Once Upon a Plaid

by Mia Marlowe

  The earl was fond of boasting that Glengarry Castle had never been taken from without. But if her father’s people weren’t safely inside Glengarry’s walls, if her father didn’t make preparations to defend its battlements, the castle might just fall.

  The ride out to all the crofts had been at an unhurried pace, punctuated by a decidedly hurried but supremely satisfying moment of “vexation.” The trip back to Glengarry, lit by a sickly dawn, was much different. There was no time for Kat to even contemplate “vexing” her husband. The countryside whipped past in an icy blur as William urged Greyfellow to as much speed as possible. Katherine clung to Will to keep her seat, with the wind biting her cheeks.

  Once they clattered into the keep, they sent Nab to wake her father and, while he dressed, waited for him in the solar, rousting Sir Ellar and his lady from their makeshift bed. Apparently, the quarreling couple had reconciled over Christmastide and he was no longer planning to put her away, so they’d claimed use of the solar as ranking guests. They were more than a little put out at being roused so early, but William gave him such a storm cloud glare, Sir Ellar stopped his complaint in midsentence and dragged his wife from the chamber.

  As soon as the earl made a grumbling appearance, William told him everything they’d learned from Hew MacElmurray and what had been done about it.

  “What d’ye mean by ordering my crofters to gather here?” Lord Glengarry roared. “Jamison is finally satisfied with the state of the larder. The influx of all those additional mouths will send him into a foaming-mouth fit.”

  Actually, Katherine’s father looked more likely to succumb to that malady than his seneschal. A vein bulged on the earl’s forehead and his color was too florid to indicate good health. She fought the urge to encourage him to calm down because nothing was more likely to agitate him further. The laird paced the length of his solar like a caged wolf.

  “I gave the order because it’s what ye’d do yourself once ye think about it. Ye have to protect your people from MacNaught. He’s coming. Ye know it in your heart,” William said. “Ranulf may be your kin, but there’s no love lost between ye. He means to take your place or I’m much mistook.”

  “Ye’re more than mistook, Badenoch.” Lord Glengarry shook a fist at his son-in-law. Calling William by his title instead of Will or “laddie” was an indication of how upset he was. The earl quivered with rage. No one but he made decisions about his people, and he wasn’t about to let William start. “Your orders betray ye as a coward and ye’d have me be one too. Fleeing behind the walls and shutting the gate. And against my own nephew!”

  Katherine’s gut churned furiously. She hated seeing the men she loved most in the world at odds with each other. Will was showing remarkable restraint, but the way that muscle in his jaw ticked, she knew his patience wasn’t endless. “Father—”

  “That’s enough, daughter.” The earl cut her off with a dismissive gesture. “’Tis bad enough I must listen to your husband. I’ll not take counsel from a woman.”

  With every appearance of meekness, she sank into one of the Tudor chairs. Katherine wished she could convince her father that Will had done the right thing. She longed to describe the look of gratitude on Mrs. MacElmurray’s face when William offered the protection of the castle to her family, but her father would likely send her away if she said another word.

  “’Tis true I rarely saw eye to eye with Ranulf’s mother, not after she married against our father’s wishes,” the laird said, “but I’ve done nothing to cause my nephew to turn on me.”

  “Ye didna need to do anything,” Will said, his tone measured and low, a sure sign he was struggling to keep his temper in check. “’Tis not personal with MacNaught. He only wants your position, your place. It doesna matter to him if you’re in the laird’s chair or Donald or even wee Angus. Mark my words. He means to claim Glengarry for himself.”

  “That’s against all law and precedent. Glengarry is not his to claim. When I pass, the earldom goes to Donald. No court in the world would rule otherwise.”

  “Aye, but MacNaught’s not taking ye to court. He means to take your castle. Remember, possession is eleven points in the law and they say there are but twelve. Once he has the castle, the title will follow,” William said, “and Donald isna here to defend his inheritance, is he?”

  Katherine bit her lip. Nothing would anger her father more than a slur against his heir.

  “Ye’ve not a shred of proof against my nephew,” the earl bellowed. He couldn’t defend his son’s perpetual absence, so he turned back to blaming William. “I’m thinkin’ ye still hold a grudge over the black eye he gave ye in that wee bit of roughhousing a few days ago.”

  “Roughhousing? In case ye’ve forgotten, MacNaught and his men had beaten me senseless before ye stopped them.”

  Katherine knew it cost Will to bring that up. No man liked to remember such a crushing defeat even though it had been an unfair fight.

  “I’m wondering if I stopped them too soon,” the laird said. “I suppose ye think Ranulf was behind that scepter’s disappearance too.”

  “He was.”

  “I’d like to see your proof.”

  Will folded his arms over his chest and clamped his lips together.

  “As I thought. Ye have none. And now ye order all my crofters to converge on the castle on the strength of nothing more than what Hew MacElmurray claims he saw. And while he was unlawfully trapping on someone else’s land, to boot.” When William didn’t respond, the earl stopped pacing and seemed to settle a bit as he considered what he’d just said. Even the bulging vein on his forehead stopped throbbing and shrank. “Ye believe Hew?”

  “I do,” Will said. “He has no reason to make up this tale, especially since it brands him a poacher.”

  “There is that. What man admits to wrongdoing to offer a false warning?” The old earl sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “But still, I wish ye hadna acted so hasty. I blame myself. Ye’re a young laird yet, Badenoch. Ye dinna know that projected strength is oftimes a man’s best defense. Dinna look as if ye expect an attack and ye’ll not encourage one.”

  William nodded, taking the admonishment along with his father-in-law’s capitulation. “I hope I’m wrong.”

  “Ye are,” the earl assured him. “I’d bet my best plaid.”

  Will’s mouth twitched. “The one with the hole in it?”

  “Aye, laddie, I was never one for puttin’ on airs. And besides, as quick as Margaret mends it for me, I always manage to catch the cursed thing on something and rip it again.” Kat’s father chuckled and her husband joined him. “May as well let the hole stand. I seem to fare better with breeks.”

  Sensing reconciliation in the air, Katherine stood. “Time will tell and then we’ll know whether ye’ll forfeit your plaid, Father.” She headed for the door, stopping when she laid a hand on the heavy latch. “In the meanwhile, why don’t I fetch breakfast for the pair of ye and ye can plan out the castle defenses together, just in case? Besides, it felt like snow this morning. Ye may as well have something to do that’ll keep ye warm and inside.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to fill the cauldrons over the murder holes and set a watch,” her father said as he took the seat she’d vacated. William settled into the chair opposite him.

  “We might organize an archery tournament for this afternoon,” William said. “Just to see how many bowmen we have to hand.”

  The earl nodded. “That’s a good thought. A drill or two to gauge how quickly we can man the walls might not come amiss either. It’ll give us an idea of how many fighting men we can muster. Now ye mustn’t expect much from the crofters. They’ve willing hearts, but they havena much experience with armaments and the like. What d’ye think about . . .”

  Katherine slipped out, satisfied that between the two of them, they’d meet Ranulf’s threat. But as she filled their trenchers with steaming parritch and fresh bannocks, something William had said came back to her.

  “Donal
d isna here to defend his inheritance, is he?”

  If Will had no heir, was he courting the same sort of challenge from a rival a few years hence? Would Badenoch Castle become a bone of contention for every member of the Douglas clan who thought their particular branch of the house ought to take charge since William’s line had ended?

  Her chest constricted with that same old ache, only now a fresh twist of guilt was added. Ultimately, would men die because she couldn’t give her husband a son?

  For within the Rose

  Were heaven and earth in a single, little space.

  Miraculous thing.

  —From “There Is No Rose”

  “Too many people dinna realize how fine a thing a single, little space is, or how much like heaven it can be to one who feels lost in a big space.”

  —An observation from Nab,

  fool to the Earl of Glengarry

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Nab wished with all his heart that he was in his single little space up in his secret tower. William had been trying to teach him to shoot a longbow all afternoon, but the yew bow was not kind to his clumsy hands. Nab had to strain with all his might to draw the arrow back, and when he released it, the missile often went so wrong, everyone within the keep had given the pair of them a wide berth.

  “Has it crossed yer mind that some of us were not meant to be archers?” he asked William after one of the arrows narrowly missed Angus. The terrier went yapping across the bailey, more scared than hurt, but it was a near thing. Nab would never have forgiven himself if he’d hit the wee bugger. He lowered the bow and scowled down the archery butts at the target, which was in no danger from him.

  “Ye must try, Nab.” William handed him another arrow. “Every man should be able to defend both himself and others who are weaker than he.”

  Nab suspected there were few in the castle weaker than he. Maybe the lads in Lady Margaret’s nursery.

  He loosed another arrow, which fell short of the mark by some ten yards.

  The younger lads, he amended as he rubbed his shoulder. It ached from all the unusual exertion.

  William didn’t chide. It was one of the things that made his company so much easier for Nab to tolerate than most people’s. Instead, Lord Badenoch demonstrated the proper technique once more. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, drew it back to his ear in a smooth, seemingly effortless motion, and loosed it. The shaft flew true and sank halfway into the target.

  “A well-placed arrow from a longbow can even pierce armor, ye ken,” William said. “I dinna understand why ye never learned to shoot. I heard that some years ago Lord Glengarry had ordered all men between fifteen and sixty to practice with a bow at least once a week.”

  Nab gave a halfhearted nod. “He did, but I was excepted from the law. When it became apparent to his lordship that I’m only suited to telling stories and making people laugh.”

  Even though half the time he wasn’t sure why they were holding their sides with mirth.

  “What about a sword or a dirk?” William asked. “Have ye ever wielded a blade?”

  “Other than my meat knife, no, and I’ve only ever menaced a shank of mutton with that.”

  “Collect your arrows and give it another go then,” William ordered.

  “I dinna see the point.”

  William’s face went as hard as the stone of the curtain walls. “The point is, if it comes to it, ye need to be able to acquit yourself like a man, Nab.” Evidently, William could chide when he wished. “If I order ye to the wall and call for a volley, ye must follow directions. Ye dinna need to aim then. Just point the tip upward and let fly. Nock. Draw. Loose.” He demonstrated each step again, and the result was another shaft embedded in the target. “But until we come to that, ye need to improve your skills. Now go gather your arrows and try again.”

  Nab wandered after his errant arrows. William was clearly worried. All the whispered gossip he’d heard about Ranulf MacNaught’s army coming might be true.

  He noticed that Dorcas had sauntered out into the bailey to watch the practice from the hillock near where the chapel stood. Since she was looking on, he stood straighter and picked up his pace down to the raised mounds of earth where several round turf-covered targets had been set up. He refilled his quiver, determined to give her something worth seeing. Lord knew, she hadn’t spoken to him since he’d made such a mess of things.

  And surely he’d do better with the bow knowing Dorcas was there.

  Just as he stooped to pick up the arrow that had come nearest to hitting the mark, a sound like a giant hornet buzzed over his head. There in the center of the turf target near him, a fletched shaft quivered.

  He straightened and peered down the butts to see a tall, thin fellow nocking another arrow on the string. Nab waved his arms over his head. “Och, man, do ye not see me here?”

  He quickly scooped up the last of his arrows and skittered to the side as another missile zipped past him.

  “O’ course, I see ye,” the young man called back, cupping his hands around his mouth.

  Nab stomped back to him. “Ye might have hit me, ye ken.”

  “No might about it. I would have hit ye,” the fellow said agreeably, “if I’d been aiming for ye.”

  William clapped a hand on the archer’s shoulder. Nab wondered what that sort of approval felt like.

  “Hew MacElmurray can shoot out a coney’s eye at a hundred yards,” Will said. “Ye were in no danger, Nab.”

  No danger, he says. Maybe not, but when that arrow had flown so close over Nab’s head, his trews were in imminent danger of needing awash.

  “Mr. MacElmurray, ye must be hungry after all that practicing,” Dorcas called down. Even though she spoke only to the new fellow, all three men looked back up at her. Dorcas’s cheeks were kissed with becoming patches of pink, bright roses in a world of grey. She’d never looked so comely. “Cook just took a fresh batch of tarts from the oven. Shall I bring ye one?”

  All that practicing, she says. Hew MacElmurray had let fly only a couple of arrows and Dorcas was ready to bring him fresh tarts for his piddling effort. Nab had been hard at it all afternoon and she didn’t offer him so much as a moldy crust.

  “Are they as sweet as ye?” Hew called back to her.

  “That ye’ll have to decide after ye’ve had a bite,” Dorcas answered saucily.

  Something burned in Nab’s chest.

  “In that case, I’ll come try one,” Hew said. Nab hoped he was talking about the tarts. It was hard to be sure. “I dinna need more practice here.”

  Hew’s words would have been quite a boast if they weren’t true, Nab thought ruefully.

  “Shall I walk ye back to the keep then?” Hew asked.

  Dorcas smiled at the tall bowman.

  She used to smile at Nab like that. Why, oh why had he made such a muddle of things? The burning sensation spread from his chest up his neck and singed the tips of his ears.

  Hew slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder and hurried up the slope to join Dorcas. Leaning toward each other, they ambled off toward the keep. Dorcas’s laughter floated back to Nab. He wondered what the beanpole of a crofter had said to her to make her laugh.

  “Bet he canna read her a poem,” Nab muttered.

  He turned back toward the turf targets, nocked an arrow on the string, and drew with all the fury his body possessed. The fletching on the end of the shaft brushed his ear and he loosed.

  The arrow flew true and buried its pointed head in the target. It wasn’t dead center, but it was close.

  “Well done!” Will pounded his back. “A longbow man should be able to loose ten or twelve birds a minute. Do it again to make sure that wasna an accident.”

  Nab nocked another arrow and drew back the hemp, ignoring the way the muscles in his arm and shoulder protested. He let fly, tracking the course of the arrow through the crisp air till it joined its fellow in the target.

  “I dinna know what ye’re doing different,” Will said, �
�but ye’re definitely getting the hang of this. Keep up the good work.”

  William left, probably drawn back to the keep by the promise of fresh tarts, but Nab pulled another arrow from his quiver. He could have told William what he was doing differently.

  He was imagining Hew MacElmurray’s face dead center on the turf-covered target.

  His camp is pitched in a stall,

  His bulwark is a broken wall;

  The crib His trench, haystalks are His stakes,

  Of shepherds, He enlists the troops.

  And sure of wounding the foe,

  The angels sound the trumpets alarm.

  —From “This Little Babe”

  “The way the carolers tell it, ye’d think the Christ Child was invading the stable. Alone in a world that didna want Him overmuch . . . mayhap He was at that.”

  —An observation from Nab,

  fool to the Earl of Glengarry

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Katherine rolled over in her sleep, conscious only that warmth had fled from her bed. Her hand groped for Will and found only an indented pillow. When she opened her eyes, she saw him standing by one of the arrow slits that served as her chamber’s windows. His dark form was kissed by starlight and faint flickers from the banked fire. The small hairs on his arms and legs were edged with alternating silver or gold. Beautifully formed, he was as still as a statue as he peered through the slit into the night.

  “Will, come back to bed.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice. “I canna sleep and didna wish to wake ye with my restlessness.” But he came to her in any case, sliding under the coverlet, bringing the much needed heat of his bare skin back to the bed.

  For days, the castle had hummed with feverish activity. The Earl of Glengarry’s crofters poured through the gates with their livestock and household goods. Parts of the bailey resembled a fair with makeshift tents and stalls, but there was little of the gaiety associated with an open market. Instead a quiet drone of murmured rumor made the castle a beehive whose inhabitants hadn’t quite made up their mind to swarm.