The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

  Outside the walls of the castle, a thin, curling mist hung over Glen Affric. It was chilly and damp, and the falcons ruffled their feathers and hunched their wings, whether because of the mist or because they looked forward to the hunt, Bab did not know. She was neither cold nor uncomfortable, but she wondered if Sir Alex had purposely ordered falcons instead of hawks on such a day just to aggravate her.

  Hawks hunted from the fist and stayed low to the ground, their prey mostly woodland birds and small animals like rabbits and squirrels. A good hawk could take its prey in high grass or in woodland, but a falcon stooped from great heights, relying on its amazing eyesight to spy out prey far below. Not that mist meant the falcons would starve, of course, because they would soar above it and could easily hunt above it too, taking smaller birds on the wing. The problem, as she understood it, lay in recalling a falcon afterward. One generally did so by swinging a lure and whistling, but if the bird could not see through the mist, it could not see the lure.

  She kept these thoughts to herself, certain that Sir Alex would not risk losing the gyr and believing he hoped she would complain so he could suggest returning to the castle. In any case, her silence was rewarded when they emerged from the mist halfway up the ridge. The sun shone brightly above it, and puffy white cumulus clouds drifted gently overhead. Soon they came to a wide, flat moor in a saddle at the top of the ridge, which provided an excellent view of nearby glens.

  When Bab noted several men carrying armloads of wood to piles of logs in the center of the moor, she shot a look of inquiry at Sir Alex.

  “For the Beltane need-fires tonight,” he said. “Folks from miles around will trudge up here to rekindle their home-fires at the festival.”

  “Won’t those woodsmen disturb the falcons?”

  “No more than we will,” he said. “The moor is wide enough for all of us, and these birds are well accustomed to humans prowling about whilst they hunt.”

  Looking back toward the castle, she could just make out its gray-and-red-stone towers jutting through still-clinging mist. They looked mysterious, even fairy-talelike, with their damp turrets glistening in the sunlight.

  The falcon on her fist tensed in anticipation of the hunt, and even through the glove, she could feel its body humming.

  “They be sharp set, the pair o’ them,” Alasdair said.

  “Aye,” Sir Alex agreed. “Everyone seems shockingly full of energy today. I expect you lads had best whistle those dogs back until the first bird throws up.”

  The peregrine began bobbing her head and making a low chortling sound.

  “She be ready,” Alasdair said, keeping an eye on the dogs as they raced back in response to their whistle.

  “Do I wait for the lure, or will she fly from my fist?” Bab asked.

  “She kens her business, mistress. When ye unhood her, hold tight to the jesses till I tell ye. Then, loose them and raise your fist.”

  Bab nodded. She knew what to do. Gently, she loosened the hood’s braces with her right hand and slipped it off by its plume. The peregrine observed her with its alert, dark brown eyes, but Bab avoided meeting that look directly lest the bird, unaccustomed to her, think she challenged it.

  “Now?” she said quietly.

  “Aye, mistress, when ye’re ready.”

  Bab raised her left hand and released the jesses.

  Needing no further invitation, the peregrine lifted its powerful wings and shot skyward, the tiny bells on its legs tinkling as it circled higher and higher with astonishing speed, the sounds soon fading in the distance.

  Alasdair waved to the gillies, who released the dogs. Making up in enthusiasm what they lacked in finesse, the spaniels darted forward, barking madly, and soon flushed a covey of grouse.

  Will whistled the dogs to heel again, his whistling making an odd musical harmony with the mad clacking of the grouse as they flapped upward out of the shrubbery that had concealed them. But Bab had shaded her eyes against the sun and was watching the falcon, so high above them now that she was afraid to look away lest she lose sight of it and never see it again.

  “Would ye no like tae fly wi’ yon falcon, Claud?”

  “Lucy!”

  So fixed had his attention been on the beautifully soaring bird that once again Claud nearly jumped out of his skin. He grabbed the mare’s mane to steady himself, having nestled comfortably in its tresses to watch the hunt.

  Lucy Fittletrot perched on Sir Alex’s near shoulder, looking as light as thistledown in a pale lavender gown of a soft material that caressed her body and legs as she moved. She gazed limpidly at Claud. “Aye, ’tis m’self,” she said in her musical voice with her tinkling chuckle. “Didst miss me, Claud?”

  Her hair was like fine corn silk, long and flowing softly in the breeze. Her eyes were like dark forest pools, drawing him into their depths, and her attraction was as strong as it had ever been.

  He blinked, struggling to free himself from the spell she always cast over him. “Ye shouldna be here,” he muttered. “I’ve nowt tae say tae ye.”

  “Oh, Claud, ye were no so cruel tae me the last time. What ha’ I done?”

  “Ye ken fine what ye done. Ye lied, Lucy! Ye told me ye were daughter tae Tom Tit Tot, the fiddler, when instead that fiend Jonah Bonewits be your sire.”

  “Nay, Claud, Jonah Bonewits be your father, not mine. He told your mam so himself, so dinna be a daffy.”

  “I wouldna trust that villain’s word, now, or yours, for anything,” he said. “Ye could be me own sister, Lucy. Ye canna get from it.”

  She grimaced, but unlike Catriona, she did not disappear. Instead, her expression grew stubborn, and although Claud was sure he was right about their odd relationship, he knew, too, that it would not keep Lucy from trying to persuade him otherwise if it was in her interest to do so.

  The peregrine stooped, diving straight for the earth. As she came into sight, in the seconds before she struck, Bab saw that her wings had closed. Then she heard a thunk and saw a puff of golden feathers fly from the grouse. The falcon opened its wings and swooped away, leaving the grouse to fall to the ground.

  “She’s playful, that one,” Alasdair said as one of the gillies ran to retrieve the grouse and bag it.

  As he did, Bab saw the falcon turn, close her wings again, and with a second thunk and puff of feathers came the demise of a second grouse.

  “She’s quick, too,” Bab said, laughing with pure joy at this fine display of nature in action. “Take care, she’s going to feed this time!”

  “The lads will keep her off,” Alasdair said. “When they’ve got that second grouse safely bagged, I’ll whistle her in.”

  “Faith, does she return to the fist, then? That is most unusual, I believe.”

  “But most convenient for the falconer, don’t you agree?” Alex said lazily.

  Bab grinned. “What I think, sir, is that your father enjoys an excellent chief falconer. Patrick has told me how difficult it is to train a falcon to return to the fist.”

  “I suppose you’d like it to return to yours,” he said teasingly.

  Delight leaped within her, and she looked questioningly at the falconer. “Would she do that?”

  “Aye, sure, mistress,” Alasdair said. “She’ll return to the glove that’s offered to her. Just hold it out as ye would for a hawk, and mind ye dinna start or jerk it away when she comes for it.”

  “I know,” Bab said, barely able to contain her delight. Patrick had restricted her to retrieving his falcons from the grass, which was the normal way to recover one after its kill.

  “I’ve a quail’s wing ye may give her when ye’ve got her safe again,” Alasdair said. “She’ll be expecting it.” Then he whistled a tune different from the ones used to direct the dogs. The falcon, on the ground now between the two gillies and eyeing their actions narrowly in the clear hope of seizing its share of the grouse, raised its head at the sound of the whistle and spread its wings.

  Sir Alex said quietly, “Turn your face
away, mistress.”

  She heard him, but she waited, watching, with her fist held up and out until the last minute, until the falcon threw its wings back and up, spread its tail to brake its speed, and thrust its talons forward. Then, holding her fist as steadily as she could, she looked away and held her breath. The powerful talons clamped onto her hand and wrist, and one powerful wing brushed the side of her face.

  Turning back to look at the magnificent bird, she remembered the hood clutched in her right hand. “Should I hood her now?”

  “Nay,” the falconer said. “She’ll rest quiet, but hold her jesses till we’re ready to fly her again. We canna fly her wi’ the gyr.”

  Nodding, she reached for the quail wing that he held out.

  The bird’s beak was already open, its talons twitching. It took the wing as its due and, holding it against her glove with one talon, began tearing into it.

  Bab realized that she was grinning widely, and she turned to Sir Alex, her delight spilling over as she exclaimed, “She is magnificent!”

  Her cheeks were flushed with color, her dark blue eyes bright with pleasure, and as he smiled in response, Alex thought, she certainly is. And he was not thinking about the falcon.

  When Alasdair looked to him for permission to let her fly the gyr after the lass had said she wanted to, he had wondered if he were being a fool even to consider it. He would be annoyed with himself if she came to any harm—and, again, he realized, he was not thinking about the falcon.

  Perhaps she would be tired now, though. She had risen well before the hour she had been accustomed to rise at court, so maybe she would agree to wait until next time. Even as the hope crossed his mind, he knew it was a forlorn one. He had only to consider her present delight to know what she hoped to do.

  He sighed, but it was no more than he had expected. He had been sure it would amuse him to have Mistress Barbara MacRae as a guest at Dundreggan, and so far she had not disappointed him. She was enchanting.

  Regarding her from beneath hooded eyelids, he said nonetheless in his customary, teasing drawl, “Are you ready to return to Dundreggan now, mistress? I confess that this morning’s exercise has made me yearn for a nap.”

  She gave an unladylike snort. “You speak an infinite amount of nonsense, sir, for it cannot have done anything of the kind. That gelding’s pace would suit a newborn babe, and you have not lifted a finger except to hold your reins, because the horse seemed to know his own way to this moor. Unless you want me to think you the greatest beast in nature, we are not going anywhere until I have flown that gyr. I’ll be happy to do so at once, however. Unless, of course, you want to fly it first to wear it out a bit before I take it in hand,” she added provocatively.

  Hiding his amusement, he shot a speculative look at the quiet gyr and made his decision. “You must do as you like, mistress. I warrant that if I should try to take her from Alasdair, she would douse me with a stream of her mutes just as she did the last time I took her on my fist. Not only would the odor offend us all the way back to Dundreggan, but this rig is much too fine to spoil.”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head, but her annoyance with him was clearly small compared to her yearning to fly the gyr. She turned to Alasdair. “Should I know anything in particular about flying her?”

  “Nay, mistress, ’tis plain that Sir Patrick has trained ye well.”

  “I dislike casting a pall over this cheerful gathering,” Alex said, “but the gyr will not return to your first, mistress, nor, for that matter, should you be the one to make to her after she kills. You will allow Alasdair or his men to retrieve her.”

  “Mayhap we should ride to the end o’ the moor,” Alasdair said. “Happen I recollect a pond where we might see some heron. The gyr be particular to heron.”

  “She’ll take what she finds,” Alex said. “I prefer to stay where we have a clear view in all directions, since we cannot know what mischief-makers might be about today, and we have brought no men-at-arms with us.”

  “Nor have we seen anyone but a few log carriers,” the lass said tartly.

  “Aye,” he said, “but there are some who may use Beltane as an excuse, you see, and I’d as lief not meet with trouble here. Hand the gyr to Mistress MacRae, Alasdair, so we may have done with this soon enough to return in time for dinner.”

  Clearly not caring where they did it as long as she could fly the gyr, the lass said to Alasdair, “Does she know her business as well as the peregrine?”

  “Aye, mistress. She’ll fly from your fist just as a hawk would. Indeed, she differs from the peregrine only in that although she may soar up and wait on, as the peregrine did, like as not, she’ll swoop low—more as a hawk does—and seek squirrels, voles, and herons or their like near the ground.”

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed, Alex thought, and he thought, too, that he understood. One expected mightier deeds from so splendid a creature. But then, reality so often failed to measure up to one’s expectation.

  He wondered if the reality of Mistress Barbara MacRae would disappoint him in the end. Watching her and seeing her enthusiastic smile as she handed the peregrine to Will and took the gyr from Alasdair, he rather thought she would continue to prove delightful.

  Lucy and Claud paid no heed to the gyrfalcon. Lucy had flitted down to nestle beside him in the mare’s pale, thick mane, and now she rested her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands and peered at him wistfully.

  He stared off into space, trying to close his ears to her insistent voice.

  “Ye must believe me, Claud,” she said. “The magical fiddler Tom Tit Tot certainly do be my father, just as I told ye he were.”

  Claud shrugged, wondering how she could say such a thing when he had seen the truth for himself the day he had watched Tom Tit Tot turn into Jonah Bonewits before his very eyes, and merely because he had spoken Jonah Bonewits’s name to Tom Tit Tot.

  Lucy said persistently, “D’ye forget that Jonah Bonewits be a powerful wizard and one, moreover, wi’ grand shape-shifting powers?”

  Claud blinked. That was just what he had been thinking. Some said Jonah Bonewits was as powerful in every way as Maggie Malloch, maybe even more so.

  When Lucy said no more, another thought occurred to him. “D’ye mean tae tell me he just took the shape o’Tom Tit Tot and pretended tae be your dad?”

  “Aye, for ’tis true. Under his spell, me poor dad were stuck in the cage as a fiddling cricket in some faraway land where men wear long plaits down their backs. And Jonah Bonewits cast his spell over me, too, Claud, but I be free now.”

  Claud’s spirits lightened considerably. If Lucy was free, that put a new light on things. When she rested a hand on his thigh, he grinned at her.

  Chapter 6

  Since the gyr was more spectacular in appearance than the peregrine, Bab had expected it to be more spectacular in flight, but she was glad when it swooped low as Alasdair had suggested it might, instead of seeking the heron. In her opinion, heron were nearly as spectacular themselves and were rather tough birds for eating.

  After the gyr made its kill, she let the gillies make to it, watching critically as the one called Will knelt to bag the game while the other lad gently put a gloved fist to the gyr’s belly. The bird stepped obediently onto it, accepted the bait he offered, and made no objection when he laced the jesses around his fingers.

  They flew each of the birds several times more, then whistled up the dogs, and Bab made no objection when Sir Alex asked patiently if she had enjoyed enough hunting for the day. She could scarcely complain, but she felt a twinge of disappointment and wished he shared her zest for the sport.

  She could not resist saying with a mocking smile, “Doubtless you fear you will get sunburned and spoil your pretty looks.”

  “You are so perceptive, mistress. That is exactly my fear, but I can see that I have annoyed you again, and I do most sincerely apologize for it.”

  “If you are hoping to burden me with a guilty conscience, Sir Alex,
I must warn you that such meekness is likely to cast me into an ill temper instead.”

  “I feared it might,” he said. His eyes twinkled, and in the sunlight, she noticed that their color matched the brilliant cornflower blue of his doublet. As lazily hooded as they usually were, she had not realized before how bright and clear a blue they were.

  “Master Alex, have done,” Alasdair Falconer said curtly. “What would his lordship ha’ to say about such goings-on?”

  When Sir Alex looked taken aback, Bab had all she could do not to laugh, realizing that he too was cursed with servants who had known him from birth, just as she was.

  “The fact is, I’m a man sorely beset by women,” Claud said with a deep sigh when Lucy leaned over and kissed him.

  “Women? I’m but one wee lass, Claud, and I’m no besetting ye.”

  “Aye, but Catriona were here no long ago, too, ye see.”

  “Catriona? Och, aye, the Glaistig your mam calls the wee Highland slut,” Lucy said helpfully. “Well, we dinna need her. I’ll get rid o’ her for ye.”

  “Nay, then,” Claud said doubtfully. “I dinna ken but it might be as well tae make a bargain wi’ the lass, just tae be safe.”

  “What sort o’ bargain?”

  “She’ll tell me about the MacRaes and I’ll tell her about the Gordons and Chisholms. ’Twould be tae give us both a better chance at success, dinna ye think?”

  “I do not,” Lucy retorted, stroking his thigh in just such a way as to stir tingling sensations throughout his body. “We ken all we need tae ken about anyone, Claud. I’ll rid us o’ that baggage, never ye fear. I’ve helped ye afore, ye ken, and what’s more, I be Border bred like yourself so nae one can cavil at me helping ye.”

  “Aye, perhaps, but what o’ Jonah Bonewits?”

  “What about him?” she demanded, tilting her chin. “He ha’ been expelled, which means his spells be nae more, and that be that, Claud.”

  “Nay, he were but banished from the Circle, not expelled from the Clan!”