“Very sensible, my love,” he answered, picking up his sword and buckling it around his waist.
“We are going after the hound?” Frances asked. “We could explore the tunnel.”
“Nay. We are going back to the keep.”
“But—” she protested, tugging on her still-loose chemise beneath her cloak.
“It is more important that we secure the castle,” he said flatly, not adding that he wasn’t about to go after the hound while she was with him. But that wasn’t an answer a valiant—and venturesome—female would find acceptable. “It isn’t likely he’d be in the tunnel now anyway.”
“Oui?”
“Absolutement. Je crois que oui,” he answered firmly in her own tongue. “And on the way back, we shall look for some dogsbane.”
“Dogsbane?”
“Aye, periwinkle it is also called. We shall leave some about the ossuary for our canine intruder.”
“Ca va pas, non?”
“I may be insane, but not about this. Periwinkle is an effective poison.”
Her delightful eyes studied him, their expression very serious.
“What are you thinking, love?” he asked. “I can tell there is something in your mind.”
She spread her hands wide in a gesture that might have meant anything. “I am thinking it is strange but fortunate that you know about poison.”
“The benefits of travel,” he said, a touch grimly. “Come! We must get back to the keep. Tearlach and I will have to seal this tunnel, if we cannot destroy it completely. Damnation! These castles are always riddled with bolt-holes and secret passages!” And ghosts. Though he was reluctant, perhaps it was time to engage with one of the castle’s lost spirits.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
All down the church in midst of fire,
The hellish monster flew,
And passing onward to the choir,
He many people slew.
—The Reverend Abraham Fleming,
A Straunge and Terrible Wunder (1577)
“Frances! Colin!” George called excitedly, waving to them as he scurried down from the wall.
“What is it?” Frances asked, hurrying to meet her cousin, who wore an engaging grin that alarmed her mightily. “George, have a care on those stairs. They are very narrow and steep!”
“You needn’t go searching for the hound today after all,” George announced, skidding to a stop at the base of the stairs. “He is here.”
“Here?” Colin demanded.
“Aye, outside the gate.”
A loud woo-wooing filled the air, underscoring the boy’s assertion.
“Mon Dieu!” Frances clapped her hands over her ears, and they turned in unison and headed for the yett.
Outside, the view of the barren landscape beyond was suddenly full of a clamorous hound of indeterminate breed, which, at the sight or perhaps scent of George, began dancing happily up and down and demanding to be let inside.
“I think he likes me,” George said loudly, raising his childishly thin arm to point, while looking at them with a not-so-childish face. His eyes were somber when he said: “He’s been tied up somewhere. Look, he has a rope around his neck. And that nasty powder is so thick, he must be choking. No wonder he’s been baying.”
The frayed cord was barely visible under the ruff that ringed the beast’s throat. George stepped closer to the gate and said, “Hush, dog! You are upsetting Frances.”
The intelligent hound promptly ceased its paean and contented himself with a low whine and turning his worried brown eyes upon the boy. A huge paw was laid on the horizontal bar in clear supplication. The chalky cloud about the hound began to subside.
Colin drew his sword. “George, step back.”
“But”—the boy argued, turning large and worried eyes upon Colin—“you can’t kill him. He doesn’t mean any harm. You can see for yourself that he isn’t a hound from Hell. It was all just a misunderstanding. He’s someone’s pet.”
“I can see that he is not a hellhound, and I shan’t kill him unless he attacks someone,” Colin assured the boy. “But you must know that I cannot allow any possible danger near Frances. Step back now. Give me some room. Tearlach, are you ready?”
Reminded of his duty to the frailer sex, the boy reluctantly backed away from the gate. His retreat caused the beast to whine piteously.
Frances, not looking particularly frail, glanced about quickly to see that no cats were foolishly lingering nearby. Satisfied that they were bereft of feline company, she turned to Tearlach, who waited by the giant wheel that controlled the gate. He was muttering something about muckle black tykes beneath his breath.
At Frances’s nod, an unhappy Tearlach raised the yett enough for the beast to pass through. The delighted animal, not seeing Colin’s sword, or perhaps not understanding what it meant, immediately launched his chalked body at the object of his long, diligent search. He was upon George in one bound, and rising onto his hind legs he dropped heavily onto the boy’s thin shoulders, forcing George to the ground beneath him. There he began administering an enthusiastic tongue bath to his human prize.
“Colin! The plague from the bones!” Frances said urgently. “Remove him from George.”
Colin sheathed his blade and then grabbed the hound’s trailing rope. He reeled in the frayed cord and then began extricating George from the hairy embrace. The boy scrambled to his feet, flushed but clearly unoffended by the canine intimacy.
“Go wash at once, George,” Frances instructed, her voice a bit shrill. “Clean every part that beast has touched. The dog has been eating…disgusting things.”
“But, Frances!” George swiped a hand over his face. He left a trail of white chalk behind.
“At once! You are filthy!” Her tone was imperious and George wisely obeyed, though he looked back with worried eyes and traveled with laggard steps toward the keep.
“You won’t hurt him, will you?”
“The beast shall be safe with Colin, mon cher,” she assured him. “But go! It is urgent. Trust me. I will explain matters later.”
Frances waited until George was gone and then turned. The hound was sitting subdued beside Colin, finally appearing a bit chastened for his behavior, yet still optimistic that he would be let up to play or perhaps offered a meal. She looked the two males over thoroughly. Her voice, when she spoke, was as severe as Colin had ever heard it.
“You, monsieur, are a chalky mess!” Colin opened his mouth to protest, but Frances went on: “You are not at all a spectral hound. You are not any sort of hound. You are simply large. Where is your dignity?”
In reply, a long tongue rolled out of the beast’s wide mouth and he rose to his feet. The giant tail began to wag. Clearly he was ready to make friends.
“Do not even conceive of putting that filthy mouth or paws upon me,” Frances warned. “I am not George and do not care for slobber. Il a l’air con,” she added to Colin. “An idiot animal.”
“He does not look terribly keen of wit,” Colin admitted, glancing down at the lolling tongue, which protruded to an implausible length. “But he has good taste.”
“Clearly this is a male hound of Hell,” Tearlach observed, coming up behind Colin and the beast. He stooped to peer under the hound’s wagging tail. He whistled appreciatively and said with envy: “Aye, this one’s a male. I’ve never heard of a muckle black tyke with such a large—”
“Tearlach!” Colin warned.
“I am aware of the fact that this is a male beast. Sine!” Frances called impatiently. “Do not cower in the doorway. Bring Eilidh. This animal must be washed at once. I do not want this creature in the keep until he has been bathed and—and used the privy.”
“Bathed and used the privy?” Sine repeated, leaving the shelter of the keep and coming reluctantly closer at Frances’s call. “The dog? Why?”
“Because he has no manners and does not understand where to dine. Perhaps you had best fetch my lavender water. He has—Colin, how do you say puer le
fauve?”
Unable to help himself, Colin began to laugh. “Aye, he smells a bit like a wild animal. But I do not think dousing him in scent will improve matters.”
“Nay. I meant, why bring him into the keep at all?” Sine asked. “Anne has already locked herself in her chamber and refuses to come out while the beastie is here. Couldn’t he stay in the stable?”
“Non. The young laird wishes to keep him. Anne shall have to overcome her fears,” Frances said ruthlessly, causing Sine to blink.
“But, Frances, ye ken how Anne is—”
“Bien Dieu! Sine, I do not care for this disfavored mongrel either. He is a filthy creature and uncivilized. But George has been very lonely. He needs a companion and Colin and I may not always be with him. Perhaps this beast shall serve to turn his thoughts from the Bokey hound and his parents’ death, n’est-ce pas? Anne is a woman grown and she shall have to accommodate him.”
Sine’s expression softened a shade, but the gaze she turned on the beast was still skeptical. “But the beastie is sae large and fierce-looking. And sae very filthy.”
“I’ll bathe the beast,” Colin volunteered. “And see that he—uh—takes care of all his ablutions before he comes inside. Sine, what would be helpful is if you would bring a bone for the creature to dine on, and send for George as soon as he has washed. The process will go faster if he is here to keep the hound happy. Tearlach, if you would fetch some water?”
“But, Colin, is that wise? You know what he has been eating. George is young and prone to illness,” Frances began. “Many times he has had the fever—”
“I shan’t let any harm befall George,” Colin promised. “And neither will the beast. I believe we have a new ally in our war.”
“Why does he like my cousin so much?” Frances asked, staring at the grinning dog and lowering her voice, even though Sine and Tearlach had left immediately after Colin spoke to them. He had a knack for command.
“Look outside the gate,” he said. “Unless I am mistaken, that is one of George’s sarks.”
Frances went to the yett and looked down at the small saffron-colored shirt, which was barely recognizable, covered as it was in drool and dirt.
“The beast stole it while he was in the castle?”
“Nay. I suspect he was given it by his master. Or, in this case, his mistress. Beasts must be given the scent of their prey before they can hunt.”
Frances spun about. “Given it? You mean that he was given the shirt so he would hunt for George? By someone in the castle?”
“Aye, but once again our enemies have misjudged their puppets. This beast is certainly large enough to be a killer. But, fortunately for us, he hasn’t the temperament for it. This isn’t an angry varden.”
“Varden?”
“An animal companion spirit like your Bokey hound. This is simply an oversized pup.”
“Oh.” Frances looked again at the damaged shirt. She felt a little ill when she imagined the damage happening with George still in it.
“It would have to be one of the women who gave him this shirt, would it not?” she asked unhappily, reaching for a pike. She pushed it through the gate, retrieving the mauled shirt. It hung, sad and empty. “Tearlach is the only man here besides yourself, and though rude and insane, I do not think he means George any harm.”
“I’m sorry, Frances,” Colin answered. “But I fear it must be someone in the castle who is behind this campaign. She may have a confederate outside the walls, but she knew what she did when she stole clothing to give this hound a scent to follow…Best if you burn that before anyone else sees it. News of a traitor in our midst might cause panic. It could also drive the traitor into doing something desperate. We don’t want her acting prematurely.”
Before Frances could reply, George and the other couple children boiled outside in a chattering wave. They rushed over to the calf-sized hound and stared at him admiringly.
“Is he a broonie?” Morag asked. “Or a pooka?”
“Nay, he’s just a dog,” George answered, stretching out a hand for the beast but stopping short of actually touching him, since it made Frances so angry.
Frances looked at the happy flush in George’s toothin cheeks and the excitement shining in his eyes. She sighed, but relented slightly.
“None of the children are to touch the hound until he is clean,” she told Colin sternly. She added frankly to the children: “He has been eating bones and playing in chalk, which will make you children have hives and be sick in bed for weeks, so you will behave and wait to touch him until he is clean.”
The youths turned disbelieving eyes upon her, but nodded obediently.
“May we help bathe the broonie?” Morag asked.
“Stop calling him that! He isn’t magical,” George insisted. “He is just a large dog.”
Frances shook her head at the little girl. “Non. You may help dry him, though. I think that Monsieur Mortlock and George shall require much assistance.”
“And linen,” Sine added, returning with yellowing drying cloths and a sheep bone. The latter was carried with distaste, extended outward so that it would not soil her clothes.
“Merci, Sine. You are very kind.”
Sine snorted. “I shall stay until I see that Tearlach brings the water,” the older woman answered. “Ye’d best go in and speak to Cook. She is not happy about sparing anything for the animal tae eat. And she is saying she won’t bring Anne a tray tae her room because if anyone should be having vapors, it is the kitchen staff and not the needle-wielder with pretentions.”
Frances sighed and watched Colin and George leading the hound away. The beast would probably eat a great deal and they could spare very little. Still, Colin had said that help was coming. And even if it weren’t, she wouldn’t take the beast away from George, who clearly wished to keep him. She hadn’t the ruthlessness necessary to quash his new happiness. “I shall speak to Cook at once.”
Frances turned her mind to persuasive arguments that would calm Cook, wishing it were possible to tell everyone that the Bishop of Orkney was coming and their men would be returning soon with food and arms, and that all would soon be well.
As she hurried away, she heard Colin ask: “What precisely is a broonie?”
“Just another faerie story,” George answered, his voice growing faint. “He is supposed to be some sort of imp—a shaggy thing—who helps you find paths in the dark. And sometimes he helps lost fisherman ashore when it is storming.”
“Ah, and you don’t think that this nameless beast might be a broonie?”
“Well…” George’s tone was considering.
Frances began to smile and paused to listen.
“Do you not think that since I have a hound now, I should have a lymerer’s coat?” George asked.
“Ask your cousin. Better yet, you may borrow my plaid of office. It’s a splendid shade. You can see it from leagues away. It would be excellent for a hound keeper.”
George chuckled, then added confidentially: “I told Frances it was too bright, but you know what women are.”
“No man ever really knows what women are,” Colin replied wisely. “And the one who thinks he does is a complete suckfist.”
Frances nodded in agreement and filed the expression away for future use.
In spite of his promise to Frances, Colin was content to leave the washing of the hound in George’s enthusiastic hands. It left his mind free to ponder his two favorite subjects: the perfidious mystery of who had set the hound on George, and the delightful Frances Balfour. Of the two, Frances was the sweeter and more baffling to contemplate.
It came as a surprise, but he realized he was actually falling in love with her. It was not something expected or even sought after, but he supposed that, however surprising, it was natural enough. Even men of wit sometimes succumbed to softer emotions. It was an act of faith and an expression of hope that life had something more to offer than material possessions.
However, the scope of this new fe
eling was something that could strike terror in the breast, for it was not some pleasant, courtly love he felt. It was something grand, a love that could grow as large as it could ever be known by mortal men. It was love like the music of angels. Love like vastness of the ocean. Love with the warmth and light of the sun.
But what puzzled him more than the emotion itself was, just when had this desire for a wife been born? And what had nurtured the idea unbeknownst to him while his thoughts were preoccupied with other things? For certainly something had nurtured it. Surely such emotions did not spring fully formed from the heart and mind.
Had it happened while he was playing a role as Frances’s lover? Had he perhaps finally been taken in by his own simulations? Colin sighed and prudently stepped away from the hound, which was preparing itself for a titanic shake.
It was probably an unanswerable question. He would do as well to take a stance preferred by poets, and blame it all on being hunted by Cupid and hit with his golden arrows feathered with enslaving kisses. Or he could blame it on Frances’s magnificent eyes, or the glory of her unbound hair capturing the light of the sun.
Of course, it was not desire alone that moved him. Lust, that fickle jade, lived and died a hundred times a day, a million times in a life. It waxed and waned according to the mood, the hour, and the setting—perhaps even with the moon. Desire, though intense, often survived only as long as what it coveted was in plain sight. Nay, this was something more. It had all the characteristics of a grand passion, a great love. It made no sense, this feeling he had. It could not be quantified, or even completely described. But love her he did. And not even death would change his mind.
Therefore, it behooved him to stop dwelling on sentimental things and to apply himself to discovering the traitor in their midst before someone was harmed. He could not count on Frances remaining valiant but not adventurous when her beloved cousin was threatened, so something had to be done.
He already had a strong suspicion of who had betrayed them, but he would make no accusation without proof. Frances would not accept it. In any event, it was far more important that he discover whom she was collaborating with on the outside, and what she had told them. That there was an outside collaborator, he never doubted.
The Night Side Page 15