by Cathy MacRae
Voski snorted gently, moving the loose curls about her cheek.
“Ye speak truth, golden one,” she murmured. “I have no wish to be a widow. And at this moment I have no desire to be a wife, either.”
She caressed the horse’s stubbly muzzle and lapsed into thought.
Why am I the only one who sees a possible connection between missing sheep and a lone campfire? Is it because there is no wolf pelt nailed to a rack, and I am the only one who seriously believes that stretch of parapet is potentially deadly?
Arbela scowled. I will take the first opportunity to prove to these bull-headed Scotsmen that I am correct. And I will come up with a substantial wager to make it worth my while. Disbelief on their faces shall not be enough.
Somewhat mollified with the assurance of proving her point—and reaping a secondary benefit as well—she let her hand drop to her lap. Bored, Voski moved a step away to nibble on a bit of hay, his tail swishing gently at a fly. Arbela burrowed into her impromptu bed, creating a cushioning layer of warmth around her. But sleep eluded her.
What if MacGillonay’s elder son desired revenge? He had not been present when his sire had captured Dunfaileas. Did this indicate a lack of interest? Or had other considerations kept him away? Could he—or anyone else for that matter—be stealing and slaughtering MacKern sheep deliberately? Other than food, why? A band of reivers could explain it, though with the MacLean to the south and the MacGillonay to the north, who would dare trespass MacKern land?
Something deeper was at work here, she was certain. Though with only the two seemingly unrelated incidents—at least as far as Caelen and his men were concerned—she could prove nothing. Mayhap it was time to visit the shepherd.
* * *
Morning was a scant lightening of the sun in a sullen sky. Rain fell slow and thick through the trees, catching the previous drops lingering on the leaves before thudding dully onto Arbela’s borrowed cloak. Not wishing to outline her plan to the bull-headed laird, she did not bother returning to her room for travel clothing, but appropriated a heavy woolen plaide for covering from a row of other such worn garments near the door of the stable.
Voski danced along the trail, oblivious to discomfort, prancing hooves crinkling the leaf-strewn ground with little or no noise. Birds were silent, no doubt huddled together, feathers fluffed against the rain. No small woodland creatures scurried across her path, likely finding the weather a deterrent to normal activity as well. Arbela and Voski were quite alone.
The path wound up through the trees and bracken, skirting boulders protruding from the side of the mountain. Arbela let Voski pick his way and speed, though the rock-impeded trail seemed to hinder him not at all.
The thatched roofline of the shepherd’s cottage at last appeared over the rise, glistening wetly in the rain. But no smoke rose from the pitched roof, and no challenging barks issued forth. A faint bleating reached Arbela’s ears.
Is the shepherd in the hills with the flock, a few left behind for unknown reasons? But why would he leave them unprotected? A few woolly backs gathered en masse, huddled next to the cottage, heads tucked together against the rain.
She reined Voski to a halt and perused the area from the cover of the trees. Rain pelted down, but Garen and Toros should have heard her. She released a low whistle. From far away, a single bark replied.
Dismounting, Arbela drew her sword, leaving the reins twisted about her saddle so they would not trail the ground. Slipping silently through the bracken, she approached the cottage. A muddy patch lay before the door, though whether churned from the recent rains or many feet, she could not tell.
A solid ball of fur exploded from the undergrowth, dragging a length of old, partially rotted rope. The beast struck Arbela mid-chest, the excited whine emphasized with frantic licks of a wet tongue. Tears stung Arbela’s eyes as she hugged Garen close.
The dog’s pelt bristled with scraps of leaves and twigs, and a long scratch ran the length of one light brown leg, marked with both dried and fresh blood. Arbela stooped and set the dog down. Garen’s tail swept the ground, scattering leaves and mud.
“Slow down,” Arbela chided. “Where is Toros?”
Garen leapt to her feet and darted away, halting to peer over her shoulder, whining breathless encouragement. Grabbing Voski’s reins below the shank of the bit, Arbela followed Garen into the woods.
* * *
Caelen’s head would soon burst open, he was certain. And in a perverse way, he looked forward to the event, as such an action could only provide relief from the pain thudding within, improving the way he felt this dreary morning.
“Ye dinnae look so well,” Rory noted, taking his seat next to Caelen at the long table. “Yer wee wife kept ye up late?” He nudged Caelen with an elbow and ruffled his eyebrows in a comical leer.
Caelen recoiled with a snarl.
Rory’s brow arched, smirk dismissed, as he took in Caelen’s appearance. “Unless she challenged ye to a drinking contest yester eve, I would believe the two of ye arenae in accord.”
“She challenged my decisions,” Caelen growled.
“Hers differed from yours,” Rory corrected, pausing to shovel a spoonful of his meal into his mouth.
“Hers doesnae make sense,” Caelen replied, scowling at the petulance in his voice.
“Ye sound like Bram,” Rory mumbled through his porridge. He swallowed and waved his spoon in the air. “If yer wife doesnae agree with ye, it doesnae mean she is wrong.”
“When I want yer opinion, I’ll ask for it,” Caelen muttered, knowing Rory was right, but not liking it.
Rory shrugged and shoveled in another bite of porridge. “Where is Lady Arbela? If ye are too woolly-headed to join me, mayhap she can ride with me to check the site on the cliff in daylight.”
“I dinnae know.” Caelen rose, careful to not let his heels touch the ground and jar his brain loose.
Rory shot him a startled look. “She was angry enough she sent ye to the stables to sleep?”
“Nae,” Caelen bit out. “She slept in the stables.”
A choking sound erupted from behind Rory’s closed fist as he hastily covered his mouth. “Then she isnae likely to be in any better mood than ye are.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and shoved his trencher away. “Come with me. Fresh air will do ye good.”
Caelen reluctantly followed his captain and best friend from the hall, squinting in the dreary glint of sunlight through low, dark clouds. He hunched his shoulders against the steady rain and crossed the yard as rapidly as his pounding head and the slick mud would permit. Rory entered the stable with a great shake of his head, slinging water in every direction. Caelen winced and regarded his night of angry over-indulgence a colossal mistake.
“Ho, lads!” Rory called heartily, apparently either oblivious to Caelen’s discomfort or choosing to remind him of his blunder in a manner he wouldn’t soon forget.
Tousled heads appeared over the stall doors, long lean faces with uncombed forelocks and bristly chins whether horse or lad.
“We require our horses,” Rory said, approaching the nearest stall. “And fetch a clean blanket for my saddle. A dirty one chaffs the hide.”
A lad set off to do his bidding, and Rory and Caelen strode deeper into the stable to the horses’ stalls. Past Voski’s empty one.
“Have ye turned out Lady Arbela’s horse?” Caelen demanded of a stable lad busily forking the manure from the hay. The lad looked up, surprise on his face.
“Nae,” he blurted. “I wouldnae send him out in such weather. My lady took him out herself around daybreak.”
With a muttered curse, Caelen grabbed his saddle and settled it atop Addis’s back. Within a trice he led the protesting horse from his stall and to the open door of the stable where rivulets of rain dribbled from the eaves.
“What has the wench done?” Caelen growled as Rory drew alongside.
“Yer lady wife no doubt has questions we were unable to answer for her last night,” Rory replie
d, stressing Arbela’s title only faintly, a worried look on his face. “Astride that ferocious beast of hers and likely armed to the teeth, I would imagine she is in little danger. Not to mention the weather which even the darkest scoundrel wouldnae venture out in.”
“One broken leg,” Caelen muttered. “Just one is all it would take to make her an easy target.”
Rory lifted a brow. “Do ye refer to the horse’s leg or yer wife’s?”
Caelen led Addis beyond the low eave and swung onto the stallion’s back, wincing as he made jarring contact with the saddle. “The horse.”
* * *
Arbela did not stop at the shepherd’s cottage as Garen showed no interest in it, only in getting Arbela to follow. Trailing the dog to the cliffs overhanging the cottage, likely an adequate shelter from all but the worst winter storms, they climbed upward, the path now little more than a line of close-cropped grass and dirt, legacy of the sheep’s sharp teeth and cloven hooves.
Arbela’s breathing became labored the higher they climbed, and the cold rain lost its immediate effect as Arbela sweated with her efforts. The activity hindered Garen little, though Voski tossed his head as his hooves slid in the loosened pebbles.
At last they reached a tiny croft the shepherd likely used as shelter when returning to his cottage was not convenient. The circular stone building appeared scarcely large enough to hold a single pallet, though any shelter would be welcome when unexpected storms struck.
Garen disappeared inside and Arbela followed cautiously, hefting the comforting weight of her sword. She paused, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the windowless gloom. A whine to her right pulled her attention. Garen lay curled protectively around Toros’s body, her head across his neck. Arbela’s heart lurched.
Toros thumped his tail weakly on the packed earth and Garen lifted her head with a soft croon. Arbela stooped beneath the low lintel and crept inside. The odor of nameless filth assailed her and she suppressed a gag. A low moan, not from Toros, told her she was not alone.
Her heart steadied to note Garen did not flinch, and she peered into the darkness. A roughly dressed man, bearded and lean, lay atop a bed of rags.
“Are ye the shepherd?” Arbela asked.
The man’s fingers partially closed as though seeking the grip of a weapon, then relaxed, the effort apparently too much to complete. Garen rose and stepped to the man’s side, nuzzling his beard. He groaned and lifted a hand in a faint gesture, and Garen returned to Toros’s side.
Torn between assisting the stranger and Toros, Arbela knelt beside her dogs, caressing Toros’s head. Making a quick assessment, she discovered he was tied to a large stick that had been driven into the earth, so tight he could scarcely move. And even if loosened, his broken foreleg would not carry him far. She made short work of the ropes, freeing him, but other than to lick her hand in gratitude, Toros did not move.
He seemed content to stare at her, as if her presence was all he required, and, humbled, Arbela turned to the stranger. Placing a hand on his forehead, she did her best in the close quarters to remain out of his reach. His eyes fluttered open.
“I am the shepherd,” he rasped. “There isnae wolf.”
“Hush,” Arbela urged him. “I did not believe there was. We will get ye to the castle, and ye can tell the laird what ye know.”
“Hurt…too bad,” he wheezed. “Yon dog took blows…meant for me. His mate…she protected the lass….”
“They are a good pair,” Arbela agreed soothingly, wondering if all shepherds referred to their sheep as lasses. “I will get ye water and dress yer wounds. Ye are likely to fare better waiting for my return here than to ride exposed to the rain.”
“Ye must find her….” The shepherd’s voice cracked.
He grunted and waved a hand at her, but Arbela had no time to worry over sheep. She fetched the waterskin from Voski’s saddle, and the shepherd slurped greedily at the water then lay back with a sigh at Arbela’s renewed reassurances. With as much care as she could, Arbela searched the man for wounds, grimacing at the sight of a long tear in his abdomen, the other myriad cuts and bruises comparatively of little importance.
She leaned back on her heels and stripped the damp plaide from her shoulders.
“This should help with the cold,” she said, tucking the warm, dry side about the man carefully.
“I will return as quickly as possible with a litter. The healer will see to your wounds. And I will make certain someone finds the lass,” she added, capturing the shepherd’s frantically waving hands in her own, silently commending his fervor in keeping up with a lost sheep, but placing his singular concern below his need for immediate care. “I will also leave both dogs with ye. Neither are in any condition to keep up with my horse, and they may be of use to ye whilst I am gone.”
She searched both dogs again for treatable wounds, but found little else. She patted Toros’s head. “I am grieved to leave ye, but ye must wait a bit longer. And ye, lass,” she said, rubbing Garen’s ears, “have done an excellent job this day. I ask ye to remain on guard another hour and I will bring men to take the task from ye.”
Garen whined, but did not move when Arbela half-rose to leave the tiny hut. She scanned the edge of the forest for signs of danger, and seeing none, crept to Voski’s side. With a leap, she gained his back, crouching low as she thumped her heels into his side. The stallion reached his full stride in a bound, soaring over stones and downed limbs as if born to the mountains.
Wind whipped the golden strands of his mane into her face, and Arbela swiped at the tears. Someone was targeting Dunfaileas, and when she next spoke to Caelen, he would listen to her reason.
Chapter 34
Arbela caught sight of Caelen as she approached the open castle gates. He looked like hell. Hunched over the front of his saddle, reins dangling from his fingertips, his scowl was enough to deter all but the most determined. The stable lad toeing the dirt in a nervous circle before him did not meet his gaze, and whatever he’d said clearly displeased his laird. Arbela urged her bedraggled horse into the bailey and swung down, instantly on the defensive against Caelen’s dark mood. She was cold, anxious, and in no frame of mind to have her actions questioned.
He glanced up, meeting her look. His frown fled, his brow smoothed. He slid to the ground, narrowing his eyes in a brief wince as his feet hit the ground.
“I have need of a litter and the healer,” Arbela said, forestalling whatever angry words he might harbor.
His look of alarm startled her. “Not for me,” she added in a calmer voice. “The shepherd is badly wounded and I could not bring him here on Voski.”
With a crisp nod, he gave orders to a nearby soldier who took the steps to the stable in two hasty bounds. Caelen stepped closer to Arbela and laid a palm on her shoulder.
“Ye are certain ye are not harmed?” he asked.
“Nae. I am cold and wet, but the rain has ceased, and I am anxious to return to the croft. Toros has been injured and leaving him and the shepherd behind was not easy.”
“Tell me what ye discovered,” Caelen ordered, his voice warm with interest.
Arbela met his words with a raised brow. Caelen winced. “I have discovered not listening to my wife is bad for my health,” he quipped. “I should have given yer opinion the respect it deserved.”
“Thank ye,” Arbela replied softly. “Though yer words are kind, ye must realize that at your first opportunity to listen to what I said, ye dismissed me—for no good reason other than I am a woman.”
Caelen’s eyes narrowed. “I dinnae say that.”
“’Tis easy enough to hear what is not said, as well as what actually leaves your lips,” Arbela noted grimly.
“Will ye tell me now?” Caelen asked. “I regret my bull-headedness, and realize we willnae always agree. That is nae reason for us to go to bed angry. I missed ye fierce last night.”
Arbela could not quite contain the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Whisky is a poor comforter,
aye?”
The soldier returned, interrupting them as he directed a stable lad to attach a sturdy litter to a stocky horse’s harness.
“I will tell ye what I found as we ride,” Arbela said, anxious to return to the croft. Caelen nodded and flung his cloak over her shoulders before mounting his horse. The solid warmth of the cloth, heated by Caelen’s body, nearly stole Arbela’s breath and she laid a trembling hand on Voski’s neck.
She and Caelen exchanged looks. Her thanks for the comfort of the cloak. His silent request she remain behind and tend her health with a fire and mug of hot cider. Her appreciation for the thought, and further gratitude for not insisting she retire tamely to a chair by the hearth.
Without exchanging words, Arbela and Caelen swung into their saddles. Three other soldiers rode up, forming protection around Arbela as the group left the yard and began their journey to the shepherd’s croft. Aware of the men’s concern, she allowed their excessive protectiveness.
The sun had wrested control over the sky by the time they reached their destination. Garen darted from the tiny croft, tail wagging a greeting before she disappeared inside again. Leaving the others to prepare the litter, Arbela ducked beneath the lintel, her eyes scanning the dark objects in the gloom. To her relief, Toros whined and thumped his tail. She rubbed his head and turned to the shepherd.
His chest rose and fell, but so shallowly it was several moments before Arbela noticed the movement. A large shadow blocked the narrow rectangle of light at the door as Caelen entered the shelter. He patted Toros then knelt beside Arbela.
“He lives,” she said with a nod to the shepherd. “But his injuries are dire.”
“I will carry Toros out so he is not in the way, then we will load Coll onto the litter,” Caelen said. He hesitated a moment, gaze fixed on the shepherd. With a single muttered word Arbela did not catch, he touched the man’s shoulder, then turned to Toros.