by Jackie Ivie
And then the entire clearing was filling with members of what had to be Danzel clansmen, if there still was such a clan. Either that, or they were ghosts. Vincent spent a few moments assimilating it. He had no choice but to greet them. Or hide from them.
He approached what appeared to be their leader with none of the trepidation he was feeling. And then he broke into a smile as he recognized the man who had been the mentor from his youth.
It was Sheldon Danzel. The man who’d been at his father’s side throughout that short span when Vincent had known one. The man who’d been honor bound to protect the laird of Clan Danzel’s life with his own. The man who’d yanked Vincent into manhood.
Before he ran to learn all about it by himself.
“Sheldon! Is it truly you?” Vincent was clasping hands with him.
“Aye! As well as what men I could roust.”
“Roust? From where? None survived the fire. I ken. I saw it.”
“You dinna’ stay for all of the aftermath, my laird.”
“Laird?” Vincent blinked, sending the raindrops that had gathered on his lashes coursing down his cheeks.
“You ken your position in life. ’Tis why you left,” Sheldon replied solemnly enough.
“I left because I was too late to change anything. Too late to make any difference! I was too—”
He hadn’t time to say more as blue, black, and green plaid–clad men surrounded them, greeting him and acting exactly like they didn’t think him a base coward who’d run from all his responsibilities. Someone asked what it was he was upon, and why they’d been sent to save him from his predicament, since a stuck wagon didn’t appear to be much of a problem for a man who was the laird of the Danzel clan.
Despite everything, Vincent had to ask what fool would send men to rescue him. And why anyone would think there would be a need. He got his reply from a scrawny lad at Sheldon’s side.
“The Donal sent us. Me. I’m Beggin. Your new squire. The Donal gave me a message for you. He believes you needing a rescue about now. I donna’ ken from what.”
“The Donal? Myles Magnus Donal?” Vincent asked. “He thought I needed a rescue? Why?”
Beggin answered since he looked to be quickest; the others looked oddly discomfited. “I doona’ ken precisely. He did say to tell you that you’ve done well. Exactly as expected. He and his wife, the lady Kendran, are pleased with you. Since such was their plan all along. I believe that was the message. I could have misspoke it, though. I’m a squire, na’ a messenger.”
“Their…plan?” Vincent suspected it was anger starting the tingle in the base of his lower back. He squelched it as best he could. Wedding the sister was their plan? And then had to work at controlling further anger.
“Oh! He also said to inform you that he’s granting you back your keep and the lands surrounding it. I doona’ ken what it is you’ve done to deserve such. I truly dinna’.”
“He did…what?” Vincent’s voice failed him, and the last word squeaked.
“Your keep. Castle Danze. It’s been rebuilt. Refurbished. Fortified. Taken to its former glory and then surpassed. The lands, too.”
“Lands?” Vincent asked with what voice he could find. The surprise was evident and obliterated even the anger.
Sheldon Danzel spoke up, stopping the barrage of words from Beggin. “Aye. Your lands. They’ve prospered. All. There are sheep, horses, crops. And what Danzel clan left is still there. Awaiting your return. We just dinna’ ken where to locate you afore the Donal pointed us in the right direction.”
Vincent shook his head. “The Donal canna’ gift me with land he does na’ own. The MacHughs won it from me. More than a score ago. I know. I saw it. Remember?” Vincent’s voice was bitter. He didn’t delve into the why of it. He couldn’t. That was the first vow he’d made to himself.
Sheldon grinned, flashing the white of his teeth in the dim of the day. “The MacHughs dinna’ keep it. The Donal owns it now. Well…he did.”
“Truly?” Vincent asked.
“Oh, aye. He does. Did. I have to keep remembering. You own it now. Again. As is right.”
“And…he dinna’ see fit to tell me afore this?” Vincent asked.
“I just told you,” Beggin interrupted. “He said you were na’ worthy. Until now. I was to make certain you kenned this.”
“What the lad says is true. Donal gained your lands back five…nae, six years past. Won it in a battle at Clammond Glen that still has sonnets written over it. Then he started correcting the damage the MacHughs had done to it.”
“And none told me? You left me to stew?” Vincent stood taller as his back stiffened. He watched as Sheldon looked him over before replying.
“Na’ a soul knew where to find you until a sennight past. When the Donal sent this squire. You dinna’ leave us much to go by.”
Vincent set his jaw, ignored the twinge of what was probably regret mixed with guilt, and set them aside, just as he’d trained himself to do. He didn’t let emotions bother him anymore. That was the second vow he’d made.
Sheldon cleared his throat. “The Donal sent this emissary to your sisters. They’ve the run of your keep and business. Myles wanted Danzel clansmen to his bidding. Quick like. We were na’ told why. We dinna’ even ken you were still about. Causing trouble. You’ve been causing trouble, have na’ you?”
Vincent didn’t think his throat would work. He shrugged.
“We had the general direction to find you and mount a rescue. And here we are. To rescue you. I doona’ ken from what.”
“Probably from my wife,” Vincent mumbled.
Sheldon laughed. “You’ve gone and taken a wife? Where?”
Vincent swept an arm in the direction of where Sybil had last been standing without looking that direction. He didn’t dare. Her clothing was probably plastered to her, and he was still fighting his own body over it. Then he had to endure the cheers and congratulatory slaps from them as well as ignore his new squire’s wide eyes. Vincent didn’t want to know why the lad was looking at him with such a look. He could guess.
And then Sheldon was speaking again, and sobering everything. Standing about talking with the clansmen had another effect, as well. The rain was washing the worst of the muck from him with the amount of it.
“Begging pardon, but she does na’ look the type.”
“For what?” Vincent asked.
“The type a strapping laird such as yourself would need rescue from.”
Vincent bit his tongue and looked across at Sheldon. “True,” he agreed finally, and then he grinned. “Beware of small packages, my friend. That is all I’m inclined to say about it. Beware. A warned man is a forearmed man. As I was na’. Come. Assist me with yon cart. There’s been enough time spent with the rain and mud. I fancy a bit of dry clothing and a warm bed. And na’ just for me in yon wagon. For all of us. In two days’ time. At Castle Danze.”
Sheldon looked at him levelly for several moments before nodding. Vincent knew he was deciding worthiness. It wasn’t a good feeling. Then Sheldon lifted his arm, gave a whistle, instructions, and within a few minutes the cart was free and being trundled over to the boulder where Sybil was sitting silently watching the proceedings. Vincent didn’t look in her direction when they laced a rope around a tree in order to get the most leverage. He wasn’t willing to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d been right.
Again.
The rain didn’t let up the entire day. Not for Vincent Danzel and not for any member of his clan. Never for them. It had been the same series of bad luck and raw circumstances that had been his bane since that night. The night that had destroyed his clan. The night spent in so many emotions, he’d vowed to never recollect any of it.
Elation. There had been plenty of that. At first. The night had been filled with raw elation as Vincent and his two closest companions, Edward and Sinclair, had spent the darkest part of the night reaving, stealing MacHugh clan cattle, and getting the small batch of six heifers acro
ss the border. The elation was full and robust and filling every fiber of his being. No Danzel had been as victorious. Not for decades, anyway. Vincent had herded the cattle down a hidden glen with an expertise born of knowledge since infancy of all the nooks and crannies of his own land, and nothing could mute the fullness of his entire heart at how proud his sire was going to be when he found out.
The elation had been perfect. He hadn’t known it could feel like that. Deep and poignant enough that his heart tried to hammer a way out of his chest with each beat, and his hands trembled even as he forced them to remain calm. He needed the calm state to make sure the stolen beasts continued to move without sound away from where they’d been bedded down for the night.
That sense of elation had been impossible to imagine and nearly impossible to find since. He knew the reason. The elation had been an encapsulated bit of time that held a hint of magic. It was made so by how quickly it had been followed by all the other emotions. That’s what came of being caught.
Fear was first and foremost then. A debilitating sense of fear that was also full and robust and massive. It made him even more aware of his heart and how hard it could pound, and how difficult it was to take the next breath.
It hadn’t been his fault. It hadn’t been Edward or Sinclair’s fault, either. The lack of reason to it was what made it even worse. Every lad found his manhood while reaving. It was almost a right of passage, and Sheldon Danzel had made certain the laird’s only son, Vincent, had known of it. He’d been counseled. He’d been taught. He’d been prepared. He’d been told. Pick a moonless night. Pick a night full of weather-inspired demons. Pick an easy target, and do it all quickly. Painlessly. Vincent had prided himself on being an excellent student.
Until that night.
Nothing foretold of it. They hadn’t planned it, but the night had seemed perfect. It had started moonless enough, and then drenched all and sundry with the force of a cloudburst. All of it had been so advantageous, they hadn’t bothered to scope out an alternate escape route. They’d counted on the velvet texture of the night to cloak and shield them. And then they’d been betrayed. Nature had decided to shut off the torrent of rain and tamp down the mists rising from the grounds. Then it had sent a bright half-moon from behind parting clouds, as well. All of which had shown Vincent clearly how many MacHugh clansmen they faced, how angry they were, and how bent on revenge they were.
All of them.
Vincent wasn’t exactly sure if that was when the fear had reached its apex, or if that was when he’d first felt it changing. He wasn’t sure when, exactly. He only knew it had. One moment, everything had been crystallized into a perfection of permanency, complete with a paralysis that made the very effort of drawing breath difficult, and the next, every moment was so filled with anger and rage and bloodlust that it had colored everything with a reddish haze he still remembered. When he let his guard down enough.
The red was filled with blood. Still. Forever. And it was hollowed out by despair. That was the emotion that had set in as Edward had started it, lifting his sword with a cry that had rent the night with the shrillness of it. And then Edward had taken a blow meant for the laird’s son that had cleaved him almost in two.
Vincent choked back the sob he’d been cursed with as he met Edward’s eyes for the last time. Memorizing the moment in time when his friend and companion died right beside him. And then it was followed by the most frenzied action of his life. Vincent hadn’t known he possessed the ability to wield a sword with stupefying effect. He hadn’t known he had the ability to hack his way through the MacHugh clan like he had the moment Edward Carrick’s body had settled into a motionless heap on the grass.
Bloodlust had filled him then. Making him strong and invincible and dangerous as he’d fought the MacHugh clansmen. Fought them and made a path through them and settled the score of Edward’s death tenfold. And then he’d taken the blow that had ended it, chopping him down from behind. At the knees. One of the MacHughs had taken an ax and used the blunt end to wreak havoc on Vincent with a hacking blow that felt like it had severed his legs. He’d gone down. Hard.
And that’s when the torture had started.
Chapter Twenty
The vibration of the wagon bed woke her. Then the groans, and what almost sounded like sobbing. She’d be better able to tell if her ears weren’t covered over with the ends of her shawl and then further muffled with the blanket to cover the whole. It was the only way she’d been able to sleep.
It wasn’t enough that she was surrounded by more men than she’d ever seen assembled in one place, nor that her husband kept a certain distance from her the entire eve. No. Those men had to sit about the enormous fire they’d made in order to overcook the venison some of them had hunted for sup, fill their bellies, and finish it off with drinking from little dark oaken kegs of ale that had materialized from the sides and backs of their horses. That hadn’t been the worst of it, either. Oh, no. This amount of men, steeped this much in mead, were louder and more boisterous than any fest Eschoncan Keep had hosted. Their voices had gotten progressively bolder, more riotous, and with a celebratory edge she couldn’t mistake. They were obviously happy at finding Vincent. He didn’t look to return it, but they hadn’t seemed to care.
And then they’d started their play that only men seem to find fascinating. Sybil had long since retired to her tent-covered wagon, and Waif with her. He was keeping guard from beneath the wagon. She was safe. Warm. Dry. Sober. She even had dried berries for nibbling on, since their roasted sup had been more upsetting to the belly than filling.
Besides which, she would never have survived the amount of slapping, wrestling, and man-games that they seemed to find amusing. Sybil had no experience with this kind of gathering or this amount of drunken men. She had no tolerance for drunkenness anyway. Life was too short for such idiocy. She wrapped her shawl about her in a cocoon fashion and tried to ignore their man-party. And that was when they’d taken up their singing.
For a man possessing the musical talent of her husband, the noise these men were making should have had him gnashing his teeth. No creature should be allowed to sing with such off-key, drunken voices. And not a melodious one among them. That’s how she knew her husband wasn’t joining them. In fact, the last time Sybil had peeked through the opening in her tent, she’d seen that not only wasn’t he singing, but he didn’t look to be celebrating, either.
He was drinking.
Another groan came from the man who was sleeping beside her, although he was so swathed in separate bedding that he might as well have been on another pallet completely. His shuddering intensified to the point the wagon beneath them was rocking with the strength of each tremor. Sybil pushed the shawl from her head, pulled an arm out of the protection of her coverings, and listened. Aside from the sounds of dripping water, alerting her that the storm had likely abated, there wasn’t much to hear. Unless she concentrated. That was when she heard the grunts, snores, and general sounds of breathing that would accompany a horde of men who had drunk themselves into deep sleep.
The man beside her whimpered. Sybil did exactly what she always did. She reached to check…and touched the clammy sweatiness of his bare shoulder.
Vincent reacted like he’d been slapped.
He was instantly awake and flipped over onto his hands and knees. She could see the menace of him clearly enough in the roof protected fire-enhanced dimness through the tent walls that it started a strange sensation in the pit of her belly.
“Oh,” he whispered finally. “’Tis only you.”
“You were having a bad dream,” she replied in the same whisper.
“I never dream,” he replied with an underlying aggressive tone that came across even if the words were still being whispered. Sybil’s eyebrows rose.
“You overimbibed, then,” she said, taking her tone to a matter-of-fact one.
“I dinna’ drink enough,” came his defensive-sounding tone.
Sybil shrugged. “Verra
well. You are suffering the sickness of eating a badly cooked meal.”
“I am na’ sick, either.”
Sybil continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your men dinna’ ken the proper way to roast a deer. Nor do they add the correct seasonings. ’Twas enough to make many a belly roil.”
“I am na’ sick,” he replied again, strengthening the volume of his voice to a low rumble of sound, as if that would stop the argument.
“You were shaking and covered in a chill sweat. You still are. Tell me this is na’ true.” She reached out a hand to touch him, but he moved slightly backward to avoid it. She let her hand drop.
“I was na’ shaking,” he said finally.
Sybil giggled. “Dreaming is na’ a sign of weakness, my laird.”
“Laird?” he asked.
“’Tis obvious. These are your clan. And you are their laird. Tell me this is na’ true, as well.”
“This is na’ true.” He parroted her exact tone, if not the pitch. Sybil’s frown deepened.
“You may have allegiance to the Donal, but you are laird of your own clan. This is them. Perhaps na’ all of them, but this is them. Clan Danzel.”
“This is na’ my clan. I doona’ have a clan.”
“Na only do you have a clan, but we’re going to the very heart of it. To your keep. I fancy it is much nicer than you remember. And this bothers you.”
His breath was catching slightly at her words. That was the only clue he gave her that she was right.
“Enough to cause fitful dreams.”
