by Cathy MacRae
They continued in silence for a bit, the men walking while they rested their horses.
The crossing loomed before them and Ranald prepared to board the little ferry, not letting his apprehension show to those around him. Loading the horses onto the boats, the men and Riona found a place along the bow. A horse neighed nervously as the boat rocked beneath his feet, but quieted as his master soothed him with a word and a gentle touch.
Dense trees bordered the shoreline, seagrass and rocks swept outward in both directions. Three cottages clustered in the open area on the sheltered beach, and a man strolled out to take his place on the dock. Muscles in his arms and chest rippled as he grabbed the boat, pushing and pulling to land it square against the planks. He completed his job without raising a sweat and helped unload the horses.
Ranald disappeared for a few minutes as the unloading proceeded, the sweat on his brow from neither warmth nor exertion. Riona kindly chose to say nothing about the drawn look to his face when he returned, and, instead, stroked his cheek fondly as he canted a quick look at her.
He laced his fingers together, ready to help her to Hearn’s back. “Mount up.”
The banners snapped merrily in the breeze as they prepared for the next stage of their journey. The trees quickly swallowed them, blocking most of the sun and the gentle wind. Riona leaned her cheek against the warmth of Ranald’s back, breathing the scent of him.
Smoke from the campfires mingled with the smell of damp fabric. Idly, she imagined getting him into the largest tub at the castle, not caring how difficult it proved to lug up the stairs to their bedroom. She could almost feel his skin sleek beneath a layer of lather as she bathed away the grime and grit of travel.
“What are ye thinking about?”
Riona rested her chin between his shoulder blades, a smile on her lips. “Ye will have to wait until we are home to find out.”
Ranald shifted in the saddle. “I am intrigued, milady. Does it involve warm water and lavender-scented soap?”
“How did ye guess?”
He chuckled. “Milady has no’ had a complete wash since we left. And ‘tis my fondest wish to bathe ye.”
Riona punched his shoulder and he yelped. “At the rate we’re going, we’ll no’ make it to Scaurness before morning. And the fires will have to be stoked to heat the water. ‘Twill be a long time, Laird, before ye get me in a tub.”
“Perhaps I should send a man ahead to warn the castle of yer wishes?”
“Perhaps we could ride ahead and arrive before the kitchen fires die down.”
She waited as Ranald considered his response, then coaxed, “We are on clan land . . .”
He shook his head.
“Please, Ranald. The others could follow with my horse and some could ride with us.”
“‘Twould no’ be safe.”
Riona sighed in disappointment and pressed her cheek against his back.
After a moment, she felt him heave a sigh. He reined Hearn to a halt and turned to face the men. “Lady Caitriona and I wish to reach Scaurness before dark. Neel and Sim will follow with Archie and the gelding.”
The laird’s retinue bounded forward at a word from Ranald, leaving the standard bearer, two soldiers and a lame horse behind.
Gilda and Brian crept down the hallway to one of the narrow stairwells leading to the servants’ areas of the castle. Scarcely wide enough to admit a serving tray or a tub, they led only to the kitchen and storerooms. Keeping to the shadows, they moved from one doorway to the next, pausing to listen for sounds of discovery or pursuit.
Gilda whimpered. “I gotta pee.”
Brian carefully opened the door beside them and shoved her into the room. He quietly shut the door behind them and looked around the floor. “There’s a pot. Be quick.”
Gilda cautioned, “Don’t watch.”
Full to bursting after her long huddle behind the pillar, still she waited until Brian’s back was to her before she lifted her skirt and sank down onto the chamber pot.
“I’m through,” she hissed as she hurried to Brian’s side.
“Let me check the hall before we go out, aye?”
Gilda’s heart beat rapidly as his hand reached for the latch. He opened the door just enough to stick his head through and stared carefully up and down the hall. He ducked back inside the room, pushing the door closed. Placing a finger to his lips, he forestalled Gilda’s question. The sound of booted feet grew louder then receded.
Brian breathed a sigh of relief and waited a few moments before he checked the way again. “Come on.”
Gilda grabbed his hand and followed him from the room. They skirted a fallen soldier and rounded the corner to the servants’ stair. There were no torches lit here, and Gilda and Brian stepped carefully, fingers touching the wall for guidance.
Light from the kitchen fire seeped up the bottom few steps and the pair halted inside the stairwell. MacEwen soldiers harassed the kitchen staff with shouts and cuffs, demanding food and drink. Gilda tugged at Brian’s hand, darting her worried gaze to the door on the far side of the room.
Brian squeezed her hand reassuringly and climbed a brace of steps back, taking them out of sight and sound.
“I want ye to muss yer hair and look like a wee scullery maid, aye? When we walk into the kitchen, grab the first thing ye see and act as though ye’re about to either wash it, cook it, or serve it. Can ye pretend?”
Gilda nodded vigorously, pulling strands loose from her braid.
“Good. Carry it to the kitchen door and go outside as though it was a normal day. Stay between me and the wall as much as ye can. Ignore the men. Aye?”
She frowned.
“There isnae other way out, lass. We cannae go through the hall.”
Brian entered the kitchen first and grabbed a pot of vegetable peelings. Gilda was on his heels and picked up a basin of hot, soapy water. It was heavy and she struggled with it, the water sloshing inside. They edged around the room, their heads down, concentrating on their tasks.
Gilda stumbled, splashing water onto her hands and she cried out. Dropping the basin, it crashed to the floor, turning every head in their direction.
“The lass!”
Brian threw his pot at the closest soldier and shoved Gilda through the open door.
“Run!”
Chapter 24
Gilda darted through the door, skidding to her right and hugging the wall as she burst into the kitchen garden. She ducked behind a rosemary bush along the castle wall, releasing its savory scent as she brushed against its leaves.
“Spread out! Dinnae let her escape!”
Squatting low on her heels, she peeked over her shoulder. The bad men would be after her in a moment. She glanced at the bailey gate. Two soldiers ran past, halting the search as they questioned the others. With their back to the gate, Gilda took her chance.
Jumping to her feet, she dashed across the path and through the gate. She plowed directly into another soldier she hadn’t seen coming, causing him to stagger to one side, a curse exploding from him as he fell against the wall. Gilda rebounded and fled across the bailey, disappearing into the darkness. Shouts followed on her heels.
Run! Brian’s words shot through her. The old stable loomed ahead of her, a dark, ghostly, malformed shape in the moonlight. A stray beam of silver light kissed the tangled brambles guarding the rotted doorway.
Gilda fell to her knees and crawled inside its secret gloom.
Morgan’s fist crashed on the table in the great hall, sending crockery in rattling disarray. From his position against the wall, Brian saw how the MacEwen soldier’s face paled as he stood before the laird.
“I want that brat! And ye tell me she has outrun and outsmarted six of my best men?” The MacEwen’s voice was rough with the whisky he tri
umphantly swilled from Scaurness’ storerooms. Brian wasn’t sure if he was more dangerous drunk or cold sober.
“We will find her, laird. ‘Twill be daylight soon and she cannae hide then.”
“See that ye do. Her ma will be back soon and I need the brat for leverage.”
The man ducked his head and hurried away.
Morgan grabbed a hunk of bread from a platter and tore it in half as he peered around the room. Torches flamed in brackets on the wall, the flickering light exposing the overturned tables and the dark bloodstains yet to be scrubbed from the stone floor. Servants crowded the room. Those who could, found chores farthest from the angry laird. A few served the head table, but did so quickly and without drawing attention to themselves. Manus sat at the place of honor on Morgan MacEwen’s right.
Brian curled into a tight ball, hoping to keep from being noticed as Manus’s gaze swept the room.
The MacEwen pounded the table again. “Bring the old woman to me!”
People scurried about the room, making way for a man who crept reluctantly forward. “Laird, the woman is unable to answer yer questions.”
“Why is that?”
The man looked around nervously. “She was amongst the first questioned and put up a fight. I’m afraid the men were over-zealous and struck her to gain her cooperation.” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “She has nae regained her senses.”
Morgan threw his chunk of bread at the man. It struck him in the chest and crumbled to the floor. “Is there no one here who can answer my questions?”
Manus suddenly rose from his chair and crossed the room. Brian’s eyes widened. He struggled with his bonds, but only managed to tighten them so they bit into his skin. Manus lifted him from the floor by his shoulder, bunching his torn shirt in his fist.
He dragged Brian to the table and threw him to the floor before the MacEwen laird. “Here. This one can talk.”
Riona clutched Ranald’s waist, shielding her face against his back from the wind, her hair streaming behind her. Their guard rode at a gallop several lengths behind them. Their goal was tantalizingly close. Ranald reined Hearn to a walk. Riding abreast, the soldiers pulled their horses in as well. Riona shifted her seat, easing the cramp in her legs, unused to sitting such a large horse.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
“We are no’ stopping. Slowing down. The path is treacherous in the dark until we reach the field before the castle. And the horses need a rest.”
Riona snuggled against him, tightening her grip as she savored his nearness. “I could use some rest, too.”
“Are ye tired?” Ranald glanced at her over his shoulder. “We could camp here and head up the cliffs at first light.”
“Nay. I trust ye and Hearn. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
“Then we shall have ye there anon.”
Riona sighed. Even with Ranald’s assurances the red-sailed birlinn was not a MacEwen ship, she still worried Gilda was in danger. Despite the trust she’d promised Ranald, she would rest better once she’d seen her daughter again. Touched her. Held her. Kissed her sweet face.
The horses’ gait shifted as they angled up the long trail winding up the last incline to Scaurness. Her anxiety lightened as Riona recognized the landmarks of home. Dense black skeletons of trees, crowned with early autumn leaves, stood sentry on either side of the trail. Soon, they would break out to the open land before the castle and home. And Gilda.
A shout rang out over the parapet. “Riders sighted!”
“How many?” Manus queried.
There was a moment of silence. “Ten or more.”
“Would Ranald risk a night ride?” Morgan questioned Manus.
He gave a light shrug. “Riona would.” Manus stared intently at the approaching riders caught in the white glare of moonlight. “There are two on the warhorse. That’s Ranald’s mount. Riona would be with him. The others are guards.”
Morgan took his stance at Manus’s side and peered over the parapet. He nodded agreement. “Aye. They are earlier than I expected, but the weather could have turned them back.”
The horses moved at an easy gallop across the close-cropped field. Torches blazed at the gates, lighting the darkness at the tunnel-like barbican. None were lit on the walls, saving the eyes of those guarding the castle. The riders advanced, no warning of anything amiss slowing their pace.
Morgan turned to Manus. “Bring me the Macrory captain.”
Riona heard the shout from the guard at the gate. Several moments passed before the creak of heavy ropes signaled the opening of the portcullis. Ahead the barbican yawned before them, golden torchlight fouled by heavy black smoke snaking through the flames, blending it with the darkness. With a shudder, Riona pressed her face against Ranald’s back, ill at ease with the foreboding entrance.
Metal clanged as the portcullis reached its apex. Groaning hinges announced the labored release of the heavy, double gates. Riona felt the eyes of the guards on her as they passed beneath the barbican. Ahead, a man stood in their path. With a sigh of relief, she recognized Hamish, newly raised Macrory captain, the flickering torchlight giving the illusion he swayed on his feet.
The horses ducked their heads and pulled at their bits, recognizing the end of the journey. But they kept to a walk as they breached the darkness between the portcullis and the gates, entering the subdued, nighttime silence of the bailey.
Shadows of men clustered on the walls. The hair raised on the back of Riona’s neck. She clutched Ranald tighter and he reined Hearn to a halt. Their guards flanked them. The light of the torches destroyed their ability to see into the shadows beyond. The snap and crackle of the flames sounded loud in the silence.
Hamish stared straight ahead, his features frozen in neither welcome nor rebuff.
A voice rang out from above. “Welcome to Scaurness, stronghold of clan MacEwen and the Lord of the Isles.”
Something moved behind Hamish, and the Macrory captain fell forward on his face, dead on the dark-stained ground of the bailey.
A scream ripped from Riona’s throat.
Ranald hauled on the reins and Hearn responded with a squeal, sinking back on his great haunches. Torches lit, the trap sprung. Armed men surrounded them, swords drawn at the ready, faces grim. A man aimed his weapon at the animal’s rear legs in warning. Though the warhorse could easily plow through the wall of soldiers, Riona knew he would not survive the severing of his leg tendons if the man’s aim hit true.
Foam dripped from Hearn’s mouth as he worried the bit. Fear rose in Riona’s throat, choking her.
Gilda!
She struggled to slide from Hearn’s back, but Ranald grabbed her in an iron grip, refusing to let her down. His fingers bruised her side, pinning her against him. Tears clogged her eyes, rendering her sight nothing more than a haze of dancing torchlight and blurred faces.
“So, ye have returned to Scaurness.”
The voice struck new fear in Riona. She scrubbed her eyes with her arm, wiping the tears away on the fabric of her sleeve. Morgan MacEwen’s face swam into view, his mocking grin splitting his bearded face. His eyes, scrunched in ill-humor, winked evilly in the torchlight.
In an instant, Riona’s world fell apart.
Gilda could see torchlight across the bailey. The creaking of the castle gate was loud in the night air and she burrowed deeper in her hiding place, making herself as small as possible.
Horse hooves clomped in the dirt, the chime of harness startlingly clear. Were more bad men coming to Scaurness? A woman’s scream pierced the air and the night was filled with the sound of weapons and many feet.
“Welcome to Scaurness!”
She covered her ears with her hands. Too many bad people were already here. She longed to know where her ma w
as, and what had happened to Brian. Smells of rotted wood and manure clogged the air. She wanted to sneeze, but didn’t dare. She hid her face in her skirt, holding her snuffles at bay. She needed to pee again, and she was terribly hungry, though the thought of food made her tummy churn.
Huddling in the corner of the stall, she wrapped her arms around herself, hugging herself against the twin pains of hunger and fear.
Ranald’s grip on Riona relaxed. “Do not get down from this horse,” Ranald ground out between gritted teeth. He received no response, but at least she stayed put. He prayed she would continue to obey him.
He turned his attention to Morgan MacEwen. “It seems ye have made yerself at home in my absence.”
The MacEwen laird sauntered fully into the torchlight. He stopped before Ranald, hands on his hips, feet spread as though to counter the rocking roll of a ship. “Aye. ‘Tis a fine place ye left unguarded.”
“I left men here.”
Morgan looked at Hamish, lying in the dirt, and then at Ranald, a satisfied grin tilting one side of his mouth. “Ye dinnae leave enough.”
Ranald snorted. “I would imagine ye had an accomplice. Where is the traitor, Manus? I see his hand in this.”
Manus strolled into view, his tall, muscular form a contrast to the short, yet powerful MacEwen laird. “Nae traitor. A loyal MacEwen.”
A dead MacEwen, Ranald vowed silently. “How many men did ye turn?”
“‘Twas no’ hard when men loyal to me dinnae like the idea of a lord not of their choosing shoved down their throats. Ye dinnae belong here, Scott, and ye willnae rule Scaurness.”
“Ye seem to have forgotten the king’s command. I rule here at his pleasure.”
“Not anymore, and the Lord of the Isles is pleased to add Scaurness to his holdings. A fortress overlooking the firth is worth the asking price.”