The Laird's Daughter

by Temple Hogan

  “Don’t blame yourself, Rafe,” Jean said quietly at his elbow. “You didn’t hurt the girl, and it was a lovely, fanciful fortune that would delight any young lass.”

  “Mayhap that’s the problem,” he replied. “’Tis only a fanciful tale and I would have more than that for Annie.”

  He turned back to the table but found no solace in his cup or the entertainment, which grew more ribald as the evening progressed so that finally Jean withdrew. His thoughts were tangled with visions of the maiden by the pool and Annie, the goose girl. Morosely, he rose and quit the hall, paying no heed to Dianne when she called to him.

  Chapter Six

  “You’re a fool, Bryce Why do you defy them so?” Annie glared at the brawny, young blacksmith.

  “Because I dare the cursed Campbells to prove they’re better than me…a MacDougall.” Bryce brought the hammer down against the fire pit stone in a ringing exclamation of his anger and glared back. He was stripped to the waist and droplets of sweat cast a sheen over his broad muscular back and shoulders. His black brows drew down in a fierce scowl that might have intimidated anyone else, but Annie was not cowed in any way.

  “Did you not see how weak he was?” he bragged. “I brought him to his knees in front of his clansmen, and now they know what a weak leader he is. Do you not understand, Annie?” He stared at her, seemingly unable to imagine she might not find his behavior admirable. When she seemed unmoved by his argument, he swiped his meaty hands through his hair, leaving it all awry, then bent over her.

  “I was trying to rescue you from those who talked down to you like you were a brainless lamb they’d found in the birthing pen. They acted as if you were naught but a lowly peasant when you’re as noble as they are. Don’t you care?”

  “’Tis of no matter how they view me,” she answered tartly. “’Tis not the first time nor will it be the last that I’m treated thusly. To one and all, I’m but a cripple, a mute and dumb goose girl good for naught but gathering the fowl and running errands. Do you think they’d place a high value on such as I am?”

  “You’re the Laird’s daughter. Have you no pride?” His mouth twisted with rage.

  “Aye, but I swallow my pride for the good of the clan. Would you have my secret revealed? Do you think they wouldn’t guess who spies on them and sics the renegade clansmen on them? Would ye put me in such danger, Bryce?”

  “Bah, you know I wouldn’t.” He turned back to his fire and tapped his hammer absently.

  “Then, don’t rush to my aid if it will make you all raucous like an unruly bear.” She went to him and laid her head against his shoulder. “Would you start a ruction every time someone displeases yourself? And you can’t protect me from such things.”

  “’Tis not fair to have our Laird’s daughter, a lady herself, be treated in such a manner as that Campbell whore adopted toward you. She’s naught but a hizzie.”

  “Wheesht!” She hushed him with a hand over his mouth. “You sound like a sweetie wife with naught to do all day but gossip.”

  “Hoch ay.” He uttered the words of resignation. “‘If you must call me names then I’ll not utter another word.” He laughed suddenly, his broad chest bouncing beneath her cheek.

  And it was thus that Rafe Campbell and Jean found them standing with their arms around each other in affection and trust, their faces merry with the sudden humor that comes with the settling of an argument. Rafe’s eyes darkened, and his expression grew stern.

  “Is he bothering you, lass?” he queried.

  Quickly, Annie stepped away from the burly, handsome blacksmith and ducked her head.

  Annie caught sight of Jean’s thoughtful gaze and quickly let her hair fall forward to cover her face.

  “’Tis not your business,” Bryce growled.

  His manner was so arrogant that Rafe’s face flushed in anger. Only Jean, with her quick intelligence, understood. She put a hand on her friend’s arm.

  “Nay, we’ve read it awrong,” she said quickly, her warm smile touching them all. “Haven’t we, lass?” Slowly, Annie raised her head and nodded. “Bryce is your friend and protector, is he not?” Again, Annie nodded.

  “She doesn’t need a protector,” Rafe said stiffly. “I’ve taken her under my banner. All know to treat her well.”

  “Aye, that may be so, Rafe, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need to have friends.” She looked into his eyes, her own sparkling with humor as she continued speaking. “’Tis as the old woman predicted last night.”

  Annie took a step forward smothering the words of denial in her throat, still it came out as a wordless cry that all could clearly read. She thought they might have understood then Bryce moved forward and took hold of her shoulders, pulling her against him possessively as he glared a warning at Rafe. The nobleman stood for a long moment as if reconciling himself to this new information then let a slow smile curve his lips, though the humor never reached his eyes. Turning away from them, he walked to the pit where the flames had died down to glowing coals.

  “Who was here earlier?” he asked abruptly, whirling to pin a hard gaze on the blacksmith.

  “Save for the girl here, I was alone,” Bryce answered, his manner surly.

  “Only Annie?” Rafe studied the two of them, his gaze moving from her face to the blacksmith’s, his countenance hard to read.

  “As we approached, I thought I heard voices.”

  Bryce flushed, seeing how he’d fallen into a trap.

  “’Twas only me. The girl can’t talk, but she can listen and understand, so it was only me telling of my times as a boy.”

  Jean raised her head, her intelligent eyes registering puzzlement, but she said nothing. Rafe walked back to join her, taking her elbow.

  “Are ye ready to return to the castle?” he asked pleasantly, although his eyes were flat with anger and suspicion.

  His gaze met Annie’s and in that moment, she guessed his dawning mistrust. She dipped her head and hunched a shoulder as they left the smithy. No other words were said. Annie crept to the opening and peered after them. Rafe seemed intent on regaling his guest with a tale of derring-do that made her laugh prettily. Withdrawing back into the dark interior of the shed, she turned to face Bryce.

  “They heard us talking,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he answered. “But he isn’t sure it was you. He thinks we were hiding someone else.” His eyes narrowed. “We must be canny.”

  Annie didn’t like the mulish expression he wore, but she made no further comment. He was right about one thing. They must be cautious, else they’d be found out and who knew what repercussions would befall the remaining members of her clan. Troubled, she tended her gaggle of geese and fowl, shooing a chickie back to its mother. When she had them watered and penned again, she looked to the hills and on an impulse, wrapped scones and a haggis she’d planned as a surprise for Father Cowan in a clean cloth and climbed into the mountains to spend the day helping him tend sheep.

  The sun had rimmed the edges of the hills and the shadows filled the valleys when Annie and Father Cowan descended from the pastures. They were struck by the subdued air of abandonment about the outer bailey.

  “What’s gone wrong?” the priest asked warily, glancing around the empty courtyard.

  “Where have the clansmen gone?” Annie whispered, noting the few men who guarded the parapet. No sounds of men or horses came from the barracks and stables.

  “Where is everybody?” Father Cowan roared, and a cook, hurrying toward the village gate, looked over her shoulder.

  “The border guards were attacked,” she called. “They think it was Baen and his renegades, so the Laird’s nephew and the MacIntyres have gone to the southern borders to head them off.”

  Annie and the priest exchanged glances.

  “It couldn’t be Bryce. He wouldn’t be so stupid,” Father Cowan said.

  “Pray he wasn’t,” she muttered beneath her breath and raced toward the smithy, only to find it empty. She held a hand abo
ve the cold, gray coals of the fire pit. It had been hours since the fire had been fed. Torn between fear and anger, she moved deeper into the smithy.

  “Bryce, are you here?” she called in a low voice and was rewarded with a moan from the back corner. Dodging around a pile of iron pieces, she came upon the blacksmith, huddled on a pallet, his face beneath his black beard pale, his clothes torn and bloody.

  “You fool,” she cried out, kneeling beside him to lift his head. “What have you done?”

  He grinned through his pain, his dark eyes flashing with pride. “Annie,” he whispered gleefully. “We did it. We beat the border patrols, sent them running with their tails between their legs. They lost a lot of their men, but they got word back to the castle, and Rafe arrived with reinforcements.” He took a deep sigh. “For a wee time, it looked like we’d beat the MacIntyres, as well, though I’ve no heart to kill them, only Campbells. Aye, but then the Campbells came with their young commander riding out in front like a king or something.” He coughed and struggled for a breath.

  “Don’t talk now. I’ll get Alyce. You need your wounds tended.”

  “Nay, she’s busy with the others.”

  “O, Great and Holy Mother of God,” she prayed. “How many were wounded? Did you lose any men?”

  His grin disappeared, and his expression took on a look of remorse that struck to her very soul. “We lost Duncan, lass, and Jaimie and Logan and-and…”

  His litany went on until she longed to scream at him that he stop. Instead, she rose and went to the well for water and brought it back to tend to his wounds herself. When she had stitched the skin and bandaged the cuts and he was resting on his pallet, his face even paler than before, his breathing shallow and rough, she left the smithy and went in search of the midwife. She found her in the last hut in the village where all the wounded and dead had been taken.

  Alyce met her outside the door. Neither of them spoke, but the midwife led her inside and waited while Annie moved from pallet to pallet. When Annie was finished with her inspection, the midwife raised her head from tending yet another man and studied Annie’s expression.

  “I think the wounded will all live, but their recovery will take some time. Five men were killed, one of them the baker and the other, the farrier. ‘Twill be hard to explain the absence of all these men.”

  “Those who can must go about their business as if nothing has happened. The women and children must take on the chores of the others until they are well enough.”

  “What about those who’ve died?” Alyce looked at Annie confident in her ability to protect them from this latest calamity.

  “We’ll have to do what we can.” Annie walked along the row of bodies. “Take Jaime to the top of the cliff at Beniary Point and throw him over. Make it look as if he’s fallen. We’ll put Logan into the burn up near the shieling pastures and let him wash down.”

  “That’s two, lass. We have three more.”

  “Put one in the stables with the worst horse ye can find,” she said. “We’ll bury the other two. Their wives can say they ran off.”

  “Aye, lass.” She looked Annie’s sagging shoulders. “Don’t you worry. We’ll make it right.”

  “Why did they do it, Alyce?” Annie whispered, shaking her head. “I didn’t give them the say-so. Why did they take such a chance?”

  “’Twas Bryce and his braggin’ about bestin’ the young Campbell,” Alyce said tartly. “You’d gone to the mountains, and he knew you would not return until nightfall. He stirred up the men, and off they went with blood in their eyes.”

  “He’s a fool, he is,” Annie retorted. “Now he lies yonder in the smithy, barely able to hold up his head. What am I to do with him?” She paced the small hut. A timid knock sounded on the door. Cerra, the wife of one of the dead man, stood red-eyed and weepy on the step.

  “The Laird’s nephew has returned,” Cerra relayed. “He’s searching for Annie, and he’s all out of sorts, he is.”

  “I’ll come at once,” she answered and cast a final glance at Alyce. “Take the dead men out and do as we said. Hide the wounded who can’t sit, and tell those who can to return to their cottages in case the Laird’s nephew comes to visit.”

  “Aye, m’la—Annie.”

  Quickly, she left the hut and hurried after Cerra. The bailey was filled with tired horses who stood with drooping heads, their muscles twitching. Their riders, some of them dazed and bloodied, sat on the ground, gazing dull-eyed at the darkening sky. When she got to the castle, Annie crept into the hall and stood against the wall, taking in the crowd of men who’d gathered at the trestle tables. Rafe and Aindreas stood near the great hearth, holding goblets of ale and chatting with Sir Archibald, their voices filled with rage.

  “I tell you, uncle, they were not regular fighting men. They were poorly armed and without uniforms, but they fought like madmen, like the Picts of old.” He spun and paced from one side of the mantel to the other. “I don’t think it was Baen.”

  “Then who? Surely not the MacDougall,” Archibald demanded plaintively. “The devils who’ve tormented us could not wipe out a patrol. It couldn’t have been them.”

  Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “Something has made them bolder.” His gaze fell on Annie leaning against the wall. “Lass, where have you been all day?” He strolled toward her, took hold of her shoulders and shook her slightly. “If only you could speak. You’d be such help to me, lass.”

  Annie ducked her head, hiding her gaze so he might not see the anger there. Did he truly believe she’d betray her kinsman for him?

  “Nay, lass,” he said softening his voice. “I can’t expect you to go against your own. ‘Twas anger that made me speak thus to you.” He paced away from her, rubbing the back of his neck, then whirled and fixed her with a stern gaze.

  “Where were you today, lass? And your friend, Bryce? Where did he go?”

  Annie shook her head, edging back toward the door. He followed, his face grim. “You know who’s done this, don’t you?” he demanded.

  She shook her head vigorously, displaying a panic that had become all too real.

  “Tell them, in whatever way you communicate, that they must stop this. We have real enemies at our gates. We don’t need to be attacked from within. Tell them I’m trying to do my best for your clan.”

  His words were a near shout now, alarming her even further. He suspected they were behind the attacks. Damn Bryce and his impatience. What had he hoped to obtain with such an act? He’d put them all in danger.

  Rafe’s eyes were black, staring into hers until she wanted to look away, but knew she mustn’t. He was giving them a warning. There would be no retaliation this time, but the next they might not be as fortunate. He’d fallen silent, his gaze holding hers, his towering figure hard and unyielding. This was a side of the Campbell warrior she’d never seen before. This was the side he presented to his enemies, ruthless and pitiless. Her heart pounded in her chest. The wide hall doors lay open behind her, and she turned and raced through them and down the steps to the bailey, not bothering to affect a hobble. Only when she’d reached the grassy courtyard, did she remember to limp.

  She hurried back to the smithy and found Bryce looking much better. His face had regained some of its natural ruddy color, and he’d donned fresh clothes, which covered most of his bruises and wounds. Although he moved stiffly, he’d managed to rebuild his fire and stood tapping lightly on a piece of iron. He stopped with obvious relief when he saw her.

  “You didn’t bring the Campbell whelp with you?” he asked scathingly.

  “Nay, but that is not to say he won’t visit you yet this evening. He suspects you and the rest of the men for the attack.”

  “Bah, he has no proof. For all he knows, it could have been Baen.”

  “And that could be why there will be no retaliation against us, but he’s no fool, Bryce. He’s guessing the truth of it, and when he knows for sure, he’ll punish those who’ve killed his men.” Angry at Bryce’s careless a
ttitude, she glared at him. “Have a care, for you risk not only your life, but the rest of us as well.” Turning, she stalked away.

  “Where have you been, lass?” Father Cowan asked when she returned to their hut. “I’ve worried about you. Did you hear about Bryce?”

  “Aye.” She told him all she’d heard and the decisions she and the midwife had made to protect the identity of their clansmen.

  “’Tis a wise plan, lass,” the old priest said. “Bryce must listen to you. I’ll tell him so. We can’t lose any more men.” He put an arm around her in a rare show of emotion. “Put it behind you tonight. Rest.”

  “Will you not do the same, Father?”

  “Nay, lass, I’ve my prayers to do. We need them now more than ever. And I must tend to the dead.”

  She went to her side of the hut and pulled aside the curtain that gave her an illusion of privacy. She was tired, she thought despondently, as she unbuttoned her gown and crawled into her pallet, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever sleep again.

  * * * *

  Unease settled over Dunollie in the days that followed. If some of the men went about their chores a little sluggardly, no one seemed to notice. Jaimie Dougall’s body was found at the bottom of the steep precipice. The general consensus was that he’d stumbled off the edge in a drunken state. His wife, who’d been skulking between castle and village, red-eyed and somber, upon hearing of her husband’s demise, threw her apron over her head and wept copiously with grief.

  Later in the week, Logan Murray slipped into the burn up near the shieling huts and drowned. His body washed downstream for several miles before he was recovered, all battered and bloody. Both men were buried immediately. Then just as the village was recovering from these tragedies, Duncan Lumsden was trampled to death by a high-spirited mount. The horse was put down, and there were some in the village who thought Duncan got what he deserved. Two fresh, unmarked graves went unnoticed in the high meadow burial ground.