by Cathy MacRae
Run! Brian’s words shot through her. The old stable loomed ahead of her, a dark, ghostly, malformed shape in the moonlight. A stray beam of silver light kissed the tangled brambles guarding the rotted doorway.
Gilda fell to her knees and crawled inside its secret gloom.
* * *
Morgan’s fist crashed on the table in the great hall, sending crockery in rattling disarray. From his position against the wall, Brian saw the MacEwen soldier’s face pale as he stood before the laird.
“I want that brat! And ye tell me she has outrun and outsmarted six of my best men?” The MacEwen’s voice was rough with the whisky he triumphantly swilled from Scaurness’ storerooms. Brian wasn’t sure if he was more dangerous drunk or cold sober.
“We will find her, laird. ’Twill be daylight soon and she cannae hide then.”
“See that ye do. Her ma will be back soon and I need the brat for leverage.”
The man ducked his head and hurried away.
Morgan grabbed a hunk of bread from a platter and tore it in half as he peered around the room. Torches flamed in brackets on the wall, flickering light exposing the overturned tables and dark bloodstains yet to be scrubbed from the stone floor. Servants crowded the room. Those who could, found chores farthest from the angry laird. A few served the head table, but did so quickly and without drawing attention to themselves. Manus sat at the place of honor on Morgan MacEwen’s right.
Brian curled into a tight ball, hoping to keep from being noticed as Manus’s gaze swept the room.
The MacEwen pounded the table again. “Bring the old woman to me!”
People scurried about the room, making way for a man who crept reluctantly forward. “Laird, the woman is unable to answer yer questions.”
“Why is that?”
The man looked around nervously. “She was amongst the first questioned and put up a fight. I’m afraid the men were over-zealous and struck her to gain her cooperation.” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “She hasnae regained her senses.”
Morgan threw his chunk of bread at the man. It struck him in the chest and bounced to the floor. “Is there no one here who can answer my questions?”
Manus rose from his chair and crossed the room. Brian’s eyes widened. He struggled with his bonds, but only managed to tighten them so they bit into his skin. Manus lifted him from the floor by his shoulder, bunching his torn shirt in his fist.
He dragged Brian to the table and threw him to the floor before the MacEwen laird. “Here. This one can talk.”
* * *
Riona clutched Ranald’s waist, shielding her face against his back from the wind, her hair streaming behind her. Their guard rode at a gallop several lengths behind them. Their goal was tantalizingly close. Ranald reined Hearn to a walk. Riding abreast, the soldiers pulled their horses in as well. Riona shifted her seat, easing the cramp in her legs, unused to sitting such a large horse.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
“We arenae stopping. Slowing down. The path is treacherous in the dark until we reach the field before the castle. And the horses need a rest.”
Riona snuggled against him, tightening her grip as she savored his nearness. “I could use some rest, too.”
“Are ye tired?” Ranald glanced at her over his shoulder. “We could camp here and head up the cliffs at first light.”
“Nay. I trust ye and Hearn. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
“Then we shall have ye there anon.”
Riona sighed. Even with Ranald’s assurances the red-sailed birlinn was not a MacEwen ship, she still worried Gilda was in danger. Despite the trust she’d promised Ranald, she would rest better once she’d seen her daughter again. Touched her. Held her. Kissed her sweet face.
The horses’ gait shifted as they angled up the long trail winding up the last incline to Scaurness. Her anxiety lightened as Riona recognized the landmarks of home. Dense black skeletons of trees, crowned with early autumn leaves, stood sentry on either side of the trail. Soon, they would break out to the open land before the castle and home. And Gilda.
* * *
A shout rang out over the parapet. “Riders sighted!”
“How many?” Manus queried.
There was a moment of silence. “Ten or more.”
“Would Ranald risk a night ride?” Morgan questioned Manus.
He gave a light shrug. “Riona would.”
They climbed the stair to stared intently at the approaching riders caught in the white glare of moonlight. “There are two on the warhorse. That’s Ranald’s mount. Riona would be with him. The others are guards.”
Morgan took his stance at Manus’s side and peered over the parapet. He nodded agreement. “Aye. They are earlier than I expected, but the weather could have turned them back.”
The horses moved at an easy gallop across the close-cropped field. Torches blazed at the gates, lighting the darkness at the tunnel-like barbican. None were lit on the walls, protecting the eyes of those guarding the castle. The riders advanced, no warning of anything amiss slowing their pace.
Morgan turned to Manus. “Bring me the Macrory captain.”
* * *
Riona heard the shout from the guard at the gate. Several moments passed before the creak of heavy ropes signaled the opening of the portcullis. Ahead the barbican yawned before them, golden torchlight fouled by heavy black smoke snaking around the flames. With a shudder, Riona pressed her face against Ranald’s back, ill at ease with the foreboding entrance.
Metal clanged as the portcullis reached its apex. Groaning hinges announced the labored release of the heavy, double gates. Riona felt the eyes of the guards on her as they passed beneath the barbican. Ahead, a man stood in their path. With a sigh of relief, she recognized Hamish, newly raised Macrory captain, the flickering torchlight giving the illusion he swayed on his feet.
The horses ducked their heads and pulled at their bits, recognizing the end of the journey. But they kept to a walk as they breached the darkness between the portcullis and the gates, entering the subdued, nighttime silence of the bailey.
Shadows of men clustered on the walls. The hair raised on the back of Riona’s neck. She clutched Ranald tighter and he reined Hearn to a halt. Their guards flanked them. The light of the torches destroyed their ability to see into the shadows beyond. The flames snapped and crackled.
Hamish stared straight ahead, his features frozen in neither welcome nor rebuff.
A voice rang out from above. “Welcome to Scaurness, stronghold of clan MacEwen.”
Something moved behind Hamish, and the Macrory captain fell forward on his face, dead on the dark-stained ground of the bailey.
A scream ripped from Riona’s throat.
Ranald hauled on the reins and Hearn responded with a squeal, sinking back on his great haunches. Torches lit, the trap sprung. Armed men surrounded them, swords drawn at the ready, faces grim. A man aimed his weapon at the animal’s rear legs in warning. Though the warhorse could easily plow through the wall of soldiers, Riona knew he would not survive the severing of his leg tendons if the man’s aim hit true.
Foam dripped from Hearn’s mouth as he worried the bit. Fear rose in Riona’s throat, choking her.
Gilda!
She struggled to slide from Hearn’s back, but Ranald grabbed her in an iron grip, refusing to let her down. His fingers bruised her side, pinning her against him. Tears clogged her eyes, rendering her sight nothing more than a haze of dancing torchlight and blurred faces.
“So, ye have returned to Scaurness.”
The voice struck new fear in Riona. She scrubbed her eyes with her arm, wiping the tears away on the fabric of her sleeve. Morgan MacEwen’s face swam into view, his mocking grin splitting his bearded face. His eyes, scrunched in ill-humor, winked evilly in the torchlight.
In an instant, Riona’s world fell apart.
* * *
Gilda could see torchlight across the bailey. T
he creaking of the castle gate was loud in the night air and she burrowed deeper into her hiding place, making herself as small as possible.
Horse hooves clomped in the dirt, the chime of harnesses startlingly clear. Were more bad men coming to Scaurness? A woman’s scream pierced the air and the night was filled with the sound of weapons and many feet.
“Welcome to Scaurness!”
She covered her ears with her hands. Too many bad people were already here. She longed to know where her ma was, and what had happened to Brian. Smells of rotted wood and manure clogged the air. She wanted to sneeze, but didn’t dare. She hid her face in her skirt, holding her snuffles at bay. She needed to pee again and she was terribly hungry, though the thought of food made her tummy churn.
Huddling in the corner of the stall, she wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself against the twin pains of hunger and fear.
* * *
Ranald’s grip on Riona relaxed. “Do not get down from this horse,” he ground out between gritted teeth. He received no response, but at least Riona stayed put. He prayed she would continue to obey him.
He turned his attention to Morgan MacEwen. “It seems ye have made yerself at home in my absence.”
The MacEwen laird sauntered fully into the torchlight. He stopped before Ranald, hands on his hips, feet spread as though to counter the rocking roll of a ship. “Aye. ’Tis a fine place ye left unguarded.”
“I left men here.”
Morgan looked at Hamish, lying in the dirt, and then at Ranald, a satisfied grin tilting one side of his mouth. “Ye dinnae leave enough.”
Ranald snorted. “I would imagine ye had an accomplice. Where is the traitor, Manus? I see his hand in this.”
Manus strolled into view, his tall, muscular form a contrast to the short, yet powerful MacEwen laird. “Nae traitor. A loyal MacEwen.”
A dead MacEwen, Ranald vowed silently. “How many men did ye turn?”
“It wasnae hard when men loyal to me dinnae like the idea of a lord not of their choosing shoved down their throats. Ye dinnae belong here, Scott, and ye willnae rule Scaurness.”
“Ye seem to have forgotten the king’s command. I rule here at his pleasure.”
“Not anymore, and the MacEwen is pleased to add Scaurness to his holdings. A fortress overlooking the firth was worth the asking price.”
“And what was the price, Manus?”
Morgan MacEwen grinned again. “Lady Caitriona.”
Without thinking, Ranald tightened the grip on the reins, causing Hearn to rear, his forelegs flailing the air. He felt Riona slip backward and he reached for her, catching the edge of her arisaid, holding her behind him in a precarious grip.
Morgan MacEwen laughed aloud. “Dismount yer ill-trained horse.” He motioned for his men to advance. Refusing to leave the relative safety of their mounts, the riders backed them together, haunches touching, facing outward. Swords sang in unison as they breached their leather scabbards. Angry murmurs and the clang of steel answered from the shadows.
“Perhaps I dinnae phrase the invitation properly,” Morgan drawled, anger glinting from his eyes. “Get down from yer horses and surrender or I will be forced to use my wee daughter to make ye see reason.”
Riona’s gasp was loud in Ranald’s ear.
“He willnae hurt the lass,” he murmured, holding Riona steady as she tried to squirm from his grasp.
The MacEwen nodded dismissively at Riona. “Ye think not? ’Twas simple enough to sire the brat. ’Twill be easy enough to sire another. Perhaps she could be persuaded to provide me an heir this time.”
“Ye bastard!” Riona hissed, the words exploding from her.
“Had ye not declined my offer of marriage, ye wouldnae have reason to know that word, my lady. Siring a bastard child on ye wasnae my intent.”
“I want my daughter!”
Morgan bowed his head to her. “Ye have but to obey, my lady. Ye will see I am an agreeable man.”
“Bring her daughter to her and we will talk,” Ranald said.
Morgan laughed. “Ye are surrounded. Valiantly denying it, but ye are surrounded. I can spill yer blood at a word, but armed as ye are, ye could cost me a man or two before I have yer cooperation. Surely ye see ’tis better this way?” He spread his hands wide in mocking supplication.
“Seeing ye dead is the better way,” Ranald snarled, cornered and worried Riona was ready to bolt. “Ye have no right to Scaurness.”
“Right belongs to the one in charge, do ye not agree?”
“Ye willnae be long in charge of Scaurness.”
Morgan gestured to his men. “Seize them.”
Chapter Twenty Five
Finlay struggled to open his eyes. Flickering light from a torch shot through his lids and into his skull like a roaring smithy’s fire. Fresh pain washed over him. Hell, it hurt just to breathe.
After a moment, he slowly released his breath. Sharp stabs of agony sliced through his shoulder, and he gritted his teeth until it passed. Nausea roiled through him and he swallowed the urge to vomit. Sweat broke out on his forehead, cold and clammy. He lifted a trembling hand to wipe the moisture away and encountered a bandage wound about his head in thick layers.
Again he tried to open his eyes, but only one lid lifted, spilling light through the narrowed slit. Worried, he touched his face, breathing a sigh of relief as he realized the bandage covered the other eye. He lifted the edge of the torn linen and was further relieved to see light through that eye as well, though the lids were swollen and painful.
He released the bandage and relaxed as much as he could, taking stock of his injuries. His right arm felt as though his warhorse had stomped on it. The arm refused to move, though he could twitch his fingers, reassuring him he had not lost all function.
His head was another matter. No matter how careful he was, the slightest movement produced agony, and a faint cry escaped his lips before he could stifle the sound. The shuffle of people around him stopped. The low murmur of voices ceased.
A hand gripped his shoulder, warning him to silence. “Mind yer head, lad.” The slow voice was familiar, but it was several moments before Finlay placed the speaker. Ennis.
“Wh . . ..” Finlay couldn’t form the words he wanted to ask. He frowned.
“Dinnae fash yerself, lad. Ye’re safe. For the moment, leastwise.”
Finlay gripped the old man’s hand and tried to rise to a sitting position, but white light burst behind his eyes. Stifling a groan, he slumped back to the floor. A foul odor drifted to his nostrils, causing his stomach to churn. So, he wasn’t in the castle proper. Likely the dungeon. He wasn’t sure how the information helped, but he was satisfied to add to his knowledge.
He took a slow, deep breath, determined to ask his questions. “What happened?”
“Someone ambushed Manus’s guards and let him out. He apparently plotted with the MacEwen to open Scaurness to attack.” Ennis sighed wearily. “Men poured through the postern gate—I suspect he was the one who opened the gate the night ye arrived and saved the castle from attack.”
Finlay grunted. He’d learned how ruthless Manus was only a few days earlier. It didn’t surprise him to discover Manus was involved with the first assault on the castle.
“MacEwen now possesses the castle?”
“Aye.” The old man shifted beside him on the floor. Rotted rushes rattled softly, and the foul odor of decayed food and other, even more noxious things, rose to assault their nostrils.
Finlay coughed, gritting his teeth against the jarring pain.
“Men died defending Scaurness,” Ennis added. “They followed ye, loyal to the new laird. But it was hard to go against Manus and their ingrained obedience to him. In the time it took for them to decide what to do, it was too late and MacEwen soldiers flooded the bailey.”
“Where is the laird?”
“The MacEwen laird—”
Finlay interrupted, “Nae. Ranald.”
“He isnae here.”
&n
bsp; “Then there is hope.”
“Aye. But only if he brings an army back with him. And preferably from the king,” Ennis declared firmly. “He willnae get into Scaurness without it.”
“He’ll get in.” Finlay felt his senses drift, unable to sustain his thoughts. “He’ll get in.”
* * *
Ranald eyed the MacEwen, weighing the odds. Would the man harm his own daughter to gain what he wanted? There was no time to decide. Emboldened by Ranald’s momentary indecision, the MacEwen soldiers advanced. Hearn tossed his head and tucked his chin tight against his chest, arching his thick neck. His mane flowed across Ranald’s hand. Voices rose and torchlight flashed on naked steel. Scarred, grizzled faces, contorted further by the dancing shadows and light, scowled as they reached for Hearn’s bridle.
Ranald nudged his toe against the horse’s shoulder and Hearn lashed out with a hoof, raking a soldier from shoulder to waist, the sound of breaking bone loud on the air. Stunned, the man stared dumbly at his arm dangling useless as his sword clattered to the ground.
“Stay back!” Ranald gestured from man to man, a line of golden light darting along the deadly edge of his drawn sword.
As more angry words erupted, another man moved to the side, wary of the lightning-fast, steel-shod hooves flashing as Hearn danced lightly in anticipation. A push of Ranald’s knee, and Hearn bunched his powerful hindquarters and rocked forward, his movements too fast to follow as he planted both rear feet in the unlucky man’s chest. His eyes bulged as he gasped for breath and dropped to the ground.
“Cease!” Morgan MacEwen shouted, his face black with rage. “I will have yer surrender or the bairn dies.”
Riona shrieked and struggled against Ranald’s grasp. Recovering from Hearn’s offensive move, Ranald lost his grip on Riona as she slipped her arisaid from her shoulders and left it dangling in his hand.