Forgiving Hearts: Duncurra 1-3

by Ceci Giltenan

  She ignored him and began to dress. “Nay, Fingal, I will join the clan in seeing ye off.”

  “Seeing me off?”

  “Aye, it has always been a tradition here to gather the men and beasts for a blessing just before a boar hunt. Boar hunting is dangerous.”

  “Well, I suppose it can be a bit more dangerous than hunting other prey but if adequate precautions are taken, there should be no problems.”

  “Aye, and one of the precautions we take is a blessing.”

  Fingal chuckled. “When did this tradition start?”

  “Years ago, back before my great-grandsire’s time. I think one of the laird’s sons was killed on a boar hunt. As the story has it, he boasted that he would kill the boar with only his dirk.”

  “Aye some men think it is more sporting to kill a beast at close range but it is very dangerous to try and kill a boar that way.”

  “I expect so,” Gillian said dryly. “It’s probably even more dangerous if ye drink yerself stupid first.”

  “He was drunk?”

  “So the story goes. Still, since then we always gather to bless the hunters.”

  “I certainly won’t stand in the way of tradition then.” He smiled and offered her his hand. “Shall we go?”

  When they reached the courtyard a large number of MacLennans had indeed gathered there. Even Donald and Owen, who were not known to be early risers, were in attendance. Added to the many men going on the hunt, there was quite a crowd. When the horses were saddled and the men ready to leave, Father Stephen invoked God and his holy angels to watch over them. The normally soft-spoken priest had to practically shout to be heard over the baying of the hounds.

  When they were all properly blessed, Fingal turned to Gillian and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, to the delight of the crowd. “Be careful,” she whispered.

  “I will.” He assured her. “I have no intention of either drinking myself stupid or trying to kill the beast with my hands.”

  She grinned. “Good plan.”

  He gave her another quick kiss before mounting his chestnut stallion. The horse tossed his head and danced. “Con, lad, are ye excited? Ye want a bit more than just exercise too, don’t ye?”

  As dawn broke they rode out of Brathanead village, across the small heath, and entered the forest near Rhiannon’s cottage before turning south. The hounds ran ahead of the men as the light morning mist swirled around their feet.

  They hadn’t ridden far before they saw gouged tree trunks and other signs of the boar they sought. The hounds picked up a scent several times but then seemed to lose it. The path eventually took them in a northward arc. They stopped to rest the horses and eat near midday. Hearn took one of his best scent dogs scouting to see if she could pick up a trail. Before long he was back. “Laird, I think Bea has found a strong trail just to our west heading back towards Brathanead. She’s mad to follow it. There is a cliff just a little north of where we entered the forest this morning. If we drive the boar that direction, it will be trapped.”

  “Well then, mount up men and we’ll follow her.”

  Sure enough, once Bea led them to it, the baying hounds found a solid scent trail and they were off. Fingal found charging through the forest on a hunt invigorating. Soon they heard the boar crashing through the forest ahead of them and the men whooped with delight. Now they simply needed to run the boar until the dogs could corner it at the cliff. The terrain was rugged, but Con was strong and sure-footed. Horse and rider were one as they raced through the trees following their prey. The boar was tiring and the dogs would soon have him surrounded.

  In hot pursuit, Fingal soared with Con, over a fallen tree, but as Con’s front feet hit the forest floor, the saddle gave an almighty lurch. Fingal was thrown to one side, head first. Heavy undergrowth broke his fall, but he still managed to hit his head. Everything went black.

  ~ * ~

  “Laird, Laird, can ye hear me?” Eadoin’s voice penetrated Fingal’s pounding head. He opened his eyes to see Eadoin kneeling over him. “Laird, oh praise be, ye are awake.”

  “Eadoin, what happened? God’s teeth, the boar!” Fingal struggled to sit.

  “Nay Laird, ye took a bad blow to yer head. Ye need to rest a bit. The others have gone ahead to bring down the boar.”

  “Where is Con? What happened?”

  “Laird, it looks like the cinch on yer saddle gave way.”

  “Is Con all right?”

  “Aye, he stumbled a bit and seems to be favoring one leg, but Hearn thinks he will be fine. He is seeing to the beast now.”

  Fingal struggled to rise again, pushing past Eadoin’s objections. “I have to check on him.” The man he considered his father, Laird Alastair MacIan, had given him Con when he went off to train with Laird Chisholm. Fingal had learned to be a warrior as Con learned to be a warrior’s horse. It was almost as if Con could anticipate his next moves. Fingal made his way to where the big stallion stood. “Hearn, is he hurt?”

  “Not seriously, Laird. He will need a few days’ rest but he should be fine.”

  Relieved, Fingal stroked the big steed’s neck. “Ye hear that, lad? It takes more than a wee stumble to stop ye, eh?”

  “Laird, he’s not badly hurt, but I can’t rightly say the same for ye. Ye’ve busted yer head open.”

  Fingal touched his head and winced. He had a painful knot and bloody gash just above his hairline. His arms and face had been thoroughly scratched by the underbrush. “I’m sure I’m a fine sight, but I’ll be all right. I don’t know how this happened. The cinch on my saddle was a bit worn, but not thin enough to break.”

  Hearn walked over to the damaged saddle and frowned as he examined the cinch.

  Eadoin asked, “Is something wrong Hearn?”

  Hearn seemed startled. “What? Oh, nay, nothing is wrong. Just a broken cinch, as I said. Ye were lucky, Laird.”

  Hearn looked directly at Fingal before glancing at Eadoin briefly. “Very lucky.” Clearly something was amiss and Hearn didn’t want to speak in front of Eadoin.

  “Aye. I’m just thankful Con is not badly injured.” Fingal needed to be alone with Hearn. He turned to Eadoin. “Perhaps I should take yer horse and catch up with the rest of the men. I’ll tell them what has happened.”

  “Certainly, Laird.” Eadoin led his mount from where he had been tied.

  Fingal started to mount the horse, feigned dizziness, and stepped back down.

  “Are ye all right, Laird?” Eadoin asked, taking the horse’s reins.

  “Nay, I’m a bit light headed. On second thought, perhaps ye should go. I’ll stay here with Hearn and see if I can shake this dizziness.”

  “Are ye sure, Laird? Ye may need me. They will come back soon enough.”

  “Aye, I’m sure I’ll be fine. It is as ye said, I need to rest a bit.” Fingal lowered himself to the ground, leaning back against a tree, closing his eyes.

  “If ye’re sure. I won’t be long.” Eadoin mounted his horse and rode away.

  After a few minutes he opened his eyes. “Now, Hearn, what’s wrong.”

  “Come look at this, Laird.” He picked up the cinch. “Ye see here? The strap broke where the leather is worn.”

  “Aye, but that is what ye said, isn’t it? The strap gave way under wear?”

  “Aye, but look at the split leather. The front edge of the strap, where the wear is greatest, is darkened with age. If it gave way purely because of wear, I would expect the last bit of it to look torn. But see here, along the back side of the strap? It isn’t torn. It looks as if it has been cut.”

  Fingal couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What are ye saying? Ye think someone damaged my saddle on purpose?”

  “Aye Laird, I think so. They cut into the cinch just behind the spot where it was most worn. The thing is, Laird, I saddled Con for ye myself. I checked his tack and it was fine. It hadn’t been damaged then. Someone did this after he was saddled. Being on the back side of the strap, ye
wouldn’t have noticed the cut. Whoever did this weakened it enough to ensure it would break during the hunt while ye were riding hard or jumping.”

  Fingal looked closely at the broken strap and the evidence seemed conclusive. “Hearn, why didn’t ye want to mention this in front of Eadoin? Do ye have some reason to suspect that he was involved?”

  “Nay, Laird. I believe Eadoin is a good man. But this was a foul deed. If I’m right, someone was aiming to kill or injure ye. I wouldn’t have imagined any MacLennan capable of it. Still, I thought it better to let ye and ye alone know my suspicions first.”

  “It must be one of the men with us.”

  “I don’t know. It could have as easily been done before we left Brathanead. There were a lot of people gathered for the blessing. Someone could have gotten to Con then.”

  “Aye, I suppose they could have.” This was hard for Fingal to believe. He knew a few of the MacLennans still resented his becoming laird. However, things were going well, they were becoming a stronger and more secure clan. “Hearn, don’t mention this to anyone. If someone means me harm, I don’t want to tip them off just yet.”

  “I won’t, Laird, but have ye considered that it might not just be ye they mean to harm?”

  “What makes ye say that?”

  “The fire in yer chamber a few weeks ago. Ye said ye were sure ye banked it properly.”

  “Aye, I did.”

  “If ye hadn’t wakened in time, both ye and Lady Gillian would have perished.”

  Fingal hadn’t wanted to believe the fire was anything other than misfortune. In light of the damage to his saddle that caused this accident, he knew Hearn was right. Gillian would have been killed too. But even if some still hated him, how could someone wish to hurt her? It didn’t make sense. “Hearn, the king’s edict was not unanimously welcomed by the MacLennans. In spite of their pledges of fealty, there might still be some who would wish me dead. But Gillian is loved. I can’t imagine that anyone wishes to kill her.”

  “I can’t either, but the facts are the facts and ye need to face them in order to protect her.”

  Dear God, could she be in danger? “I can’t understand why anyone would wish to harm her, but ye’re right. I can’t risk her life. I promise, I will find out who is at the bottom of this and I will protect her, Hearn.”

  Chapter 19

  The hunt was successful. The hunting party returned to Brathanead with a huge boar. Gillian went to greet the returning huntsman with Bodie at her side. She was as elated as the rest of the clan until she saw her husband. If the huge knot and gash on his forehead were not enough, his face was streaked with dried blood and his left eye was blackening. She rushed to him and put her arms around him. “By the saints, Fingal, what happened to ye? I thought ye said ye wouldn’t tackle the beast bare handed.”

  Fingal returned the hug and gave her a quick kiss. “Are ye referring to this wee thump? Aye, well, I can’t rightly blame the beast for this. ’Twas but an accident. The cinch on my saddle gave way. Luckily I landed on my hard head or I might have been seriously injured.”

  The men around them chuckled at his jest but Gillian was worried. “Fingal, don’t tease. This is a serious injury. Eadoin, please send for Agnes.”

  Fingal caressed her cheek. “Really, Gillian, it will be fine. But I wouldn’t say nay to a bath.”

  “I’ll arrange for a bath for ye after Agnes has seen to yer injury.”

  Fingal did not protest when she led him to their chamber, Bodie on their heels. When they entered, Bodie settled into his spot by the hearth while she gathered what she needed to clean the gash. “Fingal, tell me what happened.”

  “It is just as I said, Con and I had jumped a fallen tree and the cinch on my saddle broke. I guess it was more worn than I thought.”

  Something in his tone of voice concerned Gillian but before she could ask him anything else, Agnes arrived.

  “Och, Laird.” She gave a wheezing cough. “The gash isn’t too bad. I’ll put a few stitches in it for good measure.” She coughed again.

  Gillian had been so worried about Fingal she hadn’t noticed that Agnes herself appeared pale and drawn. “Agnes, ye don’t look well yerself.”

  “Ah, Gillian lass, I feel a bit of a catarrh coming on. ’Tis nothing to worry about.” She coughed again before prodding the wound on Fingal’s head. “Laird, the size of that knot makes it look like ye rattled yer skull but good. Are ye dizzy at all? Can ye see clearly? Did ye lose consciousness when it happened?”

  “I’m fine, Agnes. Ye need to look after yerself. I think this bump looks much worse than it is.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Answer my questions.”

  Fingal chuckled at her authoritarian manner. “I am not dizzy and I can see fine. I did black out for a moment when it happened but I’ve been fine since then.”

  She coughed again before accusing, “Eadoin said ye were dizzy for a while afterward.”

  Fingal looked slightly sheepish. “Ah...well, aye. I suppose I was for a few minutes but I’m fine now.”

  Agnes frowned. “Laird, ye mustn’t make light of this. A blow to the head is a fickle thing. Sometimes a man can take a blow so hard he lapses into a sleep so deep ye’d believe he’d never come out of it. Then in a few days, he wakes up right as nails with no permanent damage. Yet another man takes a hit that doesn’t even knock him out. He seems fine but days—maybe even weeks—later, he starts complaining of dizziness, confusion or a headache. Then he falls into a sleep from which he never wakes.”

  “I’m sorry Agnes. I know head wounds can be unpredictable. But the damage is done.”

  “Aye, but if ye take things slow for the next few days and don’t overwork yerself, it likely won’t cause ye any trouble. It’s folks that ignore an injury like this and don’t give themselves time to heal that have more problems.” She was caught by a spasm of coughing.

  “Says the woman who should be tucked up in her own bed taking care of herself.”

  “Don’t try to turn the tables on me, lad. Do as I tell ye.”

  “Agnes, I can’t stay in my bed for the next few days just because of a wee bump.”

  Gillian put her hands on her hips and scowled. “Ye can if she says ye must.”

  Agnes chuckled. “Laird, ye needn’t stay in bed any more’n I do. Just take things a bit easy. Don’t do any heavy lifting or over strenuous work.”

  “I will on one condition—ye do the same.”

  She scowled, but after another coughing spasm agreed before stitching his wound. The servants arrived with the tub and water as she worked. “Normally I would have given ye something for the pain, but with a head injury, it is better if I don’t.”

  “Don’t worry. If the potion ye brew for pain is anything like Katherine’s, I’d rather take the pain.”

  Agnes grinned. “Aye, Katherine MacIan is a smart lass and we use a similar recipe. Find it a tad bitter, do ye?”

  “More than just a tad.” As he said that an odd expression crossed his face.

  “Is something wrong, Fingal?”

  He smiled at Gillian. “Nay, love. It just smarts a bit.”

  Agnes finished the last stich and left with another stern warning for him to rest.

  When they were alone, he started to undress. “Here, let me help ye.”

  He laughed. “Sweetling, undressing is hardly heavy labor.”

  She pouted coyly. “But I like helping ye undress.”

  “Well then, I certainly wouldn’t want ye to feel deprived.”

  She giggled and helped him remove the rest of his clothes. He climbed into the tub, groaning as he sank into the warm water. She took a cloth and gently washed the dried blood from his hair and face before moving onto the rest of his body. “Ye are covered with scratches. Did ye land in a thorn bush?”

  “Not a thorn bush, but aye, some fairly heavy underbrush. That was lucky really as it broke my fall. I might have broken something useful—like my neck.”

  She knew
he was trying to underplay what had happened, but she realized that he could have been killed and she sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving that he hadn’t been more seriously injured.

  She soaped her hands, massaging his arms and shoulders as she bathed him. He closed his eyes, relaxing.

  “Do ye like this?”

  “Aye, love, I do.”

  She slipped her hands lower, washing his belly. Her fingers brushed the long red scar on his side. “How did ye come by this scar?”

  His brow furrowed and then he winced and touched the lump on his head. “I must remember not to frown for a few days.”

  She kissed his forehead lightly. “Ailsa says kisses make hurts better.”

  He cupped her head in his hand and pulled her lips to his, giving her a soft kiss. Letting her go he said, “I think Ailsa is right.

  “They also seem to make a man forgetful,” she teased. “I asked about yer battle scar.”

  “It was nothing, really. It looks much worse than it was and I can’t even claim it as a battle scar. It happened on the training field well over a year ago now. It was simply an accident.”

  “I’m not sure whether ye are very lucky or simply accident prone.”

  “Why do ye say that?”

  “Well, just in the short time ye’ve been here, a stone from the wall nearly fell on ye. We’ve had a fire. Ye barely missed getting an arrow shot through yer heart and yer cinch broke while ye were hunting today.”

  He said, “I would prefer to think of it as lucky,” but again his tone concerned her.

  She sat back on her heels. “Something is amiss.”

  “Nay, love. Why would ye say that?”

  “Please don’t lie to me, Fingal. I can tell. When ye told me the cinch must have been more worn than ye thought, it was as if ye didn’t believe that. And just now, ye said ye would prefer to think of it as luck, yet it seems ye think something else.”

  Fingal sighed. “I’ll finish bathing and then tell ye what concerns me.”

  ~ * ~

  Gillian was too perceptive by far. He had hoped not to worry her with his concerns but he now realized he couldn’t keep it from her and maybe it wasn’t even in her best interest to do so. He had more reason than ever to believe that the fire was not an accident. As soon as Agnes had mentioned not giving him anything for pain, he remembered the God awful tasting brew that Katherine had given him when he had been injured the previous year.