by Rowan Keats
“And only a few short days before the king announces a new lord of Dunstoras.”
His brother grimaced. “I hope to God it’s not MacPherson. The man is a layabout. Not once has he been spied sharpening his skills in the lists or even walking the ramparts. He sits in the castle and eats. Nothing more. Dunstoras deserves better.”
Aiden glared at the other man. “None but a MacCurran will rule Dunstoras. If necessary, we’ll retake the keep by force.”
Niall said nothing.
Both men were well aware that they had less than three dozen trained men at their disposal, compared to MacPherson’s two hundred. The castle had been taken while Aiden was locked in Lochurkie’s dungeon and Niall had been preparing to set him free. Numerous good men had died defending the keep, including the seneschal and the castle’s senior man-at-arms.
Taking it back would likely be a vain cause.
Still, Aiden could not let Dunstoras go without a serious fight. His father had built that castle stone by stone, some days with his own hands. Aiden had been born inside those walls, his father had died inside those walls, and his mother had—
“Where is my mother?” he asked, glancing about.
Niall grimaced. “Why ask me?”
“Because you know everything that happens in this camp,” Aiden pointed out.
“I’ve given my oath to protect all who dwell here,” Niall said, with a short nod. “But that doesn’t include putting myself in range of Lady Elisaid’s venomous barbs.”
Aiden’s mother had a longstanding grievance with Niall—he was the baseborn son of her husband, brought by him to live under her roof. Aiden’s father had also praised Niall’s prowess as a warrior to her face several times while implying that her son was a weak-willed incompetent. Untrue, of course, but Aiden’s father believed that strong competition would make both his sons better men.
But Niall’s troubles with Lady Elisaid would never interfere with his duty. Aiden was confident he kept tabs on his mother . . . if only to know where not to wander.
“Where is she?” he asked again.
“Down by the burn with Master Tam.”
* * *
Aiden left the camp enclosure, descended the rocky slope, and crossed the rock-studded field to the edge of the burn, wet snow accumulating on the toes of his boots.
His mother was enjoying a leisurely stroll in the late-afternoon sunshine. Refusing to give up any of the amenities of her station, despite their current outlawed state, she insisted on a full entourage as she walked about—Master Tam held her arm and engaged her in conversation, two maids followed behind carrying the hem of her cloak, and two young pages brought up the rear, carting a flagon of wine and some refreshments.
“Aiden,” his mother exclaimed with a smile. “You’ve returned. Have you secured the ownership of Dunstoras? May we now return to our rightful place?”
He took her proffered hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Nay. We are still outlaws.”
She pouted. “This abode is unacceptable. Your father built me a stone castle; I expect no less of you.”
“You waited years for that stone castle,” he reminded her. “You must be equally patient now. How do we fare for stores and supplies? Are we running short?”
“Why ask me?” His mother waved a hand. “The seneschal is taking care of those details.”
Aiden frowned. “The seneschal died during the siege, Mother. You were going to appoint a new one. Have you done that?”
“No,” she said, “Nor will I, not until we are settled once more in the castle. When can we return?”
“Perhaps never,” he told her honestly. “Manage this camp like it is our true holding. If we are to survive the remains of winter, we must carefully oversee the distribution of our supplies.”
A melancholy look stole across her face, and she sighed heavily. “I miss your father.”
“You must make the best of the current situation.”
“Nonsense. If I settle for what we currently have, there’s no incentive for you to produce better. You are the chief. Reclaim our castle.”
He loved his mother dearly, but she either did not understand how dire the situation was, or she purposely chose not to acknowledge it. He was an outlaw with a price on his head. If he were caught, his head would be publicly displayed on a pike in front of the very castle she wanted him to reclaim. His priority had to be clearing their name. And keeping his people alive.
“My plans are my own,” he told her brusquely. “Do not presume to make them for me. I will see you anon.”
He nodded sharply to Master Tam and left the stream. By God, women were difficult. His life would be a good sight less complicated without them.
* * *
When Isabail was satisfied her chamber was as clean as she could make it, she went in search of someone who could add to her comforts. A pillow or two, a small chest, and a brazier. Surely that was not too much to ask.
“Where is the seneschal?” she asked Beathag, who stood next to the cook, peering into a huge iron cauldron.
“There is no seneschal,” the big woman said without looking up. She scooped several handfuls of dried peas from the bowl in which they were soaking and tossed them into the pot. The cook stirred.
“Who is in charge of the stores, then?”
Beathag thought for a moment, her head cocked to one side, her finger tapping her chin. “Lady Elisaid, I suppose.”
“The chief’s wife?”
The other woman shook her head. “His mother. The chief has never taken a wife. He was to wed the daughter of Rory MacDonald, a chief from the western isles, but she ran off with a Campbell lad instead.”
“Oh.” Faced with wedding such a fierce man, Isabail might well have done the same. “Where will I find Lady Elisaid?”
“A fine question,” Beathag said. Taking the ladle from the cook, she sampled the steaming liquid from the pot. “When you find her, let me know. She has the key to the spice cabinet, and I’m in need of some flavoring.”
Isabail released a frustrated huff of breath. “What does she look like?”
“You’ll know her when you find her.”
Beathag was being decidedly unhelpful, but Isabail could not take her to task. She had no authority in the MacCurran’s household. “What are you cooking?”
“Venison broth.”
“May I taste?”
The big woman turned to her, a sneer curling her upper lip. “Never had a simple bree, my lady?”
“Of course I have,” Isabail said. “Many times. A well-prepared broth is a staple in the kitchen. You said you were missing some spice. I’d like to taste what you’ve prepared so far.”
The cook took no offense at her request. He ladled a small portion into a wooden cup and gave it to her. Isabail sniffed it first, inhaling the rich scent of boiled venison. Then she sipped. It was satisfactory, but as Beathag suggested, a little bland. “If you are unable to get the spice of your choice, you could consider adding some leek and parsnip.” As Beathag’s eyebrows soared, she added, “Just a suggestion, of course. Good day.”
Isabail scanned the inner close, seeking some sign of the MacCurran’s mother. He was a very large man, so surely the woman who birthed him was also large. Perhaps of a similar size to Beathag. She saw no one who might fit that description.
Marching toward the outer wall, she scanned the people assembled in the outer close. A group of men was laying siege to one another with wooden swords. She recognized the man MacCurran had hailed as Niall among them, seemingly the one in charge. But no women at all.
Down the rocky slope beyond the perimeter wall, she could see a field and, cutting through the field, an icy burn. Next to the water, she spied a party led by a small, slender woman wearing a blue serge gown and a white headdress. From this distance, Isabail could not be
certain, but the gown looked painfully similar to the one she’d lost. Unable to help herself, she picked her way down the slope and then marched across the field toward the woman, determined to see if it was truly hers.
As she got closer, it became clear that the woman was at least a score of years older than Isabail. Her hair was hidden beneath a linen wimple, but her skin was thin and pale, her bones sharply defined in her face. Still, it was not her age that sapped Isabail’s anger away; it was the elegant way the woman carried herself—like she’d been born to privilege and expected no less.
“Lady Elisaid?” Isabail guessed.
The elderly woman ceased her stroll along the burn bank. “Aye?”
It was indeed Isabail’s gown draped over the other woman’s body—the size, especially in the bosom area, was a trifle large. But as Lady Elisaid’s faded blue eyes turned to her, any demand she might have uttered for its return died on her lips.
“I am Lady Macintosh, cousin to Archibald, Earl Lochurkie,” she said instead. “Your son has seized my person in hopes of ransoming me for political gain.”
Actually, she doubted he intended to ransom her, but accusing him of more villainous goals at this moment hardly seemed polite.
“He neglected to mention your presence to me, Lady Macintosh. You are John Grant’s sister, are you not?”
“Indeed.”
The lady waved her over. She kindly said nothing about the obvious stains upon Isabail’s gown, for which Isabail was grateful—if pressed she was not sure she could refrain from pointing out the lady wore stolen clothing. “Walk with me awhile.”
Isabail gave the invitation some thought. She was fully prepared to dislike Lady Elisaid—for the simple fact that she was the MacCurran’s mother—but she was not above using any and all methods at her disposal to win her freedom. Perhaps a mother could influence the man where a sense of fair play could not.
Isabail fell into a step alongside Elisaid MacCurran.
“Were you wed to young Andrew Macintosh?” the older woman asked.
“Aye.”
“An unfortunate death that was, to be felled by a wound gained at a faire. How long had you been married?”
A twinge of sadness pinched her just beneath her breast. She hadn’t thought of Andrew for several months. “A year and a month.”
“And there were no children?”
“Nay,” said Isabail softly. “We had not been blessed.”
The older woman shot her a curious look. “It upsets you to speak of him. My apologies. I assumed it was an arrangement, not a love match. Your father gained a powerful ally in the Macintoshes.”
“It was an arrangement,” Isabail confirmed, “but we were well suited.”
Although Andrew had been dead for four years, every moment of their time together was a treasured memory. The handsome, capable man had swept her off her feet, professing his love from the moment they met and treating her with an honor and respect she’d been unaccustomed to. The year she had spent with Andrew had changed her irrevocably—for the better. She’d gone into the marriage a shy, tentative girl and left it a confident, sure woman.
“You’re young to be a widow. Have you considered another marriage?”
Isabail shrugged. “I’m in no hurry to wed again. My dower estates were given to me to hold, and they more than pay for my keep. Playing chatelaine to my brother kept me busy.”
Lady Elisaid’s expression was shrewd. “Your cousin has a wife and you no longer have a household to run. Surely that suggests you are open to new arrangement.”
Isabail frowned. “Such thoughts are premature. Although I have recently put aside the colors of loss, I still mourn my brother’s passing.”
“My son needs a good wife.”
Isabail stopped short and stared at the older woman. Was she truly suggesting . . . ? Surely not. “Your son stands accused of murdering my brother, Lady MacCurran.”
“A false charge.”
“Any mother would say the same,” said Isabail coolly. “But the law disagrees. You insult me to even hint of an arrangement between our families.”
“Nonsense,” the other woman dismissed. “I am merely seeking a peaceful resolution to our troubles. How can that be insulting?”
“My brother was a good man. He deserves justice, not to be forgotten the instant his memory becomes inconvenient.” Isabail felt her grief rise in her throat, nearly choking her. “Good day, madam.”
Turning on her heel, Isabail lifted her skirts and prepared to stomp off.
“Did you approach me for a particular reason, Lady Macintosh?”
She froze, her heart pounding a mournful dirge in her chest. She’d completely forgotten her mission. Pivoting slowly, she did her best to wrestle her emotions under control. “Aye. A ransom prisoner is due every courtesy while held by her captors. I wish to examine the stores for items that might ease my ordeal. I understand you hold all the keys.”
Lady Elisaid frowned. “Do I?”
The man standing just behind Lady MacCurran bent toward her and whispered in her ear. The frown eased. “Apparently, I do. Master Tam will give them to you. Take whatever you like, but I assure you, comfort is a scarce commodity in this ancient pile of rocks.”
Master Tam, slowly and with obvious reluctance, handed Isabail a small iron ring hung with four rust-spattered keys.
Isabail nodded sharply to Lady MacCurran. “I will return them presently.”
Then she departed, her stomach knotted so tight she could barely breathe. The gall of the woman, suggesting an alliance between their families. Her fiendish son had stolen away the one true friend she had in this world, felling him in his bed. John was dead.
Tears blurred Isabail’s vision. And Lady Elisaid thought she could simply brush those horrid memories aside. Impossible.
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and marched up to Beathag. “I have Lady Elisaid’s permission to examine the stores. Show me where they are.” Determination added weight to her demand. “Now.”
* * *
Once he was confident that the defenses of the hill fort were as strong as they could be and that Niall’s men were diligently keeping an eye out for MacPherson’s patrols, Aiden returned to the keep. Although he knew Isabail was weary from her journey, he could not afford to give her a lengthy respite. The names she held in her head were all that stood between his clan and safety.
The inner close of the ruined palace echoed with his boot steps. Crumbling stone walls and the towering crags of the mountainside gave rise to eerie sounds.
He knocked on the lintel of the roundhouse assigned to Isabail, then ducked inside. The room was empty, save for a neatly covered pallet and a bucket of water. There was no sign of Isabail or her maid.
“Beathag,” he roared.
The large woman arrived at the door with surprising speed. “Aye?”
“Where in the bloody hell is Lady Macintosh?”
A family retainer since before he was born, Beathag simply folded her arms over her ample bosom and stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to re-collect his composure.
“Where is she?” he asked, quieter.
“In the cave.”
Aiden blinked. “Doing what?”
“Counting.”
“By the gods, woman!” The cave was their secret refuge, their last hope if MacPherson’s men discovered the hill fort. Divulging its whereabouts to their enemy, even if the lovely lady lacked a dangerous air, was a grievous mistake. “What possessed you to reveal the whereabouts of the cave?”
Beathag gulped. “Lady Elisaid gave her the keys.”
His mother had simply handed off the keys? To a stranger? Unable to wrap his thoughts around that tidbit of information and frustrated by his lack of understanding, Aiden simply glared at the good woman. Then he headed for the cave.
&n
bsp; * * *
The entrance to the tunnels beneath the ruin lay at the very back of the inner close, where the stone wall met the rock face. It was hidden in a small chamber that had once been a storeroom. Or so they guessed, based on the fragments of old wooden chests and shards of pottery found on the floor. He slipped behind a slab of granite that to the undiscerning eye appeared to be just the back wall, and entered. The stairs were narrow and steep, carved directly into the rock of the mountain. Aiden took them two at a time, his familiarity with the old ruin dating back to his childhood.
Torches were seated in iron wall brackets every thirty feet or so, providing scant but welcome light. At the far end of the long tunnel, the narrow confines opened into a small cave that housed the chests and sacks and bits of furniture they’d managed to remove from the castle before it was overrun by MacPhersons. Lids were open, doors swung wide, and the contents of every chest revealed—including the rather small chest that housed his coin.
In the center of the room, Isabail stood holding a torch, a sheet of parchment, and a thin piece of charcoal. Muirne and Brother Orick, the friar, were counting sacks of grain and calling numbers.
“Seven bags of wheat flour,” Orick said, dusting off his hands.
“Twelve of oats,” Muirne said.
Isabail recorded the numbers on her parchment with a heavy frown. “Are you certain? That may not be enough to last until first harvest.”
Muirne lifted her head, caught sight of Aiden, and gave a short signal of alarm.
Isabail spun around and flinched. “Oh.”
“What are you about?” he asked, annoyed at her reaction.
Isabail’s hand trembled as she held out the parchment. Aiden did not take it. Was he truly that frightening? Most women found him attractive. “Answer me, please.”
“You’ve no seneschal,” she said. “No one seems to be tracking the use of your stores.”
“And why,” he asked, “did you feel the need to do so?”
She lowered the parchment. “Only a handful of your people can count past twelve.”
Which explained her role in the inventorying, but not her need to see it done. He stared at her, waiting.