by Amanda Scott
His opponent, clearly anticipating the move, deftly parried it, and the fight was on. Both men moved lightly and with grace, and each seemed well taught.
For a time, Bab worried that Francis seemed much the better swordsman, and at one point, when he lunged and his sword slid between the masked man’s left arm and side, she heard Alex catch his breath beside her. She was sure then that Francis would win and she would lose the man she had come to love. Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought, but she could imagine no way to alter the outcome. Without thinking, she reached for Alex’s hand and met the cold iron of a manacle instead.
She glanced up at his face, but his gaze was still fixed on the swordsmen. She could tell by the muscle twitching high in his cheek that his jaws were clenched and that he fervently wished he rather than the impostor faced Dalcross. As she turned back to watch them, their swords clanged together, but this time it was the masked man who leaped forward, putting Francis on the defensive at last.
So swiftly did the man move, and so hard did he press Francis, that the ensuing flurry of swordplay forced the crowd to part and let them through. The cobblestones made their footing difficult, a point that Bab realized only when Francis stumbled. Instead of pressing the advantage, however, the masked man held back, allowing him to regain his balance before continuing the attack.
Claud saw Lucy at last, swooping toward the swordsmen, her hands outstretched, her lips moving.
“Lucy, no!” he shrieked, summoning the water pail into his hands and flinging it. It sailed high overhead, so that as Lucy turned toward the sound of his voice, the water was already spilling out of the pail.
She had no warning before it cascaded over her.
With an eldritch shriek, Lucy Fittletrot disappeared and a terrifying new shape took her place. The sight was all Claud needed to confirm his suspicions.
In that same moment, Maggie appeared with her hand outstretched. Pail and water vanished before either could hit anyone in the crowd below.
The monstrous shape turned toward her, looming close, threatening her.
At the top of his lungs, terrified, Claud shouted, “Jonah Bonewits, show yourself, ye loathsome coward!”
The shape twisted and thinned, taking the form of a man, and the next thing Claud knew his father was standing before him, enraged. Although most folks had hidden depths, evil did not, Claud decided. When one recognized it and called it by name, evil had to reveal itself in its natural form.
As the thought crossed his mind, he saw Jonah Bonewits point toward him, heard Catriona shriek, and saw the flames blazing toward them. He flung himself in front of her and, in that instant, felt a sharp, burning sensation and then nothing.
If Francis felt any gratitude for the respite, he did not show it. Indeed, he looked angrier, Bab thought, as if he resented his opponent’s sense of fair play. His strokes became wilder, more daring, but his opponent seemed to be toying with him now, and when the masked man’s sword lightly touched Francis’s chest only to disengage at once, Bab became certain of it. Shouts and cheers greeted the move, but more than one man bellowed, “Put an end to the dastard!”
“Skewer him!”
“Spit him!”
Suggestion followed grisly suggestion, and no one could doubt now which man the audience supported. Francis’s men shouted, too, but in the general din, Bab could not tell if they all supported their master or if some supported his opponent.
A stroke of the latter’s sword sliced near Francis’s throat, and she could attribute only the masked man’s skill for the fact that it did not decapitate him. Even Francis realized as much, for he raised his free hand to his neck tentatively, as if he were checking to be sure he had not been cut.
“Sakes, man, finish this before it becomes a mockery,” Alex muttered just loud enough for Bab to hear.
But the masked man clearly had another goal in mind. As Francis began to look desperate, as even his staunchest supporters saw that he could not win, the masked man continued to toy with him, as if to emphasize his own superior skill.
At last, as the crowd grew quiet, knowing how it would end and waiting with surprising patience, the masked man said, “Art enjoying yourself now, lad?”
“End it, damn you,” Francis croaked.
“Nay, not yet a while, for I’m thinking that first ye should tell all gathered here who the filthy murderer be that killed your father.”
“Be damned to you then, for I won’t!”
“Aye, but I wager ye will, given time, and I’ve time and all to spare.” The man did not even seem tired, Bab thought. His voice was as steady as if he were enjoying normal conversation, at leisure. His stamina was astonishing, and the sword looked light in his hand, whereas Francis’s weapon looked heavy and moved sluggishly. They had been fighting now for nearly ten minutes, a long time for a swordfight, as she knew from watching her brother practice.
She noted that Alex had relaxed upon hearing the masked man’s words. A slight, understanding smile tugged at his lips now as he critically watched the two.
Francis remained stubborn for only a few moments more before gasping, “All right then, it was I, just as you said. I hated the man! Now, make an end!”
“Nay, for I’ll warrant ye’ve more to tell us. There ha’ been other murders hereabouts, and other innocent men accused o’ committing them.”
“What murders? When?” Staggering, wheezing openly now, Francis seemed barely able to get the words out.
“Over a year ago,” the masked man said. “Two brothers died, as I recall.”
Bab glanced at Alex, but he continued to watch the swordsmen.
Lord Chisholm, beside him, frowned heavily but did not comment.
Francis shook his head, resisting for only a moment before he gasped, “Aye then, I did it, but my father ordered it done and I was but—”
As he said the words, he suddenly thrust himself forward, his sword jabbing swiftly, dexterously, to engage his opponent’s. Then, with a deft flick of his wrist, he sent the masked man’s sword flying into the air toward Bab and lunged, his own sword aimed right at the masked man’s heart.
As the sword flew through the air toward Bab, Alex automatically thrust a hand up to keep it from striking her. To his astonishment, the irons fell from his wrists, leaving them free in the split second before his right hand grasped the familiar shape of the sword’s hilt.
“Dalcross!” he bellowed.
In the instant that Dalcross hesitated, the masked man grabbed a handful of his cloak and whirled it forward, catching the point of the blade that sliced toward his heart and deflecting it.
Francis snatched the sword back, glanced at Alex, then back at his opponent.
“I am the one you want,” Alex said quietly. “You are tired and would be wise to put down that fine new Italian sword of yours and yield to justice. But even if you cannot bring yourself to do the wise thing, would you murder an innocent man before all these witnesses? The masked man is unarmed now.”
In answer, Francis leaped toward him. “This is all your fault,” he snarled as he thrust wildly at Alex. “You and the people of these glens stirred us to act as we did when you refused to yield to our authority as sheriff.”
Alex did not answer, lightly parrying the attack. He knew the expression on his face was probably grim, for he felt grim as he maneuvered Dalcross back to the center of the ring before his wild swordplay could injure any innocent bystander.
As he moved, he saw the masked man ease his way into the crowd as if to watch with the others. One moment the man was there. The next he was gone.
Although Alex did not think anyone else had noted his disappearance, he kept Dalcross occupied in order to give his champion a few more minutes to escape, hoping that Dalcross would employ the time by coming to his senses.
At last, though, he stepped back and raised his sword point, dodging another wild thrust as he did and saying, “Have done, Dalcross! You cannot win this.”
“I’ll not grant you the satisfa
ction of seeing me yield!” Dalcross growled.
With a sigh, Alex steadied his blade again and, with a single gesture, easily disarmed the other man. When Dalcross’s sword struck the ground, Alex stuck the point of his own through a curl of the hilt to prevent the weapon’s being picked up again. As he did, several men hurried forward from the crowd and pinioned Dalcross’s arms to his sides, rendering him helpless.
Beside Bab, the magistrate, regarding Alex’s manacles in his hand as if he had no idea how he came to be holding them, turned to Chisholm and said quietly, “My lord, I hope you will agree to take up the duties of sheriff again until his grace the King troubles himself to appoint a new man. I can assure you that all of us in Inverness-shire would be most grateful if you would.”
“I will, and gladly,” Chisholm said, but he was staring at his son as if he had never seen him before. Visibly giving himself a shake, he said to the men holding Dalcross, “Place that man under arrest, you lads, and lock him in the Tolbooth.”
Alex turned away, looking for Bab and finding her exactly where he had left her. When she smiled, he forgot everyone else.
Bab flew to meet him, running into his open arms and hugging him tight, relieved beyond measure that he was free and safe at last. When his arms closed around her, she sighed with contentment, but the moment was brief.
“Faith, Alex Chisholm, where did ye learn to wield a sword like that? The last time I saw ye wi’ one in hand, ye near cut off your left foot!”
Turning to greet the speaker and others who made similar teasing comments, Alex shrugged, saying lightly, “I took some lessons whilst I was in France, but the Fox had worn the poor man out. I hope you’ll excuse me now,” he added. “I’ve spent the past three days locked up in a heathenish cell, and I want to spend a few hours alone with my wife, if you will permit me that pleasure.”
Laughing, they agreed to it, but his mother said that if his father meant to take over the duties of sheriff, they, all of them, should repair at once to Sheriff’s House to order supper and see what had to be done to set the place to rights so they could sleep there that night.
“I pray you will forgive me, madam,” Alex said quietly, “but I’d as lief not spend another night in that place—not for some time, at least. I’d prefer to take my wife home. You are welcome to come with us if you like, and I’ll wager that my father would grant his permission, for he’ll likely be busy here for days.”
“Nay, my dear,” she replied. “I’ll not abandon him at such a time as this. His health is vastly improved, to be sure, but he will not look after himself properly if I am not at hand. By all means, though, take your beautiful bride home with you.”
Looking down at Bab, Alex said with a smile, “I will, unless she objects.”
“She does not,” Bab said firmly. She had no wish to remain in Inverness, where the sole entertainment for the next several days would likely be the trial and hanging of Francis Dalcross and his henchmen. Shooting him a direct look, she added, “She would rather be at home with her husband, sir, for they have certain matters to discuss, and well do you know it.”
“Then let us not waste another moment, my sweet,” he said. “We have only to find horses, and we can be off.”
Chapter 22
What happened to Claud?” Catriona wailed.
Maggie felt like wailing herself, but she could not. First, she owed Catriona an apology, and then she would let her fury reign free.
“And where did that horrid man go?”
Struggling to maintain an even tone, Maggie said, “Jonah Bonewits vanished whilst we gaped at the air where Claud had been standing only a moment before. As tae Claud himself, I canna tell ye, but I dinna feel his presence here, and I can always feel him when he’s about.”
“He’s dead,” Catriona said tearfully. “He stepped in front of me, or I’d have been the one to go up in flames.”
“Aye, that be true enough,” Maggie said. “I’d no wish that on ye, Catriona.”
“Ye dinna like me,” Catriona reminded her, sniffling.
“Still, I misjudged ye, and I must apologize for it,” Maggie said. “I thought I knew ye, but ye ha’ shown me another side. When I said ye should look after the Chisholms, I expected ye’d look tae Sir Alex, and when ye didna do that, I believed ye’d let that Lucy Fittletrot scare ye away and were doing nowt, but I were wrong.”
“Was she Lucy Fittletrot?” Catriona asked. “Was she ever?”
“Aye, I believe she was until the wedding,” Maggie said. “But I should ha’ realized that only Jonah Bonewits has power enough tae ha’ put Mistress Bab under a spell in the wee kirk. I warrant Lucy were under one even before he shifted into her shape. Sithee, Claud figured out about the water, so mayhap she helped reveal its power over Jonah. If we find them, we’ll ask. But in the meantime, ye ha’ kept your word, Catriona, and so has Claud. At the next meeting o’ the Circle—”
“I don’t care about the Circle. I want Claud!”
Maggie pressed her lips together, fighting a sudden onslaught of fury as tears welled in her eyes. Ruthlessly, she pulled herself together, saying gruffly, “Control yourself, Catriona. Our work isna done yet.”
Fresh horses were easily come by, thanks to Eric Mackintosh, who had already foreseen the need, so dismissing all offers of company or men-at-arms, Alex and Bab bade everyone farewell and were on their way.
To Bab’s surprise, the trial and its aftermath had consumed less than two hours, so they crossed the bridge over the River Ness shortly after three.
“It will likely be late before we get home, sweetheart,” Alex said. “I warrant you must be tired since you only arrived in Inverness last night.”
She hesitated, wondering how much to reveal about her efforts to gain support for him, and decided that if she did not want to be scolded all the way home, or worse, she should say as little as possible now. “I am not tired,” she said.
“I was thinking that perhaps we ought to find a place to spend the night and ride the rest of the way tomorrow,” he said with a meekness in which she no longer believed. “You cannot have had much sleep this past sennight, for you journeyed to Inverness twice and did not sleep much the night before my arrest. And you must have worried so. I, on the other hand, am well rested, having had little else to do.”
“ ’Tis most odd,” she said, reflecting, “but I truly am not tired. I should be, certainly, for it is just as you say, but I feel as if I’ve had all the sleep I require. Doubtless, I feel so only because you are safe now,” she added with a smile.
“Did that matter so much to you, sweetheart?” He spoke more like he spoke as the Fox, but she was rapidly growing accustomed to the notion of being married to two men in one.
Quietly, she said, “You know it mattered.”
“Can you forgive me for deceiving you?”
“Will you promise never to do so again?”
“With all my heart,” he said. “You have become precious to me, Bab. Although I have enjoyed much about playing the Fox, I did not enjoy deceiving you or my parents. But I believed it was safer for all of you not to know the truth.”
“Your parents still do not know the truth, although I’ll wager they suspect it,” she said. “Who else does know, besides Hugo and Gibby?”
“I’d have said no one before an hour ago.”
“Well, that was not Hugo pretending to be the Fox, sir, as it was on the hillside that day. That man is taller than you are, and he is broader across the shoulders, too. Nevertheless, he rode away from the alehouse on Dancer.”
“So you saw him leave, did you?”
She nodded.
“Aye, well, if he’s the man I believe he is, he’s always been a great bear of a fellow, albeit light on his feet. With my brothers dead and Fin and Patrick in the Borders, I know of only one other whose skill with a sword might match my own and who might feel he had a stake in all this. Also, he would be in a position to acquire my horse, cloak, mask, and sword.”
“To learn about the secret cavern, in fact.”
“Aye, my wise one, even that.”
“And Dancer would accept him?”
“The man has an uncanny knack with horses.”
“But you are the true Fox, are you not?”
His grin was boyish, even mischievous, as he reached across the gap between their horses to put an arm around her and hug her. “I thought you were convinced of that, my love. Ha’ ye doubts the noo?” he added, slipping easily into the common accent his alter ego had affected.
“How did this other man learn the Fox’s true identity?” she countered.
“I do not know that yet,” he admitted, “but although his knowing proves that one should never grow complacent, we cannot complain about the outcome.”
They made good time after that, for the horses seemed no more tired than Bab felt. Eric had wisely packed a supper for them to eat as they rode, and since they had much to talk about, the hours flew by.
Bab carefully kept the conversation on Alex’s activities and well away from her own. He explained that when Chisholm had sent word to him of his brothers’ murders and ordered him home, the tone of the letter made it clear that he expected little of his third-born son other than that he return. Upon discovering the extent to which the Dalcrosses and their men had assumed authority over the glens, Alex had decided to take certain matters into his own hands.
“I knew no one would suspect me,” he said. “I had learned long since that my brothers would not tease me if I did not try to compete with them but attended to my studies. So I simply exaggerated my earlier behavior by imitating fashionably foppish men I’d met in France and Italy and neglecting to mention to anyone that I had become adept with a blade whilst studying in those countries.”
“What made you work so hard to improve your swordsmanship?” Bab asked.
The boyish grin contained a rueful quality this time. “I wanted to show them up,” he said. “My brothers always enjoyed lording it over me, and from childhood, I’d hoped one day to best them. I thought just this once I’d surprise them.” He grimaced. “Instead, mine became a sword of vengeance.”