by Cathy MacRae
“Bram is missing, and MacGillonay dinnae take well to the news. When ye scarcely could speak, much less answer his questions, he gave ye over to his men for a bit of fun.” Rory sighed. “I am sorry they surprised us. I had no idea Ilene had spiked the postern gate for them.”
“Ilene has been too attached to the lad. She came here as Ruthie’s maid—had been her nurse since she was a bairn. I’d told Ilene ’twould soon be time for Bram to move beyond the nursery.”
“Clearly an unpopular decision,” Rory drawled. “I wonder if MacGillonay promised her she could remain with Bram?”
“Whatever he promised her, ’twas enough for her to commit treason,” Caelen growled. “Her life is forfeit once we escape.”
Rory nodded. “MacGillonay’s men apparently slipped inside whilst he hurled insults at yer bride, and had our attention.”
“He certainly had mine,” Caelen muttered. His fingers slid gingerly over lumps and crusts—the swollen areas of bruised and split flesh, and old blood. Every inch of his head pained him, and he placed a palm on the floor, levering himself to a seated position.
His stomach instantly rebelled, and he fell to the side, retching. Other hands caught his shoulders, low voices murmured in the dark. When the sensation of being on a pitching horse subsided, Caelen straightened as much as he could and surveyed his surroundings.
Dark forms, rounded on top, appeared as shadows in the nearly lightless room, indicating he and Rory were not alone. Old straw released foul odors as he shifted his position on the cold floor.
“Should’ve had someone attend to the pit,” he said. “’Tis rarely used, and I cannae say I am pleased to be the first down here in a while.”
“Aye. And the amadans dinnae use the ladder when the MacGillonays dumped us here. Most of the lads they simply pushed in. Young Alan broke his leg when he fell, and I dinnae doubt Wee Erik would have as well, had he not landed on Fergus.”
“How many…?” Caelen couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.
“From what I gather, six died either in the yard or in the hall. There are ten of us in here, including the MacLean’s knights, and all sport a bash or two.”
“Do ye believe anyone escaped?” Caelen asked.
“I cannae say, though ’tis doubtful. The attack was too unexpected. I cannae account for everyone from down here, and have only told ye what I’ve pieced together from what others have said.”
“MacGillonay doesnae have Bram?” It seemed important to ask, though Rory’d already said so and Caelen doubted he would still be alive if Bram had been captured and returned to his grandfather.
“Och, it seems yer wife has disappeared as well.” A smile softened Rory’s voice. “And MacGillonay is quite beside himself. Yester eve’s insults were mild compared to what he has called her of late.”
“How long before he realized they arenae simply hiding and look outside the castle?”
“I dinnae know for certain—as I was out of my head for a bit—but when he came for ye, demanding to know where ye’d hidden the lad, ’twas still dark. When they returned ye to the pit, a bit of light was peeking over the wall. They’ve had a bit of time to get away, Caelen.”
A shout from above jerked Caelen’s attention.
“Dinnae fash,” Rory advised. “They do that every little bit. I believe ’tis more to agitate us than from any real happening. If they capture the lad, we’ll know it.”
* * *
Arbela roused Agnes from a light doze. “Gather your things and hide in the brush. Something has alerted Garen and Toros.”
Bleary-eyed, Agnes rolled to her feet and Arbela woke Bram and the pair disappeared deeper into the underbrush. Arbela unsnapped the dogs’ leashes and waved her arm in Bram’s direction. “Toros, guard,” she said, sending him after the boy. Garen stood firm at her side, the rumble in her chest vibrating against Arbela’s leg. Arbela slung her bag over her back and vanished into the shadows.
Woodland noises faded, the beat of her heart the loudest thing in her ears. A flock of birds burst from the trees to her right, arcing overhead to land a good distance to her left, cawing their displeasure. Within moments, the clop of hooves thudded nearby, shuffling atop the wet leaves.
Arbela breathed deep against the thud of her heart, straining her ears to sift through the sounds. She could not detect the distinctive four-beat pattern of a single horse’s hooves, the heavy shuffle indicating several mounted men. There was no relaxed bantering among them, which meant they had grown weary of each other’s company—or they hunted something, or someone, to whom they did not wish to announce their presence.
Sinking on level with Garen, Arbela watched the trail. She withdrew a length of twine from her belt and attached it between two saplings a few inches off the ground. Taking the small jar from her bag, she carefully swiped two daggers in the poisonous mixture. She replaced the lid and eased the jar back into her pack, stowing the blades in a sheath on her belt, away from an accidental touch.
Time stretched as she waited. At last the brush of leaves caught her attention as a slender shrub swayed. The hoofbeats ceased. A light thump drifted through the trees and Arbela imagined a rider dismounted. She knew they’d left signs, though she’d backtracked as far as she dared earlier as the others rested, gently brushing the trail. But the ends of the sled Toros pulled had dug into the debris of the path under Bram’s weight, and her efforts had done little to confuse their followers.
Garen’s growl increased, then softened beneath Arbela’s restraining hand. The dog crouched, her legs poised for a leap. Arbela eased the pair of throwing blades from her belt and moved some of her weight onto her right leg. She snapper her head around at the crck of a twig to her left. Garen lunged forward, barking furiously. A shadowed figure burst through the trees to her right, swooping down on her.
Arbela dodged between her two attackers, sending one blade into the shoulder of the noisy one to her left. Landing in the open area of the trail, she rolled once and came up on one knee, primed to throw the second blade. The shadowed man’s cape billowed about him, suggesting no good target. She slid the dagger into its sheath and drew her sword, swinging it in a low arc, catching the back of the man’s knee. He fell with a cry, leg twisted beneath him.
Blood poured from the wound in the other man’s shoulder, but he advanced on her, a snarl on his face. “I willnae put up with insolence from the likes of ye,” he spat. “Save yerself and give up the lad. ’Tis the lad he wants.”
Arbela didn’t bother to ask who he was. No one but MacGillonay sought Bram. The man crept toward her, one wary eye on her sword. Garen rushed him, slashing his legs with her fangs, only to retreat as quickly as she’d attacked. His attention now divided between the two, the wounded man backed against a tree and cupped a hand to his mouth.
“Over here!” he shouted as three other men burst into view. Garen danced back and forth, barking, nipping, trying to drive them away from Arbela. One man chased the dog away, sword swinging as they wove through the trees.
“Give us the lad,” the largest of the rogues demanded. “We can make this go hard or easy.” His grin betrayed the lie of his words.
Arbela shifted her weight, unlocking her muscles, but did not give up her defensive position. Eyeing the three men remaining, Arbela kept them in sight.
“Och, I’m hard already!” one boasted. “She looks sturdy enough for all of us. Catch her and let’s have a bit of fun!”
“Son of….” Arbela whispered low, not moving her gaze from the men who shuffled their feet as though waiting for the others to instigate their plan. A cry of pain blurred with Garen’s savaging growl. One more down. She spared a quick look at the man who dragged himself away from the fight, one leg half-severed. Two gone. The man she’d pinned with her dagger scratched himself. Then again. He swatted the back of his neck and rubbed his eyes. Arbela allowed herself a small smile as she watched the poison take effect. Three.
Two remained. For a moment they see
med undecided, apparently not anticipating the resistance she’d offered. A silent word seemed to pass between them and they both darted forward, their war cries rising in the air, the shorter of the pair closing the distance to Arbela first. The one to her right struck her tripline, sending him crashing facedown into the wet, leaf-strewn ground.
In a graceful swirl, Arbela brought her sword and dagger to play, stepping directly into the taller man’s path, nicking the downed man on the arm as she whirled past him. She dropped to one knee, head down, inviting the taller man to vault over her. Completely taken aback by her tactics, he tried to stop, tumbling into Arbela rather than over her. She clenched her jaw against the impact and drove her sword into his side as he fell, flesh giving way to the scrape of steel on bone.
Arbela leapt to her feet, instantly catching sight of the shorter man. He’d gained his feet and stumbed to the side, one hand clenched on his arm. He pulled his hand away, a puzzled look on his face as he realized there was very little blood on the long, shallow gash. He gripped the wound again, blinking his eyes furiously as he staggered against a tree trunk.
“No tolerance for belladonna? A shame.” Arbela centered her attention on the other man.
“Ye bitch!” the taller man spat, hand clenched to his side where a stream of blood and other liquids told their deadly tale. “There will be others after ye. Ye cannae hide much longer. ’Tis too far to MacLean Castle. Ye’ll never make it.”
“We already stand on MacLean land.”
“I am MacGillonay’s younger son. Ye cannae hope to escape my father’s wrath.”
Her heart double-tripped as she absorbed this information. Killing the laird’s son—even a younger son—was certain to incite a clan war. Not that MacGillonay hadn’t already crossed that line, but this was simply fuel for the fire.
Hooves pounded up the trail. Arbela leapt to her feet and vanished into the trees.
Chapter 22
Horses came to a halt with shuffling hooves and the undisguised creak of leather. Shouts filled the small glen and the distinctive scrape of steel on leather reached Arbela’s ears. Torn between the expectation of more pursuers and the desire to discover a MacLean patrol, she slipped closer. Men—she counted eight—perused the MacGillonays, prodding those who could walk into a group, leaving the one with the slashed tendon and MacGillonay’s son where they lay.
One knelt beside the lad with the gash in his side, peering at his wound.
“Ye have acquired lions in Scotland?” he asked. Arbela knew him instantly.
“Kade!” she cried as she leapt from the brush.
He spun about, sword ready. A look of puzzlement crossed his face. “What are ye about, Arbela? Should ye not be at Dunfaileas?” His brow furrowed deeper as he took in her disheveled clothing. “I will personally hang the man responsible for this.”
Arbela drew a hand through the air. “These are MacGillonay’s men.” She indicated the lad on the ground. “That is his younger son. MacGillonay invaded the castle last night. I escaped with Bram and my maid, and these men have been on our trail.”
“Ye have done well to have made it this far,” Kade noted. “And they were unwise to try to take ye.” His voice held a mix of pride and amusement. “MacGillonay willnae be pleased to lose his son, though I’ve heard naught good of him. We must get ye to yer da. Where are the lad and Agnes?”
Garen shoved her nose into Arbela’s hand. With a cry of relief, Arbela stooped and hugged the dog to her, noting the fur along one shoulder matted with blood and bits of leaves and dirt. “Garen will find them.”
Arbela stood and cupped the dog’s chin. “Find Toros.” Garen hesitated only a moment, then was off, tail high, only a slight limp betraying her wound. Arbela dashed after her, sword drawn. She cut the tripline before any could see her handiwork. Though she knew her da made allowances because of their history, she thought it best not to leave snares lying about for all to see.
They burst through the trees several lengths from the road. Toros bristled, head lowered, hackles up, a snarl on his lips. A single bark sounded as Garen bounded toward him and Toros dropped his guard, tail swinging madly. Agnes and Bram crept from behind a fallen tree.
Arbela grabbed Bram’s shoulders and pulled him tight as relief flooded her. Bram burrowed close, then shoved away, a scowl on his face.
“Agnes wouldnae let me help ye,” Bram complained. “She made me hide in the bushes—like a lass.”
“Careful, my boy,” Arbela cautioned. “Girls are neither weak nor cowardly.”
“I heard fighting,” Bram persisted, ignoring her correction. “I had my sword. And I can use it.”
Arbela squatted on her heels. “Bram, ye will one day be a fine warrior. Ye will have the sword to match your skills, and your bravery will be well known. Until then, ye are bound to others who will do their best to keep ye safe. No one doubts your heart, merely the years of training all warriors need.”
“Did ye kill the bad men?” Bram asked, his voice small.
“Aye, Bram, I did. Death is often the fate of those who do evil in this world. Ye and Agnes were at great risk, and I had no other choice.”
Bram was silent for a moment. “Can we go home, now?”
“We will continue to my father for help. Then we will go home.” Arbela glanced at Agnes’ wan face and grinned. “The MacLeans are here. We will ride the rest of the way.”
“Saints be praised,” Agnes replied, a wealth of weariness flooding her voice. “If ye can manage a warm bath and a few hours’ sleep, I’d kiss yer feet.” She peered around Arbela as men appeared through the trees. “Definitely his feet,” she murmured as Dubh stepped forward.
“Leannan—are ye well?” he asked, hurrying to her side.
Delight lit her face, erasing the tiredness. “I am blessed ye found me,” she replied. “Though I will require a new pair of slippers,” she added, wincing as she shifted her weight on her battered feet. Dubh instantly swept her into his arms, halting abruptly at the sight of the other MacLean soldiers.
Silence reigned for two beats, then laughter erupted. “I suppose Agnes rides with ye?” Kade queried, his voice balanced between humor and mild reproach.
Dubh’s face reddened. “Aye. If ye will allow it.”
“Mount up!” Kade ordered. “Arbela, choose a horse.”
“Bram is with me,” she said. Kade gave a brisk nod of agreement.
They hurried along the trail to where the rest of the MacLean patrol had made short work of securing the MacGillonays. Arbela noted the laird’s son was missing from the group of prisoners. She spied a wool-wrapped bundle draped across the back of one of the MacGillonay ponies. It hadn’t taken long for his wound to prove fatal. She bowed her head and murmured a prayer for the dead man’s soul, stooping to Bram’s level so he could hear her words.
“Even though he died conducting evil against innocents, he was a child of God,” she told him.
“He tried to kill ye?” Bram’s voice trembled.
“And I stopped him,” Arbela replied. “Though he showed no mercy in this life, it is right to pray for your enemies.” Taking Bram’s hand in hers, she led him to the tethered ponies.
She inspected the MacGillonay horses, surprised to find them sturdy and in good condition. Choosing a leggy bay, she swung aboard. “Split our group,” she advised. “Captives will slow us down, and we must make haste.”
Kade tasked four of his men with conveying the prisoners to Morven. The rest formed around Arbela and Bram, their horses dancing nervously as they scented excitement—and blood. With a silent signal, the small group sprang down the trail, riders crouched low over their horses’ necks. Dubh and Agnes brought up the rear, but would not be left behind. The horses toiled beneath the heels of their riders as their great speed ate the remaining miles.
They thundered down the approach to Morven, the towers of MacLean Castle bold against the gray sky. Sunlight glinted off Loch Aline in the distance. Arbela’s heart stuttered.
<
br /> Home!
“We’re here, Bram-jan,” she said, jostling the boy gently to wake him. “I will make certain ye are fed, and after, ye may have my room for the night.
“Can Toros sleep with me?” he asked. “I feel safer when he’s with me.”
Arbela glanced at the boy’s upturned face, worry lining his brow, the sheen of tears bright in his eyes. He had seen too much evil in the past hours, and the small concession would help keep the night’s insecurities at bay.
“Aye. Toros would like nothing more than to guard ye after ye both have eaten a hearty meal. He may stay with ye.”
“A MacLean!” Kade shouted as they urged their flagging horses down the last stretch to the castle. Gates that had begun to close swung open again, activity boiled on the parapet and cries echoed in the bailey. People halted on the side of the road, staring at the riders as they swept past.
They dragged their horses to a halt amid a cloud of dust, eager hands reaching for the reins. Toros and Garen headed for the low trough beside the stable several lengths away. Toros climbed in and lapped the water as he wallowed to cool himself. Garen drank sparingly then hobbled to the shade of the wall and plopped down, tongue lolling. Arbela sprang from her mount as Alex raced across the open yard. He sent her horse a bewildered look.
“Where is Voski? And what are ye doing here? Are ye hurt?” He accepted Bram from Arbela’s arms and set him on the ground. “What has happened?”
“One question at a time, brother,” Arbela said, bracing a hand against her mount’s shoulder, her legs unsteady after the long trek and ride. She approached exhaustion, but could not spare the time to rest. “I must speak to ye and father together. Do ye know where he is?”
Alex wasted no further words. “This way.” He pivoted on his heel and led her to the hall. Arbela sent Bram inside in Agnes’ care with strict instructions to feed him and allow Toros to remain with him. Dubh and another soldier flanked Agnes and Bram, protecting them, allowing Arbela to follow her brother.
Donal glanced up as Alex and Arbela burst into his solar. Slapping his quill to the desktop, he shoved his chair back and rose, meeting them before they were halfway across the room. He grasped Arbela’s forearms, halting her, holding her steady for his gaze. He looked her up and down, then sent Alex a stern look.