by Cathy MacRae
“Be safe,” she whispered, fighting tears of fatigue and dismay.
“Thank ye.” In a fluid move, he left Mhàiri’s side and sprang to his horse’s back. Within moments he disappeared into the shadows.
CHAPTER TWO
Claver Hill Keep, Scottish Borders
December 18, 1307, four years later
Mhàiri sat at the table next to her grandfather, weariness of the familiar topic dragging at every limb, numbing her to his displeasure.
“I warned Fenella to come home when yer da died,” he grumbled, rejoining the old grievance. “She could have lived out her life among kin. Instead, she chose to linger at Siller Stane. She knew nothing of defending a keep! She couldnae hold it against attack.” George Scott slumped in his chair, favoring his granddaughter with an accusatory frown. As if she were somehow responsible for her mother’s choices.
Mhàiri eyed him askance, wondering what provoked him—this time. Perhaps it was the time of year—the anniversary of the attack on her home only days away—or the festive Yule decorations she’d lavished about the hall. Yule had been her mother’s favorite time of year, and they’d always begun draping the hall on the first of December. Evergreen boughs, mistletoe, and candles in every nook. Cook had joined Fenella’s joy of the season and outdone herself each year with food and drink and tasty treats.
The first two years after her ma had died, Mhàiri hadn’t the heart to decorate, and her grandfather’s people hadn’t seemed to notice the lack. Last year, she’d gathered boughs and draped them over the mantle in the main hall, twining ivy around the pillars. A few of the women had joined her, and this year she’d made a determined effort to create a proper Yule season.
Fenella had lived almost a month after their arrival at Claver Hill, though she’d scarcely been lucid, drifting in and out of consciousness as her body slowly gave up its fight. Mhàiri’s heart twisted against the relief she’d felt when her ma had finally passed into peace. She still desperately missed her but would not wish her a continued existence such as she’d had.
Howbeit, growing up alone in her grandfather’s household had not been easy. His erratic forays into deep dudgeon were his expression of grief over the loss of his daughter, made all the more disheartening when Mhàiri realized he often blamed her for her ma’s death. Only the occasional appearances of her uncle made her grandfather’s home bearable. When he wasn’t engaged in a shouting match with Lord Scott, that is.
“’Tis the thrice-damned English! A blight on the Percys!” Lord Scott bolted from his seat, fist lifted high. His soldiers came to attention with a clash of steel. “I want that tower razed to the ground!”
Ah, Percy! The Baron of Northumberland. It made sense. The English baron, notorious—and feared—for his heavy-handed tactics, and known to have no love for Scotland or its people, had captured Lord Scott’s son in a raid gone awry. The ransom demanded for his release was more than her grandfather could pay. Who better to blame for the destruction of Siller Stane Keep? Mhàiri sighed.
Lord Scott’s eyes bored into hers, bushy brows thrust together. With a conscious effort, Mhàiri met his gaze. “The English burned the tower house to the ground four years ago, Grandfather,” she reminded him. “’Tis no longer a blight on Scottish soil, as ye so delicately put it.”
She tossed his well-worn epithet back at him, annoyed he still harbored grudges against her father for taking his beloved daughter away. It had been no secret Fenella adored her husband. Alan Burns had not been a wealthy chief, but men from far and wide had sent their sons to him for fostering, recognizing his level of skill with a blade. There likely had been none his rival whilst he strode the moors. A fever from an inflamed wound, brought on by a night spent in a murky hole hiding with a handful of cattle snatched from a neighboring clan, had been his downfall.
Mhàiri’s memory slipped fondly to Michaell, who’d been sent to learn what he could from Muckle Alan Burns—the name given her father for his unusually large build.
Michaell had been intensely kind to her as a child, and they’d learned to swim in Hownam Burn together. Michaell had taught her how to handle a dagger, and she’d wheedled Cook into making batches of boiled sweets for the lad.
That time was past. Mhàiri silently closed her memories against the pang of longing and tried not to wonder where he was now. Her heart ached to know she’d likely never see him again. So many plans had gone astray.
Lord Scott grunted and settled back, his eyes bright with unquenched fury. Mhàiri leaned closer. Or was it fever?
A sheen of beaded perspiration shone at his bare temples and sparkled in the mustache that sat in ferocious splendor atop his upper lip. Age may have left his pate bereft of cover, but his flamboyant mustache and bristling beard had not surrendered a single hair.
“Grandfather, are ye well?” She pitched her voice low, not wishing to startle him or bring attention to her question.
His scowl threatened to curdle milk. “Ye are betrothed to the Henderson Chief.”
Mhàiri’s head whirled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ye will wed Richard Henderson after Yule.”
“Why was I not informed? Asked?” Her temper, which she was careful to keep in check around her grandfather—and, indeed rarely showed itself out of his presence—spiked. She’d knowledge of the man her grandfather planned to bind her to. His sleek arrogance and frank disdain tweaked her ire and prompted her veiled contempt the few times he’d been present at Claver Hill. This was clear evidence her grandfather was ragingly ill.
“Ye must be mistaken. He’s an old man—years older than me. Besides, Lord Henderson wouldnae marry me. I have nae dowry. It burned, if ye recall.”
“He wants the land, not the keep,” her grandfather replied bluntly. “He could petition for the land since it has been abandoned these past four years, but as they are yer dower lands and he is currently without a wife, I have convinced him marrying ye would be the easier task.”
There were too many insults in his words for Mhàiri to process at once. She stared at him, at a loss. Lord Henderson’s daughters—all six of them—were older than Mhàiri. Clearly, she was the only one who saw this as a potential problem. With what might have been a twinge of remorse, Lord Scott shrugged, shifting his gaze away.
“We need the bride price he has offered. Yer uncle must be ransomed by the end of Yule or face the consequences.”
Mhàiri did not have to ask what the consequences were for outliving one’s usefulness as a hostage. Hanging was likely the simplest solution. Wealthy enough in cattle and sheep, Lord Scott had little coin to spare. Even had the money been available, she wasnae certain her grandfather would have fetched his son home without a great fuss. Though she adored her uncle—what time they’d spent together had been glorious bits of freedom in her otherwise secluded life—he and his father were rarely of one accord.
“There has to be another way.” She desperately wanted her uncle home and unharmed, but marriage to Lord Henderson would seal her fate.
“Ye will do as ye are told!” Her grandfather half rose from his seat, veins swelling at the side of his head, face turning red to purple. With a gasp, he clutched his chest. His legs collapsed beneath him and he fell to the floor, dragging the table cloth, mugs, platters, and Mhàiri’s hopes with him.
* * *
Mhàiri sat beside her grandfather’s bed, a ring of embroidery abandoned on her lap. The healer had come and gone, and a single retainer hovered just outside the bedroom door. Her grandfather lay silent, blanket tucked beneath his chin.
Such a difference an hour makes. Hale and shouting his displeasure, ready to rally his men to war with the English at dinner—and sacrifice me to Richard Henderson for the bride price—to pale and incoherent in his bed, curtains drawn, and sympathetic looks from the healer at dusk.
Mhàiri chewed her lower lip. What would become of her?
War. ’Twas all because of war.
Her beloved home, Silver Stone Keep
, had been forfeit to a night raid. Its lofty tower now a burned shell, the voices of the people she’d known and loved silenced forever. She longed to return and reclaim her dower lands. But repairing the keep—assuming it was not a total loss—required men and money, and she had neither. It saddened her to think her father’s legacy was in the hands of the English, or possibly home to naught more than rats and the occasional squatter. And, as her grandfather had pointed out more than once, her claim on the land was tenuous at best, and not a great enticement for a suitor. Except for Lord Henderson who had enough money that the land was his only desire. Not a great enticement for a bride.
Sorrow tempted her to tears, but she refused. What was done could not be undone, and she had grieved enough.
“Brooch,” her grandfather muttered, the right side of his mouth drawn downward, his words unclear.
Broach? What an odd thing for him to say. Surely he does not fear losing Claver Hill to attack?
“No one has broached the keep’s walls, Grandfather,” she said, rising to smooth a hand over his brow. “Ye are safe. Dinnae fash.”
“’Nella?” His voice rose to a tremulous note.
“’Tis Mhàiri,” she replied.
“The . . . brooch. Where . . . is . . . ?” He faded to silence, his breaths deepening before they leveled out into a shallow cadence that barely lifted the blanket.
“How is he?”
Mhàiri startled at the healer’s voice. The woman entered the room and crossed the floor to her patient. “I thought I heard him as I passed.”
“He is delirious,” Mhàiri sighed. “He’s afraid someone is going to broach the walls.”
“That willnae happen,” the older woman said, taking a moment to touch the man’s skin, peer at his eyes. “His fever grows. I will prepare a tea and attempt to get him to drink it.” She offered a wry smile. “He is a difficult man at the best of times. I will need your help.”
“Of course.” Mhàiri felt no outrage at the healer’s honest assessment. Difficult was a generous term for her grandfather.
She resumed her seat and retrieved her embroidery to await the healer’s return. She attempted a few stabs at the fabric, but could not bring her attention to the fine needlework. Her grandfather muttered incoherently, plucking at the blanket with his left hand. She set her sewing aside and settled the sheet more securely about him. His hand shot forward, grabbing hers in a vice-like grip.
“Find . . . brooch,” he rasped, fever-glazed eyes boring into hers.
Startled, she pried his fingers from her wrist, returning his hand beneath the sheet as he collapsed against the mattress, muttering under his breath.
“He has been restless?” the healer asked, eyeing the rumbled bed clothes.
“Aye.” Mhàiri helped hold his head up as the healer brought the draft to his mouth. His lower lip quivered, and the tea ran to the corner of his mouth and down his chin. With a grunt of effort, the healer pulled his lower jaw forward and formed a pocket with his cheek. This time much of the tea went inside, though she poured slowly to avoid choking him.
Mhàiri’s arms shook with strain by the time they were finished, and she laid his head on the pillow.
“He keeps speaking of a brooch,” she said hesitantly. The healer sent her a curious look. “Grandfather insisted I find it. Do ye know of what he speaks?”
“Ye are certain?”
Mhàiri shrugged. “He seems to think I am Fenella. Mayhap ’tis the fever talking.”
The healer slowly shook her head, gray hair swaying gently. “A few months before ye came to live here, I was sent to yer ma’s bedside to see if I could offer any help. She had fallen ill with a lung ailment and yer grandfather feared she was near death.”
“I remember,” Mhàiri said. “What happened?”
The woman claimed a chair next to Mhàiri. “I had returned to her room to check on her and found her asleep. In one hand, she held a beautiful brooch, made of polished gold and sparkling with rubies and sapphires.”
“I’ve never seen such a brooch,” Mhàiri replied, startled.
The old woman nodded thoughtfully. “It was verra compelling and I touched it. She immediately woke. After a moment, she told me she’d found it in yer da’s belongings after he died. It gave her great comfort to hold it, and, indeed, she appeared better than she had only hours before.” The healer glanced down, opened and closed the knotted fingers in her lap.
“Here’s the odd part.”
Odd? As if a brooch Mhàiri had never heard of before wasn’t odd enough? She and her ma had never kept secrets from each other. Or, so she’d thought.
“As if she trusted me with a great secret, yer ma beckoned me close and told me the brooch contained a sliver of the True Cross.”
“The brooch is a reliquary?”
The healer nodded.
“Then why was she not healed?”
“Who can unravel such a mystery?” The woman spread her hands wide, the workings of the Lord beyond her grasp.
“How does my grandfather know of it—if, indeed, that is what he spoke of?”
She sent Mhàiri a wry smile. “I mentioned it to him when I returned home. He was convinced it would heal yer ma. He suffered a great lapse of faith when it dinnae. Mayhap he now wishes to access its powers for himself, though yer ma said it merely comforted her, made her decisions easier to bear.”
“How large was the brooch? If it isnae a true relic, mayhap it could provide the means to pay my uncle’s ransom.”
“I am nae judge of such, but it was a substantial piece, and the stones full of fire—each topped with a silver mark that echoed the shape of the cross.” The healer touched Mhàiri’s hand in a sympathetic gesture. “It could be the answer to yer prayers.”
CHAPTER THREE
Could it be? Could it be true her ma possessed such a brooch? Would it solve her problems?
Mhàiri paced her bedroom, remembering her mother’s incoherent ramblings in the days before she died. What if she hadn’t been worried about the broach of the castle walls and the loss of everything she held dear, but of a brooch she’d left behind? Mhàiri halted, imagining the treasure the healer had described. Beaten gold set with rubies and sapphires worth a king’s ransom—and holding a splinter of the True Cross inside.
What a treasure indeed!
Was there something to the healer’s story after all? Or was she misinterpreting her grandfather’s words? Bending her mother’s mutterings to fit? Grasping for any hope for a way to raise her uncle’s ransom that didn’t involve marriage to Lord Henderson?
Mhàiri glanced about the room, her gaze alighting on the bed. A memory flared of her mother hastily closing a small drawer built into the carved headboard of her bed. According to her ma, the bed had been carved to her da’s specifications and assembled in the room, as it was too massive to be carried through the doorway. Mhàiri had tried to locate the secret chamber once on a rare occasion her ma was out of the room, but without success, and she’d eventually given up the hunt and soon forgotten the incident. Unless the heavy wood bedframe had burned during the attack, it was likely still there.
Could their old headboard be the hiding place?
The brooch held a true relic, and such things should not find their way into the hands of those outside the family—and certainly not the cursed English. But how could she recover it? If it indeed existed?
The brooch itself was mere trappings. Beautiful, even costly trappings. The greater treasure lay within. Another reliquary could be constructed to hold the sliver of the Cross. Would the brooch’s value satisfy the ransom demands?
Grabbing a woolen surcoat and dragging it over her head, Mhàiri left the relative warmth of her bedroom for the draftiness of the hall. The fresh scent of pine assailed her, bringing back the memories of Yules past. She could almost hear her mother’s laughter, the rumble of her father’s deep voice. Tantalizing scents floated from the kitchen as Cook prepared for the Yule feasting. All jobs would be sus
pended the week between Yule and Hogmanay, so everyone worked doubly hard in anticipation to ensure nothing was overlooked.
Lads turning spits as two beef carcasses roasted tended their tasks in high spirits. Flour liberally dusted the table, aprons, arms, and floor where maids kneaded dough for enough bread to last the feasting. Mhàiri’s heart soared as she considered the possibility of bringing her uncle home before the new year. What a contribution to the season’s festivities that would be!
She ducked through the kitchen door and meandered through the sleeping garden. Snow dusted the tufts of ground where vegetables once grew. Rosemary and tarragon pushed their fragrant leaves through the sparkle of snow. Mounds of lavender, flowers now only a summer memory, bordered Mhàiri’s favorite bench. Knowing she would be undisturbed here, she swept the thin layer of snow from the board and sat.
Was she committing herself to a journey to Siller Stane? What would she find there? Could she face the certain ruin of her childhood home? What were the chances of coming across English soldiers or perhaps unsavory rogues such as had attempted to capture her as she’d fled to her grandfather’s? She peered at the sky, sun faint behind heavy snow-filled clouds. Slim chance, she suspected.
Mhàiri curled her feet beneath her and tucked her hands under her arms to keep them warm. The crisp air stung her cheeks, but she found it bracing, invigorating. Gray clouds, heavy with the promise of more snow, hung low in the sky, partially obscuring the noonday sun.
It had been four years since she’d seen Siller Stane Keep, but its shape was too much a part of her memories to be forgotten. A simple tower house boasting five storeys, her da had built a wall to enclose the stable, barracks, kitchen, and smithy. Windows were small, some only wide enough for an archer’s use. In her ma’s room there had been three such windows, covered by shutters and tapestries except during the mildest of weather.
Fragrant rushes had blanketed the floors in the hall, and warmth had emanated from the enormous hearth during the winter season. Mhàiri had been happy there, and a tiny thrill warred with the practical realization of the devastation wrought by the fire as she imagined seeing it again.