by Cathy MacRae
Bram’s lower lip quivered and Toros wiggled his back end and tail, adding a swipe of his tongue across Bram’s cheek for good measure. Bram hugged the dog to him then squared his shoulders and filled his bag.
Arbela gathered her sword and bow, adding three daggers from her chest of belongings to a set of sheaths on her belt, bringing her total blades to eight. She slipped a few other small packages into her bag, too quickly for the others to remark.
“My lady?” Agnes ventured, puzzlement on her face as she glanced from Bram to Arbela.
“I will explain,” Arbela assured her. “Trust me. Come now.”
Ilene rushed to her side. “Ye must not take him away!” she cried, tugging at Bram’s sleeve. “Not now! There are armed men at the gates!”
Arbela spun on her heel, staring at the woman. “Whose men?” she demanded. Bram jerked from Ilene’s grip.
Ilene wrung her hands. “Ye cannae leave,” she moaned. “He is my lad. My precious Ruthie’s lad.”
“He is under my protection. Do not delay us further.” Arbela grasped Bram’s hand and turned to the door.
Ilene leapt forward, surprisingly agile for a woman her age. The dogs, alerted to her abrupt movement, growled low in their throats.
“Nae!” the old woman cried. “Ye arenae worthy to care for him! Ye have turned him against me, taken him from me.” She spread her arms before the door. “Ye Saracen witch!” she spat, unknowingly echoing MacGillonay’s words. “Ye touched my lamb with yer black hands, darkening his precious soul. ’Tis time he came back to me. Time ye returned to the godless lands ye came from.”
Garen slid a step forward, her growl deepening.
“That answers the question of who is spreading unkind rumors,” Arbela quipped, holding Garen at bay with a hand motion. “But I do not have time to instruct ye. Move aside now. Ye and I will have a talk soon.” She reached for the latch.
“Nae!” the woman shrieked. She whirled and pressed her face to the wooden panel. “Help me!”
Arbela’s fist curved upward, fast and powered by a single forward step. She clipped Ilene on the point of her chin, crumpling the old woman to the floor. Agnes gasped. Bram stared at the woman at his feet. Arbela knelt and checked the woman’s pulse.
“She will wake, though her jaw will be sore for a day or two.” She caught Bram’s gaze. “I could not allow her to summon help, for I fear she has betrayed us. We must leave now.”
Bram nodded solemnly and stepped around his nurse to follow Arbela from the room. Toros remained at Bram’s side, a whine and a lick for the lad in encouragement. Agnes tread close on their heels. Arbela led them unerringly to the secret passage, collecting a candle as they crossed Caelen’s room. She made quick work of opening the hidden panel, urging Bram and Agnes into the dark space. Bram darted past Arbela to retrieve his sword and shield from the bed, then joined Agnes and the dogs.
“How did ye know this was here?” Bram asked, running his hand over the stones.
“Your father told me of it. ’Twas to be used if he suspected ye were in danger. He told me a few minutes ago to bring ye here.”
Bram sighed, his relief apparent that his da knew where they were. “Where does it go?”
Arbela ignored Bram’s question. She gripped Agnes’ arm, gaining her full attention. “I suspect Ilene has assisted in some treachery and fear she has helped MacGillonay into the castle. Bram must be protected. Ye must take him to my father.”
“Me? I dinnae know the way.” Agnes’ eyes were wide and frightened. “I would do anything for the lad, but I would only wander in circles—and likely lead him back here. Ye must come with us.”
“MacGillonay and I have business to finish,” Arbela said. “And I cannot leave.” She hazarded a look at Bram, wondering how much she should reveal. “If there is a fight, I am needed.”
Agnes shook her head. “I would be no help if we were captured before we reached MacLean Castle. My life is his, but would avail him nothing.” She also sent the lad a look. “He would be as good as caught.”
Arbela gritted her teeth. What would happen if she left with Agnes and Bram? What would happen if she stayed? She did not doubt Agnes’ stout heart, but it was true Agnes would protect Bram for the entire five seconds it would take for MacGillonay’s men to cut her down. Or worse.
She paced the narrow confines of the passageway, impatient with the indecision and the time she wasted.
“I will go with ye.” The words tore something inside her, but she set it aside, concentrating on getting them moving as quickly as possible.
“Why—?”
Arbela silenced Agnes with a wave of her hand. “I will explain later. We have no more time. I must set the doors behind us so none will follow. Remain for me here.”
Not waiting for their nod of obedience, Arbela darted as silent as a wraith across Caelen’s chamber. Easing the door open, she glanced down the passage. Seeing it clear, she moved to Bram’s room. She dragged Ilene to the far side of Bram’s bed, hiding her beneath a carelessly thrown blanket, then reduced the fire on the hearth to a faint glow.
Stepping back to the door, she withdrew a thick leather package from her bag and scattered a swath of thick metal wires, each approximately an inch long, twisted together in pairs and then splayed so that at least one sharp, barbed end pointed upward. If MacGillonay’s men came to search Bram’s room, they would encounter the barbs which would slice through their leather boots, inflicting great pain and possibly resulting later in infection or even death.
She drew a small jar and brush from her bag. With a dagger’s blade, she ripped a splinter from the wooden latch to Bram’s room, leaving it anchored by its nether end, and jutting out to catch the hand of a heedless person. Prying the lid from the jar, she dipped the brush into the contents and painted a bit of the mixture over the wooden barb. The splinter would be a nasty surprise to the next person who attempted to open the door, and the belladonna coating the sliver would soon bring about symptoms of a dry mouth, racing heart, and possibly a terrible case of hives. There were other poisons at her disposal, but though she believed Caelen would follow them to his room, not Bram’s, she decided on a poison that would incapacitate, not kill.
Garen met Arbela at Caelen’s door with a soft whine. The dog at her heels, Arbela then arranged the chest and tapestry to appear as undisturbed as possible before entering the dark passage where Bram, Agnes and Toros awaited.
They rushed down the dark corridor, feet and paws a faint scuffle on the stone floor, punctuated by soft panting from the dogs. Arbela led the way, Bram between her and Agnes, Toros’ sturdy frame lending support to the young lad. A thin trail of smoke billowed back from the candle she carried, which she shielded from the air draft with a cupped hand. They wound down short flights of steps interspersed with level stretches. The walls, only a few feet apart, hemmed them in, creating a stone tunnel that seemed to never end. Agnes’ slippers faltered, but she made no sound as she resumed the headlong pace Arbela set.
After what seemed like a lifetime, they halted. Other than acknowledging the end of the hall with a slight broadening of the passage, there was no indication of a door. Arbela opened a small chest and handed out cloaks and another waterskin, this one empty. Pulling long leather leads from the box, she snapped a leash on each dog’s collar.
“I am sorry about your slippers,” she said to Agnes, knowing they would prove worthless long before their journey was over. “I have no boots for ye.”
“Yer magical chest is empty?” Agnes jested, a strain in her voice. “No matter. At least there is no snow on the ground. I will be fine.”
Fine was stretching matters a bit, but Arbela left the subject. “Cover yourselves as much as possible. Remember your faces and other exposed skin will appear bright in shadows. If you hear someone, pull your hood over your face and look down until the danger is past.”
With a glance to ensure Bram and Agnes were sufficiently covered, Arbela handed each of them a leash, le
aving her hands free. She placed her palm against a stone at the level of her head. With a near-silent whoosh, the stones moved in unison, revealing the door. Instantly struck with the aroma of the stables, it was clear where the passage had led them.
“We will ride?” Agnes asked, her eager voice a faint whisper.
“Nae. Though ’twould be faster, we would create too much noise and I do not know where our enemy lies.” Arbela’s heart lurched, understanding she left Voski behind. She nodded to the open space before them as her eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight. The soft lap of water against the shore greeted their ears. Silver lines marked the ripples on the loch. Stone walls stretched to either side, the castle behind them.
“And the stables are on the other side of the wall. We are now beyond the protection of Dunfaileas.”
Chapter 21
Arbela could have predicted the rain. What weather other than cold and wet did this land offer? If she had not been hampered by a five year old and a young woman facing a long trek, she would not have allowed the inconvenience to hinder her. But neither Agnes nor Bram was prepared for the trip, and beyond tightly woven wool cloaks, they had little protection from the downfall that plagued them shortly after they left Dunfaileas.
“We can stop and rest, but we cannot light a fire,” Arbela said, eying the sullen skies and the rain that had at last withdrawn to a light drizzle. Agnes gave her a wan smile, the gray line about her lips marking her fatigue. Bram dropped to the ground. Toros and Garen surrounded him, lending him warmth and protection.
“He is exhausted,” Agnes murmured.
Arbela handed Agnes the waterskin and bag of food. “Use this sparingly. I hope to be at MacLean Castle by nightfall, but this is all we have. I will fill the other waterskin and return in a moment.” She disappeared deeper into the forest.
The results of the rain dulled the normal sounds of the forest. Birds whose chirps would have alerted her to another’s presence, huddled on their nests, feathers puffed against the damp. The sodden ground absorbed all footfalls, limbs made a faint swish as she passed. Arbela knelt beside the burn that bubbled from the hillside and filled the waterskin, eyes scanning the surroundings.
Nothing stirred.
She disliked taking the direct road from Dunfaileas to Morven, and had kept them off the path as much as possible. But the rise and fall of mountains made striking off across the land dangerous—and nigh impossible. And even at the slower pace she’d allowed for Bram’s sake, he hadn’t lasted half the trip.
Securing the mouth of the waterskin, Arbela turned back, relieved as the drizzle faded to a fine mist. She collected three sturdy sticks and as Bram and Agnes watched, arranged them roughly as a triangle, the apex two handbreadths apart. Trimming a narrow strip of leather from the bottom of her long vest, she used the supple length to lace the limbs together, filling in the center space with smaller branches which she then lashed into place.
Toros stood at her command and she fitted him with a harness of strips of wool torn from her cloak. Arbela noticed the faint gleam of interest in Bram’s eyes.
She motioned to Agnes. “Help me run the poles through these straps.”
Agnes held the loops steady as Arbela secured it behind Toros. The dog’s tail swayed gently.
“Climb aboard, Bram-jan,” Arbela urged, her voice gentle. “I believe ye must rest whilst we trek.”
Bram gave a skeptical look, but carefully maneuvered onto the sled, hesitating as his weight caused it to sag.
“Toros is quite sturdy,” Arbela reassured him. “He has pulled heavier loads than ye.”
Toros whined and wagged his tail encouragingly. Bram jerked his gaze to the dog. Arbela laughed. “He is not disagreeing, merely asking ye to hurry. He is looking forward to a dry spot by the hearth.”
Bram settled and Arbela tucked his plaide about him securely. She grasped Toros’ leash and the dog paced at her side as they continued their journey.
Within moments, Bram was asleep.
“I dinnae suppose ye have one of those for me,” Agnes sighed as she maintained the grueling pace. Though they’d slowed to keep the sled from bouncing over the rocky terrain, the steepness of the trail quickly tired them, creating spasms in leg muscles, and laboring their breathing. Agnes sent a half-hearted glare to Toros who surged ahead, his tail high.
“Cheeky bastard,” she stated, without heat.
Arbela glanced at the sky, noting the position of the sun, a bright spot behind thinning clouds. “We will take a short break,” she said. “We are on MacLean land, though far enough out we may not see a patrol for another hour.”
She released the sled gently from Toros’ harness, allowing him a brief respite. She lowered the traces to the ground as he bounded to Garen who ignored his invitation to play.
Agnes sank to a flattened boulder with a sigh. “That dog has endless energy,” she half-complained. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, soaking in the smattering of sunlight.
Arbela did not waste her breath debating the merits of her dogs. That was a luxury for another day, one when they were not being pursued by MacGillonay and his men.
* * *
MacKern soldiers exploded into action. The two armed men sprang apart. A quick stab at the MacGillonay holding his blade to a MacKern soldier sent him to the ground, his dagger skidding across the floor, released by useless fingers. There was no time to sort out the melee that erupted. Caelen dodged to the side, shoving Rory’s motionless form beneath a bench, then rolled to a crouch facing the room, hands spread, sword ready—having unexpectedly found a cache of weapons in the corner next to the stairs. Arbela’s work? He didn’t have the time to pursue the how of it as a dagger whipped past his ear.
The clash of steel, thud of bodies struck, and cries of anger and injury rose and echoed in the hall. Someone had obviously helped smuggle weapons—and possibly men—for MacGillonay into the keep. Caelen counted many more heads than he’d admitted through the doors an hour earlier. He would seek the traitor out later. And hope the old woman MacGillonay referenced had not encountered Bram or Arbela.
He joined the battle, the room too small a space to allow much freedom of movement. Men grunted, shoved, grappled, slipping on the reeds and herbs scattered on the floor—and in widening pools of blood. He struck a soldier who challenged him, sending him to his knees with a blow to the side of his head. A strike to the back of his skull ensured he stayed down.
Caelen stalked across the floor, elbowing men out of his way as he pursued MacGillonay. The older man met his approach with a challenging leer, accepting a sword from the man at his side. A sense of disbelief washed over Caelen before he could banish it at the appearance of the weapon. He loosened his muscles with a shrug of his shoulders, rotating the sword in his hand, putting thoughts of treachery from his mind. A path cleared almost magically between him and MacGillonay.
“Ye cannae have my sword,” Caelen growled.
MacGillonay laughed. “I dinnae want yer relic. It would be better consigned to the dung heap.” He stepped confidently forward. “I want my grandson,” he said.
“Ye have an heir,” Caelen snarled. “Leave mine alone.”
“Ruthie’s brothers willnae inspire men to follow them,” MacGillonay replied. “Bram has much potential, and many years to bend to my will.”
“Ye will never get him. Not whilst I draw breath.”
MacGillonay’s predatory grin drew his lips past ruined teeth. “A choice I can live with.”
He lunged forward, a lightning-fast move unexpected from a man of MacGillonay’s years. Caelen twisted, sending a shaft of torchlight off the flat of his blade into MacGillonay’s eyes. The attack missed Caelen with a whisper of steel past his ear and Caelen completed his turn, catching the tip of his sword in MacGillonay’s billowing cloak.
The auld laird snatched at the cloth, yanking it from Caelen’s blade and wrapping it about his arm for protection. Caelen wound a section of his own plaide about his forearm
as he circled, looking for an unguarded moment. He disregarded the uproar behind him, his sole focus on his bitter enemy.
Caelen feinted, drawing MacGillonay closer. He leapt forward, blade flashing where MacGillonay had been only a moment before. The sting on his belly told Caelen he’d not gotten away unscathed as his adversary swept his sword beneath his guard.
Shite! Who’d have thought the auld man could move so fast? Caelen plowed ahead, forcing MacGillonay back beneath a heavy barrage of attack. Steel clanged on steel, faster as MacGillonay faltered, unable to withstand the abuse. Caelen’s sword rose and fell, then slid the length of MacGillonay’s blade as the older man’s grasp slipped.
Sparks flashed as the tip of Caelen’s sword struck the stone floor. He absorbed the shock, sweeping the blade up to counter MacGillonay’s thrust. The auld laird pressed forward, seeking a way inside Caelen’s reach. The pair broke apart, panting lightly.
“Give me the boy,” MacGillonay demanded, switching his sword to his opposite hand. He shook his empty fingers, holding them at a peculiar angle.
The auld wolf may be spry, but his bones willnae take the stress. Caelen grinned and wiped a trail of sweat from his brow.
“Nae.”
MacGillonay straightened. “So be it.”
Pain exploded through Caelen’s skull and his world went black.
* * *
Caelen struggled to awareness. Bone-biting cold. Pain shrieking down every limb, bursting in a flash of white light in his head. A groan bled from his lips and weights pressed against his shoulders.
“Dinnae move,” a voice murmured in his ear.
A dim thread of light appeared before one eye, and Caelen realized the other lid would not open. He slowly raised his hand to his face, puzzled by the effort it required.