Elspet smiled at her daughter and niece, but there was a brittleness to it. “Nay. I shall enjoy it from the comfort of my bed this day.” She turned her face to the gentle breeze. “Perhaps tomorrow, if the weather holds.”
Jeanette shared a worried glance with Rowan. It was a measure of how far the wasting illness had progressed since Elspet first took sick in the fall that she was content to gaze out a window rather than be out in the spring air she loved so dearly.
The chief’s wife had always bustled about, but in spring she would be found planting the kitchen garden, tending the herb beds, overseeing the birthings of the cows. She would welcome each wee beastie into the world with a smile, a prayer, and odd symbols made in the air with graceful movements of her hands. No one alive knew the meaning of the symbols, and yet the MacAlpin cattle prospered even in years where other clans’ herds did not.
Today Elspet lay with her face turned toward the sunshine and her eyes half-closed. This year’s wee beasties would have to fend for themselves.
“Where is Scotia?” she asked quietly. “I have not seen my bairn in two full days.”
Rowan shook her head. Bairn indeed. At ten and eight Scotia was a woman grown, at least in body if not in mind. Scotia still seemed to think she could run amuck with no consequences. Since Elspet had become ill Scotia had gotten into more trouble in the castle than any pack of lads ever could. That she hadn’t come to visit her mother in two days had Rowan muttering words only her Uncle Kenneth, the chief of the MacAlpin clan, ever spoke.
“I’ll find her,” she said to Jeanette and Elspet. “It will not take long.” She leaned over and kissed Elspet’s forehead.
“I thank you, love,” the older woman whispered. “I do so worry about Scotia.”
“As do we all,” Rowan said. Had she ever been so wild? Though she was only three years older than her youngest cousin, the difference in their behavior made Rowan feel much older.
“You will keep her safe when I cannot, aye?” Elspet reached for Rowan, raising her hand just an inch above the blanket.
Rowan took it into her own. The strong, work-roughened hand that once guided her through her tasks was now nothing but fragile skin and bones, as if Elspet were melting away from the inside out. Rowan pressed it to her cheek, willing the heat of her own body to warm her beloved foster mother.
“I promise.” She would not cry. Her place was to be the strength that Jeanette, Scotia, and Uncle Kenneth would need when the center of their family, the heart of their entire clan, left them.
“We promise,” Jeanette said.
“She only needs a bit of guidance, my lassies.” Elspet reached for Jeanette but did not let go of Rowan. “She loses her way sometimes.”
Rowan couldn’t help but chuckle quietly at Elspet’s description of her youngest child. Only a mother could have such a soft spot for a child that was perpetually “losing her way.”
“I shall fetch her.” She gently tucked Elspet’s hand under the woolen blanket. Jeanette followed her to the door. “She is so cold, Jeanette,” Rowan whispered.
Jeanette’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “I fear she will not last to see the summer,” she said just as quietly.
Rowan swallowed hard around the thickness in her throat. “I shall find Scotia.” She gave Jeanette’s hand a quick squeeze and left to find her wayward cousin.
NICHOLAS TRIED TO ignore the thorny gorse bushes that surrounded him and his partner, Archibald of Easton, as they watched the top of Dunlairig Castle’s curtain wall, keeping count of how often a guard passed by. It was work that required patience and Archie was already starting to fidget.
Nicholas glanced at the man whom he’d known for more than ten years. They had trained in the art of espionage together and collaborated often, so much so that they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses, their tastes in women, wine, and missions. This mission was just the sort at which they excelled.
Infiltration, then take and escape. Almost a simple burglary, but with more finesse, more cunning. They’d gathered enough information before arriving at Dunlairig Castle to settle on a plan, but Archie was always impatient with the reconnaissance that had to take place before they made themselves known to their targets. Nicholas had learned the need for such information the hard way long before he’d been trained as an agent of the king, and he never skipped, nor skimped on, getting the lay of the land before engaging with the targets. But they’d been watching the wall for several hours and, truth be told, Nicholas was as fidgety as Archie.
They’d arrived in this spot before sunup after Nicholas had spent almost two months traveling in and around Oban in search of information. Eventually he had gleaned bits and pieces of gossip and stories from the lasses and the drunkards, gaining their trust in a way Archie had not been able to, adding his own information to that which the other man had gathered over the long Scottish winter, to put the puzzle of the Highland Targe’s likely whereabouts together.
A crucial break came when Nicholas happened past an alleyway where he’d espied a little boy playing warrior with a stick for a sword. The lad had shouted, “By the Targe” as he lunged at his imagined foe, stopping Nicholas in his tracks. Half an hour later, he and the boy were fast friends, striking and feinting with their sticks in mock battle. Distracted by the play, the boy had easily been led to talk about the Targe amidst his comments about Bossy Bess, the woman who lived across the way from his family, his little brother who scratched all the time, and the trouble his sister was in for kissing a lad.
Gently, Nicholas had learned that the Targe was something the lad’s mother spoke of when times were hard. She had grown up in Glen Lairig, and the Targe had made life easier, its influence bringing bounty and prosperity to the glen even when all those around them were challenged by weather, sickly livestock, and lean harvests. Later Nicholas had discovered the glen was home to a small branch of the MacAlpin clan about whom no one seemed willing to talk.
The tale he and Archie finally pieced together was one of a shield meant to protect not only the clan but also a route into the Highlands, set in place by the same ancient people who had left behind stone barrows, stone circles, and cryptically decorated standing stones throughout that part of Scotland.
Nicholas had seen too much of the harsh reality of the world to believe the Targe of the story held any such mythical abilities, but that didn’t matter—the superstitious Highlanders did. And if they believed it could protect them from the English, well, he would play his part in proving them wrong. And thus, the two of them had set off to the east to a castle called Dunlairig.
“We’ve seen enough,” Archie whispered. “We know the guard schedule. We know where the gates are and how many men are set on a watch. It’s time to get going.”
Nicholas looked at his partner and shook his head, even though he agreed. He was the leader of this mission. He was the one who had found the final piece of information that had woven all the rest together to form a tapestry of myth, tale, and superstition that pointed here, to this place, this castle. And he was enjoying holding that over his partner’s head simply because it irritated the man so much.
“You still lack patience, Archie. I’d have thought you’d learn some by now.”
“You’ve plenty for both of us.”
The words were light but there was annoyance in Archie’s eyes that had been present in the man since Nicholas first arrived in Oban.
“ ’Tis a good thing, that.”
Archie ran his stubby fingers through his unruly red curls. It did not matter how closely he kept his hair cropped, it still curled wildly. The man often looked unkempt and rough, but Nicholas knew Archie was more than he appeared. He could be ruthless when required, charming when called for, and he was focused on the mission at hand at all times, most especially when it appeared he wasn’t. He was smart and as driven to succeed as Nicholas, and that was what made them effective, if not completely trusting, partners.
“Are you sure about
your part in our plan?” Nicholas asked under his breath, stalling to goad the man.
“You doubt me?”
Nicholas shook his head, making note of a guard passing along the wall walk above them. “Just taking advantage of the time to make sure we both understand what to do.”
“We met a sennight back, a sevenday, and have struck up a traveling friendship. I am a laborer in search of work, which should give me some access about the castle. I am known as Archie of Keltie, a MacGregor if anyone pushes for my clan. It should not be questioned since I’m as ginger as any of that rough lot.”
“And as troublesome.”
“Aye, I can be.” He slanted an odd look at Nicholas that felt like a challenge. “And you are…” Archie crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow as if he did not expect Nicholas to remember his part in this plot.
“Nicholas of Achnamara, traveling home for the first time since I was a wean.”
Sticking close to the truth was a trick he had learned during his tenure in the kitchen of his father’s manor. He’d told too many different tales about who he was and where he’d come from, and when he could not keep the lies straight any longer he was nearly revealed to his sire, which could have caused a confrontation he knew would end in pain, if not worse. He’d had no choice but to leave Stanwix and start anew in London. He had never told Archie how much truth any of his guises held, and he never would.
“We met upon the road west of Loch Katrine,” Nicholas said, “and have been traveling together for a sennight or more.” He stressed the “or more” as it would be odd for a pair such as them to be so specific, something he had said to Archie before.
Archie scowled. “Or more,” he said, then went perfectly still as the sound of someone hurrying toward them, scattering pebbles and stones down the steeply inclined path, had both men crouching perfectly still.
A young woman rushed past their hiding spot so quickly, all Nicholas could make out was hair so black it glowed even in the weak sunshine. When she was clear of their hidey-hole they stood, still hidden by the thorny gorse, and Nicholas leaned out enough to see the girl throw herself into the arms of a tall, skinny, fair-haired lad and kiss him as if they had been long parted.
“A tryst,” he said, crouching back beside Archie. “If they do not move somewhere for more private play we may be here a while.”
Archie peeked out at the couple, then sank back on his haunches next to Nicholas. “A lusty wench, that one. Perhaps I’ll take her for a tumble once we are in the castle.”
Irritation gripped Nicholas. “ ’Tis one thing to bed the whores in Oban, Archie, but not these Highland lasses. The clans do not take well to outsiders as it is, less so outsiders who dally with their daughters or wives.”
“Then what of that young whelp?” Archie growled, peering out at the couple again. “He looks to be getting what he wants from the wanton.”
“Aye, but even they meet in secret, well hidden from others. No doubt her father would object should he find out.”
“Fine.” Archie sighed and took up his place next to Nicholas again. “They are not going anywhere soon, from the looks of it. I suppose we’ll have time to watch the castle a mite longer after all.”
“SAINTS AND ANGELS!” Rowan muttered as she rapidly made her way down the tower stair, stopping on the landing to peer out the narrow window facing into the bailey. The hallhouse, serving as the great hall, had been the home of the chieftains of clan MacAlpin for too many generations to count. It stood across the bailey from the tower. Both had been fully enclosed by a curtain wall forming a modest bailey between the two main buildings. Several wooden service buildings had been built along the north and south walls, crowding the open area into an even smaller space.
And Scotia was nowhere to be seen.
Rowan made her way through the bailey, asking everyone she passed if they had seen her wayward cousin, but no one had. When she arrived at the gate, she asked the guard the same thing and finally got an answer.
“She passed through the gate a while back,” said Denis, the gate guard, giving her a nearly toothless smile. She often wondered how the man chewed his food, but the generous girth of his stomach told her he had figured it out. “Not too long ago,” he continued. “She went around the loch side of the castle. Is she in trouble again?”
Rowan smiled at his concern for Scotia. In spite of her hellion ways, everyone seemed to have a soft spot for her, including Rowan. “Not yet,” she said. “But if she does not rabbit up to visit her mum, she will be.”
The smile faded on Denis’s weathered face. “How fares Lady Elspet this day?”
“She is neither better, nor worse. Even Jeanette does not know if that’s good or bad.” A headache started to pulse between her brows. It would be so much better if she could break down and cry as Jeanette sometimes did, or act out as Scotia did, to release the worry, but it was not in Rowan’s nature to do either of those things. She held things in, close, until they beat a rhythm in her head that made her want to retch.
But she never did.
“We are all praying for her return to health,” Denis said.
Rowan touched his forearm. “I know.”
He nodded, then smiled again. “You’d best get after Scotia. She’s got a bit of a head start on you, and you ken well how hard it is to find that one when she does not wish it.”
“Aye, all too well.” She waved as she left the shadowy gate passage and turned right toward the nearest corner of the castle. When she reached the top of the path that led at an angle from where she stood, crossing in front of the looming curtain wall, and continuing all the way down the slope to the loch shore, she stopped. The path was steep and rocky with dense gorse bushes, now robed in glorious golden flowers, reclaiming all but the slimmest of trails in places, making for a treacherous track to the lochside. With other easier routes to the loch, this one was seldom used. Rowan couldn’t imagine why Scotia would go this way.
Rowan looked around, hoping to espy her cousin somewhere other than along this path. She judged the rock-strewn trail with a careful eye.
“Scotia?” she shouted. “Are you down there?”
She waited, listening, knowing it was unlikely the girl would respond even if she was on the path and had heard her, but it was worth a try. With a sigh, she started down at a hurried pace. She did not have to go far before she spied Scotia partly hidden by the gorse. The lass’s raven hair, so different from Jeanette’s pale blond tresses or Rowan’s own coppery brown, glinted in the sun and shifted in the wind, drawing the eye to where she stood kissing a tall gangly lad with honey-colored hair that fell almost to his broad shoulders.
Conall.
Rowan allowed herself a few more of her uncle’s favorite words.
Was the bairnie totally daft? It was bad enough that Scotia was trysting with a lad but this one had been specifically banished from Dunlairig Castle to his mum’s cottage down the glen. Kenneth had found the two doing a bit more than kissing in the loft of the stable a few months back and swore he’d make her marry the lad, but Scotia would have none of it, vowing she was yet a maid and would not be forced to marry anyone. Kenneth gave in, as he often did with his youngest, but declared Conall’s life would be forfeit if he caught them together again without wedding vows taken first.
Apparently the lad either didn’t value his life overmuch, or he had bollocks like a bull.
Of course, it was just as likely that Scotia was the instigator of this misdeed. For a girl who swore she was not ready to marry, Rowan feared, one way or another, her cousin would find herself in exactly that state before summer’s end and they’d all have to listen to her temper when that happened.
Rowan closed her eyes for a moment and rubbed the place between her brows where the pulsing was pounding. She did not have the luxury of taking to her bed as some did with such a headache, so she took a deep breath and braced herself for the coming confrontation. She closed the distance quickly, yanking her
cousin out of Conall’s embrace without warning.
Scotia shrieked as she swung around, landing a sharp slap on Rowan’s face and knocking Rowan back a few steps. Shocked, Rowan ignored the stinging on her cheek and the rapid staccato beat in her head and advanced on her disobedient cousin, fury and pain quickly burning away the more rational irritation of a moment ago.
Conall pulled Scotia backward out of Rowan’s reach, pinning the girl to him, her back to his chest, her arms caught in his embrace. A sound like an angry cat escaped Scotia’s throat.
“Scotia, wheesht,” he said close to her ear. “You’ll only make this worse.”
She struggled for a moment, then the fight seemed to drain out of her. Rowan knew better than to believe Scotia had given up, but she hoped it was the case. The girl had to grow up sooner or later. Rowan feared it would be later, though.
“Let her go, Conall.” Rowan tried to ignore her throbbing cheek. She knew her words were clipped and harsh, but it was the only way to keep her crackling temper in check. Nothing drove Scotia to a shouting match like someone else’s temper, and that would surely draw the attention of someone in the castle. “She’ll not do that again.” She held Scotia’s angry gaze, making sure the troublemaker understood this was not a choice.
The lad wisely hesitated, then slowly loosened his grip. Scotia glared at Rowan but did not try to attack her again.
Rowan glared right back at her. “Are you not ashamed of yourself, cousin? It’s been a full pair of days since you visited your mum and when I am sent to find you, here you are putting young Conall’s life in danger because you cannot control yourself enough to do what is right.”
“ ’Tis my fault, Rowan,” Conall said. “I missed her.”
“You are a true dafty, Conall, if you do not think Kenneth’s threat is real. Do you know what kind of grief you will bring upon your widowed mother if you force Kenneth to act?” Rowan knew full well that Kenneth wouldn’t take the lad’s life—they needed every able-bodied man they had after the last few years of skirmishes and raids against their neighbors had taken so many warriors, but she doubted not that he’d take the hide off Conall’s back if it came to it. She looked from Scotia to Conall where they stood shoulder to shoulder, their hands linked. “ ’Tis lucky for you both that I was the one to find you, else you”—she looked at Conall—“would be dead already, and you”—she looked at Scotia—“would be locked in your chamber until Uncle Kenneth chose a suitably stern and elderly husband for you.”
Highlander Betrayed (Guardians of the Targe) Page 2