“Aye,” came the reply. “It was a bad job. Just you wait, mate, we’ve not heard the last of this.”
The two carried on up the hill, their conversation fading as they went. Magnus eased his way back through the trees into the darker shade of the wood, then sat down behind a thicket of brambles. Magnus was a good fighter, and strong, but at least fifty men were coming up the road, and even he did not fancy the odds. He watched as they passed, keeping as still as possible. There was the captain, a fat ugly fellow with horrendous scarring on one side of his face. A bottle swung from his hand and he drank from it as he walked, cursing the men foully as he went. Magnus saw more than a few of the men glowering darkly at him, and he guessed that the loyalty of Captain Neil Gow-Sinclair’s men was beginning to waver. As far as Magnus was concerned, that was all to the good.
It took some time for them to pass. From the talk, Sir Magnus realised they had been in pursuit of somebody who had escaped them. He found himself much disturbed by their talk of someone falling, apparently to their death. There was surely only one person who they could be referring to. It must be the boy. But they spoke of ‘her,’ too. Who could that be? Perhaps some other prisoner who he knew nothing about?
The uncomfortable feeling that he was on the wrong track entirely gnawed at him, but he did the only thing he could. He waited for the pirates to pass. When, eventually, the road was clear, he eased from his hiding place and got his horse, walking her for a little while before mounting and riding thoughtfully on in the direction of Harrow.
Chapter Twenty-One
The rain was falling hard as Anne and Thorvald landed at the village.
“This is Harrow,” said the old man who had rescued them. “It’s not much, but it’s ours, and ye can be sure ye will be looked after. We are kindly folk in the highlands, and if ye ask the help of a highlander, ye are sure tae get it.”
His name was Seamus McMillan, a crofter and fisherman who had lived in the village of Harrow all his days. He was a proud, quiet man, the classic image of the stoic Highland gentleman, taking a fierce pride in his simple small holding, his humble labour, and his quiet little town.
Beyond introducing himself, he had spoken little in the boat. Anne and Thorvald had introduced themselves to him merely as Mr and Mrs Fishersson and had told him they were husband and wife. Thorvald improvised a little, saying that they had been out fishing themselves off Orkney, but their boat had been blown off course and had capsized near the cliff. Old Seamus had accepted this, nodding his grey head sagely.
“Aye, I can believe it,” he said mournfully. “The seas about these parts can be treacherous even tae those who know them best, and many a goodly soul has lost his life on them. Aye, it’s a dangerous life for fisherfolk.”
With that, he lapsed into a sad, slow song in Gaelic, his voice rising and falling against the sound of the waves. Anne leaned against Thorvald, and since Seamus did not seem to think anything of that, Thorvald put his arm around her and drew her close. Seamus’ eyes had registered the sword at her hip but had said nothing. That was one of the great things about these highlanders, even if you had to conceal the truth, they would ask no questions and take it as a point of honour to believe you. He sighed and closed his eyes.
“Ye must both be exhausted,” said Seamus, shaking Thorvald by the shoulder. The young man woke with a start, jostling Anne awake with the motion.
“Aye, aye, we are,” he admitted, glancing around. The rain fell straight down around them, and the little boat bumped companionably up against the rough wooden pier.
“Have we arrived?” asked Thorvald stupidly. The old man gave him an odd look.
“Aye,” he said, “that we have.”
Thorvald squeezed Anne’s shoulders, and she yawned and stretched, standing up and making the little boat rock. The old fisherman reached down a callused hand, and she gripped it after a moment’s hesitation. He hauled her up onto the pier and then Thorvald, the old fellow looking at them both and considering.
“Ye have not told me all that concerns yerselves,” he said after a moment. “And do not fear. I have no desire tae force ye tae tell me anything which ye have a mind tae keep tae yerselves. But I have tae warn ye, and I think it’s only right tae do so – there have been some odd folk passing through here lately, and they have been asking odd questions. I’m an old man, and I like my peaceful life, but that has given me an ear for trouble, too. I can sense it, ye might say, and that fellow who came through here the other day and bought that silly fool Malcolm McRob’s horse, well, he had trouble written all over him, that he did. And there are other rumours, too...”
Anne was shivering, and Thorvald could feel the drenching cold and the exhaustion taking hold of his limbs.
“Mr McMillan,” he said carefully, looking the old man in the eye. “It’s true that there may be more tae our tale than we have let on at first. Ye are a perceptive man, that much is clear, and it would be a discourtesy to pretend that all was simple for us. But my wife and I...”
Seamus glanced pointedly at their hands, and Thorvald realised his error – neither of them wore rings! He could have kicked himself, but he plunged doggedly on.
“My wife and I,” he said slowly, and the old man nodded sagely, “are exhausted and soaked. Could we prevail upon ye tae show us tae this inn ye mentioned, and perhaps in time we can become the better friends, ye and I, and then I can share more of our tale with ye?”
Seamus considered the young man.
“Ye are fairly-spoken, Thorvald, and there’s no denying that. Yes, I will help ye. Of course, I shall. Come, now, the innkeeper is a friend of mine. It’s quiet now, but there still may be folk around. Ye both come with me, round the back of the inn, and I’ll away in and see the landlord and tell him that ye are tae be brought quietly in around the back, and no fuss is tae be made. Folks may be in the inn drinking now, even though it’s daytime, since they have nothing better tae do with the rain on. Come along now.”
Chatting comfortably as he went, Seamus McMillan led Anne and Thorvald, drenched and shivering and with their arms around each other, up the deserted, muddy road from the pier to the inn. It was not a long road, but to Thorvald in his exhausted state, it seemed to take an age. The inn was a cosy, sturdy-looking building, two stories high, and roofed with fine slates rather than the more common thatch of turf. Warm light and the sound of voices sounded from the downstairs windows.
Seamus led them round behind the building. Here, a second wing extended out from one side of the inn, forming a kind of L-shape, and partially enclosing a small courtyard which was fenced in on the other by a wall of roughly-dressed stone. There was not much in the yard save for a crudely-built set of stalls for horses. In one booth was a big cart, covered over with canvas. From the other, a magnificent chestnut mare regarded them with large, intelligent eyes. Hand-barrows were stacked against the wall of the stall, next to a pile of empty wooden barrels, such as drink or smoked meat might be stored in. Anne and Thorvald huddled in the shelter offered by the overhanging roof, while Seamus McMillan bade them stay and wait for him.
Not very much time passed when the back door opened, and a big, buxom woman came striding out. Her grey hair was tied up in a bun, and a thick woollen shawl was draped around her shoulders. She peered short-sightedly out into the rain-swept yard, and it took a moment before she saw them.
“There ye are!” she cried when she found them. “Come inside, come inside out of the cold! Dear me, you look half drowned! What is all this?”
Shivering, Anne and Thorvald were ushered inside and up a steep, narrow flight of stairs. Seamus and another, who Thorvald assumed must be the stout woman’s husband – the innkeeper – had been sternly shooed away by the woman.
“I’ll see tae this,” she had said. “Just you get some stew and bread warmed for them and send a boy up quick when they’re ready.
“Here ye are,” she said to Thorvald, pushing open a low door to reveal a dim, cosy room with a bed, a crackli
ng fire in a big stone hearth, and a table and chairs drawn up close to it. The daylight filtered through a thin curtain and the sound of the rain drummed on the tiles, filling the room with its cosy sound.
“Now then, there are towels on the bed, and blankets tae wrap yerselves in, and ye may hang yer wet things on the backs of the chairs there tae dry. Make sure and keep the fire stoked up, there’s plenty of wood. I’ll see that my husband warms the food, and I’ll bring it up tae ye myself when it’s ready. Away in now, and get yerselves dry.”
Thorvald tried to thank her, but she waved him away.
“Time enough for that later. Get inside and get dry and warm before ye catch yer death of cold.”
They stumbled gratefully in. Anne walked to the fire and swayed a little as she fumbled with the ties of her soaked leathers. The knots swam before her eyes in the dim light, and her fingers did not seem to work. After a moment, she hauled her belt knife from its sheath and simply cut the ties, peeling the wet leathers off, then her undergarments, and stepped out of her boots. Naked, she made a token effort to dry her hair with one of the towels, then collapsed with a groan of pleasure onto the bed. Thorvald followed her example, a little more slowly.
As he stripped and stood naked in front of the blessed warmth, he wondered at the kindness of these people. The hospitality of the highlanders was legendary, of course, but he had never been out of his village before, not really, and to actually experience it was a strange feeling. He felt oddly humbled by their kindness.
Thorvald made a more careful job of drying himself. There was a scrap of a mirror on top of the mantlepiece, and kneeling down by the firelight he peered at his reflection. The bandage on his head was foul and needed rid of. Gingerly, he peeled it away and was relieved to find that the wound looked clean, the ugly purple swelling almost entirely gone.
It’s Anne’s care that I can thank for that, he thought, touching it carefully, then more confidently. The flesh was shiny and pink where it had healed, and he would have a scar, but it looked much better than he had any right to expect. He glanced over at Anne’s motionless form, sleeping peacefully on the bed.
He was finishing drying his hair when there was a light tap at the door. Wrapping the towel around himself, he opened the door a crack and peered out. The woman was there, beaming at him through the gap. She held a tray with two stacked bowls, wooden plates, cutlery, and a covered tureen, with a rich smell rising from it. He had almost forgotten her.
“Thank you very much,” he reached out, taking the tray from her.
“Ah, do not mention it. Is yer wife sleeping already?”
“Aye,” he said, and could not help but smile at that. Yer wife.
“Well, ye make the most of that stew then. No doubt ye’ll have an appetite. When ye need more, hang out of the door and ring the wee bell ye’ll find on the table by the door there. I ken the sound of that bell for it is shriller than the others. Ring, don’t come down! Seamus McMillan is a shrewd man, and I understand from him that there is a certain discretion required around yer arrival here. Do not fear. We shall keep quiet. I’ll look after ye both myself, and I’ll see that my husband doesn’t talk overmuch either. Go on now,” she said, smiling and stepping away.
Thorvald thanked her again, and retreated inside with the tray, closing the door behind him.
In the muddy, deserted street outside the inn, a single horseman rode slowly into the village through the driving rain. A colossal figure, with a deep hood cast over his face. The hood obscured his features, but three fiery red plaits of beard lay sodden across his steel breastplate, and chainmail clinked around his mighty haunches. His tired horse was mud-splattered and hungry, and mud-coated his high leather boots and smeared the steel greaves that covered his shins.
From within the hood came the sound of a cough.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Iain Grant gave the order to move just as the first light of dawn began to break the pitch-black sky. A pale band of light lay across the horizon, and there was a cold wind in the air. All around him, his men were huddled in uneasy silence. They had been asleep, but they had been roused and now sat still, waiting for the order to move.
As planned, they had come ashore under cover of dusk, reaching the shore and clambering up the steeply inclining cliff as the evening fell quickly upon the land. He had sent three scouts over the hill, and they had reported being able to see a hulk of a building, but nothing was stirring, and it was too pitch-black a night to do anything else. He had given his orders, dividing his men into three groups, and putting himself in charge of one, Alice in charge of another, and John in charge of the third.
“In the morning, at the very first light, we’ll crawl up and over this ridge and see what we can. I’m not for attacking in the dark, but we will go down and look upon the place in the first light of dawn, and perhaps we will be able tae come up with some way tae draw the villains out.”
“It seems a very desperate plan,” said John doubtfully.
“Ach, it’s not a plan at all,” said Iain, “but what else can we do? It’s only by the grace of the good Benedict that we even knew where tae find this place at all – he owes this boy nothing. But I must try tae fulfil my brother’s dying wish, and if that means storming this castle, or drawing its garrison out intae the field for a pitched battle then, by God, that’s what I’m going tae do.”
“For what it’s worth, I agree with ye, Iain,” said Alice. “A deathbed promise is no small thing, and we would be remiss if we did not do everything in our power tae get this poor lad back tae safety and then tae find out what the hell has been going on here.”
“Aye,” said John. “Ye are right. I’m sorry, I’m wrong tae doubt.”
“No, no,” said Iain, “it is desperate. And ye are right tae point that out. But Alice is right, too. The poor wretch laid this on us with his dying breath, and there’s nothing we can do. Come, let’s try tae get some rest while we can. Tomorrow, we may face open battle, as we have not done for many a year.”
That was not a comforting thought, and they slept poorly. When the watch woke them in the dark hour before dawn, none felt close to rested. The tension built slowly but relentlessly on the little party as they sat awaiting the first light of dawn, but at last it came, and Iain Grant sent out the order to move.
In silent files, crouching like spies and with blades drawn, the three columns of men crept up the hillside. The light was growing, uncovering a grey and bleak vista of wind-tossed, sea-hardy grasses punctuated by stacks of grey rock and huge boulders. Slowly they crept up the hill, and Alice could feel her heart pounding. She was gripping her sword as if her life depended on it, and when she became aware, loosened her grip consciously, unclenching her jaw and breathing deeply. She could do this, just like before, but many years ago.
There was another factor now, of course. Back home at Castle Grant, far south, near Aberdeen on the east coast of the mainland, her little daughter Flora was waiting. She was as red-haired as her mother, but she had a quiet, thoughtful nature which Iain said reminded him of his wife, Bess, John’s mother, a woman whom Alice had never met. Alice smiled at the thought of her little Flora, born less than a year after John and Alice had married. She had changed Alice’s life, of course – when did a child not change the life of her parents? – but this was a consequence which Alice had never anticipated: it made going into a battle situation all the riskier.
Where in the past, Alice had been able to throw herself into a fight with abandon, caring for nothing but the death of the enemy and the command of her warriors, now she realised she was already holding back, thinking that she must not risk herself, for the sake of her daughter. That would never work. She knew that, logically. In a fight, hesitation and holding back is what gets you killed, not what keeps you safe. Alice felt a sudden moment of cold panic as she wondered if she would be able to do it.
Much the same thoughts were going through John’s mind as he led his column up through the long grass, s
hifting his head from side to side to keep his father and wife within view of his one eye. It was madness, he thought. In this unplanned and dangerous venture, they were risking the entire dynasty of the Grant family. His father, the chief, himself as the heir, and his wife – the three most senior members of the clan. His younger sister was married to a local landowner, Ranald Carlisle, who was a decent enough fellow. John loved his younger sister dearly, but neither she nor her husband was cut out for the responsibility of fostering John and Alice’s young daughter and shouldering the chieftainship of the ancient clan. These were difficult times for the clans, and the old systems of governance were slowly breaking down to make way for new, more mercantile systems of ownership based on property and trade rather than taxes, fighting prowess, and ancient sacred clan rights. If the three of them were to die on this hillside today, he did not think that Clan Grant would continue to exist as an entity for much longer.
He was just about to move forward and catch his father’s attention to convince him to turn back when he realised they were about to crest the ridge. Iain, leading his company a little further ahead of the rest of the force, held up one hand in warning, then waved forward, signalling them to advance. John shook his head. Too late. They were committed now. He glanced over at his wife and found her looking at him through the dim, dewy morning light. He met her gaze, then turned his attention back to the ridge.
Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3) Page 15