The Warrior's Bride

by Amanda Scott

  “Aye, we’ll make sure. He doesna ken all of mine, though,” Andrew added as they approached the now-floating wharf, where the towboat had docked. “Nor could his lads on the cliffs be sure o’ recognizing any of mine at the distance.”

  Greeting the captain of Colquhoun’s galley, he explained their plan and sent him on to deliver their message. Then he and Rob turned back toward the tower.

  Halfway up the path, they heard a shout and saw Pluff hurrying toward them.

  “What is it, lad?” Rob asked when the boy halted before them.

  “Lady Murie be a prisoner at Arrochar, laird!”

  “I ken that fine,” Andrew replied. “How did ye come by that news?”

  “Never mind that yet, sir,” Rob interjected, realizing that the boy had more to say. “What else do you know, lad? Have they hurt her?”

  Pluff turned to him gratefully but shot a wary look at Andrew before he said, “She be safe enough for the nonce, sir. But Mae did say—”

  “Mae!” Andrew exclaimed. “D’ye mean to tell us ye’ve been visiting Mae and Annabel MacNur again?”

  “Aye, sir,” Pluff said. “But only ’cause I heard that Lady Murie had… that Dougal MacPharlain had taken her. I kent fine that if he took her home wi’ him, Mae would ken where he’d put her. I thought ye’d want—”

  “Never mind what you thought,” Rob interjected. “What did Mae say?”

  “That Dougal means to marry Lady Murie, even though she tellt him she wouldna do it. Dougal’s da means tae hold a laird’s court and make her marry him.”

  “Behear the lad,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “D’ye no recall what I said I’d do to ye an ye sneaked over to Arrochar again?”

  “Aye, sir, that ye’d leather me good. But Lady Murie—”

  “Mae and Annabel MacNur?” Rob said. “Are they kin to your MacNur, sir?”

  “They be his wife and daughter, aye,” Andrew said. “When he fled Arrochar years ago, Mae was afraid to come with him. But I’m more concerned about a lad who risks his hide to satisfy his curiosity. I’m thinking the time has come to put an end to that.” Looking at Rob but plainly meaning the words for Pluff, he added, “I saved him from a hiding the first time I learned of such doings. But this time—”

  Hastily, Rob said, “It might be wiser to make use of the lad’s courage, sir. If he is willing to return, he can ask Mae to tell the lady Muriella—”

  “Nay!” Pluff exclaimed. “Mae canna tell our Lady Murie nowt, or Dougal will flog Mae. Forbye, he tellt her that if she decided it were worth a flogging tae help Lady Murie, she should ken that Dougal will flog Lady Murie, too, and make Mae watch. Ye canna ask her tae say nowt tae nae one!”

  Putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Andrew said in a gentler tone, “We willna put Mae at risk, laddie. But ye must no go back there. I mean that now.”

  “Aye, laird, I kent fine that ye meant it afore. But, see you, at Arrochar nae one pays me heed, ’cause they’ve seen me afore. Come tae that, they think I’m nobbut a bairn and that me kith and kin live Lomondside.”

  Rob looked more closely at Pluff. “How old are you, lad?”

  “I’m nigh fourteen,” the boy replied.

  To Andrew, Rob said, “I guessed he was younger, myself, sir.”

  “His age, nae matter what it be, wouldna keep Dougal or Pharlain from hanging him,” Andrew said, giving Pluff another stern look. “I’m grateful to ye for the news ye’ve brought us, lad. But I did give ye my word, did I no?”

  “I ken that fine, laird,” Pluff said, meeting his stern gaze without fear. “But ye will get our Lady Murie back, aye?”

  Rob said, “Do you know when Pharlain means to hold his court, Pluff?”

  “Mae said only ‘anon.’ He’s waiting for a kinsman he sent for Friday after Dougal took Lady Murie. As soon as he arrives, though, Mae thinks it will be then.”

  “Where will he hold his laird’s court?” Rob asked Andrew. “Has he a hall large enough? I’ve never been to Arrochar.”

  “The hall be a good size, but he’ll no hold his laird’s court there. Ye must ken as well as I do that such events must be public.”

  “I do, aye, because my father holds his courts quarterly,” Rob said. “But if the law ordains how large the area must be, I’ve heard nowt about that.”

  “It must be large enough and accessible enough for all who want to attend,” Andrew said. “Pharlain holds his on the Tarbet.” Turning to Pluff, he said, “Ye go inside now, lad, and wait for me in my privy chamber.”

  “Aye, laird,” Pluff said.

  “He shows little distress over the leathering he faces,” Rob observed as the boy strode ahead of them to the postern gate.

  “He’s a good lad, is Pluff,” Andrew said. “I admire his courage, but I do not want him going to Arrochar.”

  “How old is Annabel MacNur?” Rob asked.

  Andrew chuckled. “Two or three years older than what the lad is. But he would no be the first lad to admire an older woman.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We wait, lad, until we learn if, when, and where Pharlain will receive ye. ’Tis possible he’ll agree tae meet with ye straightaway.”

  Rob nodded. It was possible, he thought. But if Pharlain hoped to exert pressure on Lord MacAulay to force his compliance, he would more likely claim that he had to hold his laird’s court before he could turn his mind to aught else.

  Murie had eaten little of her midday meal, finding it hard even to think of food after hearing the guard’s screams of pain. Knowing that he had brought the flogging on himself—for a flogging it must have been to draw such screams—did not absolve her from her own responsibility, she knew. Had she not complained to Dougal, the guard would not have suffered so.

  Had you not told Dougal, that lout would have tormented you more or done worse, her internal mentor argued. Your father would have flogged him, too.

  Mae had come in then to take the food away, giving Murie a worried look as she did.

  “I wasn’t hungry,” Murie muttered. But that had been hours ago, and although she had not been hungry then, she was ravenous now.

  When she realized she had started to nibble a fingernail, she thought better of it and put both hands behind her back.

  As she did, a mental image formed of MacAulay standing in Mag’s kitchen doorway, scowling and curtly ordering her not to bite her nails. She wondered what his story was. Everybody had one, and their stories all became part of history. Not all were told and retold. But MacAulay was a man who might do much in the world.

  She knew almost nothing about him, and she realized with an unfamiliar pang that she wanted to know more. What had brought him to Tùr Meiloach, to her father? Perhaps if she tried to imagine his reasons, she could imagine a tale about him to pass the time. She did not need to know the truth. She could make up a good story about him simply by giving her characters fictitious names.

  Smiling as she considered MacAulay’s likely scowl in reaction to that manner of entertaining herself, she recalled the night she had first recited her tale about Dougal for her family’s—and MacAulay’s—entertainment.

  He had scowled then, too. So had Ian, come to that, the minute he heard himself named Sir Goodheart. As for Mag, he had made his disapproval of her tale-spinning known to her long before then, in no uncertain terms. She knew what they had all thought of her spinning tales about Dougal.

  With a sigh, she tried to shove such depressing thoughts out of her head. That tale had been true, which was all that mattered.

  Closing her eyes, she leaned back against her rolled-up pallet and tried to imagine MacAulay soundly beating Dougal in a heroic swordfight. Just as she was seeing Dougal’s head fly into the clouds, the way Dougal himself had in her dream, a clatter at the door startled her upright.

  The door opened, and Dougal filled the doorway again. “What’s this I hear about ye refusing to eat, lass?”

  Unwilling to talk to him from the floor, Murie scr
ambled to her feet, saying, “I couldn’t eat with the image in my head of that man being flogged to death.”

  “Sakes, he’s no dead,” Dougal said. “I thought ye’d be pleased that I’d taught him to behave more respectfully.”

  “I loathed what he did,” she admitted. “My father would have punished him, too. But I would not have been able to eat then, either. My imagination portrays such things so clearly in my mind that it makes me too sick to eat.”

  “I ken fine that ye’ve a wild imagination,” he said grimly. “But we’ll no fratch about that now. I’ll tell Mae tae bring your supper early, and I dinna want to hear again that ye’ve refused to eat.”

  She hoped he would leave now that he had said what he’d come to say. But he stood there, looking down at her from his superior height, making her wish she could stretch taller to glare back at him. She squared her shoulders.

  When he continued to gaze at her, she said, “Is that all you came to say?”

  He frowned. “Ye should address me as ‘sir.’ ”

  “Perhaps when you address me properly, I will,” she replied.

  “Aye, I’ll call ye ‘my lady’ when ye be my lady,” he retorted.

  She was silent, wishing he had not just stirred another vision of MacAulay.

  “Ye’ll need to mend your ways if ye want to go to Inverness with us to see the King,” Dougal added sternly.

  “What make you think I’d want to do that?”

  “Because ye’ll be my wife then, and Jamie is bringing his Joanna. She’ll bring some of her ladies, and his grace wants his nobles to bring theirs, too.”

  “I ken fine that he is meeting with the Highland chiefs next month,” she said. “But your father has no charters to present to prove his claim to Arrochar. So why should you or he be going to Inverness?”

  Dougal shrugged. “ ’Tis simple, lass. We mean to make it plain that we’ll no have Jamie’s new notions imposed on us. The reason Highland chiefs opposed him afore is that our Celtic laws be gey older than any daft English ones.”

  “Our sense of freedom also derives from those Celtic laws,” Murie said. “I have not heard anyone say that his grace opposes them or wants to change them. He just wants the laws to be the same for everyone throughout Scotland. Then people will know what they are wherever they go, and that everyone has to obey them.”

  “Aye, well, we’ll see,” Dougal said. “Meantime, my father expects his cousin here soon and has sent word out that he’ll hold his laird’s court on Friday.”

  Murie felt a chill all the way to her bones. It was only Monday, but much as she wanted her ordeal to be over, she did not want Friday to come.

  Rob returned to the cottage that night with Scáthach, meaning to sleep late Tuesday morning. Instead, he wakened abruptly at his usual time from a nightmare in which Dougal MacPharlain danced on the grave of the lady Muriella. As he did, he cried out to her father and Rob, “See what you’ve made me do!”

  Shaking his head to banish the lingering image, he saw Scáthach leap to her feet, from peaceful sleep to full alertness.

  “Easy, lass,” Rob murmured. “ ’Tis nobbut Andrew’s boggarts playing ‘wile-me, beguile-me’ with my dreams.”

  As he spoke, he thought of tales he had heard of the MacFarlan sisters’ so-called powers. He also recalled Andrew’s confidence that Lina’s reading of her runes meant that he would find his charters. Ian and Mag had said little on the subject, but Mag had warned him not to discount anything he heard or saw at Tùr Meiloach. And Rob had heard that the lady Aubrey possessed the gift of foresight.

  “Blethers,” he muttered to himself, only to recall Andrew’s reluctance to tell him exactly how he had managed to flee Arrochar the day Pharlain and his men had attacked and seized the place.

  Ian had insisted that the lady Andrena knew what men were thinking and could nearly always tell if someone was lying, to her or to anyone else.

  “Of course, people also say Andrena can communicate with the birds and beasts,” Rob muttered. When Scáthach’s ears twitched, he added, “We know that has to be blethers, don’t we, lass? Unless, of course, you know otherwise.”

  The dog lay down again and rested her head on her forepaws. Eyes open, she fixed her gaze on Rob and kept silent.

  “I thought so,” he said. Grinning at his own fancy, he got up, dressed, and broke his fast. Then, slinging his sword across his back, he set out for the north pass with Scáthach at his heels.

  Moving silently and using boulders for cover long before he reached the usual route to the pass, he managed easily to surprise one of Andrew’s guards.

  The man had his back to Rob and was watching the narrow path up to the pass. When Rob kicked a stone, the man—a youngster by the look of him—leaped to his feet and whirled with his dirk in his hand.

  Rob’s weapons remained sheathed.

  “I am Robert MacAulay of Ardincaple,” he said calmly.

  “Sakes, ye should ha’ spoken up long afore now,” the lad said. “I might ha’ killed ye!”

  “Nay, you would not,” Rob said. “However, I might easily have killed you. A good watchman does not stay in one place, as you were. He moves about quietly, under cover, and keeps his eyes open. What is your name?”

  The lad’s eyes widened, but he said, “Ulf, sir. Means wolf, me da’ said,” he added, looking warily at Scáthach as if she might take exception to his name.

  Rob’s lips twitched. He could not imagine anyone less wolflike than the youngster before him. Although taller and broader than Pluff, Ulf looked no more than fourteen or fifteen. He had sandy hair, pale blue eyes, and skin as smooth as a lassie’s. His chin was firm, though, and he carried himself well.

  “You need to take more care, Ulf,” Rob said. “Your comrades who died were likely caught off guard just as I caught you today. The men who caught them were enemies. How many are guarding this pass with you now?”

  “Four, sir,” the lad said, sheathing his dirk. “We ken fine what Pharlain be up tae, though. He’s got half a dozen men down below the ridge on his side, and they be showing themselves regular. He be more worried about us seeking tae invade Arrochar, Calum Beg says, than t’other way round.”

  “Were you here yesterday?” Rob asked.

  “Aye, sure, and Sunday, too.”

  “Did you see Pluff up here yesterday?”

  Ulf hesitated, but his wary expression was answer enough for Rob.

  “Was he coming or going when you saw him?”

  The lad swallowed, then caught his lower lip between his teeth.

  “I see,” Rob said. “You saw him leave and return then, aye?”

  With a grimace, Ulf said, “Ye’re as scary as the lady Dree, sir, if ye can see intae a man’s head like that. I did see Pluff, just as ye say. He slipped over yon pass yestermorn and hied hisself back just afore sundown.”

  “Does he do that often?”

  “No to say ‘often,’ ” Ulf said. “By me troth, sir, I’d no seen him go through yon pass for months now, ’til yestermorn.”

  Thanking him, Rob made his way to the other guards. Two of them behaved in ways that told him they were experienced, the fourth less so but warier than Ulf.

  Not one saw him before he spoke, but he had not expected them to.

  He took supper that evening with Andrew, as he had the evening before. No word had come from Arrochar.

  Sleeping again at the cottage, he spent Wednesday there, and roasted a rabbit in the fireplace for his supper. As he cleared up, heavy rapping thudded on the door.

  Before he could shout his visitor in, the door opened and Pluff said, “Good, ye’re here. The boat from Arrochar came, and the laird says ye’re tae make haste!”

  Feeling the same urge for haste that Pluff did, Rob quickly banked the fire. Scáthach was on her feet, dancing with the same impatience as the boy’s.

  When they reached the great hall, Andrew beckoned them to the dais.

  “Ye’ll be disappointed to learn that Pharlain
has an obligation on Friday that prevents his seeing ye afore Saturday or mayhap Monday. He’s disappointed that MacAulay didna take the trouble to come himself, but he’ll see ye.”

  “An obligation on Friday,” Rob said. “That would be the laird’s court.”

  “Aye, sure. But Saturday, even Monday, be none so far off.”

  “However, a laird’s court is a public event.”

  Andrew’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Aye, it is then, withal.”

  Friday morning, Muriella awoke before dawn in pitch darkness. She had not slept well, but she could not trouble her head about that. She needed to think.

  Accordingly, she arose and rolled up her pallet for perhaps the last time, whatever her fate might be. Donning the baggy lavender kirtle, she began to pace her usual route, because she thought best while she walked.

  She paced for a long time, trying not to think about MacAulay or her failure to escape. Dougal’s watchfulness having provided insufficient time to persuade Mae to help her, Murie had given up trying.

  Mae’s visits were brief, anyway, and always overseen by a guard or Dougal himself. When Murie requested another bath, suggesting that it would be suitable for her to take one before the laird’s court, Dougal refused.

  “Ye can take all the baths ye want, lass, as soon as we’re wed.”

  Much as she wanted to assure him that she would never marry him, she had not. She decided that it would be better to let him believe he had cowed her into obedience than to risk doing or saying something that increased his vigilance.

  There would, after all, be many others at a laird’s court. Of course, most people came to watch the punishments, but most of them would also be members of Clan Farlan. If she could find an opportunity to appeal to them—

  Noises that usually preceded Mae’s entrance diverted Murie from her reverie. When Mae entered, she carried a bundle like the one she had carried the first day. One difference was especially welcome, though. Whatever Mae carried in that bundle she had wrapped in Murie’s own warm cloak.

  “Bless you, Mae,” Murie said sincerely. “Did you bring my pink kirtle, too?”

  “Dress and feed her, Mae,” Dougal said from the doorway. “Pharlain’s court begins in an hour, and she must be ready. I’ll come for her myself.”