The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  “I like it not that half our men work whilst the rest watch and pray the Scots do not decide to reclaim their keep. Reinforcements from Belwyck Castle are a hard day’s ride away.”

  Laurence frowned at the second guard’s grumble, though it echoed his own unease. It was true holding this pile of stones was proving more difficult than he’d been led to believe. Yet, voicing the concern meant others held the same opinion—one that did not favor confidence.

  “No Scots remain here,” he pointed out, “though Lady Iseabal had reason to believe once James Maxwell was dead they would return. Apparently, they felt abandonment the best course.”

  “Half the empty huts within the wall need repairs, and a like number of cottages line the river. Will we repair them or torch them?”

  Laurence moved his gaze from the tumbled stones to the weathered huts against the wall. A shout from a guard on the adjacent wall snatched Laurence’s attention. The sudden rush of a multitude of arrows whistled shrill in the air. Brightly lit by fire, they sailed over the wall and thudded into the packed earth, shafts quivering on impact. The dry thatch roof of a hut crackled as it burst into flames.

  Laurence leapt to his feet, taking the steps to the yard three at a time as chaos erupted. Men grabbed weapons and bolted into position against the attack. Taking cover behind a large stone, Laurence chanced a quick look in the direction the arrows had entered the keep.

  “Hell’s fire. Scots!”

  Chapter Five

  Walter excused himself from the table, his belly laden with a peculiar Scottish meal of which he was only partly certain he understood the ingredients. He’d no difficulty identifying the mutton or grouse, and though he wasn’t partial to vegetables, he managed to eat a fair amount of the chappit neeps. Whatever they were, the juices from the mutton added good flavor to the smashed, rather bland orange pile on his trencher.

  He remained puzzled over the dish Chief Johnstone had called haggis. He had yet to decide if he liked it or not. That the Scots at the table enjoyed it held no sway over Walter’s opinion. The very good whisky the chief served with the dish easily countered the unique flavor of the odd mash of ground meat and oats, and spread the warmth of good cheer through his veins.

  As he walked the length of the hall and through the doors of the keep, eyes followed him, peppering his shoulders with suspicion and mistrust. The feeling of comfort cooled. But he needed time alone to think, away from the constantly shouted questions and jests, the normal disruptions of a busy keep, and if it took walking the gauntlet of stares to the yard, so be it.

  Disturbed when he’d discovered Rosaline absent from the table, his perturbation turned to pleasant surprise to find her striding up the path from a decrepit building he had no name for.

  A small terrier at her side surged forward, barking shrilly and nipping at his heavy boots.

  “Trig! Nae!” Rosaline picked up her skirts and dashed after the little dog. The terrier dodged sideways across Rosaline’s path. Rosaline pulled up short, kept from a tumble by the large hand taking a firm grip on her upper arm. She blinked, catching her breath as she stared into Walter de Ellerton’s soft brown eyes. Perched atop a rather too long nose, they mirrored concern, not the anger she’d expect from most men after an unwarranted attack from an unruly pup.

  He released her and took a step back, a question in his raised brows and tilted head. “Are ye well? Ye took no injury from your stumble?”

  Rosaline’s heart skittered, but she waved away his concern. She smiled at his question. “Och, ’twould take more than a snapper over a wee dog to give me pause.” Her cheeks heated despite the chill in the air, and her arm tingled where his fingers had rested.

  What on earth? He’s just a man. An Englishman. She scolded herself but a pleasant sensation shivered from her cheeks to her belly. For she also decided his looks were more than passably good. Perhaps even compelling in a way that caused her thoughts to jumble. She blurted the first thing that came to her head.

  “Did yer supper settle well?”

  Walter rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “My hunger is satisfied, though I am unsure what I ate.”

  Rosaline laughed. A slow smile spread across Walter’s face.

  Her knees weakened.

  “The mutton and fowl were familiar enough, but neeps and haggis were new to me.”

  Rosaline’s eyes widened, disrupted from her perusal of the man before her. “Haggis? He served ye haggis?”

  Walter’s skin acquired a slightly green tint. “What is haggis?”

  “Och, ’tis a common enough dish, though typically a peasant’s meal.”

  “A subtle insult?”

  Rosaline shrugged. “Mayhap. Though more likely an appeal to his arrogance, serving an English knight a dish that is the backbone of Scottish sustenance. Everyone has eaten haggis at one time or another, so dinnae let that bother ye.”

  “What exactly is it? I noted minced meats and oats.”

  “Let us leave the description at that, shall we? Did Da offer a good whisky with it?”

  “Aye. A very fine whisky.”

  Rosaline nodded, satisfied her da had not taken his insult too far. “Have ye seen Elliott?”

  The skin at the corners of the knight’s eyes tightened as if he’d challenge her change of subject, then he shook his head. “He came to supper but left partway through. The pair of ye seem close. Is he not with ye?”

  “I’ve been banned from seeing him.” Rosaline buried the hurt beneath the forthright statement.

  A smile played at the edge of Walter’s mouth. “And does this decree keep ye from him?”

  “Nae.” Rosaline brightened. “Da isnae likely to notice Elliott’s comings and goings, even if he has given Eaglesmuir to him.” She tilted her head. “Why did he?”

  “Ye would know him better than I,” Walter replied. “Does he not see the value of an alliance?”

  Rosaline glanced about, cheerfulness doused like cold water over a fire. “Mayhap we should take a wee walk where there are fewer ears to hear us.”

  Walter’s eyebrows slid upward then settled. He executed a gentle bow. “As my lady wishes.”

  Her steps led back to the doocot, one of the few places within the safety of the walled yard where others were unlikely to follow. Walter offered her the seat by the door, but she shook her head and remained standing, preferring the ability to keep her distance. The knight’s tall, lean form beckoned to her—safety, courtesy, and something that sent decidedly wicked shivers down her spine.

  Walter nodded to the ramshackle building. “Is this where ye come to avoid your sisters?”

  Rosaline grinned as his cheeks reddened, for his statement revealed far too much. “Ye met them at supper, did ye?” She laughed at his rueful shrug. “Ye will be forgiven whatever ye think of them. They’re quite lovely, but none of them lasts long out of sight of the others.”

  “Why is that?” Walter’s brows knitted together in puzzlement.

  “’Tis well known they share a single brain betwixt them. They must stick close together to use it.”

  Walter’s guffaw ignited a warmth deep within Rosaline, and his smile pleased her as much as his appreciation for her quip. Even within her own family, only Elliott shared her sense of humor.

  “A more simpering pair I’ve not seen,” he noted.

  “Pair? There’s three of them,” Rosaline replied, startled until she saw teasing laughter lurking in his brown eyes. She shook her head, realizing he jested.

  “I cannae believe ye’ve duped me with that. And ye’ve no idea what it’s been like to watch them grow up, unable to make heads nor tails of them. ’Twas bad enough when Alison was born. But then the twins arrived less than a year later, and the three have been closely connected since.”

  “The view was pleasant enough, though I missed seeing ye.”

  Rosaline blinked, uncertain how to reply. He’d missed her? Preferred seeing her to her beautiful auburn-haired sisters?

  “Ava is
anxious to procure matches for them.”

  “Ava?”

  Rosaline wrinkled her nose. “I dinnae call her Ma. She is my stepmither.” She scuffed a toe in the dirt. “I dinnae think she minds. Calling her Ava, that is. I’m fairly certain she minds having a stepdaughter.”

  “Hmm.” Walter’s reply sounded noncommittal.

  “I willnae stand in the way of their suitors, though Ava wishes me wed and out of the way before Alison comes of age.”

  “I am sorry to hear of your betrothed’s death.”

  Rosaline shrugged away the sting. “It happens.”

  It was Walter’s turn to look surprised, though the expression didn’t linger.

  “I do not mean to disparage your sisters.” Walter appeared to have a sudden twinge of conscience. “But as the eldest daughter . . . .”

  Rosaline was quick to reassure him. “Nae. All are clear they will make beautiful though uninteresting brides one day.”

  “Nae. Ye misunderstand. Ye are beautiful and bright. Why would a man consider yer sisters over ye?”

  Though a rather handsome man, despite the length of his nose, Rosaline decided he was sorely affected by diminished eyesight. As a guest in her father’s keep, she forbore pointing out his affliction and decided it was best to speak of something else. She simply couldn’t decide what. His nearness affected her thinking. And her breathing. The walk to the doocot shouldn’t have left her heart racing.

  “Did your family keep doves once?” Walter asked.

  Rosaline latched onto the harmless subject with relief. “Och, many years ago. ’Tis where Elliott keeps his patients, now.”

  Another twitch of Walter’s eyebrows. “May I see inside?”

  Uncertainty slowed Rosaline’s nod. Still, no one in recent memory had asked to see inside, much less seemed even passably interested. Perhaps this was the best way and place to show Walter Elliott’s true calling.

  She released the latch and opened the door. A wedge of evening sunlight stirred the dust motes and illuminated the tiers of empty nests. Fachan rustled her feathers with a dry sush of sound. Rosaline stepped inside and crossed to the merlin’s perch.

  “Settle, lass. The man’ll do ye no harm. He’s curious about Elliot, ’tis all.”

  Walter’s lean bulk blocked the light for a moment until he moved beyond the narrow door. “Most of the nests are empty.”

  “As soon as the birds are well, he sets them free.” She stroked Fachan’s head. “This one’ll stay here for a time, at least. I dinnae know how she broke her wing and leg, but if I thought it had been done maliciously . . . .” Rosaline sighed. “She’d begun healing when I found her, and the bones have knit awry. Elliott has done a grand job of helping her fly again.”

  Walter peered at the small, fierce bird. Fachan shrieked and spread her wings as best she could, tapping her mangled foot on the perch. “Some of the damage appears to have been to her muscles, which can heal with time and proper exercise.”

  Rosaline sent him a startled look. “Aye?”

  “Men acquire devastating wounds in battle that require more than a healer’s herbs to overcome. Every time she tries her wings she moves muscles closer to their proper use.” Walter shrugged. “Does Ellliott mean to keep her as a hunting falcon?”

  “’Twould be nice to give her freedom. But I dinnae know how she’ll return to the wild. She’ll have a home here as long . . . .”

  As long as I do. That meant forever, didn’t it? Who would marry her now? Three—four—betrothals and three men—and a lad—dead before the wedding. Settling on the fine thought of freedom with no husband to try to control her life brought a faint smile to her lips.

  Walter interrupted her reflections. “Tell me about Elliott.”

  Startled, she recalled the thread of their conversation. She lightly stroked Fachan’s head then motioned Walter to the door, aware of the folly of lingering too long behind doors in the knight’s company. She and Walter traded the gloom of the doocot for the fading sunset. She halted as the sun sank into a fiery glow just above the indigo horizon.

  “’Tis mine and Elliott’s favorite time of day. When our tasks are finished and the colors of the moors come alive for a few moments before shadows overcome them.”

  Walter remained quiet at her side, his gaze toward the sky.

  Happy to discover he was the thoughtful rather than opinionated sort, Rosaline perched on the seat. “The doocot is on a slight hill within the keep, and we’ve a nice view of the moors without climbing to the parapet.”

  “The view is important to Elliott?”

  “I believe ’tis the sense of freedom.”

  “Ye’ve mentioned that word before. Freedom.”

  Rosaline chewed her lower lip. “’Tis mayhap something just beyond my and Elliott’s grasp. A gift we may never have.”

  Walter frowned. “Even as a younger son he will one day have his own family, mayhap a bit of land. In Elliott’s case, a rather nice bit of land.”

  Rosaline glanced at her hands, arranging them in her lap as if sorting through her thoughts.

  “Elliott isnae quite . . . that is, Da has never . . . cared for him like he does Tom.”

  “Why would that be? Elliott appears to be a well-mannered, agreeable youth. A bit gangly, but he’ll grow into his feet and hands with time.”

  “Aye, he’s young, and careful with his movements despite what ye’ve seen today.”

  Walter pivoted slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze sought hers and reluctantly Rosaline gave it.

  “What does your father not wish me to know about your brother?”

  Rosaline blinked. Would her answer help Elliott? Or betray him?

  Chapter Six

  Laurence slogged through the muddy, ash-filled water, aware his boots were forever ruined. Even so, he’d be wearing them for a long time yet. Between his anger at the Scots’ attack, the difficulty in repairing the breach in Eaglesmuir’s wall, and the loss of his boots, his temper was in a fair rage.

  “Bloody great mess. Not a cobbler here to replace them.” He ground his teeth, somewhat surprised his jaw didn’t snap. “There is not recompense enough in all of this midden heap of a country to entice me to live here permanently.”

  He ignored the tired looks of the men who had valiantly driven the Scots from the walls and kept the fires from spreading throughout the keep.

  Halting next to a man whose normally neat appearance had vanished beneath a nasty mix of soot and blood, Laurence commanded his attention. “Any prisoners?”

  Bernard shook his head. “Nae. And I can’t say as I’m disappointed.” He nodded to the stable where frightened horses milled in a small pen hastily built of rope strung between what appeared to be spear shafts. “Lost a good horse to the bastards before we were able to fence the area off. Had to pull the beasts from the stable as it was a fire risk, and some lucky whoreson managed to nab Phillip’s nag from the picket line.”

  “A Scot made it past the walls?” Laurence clenched his fists as anger returned like a swelling tide.

  “Aye, though he’s likely lost at least the use of an arm if Phillip’s aim was true. Knocked the bastard sideways, but not off the horse. No use heaving one’s sword at a black horse at night with a buggered Scot hanging off the side.”

  Laurence grunted. The loss of the destrier would cripple Phillip for the near future—and make him keen to take his revenge one way or another.

  “Fine. Since the fires appear doused, get the horses back inside. I’ll set a double guard at the breached section of wall for the night and see how far the bastards set our efforts back once the sun is up. I can’t see bloody hell in torchlight.”

  Laurence took the steep back stairs to his room and peeled his boots and stockings off, throwing them into a heap by the door. He dressed in dry clothes and a worn pair of boots then returned to the yard. Catching sight of his squire, Laurence sent him to see what could be done about his ruined footwear.

  Too keyed
up to rest, he dismissed as many knights as could be spared to get what sleep they could, and gathered with Bernard and a few others for the first watch of the night.

  “I would not be surprised if the Scots returned sometime before sunrise,” he warned. “If anything moves, I want to know about it. If anyone approaches, shoot him.”

  Bernard and the others nodded. “Aye. Anything else?”

  “Aye. Where the bloody hell is Walter?”

  Walter stared at the glistening wisps of golden hair lit by the setting sun and lifted by the evening breeze. Something clearly bothered Rosaline, and before he went any further with Chief Johnstone’s plan, he needed the truth.

  “Da believes Elliott is fey.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Walter struggled with her statement. He certainly hadn’t anticipated this.

  “’Tis because Elliott has one green and one blue eye. And he’s quiet, thoughtful. Not rowdy like the other lads.”

  Walter searched his memory. He could not recall the color of Elliott’s eyes though he had noted the boy’s aversion to candle and torch light.

  “Da made me put belladonna drops in his eyes. They widen the dark centers and hide the color—if he stays in shadows. But it wears off in a matter of hours, so it doesnae work for long.”

  Walter had seen people with different colored eyes. Some were shunned, others venerated. Did Rosaline truly believe her brother was fey? He’d thought the English Isles had converted to Christianity many centuries earlier, though he’d witnessed enough to realize there were those who clung to the old ways.

  He personally did not believe her brother possessed any qualities—other than perhaps kindness—unusual to other men. He’d endeavor to keep the boy at his side as long as possible tomorrow and see if the dark centers receded to reveal his eyes’ true colors.