by Rowan Keats
“But it was a costly venture. We lost more than thirty arrows.”
Aiden bent to brush his horse’s gaskin. Without a smithy, they were unable to forge new arrowheads. Although they reclaimed every spent arrow while hunting, that hadn’t been an option during the raid on Dunstoras. “How many are left?”
“Fifty-seven.”
Not a dreadful number, if hunting was all they were needed for. “You fear that we’ve not enough should MacPherson’s men come a-calling.” Which was a likely occurrence after the raid—MacPherson’s wounded pride would demand that his men comb the woods in search of them.
“Aye.”
“A fair concern. I’ll have the men assemble a hearth.” The reason they hadn’t created one already wasn’t the challenge in building a smithy—it was the smoke. Smelting required a very hot fire maintained for a considerable amount of time—the sort of fire that was difficult to hide. A small cooking fire or a warming brazier gave off little smoke by comparison.
Cormac nodded and departed, his mission accomplished.
Neither man mentioned the length of time it would take to acquire new arrowheads. It was pointless.
Aiden brushed his horse until its coat was shiny and smooth. The soothing nature of the task was no longer working. Time was hounding him. They had already lived in this temporary camp for far longer than he’d originally envisioned. When he had gathered the clan here, his hope had been that it would be only a matter of weeks before he could ascertain his innocence and reclaim his family’s land. But almost three months had passed, and he was no closer to identifying the man in black.
Now their supplies were running short. Food and the other necessities were becoming scarce. It wouldn’t be long before the prophecy Isabail had made on her arrival would come true. His people would go hungry and his warriors would not have the strength of arms to protect them.
He tossed the curry brush into a bucket with a loud clatter.
The horse snorted and shifted uneasily.
Aiden gave him a reassuring pat on the neck, then turned away. He had only one clue to the identity of the man in black, and that was Isabail. If he did not soon prove his innocence, his clan would starve.
He marched into the inner close and across the snow to his hut. When he stepped inside, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Isabail was seated on his pallet, her head bent over a piece of cloth. She continued to wield her needle and thread even though the stiffness in her shoulders told him she was aware of his presence.
“Tell me the names of the men visiting Lochurkie that night,” he demanded.
“Nay.”
Closing the gap between them in three easy strides, he grabbed her shoulders and hauled her to her feet. “Enough, Isabail. You’ve played this foolish game too long. Give me the names.”
She lifted her gaze. “And what will you do if I give you the names? Seek out each man and force him to confess on pain of death?”
Possibly. He hadn’t actually formulated a plan.
“If I tell you who they were,” she said, “four innocent men might come to harm at your hands. I cannot live with that outcome.”
“You are protecting a murderous villain, a slayer of children. How can you live with that?”
She returned his glare. “I’m not convinced any one of those men is a murderer.”
Which meant, of course, that she still harbored some belief that he was the murderer. “If I were the murderer, why would I trouble myself with searching for the man in black?”
“Who knows? Perhaps he has some other bauble that you covet.”
He thrust her away. “Look around, Isabail. Where is the evidence that I covet pretty baubles? Tell me what a necklace like the queen’s would gain me.”
“Food for your clan, perhaps. I don’t know.”
“I had everything I needed to support my kin before the necklace was stolen. There was no gain for me, only loss.” He raked a hand through his hair. “And what thief who is willing to sacrifice the lives of his own kin then stays to protect and feed and clothe those very same people?”
A frown settled on her brow.
“Should I not have taken my spoils and made for the Continent? Surely I could have lived a fair life in France with the coin such a necklace would have gained me.”
“Perhaps you never anticipated being caught,” she said slowly. “Perhaps you still want the life you had before the theft.”
He studied her. Blond hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, her dress wrinkled and stained. Not the same woman he’d pulled from the carriage a few short days ago. “In your opinion, is a murderer a man of strength or a coward?”
“A coward,” she said easily.
“Cowards do not stay and fight for what they desire, especially when faced with overwhelming odds,” he offered quietly. Then he turned on his heel and left the hut.
* * *
Gorm whined from his blanket by the fire.
Isabail stopped staring at the spot where MacCurran had stood and favored the dog with a wry smile. “Aye, he’s a difficult man. You’ve got that right. Saving you from a horrible death one minute, shaking the life from you the next.”
She scooped some water from the bucket by the door and brought it to the deerhound.
“I’ve no meat for you, lad. Until you’re well enough to try your hand at bringing home a fat hare, you’ll have to eat what the rest of us eat—bread, cheese, and turnips.”
He drank the water, then downed a stale crust of bread in a few hearty crunches.
“There’s a lad,” she said encouragingly. “Since you appear to be faring well, I’ll bring you a bone after the evening meal.”
As she stood, she heard several loud shouts outside and then the pound of numerous boots in the snow. Isabail raced to the door. The inner close was a jumble of men snatching weapons and running for the walls. The women doused the cooking fires, gathered the children and their belongings, and scurried for the tunnels. With surprising speed and economy of movement, each person headed for their designated spot.
“What’s going on?” Isabail asked a boy who was darting for cover.
“Soldiers,” he tossed as he tore past. “Headed this way.”
Soldiers? MacPherson’s men? Isabail chewed her lip. She was supposed to follow the other women into the tunnels, but the promise of rescue was a sweet ache in her chest. What she wouldn’t give to sleep in her own bed, to visit the graves of her mother and brother, and to wear clean clothes. If only there were some way to reach Tormod MacPherson without revealing the existence of the hill fort. She wanted to be rescued, but not at the expense of the people in the camp.
MacCurran’s fierce form appeared out of the crowd of warriors in the close. “Get in the hut and stay there until I tell you it’s safe to come out.”
Isabail hesitated.
His hand cupped her chin with surprising gentleness. “Please.”
She retreated into the dim hut. Wretch. How dare he be kind to her when she was anticipating harshly worded threats. Sliding to the floor just inside the door, she leaned against the wall and listened. There were few sounds with which to re-create the events occurring outside—after the first shouts, no one spoke.
Silence reigned.
Isabail closed her eyes and listened intently. Were MacPherson’s men advancing up the slope to their position? Was mayhem about to ensue? Over the past few days, she’d come to know a great number of the MacCurrans who called this old ruin home. Whether the MacCurran had stolen Queen Yolande’s necklace or not, these people did not deserve to die.
She crossed her chest, bowed her head, and prayed.
* * *
MacPherson’s men crept from the trees to the protection of a scattering of boulders.
Aiden watched their progress from his position farther up the
slope. The rugged path leading up to the hill fort was not an obvious one, especially with the extra rocks they’d moved into place. It would take a very determined man to find them, but he feared today might be that day. MacPherson must be livid that Aiden had freed his men right under his nose. He would not accept that loss with grace.
Twelve soldiers inched toward the ruined broch below.
Once they were within striking distance, the leader of the men gave a hand signal, and together they charged toward the ruin with an aggressive roar. Only to find the broch empty. Clearly disappointed and muttering with undisguised frustration, the men searched the ruin. They turned over rocks, kicked apart portions of the walls, and examined every piece of loose rubble for clues. When that got them nowhere, they expanded the search, slowly but inexorably advancing up the slope.
Aiden’s men tensed. He had seven archers deployed among the rocks, two of which were exceptional and the others decent. More than enough to turn away this group. Their ability to defend the hilltop fort was, however, limited by supplies. Fifty-seven arrows would not last long. In an extended battle, they would be at a severe disadvantage.
Two MacPherson spearmen climbed over some rocks and gained another few feet of path.
Giving the order to shoot them would bring an end to their hiding, and Aiden’s thoughts went to the women and children currently under his protection. He couldn’t risk their lives. As satisfying as it would be to engage MacPherson’s men, he had to maintain their secrecy for as long as possible.
“I found a boot print!” cried one of the two spearmen, tossing aside a small chunk of shale.
Instantly, twelve pairs of eyes tipped upward, peering into the rocks with renewed eagerness.
“Are you certain?” the sergeant asked with a skeptical frown. In spite of his doubt, he left the wall he was exploring and headed for the path.
“Aye, ‘tis definitely the mark of a bootheel frozen in the mud.”
Aiden drew a long, deep breath. His hand tightened around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, but he still did not give the signal to shoot.
A half dozen soldiers joined the spearmen and began to clear the rocks. The farther they advanced up the slope, the easier the path became. They were about to discover the hill fort, to run amok and possibly slay his kin. Aiden was out of options. He glanced down the line of archers, his face grim. With a silent wave of his hand, he ordered his men to shoot.
The sergeant and the two spearmen were downed in the first volley of arrows. Two other soldiers farther down the slope also dropped. The remaining soldiers raised their targes and drove up the hill with an aggressive roar.
They swiftly reached level ground, and the battle switched to a duel of sword and spear.
Aiden dove out from behind a boulder and took on a broad-shouldered swordsman in chain mail. The fellow was talented, and their swords collided again and again with neither gaining the advantage. They circled each other, testing strength and speed, pushing footing and grip to the limit. In the end, it was the soldier’s armor that did him in. He tired quicker than Aiden, and after nimbly parrying a swift thrust, he made his first error—he left his leg exposed. Fighting for the lives of his clan, Aiden didn’t hesitate—he drove his sword into the man’s thigh and brought him swiftly to the ground.
Unfortunately for the men of MacPherson’s patrol, they were outmaneuvered and outnumbered. Trapped between the two walls that surrounded the fort, they fought fiercely and with the seasoned skill of arms for hire, but circumstances played against them.
None of MacPherson’s men ceded defeat easily. Only three of them survived the melee—including Aiden’s opponent. The MacCurran injuries, by comparison, were minor. A few sliced chests and legs, but no deaths.
Aiden lowered his sword.
The camp was safe—for the moment. But that moment would be short-lived. MacPherson would send another patrol in search of the first, and when he did . . .
Wiping his blade on his sleeve, he ordered Niall, “Gather the arrows. Have the men round everyone up. We’ve a need to find a new camp.”
“Surely we can simply bury the bodies?”
“MacPherson will not yield so easily. He’ll comb this area until he finds the bodies . . . and then he’ll wreak vengeance upon us.”
Aiden left Niall to direct the men and strode across the inner close to the roundhouse. He almost missed Isabail when he entered. She was seated on the floor with her back against the wall.
When she spied him, she released a sigh. “You’re safe.”
“Gather your things. We must move.”
Isabail gained her feet and did her best to brush the dirt from her skirts. “Move? Move where?”
A very good question. Aiden had given thought to that question many times over the past few months as he planned for the future. Nowhere in the glen would he benefit from stone walls, good storage, and a highly defensible position. But with almost sixty souls under his care, secrecy was better than defensibility. “There’s a thickly wooded area farther west. We’ll head there.”
“Why? Why not remain here?”
Aiden laid the blanket on the floor and began piling items in the middle of it: his clothes, his spare pair of boots and some personal items. “Tormod MacPherson believes his mission is to destroy the MacCurran clan. He’ll soon learn that we are camped here, and when he does, he’ll attack in full force. I cannot defend my clan against the strength of his army with little or no supplies.”
Isabail was silent for a long moment. “You fear that he’ll come looking for his missing men.”
Aiden didn’t bother to answer. He tied the corners of the blanket and swung it over his shoulder. Holding out a hand, he said, “Come.”
She did not take his hand. “What if there were no men to be found?”
“It wouldn’t matter; he will continue to hunt until he finds us.”
“Unless he believed the men were elsewhere when they died.”
He stared at her, slowly lowering his hand. “Are you suggesting we move the bodies?”
Isabail blushed. “I’ve no idea what I’m suggesting. Just thinking aloud. Is it possible to move the bodies?”
“Aye,” he said. A thoughtful frown settled on his brow. “It’s possible. Moving his men from one spot to another won’t be enough to deceive MacPherson, however. To be successful, we’ll need a wee bit of cunning.”
He dropped the blanket bundle onto the mattress. Then he grabbed Isabail by the shoulders and gave her a quick, hard kiss. “Stay here. I’ll be back anon.”
Chapter 11
“What age are you, Morag?” Magnus asked as they sat down to sup on the hare he’d snared that afternoon. He was very curious about the woman who’d nursed him back to health, and up to this point, she’d been very vague about her history.
But he was done with mystery and incertitude.
She lifted her gaze from her meal. As their gazes collided, he could see the swirl of thoughts in her green eyes. Perhaps she read the resolve in his own, because for once she did not attempt to fob him off with some whimsical retort. “I am four and twenty.”
“And where are your kin?”
She tore the meat off a leg bone with her fine white teeth and chewed. “I am shunned. I have no kin.”
Her answer wasn’t entirely surprising. After all, few women of a marriageable age lived alone in a bothy in the woods. Still, it made him wonder. “Why?”
“What did I do that warranted a shunning?”
He nodded.
“I lay with three men, two of whom were brothers.”
She said it calmly, without heat or embarrassment. There was no attempt to excuse her behavior or apologize for it. She simply stated it as fact. As beautiful as she was, he had no trouble imagining men fighting to have her. Even brothers.
He arched a brow. “At the s
ame time?”
A faint smile rose to her lips. “Nay. One at a time. But the second brother was not pleased to find he’d shared my body with his younger kin.”
“So he involved the friar?”
“Aye.”
It was more information than she’d given him in three months of sharing an abode. Magnus was loath to cease asking her questions while she was in so generous a mood. “Did you live at the castle?”
A shadow fell over her face. “I did.”
Aware that he was stirring unpleasant memories but unable to help himself, he said, “Then you would know whether I made my home there.”
Her lips tightened. “What I knew then and what I know now are two different things.”
“That is not an answer,” he growled, pushing his bowl away. “Just tell me the truth, woman. I’m man enough to handle it, no matter how unpalatable it might be.”
“You are not ready,” she said. “Your leg is still weak and you suffer great headaches.”
He stood up. “You call up the same excuses no matter how much time passes. I do not even know my true name,” he said. “Do not deny me answers.”
“The truth will only harm you.”
“Better that swift fate than to slowly waste away in ignorance here,” he bit out. “Did I live at the castle or no?”
She sighed heavily. “Aye, you did.”
Rage seared through him like fire in his veins. “All this time I’ve been but a stone’s throw from the truth.” He pivoted and began to pack a bag.
“But you are no longer welcome at the castle. You are outlawed now.”
He paused. Outlawed? “For what crime?”
“Murder, theft, and treason against the king.” She, too, pushed away her bowl. “You were run through by the king’s men. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“And yet you took me in and healed me,” he said, frowning. “Why?”
She shrugged. “We are all more than the sum of our crimes. I am not simply a harlot, and I do not believe you are simply a murderer and a thief.”
“Given the charges against me, you took a considerable risk,” he pointed out. “Would you do that for everyone?”
