The Renegade's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  The dark-haired squire frowned. “So, is he a good laird, then, sir?”

  “He appears to be good at fulfilling some of his responsibilities. That does not mean that he is not a thief, or that he does not shelter a thief.” Murdoch turned from the boy, and listened. The forest was already silent. Stewart and Hamish had flung bloody scraps behind them from the rabbits they had eaten the day before, in order to distract the dogs.

  He did not like dividing his party but this horse could not be ridden far, and Stewart might have to ride both far and fast.

  Murdoch still had mixed feelings about letting Gavin perform this errand, although he knew Stewart’s counsel was good. He would have preferred to have taken the horse to Kinfairlie village himself and sent the boy with Stewart. But Stewart was right: the boy would likely be chastised if caught, and released. Even if he were imprisoned, Murdoch and Stewart would rescue him. If Murdoch were captured, however, his fate would undoubtedly be worse and rescue might prove impossible.

  Still, he could not leave the boy alone to fulfill this quest. Though Stewart disapproved, Murdoch had insisted upon this chosen course as a compromise.

  “Will Hamish and Stewart be safe, my lord?”

  Murdoch smiled for Gavin. “They will be well enough. Stewart is cunning when the need calls for it. We shall see them late this night or on the morrow, just as planned, although they will have led the laird on a merry chase by then.”

  Gavin nodded and licked his lips. “Is it right what we do, sir?”

  “Is it right that Seton Manor’s relic is stolen and that those who abide there will go hungry this spring, all because of that thief?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Then we choose the lesser of two evils in order to serve the greater good.”

  Gavin grinned. “I liked when we surprised the messenger. ’Twas a bold deed, like those done by knights in old tales.”

  The boy’s enthusiasm pricked at Murdoch’s conscience and he changed the subject to the matter at hand. “Wait for them to be deep in the forest,” he advised, lowering his voice. “I want to ensure that they do not see your departure from this point. Then take the steed directly to the blacksmith. You see the smoke rising there, just to the right of the keep’s tower?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “That will be the blacksmith’s forge, for it is the hottest fire in the village. See? The smoke is nigh white.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Do not let her run for she will only injure herself. Walk.”

  Gavin’s lips set with resolve. “Aye, my lord.”

  “You are small enough as yet that she can bear your weight and it will be faster if you ride. The sooner she is in the smith’s care and you are away, the better.”

  Gavin nodded, his gaze fixed on Kinfairlie.

  “Confess as little as you can, leave as much coin as you must, and flee, leaving the horse in the blacksmith’s care. We must trust his honesty that it will be returned to the messenger.” Murdoch smiled at the boy and ruffled his hair. “I know you can run faster than a hare, Gavin, and on this day you may have to.”

  The boy straightened, a glint of determination lighting in his eye. “And you will be there, sir, should anything go awry.”

  “I will be there. I will ensure that you escape, one way or the other.”

  “You will not risk your own welfare, my lord?”

  “I will risk what I must.” Murdoch squeezed the boy’s shoulder and smiled encouragement. “Can you do this task?.”

  Gavin nodded, his grip tightening on the steed’s reins. Murdoch slipped through the forest toward the road, ignoring the whispers of the Fae on all sides. He tugged his cloak tightly around himself, savored the weight of the dagger hidden in his boot, and felt naked without his armor and sword. It was all hidden away, the better to let him pass as an innocent peasant.

  He felt better, though, to be away from the forest. Every step he took toward Kinfairlie seemed to make him more himself again, to rekindle his old audacity and boldness. The Elphine Queen and her threats seemed to be no more than a foul dream, one scattered and forgotten by morning’s light. He was filled with anticipation.

  Murdoch strode down the road, emerging from the forest’s shadow just as the laird’s hunting party left Kinfairlie village. He could have waited and remained unseen, but he wanted the laird to have the chance to see him. He wanted to taunt the man, to test his mettle, to leave a hint.

  It was reckless, but Murdoch had no taste for the safe choice.

  The horses were urged to a gallop, the steeds so clearly welcoming the chance to run that Murdoch halted to watch. They were beautiful creatures, well bred and well tended. Their coats were glossy and their manes were thick. The dogs raced ahead of the horses, barking, and the pennants rippled in the wind. The laird himself took the lead, and Murdoch belatedly recalled his supposed station.

  He stepped off the road, into the ditch, and bowed his head as the party passed. Within the shadows of his hood, he smiled, though, for the Laird of Kinfairlie would not find the prey he sought within Kinfairlie’s forest.

  He would never look within his own village.

  Which might give Murdoch a welcome opportunity to seek out the lady Isabella once again.

  * * *

  It was cold when Isabella rose, but she was unable to sleep or feign sleep any longer. There was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground. That wicked wind had gathered strength during the night and now it whistled through the crannies in Kinfairlie’s tower. The sky was overcast, but it was too cold to snow more.

  Elizabeth burrowed beneath the covers, grumbling some complaint as Isabella left.

  Isabella watched as Alexander mustered his hunting party in the bailey below, fighting her concern for Murdoch. She had laid awake half the night with worry, trying to calculate how she could visit Alexander’s chamber of ledgers.

  And now time slid away. At least two dozen armed men prepared to ride out with Alexander, their expressions as determined as that of their laird, and there were hunting dogs, as well. Surely Murdoch would not be captured? Or if he was, surely he would repent at the sign of Alexander’s resolve to see justice done.

  Isabella wished she could have been more convinced of that. What little she had seen of Murdoch persuaded her that he would do what he believed to be right, independent of possible consequences. He had done this apurpose to provoke Alexander – and it had worked. Had he anticipated as much? Had he a greater scheme?

  And where was the relic?

  Maybe she could beg Alexander to offer clemency to Murdoch, after he was captured. The trouble was that she had need of evidence and her family was cursedly numerous. The key to Alexander’s chamber was in the solar, and with Eleanor abed, there was no chance of retrieving it unobserved. Even once she had the key, she had to enter Alexander’s chamber of records without another being aware of what she did. With this foul wind, all seemed determined to remain in the hall and huddle together.

  In the bailey below, Alexander swung into his saddle and donned his helm. He gave directions to his party, then shouted a command. The men turned their horses as one, a hunting horn was blown, and the entire party cantered through the gates of the keep. Isabella saw them ride through Kinfairlie village, the villagers cheering their laird on to triumph. Once past the village walls, the horses began to gallop along the road that wound toward Kinfairlie forest. The dogs were loosed and ran ahead of the horses.

  Where was Murdoch? Would he be safe? Isabella could not tolerate the uncertainty.

  “They shall hunt the villain to the ground,” Annelise said from behind her with surprising satisfaction. Isabella jumped, for she had not realized that her sister was awake. Annelise laid a hand on Isabella’s shoulder and smiled. “You need not fear for our safety. Alexander will see us defended.”

  Isabella turned to stare out the window again, not wanting to correct her sister’s assumption. She had to get into Alexander’s chamber while her brother was aw
ay. It was the sole chance. She watched the hunting party flow along the road toward Kinfairlie’s forest, pennants snapping and dogs barking.

  A lone peasant, his dark cloak wrapped tightly around his body, had only just emerged from the forest. Evidently he walked to Kinfairlie village, but the sight of Alexander’s party made him halt. He stepped into the ditch to let the laird’s party pass, holding his hood around his face against the clutch of the wind. He turned to watch their passage into the forest, doubtless in awe of the splendor of the party. When Alexander’s party disappeared into the woods, he continued to trudge toward Kinfairlie village, the hem of his dark cloak flicking in the wind.

  Roland crowed Annelise’s name as Vera led him into the chamber, saving Isabella from making a reply. Annelise laughed as she went to scoop their nephew into her arms. She spun around and Roland held out his arms, squealing with pleasure at the ride she gave him. Elizabeth complained anew about the noise and Isabella left with a mumbled excuse.

  She found Eleanor in the corridor leaning on Moira’s arm. That lady thanked her again for her aid, but declined another posset as yet. “Come to the hall with us,” Eleanor invited. “I intend to sit by the fire and catch up with all the tidings I have missed. Come join us while we await Alexander’s return.”

  This was the last deed Isabella wished to do, but she could hardly decline. “I suppose I should collect my needlework,” she said, trying to not sound impatient.

  “That is an excellent notion!” Eleanor paused on the summit of the stairs and glanced back. “Isabella, could you bring my embroidery to the hall? I shall work upon it there.”

  An excuse to enter the solar alone! It was precisely the opportunity Isabella required. She tried to hide her impatience. “Of course!”

  “You will sit by the fire,” Moira insisted to Eleanor. “With furs over your lap, and you shall not rise until midday. Should you desire any thing, you will tell me and I will fetch it for you. Are we understood?”

  “Who is mistress and who is maid?” Eleanor teased.

  Moira flushed. “You must ensure that you do not strain yourself, my lady,” she continued. “You have only to tell me what you wish to see done, or what you desire to have brought to you, and I shall see that it is so.”

  “I know it well, Moira. You are kind to me always. Let us get down to the hall for it is cool here.”

  The pair began to descend the stairs, Eleanor leaning more heavily on the maid’s arm than was her custom.

  Meanwhile, Moira continued. “’Tis the laird’s second son you bear, I will wager, and ’tis my responsibility to do my best to ensure he comes shouting into the day, just as Roland did, as hale and as hearty as a babe might be.”

  “It might be a girl, Moira, this time being so different from the last.”

  “It is boys as make the trouble, my lady, you shall see...”

  Eleanor and Moira disappeared, the maid’s voice fading.

  Isabella pivoted and fled up the stairs. She was in the solar in moments, the key to Alexander’s chamber retrieved from the small chest beside the curtained bed. She flicked the needle from Eleanor’s embroidery on to the floor and kicked it into the darkness of the corner. On silent feet, she crossed the hall on that floor, turned the key in the lock and slipped into Alexander’s chamber.

  She had not much time.

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  Gavin held his hand over the snout of the messenger’s horse, ensuring that he and the steed were well hidden in the forest’s shadows. He watched Murdoch walk toward the village. The Laird of Kinfairlie’s hunting party galloped toward the forest, the mare in Gavin’s care stamping at the sight of them.

  The Laird of Kinfairlie did precisely as his lord Murdoch had promised. Gavin was awed by his master’s ability to anticipate the choice of another.

  And he stood tall with this responsibility. He had never anticipated such adventure when he had been chosen to accompany his laird’s brother, and indeed, he found his lord Murdoch’s tactics thrilling. Although Stewart disapproved, this was like a great game. The messenger had been terrified the night before, but he had not been injured. And lord Murdoch would ensure the horse was not just shoed but returned. Coin jingled in Gavin’s purse, and his heart pounded that he was entrusted with a deed worthy of a tale.

  Gavin watched the hunting party enter the woods. The dogs barked, scattering into the undergrowth, their keepers whistling to drive them on. One headed toward the hidden squire and Gavin’s eyes rounded. The horse shook her head, but he held fast. They could not be discovered before they began!

  A loud clear whistle called off the dog, much to Gavin’s relief. The hound turned and raced noisily through the brush to join its fellows.

  Lord Murdoch had disappeared within Kinfairlie village.

  The party continued deep into the forest, the sounds of their passage becoming muted with distance.

  It was time.

  Gavin swung into the saddle. He took a deep breath, then he touched his heels to the mare’s flanks. The horse leapt through the brush with an enthusiasm that nearly unseated him. The mare erupted from the forest and began to gallop for the road.

  She must know this village. She must know that she would be well-treated in Kinfairlie’s stables. That reassured Gavin that he might not come to such a dire end in Kinfairlie. With an effort, he slowed the mare to a walk and eyed the smoke from the smith’s forge.

  Lord Murdoch would be there. All would come right.

  * * *

  Isabella leaned back against the heavy wooden door as she surveyed Alexander’s chamber. There was a veritable stack of ledgers and she guessed these were the records of Kinfairlie’s accounts over the years. She despaired at the sheer volume of them. It would take her months to look through them all!

  She had only moments.

  Isabella had to choose. She stepped toward the table Alexander used to work upon those ledgers, choosing where to start. There were several quills and vials of ink, as well as a bowl for the ink when he intended to write. The bowl was clean and dry. There was a small knife for sharpening quills, a fat candle and store of sealing wax. Alexander’s signet ring, of course, was on his finger.

  Mindful of the window, Isabella sat in her brother’s chair and ran her hands along the edge of the table. She knew not what she sought precisely, much less where it might be. She could not imagine that the truth was hidden in the ledgers of account – or if it was, it would be well buried.

  Her gaze fell upon a small chest on the floor to her right. She bent and opened it, for it was unlocked.

  It was filled with scrolls of vellum and parchment, of the kind that messengers brought to their portal. The seals were broken on the missives and they were less tightly furled than once they had been. Some had ribbons affixed with the seal and several looked as if they had been handled repeatedly. Isabella unrolled one such on the desk, holding it flat with her hands. The last paragraph of the missive snared her eye.

  “Though I may risk much in reminding you of old tales, still I do. The Lammergeier have long been said to be sorcerors and even thieves, and the disappearance of this relic – fairly purchased from your family – from a most secure treasury persuades me of the unnatural nature of this theft. I am not the sole one to have made such conclusion, nor am I the only victim of this very same crime. I bid you, my lord, in all fairness, to return the relic that is rightfully our possession.”

  This missive was signed from a laird whose holding was near Inverness.

  Isabella had been right. Alexander had not been surprised, for he had heard the accusation before.

  She quickly worked through the missives in the trunk and discovered no less than ten with similar content. Had Alexander contrived these thefts? She could not believe it, though she could understand the vexation of those who had outlaid coin for the relics. She created a mental list of the relics that were missing, for she was more accustomed to remembering lists than committing them to expen
sive parchment or vellum.

  Who had taken the relics, if not Alexander?

  What had Ross brought home at the Yule? A small trunk. Isabella recalled it well. It had been bound with leather straps. She scanned the chamber but did not see it there. Had he taken it with him, or left it here?

  Where might it be, if he had entrusted it to Alexander?

  There had been another key in the trunk in the solar, a large brass one. Isabella knew it was the key to the treasury, kept on the highest floor of Kinfairlie’s tower. If Alexander had the relics, surely he would secure them there, where none other than he and Anthony went. Even if he held that trunk in trust for Ross, perhaps unaware of its contents, it might well be there.

  Isabella returned the missives to the trunk, ensuring that all looked undisturbed. She went to the door again, pressing her ear against the portal to listen.

  Silence.

  It would not last in this hall.

  Isabella had to seize opportunity when she found it.

  * * *

  It was cursed cold in the treasury, even though the windows were barricaded against the wind. Isabella couldn’t recall there ever having been a fire set in a brazier in this room, and she swore there was frost on the lock.

  It was shadowed, as well. Though there were three large window openings, they had been barricaded with wooden planks and little light was admitted to the chamber as a result. Isabella supposed the wood might block other things, as well. Snow and rain, not to mention the Fae who were supposed to come through one of them. Vivienne had adored that old tale of the one window in this chamber being a portal to the realm of the Fae.

  She did not dare fetch a lantern and risk discovery, much less waste the time. Fortunately, her eyes were adjusting to the shadows. The treasury appeared to be fairly well organized, likely the labor of Anthony. Chests of coin were stacked to one side, gold sorted from silver, the chests clearly old themselves. Much of this Isabella remembered as Eleanor’s inheritance and she knew it was not relevant to her investigation.