by Barbara Bard
The outrider, Neil, reined in sharply his mount’s jaws opening in protest under his haul on the bit. “A band ‘o riders, Ranulf,” he said, saluting. “Seven ‘o them.”
“Did ye see a banner?” Ranulf asked. “Who might they be?”
“I cannae be certain, but I think the leader be the Sassenach Earl of Hargrove.”
Ranulf glanced at Catrin in time to see her stiffen. “Where be Lundy?”
“Watchin’,” he answered. “Hidin’, aboot two miles aheid.”
“Show us.”
Keeping Catrin’s grey snugged close to his knee, Ranulf picked up the pace, striking a heavy canter. Catrin held onto the pommel of her saddle, the wind of their passing whipping her hair behind her. Ranulf thought to question her about what she knew of Gilbert Mulvaney, the Earl of Hargrove, but decided against it. What he knew about the man was enough to know he was dangerous and treacherous, even for a Sassenach.
Ranulf recalled his own encounters with the Earl. The past year, he had raided the Earl’s estate and stole a small herd of fine breeding horses. Predictably enraged, Gilbert Mulvaney gave chase, but Ranulf hid them in the Highland moors under the protection of a few loyal clansmen. Gilbert, unable to prove it was Ranulf who took them, gave up after his six legal days of trying to find them. Yet, not after threatening to slay every Thorburn clansman in Scotland.
The second came at a higher cost, when a few months after his prized horses were stolen, Gilbert and a band of his retainers attacked as Ranulf and his brother Kyle rode toward their home, Dorford Castle. Gilbert gave no warning, and Ranulf and Kyle were caught off guard. But they fought hard, and sent Gilbert packing with a deep wound in his shoulder and three dead men behind him.
“This might get bloody,” Ranulf told Catrin as they approached the spot where his man, Lundy, sat his horse and watching northeast.
Catrin said nothing as Ranulf signaled for Aswin to ride up alongside him. Though he pitched his voice low, he knew she could hear him easily.
“Guard Lady Catrin wi’ yer life, Aswin,” he said. “If there be fightin’, keep her safe, d’ye hear?”
“I wi’.”
“And if I be killed, take her home tae her da.”
At that last order, Catrin looked at him, her lips parted. Ranulf gave her a grin and a shrug. “If I be slain, lassie, me revenge dies wi’ me.”
Handing the rein of the grey gelding to Aswin, Ranulf nudged his horse up the short incline to where Lundy still sat, watching as the riders in the distance trotted closer. His clansman glanced at him, the jerked his chin at the approaching band. “Gilbert ‘o Hargrove.”
Sure enough, as Ranulf peered closer, he recognized the Earl on a flashy piebald. Even if the Earl’s face was yet indistinct, the horse was not. He half turned in his saddle. “Donal, stay wi’ Aswin and the lady. The rest of ye come wi’ me.”
Nudging his black gelding into a canter down the small hill, his band behind him, he closed the distance. Gilbert of Hargrove slowed his pace, his fist raised to also halt his retainers. Ranulf loosened his sword in its sheath, tensing himself for a fight. While he hoped such might be avoided, he also knew Gilbert looked for trouble the way a bear searched for berries.
“Ah, so it is you, Thorburn,” Gilbert called as he reined his horse in a hundred yards away from Ranulf and his clansmen. “Been south of the border stealing horses again?”
“Ye been ambushin’ innocent Scots again, Hargrove?”
“There is no such thing as an innocent Scot.”
Wearing light chain mail, with a tunic embossed with his emblem on the chest, Gilbert sat squat in his saddle. Not a tall man, he was nonetheless broad chested and a natural fighter. His short blond hair seemed to have defied a comb and stuck up in all directions while his heavily beringed right hand rested on his sword hilt. Sunken blue eyes glared hard at Ranulf, his lips thinned to bare his teeth.
“I outnumber ye, Hargrove,” Ranulf said. “Remember yer foolishness, and ye be on me turf, ne’er yer own. I am nae lookin’ fer a fight, but I be givin’ ye a guid one if ye dinnae give me the road.”
Gilbert sneered. “I am an Earl. You give me the road.”
Ranulf chuckled. “I am a laird, an Earl, and clan chief. Ye wish to spend the day tossin’ titles aboot? Ye be in Scotland, ye stonkin’ shite, and Sassenach give way to Scotsmen.”
Gilbert’s face darkened with rage. “How dare you insult me, you insolent ass.”
His gaze flicked past Ranulf, and his eyes widened. His jaw went slack. “That is Lady Catrin Waterford,” he said. “Just what is Whitewood’s daughter doing with the likes of you?”
“That be none ‘o yer business.”
“You kidnapped her!”
Ranulf shrugged lazily, grinning. “Not much ye can do aboot it, either.”
“Like hell,” Gilbert snarled, yanking his sword from its sheath. “I will kill you and take her home, you bastard.”
“Ach, man, me parents be wed before the Archbishop.”
With a screaming challenge, Gilbert kicked his piebald into a gallop, his sword held over his head with both hands. His six men, swords high, charged forward on his heels, yelling for all they were worth. Ranulf drew his own, and spurred his horse into a run.
“Wi’ me, lads!” he yelled. “Fer Scotland!”
His men, in a tight bunch behind him and to either side, screamed their own battle cries as Ranulf made Gilbert his target. His black horse, battle trained and experienced, answered to his knees. When Gilbert’s piebald was within three strides of him, the black reared, striking at the other horse’s head and neck with hooves and teeth. Forced to the side, the piebald slipped, stumbling as Ranulf’s sword struck Gilbert’s.
All around him, his clansmen engaged Gilbert’s retainers, striking against swords and shields, slicing at faces and necks, driving past their guard, hacking and stabbing. Gritting his teeth in a feral snarl, Ranulf hewed at Gilbert, beating at his sword in hard, fast strokes, wearing the other man down. He forced his blade past his enemy’s, slicing into the mail covering Gilbert’s shoulder.
Crying out in pain and rage, Gilbert’s riposte forced Ranulf’s blade aside, and lunged forward. Ranulf spurred his horse into a sideways dance and the sword missed. Knocking it aside, Ranulf whipped his sword in a two-handed arc while at the same time squeezed his knees. The gelding climbed high, hooves lashing at the piebald. Gilbert’s mount tried to duck away but was not quick enough.
The flat of Ranulf’s blade struck Gilbert across his shoulders, knocking him from his saddle. His lost his grip on his sword as he fell, tumbling headlong into the heather and rocks of the moors. Leaping from his own, Ranulf planted his foot on Gilbert’s chest, the tip of his sword at his throat. Gilbert, his mouth twisted in pain and rage, glared up at him, panting.
Glancing around, Ranulf found his clansmen all still mounted, swarming over the last two of Gilbert’s men. Four lay on the ground, bleeding from rents in their mail, gore oozing from two slit throats. Two others lay on the ground, moaning, holding their bleeding heads as clansmen eyed them sourly. Ian spat on one of them.
“Hold!” Ranulf bellowed. “Yer laird be doon. Give up yer arms.”
The two Sassenach retainers instantly threw their swords to the ground, and held up their hands in surrender. Herding them like sheep, Ranulf’s men drove them toward the others on the ground. There, they kept them hedged in by their sweating mounts as the two injured men tried to rise. Ranulf grinned down at Gilbert.
“Nae tell me yer plans tae take the lassie from me custody, laddie?”
Gilbert squirmed, glaring, but made no other move with the sword nicking the flesh of his throat. “You will start a war, you stupid fool.”
“‘Tis the lassie’s da tae start it,” Ranulf replied, “when he did murder me brother.”
“Your brother was a cold-blooded killer.”
“Nay,” Ranulf said, his voice cold as his sword dug deeper into Gilbert’s skin. A thin trickle of blood stre
amed from his throat to pool on the soil beneath him. “Ye best be watchin’ yer tongue, lad, else me blade might jist slip. Ye dinnae wish that, fer ye’ll have another mouth jist sooth of the first.”
“Killing me will not change the facts.”
“Perhaps nae,” Ranulf admitted, leaning over his victim. “However, it will gie me satisfaction to kill ye fer insultin’ me brother’s blessed memory.”
Shutting his teeth, Gilbert glared up. “If you are going to kill me, then get it done with.”
“Ah, but I be enjoyin’ the sight ‘o ye squirmin’ under me boot.”
“Ranulf.”
Glancing up, he found Aswin and Donal, Catrin between them, riding up close. “We must be ridin’,” Aswin said. “Either kill him or leave him be.”
Nodding, Ranulf stepped off Gilbert’s chest. “Word ‘o advice, Hargrove,” he said. “Keep yer arse sooth ‘o the border.”
Before Gilbert could rise, Ranulf reversed his blade, and hit him hard on the side of his head with the hilt of his sword. His eyes rolling back into his skull, Gilbert sank back to the soil, unconscious. “Ye be right, lad,” Ranulf remarked, stepping away from the man on the ground. “We need tae ride.”
Feeling Catrin’s honey brown eyes on him, Ranulf sheathed his sword, then caught his black gelding. Swinging up into his saddle, he eyed her sidelong as he took back the reins of her grey. His clansmen reined their horses away from the wounded men and the retainers still mounted. They, with swift, worried glances at the Scotsmen, jumped down from their horses, and hurried to their liege lord.
“He be jist fine,” Ranulf told them, nudging his horse into a walk past them, Catrin once more at his knee. “Care fer yer chums nae.”
Breaking into a swift trot, Ranulf glanced behind, checking his men over for any obvious wounds. Satisfied his clansmen had few, if any, injuries, he glanced at Catrin and found her still watching him.
“Why did you not kill him?” she asked.
Ranulf shrugged. “I beat him, humiliated him. ‘Tis enough. If I kill him, his blood kin can declare a feud.”
“I see.”
Expecting more from her than that, he eyed her curiously. “Ye dinnae wish me to nae kill him?”
“I never said that. I simply thought all Scots were murderers and thieves.”
“And noo?”
“You are all still murderers and thieves as far as I am concerned.”
Ranulf guffawed. “Ach, lassie, ye must spend a bit ‘o time in the Highlands. Such beauty tae behold, the lochs and streams, the grazin’ sheep, the tall moontains. My people love this land and are willin’ to die to keep it free from Sassenach rule. If that makes us murderers, then we are.”
Catrin shunted her eyes from his and stared straight ahead as Ranulf nudged his horse into a canter. “Then perhaps all Scotsmen should die.”
Chapter 4
Castle Dorford stood upon a tall hill overlooking a broad lake, a line of hills guarding its rear. Though not a warrior, Catrin immediately saw the advantages of its position in war. No enemy could approach unseen, and the rocky pinnacle made capturing it a near impossibility. Ranulf reined in atop a hill, the castle appearing misty from the distance. Despite her emotional depression and feeling of hopelessness, she found the region stunningly beautiful.
“Home.”
Catrin glanced at her captor, who gazed at the distant castle with pride and reverence. As though feeling her eyes on him, Ranulf glanced down at her. “Yers, as well, lassie.”
“This will never be my home,” she replied tartly. “A prison, perhaps.”
He shrugged. “Call it what ye will, but here ye remain fer the time bein’.”
The drawbridge across the wide moat stood lowered, and the horses’ hooves clopped hollowly on the wood as they passed under the barbican and into the bailey. Much like her father’s bailey, it was filled with activity. Chickens ran underfoot, pecking and scratching in the rushes. Dogs ran loose, barking, as women washed clothes, and children chased one another. Wagons filled with hay stood near the stables while men at arms practiced their sword fighting.
Grooms ran from the barns to take his and Catrin’s mounts while his men dismounted and led theirs inside. Ranulf helped Catrin down from her gelding and pulled his dagger from its sheath. With a single stroke, he cut the leather straps binding her hands together. “Do you expect me to thank you?” she asked, rubbing her wrists to ease the pain.
“Nay, lass,” he replied, nodding to the grooms who took their horses and led them away. “I expect nothin’ from ye save yer scorn. But ye will be well treated ‘ere, my word oan it.”
Taking her by the arm, not hard or with a tight grip, he steered her toward the doors that led into the castle. “I will gie ye maids tae tend tae yer needs, and fresh gowns to clad yer body. Ye may walk freely within these walls, but know this, lassie.”
Pausing, Ranulf gazed earnestly into her eyes. “I hae loyal men on the walls wi’ orders tae shoot ye should ye try tae escape. Aye, they know yer face, lassie. And if ye do escape, there be nothin’ a’tween this castle and the border. Ye will surely die oan the Highlands.”
“That is far better than staying here with you as your prisoner.” Catrin yanked her arm from his light grasp. “Never touch me again.”
Ranulf grinned at her defiance. Holding his hands up in surrender, he said, “Aye, ye do be a feisty one, Me Lady. C’mon, I wish ye tae meet somebody.”
Gesturing grandly for Catrin to precede him, Catrin walked toward the doors. Pike men guarded them, offering Ranulf deferential nods and eyed Catrin curiously as they passed. As in her father’s castle, the stone walls were covered in tapestries. Scenes of hawking, hunting and warfare were depicted on them, and appeared to be very old. Like the bailey, servants women went about their business as male servants hurried on their errands. Rushes covered the stone floor as hounds nosed within them for scraps.
Ranulf guided her up a wide staircase, the walls above her head filled with murder holes where archers might fire down upon an enemy if they managed to get that far. Though daylight, lit torches and rush lights burned, giving off faint smoke. Rather than abase themselves as her father’s servants did, the Scottish servants offered their clan chief respectful nods and smiles of greeting as Ranulf passed.
“Do they not respect you?” she asked him.
Ranulf glanced at the latest servant who offered him a quick nod rather than a bow. “Who? My people?”
“Yes.”
“’O coorse they do.”
Catrin sighed, not understanding this apparently social equality among the Scottish clans, while in England a servant bowed or curtseyed to their betters. She half wondered if they knelt to their king as did the English when meeting the English king.
“Just who am I to meet?” she asked.
“Me da.”
Catrin hesitated on the step, gazing up at him as he halted and turned back toward her. “Why?”
“Ye be me guest, lassie,” he said, his tone grave. “It be disrespectful to nae introduce ye to me ancestor, me da.”
“Very well.”
They continued to walk up the stairs until arriving at a round tower built into the castle’s wall. “This be the Laird’s tower,” he explained. “I live in here, as does me da. I hae quarters here fer ye as well, well-nigh comfortable and appoonted. I wi’ show them tae ye in a bit.”
This tower was also guarded by men with pikes as well as swords sheathed at their belts. Their brigandines held the emblem of a black raven, what Catrin assumed was the badge of Ranulf’s house. The guards nodded as they passed, and another set of stairs greeted her eyes. Yet, this climb proved shorter, and within moments Ranulf knocked at a solid oaken door.
No one called for them to enter. Catrin thought Ranulf would turn back, but instead, he opened the door and walked in. “Da?”
The place was dark, gloomy, in spite of the sunlight outside. A sullen fire burned on the hearth, giving off smoke and little light. A fi
gure in a broad chair covered in red deer hides stirred. And stood.
“Kyle? That ye, son?”
Ranulf grimaced. “Nay, da. It be Ranulf.”
Catrin watched with cautious confusion as a tall man with shaggy reddish hair stumbled toward them. She suspected he once had been a strong and robust man, a warrior, he now appeared helpless and almost childlike. Scars roamed his hands and once powerful arms, and no few crossed his grizzled features. His pale blue eyes in his sunken face appeared lost and baffled, and despite herself, Catrin felt pity for him.
“Da, we hae a guest.”