“I’m no’ sure it’ll be so easy.” Alasdair frowned. “If he is Sir Walter, the King’s man—”
Kendrew roared. “All the more reason!”
His warriors broke into a chorus of agreement, thumping balled fists on tables and rattling swords.
When Alasdair’s men joined in, Marjory clapped her hands. “Come, let us take our meat.” She raised her voice above the ruckus. “I’ll not see the dogs snatching food from the tables while men work themselves into a frenzy that will bring no good to us.”
Then she lifted her skirts and started forward, letting the others follow her to the raised dais and high table at the far end of the hall.
Catriona lingered behind, going instead to the nearest of the oh-so-narrowly cut window slits. She’d felt a need to stare out over the stony ground they’d ridden across—the dreagan rocks—and rid herself of the terrible prickles crawling up and down her back ever since the men spoke of Sir Walter and the hall had gone wild.
She’d hoped seeing the weird outcroppings without a band of screaming, black-faced warriors running and leaping through the stones would banish her chills.
The rocks were just that, after all, rocks.
And peat smeared on a face and a wolf skin thrown over shoulders didn’t make a man a beast.
A Berserker, as Kendrew and his men seemed to believe.
But the view from the arrow slit proved disappointing. The day had turned dark. And she could only see cold mist, even thicker now, and the silvery sheen of ice rain, pelting the stronghold’s walls.
Castle Nought was a forbidding place.
But not near as daunting a place as her heart had become.
Or as traitorous, for—God help her—each time she’d heard her brother or Kendrew mention Sir Walter’s name and the coming carnage, it hadn’t been Alasdair’s face that had leapt into her mind.
Oh, she’d thought of him, to be sure. And every other MacDonald champion who would stride onto that field, ready to kill or be killed.
But her first thought was of James.
Imaging what could happen to him was worse than if a great iron fist burst into her chest, squeezing her heart until the world turned black and she couldn’t breathe.
So she stared out Nought’s ridiculous sliver of a window, seeing nothing and biting down on her lip, hard until she tasted blood.
Truth was…
If James fell, she didn’t think she could bear it.
Much later, in the smallest hours of the night when Catriona slept comfortably in a chamber readied by Lady Norn’s own hand, another maid of the glen found no rest at all. Even though, as many would point out, she’d been at peace for more centuries than she cared to remember.
Not that Scandia considered her ghostly existence tranquil.
And though she could have joined Catriona in her well-appointed guest quarters at Castle Nought, twinkling herself there in a blink, she preferred not to stray too far from Castle Haven.
It may have been long since she’d walked, rather than drifted, through her beloved home, but that didn’t mean she felt any less attachment to the ancient stronghold.
She just regretted that the Camerons who came after her thought of her as a bringer of ill fortune.
The Doom of the Camerons.
In truth, she didn’t feel like anyone’s doom. She certainly never summoned the like. She simply took comfort in staying in the place she’d always loved so dearly. And she enjoyed being surrounded by the clan that shared her blood and still meant so much to her.
She was proud of each and every Cameron.
And although she’d met her own doom at Castle Haven, the tragedy hadn’t changed her feelings about the place.
Even if she did do her best to avoid the Lady Tower, which wasn’t named for any particular lady, but for the six window embrasures in its uppermost chamber. The alcoves were placed at intervals around the circular room and boasted unusually large windows, allowing splendid light throughout the day.
Ladies at Castle Haven favored the embrasure room to do their needlework.
The room also gave access to the battlements.
And that was the reason Scandia now hovered, shimmying agitatedly near the darkened entry to the Lady Tower’s turnpike stair.
She didn’t want to be reminded of a certain afternoon on the wall-walk.
A day that proved to be her last.
Her final real day, that was.
Her present existence didn’t really qualify as such, although she did try to keep herself occupied, sometimes even enjoying herself.
It was pursuit of such diversions that brought her to the Lady Tower now. There’d been a terrified scream from one of the tower guest chambers. Cries, shouts, and much banging and bumping had followed the first ear-splitting howl, the noise sending James racing up the stair.
And, of course, Scandia floated after him.
She was grateful for any excitement, even if it meant entering the Lady Tower. But when James threw open the door of the room with the ruckus and burst inside, she hesitated to follow him. Instead, she stayed where she was, several paces from the door.
Now that she was so close, she recognized the yelling voice as Sir Walter’s.
And he sounded very angry.
“I knew you Highlanders were naught but unwashed savages! Heathen barbarians! This is proof. Disgusting, vile—eeeeeie—” Sir Walter shrieked as a loud crashing noise came from inside the room.
“Sir, come down from the table.” James’s deep voice floated into the corridor, his words as calm as if he spoke to a child. “ ’Tis a fearing dream you’re having, is all. A waking one that’ll pass soon enough if you’ll return to bed.”
“Are you mad?” Sir Walter shrilled higher. “The bed is crawling with vermin! Rats! They’re everywhere! I’m not getting down until you get rid of them.”
Scandia floated to the doorway, peeking inside. She saw at once why the Lowland noble was so distressed.
The room was full of rats.
James stood in the midst of them, not seeming to see them. But Scandia felt her own eyes rounding as she stared into the room.
Huge rats scurried across the floor rushes, covered every inch of the bed, and were even climbing up the embroidered bed curtains. The wall tapestries were under similar siege. And even the sturdy table that now supported Sir Walter teemed with chittering, furry bodies.
Worst of all—to Scandia, anyway—Sir Walter was naked.
And he wasn’t a comely man.
“Here”—James stepped closer to the table then, offering Sir Walter his hand—“let me help you down and—”
“Don’t touch me!” Sir Walter jumped when one of the rats tried to scramble up his leg. “Just get the rodents out of here.”
“There aren’t any rats to remove.” James grabbed Sir Walter’s tunic from a chair and tossed it to him. “Get dressed and I’ll take you to my chamber. You can sleep there, and I’ll spend the rest of the night here.”
Scandia blinked. She saw the rats, and plenty of them.
Puzzled, she knelt by the door and caught one as he raced past. The rat vanished in her hands, leaving a dusting of peat and other unidentifiable bits to trickle through her fingers to the floor.
She stared at her palms, understanding.
The rats were spelled.
And they’d clearly been sent to scare Sir Walter and no one else. That was why James couldn’t see them. She had because, in her realm, she could see many such wonders. She also had a good idea who’d sent the scurrying creatures. But before she could wonder what Grizel was up to, Sir Walter gave another great shout.
“They’re gone!” He’d pulled on his tunic and was glancing about, wild-eyed. “Where did they go?”
Scandia knew. She’d surely undone the charm by touching one of the rats.
But James only shrugged. “You were dreaming.”
“I never dream. But”—Sir Walter sneered, his arrogance restored—“you’ll soo
n wish I had been. I’m leaving here at first light. I’ll not spend the remaining two days until the trial by combat in a rat-infested pile of stone. My men and I will take quarters in the King’s tents. After I’ve had his ear, you’ll regret—”
“What will you do?” James folded his arms, his calm making Scandia so proud. “Tell him you jumped onto a table for fear of rats that weren’t there?”
“I will—” Sir Walter snapped his mouth shut, flushing deep red.
“Indeed.” James grinned. Then he turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Scandia shimmered delightedly.
Then she drifted after him, eager to put the Lady Tower and its memories behind her.
Chapter Fourteen
If ever you’ve helped me, do so now.
Catriona clutched her amber necklace, silently repeating the words as she stood at the edge of the battling field two days after returning home from Castle Nought. She’d scream her plea, shouting to God, the Auld Ones, and any others who might be listening, if only she didn’t want anyone to see her dread.
MacDonalds were fearless, always.
And just now, every MacDonald in the glen pressed close to the wooden barricade separating them from the still-empty field on the other side of the barrier. Only early morning mist swirled there now, rippling threads of gray that slithered across the grass. But soon the vast open space would be slick with blood and covered with the bodies of dead and dying warriors. Yet not a single of her kinsmen showed a flicker of emotion except fierce pride.
Even Geordie, Alasdair’s ancient dog, held his gray head high. He leaned into her, heavily, and she could feel the tremors that shook him now and then. His unblinking gaze was fixed on the field, as if he knew Alasdair would soon appear, taking his place in the battle line.
“Good lad.” She reached down, curling her fingers into the rough fur at his shoulders. It worried her that he was there, but she welcomed the comfort he brought her. In earlier times, Geordie always accompanied Alasdair on warring forays, ever at his master’s side. This morn, he’d joined the whole clan, trailing quietly after them, until one of her young cousins—a strapping lad, but too tender in years to fight—lifted the dog into his arms, carrying him the rest of the way.
“Dia, Geordie.” The dog’s devotion brought her close to doing what she never did, shedding tears. Instead, she drew a tight breath, willing calm. She moved her hand to Geordie’s neck, stroking him gently, feeling the pulse of his terror and trying to soothe him. She prayed he wouldn’t have to watch Alasdair die.
She blinked hard, hoping none of them would.
Hoped not a single MacDonald would fall.
She swallowed against the burning thickness in her throat, vowing that James would also leave the field whole. Not victorious, as she did want the MacDonalds to win. But she wished him alive and unharmed.
He couldn’t die.
For now, she didn’t want a single raven circling over him. She wanted only the chance to kiss him again. She refused to think of more. Doing so would steal her reason. Though if her wish was granted and he lived to kiss her, she might still bite his tongue.
She’d nip hard, if only to punish him for putting her through this agony.
She couldn’t bear to see him slain.
And the waiting to find out if he would survive was killing her.
But already the eastern sky was beginning to lighten and the jostling crush of Lowland spectators was worsening by the moment. They were everywhere, pushing and shoving to reach the front of the barricades. The more privileged ones—the King’s invited lofties—showed no more restraint, scrambling and crawling over each other as they fought for the best seats in the tiered viewing platforms.
Catriona raised her chin, glaring at them.
She might not allow herself to show fear, but she would show her contempt.
The Lowlanders’ clamoring eagerness to see men die offended her.
As did the celebratory air that hung over the confusion, a chaos made worse by the hordes of roving hawkers, tumblers, and light-skirted women looking to turn a coin. The food and ale stalls from the tented encampment had been moved closer to the battling ground, each stand already doing a rousing trade even though the sun had barely crested the hills. Smoke from cooking pits drifted on the wind, stinging eyes and bringing the smell of whole roasted oxen. From somewhere came a waft of fresh-baked bread. And not far from where Catriona stood, a barrel of salt herring had burst open, spilling its reeking contents onto the ground.
She shuddered, wrinkling her nose. “A plague on the Lowlanders,” she scolded, not caring who heard her. “They itch me worse than a thousand fleas.”
“Here—drink this.”
Catriona started. Maili stood at her side, offering her a beaker of uisge beatha, Highland water of life. The most-times cheerful laundress’s usually saucy appearance was dimmed by her dark gray cloak and the angry jut of her chin, the fierce glint in her eye.
“I’ve had two gulps myself.” Maili pressed the small wooden cup into Catriona’s hand. “I’m thinking you’ll not mind, not this morn.”
“I wouldn’t ever mind—you know that.” Catriona took the whisky, gratefully draining the cup. “I just wish we could pour rivers of uisge beatha down the throats of the Lowlanders and then sink them into a bog as they slept. Though”—she wiped her mouth—“such an end would be too painless. I’d sooner see them skewered with an eel spear. Or gelded with a dull and rusted meat knife.”
“Many of the men would have done it.” Maili’s eyes flashed as if she would’ve gladly helped. “Now it is too late. We can only hope our warriors’ sword strength is great and that if fate is against them, their ends will be swift.”
“I am hoping none will die.” Catriona tossed aside the empty beaker and fisted her hands, willing it to be so. “I have heard the King is a fair man. He is also old.” She paused, trying to recall his age. “I believe he is over fifty. And it is said that he is weak and ailing. Perhaps if our champions stand long enough, he will weary and call an end before too many men are cut down.
“Alasdair spent an hour on his knees in the chapel last night, praying. Then”—Catriona leaned close to her friend, lowering her voice—“he went up into the hills to ask the Auld Ones for their blessing, as well. He was gone until after midnight. I’m hoping he asked for a similar miracle and that the gods will grant us one.”
“I wish it, too. But…” Maili tugged her cloak tighter against the wind. “Destiny is everything, my lady. If our men are to return to Blackshore with us, alive and hale, they shall. If it is their fate to do so.”
Catriona glanced at the mist still rolling across the empty field. On the far side of the grass, Clan Cameron lined the barrier railing. The Mackintoshes were gathered not too far from them. Both clans already had a piper strutting up and down in front of their ranks.
Looking back at Maili, Catriona tried not to hear the challenging skirls of the other clans’ pipes. Alasdair had vowed that no MacDonald pipes would scream until he and his men took the field.
“You think destiny has brought us here?” Catriona couldn’t see the good of it, if so.
Maili shrugged. “I’ve always believed the like. That is why”—she glanced at her stubby-nailed, work-reddened fingers and then reached for one of Catriona’s slender, smooth-white hands, lifting it in comparison—“I am a laundress and you are a great lady.
“We all walk the path the fates choose for us. But”—she released Catriona’s hand—“we can decide how we travel that path. Either we make the journey with our head high, content and accepting. Or we are ever resentful and unhappy.”
“Pshaw!” Catriona frowned.
Inside, she also believed destinies were writ long before a first breath was drawn. Just now, she didn’t care for the notion.
She wanted to swim among the ice floes with James.
If fate meant to keep them from plunging into those cold, dark waters again, she needed to do som
e destiny-weaving of her own.
It was a reason she kept reaching for her ambers.
“Even if what you say is so”—she looked at Maili—“there’s also Highland magic. Alasdair will be carrying his heirloom sword onto the field. Its amber pommel stone comes from the same treasure stash as the ambers of my necklace.” She touched them again now, wondering at their coolness, hoping the stones’ calm was a good portent. “The blade is charmed and will protect him.”
Maili didn’t look so sure. “The sword didn’t save his grandfather when he was cut down wielding it.”
Catriona tightened her lips. She’d forgotten that her grandsire had been killed in an affray with Mackintoshes, the amber-headed sword in his hand.
“The sword was good to my father.” She felt better, remembering her father’s affection for the sword called Mist-Chaser, so named because it was believed that even the mist drew back in respect when the sword’s master swung the glittering blade.
“Your father’s destiny was to die of a fever in his bed.” Maili’s voice was matter-of-fact. “You can’t say the sword had anything to do with his death.”
“I didn’t.” Catriona blew a curl off her forehead. Her friend was beginning to annoy her. “I said Mist-Chaser was good to him. And she was—”
A loud flourish of trumpets sounded, cutting her off as a great stir rose at the far end of the battling ground. Everywhere men fell to their knees, some even prostrating themselves on the cold, trampled grass. All cheered, the noise deafening as the trumpet blasts grew louder. Then a herald’s voice rose above the din, commanding silence and obeisance as he announced the arrival of King Robert III and his son, Earl David, prince of the realm.
“All here, bow down before Robert, High King of Scots, by God’s good grace, and his valiant and noble son, David, Earl of Carrick and High Steward of Scotland!”
There followed a lengthy rendering of praise as the King entered the field, Queen Annabella at his side, their son David with them. A train of richly dressed courtiers followed in their wake, each one more glittering than the other. Sir Walter strode in their midst, his nose higher than most. But the array made slow progress across the tourney ground, for the King was lame and walked with difficulty. Even so, he held himself with as much dignity as his frail body allowed. And although his face showed strain and weariness, he didn’t look unkind.
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