed to block aught but that from her mind.

  The preparations for Comlyn’s arrival had to be supervised and, God help her, she’d had plenty of experience in dealing with wounds in that cave where Euan had lain near to death. Aaah, Euan… She closed her eyes for a brief moment, but still tears squeezed from under her lashes.

  Why did her every thought return to him?

  Even before she fled her home for Cragenlaw, he’d been a presence in her mind every day. How could it be otherwise? She’d had only to look at Rob, gaze into her son’s eyes, to see the man who had created him, to make her remember Euan’s arms, his mouth on hers, and how it had felt to fall in love for the first time.

  All yon years ago, the last notion in her fourteen-year-old mind had been that this love, her love for Euan, would last forever. But it had.

  The news wasn’t good. Erik had sent for him. For all his ambitions to seize Clan McArthur lands, it appeared that above all else, he trusted Euan McArthur to see his wishes carried out. Euan was happy to give him that promise, as long as the auld Bear didn’t ask him again to marry Kathryn.

  Nhaimeth caught up with him, coming out of the chapel door as Euan crossed the bailey, and inquired, “Is it all settled then, or are we still at war?”

  “It was touch and go to begin with, but Comlyn’s warriors waiting behind him on the brae, weren’t blind. They saw Comlyn attack Doughall Farquhar and his retaliation.” To Euan’s mind, the wonder of it was that the remaining so-called allies didn’t actually begin to slaughter each other following their leaders’ example.

  “I’ve invited Comlyn’s constable to Cragenlaw. He’s less than happy about the results of his laird’s confrontation and is probably hard on my heels, needing to discover what his chieftain wants of him. Rob is showing him the way.”

  The wee Fool grabbed for his wrist, his mouth open as though thunderstruck. “Dinnae tell me you took the lad with you.”

  “It was necessary. The lad you’re talking about might have only eleven years, but Rob’s going to be a man to be reckoned with, and Comlyn’s men needed to see that the McArthurs aren’t without an heir. Besides, the experience will stand Rob in guid stead. I introduced him to both leaders as my son by Morag Farquhar. His uncle, Gavyn Farquhar was with us and, fortunately there was one among them, a sergeant-at-arms, as he called himself, who recognised both him and Morag’s eldest brother—and that despite Gavyn’s disfiguring scar.”

  “Fine, but I need a chance to see my father, as well.”

  Euan nodded, and they walked on, up the steps into the keep. As if sensing that the tension of that morning had dissipated, one of Euan’s deerhounds bounded up to greet him by licking his hand, and Nhaimeth, as he was wont when the hounds were around, disappeared into Euan’s shadow. Euan never thought the less of Nhaimeth, for the hounds had nearly as many inches as the wee Fool.

  Euan scratched the hound’s shaggy head. “Away with you now,” he said sharply, then to Nhaimeth, “I have to ask, are you sure about this? Comlyn has never been an easy man. Don’t expect the prospect of death to change him.”

  “Ach, I’m not really the fool I pretend to be. Am I hoping for reconciliation? Nae, but there are things that have to be said, and I may never get another chance.”

  Comlyn was a sorry sight to behold.

  Euan felt for him, felt the ignominy of the big man laid out on the boards in the hall. The injuries had done him an injustice, lessened him, as if all the air and bluster he was renowned for had been squashed out of him, or perhaps the element missing was life.

  Helped by the midwife, Morag had cleaned him up, but naught could hide the bruises on Comlyn’s face and arms. He still wore the bearskin. “Would you like me to cut that off, it must feel uncomfortable.”

  “No
, leave it be; I’ll gang under the ground wearing it, but not until we’ve spoken.” The effort to talk made Comlyn begin to cough. Morag wiped away the blood from the corner of his mouth, as she would a baby dribbling milk, and gave Euan a swift glance that said, be quick, the man hasn’t long.

  Before Euan could say aught, Nhaimeth went up and touched the Bear’s hand. Even now, he could hardly look at the son he’d fathered, but Nhaimeth refused to let that daunt him. “I want to speak of Alexander,” he said. “I want you to know he was a hero. With no thought for himself, he tried to fight off the Moor when he would have stolen Rob away. You need to know that Rob is the McArthur’s son, and his heir. He was Alexander’s friend, as his father used to be yours. Alexander died trying to save his friend, without a thought for himself. My brother was a hero. I thought you should know that.”

  With an effort that made him sweat, Comlyn lifted one of his gnarled hands off the board and tried to form a fist. The Bear never gave in. He looked up Euan, ignoring Nhaimeth and muttered, “Come close.”

  And the McArthur did as asked, bending his head to bring his ear nearer to Comlyn’s mouth.

  “Dinnae let Kathryn wed her cousin, ye ken whau I mean, the one that tried to kill ye.” He glowered at his eldest son, but didn’t acknowledge him in any way that could be said as honest. “My first wife was my cousin. Though I loved her, it should never have happened. She died birthing that.”

  The effort made him cough again, but the space between talking, must have given him time to think, for at last he spoke to Nhaimeth. “Ye can never be chieftain, ye would be dead between one breath and the next, and there’s been enough dying in our family.”

  “I never wanted to take your place, just to know you were aware I’m alive. I thank you,” said, Nhaimeth and walked away with as much dignity as a Fool could muster, and Comlyn’s grizzled constable took his place by the worn length of wooden board. For a moment all Euan could think was: A man, no, a chieftain. should die in his bed with all due ceremony.

  In front of the constable, he asked, “Would you like me to be Kathryn’s ward, to protect her until Malcolm Canmore decides what to do for her. I’m sure he’ll arrange a marriage that will keep both her and your clan safe.”

  “Aye, that’s what I want. See it done, McArthur, then I can gang with an easy mind. A strong man, mind ye. Kathryn needs a firm hand, she’s naught like Astrid.”

  “You heard, constable?”

  The man nodded, and Euan said, “I’ll leave the rest of the arrangements to you. He’ll want to go home.”

  Once the constable left, Comlyn tugged at his hand, a wan twist of a smile on his lips. “He was a braw lad, Euan. He would have been a son to be proud of. I’ll see him and Astrid soon. I’ll like that.” Comlyn’s fingers dropped away, and Erik the Bear left for another world—Heaven, Valhalla … it didn’t matter which.

  Chapter 29

  Night approached Cragenlaw swiftly. Morag watched it spilling across the sky in dark clouds blown from the east, seemingly clumping over the castle in huge, lumpy mattresses made from raven’s feathers. Or perhaps she was simply letting her mood influence the way she viewed the world.

  No matter that the hour had grown late, Erik the Bear’s constable was eager to begin the journey back toward Beinn a’ Bhuird that very night. Was it Morag’s imagination, or did Cragenlaw Castle breath a sigh of relief no sooner than Comlyn and Alexander, his one time heir, had been carried down over the spit to make the journey home.

  Home. It was in her mind to do the same but, unlike Euan, she wouldn’t simply walk away without a word of farewell.

  With the hall practically empty, the silence seemed to ring in all the hollows of the high, vaulted ceiling. Meanwhile, the midwife continued to tidy, taking away bowls brimming with the bloodied water as well as the cloths they had used on Comlyn—such dread reminders that today a great Scottish chieftain had died there, supported by the common wooden boards the housecarls normally ate off.

  As for Doughall, she had spent no more than a moment wondering about him, then decided she didn’t actually want to know if he had been hung on a gibbet, another empty shell to swing from the battlements alongside the Moor—a frightening reminder to all that the McArthur wasn’t a man to be crossed.

  The air smelled of burning pitch from the torches set around the granite walls, soon the scents of fresh bread and roast meats would take its place as the kitchen staff fed the huge number of mouths, now that Gavyn’s men were quartered in the castle as well.

  The midwife bundled together the last of the detritus and, seeing the woman making ready to leave, Morag touched her hand. “I thank you, Jeanie, for all your help this day. I can see Euan always knows what he’s about, for you’re very capable, not just as a midwife, but as a healer. Before you go, there’s something I would ask of you.”

  Morag took a deep breath, but went ahead anyway. “Do you think I’ll be fit to travel with my brother when he goes south? It seems Gavyn might need my aid in proving he is the rightful heir to the barony. It’s a fair long time since he set foot on Farquhar land. There might not be a welcome for him at home.”

  “Aye, the man’s badly scarred, but fine and sauncy for all that. But I’m wishing ye didn’t feel the need to gang with him. If you do travel, though, the McArthur will surely want me to gang with ye.”

  Morag smiled at the offer, well aware of the wry slant shaping her lips. “I thank you, but I’m not really worried about the curse. I’m sure that only counts if you’re married to the McArthur.”

  “Well, think on it, lass, and let me ken if ye need me. An’ if’n ye decide to stay at Cragenlaw, my granny passed doon a way of making sure ye dinnae end up birthing a new baby every year. Ye mon harvest wild carrot seeds, and sprinkle a few onto the food ye eat. Many a woman’s taken my recommendation, aye, and thanked me for it.”

  The midwife had already left the hall by the time Euan re-entered. He stopped before her. His amber eyes appeared weary, lacking heat, the creases in the corners, pronounced, as he looked her over from head to toe. Was he thinking this was how he would remember her once he sent her away?

  Well then, wouldn’t a lass would be foolish to simply stand there and wait for it to happen. So, she jumped in with, “I’m thinking I should go home with Gavyn when he leaves.”

  Euan raised his hand to interrupt Morag. He had a lot on his mind, and more to think on than some fanciful start she had taken into her head. They needed to talk, but he wasn’t in the mood and would rather it was later than sooner. “You can get that notion out of your head. That’s my baby in your belly, and it’s here you both will stay.”

  “Rob, of course, will bide with you, he’s your son…”

  Would the woman not learn? No, she was like a wee midge, buzzing around, searching for an opportunity to attack. “They’re both mine,” he reminded her flatly.

  “Now, that is just selfish. Rob is well able to see to himself, and though I’ll miss him, I know that, being the heir, he must stay with his father; but a wee baby, a newborn needs its mother.” She pointed a finger at him and shook it. “How can you think of casting me out and leaving the wean motherless, with only auld Mhairi to care for her?”

  At that, Euan blinked, wondering how much of their exchange he had missed. He reached for that pointing finger, enveloping both it and her hand inside his much larger palm. An act that reminded him that despite the strength of Morag’s ire, compared to him the woman was naught but a wee bit of a lassie. It dawned on him that the discussion in progress had been circling around her mind, long before he came into the hall. “It’s to be a wee lass then?”

  His question robbed her of speech and made her stutter, “I-I…” She stopped to gather in breath. “It’s simply how I’ve always thought of her.”

  She fell silent and he followed her example. In the midst of the Great Hall, they stood staring into each other’s eyes—an unusual enough event for two of his hounds to begin prancing round them, trying to c
atch his attention. Euan ignored them, as he ignored the servants, among whose responsibilities were to set out the trestles and boards before each meal and remove them after.

  Her eyes widened, splashes of blue colour in the white skin of her face. She was scared, and he didn’t blame her. He’d been angry at her deception and its pitiless consequences, but had imagined that only he was aware of yon resentful thoughts and incrimination that had pained him. Morag had come to know him too well, to her own detriment.

  Was she as aware that the sequence of events following her denouement, had dissipated the vengeful lust that first revelation had wrought inside him?

  All he wanted now was to hear the truth of it. As he gazed down at her, took in the tremble of her chin and, lower, the curved sweep of her breasts and hips, he realised that the wait would come at a cost to them both. Yet, he had no intention of putting her out of her misery too soon.

  “Come with me,” he uttered the words in a commanding voice, as if she were merely one of his warriors instead of the woman who had turned his world upside down. “This not a suitable place for what lies between us. We will retire to the solar where we can be private. What is needed now is the truth and, God’s blood, before this night’s over I shall have it.”

  “God’s blood?” She flung his blasphemy back at him. “If it’s the truth you want, you shall have it, but on your head be it.”

  He should have known she would want the last word.

  Ever courteous, Euan bowed her through into the solar before him. Did she detect a trace of sarcasm? Or, was this pleasantry meant to demonstrate that anger didn’t mean the death of good manners, casting back up at her the way she had pointed her finger at him.

  If he meant to make her feel guilty, he had succeeded.

  Her soul pinched.

  She couldn’t go on making excuses, she decided, then immediately did just that. “I’m sorry, the blame is mine. I should have told you when first I arrived, but what with Astrid’s death…” her voice faded to a whisper then climbed sharply again, “but then, you didn’t recognise me.”