The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  One blue and one green.

  “Eye color does not determine who ye are,” Walter said. “All are God’s children.”

  “Meaning no disrespect, Sir, but ’tis often what others determine that defines ye. Elliott’s eyes changed soon after his birth.” Her voice dropped. “Some whisper he’s a faerie changeling.”

  Walter drew back, shocked clear to his toes. “Ridiculous. Faeries do not exchange children.”

  Rosaline halted his words with a quick grip on his forearm. She rose to her feet, her gaze glancing about as if afraid they’d be overheard.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir. This is Scotland, not yer tame England. Elliott is no more fey than I. Though there are enough who look at me askance.” She blew out a breath, stirring the delicate curls tumbling over her forehead. “But I’d ask ye not to voice yer opinion of faeries aloud. Not here. Not now.”

  “Does Clan Johnstone not follow the Christ?” Walter asked, bouncing between alarm and amusement at Rosaline’s actions.

  Her head jerked up, her eyes wide, clearly shocked. “Och, aye! But ’tis no reason to dismiss what’s right before yer face.”

  “What’s right before my face?” Walter’s head began to throb. The woman of his dreams spouted nonsense and, to some, blasphemy.

  “Why, the veil grows thin, Sir. The days grow short, harvest is nearly done. ’Twill soon be Samhain and the last days before winter.”

  “All Saint’s Day,” Walter corrected, relieved to have at last found solid footing. “To honor the saints. ’Tis a Christian celebration of those who have attained heaven.”

  “’Tis what Father Gilleabart will preach. And rightly so as he’s a man of God. But he’ll be obliged to turn a blind eye to those who light the fires to drive awa’ evil, and say naught of the fair faces who hide behind soot and tattered clothing so as not to draw the attention of the wee folk who would do them harm.”

  “Why would a priest allow this?”

  Rosaline glanced away and for a moment Walter feared he’d receive no answer.

  “Because terrible things happen when ye ignore the past.”

  Her eyes glistened and Walter struggled with an absurd feeling of helplessness. “The past should always be carefully considered, but we are not responsible for it.”

  “Wee Ronnie died because of me. I ignored the auld ways, taunted him because he still believed.”

  Walter wanted to tell her this was nonsense, but it was plain as a pikestaff she believed every word.

  “There is always forgiveness,” he said, gentling his words.

  Rosaline nodded vigorously. “Aye. Forgiveness from God. And a bit of bread and mead to appease the fair folk.”

  Liam Maxwell ran his palm across the velvet neck of the glistening black destrier. The horse snorted and pawed the ground, shifting away from Liam’s touch. Liam tightened his grip on the lead rope, murmuring soothing sounds. The horse whinnied shrilly, the whites of his eyes wide and bright in the moonlight.

  “Dinnae fash. I willnae harm ye.”

  “’Tis what ye said to the lassie in the tavern last night,” someone quipped.

  A man beside him elbowed his ribs. “The beast isnae having it no more than the lass did.”

  A chuckle rippled through the crowd. Liam cuffed the impertinent man, sending him staggering to one side. “He smells wee Andrew’s blood.” Liam glanced at the young Scot propped against a nearby tree. Andrew exhaled a single ragged, shallow breath and slowly relaxed.

  “I dinnae know how he rode the beast this far.” Liam shook his head as another man gently closed Andrew’s sightless eyes. “The wound opened him stem to stern.”

  “Lucky throw,” someone groused.

  “Aye. And our Andrew always had more pluck than luck, poor lad.”

  The destrier snaked his head toward Liam and nipped his upper arm with strong, yellow teeth.

  “Shite!” Liam jerked from the horse’s grasp, leaving behind a scrap of his tunic. He shook his fist at the horse. “Ye wee devil!”

  Someone laughed. “Ye’ll be naming him Auld Bobbie, then, aye?”

  Liam considered the horse’s sleek black hide and uncertain attitude. “Aye. I’ll name him for the devil, himself.”

  “Not a bad reward for the night’s work. Such a beast will bring good coin.”

  The moonless night made it difficult to determine who spoke, but Liam was fairly certain which of his men had an excellent eye for horseflesh.

  “What about Eaglesmuir?” Chief Maxwell’s voice rose as he stepped from the shadows. “’Twas better protected than we thought.”

  Handing the horse off with the admonition to add him to the far end of the picket line, out of reach of the others, Liam gathered the Maxwells about a small fire someone had started near a rippling burn. He gave his chief a respectful nod, noting his haggard appearance.

  “I dinnae expect us to overtake the keep this night. ’Twas merely to see how the English would react.”

  “Prodding a wasp nest?”

  Faces lit ghoulishly by the tiny flames grinned in the darkness.

  Laurence nodded. “Aye. We havenae the numbers to lay siege to the keep. But this night we burned a few cottages and stole one of their fine horses.”

  “They’ll miss the horse more than the rickle sheds,” a witty voice remarked.

  The men laughed.

  “That they will. We now have their attention.” Liam grinned. “They willnae likely soon forget us.” He swept his gaze over the lads’ eager faces and Chief Maxwell’s stern visage. “’Tis only beginning. Before long they’ll have reason to fear us.”

  Chapter Seven

  Rosaline carefully set the wooden thimble of milk on the edge of the hearth, out of sight of any casual glance. The twins had teased her unmercifully when they’d discovered her nighttime offerings to the faeries, and she’d retaliated by hanging an iron nail above their bed. While this would keep the wee folk from doing anything to help her sisters, Rosaline half wished the faeries would do something truly disturbing to the annoying pair. She contented herself by offering to make their bed from time to time, making sure to start with the foot, for everyone knew the auld saying, Make the foot before the head, else, my dear, ye’ll never wed.

  And little would delight her more than to see them wed and living elsewhere. Happily, of course.

  The bedroom door opened and all three sisters burst through, giggling and sending Rosaline pointed looks. Rosaline sighed. At thirteen summers, Alison was a budding beauty, the twelve year old twins gangly by youthful comparison. All three boasted hair the color of embers in the dark and eyes the blue of a summer sky. Rosaline’s complete opposite. She’d hardly felt more of an outsider.

  The girls gathered around Rosaline.

  “Tell us,” Alison demanded.

  “Aye, tell us,” Arabel and Ainslie chimed in, their eyes bright with unabashed delight.

  Rosaline glanced from one to the others. “Tell ye what?”

  “About him!” Alison prompted.

  “Aye, him!” came the shrill chorus as the twins bobbed their heads.

  Bewildered, Rosaline flipped her palms up. “Who?”

  Alison rolled her eyes and released an exaggerated sigh. “The English knight. Ye must know him. He came from . . .,” her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper, “The Saint!”

  A dunk in the burn at Christmastide wouldn’t have gotten deeper shivers from the entranced threesome. Rosaline frowned, a curious reluctance to share her thoughts of Sir Walter with her sisters framing her words.

  “Ye had supper with him, not I,” she retorted, shrugging off the sharp sting of disappointment at her exclusion.

  Alison lost her superior attitude and slipped to Rosaline’s side. She gripped her sister’s hand, head tilted prettily in a pleading manner. “He’s terribly good-looking,” she said with a glance to the twins.

  They nodded eagerly. “His nose is too long,” Arabel noted, a slight pout marring her lips.

 
; “But verra tall and strong,” piped up Ainslie.

  “Ye are all too young to be oogling lads,” Rosaline scolded, pulling her hand from Alison’s grip.

  “Ma says we’re almost old enough to wed,” Alison corrected with a toss of her heavy auburn hair.

  “But I’ll wager Da dinnae say ye’d wed an Englishman,” Rosaline pointed out.

  Three faces fell and the lasses grew silent.

  “Aye,” Alison mourned. “But he’s the first visitor we’ve had in ages.”

  “And we like him,” Arabel added. Ainslie nodded.

  “Put yer minds to attracting a nice Scottish lad,” Rosaline suggested. “Ye cannae have an English knight.”

  “Ye want him,” Alison accused, her eyes flashing. Arabel and Ainslie crowded closer.

  “Ye like Sir Walter!” the twins shouted.

  Alarmed, Rosaline backed away. “Nae, ye are all daft. Da would no more set me to marry an Englishman than any of ye.”

  She turned to her pallet on the floor and sat atop the blankets, pulling her knees to her chest. A frown sent her sisters flouncing to the bed where they huddled together like a flock of roosting hens. Rosaline rolled to her side, propping her head on the mattress she’d only partially stuffed with rush ends and an armful of discarded feathers.

  “Ye do like him,” Alison asserted.

  Rosaline ignored her sister. She wouldn’t waste her time or breath defending herself. Sir Walter de Ellerton was an English knight, and she was certain even if she confessed he’d caught her eye, naught but more teasing would come of it.

  Morning slipped pale fingers through the cracks in the wooden shutters. As quietly as possible, Rosaline rose from her bed and evaded another round of heckling from her overwrought sisters. Alison had chosen to stay the night, crowding the already closely packed room. With silent tread, Rosaline hurried outside in search of Elliott.

  Her youngest brother squatted on the cracked stone of the doocot floor, dragging a broken twig through the dusty collection of dirt, feathers, and miscellaneous detritus that collected beneath his feet. Rosaline’s heart thudded sorrowfully, wishing he hadn’t been thrust so abruptly into this new role.

  “I thought I’d find ye here,” Rosaline announced as she crossed the threshold. He didn’t glance up, but jabbed his stick into the debris, flinging discarded bits about. She leaned a shoulder against the wall. “A nice, powerful attack, though I doubt the floor will take much abuse from a wee stick. Have ye been practicing with yer dagger?”

  Elliott whirled on his heels. “I dinnae want to practice with my dagger!” Mutiny and frustration warred in his eyes. “I dinnae want my own keep.” He plopped to his bottom, shoulders rounded in dejection. “I dinnae want to grow up.”

  Rosaline pushed away from the wall and dropped to her knees beside him. “Och, Elliott, is that what they’re saying? That ye need to grow up?”

  He nodded. “And be a man.” His breath whooshed from his thin chest, stirring the dust at his feet. “I’ve nine summers.”

  His anguished whisper tore at Rosaline’s heart. Gathering him to her chest, she absorbed his shudders until his misery was spent.

  “Ye arenae verra old,” she agreed softly, “but ye are kinder, smarter, and cannier than any lad I know.”

  “I cannae use a sword.”

  “Nae. But ye can learn.”

  “I dinnae wish to learn.”

  “Ye should learn how it feels to hold a sword, how to use it to defend yerself. As chief, ye will have men who guard ye, but even a lass knows how to protect herself.”

  Elliott sniffed and glanced up, a crooked grin on his face. “The Empty Annies dinnae.”

  “Elliott! I’ve told ye not to make up names for our, um, sisters.” Words failed her as she struggled not to laugh.

  His grin widened. “Ye know their heads are empty as a tub after wash day.”

  “Hmmm. But it isnae kind to make fun of them.”

  He shrugged. “Keeps the faeries from stealing them.”

  Rosaline checked. She hesitated to ask if he simply heaped another insult on the three girls’ collective heads or if he repeated the guarded whisper that he was a faerie changeling. She knew such speculation hurt his feelings though he’d learned long ago to at least outwardly ignore the idiots spouting such nonsense.

  “Ye arenae fae, Elliott.”

  “Och, I know. I have no yen to find a faerie ring and dance my life away.”

  “Nae. Ye are the son of Thomas Johnstone, and not allowed to live yer life in the obscurity of a doocot. What they’re asking of ye is more than most young lads could tolerate. But ye can do this, Elliott. Remember what Sir Walter said? Ye can rule Eaglesmuir as ye please. Ye can create a land of peace and plenty, of kindness and safety. But ye must know how to protect yerself and yer people. It doesnae always mean fighting, but it does mean understanding everyone around ye. From the crofter to the soldier to the merchant, ye must learn to speak their language and understand their complaints. Shear a sheep. Heft a sword. Add yer sums.”

  Elliott sighed. “Ye are wise. Must I learn it all today?”

  Rosaline rubbed his head with her knuckles, ruffling his unruly hair. “Nae, ye wee skunner. Ye dinnae need to learn it all this day. But ye cannae spend yer time mucking about in the dirt like a wee bairn.” She rose and offered him her hand. “Come on. I have a few things I can teach ye with a dagger so ye willnae be such an innocent.”

  Walter settled beneath a sprawling oak which lent its shelter to the horses lazing about, nose to tail against the brisk autumn air. The bits of information he’d gleaned about Elliott were beginning to fit together and spoke volumes of the ambitions of his sire.

  Eadric glanced about then squatted on his heels a foot or so away. “Clever to use the horses as sentries.”

  “They will alert us if anyone draws near. And were it not for the guards who watch our every move, I would say we are comparatively invisible here.”

  Eadric’s gaze returned to the area beyond the oak tree. As though a sudden thought crossed his mind, he tilted his head, scanning the branching canopy above.

  Walter waited a moment for his captain’s attention to return. “What did ye wish to speak about?”

  “I am not satisfied with Chief Johnstone’s counter-offer. I know ye do not like to make decisions until ye’ve considered all parts of a situation, but this strikes me as contrary to what we were sent to do.”

  Walter nodded. “The chief is a wily, ambitious man, and cares little for an alliance with the English. He is also cautious, howbeit, and will not throw our offer in our faces—unless he feels he clearly has the upper hand, which he does not. I do not know the exact wording of the missive The Saint sent a fortnight or more ago, but I recall his words to me clearly.

  I will not have a Maxwell maintaining Eaglesmuir. The last to do so accosted people on my land and attempted to kidnap my nephew and sister by marriage. I wish to create peace on my part of the border and will offer the keep to Chief Johnstone who is a shrewd bastard and no friend to the Maxwells.

  “’Tis clear The Saint wishes to form an alliance that would guarantee the safety of his people and those of Friar’s Hill,” Eadric replied. “Is his aim served by placing a nine-year-old boy as the chief of a contested keep?”

  “It does not seem likely. Yet, what game does Chief Johnstone play that risks failure and further contention?

  Eadric rubbed his chin. “I confess I see little reason behind his move. Granted, his eldest son is already heir to this well-kept keep.” His gaze roamed appreciatively over the cottages, weapons practice field, paddock and stables, and five-storey tower house encased within the thick wooden outer wall. He nodded. “Quite a fortress, and the interior is more comfortable than many I’ve seen. Chief Johnstone is a powerful man.”

  “Aye. And Eaglesmuir was once a flourishing keep.”

  Eadric grunted. “Had de Wolfe’s men not been so determined to make an example of Marcus Maxwell’s thievery, the
wall might yet be standing.”

  “Lady Iseabal informed me the maintenance of the keep had slipped noticeably in the past years under her sire’s control. Rebuilt, it could be a strong ally.”

  “So, why give it to the boy?”

  Walter thought hard of the problem foremost on his mind, then leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “Have ye noted the boy Elliott is a bit . . . different?”

  Eadric nodded. “I do not understand why he has not been schooled in any sort of weaponry. What manner of trickery does Chief Johnstone plan by giving us a lad unworthy to govern?”

  “Nae, not unworthy. I believe Elliott will, in time, be worth two of his brother. It appears Chief Johnstone serves the proposed alliance by accepting on behalf of his son, yet the keep is some distance from here and will likely stretch his resources to help maintain it until Elliott comes of age. However, by placing his youngest lad in charge—a lad he holds in little esteem—he will be seen as shrewd by Scots who would otherwise condemn him for consorting with the enemy. Us. I have spoken with his sister . . . .”

  “Ye do not place credence in those empty-headed wenches?” Eadric’s wide eyes reflected his horror.

  Walter chuckled. “Nae. I refer to the eldest who accosted her father in his solar yestereve.”

  Eadric opened his mouth as if about to respond, then shook his head and remained silent.

  “She lived for a brief time at Friar’s Hill and worked as a serving wench at North Hall.”

  “Ah! ’Tis where I’ve seen her before.” Eadric nodded his comprehension. “Not the typical place to find a chief’s daughter. Do ye care to share that tale?”

  Walter waved a hand. “Later. She was betrothed to a lad in the village who died, and she returned home shortly after.”

  “It appears in Elliott’s favor she is here to champion him. Otherwise, the boy would be picked apart by men with far more ambition than tolerance.”

  “Aye. She will fight for him.”

  Eadric cocked his head. “Ye admire her? Do ye believe she’d betray her father in favor of her brother? Will ye be able to protect her if she does?”