The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  Her gaze fell upon the bit of frayed rope dangling from a hook in the wall. She glanced at Trig who met her eyes with a vigorous wag of her tail.

  “’Tisn’t like Elliott to leave ye behind,” she murmured. She glanced about the empty stall. “But he has taken his pony.”

  Choosing not to linger, she hurried to the stall several doors down where her mare—a gift from her da on the occasion of her first—second—betrothal—waited. She scratched the horse’s velvety nose, keeping her in place as she opened the door.

  “Come, sweet Blossom. We’ve a task ahead of us,” she crooned, stroking the animal’s neck, noting the play of watery moonlight over the dappled hide. The gray palfrey with black mane and tail was the mixed color of shadows, patterned for beauty and sturdily built. She tossed her head with a gentle snort and nudged Rosaline’s shoulder.

  “Aye. And in this weather.” She gave Trig a wry look as she deftly slipped a bridle over the horse’s head. “Mayhap ye should have stayed in Brego’s stall. I wonder who we’ll meet up with first?”

  They hesitated at the doorway. Rain dripped from the lintel, creating a mud puddle at the entry. Ahead, a faint blue-green light twinkled as if beckoning. Rosaline tugged her pony’s reins and stepped into the storm.

  The slip of leather against metal drifted across the yard as Laurence’s men prepared for battle. Horses snorted, plumes of steam darting from their nostrils, visible for only a moment in the heavy morning mist. Weapons slid against scabbards as blades were checked, and visors clinked against helms.

  Laurence nodded at the normal sounds of preparation. His horse stomped a front hoof and blew a snort of expectation that lingered briefly in the cold pre-dawn air. Laurence absently patted the thick neck, intent on the activity around him.

  “The road to the north is reported clear,” Bernard said as he approached. He placed a palm against the destrier’s shoulder. “I wish ye would reconsider.”

  “Leaving ye in charge is not negotiable.” Laurence’s gaze drifted over his men, silently noting the pale glint of steel from beneath protective woolen cloaks.

  “’Twould be better if ye remained here and let me lead the men.”

  “Your preferences have been noted.” Laurence glanced at Bernard, a faint sardonic smile on his lips. “Should Sir Walter arrive before we return, kindly point him in our direction.”

  Rising in his stirrups, Laurence gained the men’s attention. Noise fell. Tension rose. “The future of Eaglesmuir lies not in what help arrives from others, but in our own actions. Our time for waiting is over.”

  A great cheer rumbled, swelling over the yard as men struck their armor in rhythmic agreement.

  Bernard grinned. “So much for silent hunting. Every Scot within miles heard this.”

  Laurence’s mood lightened and his heart raced with the anticipation of battle. “’Tis not my way to steal into the enemy’s camp unannounced, even if I knew where it lay. I prefer to strike fear into their hearts.”

  The lines on Bernard’s face lengthened. “Godspeed.”

  Liam scrambled from a deep sleep, scrubbing his face with the heel of his palm to force his eyes open. He’d have sworn he had only closed his eyes a moment earlier, but the first light of dawn edged the trees in pearly gray. The buzz in his head did not subside, and the shadows that were his clansmen slid across the small glen. One approached.

  Lord Maxwell.

  “There has been a disturbance at the keep. Get up.”

  Liam dodged a kick aimed at his seated rear as he leapt to his feet. “That’s the sound I hear?”

  “’Tis nae from the whisky ye drank last night after ye roused the men to a struidiment with yer promises of revenge.”

  Liam winced at Lord Maxwell’s loud voice. “Mayhap the whisky wasnae the best idea, though at the time it seemed a good way to . . . .”

  “Bah! Douse yer heid in the burn and clear the cobwebs. Then rouse the men. If the English have abandoned the keep in pursuit of the laddie what stole their chickens, I’ll purchase the next round of drinks.”

  Clarity splashed over Liam without the need for a dunk in the frigid water. Moments later the bleary-eyed Scots stood—or swayed—before him, a ragged line of men on the far edge of last night’s ill-advised drunken spree.

  “We’ve tweaked the dragon’s tail.” Liam swept his glance over the men as reality dug in. Their feet shuffled as balance returned. Gazes firmed.

  “Lord Maxwell and I heard the rousing cheer as the English set out from Eaglesmuir,” he added with only slight inaccuracy. He had heard the rumble. Lord Maxwell had named it for what it was.

  A challenge.

  “They’ve lost a horse, a man, and their chickens because of us.”

  A ripple of careful laughter interrupted him. One man elbowed his neighbor, nearly tipping him from his feet.

  “They dinnae like it,” one grunted, his bearded face splitting into a grin.

  “What they would like to do, is catch us off our guard,” Liam reprimanded. His voice sharpened. “Gather yer weapons. Leave all else here. Let them think we’re idjits who’d sleep through their racket. Then, follow me.”

  Elliott shuddered, but his mind wasn’t on the cold rain dripping down his neck. He peered over the top of a moss-covered boulder, his attention on the slip of shadows through the trees a short distance to his right.

  Has to be Scots. Nae Englishman is so silent, and Walter’s knights would be on horseback. He inhaled slowly, deeply, willing his heart’s rapid beat to slow. There was no change in the pattern or direction of movement, and it was unlikely he’d been noticed. The men vanished into the mist as quickly as they’d arrived. Elliott gave a sigh of relief and rose to his feet.

  He patted Brego’s muzzle. Water ran in rivulets down the heavy mane and forelock. Any other horse would have tossed his head to rid himself of the nuisance. The resulting rattle of metal and the shudder of flesh and bone would have alerted the men to their presence.

  “Ye’re a braw laddie,” Elliott crooned. “There isnae a better pony anywhere.”

  Brego blew against Elliott’s palm as if in agreement. Fachan remained firmly perched on Elliott’s arm beneath the cloak, one beady eye cocked at Elliott.

  Elliott stepped onto a small boulder then slid onto Brego’s back. He tucked his cloak about the falcon and gave the pony a nudge with his heels. Brego’s hooves plopped wetly on the soaked ground, slow and steady as he sought the safest path among the mud and slippery stones. Elliott’s gaze swept the moors, frustrated by shifting shadows as dark clouds raced before the moon. Trees dipped and swayed in the wind, their bare branches waving like druids’ arms in the fervor of a sacred rite.

  “At least the rain has stopped,” he muttered, pulling his cloak closer about his neck against the wind. His teeth chattered and he was grateful for the merlin’s warmth against his side and the furry pony beneath his legs.

  “Whoa,” he breathed. Ahead lay shadows that did not move. To his right, something glowed dully through the trees. English knights.

  He glanced at the shadows again. He was certain they belonged to Scotsmen. Was it time to make his presence known?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The force of the storm left Rosaline cold and trembling, sensations clearly echoed by the tired droop to Blossom’s head as she trudged gamely through the muck. Rosaline was as exhausted as if she’d run the entire distance from Middleburn Keep. Realizing they’d soon out-pace the little terrier, Rosaline had brought Trig before her across Blossom’s withers, and the dog had huddled quietly beneath Rosaline’s cloak through the worst of the storm. Now, her head poked through, ears perked eagerly.

  “I’m as happy as ye the rain has ceased,” Rosaline murmured. “We must be near Elliott—if he headed to Eaglesmuir as I suspect he did. Why not hop down and start earning yer keep?”

  She bent forward, lowering Trig until the little dog leapt to the ground, tail quivering in excitement. The air was misty, cold, and full of scents. T
he crisp tang of pine, the denser, earthier aroma of wet leaves littering the ground, and the faint reek of peat filled Rosaline’s senses. Trig cast about, squatted for a quick pee, then gave a sharp bark and darted forward, nose to the ground. Rosaline urged Blossom after her.

  Tiny lights sparked before her in the mists—a twinkling warning.

  “Trig!” Rosaline hissed, reining her pony to a halt. The terrier turned from her track and trotted to Blossom’s side. She sat, tail swiping a path in the leaves as Rosaline dismounted.

  Rosaline stood perfectly still, searching for a reason for the peculiar sparkle, but no sound or further sight answered. She glanced at Trig and Blossom, neither of whom appeared concerned, though Blossom seemed to stare into the lightening shadows as she idly champed her bit.

  “Do ye nae feel it?” Rosaline twisted her neck, taking another careful glance about the glen where young trees slipped from the nearby forest, their slender forms offering little protection from prying eyes.

  Trig cocked her head, tongue lolling out one side of her mouth. She whined low, but did not bark. Rosaline dropped Blossom’s reins and took a cautious step forward. “Stay here.” She reinforced the command with a hand motion, then stooped low and crept to a nearby boulder. Unconcerned with obedience, Trig followed.

  A small burn wove through the trees, flashing silver where it tripped over stones and protruding roots of ancient, gnarled trees. Moonlight glanced from its surface, obscuring the water beneath. A darker shadow stood at the edge, head down, and Rosaline’s heart rate tripled.

  A wolf? Her breath caught in her throat. A bear? None had been seen in this area in many years, but the stories were as terrifying as any she’d heard as a lass. At her side, Trig yipped. She darted over the boulder, landing lightly amid the slippery leaves.

  “Trig! No!” Rosaline rose, her fear vanished in the need to protect the wayward terrier.

  The form at the burn lifted its head, water dripping from its muzzle. A smaller shadow rose and separated from its side. The sharp warning kek-kek-kek of a falcon pierced the silence.

  “Elliott?” Rosaline’s voice forced past her fear-tightened throat. She swallowed then took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Elliott!”

  Her brother waved at her, a brusque command for silence, warning in his stance. “Wheesht! Get down!” he hissed.

  “A fine welcome from a wee lad who shouldnae be out in the dark alone.”

  Elliott gave a jerk of his head. “There are English close enough to piss on. Dinnae blather so.”

  Rosaline quickly hunkered down beside him, fear and dread warring coldly in her veins.

  “Ye still shouldnae have come alone,” she whispered as she glanced about, hoping she hadn’t been seen or overheard.

  “I’ve a braw pony and a hunting falcon,” Elliott growled. He cast a derisive nod to Rosaline’s palfrey. “Ye’ve a pretty beast and a noisy dog.”

  “But we found ye,” Rosaline insisted, somewhat stung by his dismissal of her loyal pony.

  “We dinnae need finding. Come to the burn where we willnae be overheard.”

  Rosaline grabbed Blossom’s reins, pulling her along as she hurried to Elliott’s side. Brego and Blossom greeted each other with soft nickers, then fell to nosing about in the late autumn grasses bordering the burn.

  “Why did ye go haring off by yerself?” Rosaline demanded.

  “I’m tired of always being overlooked.” Elliott’s brows furrowed together, emphasizing his frown. “’Tis my keep, and I dinnae need to be treated like a bairn.”

  “Ye expect to roust the Maxwells from Eaglesmuir by yerself?” Rosaline bit her lip, realizing her mocking tone was exactly what Elliott found offensive. Her wee brother with the ever-ready smile and willingness to banter with her was gone. She wanted him back.

  “I’m sorry, Elliott. If they’d taken ye seriously, ye wouldnae have had to do this. I want to help ye. What can I do?”

  Elliott’s frown eased and a twinkle that wasn’t entirely humor lit his eyes. “Do ye have yer blades?”

  Rosaline patted her belt. “I do.”

  Her brother nodded. “We must avoid Sir Walter and his men, and make it to Eaglesmuir before sunrise. ’Twas easier in the rain, but it promises a bright day ahead, and anyone on the road will be well-remarked.”

  “Then we must hurry. How certain are ye where Eaglesmuir is located?”

  “I asked.” Elliott shrugged. “There is some benefit to being a persistent wee lad. Da finally shoved a map beneath my nose.” He grinned. “My thanks for teaching me to read.”

  “Excellent.” A weight lifted from Rosaline’s shoulders. “Lead on. I shall follow.”

  Sir Walter lifted a hand, fingers closed into a fist, and the line of knights behind him reined to a halt. They had to be close to Eaglesmuir. Shadows paled beneath the rays of the rising sun, exposing hiding places amid the trees. They’d crossed the burn some time past, and once they were free of the forest, the keep would be a short distance away.

  Danger lit his veins, sharpened his senses. Despite the long journey, Maël pranced beneath him, responding to Walter’s tightened grip on the reins, the firm grasp of his knees on the saddle, all indicators of impending battle.

  “Ye sense it as well?” Eadric murmured, his voice low. Walter allowed a short nod, intent on judging the sounds and movements around him as small creatures scurried through woodland leaves to avoid the horses and the dawn, and birds awoke to add their first notes to the day.

  A shrill whistle split the air, dividing Walter’s knights as if they’d been tugged apart by ropes. Three arrows slapped the ground, narrowly missing the mounted men. Horses whinnied and snorted, eager to fight the enemy.

  Walter rose in his stirrups, sweat gathering beneath his armor as rage roiled through him. “Find the Scots!”

  Three horses wheeled about, set to flight by their riders. Four men-at-arms faded into the trees, weapons drawn as they sought the men who’d fired upon them.

  The remainder of Sir Walter’s men fanned out, facing the threat surrounding them. Horses champed and stomped, arrows steadied against drawn bows. The rasp of steel faded as the men settled, watchful, wary. Moments passed, then minutes. Even the birdsong had disappeared, leaving naught but the ripple of the nearby brook.

  “Let us continue,” Walter said, hating the appearance of fleeing before an enemy, yet needing to cover as much ground as possible before they were attacked again.

  Eadric waved the command to march and the column moved forward, weapons at the ready. Walter’s nerves stretched taut.

  “I want an enemy I can fight,” Eadric growled, his horse pacing next to Walter’s. “The damned Scots disappear like wraiths, gone before I can do more than curse their presence.”

  Walter didn’t bother agreeing. The silence of the Scots was only countered by the shrieking clamor of their war cries when fighting over an open field. Walter wasn’t certain which bothered him more.

  They managed another mile before the Scots struck again, their fierce attack sending two knights tumbling from their horses. Bowmen scrambled to close ranks which had opened as they traveled the rough terrain.

  Walter spurred Maël forward and the stallion responded with a squeal of challenge. The knights managed to regain their feet despite their unwieldy armor, and grabbed their valuable destriers before they disappeared into the hands of the Scots. Arrows flew, though his men sustained few injuries, the steel-tipped missiles more of a swarm of dangerous insects.

  “Do not halt,” Walter warned. “We must reach Eaglesmuir before nightfall.”

  Eadric urged the men on, keeping the knights abreast of the archers. Walter’s powerful war horse slowly cantered up and down the line of men, the ground quivering beneath his massive hooves.

  The trees loomed denser ahead, a perfect spot for an ambush.

  “Mind the trees.”

  Eadric sent Walter a nod of understanding and wheeled his mount, sending him to the front of the line whe
re he held a swift conference with the men there.

  Knights formed a forbidding perimeter, protecting the men-at-arms and archers within. They would take the brunt of any attack, protecting the leather-clad archers at all costs. The swordsmen drew their blades with a whisper of menacing sound.

  The night erupted with the guttural cries of the Scotsmen. Meant to terrify and paralyze, the sounds created chaos, echoing through the trees and rocks.

  Walter’s men held firm, forcing their way through the vicious attack. Swords rang, steel on steel. Horses squealed, hooves pounding the ground in a dangerous dance, the trail too narrow to move effectively. Arrows whistled overhead.

  A Scot appeared at Walter’s left stirrup, eyes gleaming beneath bristling brows, face buried beneath the swing of hair and beard. Walter brought his sword to bear, passing it seamlessly from one hand to the other. The man grasped Walter’s ankle, then shoved upward with a mighty heave. Caught off-balance, Walter slipped sideways. Maël sidestepped to counter his rider’s shift, but the wily Scot grabbed the horse’s reins, causing him to rear. Walter felt himself tip backward, the weight of his armor unseating him. He grabbed at Maël’s mane, gripped the destrier’s sides with all the power he could muster.

  He lost his seat, striking the ground with considerable force. His breath whooshed from his lungs, and for a moment he lay stunned. Maël’s whinny of warning rang in his ears, echoed by an angry cry.

  Good boy. Bite him again.

  Maël fought to protect his rider, hooves flying, teeth bared to all who approached. Walter stumbled to his knees and grasped the saddle stirrup dangling above his head. His horse reared again, pulling Walter forward. He found his footing, his hand sliding to his empty scabbard.

  Damn!

  The Scot appeared next to Maël, Walter’s sword in his hand. He raised it above his head, taking the high guard position, muscles bulging. Though wearing a sturdy helmet, Walter knew the downward force of the steel would easily kill him. He snatched a dagger from his belt, searching for an opening to use his shorter blade.