by Suz deMello
A billowing cloud of excitement swelled inside Edgar’s chest. “Look!”
The castle’s upper battlements were under repair, with several brawny men maneuvering blocks of stone into position. He could see a bareheaded figure in black, with hair the same midnight color, waving his hands and shouting, though they were too far away to hear.
“Dugald,” Kier said. “Uncommonly excited, he is.”
He stuck two fingers in his mouth and emitted an ear-splitting whistle. Dugald turned and, apparently seeing them, waved before disappearing from sight.
“Bloody hell,” Edgar breathed. “Will you teach me how to do that?”
“Language, my lad. Stop listening to milady. And she’ll skewer me with my own dirk if I teach ye that trick.”
“I won’t do it when she’s around!”
“Um… We’ll see.”
Dugald greeted them at the gate, slapping Kier on the arm and ruffling Edgar’s hair. “Ho, young lordling, how goes it?”
“Very well, sir.” Edgar gave him a little formal bow and the men whooped with laughter.
“Let me show ye your property, so ye can tell me I’ve done well by ye.”
The formerly smelly, dirty castle had been cleaned from top to bottom. Every room was inhabited and, from the topmost tower, Edgar could see that Kier’s orders had been followed. None of the small huts and crofts that had surrounded the fortress remained, for the remaining population was housed snugly within the castle.
He also saw the extent to which farming had begun. Given the lack of manpower, much arable ground had been plowed. Tender green shoots had poked their heads above stony ground. He nudged Dugald’s side and pointed. “What are you trying to grow at this time of year?”
“Winter barley, kale, a few other crops that we think may survive.”
“Hmm.” Edgar caught Kier’s eye. ’Tis a risky venture.
Kier shrugged in response. “And fishponds?”
Edgar looked. Sure enough, several silver patches glittered below.
“Likewise risky,” Dugald said. “But we willnae ken unless we try. We’re preparing for the winter as best we can.”
He led them into the solar, where Edgar’s grandmam sat in front of a spinning wheel, humming a tune. She shrieked when she saw Edgar, who braced himself for the onslaught. Hugs were exchanged, with Edgar holding his breath. They went to the Lower Hall for lunch, while Grandmam pinched his cheeks and exclaimed over his added weight and height.
Lunch was bannocks, stew and wild greens. Most of his clan sat at the long tables—all women and children—as well the Kilborn men. They didn’t separate into clan groups but sat in clusters, most often each woman with a man, frequently accompanied by children.
After finishing his ale, Kier leaned back into his chair with a satisfied grunt. “Any weddings or handfastings?” he asked Dugald.
“Aye, and I predict that there will be more than a few new bairns come this spring.”
“And thus Laird Edgar’s clan increases.”
“They’ll all be Kilborns. Not that I mind,” Edgar added hastily.
“The children that ye see bear the name of MacReiver,” Dugald said. “Trust me when I say that Dame Ellen is making sure they understand their loyalty belongs to ye.”
Kier fixed Dugald with his dark eyes. “We have to take Dirk home.”
“He’s a loss, to be sure, even with his head in the clouds mooning about his Rose. She’s close to droppin’ their bairn?”
“Aye.”
“Well, it cannae be helped. Who are ye leavin’ in his place? We need every hand to fit this drafty auld pile of rocks for winter.” He caught Edgar’s glance and winked.
“Archie,” Kier said.
Dugald rolled his eyes.
“He’s nae so bad,” milaird said firmly.
“Duncan.”
“Are ye mad? He’ll cause havoc amongst the wenches when they catch a look at him.”
“Ye’re right,” Dugald said with evident reluctance. “Archie it is.”
* * * * *
The sun glittered on a calm blue sea. Niall relied on the northward-flowing current to carry his craft to a spot he judged would yield a goodly catch on this, one of the last good fishing days of the year. He reefed the sail, set his fishing lines and sighed.
“What ails ye, Da?” Ian asked.
“We’ll no’ be seein’ the sea much after this day.”
“Nay, not much through the winter.”
They sat in silence for some hours, reeling in their catch, mostly herring and whitefish. As the sun lifted higher into the clear sky, Ian unwrapped a few slices of meat and offered one to his da, along with a chunk of bread.
Niall chewed thoughtfully, eyes on the lines. The boat rose and fell softly with the gentle swell until it bounced. Ian was standing, hand to his forehead, staring at the northward horizon. “Da! Da!” He pointed.
Niall balanced himself with one hand on the mast and, continuing to chew, rose to his feet to see p’raps a half-dozen sails, maybe more. The boats tacked hither and yon over the sea, for the day was relatively windless, providing only slight breezes for sailing.
“’Tis odd,” he mused.
One of the boats caught a puff of wind and scudded closer. Niall squinted. “Ian,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “do ye see swords at the side of the men in that boat?”
“I…mayhap…that’s no’ a fishin’ boat, Da. There are too many men in it! We have to get back now.”
Ian set the sail while Niall grabbed the tiller and turned the boat. Unanchored in the deep waters, they’d drifted farther north. Ian hastily dragged in the lines as Niall waggled the tiller, trying to catch the breeze in the limp sails.
He saw a flash of light before a loud bang sounded. Pain tore through his shoulder and he fell.
Ian grabbed his father a moment before he toppled over the boat’s side, dragging him to the nearest bench seat.
“Get us home…” Niall mumbled. “Clan under attack.”
“It cannae be!”
“It must be. Why…why else would…” He weakly indicated his shoulder, from which blood oozed.
Ian grabbed it and squeezed to stop the red flow. Niall screamed. Ian let go and looked up. The attacking fleet was closer still, not more a hundred yards away, but moving slowly…could it be that the overloaded craft couldnae sail any faster?
He yanked off his shirt and stuffed it into his da’s hand, then shoved that hand against the wound. “Good…good boy,” Niall mumbled, wincing. “Now get us home.”
* * * * *
Owain tended to be more alert on those days when milaird was absent. True, most days Laird Kieran would go out on patrol or to hunt, but when he went further afield—like today, when milaird had traveled to the lands of conquered Clan MacReiver—Owain was doubly on guard.
He took his noontime meal atop the wall-walk, munching bread and cheese rather than eating in the comfort of the Great Hall. He knew that he’d not enjoy his food if worried. He perched within a crenellation, his shoulder against a great block of stone near the Dark Tower, watching the soothing lap of the waves as they eternally washed the shore and slapped against the sea stacks that guarded their little cove.
A red-sailed fishing boat shot between the sea stacks and into the cove. Niall’s boat. But what the diabhol? Owain couldnae see Niall, but there was Ian at the tiller, heading the craft directly toward the stony beach without slowing it a whit.
The lad was screaming, but Owain couldnae hear the words. Sensing trouble, he dropped his food and stood. Then Ian bent toward a pile of rags inside the craft, and lifted what was finally recognizable as Niall. A splotch of blood marred the fisherman’s shoulder.
“Rach air muin,” Owain swore. “What now?”
He looked at the barred door of the Dark Tower. The old keep was surely the swiftest way down to the cove, but after the punishment meted out to milady and the wench Moira, Owain had no wish to test Laird Kieran’s tolera
nce. And the tower, with its twisty corridors floored with rotting wood, was dangerous.
Instead, he leaned over the opposite wall and shouted to get the attention of the men in the courtyard. “To the cove, quick! And find auld Mhairi. We need a healer.”
He dashed down to the beach by the quickest way possible, which was down a staircase that went from the upper walk to the bailey, then through into the courtyard and out of the great gates, which stood open.
He hurried down the cliff path to find that he’d been preceded by a half-dozen men who were tending to Niall.
“Sir!” Ian grasped Owain’s arm.
“What is it, lad?”
“We saw boats, many boats, heading this way. They werenae fishing boats. There were many men aboard, and one shot me da.”
Kendrick pressed a pad of cloth to Niall’s shoulder and bound it there before three others lifted the wounded fisherman, preparing to carry him up to safety.
“Rach air muin,” Owain said again. “We’re being attacked.”
“That’s what me da said. But who? Why?”
“Doesnae matter, lad. Raise the alarm. Get yourself and your mam and your sisters into the castle. Tell everyone ye see to get inside the bailey.”
Ian stared, stunned.
“Go!” Owain gave him a little push and the boy scurried toward the cliff path, reaching it before the party carrying Niall. Owain followed at a trot, eying the sea caves at the base of the Dark Tower with longing. That route could be faster, but who knew how the old gentleman would react to any invasion of his home? And who understood the warren of tunnels and passages? A man could easily become lost.
No, the cliff path was best. Anyone who braved the ancient keep was a fool.
* * * * *
Roused by the ruckus, Sir Gareth grumbled and muttered as he hauled his creaky old body out of bed. He thrust his arms into a long-sleeved, lace-trimmed linen shirt and found his trews. Boots and a jacket followed. ’Twas a sunny day, so he eschewed his cloak.
Up or down? Was he hungry for a visit to his prisoners or did he wish to see what the kerfuffle was?
He thought fondly of his larder, of the flavorsome wench, Moira. And taking blood from Seamas, his brother’s killer, was equally sweet. Oh, the delightful taste of revenge!
But best that he observe the situation before having a bite to eat.
He trotted up the several flights of stairs between his bedroom and the topmost turret of his keep. Shoving open a secret trapdoor, he emerged into the sunny afternoon. He squinted, disliking the sunlight after the pleasant dimness of his lair.
Below, men were carrying a wounded man up the cliff path from the cove. One of young Kieran’s men was shouting orders. And sails dotted the sea, some trying to use the faint breeze to tack quite near.
His interest piqued by the unusual events, he bounced a little on the balls of his feet. Quite worth getting out of bed to see this, he thought, then wondered what this was.
The boats were not of his clan, he realized, watching them try and fail to shoot the narrow strait between the sea stacks into the cove. Every Kilborn fisherman worthy of the job could make landfall on their beach.
And these boats carried peculiar cargo. No fishing gear or bottles of wine for his enjoyment, but men.
Men and weapons.
His clan was under attack.
Gareth rushed downstairs to grab supplies from his bedroom—an ancient pistol, a dirk, flint and steel—and sprinted to his larder to fortify himself for the fray. It had been at least a century since he’d had the opportunity for a good battle and he certainly didn’t plan to miss this one.
He strode toward Seamas MacReiver. The dim light flashed on something that whipped and clattered like a metal snake a moment before a chain wrapped around Gareth’s neck. He choked and grappled at it with frantic fingers, his mind racing.
MacReiver must have loosened his chain and thrown it to strangle him, Gareth realized as he choked, his breath cut off. If MacReiver tugged hard enough, the chain would tighten, and Gareth would lose his head entirely with precious little chance of regaining it. He’d die the final death.
Seamas grunted and pulled the chain tighter. Dots swirled before Gareth’s vision. The eyes inside saw clearly though, and he stopped his futile effort to loosen the chain and instead reached for Seamas’ wrist. He squeezed it until Seamas screamed and bones crunched. The gruesome sounds echoed around the cave, bouncing off the rough, damp walls.
Gareth ripped Seamas’ arm out at the shoulder and used it as a handle, unwrapping the chain and manacle from around his neck. Finally he sucked in enough air to laugh.
“He almost had me there,” he choked out between fits of the giggles. “Did you see that, lass? He almost had me there.”
Moira watched with wide green eyes while Gareth sucked appreciatively at the torn end of Seamas’ arm, then at the shoulder. As the vampire drained Seamas, she whispered, “Not today. I willnae die today.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Go, now. Find milaird and bring him back.” Owain slapped the big bay’s rump and the messenger headed out of the gate at a trot, his horse’s hooves clattering on the drawbridge. “Get everyone in here, now!” Owain shouted. “We’re closing the gate and lowering the portcullis in five minutes!”
Rose staggered through the gate and leaned against the wall, panting. Lydia dashed toward her, feeling the drag of the chatelaine’s keys and hearing their jingle as they clattered at her waist. She grabbed the pregnant woman’s arm as another contraction seized her. Rose bent, wrapping her arms around her belly and trying to stifle her scream, which came out as a choking gurgle.
Lydia waved to Grizel and the thin blonde hurried to them as quickly as her skirts would allow. She took Rose’s other arm. “Take Rose to the nook off the kitchen,” Lydia told Grizel. “Make sure that there’s boiling water and enough clean cloths for her. Attend her until Mhairi finishes with Niall.”
The bailey was crammed with clanspeople and their children running amuck, angry and terrified. Though the hold was enormous, it was crowded and disorganized, and became more so with every minute as some tried to bring in their goats and chickens.
Lydia struggled through the throng to Owain’s side. “The larger animals cannot stay here, sir,” she said. “They should be driven up into the hills.”
“Aye, the shepherds have done so. There’s an area of the stable—” He turned away from her to shout, “Get the goats and pigs out of here. Into the stables, not in the courtyard! Archers to the upper wall-walk, now!”
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked him.
“Milady, your very presence buoys the people. Try to get the women and bairns inside the Great Hall.”
A shout came from above. “Riders! Riders from the northeast, with a company of soldiers on foot following.”
“How many?” Lydia called.
“P’raps a score of riders and a hundred men.”
She glanced at Owain, who said, “These are good odds.”
“My husband told me that we have a permanent garrison of p’raps three score men.”
“Aye, but all the men know how to fight. Everyone can use a bow or a sword. And ’tis hard to mount a siege, milady. They—whoever they are—believed that they would take us unawares. With the great gate open, as it is every day in times of peace, they could have walked in. And they seem to think that they can attack us by sea.” He snorted derisively.
“What of the sea caves? Do they not give access to the castle through the old keep?”
“Would ye go through there?” Owain’s brown eyes regarded her, and she guessed he was thinking of her foray into the Dark Tower and her subsequent punishment.
She shuddered. “No, I have no wish to encounter himself again.”
“Exactly. What he has, he will keep.”
Kendrick approached. “Everyone’s inside.”
“Bring up the drawbridge and close the gate!” Owain bellowed louder than the m
illing mob. “Portcullis down!”
As the great gate creaked to a close, Lydia urged the women and children to follow her as she hastened inside the Garrison Tower and to the busy Great Hall. When she’d settled the frantic mass of clanspeople, she went into the kitchen where Fenella bustled among enormous pots of porridge and stew.
“La!” Red-faced and sweaty, Fenella staggered to a chair and collapsed. “I havenae seen so many of us here for an age.”
“Everyone’s inside, though,” Lydia said with satisfaction. “And somewhat organized. The women and children are in the Great Hall and the men are readying for battle.” Her belly churned. Where was Kieran?
“Where is Mhairi?” Fenella asked.
“Tending to Rose. Niall has been put in one of the guards’ barracks abovestairs. His family is with him.”
“Good. I’ll send up some food.”
“What else can be done?”
Fenella shook her head. “Nothing, now that the women and bairns are inside and the men are readying for battle.”
“Nothing to do but wait.” Lydia drew in a trembling breath.
But where was Kieran? Would he be ambushed, trapped and killed? Who had attacked? And why?
* * * * *
On the way back from his clan lands, Edgar caught sight of a swift brown shadow flashing through the woods and gave chase. But the deer easily outpaced poor Scout.
“I need a better mount,” he grumbled after he’d returned to milaird’s side.
Leaning over, Kier ruffled his hair. “The next foal is yours, laddie. Ye’ve earned it.”
The thump of cantering hooves caught Edgar’s attention, and milaird dropped his sword hand to his weapon.
“Milaird! Milaird!”
“’Tis Davy,” Kier said with surprise. “This isnae good.”
“That’s milady’s horse. Why? Is she nae all right?” Edgar grabbed Kier’s sleeve.
“I dinnae ken.”
Davy reined in the bay gelding, which slavered at the mouth from exertion. “Milaird, the castle is under attack.”