“He’s not as tall as Euan, but he moves well. Look at his muscles. He looks powerful, and he uses that instead of anger.” Iseabal turned to Morag, a soft smile curling her lips. “You’d be surprised how many find it hard to tamp down their temper, even in a friendly match.”
The lass said little more, but to Morag her words had let slip that she too wasn’t one to always sit inside her father’s Keep, sewing a fine stitch.
Iseabal’s gaze scanned the horizon, but Morag kept seeing her big grey eyes shift direction, glancing down into the bailey. “Perhaps, Graeme will join us at the high table tonight.” Morag couldn’t remember what it had been like to be young and in the first flush of attraction. As soon as Euan had begun to recover, she had gone from nurse to lover. Her touch on his skin had gone from caring to loving, as if it were the most natural act in the world.
When he left without a goodbye, her world had shattered like a piece of pottery smashed against a wall. She realised now that she had never truly recovered. Discovering she was barren, she had never let her eyes wander, never thought of a man in her bed for, as her father had told her, she was useless to any man.
Except Euan. She was useful to him, for the present.
Iseabal turned her shoulder to the skyline. “It’s bonnie countryside around here. Room to gallop, do you ride, Morag?”
“Aye, I used to enjoy it, but I haven’t ridden for a while now. It was less than a year ago, now that I think on it, though it seems longer—not since my father fell from his horse and was killed.”
“Aye, that would make anyone scared.”
Morag was surprised that the young lass would immediately decide fear was what held her back from a pleasure she used to love. “No so much scared as careful. Everything that happens in a family is not always how it seems.”
“Was that why you left, a family quarrel?”
Morag wished it could all be so simple, but she agreed, “Aye, that’s why I left.”
“I will ask my father if we can go riding on the morrow, and perhaps the McArthur will lend you a horse?”
Smiling, Morag said, “Perhaps he will.”
Chapter 15
Drawing the wooden comb through the mane, Rob enjoyed maintaining its sheen with the oil he rubbed on his palms, but, for his own safety, he didn’t dare work on the great beast in the confines of the stall. Rob knew the destrier loved the attention; he was, though, a fighting steed with a mind to live up to his name, Diabhal.
It had taken Rob almost three days to return Diabhal to his usual splendour after his having been away with the McArthur; the scratches from the fight had required his special attention.
A movement caught Rob’s eye as he turned to lead Diabhal back to his stall. He wasn’t surprised to see the laird. The McArthur aye liked to make sure his horseflesh was in good heart. It was the crowd at the laird’s heels that made him blink.
Morag and Nhaimeth accompanied by a sauncy, young lass and a lad around his own true age.
“Good morrow, Rob of Roslyn,” the McArthur greeted him.
Rob bobbed his head, there was no way he would let go of Diabhal to tug a forelock with two lassies close by.
“What kind of fettle is that grey palfrey in, the one that belonged to my wife?”
“High, laird, but perhaps not suited to a young lass,” he said pointedly. He supposed her father was Ruthven, since Rob had ne’er laid eyes on her before. He avoided the castle while visitors were in the hall, eating in the kitchen or grabbing a morsel to gulp down in the loft.
“No, I was thinking of your sister. You’re a good judge, Rob, how capable a rider is she?” He watched the McArthur throw a glance at Morag, a lustful gleam in his eye. Rob flushed, he might be only eleven, but he recognised the look and all it projected.
“Och, Morag’s a grand horsewoman, though it’s been a wee while. I feel she could soon find the measure of Bergdis,” he hurried to assure the McArthur. “There’s not many her equal.”
“That settles it then, for I know you’re a man of your word.” The laird turned to the strangers with him. “This is Rob. Morag’s brother. Rob, this is Iseabal and Jamie Ruthven. Their own mounts are being readied in the visitors’ stalls. You can saddle Bergdis for Morag, and ride Diabhal yourself.”
Morag let out a gasp that stabbed Rob to the heart. When would she learn to treat him like an adult as everyone else did? But the laird was before him. “No Morag, don’t get in a fash, he’s a grand horseman, as good as I when I was his age.”
The McArthur’s compliment somewhat softened Morag’s protectiveness.
“Trust me to take good care of him, Laird,” Rob sounded assured. “There’s no doubt he’ll be mightily pleased with the exercise.”
The McArthur let loose a bark of laughter. “I trust you to take care of him, aye, and him to take care of you. A warrior has to put his faith in his mount in times of war.”
The young lad—Jamie, the laird had called him—said, “We’re not at war.”
The McArthur looked down his long nose and said, “This is Scotland. We’re always at war.”
Rob just grinned in reply. The same could be said of Northumbria whence he and Morag hailed. Earl Siward had long gone, but raids across the border were aye part of daily life.
How long, Morag pondered? How long since she felt the pleasure of the wind blowing in her hair and the muscles of a swift steed shifting beneath her?
Too long.
The moment her father died, Doughall had made sure she lost the right to use the mount she’d been given for her fifteenth birthday, a month or so after Euan left the cave … and her. Of course, Doughall had had it in his mind that she might try to ride away. He had never imagined she would contemplate walking away, and Rob with her.
She felt her lips quiver, her pleasure spoiled for a moment until she pulled herself up, tightening her grip on the reins.
That was the past.
For what it was worth, the future lay ahead. Facing into the breeze, she sucked in great gulps of air while her horse raced into the wind. It was either that or start weeping.
God help her, she loved him. Loved Euan enough to realise that as McArthur Chieftain, for him politics, alliances, power and, aye, his clan came a long way before love.
The tears slid from under her lashes, blown back into her hairline as she straightened in the saddle, shoulders back, letting her fears slide away like many a woman that loved a man who put duty before all else.
Iseabal was riding by her side, laughing, atop a mount that cantered at a greater speed than was thought proper in a lassie. “Race you to the top of the brae,” she called over the rush of wind and thud of hooves on turf, spewing a storm of divots in their wake.
Young Jamie accepted the challenge. Morag imagined they often competed at home.
Behind them Diabhal’s huge feathered hooves pounded the ground with a noise that rivalled thunder, for all that Rob was holding him on a tight rein.
It was a great day to be alive. Bergdis was fresh, raring to go and, unlike with Astrid’s clothes, she felt no guilt about putting the beast to good use. A horse couldn’t be laid away in a chest like a pile of plaids and kirtles.
The sun was hot on her back as they pelted higher up the slope and the trees grew closer, cool and dark—unlike the open ground. This was sheep country, heather thin on the ground this close to the spray-blown salt on the breeze. From the distance she heard the crash of waves at the base of the rugged cliffs.
Iseabal edged ahead but Morag cared little.
She felt certain the housecarl Euan had sent with them would keep an eye on their safety. It was enough to be outside, viewing up close scenery that had been hidden by the dark lowering clouds the day they arrived at Cragenlaw.
As though irresistibly drawn, she turned in the saddle to look over her shoulder. The castle dominated the landscape, the way Euan did when he entered the hall as if he had been fashioned out of the rocks Cragenlaw grew from, part of the rough cliff
s that nurtured the McArthur clan.
Rob drew level with her. She didn’t care, let Iseabal win the race, there were more heart-warming sights in the world than a sweating horse.
Nhaimeth’s squat island pony formed part of the scene, its legs moving at twice the pace, its reins and bridle jingling in time as he fought to keep up.
Releasing a hand from the loops of leather, controlling Bergdis, she waved an arm, shouting, “C’mon, Nhaimeth, I’m waiting for you.”
She saw his mouth open, wide as if in a shout that the wind whisked away. Morag laughed again, calling him to her, beckoning with her arm. “Come away, come away, Nhaimeth.”
Then his shout reached her and she recognised the word ‘run’ as he gestured with the short sword he wore for protection outside the castle.
He pointed behind Morag, she without her wits about her and her mind full of the fancies that made women stupid had barely turned when the next shout came. A scream!
Iseabal!
Terrified for the lass, Morag headed her mount in the direction of the forest to see armed men breaking from the cover of the trees. They were half-naked, hair wild about their shoulders, faces and bodies streaked in blue as if ancient woad-painted Picts sprang from their graves.
An illusion.
These men were more solid than ghosts. Cateran.
Obviously, they had watched the group from the castle ride up the brae and had laid their plans, for they closed in on the housecarl Euan had sent with them, more a gesture at protection than a thought that it would ever be needed this close to Cragenlaw.
Four rogues surrounded the housecarl. His mount, more sturdy than nimble, rose on its haunches prepared to use its fore hooves as weapons, as it had been trained. Though almost overcome, the McArthur’s man hacked first on one side, then t’other, his steel blade sorely wounding one ruffian. The man leaned on his pike, his weight snapping the shaft.
Hand to her mouth, Morag stifled a scream as she watched him roll under the horse and, as if in one movement, thrust his pike into its underbelly. The horse screamed, a terrible sound, and she wasn’t sorry when its knees collapsed, sending the sharp broken end of the staff into the ruffian’s chest.
Although, she felt sick and angry all in one breath, she wasn’t sorry to see the rogue get his comeuppance.
Anxiety squeezed her stomach way up into her throat, but anger superseded it as she saw the dismounted soldier left at the mercy of the other three rogues. Gritting her teeth, she slapped the reins against the palfrey’s neck while kicking it hard. Resentment burned. That a gang of interlopers should spoil their grand afternoon was beyond anything, and with that thought uppermost, Morag charged them.
Iseabal flew past her, running for home hauling on the rein of Jamie’s horse, more sensible than Morag who’d had her fill of bullies like Erik the Bear—or her brother Doughall—men who thought of murder and pillage as part of their droit de seigneur.
The distance was naught but a few yards, yet seemed like a league as she jounced up and down in the saddle. And then, just as she reached them, Rob cut in front of her on Euan’s huge destrier, yelling, “Get back, back I’ll see to them.”
Her heart stopped.
He was just a lad, too young to die.
Instead of retreating, she pulled hard on the reins and waited, ready. Nothing in the world could stop her cramming her horse into the melee if Rob looked to be in danger. She hadn’t brought him this far to stand by and watch that happen.
Devil by name, devil by nature, she shuddered to see Rob handle the big black beast. He had naught but Morag’s short sword for protection, but few would stare in the face of Euan’s destrier with its flaring nostrils, rolling eyes, and survive. Though next moment, she was more shocked to see Nhaimeth join the affray. Where Rob used his mount’s superior height, the wee Fool came in low on his tiny pony, a surprise he used to good advantage.
Two of their assailants were but wounded, while the other with but a scratch hurried back into the forest, leaving his compatriots to limp off as fast as they could with Rob and Nhaimeth on their heels.
“Enough!” she called, cupping her hand to her mouth to make sure they heard her.
It took a few more demands and threats to make them turn back, but it wasn’t until the ruffians reached the trees that they obeyed. Riding back up to her, their faces wreathed in smiles, it must surely be a masculine trait to take such delight in bloodletting.
“I’m sorry,” she sniffed, “to spoil your fun, but we must get back to Euan, to Cragenlaw. We must report this and let real warriors deal with them.”
She’d insulted them, and though Nhaimeth grew quiet, Rob was in too high a fettle to let it pass. “We did better than his housecarl.”
“And is that something to take pleasure in?” she demanded, “Death is not to be sniggered at. He was one of the McArthur’s men, and now with dangerous times coming upon us, the castle is short a man’s protection.”
Morag swung her palfrey around. “Come now, let’s be on our way,” she ordered, her tone on the rough side of abrupt.
The two lads—how could she think of Nhaimeth as more—rode alongside her, sober-faced but casting glances at each other that spoke of their excitement at the brush with danger.
She hoped they felt as pleased with themselves when Euan heard of the incident. He would be furious. And what of Iseabal’s father, the Laird of clan Ruthven? Would he hustle both babies home, away from the danger that lurked around Cragenlaw? She hoped not.
In the few days Iseabal had been there, Morag had discovered how she had been deprived all these years. For her, at Cragenlaw, female friendship was hard to come by.
She let the palfrey scent its stable and carry her with it, while her mind riffled through her thoughts, being no farther forward when they entered the huge portal that led to the outer bailey, with Callum of Stonehaven waving them through.
It felt like coming home, yet her heart couldn’t stop wondering, for how long?
As if walking on air, Nhaimeth almost skipped across the bailey in the direction of the stables. He had a kerchief filled with food from the kitchen along with a flask of wine that he hadn’t had to ask for—he and Rob being heroes, so to speak.
Rob, at least, was treated like a hero by one and all, with slaps on the back and offers of ale that had got a bit much for the lad. He wasn’t wont to drink ale that hadn’t been watered down and, in no time at all, Morag was chasing Rob off to the stables while his legs still held him.
Nhaimeth’s own case was slightly different. Folk who knew him managed a pat on the shoulder, but others, most of Ruthven ilk, laughed at the notion that a wee Fool had the temerity to imagine he could take on a Comlyn rogue intent on harming the McArthurs.
If only they knew.
He’d had a wee laugh up his sleeve at that one, and an ale or two besides, but kept away from what the lowlanders called whisky, and highlanders had named, uisge beatha, water of life.
At the foot of the steps leading to the loft, he shouted up to Rob, “Are you awake up there?”
The Rob peeped over the edge. “I am that, Nhaimeth. After the day we had, I’m too excited to sleep.” He could see the lad eyeing the bundle. “If that’s food you’re carrying, come up and welcome.” Then he laughed, “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse, even Diabhal.”
“I think the McArthur might object,” said Nhaimeth, his foot on the first step of the ladder. Two from the top he tossed the bundle up to the lad who lay back comfortably on the hay.
“Never mind the McArthur, Diabhal would eat me first,” he chuckled as Nhaimeth settled beside him in the hay and Rob untied the kerchief. “A meal fit for Canmore himself. ’Tis a while since I dined so well.”
“Dinnae blame that on the McArthur. You would eat better if you came into the Great Hall for your supper instead of scrounging in the kitchen,” he said, with a lift of an eyebrow. Nhaimeth knew better than most that everyone was welcome at the laird’s table, even a wee F
ool like himself.
“It’s because of Morag. She would be embarrassed.”
The confession shocked Nhaimeth. “By her brother? I very much doubt that. She thinks the world of you.”
“Ach that’s not what I meant,” Rob mumbled over the top of a leg of roast capercaillie. “I feel she would be embarrassed for me to see her sitting at the high table at the McArthur’s left hand.” He flung himself back against the hay to clean the rest of the meat from the bone. For all his size, Rob was more sensible to the feelings of others than many his age. Young Alexander was a perfect example.
Nhaimeth looked down at the flask of wine in his hands and pried open the top with his short thick fingers before taking a slurp. It bit at the back of his mouth. Sometimes it was hard to fulfil what should have been your destiny with the tools you were given. His narrow chest heaved with trapped emotions that melted into a sigh of warm air that hissed through his teeth. He turned and looked at Rob. “It’s a hard road trying to please your family as well as satisfying your own desires. Few of us are given the chance to do either.” He passed the flask to Rob.
“You’re wiser than anyone realises, little man. I’m glad to call you friend, and proud to have had you by my side in the battle this afternoon.” Rob tilted his head and drank deeply.
Nhaimeth laughed, “We were true heroes, a lad and a Fool taking on invaders like in the days of the Vikings.”
Boy-like, Rob added, “Did you get close enough to smell their breath? That alone was strong enough to kill a grown man.”
He passed the flask back to Nhaimeth. The second mouthful went down easier than the first. “I was merely following my true destiny. You and I formed a bond today. Did you feel it?”
“Aye, you and me, Nhaimeth are true friends, and always will be, no matter what befalls. I believe that,” said Rob.
He held out his hand and spit on the palm, his saliva was red from the wine, as red as blood. Nhaimeth followed suit and spat on his hand, laying it atop Rob’s until the two mixed. “Brothers,” stated Nhaimeth.
“Forever,” confirmed Rob.
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