A shadow touched Madeline’s features and she lifted her chin. “We have no certainty of that.”
“Every man was killed in that assault upon the English at Rougemont—that no man survived to tell the tale does not change the truth of it.” Alexander softened his tone when Madeline glanced away, blinking back her tears. “We both would have preferred that James’ fate had been otherwise, but you must accept that he will not return.”
He was pleased to note how Madeline straightened and how the fire returned to her eyes. If she was spirited enough to argue with him, that could only be a good sign. “Though I appreciate a wound to the heart takes long to heal, you grow no younger, Madeline.”
Madeline arched a brow. “Nor do any of us, brother mine. Why do you not wed first?”
“Because it is not necessary.” Alexander glared at her, again to no avail. He knew that he sounded like a man fifty years older than he was, but he could not help himself—Madeline’s refusal to be biddable was annoying. “I ask only that you wed, that you do so out of regard for your four younger sisters, that they too might wed.”
“I do not halt their nuptials.”
“They will not wed before you and you know it well. So Vivienne and Annelise and Isabella and Elizabeth have all informed me. I try only to do what is best for you, but you are all in league against me!” Alexander flung out his hands then rose to his feet, pacing the chamber in his frustration.
Madeline—curse her!—regarded him with dawning amusement. Trust her to be consoled by teasing him!
“It is no small burden to become laird of the keep,” she noted, the expression in her eyes knowing when he spun to face her. “No less to be burdened with the lot of us. You were much more merry a year ago, Alexander.”
“And no wonder that! This is hell!” he shouted, feeling better for it. “Not a one of you makes this newfound duty any easier for me to bear! I am not mad to demand that you wed! I am trying to assure your future, yet you all defy me at every step!”
Madeline tilted her head, her eyes beginning to sparkle and a smile lifting the corner of her lips. “Can you not imagine that it is a sweet kind of vengeance for all the pranks you have played upon us over the years? How delicious it is to foil you, Alexander, now that you are suddenly stern and proper! Think of all the frogs in my linens and snakes in my slippers for which I can now have vengeance.”
“I will not be foiled!” he roared and thudded his fist upon the table between them.
Madeline clucked her tongue, chiding him for his show of temper. “And I will not be wed,” she said, her soft tone belying the determination in her gaze. “Not so readily as that. At any rate, you have not the coin in the treasury to offer a dowry, so there is no need to discuss the matter before the tithes are collected in the autumn.”
Alexander spun to look out the window, hoping to hide his expression from his confident sister. There might have been a steel band drawn tight around his chest, for he knew a detail that Madeline did not. The tithes would be low this year, so the castellan had confided in him. There had been torrential rains this spring and what seed had not been washed away had rotted in the ground. He marveled that he had never thought of such matters until this past year and marveled again at how much he had yet to learn.
How had Papa managed all these concerns? How had he laughed and been so merry with such a weight upon his shoulders? Alexander felt nearly crushed beneath this unfamiliar burden of responsibility.
His gaze trailed over the sea that lapped beneath Kinfairlie’s towers and he mourned the loss of their parents anew. He knew that his siblings defied him as a way of defying the cruel truth of their parents’ sudden death, but he also knew that he could not feed all those currently resident in this keep in the winter to come. The castellan had told him so, and in no uncertain terms.
His sisters had to be wed, and at least the two eldest had to be wed this summer. They were all of an age to be married, ranging as they did from twenty-three summers to twelve, but Madeline was the sole obstacle to his scheme.
He pivoted to regard her, noting the concern that she quickly hid. She must guess what it cost him to so change his own nature, to abandon his recklessness in favor of responsibility; she must know that he assumed this task for the sake of all of them.
Yet still she defied him.
“You could at least feign compliance,” he suggested, anger thrumming beneath his words. “You could try to make my task lighter, Madeline, instead of encouraging our sisters to defy me.”
She leaned closer. “You could at least ask,” she retorted, the sapphire flash of her eyes showing that this would be no easy victory. “In truth, Alexander, you are so demanding these days that a saint would defy you, and do so simply for the pleasure of thwarting your schemes. You have become a different man since you were made laird, and one who is difficult to like.”
“I am making choices for the best of all of us,” he insisted, “and you only vex me.”
Madeline smiled with cursed confidence. “You are not vexed. You are irked, perhaps.”
“Annoyed,” contributed another feminine voice. Vivienne tipped her head around the corner, revealing that she had been listening to the entire exchange. Vivienne’s hair was of a russet hue and her eyes were a dark green. Otherwise, she shared Madeline’s virtues and not a few of her faults, including the fact that she also must be wed before the harvest.
Alexander ground his teeth at the slender prospect of succeeding twice in this challenge.
Three shorter women peeked around the edge of the portal, their eyes bright with curiosity. Annelise was sixteen with auburn tresses and eyes as blue as cornflowers; Isabella was fourteen with eyes of vivid green, orange-red hair and freckles across her nose; Elizabeth was ebony-haired like himself and Madeline, her eyes an uncanny green. The sight of all those uncovered tresses—the mark of unmarried maidens—made Alexander’s innards clench.
They were no longer merely his sisters, his comrades, or even the victims of his jests—they and their futures were his responsibility.
“But you are certainly not vexed, Alexander,” Vivienne continued with a smile.
Madeline nodded agreement. “When Alexander is vexed in truth, he shouts. So know this, Annelise, Isabella and Elizabeth, you have not truly angered Alexander until he roars fit to lift the roof.” The five women giggled and that was enough.
“I am indeed vexed!” Alexander bellowed. The sole result of his outburst was that the three younger women nodded.
“Now he is vexed,” said Annelise.
“You can tell by the way he shouts,” Elizabeth agreed.
“Indeed,” said Madeline, that teasing smile curving her lips again. “But still he is a man of honor, upon that we can all rely.” She rose and gave a simmering Alexander a peck of a kiss upon each of his cheeks.
She smiled at him with a surety that made him long to throttle her, for she was right.
“Still he will not raise a hand against a woman.” Madeline patted his shoulder, as if he were no more threatening than a kitten. “I shall wed when I so choose, Alexander, and not one day before. Fear not—all will be resolved well enough in the end.”
With that, Madeline left the chamber, easily gathering their sisters about her. They chattered of kirtles and chemises and new shoes. Elizabeth demanded a story, and as Vivienne complied, their voices faded to naught.
Alexander sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. What was he going to do?
In this same moment, beneath the neighboring keep of Ravensmuir, there was a ruckus in the caverns.
Ravensmuir perched on the coast, and the network of natural caves beneath its high walls had been augmented by men over the eons. In recent centuries, a family named Lammergeier, who trafficked in religious relics, had claimed Ravensmuir and filled the caverns with their hoard. It was said that no soul could invade the caverns, much less steal from them, without the knowledge of the Laird of Ravensmuir.
Which explained
the presence of one small fairy—a spriggan, in fact—sleeping contentedly in the hoard, for fairies are well known to have no souls. As for spriggans, in case you have never seen one (and it is doubtful that you have) they are quite small, small enough to sleep in one’s hand. They are also quite unattractive, although Darg—for that was the spriggan’s name—was even more plain than most.
Darg was dark all over, as if covered by the bark of a gnarled old tree; and her head was like nothing more than a teasel, with the long pointed part forming her nose and the bristles being what passed for her hair. She had small beady dark eyes, and quick little fingers, and even given how strange her appearance, any thinking person would conclude with a glimpse that Darg was a greedy little thief (and that person would have been right). You could not have guessed her gender, not that it mattered much, and indeed, you likely would never glimpse her.
Nonetheless, she was there, in Ravensmuir’s caverns.
Darg had claimed a reliquary for her bed, some years ago. Though she had initially resented the intrusion of these foreign spoils in her nice dark cave, this golden reliquary had a comely glitter about it. It also had a nest of soft golden hair coiled carefully within it. (Darg did not know, nor did she care, that these were said to be three sacred hairs from Saint Ursula herself, who had saved ten thousand virgins and whose flaxen tresses had fallen to her very ankles.)
Darg particularly liked the round crystals on the sides of reliquary, through which she could peek out, mostly because their curve distorted all into nonsensical shapes. As a fairy, albeit a small one with a penchant for making trouble, Darg liked fantastical shapes and illusions.
She could make some pretty impressive ones herself. Spriggans are known for their ability to become enormous phantasms when angered or surprised. In this manifestation, unfortunately, most mortals can see them and often confuse them with vengeful ghosts.
Spriggans are vengeful, to be sure, but not ghosts.
This new noise was enough to wake Darg, who had slept contentedly for several decades. In fact, it had been quiet in the caves for so long—since one laird named Merlyn had foregone the family trade—that Darg had come to think of the glittering hoard as her own. There was one mortal who came to raid the treasure, a woman with long red hair and a bold manner who Darg had never managed to halt.
At the sound of mortal voices, Darg awakened with a yawn and a stretch and a grimace, then peeked through the big clear rock crystal. She was certain that the woman would be responsible, perhaps that Darg would have vengeance this time. Indeed, she was considering which particular large and frightening form would be most effective when she saw the shocking truth.
The intruders were men. A good dozen men. What did they scheme? Darg squinted to watch.
“Aye, the better part of it must be brought to the hall,” said a swarthy one who looked somewhat familiar. “Rosamunde will sort what will be sold once it is there.”
“But there is so much!”
“You cannot see the half of it,” said the first man, then pointed into the darkness scarce penetrated by their flickering lanterns. “There are said to be hidden caverns stacked with it. I suspect that these caves will never be fully cleared, for much has probably been forgotten.”
The three men with him whistled appreciatively. The assessment in their expressions was a familiar expression to Darg, but one she resented when they looked upon her treasure.
“We had best begin,” said the first man. The other men grunted and began to fill baskets and boxes with golden trinkets. Each man worked with haste, gathering fistfuls of goods, uncaring what was jumbled together. Darg was indignant.
But not so indignant as she became when they lifted the boxes and turned back to the stairs that led to the keep.
They were removing the relics.
They were stealing Darg’s treasure!
“Aiiiii!” Darg leapt from her hiding place and screeched with all her power. Without a plan, she transformed into an enormous red angry cloud. The cloud glowed in its midst, it screamed, it was the height of six men. It seemed to push at the walls and ceiling of the cavern, it extinguished the lanterns the men had brought.
And then it screamed some more.
This was the most amusement Darg had had in centuries.
The men, however, were terrified. Some dropped their boxes. They ran for the stairs, bumping into each other in their frenzy to be gone.
“Halt! Be calm!” the first man shouted, but no one heeded him. “What manner of men are you to be afraid of the dark?” he roared, his words barely discernible over the thunder of the men’s boots on the stairs.
Left alone, he lit his lantern again, his expression one of disgust. He swore, then bent to lift a box of relics. Darg screamed again, thinking him uncommonly valiant, but he paid her no need. He frowned, then carefully fitted another two gold pieces into his box. Darg spun into his very face, surrounding him with angry red, then screamed again. He tested the weight of his burden, then straightened to leave.
Darg fell back in astonishment. He could not see her, not in either form. She shrank then to her usual form, for there was no point in expending herself for no purpose. In truth, she felt somewhat disappointed, a bit cheated of his terror. She watched the swarthy man, trying to discern what was different about this mortal. She made no conclusions, because she knew very little about mortals.
Then he lifted the box and turned toward the stairs.
Nay! He could not flee with her treasure! Darg scampered across the chamber and leapt onto the thief’s shoulder. She fit herself into the swinging hoop of his golden earring, and rode to the root of the trouble.
She would wager that the red-headed one was behind this mischief. Darg would also have wagered that the red-headed one knew little of the kind of mischief Darg could make. Darg found herself anticipating the havoc she could wreak with that certain malicious glee which is unique to spriggans.
The defense of her hoard could prove to be amusing, indeed.
Fortunately, she was well rested.
Alexander was still sitting with his head in his hands at Kinfairlie, though the sky was darker, when his visitors arrived.
“He does indeed look glum enough,” a familiar voice said, laughter beneath her tone. “So we were warned.”
Alexander looked up as his Aunt Rosamunde cast herself upon the bench Madeline had abandoned. She shook the pins from her hair with characteristic impatience. The sunlit tresses fell loose over her shoulders and she sighed with relief.
His spirits rose at the very sight of her, for he and Rosamunde had plotted many a jest together over the years. Hers was a mischievous soul and she was not averse to defying convention or taking a risk.
She winked at him now, though addressed the other visitor. “I would wager that sisters are his woe, Tynan.”
“That is not much of a wager,” Uncle Tynan said grimly, shaking out his cloak before he leaned upon the lip of the window. He was a sober man, always weighing costs and counseling caution. “They are too merry not to have recently triumphed over Alexander.” The older man smiled slightly at his beleaguered nephew. “You are out-numbered and further encumbered by honor. Those five will use any means against you.”
This pair had made an unlikely alliance these past years, since it had been revealed that they were not blood cousins. Rosamunde had been adopted by Gawain and Evangeline, which all knew, but was not Gawain’s bastard daughter, as everyone had long believed. Tynan was the son of Gawain’s brother, Merlyn. Though sparks had long flown between this pair, they had kept their distance, believing themselves to be kin. None had been more surprised by the revelation that they shared no blood than they.
There was a new awareness between them in recent years, and one that Alexander did not wish to explore. Who knew what happened at his uncle’s keep of Ravensmuir when Rosamunde’s ship was docked in its bay? Rosamunde’s labor as a broker of religious relics, both genuine and somewhat less genuine, meant Alexander knew bette
r than to ask questions.
He shook his head now and grimaced. “I could strangle Madeline.”
Rosamunde was dismissive of the notion. “But then you would have to face a court and the king’s justice, and some misery of incarceration.”
“Not to mention purgatory, if not hell itself,” Tynan added.
“Hardly worth it,” Rosamunde said sagely, then winked at him again. “What has Madeline done—or refused to do—this time?”
“She refuses to wed. She thinks she does me a favor, by saving coin in the treasury.” Alexander sighed, then lowered his voice. “But there is no coin and there will be none soon. The castellan says the harvest will be bad, and I fear I will not be able to feed all within these walls this winter.”
“The others?” Tynan demanded, leaning forward in his interest.
“I would guess that they refuse to wed afore Madeline,” Rosamunde suggested softly.
Alexander nodded glumly. His guests exchanged a glance, then Rosamunde cleared her throat. “Do you not miss the old days, Alexander, when your deeds were the most outrageous of all?”
“I have duties now, and an obligation to Papa’s trust,” Alexander said, his very tone dutiful beyond belief.
“And so all the spark has gone from your days and your deeds.” Rosamunde sat back and shook her head, her eyes dancing wickedly. “I think you should surprise Madeline. You have tried to reason with her, after all, and without success.”
“Rosamunde...” Tynan said, the single word filled with warning.
Rosamunde leaned toward Alexander, undeterred. “We came this day to tell you of our agreement to be rid of all the relics at Ravensmuir. Tynan will not suffer them beneath the roof any longer, for he tires of my nocturnal visits to plunder his treasure.”
Tynan snorted, but said nothing.
“Surely you cannot mean to abandon your trade?” Alexander asked in surprise. “I thought you most successful in this endeavor.”
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