The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  Rosaline blinked. “First, I’ll point out, I spent my time at Sir Simon de Bretteby’s keep, North Hall, not de Wylde’s at Belwyck Castle. Second, if I’d known ye wanted an accounting of Lord de Wylde’s knights, their weaponry and abilities, I would have given them more notice. When his men visited North Hall, I was more concerned with the amount of ale they drank than where they put their swords.”

  Her da scowled and Rosaline knew he was once again displeased—and not with Lord de Wylde. As if to affirm her assumption, he aimed a thick forefinger in her direction.

  “What good does it do me tae welcome ye home—again—if ye cannae help yer auld da with his predicament?”

  This time Rosaline rolled her eyes. “Ye arenae in a predicament, Da. Ye’re being offered peace.”

  “Och! Peace on his terms.” He slapped his palms against the arms of his chair and rose to his feet. With measured tread, he retraced Rosaline’s earlier path from window to hearth. She thought to point out his boots would wear a rut in the floor long before hers would, but decided to take a more helpful route.

  “The men at North Hall worked hard to rebuild the keep. Even Sir Simon put forth effort when most lords wouldnae have gotten their hands dirty.”

  Her da rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He has been a warrior and nae milk-fed dandilly. Do ye believe this can be wrought tae our advantage?”

  Rosaline considered the people she’d come to know at North Hall. “They arenae so bad—for English, I mean. And Sir Simon’s lady wife is a Scot—a Maxwell.”

  “Och, I dinnae care for the Maxwells.” Laird Johnstone waved a hand as if combating an unpleasant smell. “Never have. Deceitful and unscrupulous, the lot of ’em.”

  “Mayhap ’tis why Lord de Wylde suggested ye as a better steward of Eaglesmuir than letting it fall back into Maxwell hands.”

  Her da raised an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth quirked upward. Clearly, he agreed.

  “I came to know Lady Iseabal.” Rosaline’s voice softened, remembering the kindness the woman had shown her. Under different circumstances, perhaps they could have been friends.

  Thomas grunted impatiently. “And?”

  Rosaline’s chin jerked. “And she’s nice. Has a wee lad. It appears she and Sir Simon met some few years ago. The lad is his son.”

  Her da pointed a callused finger at her, a meaningful glare backing it up. “I’d not have a daughter of mine consortin’ with the enemy—feeling sorry for him and other such nonsense. Nae good would come of it.” He gave a curt nod. “Left her with a bairn in her belly and naught else but misery.”

  “They’re wed now, and expecting a second bairn,” Rosaline countered, not bothering to ask how he knew of the woman’s circumstances. Gossip—or scandal—and this was certainly a nine-day’s wonder—traveled fast along the Border.

  “Och, she’s a Maxwell,” her da grumbled, as if that clarified everything. “It appears Lord de Wylde’s commander is leading the knights who will arrive here on the morrow. Sir Walter de Ellerton. Sticks in me craw, it does, tae be told to house English knights.”

  Rosaline’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Walter de Ellerton, but hurried to put a stop to the tirade her da appeared to be working himself into even as a memory of the tall, broad-shouldered knight, his soft brown eyes perched atop a rather long nose, haunted her.

  “Lord de Wylde is sending men to uphold his end of the bargain, Da. Do ye think ye can behave yerself? This could be beneficial to us, ye know.”

  “Behave . . ?” Her da startled as if wounded by the suggestion. “’Tis been many a year since an Englishman has gotten the better of Thomas Johnstone. Mind yer betters, lass.”

  He sighed and jerked his head toward the door. “Go. I’ve enough to consider. Mind ye, I’ll want to speak tae ye again later.”

  Rosaline bounded from the room. Whether he wished to speak of the men soon to arrive or of her continued unmarried state, she didn’t care to know. Or perhaps he wished her to tell him more of the knight commanding the mission from Lord de Wylde.

  Sir Walter de Ellerton. A slight shiver raced pleasantly through her. She remembered him quite well, in fact.

  Walter studied the square tower perched atop a low rise. Surrounded by a wide swath of cleared land, the stone walls rose four levels high. A sturdy wood enclosure contained a substantial yard, tall enough to make it difficult to ascertain the number or type of buildings it contained. Movement could be seen along the top of the wall and weapons bristled from the hands of men stationed at the gate.

  Middleburn Keep was not what Walter had expected. He’d experienced the fortresses along the English border, always in contention, always in a state of repair. Middleburn Keep’s strength was evident in its solid stone structure, the carefully tended, sturdy wooden walls, neatly harvested cultivated land immediately surrounding the keep, and the small but thriving village on the far side of the narrow creek which ran along the base of the western wall.

  Chief Johnstone is a powerful man. What need has he of an alliance with the Saint?

  Walter and his knights rode from the shelter of the wooded road, banners waving, sun glinting from armor and weapons. An instant later, not even the shadow of a Scot fell upon the road and the gates to Middleburn Keep groaned as they closed.

  “Are we not expected?” Eadric drawled. His hand crept to the hilt of his sword.

  “Aye.” Walter remained unperturbed. If he had noted armed knights riding toward his castle, he would have done the same. A short discussion with the guard and all would be well.

  Eadric sent him a frown, and though he touched his helmet’s faceplate, he did not lower it.

  Walter nudged his war horse to the front of the column and called a halt just short of what he predicted the arrow range would be. He waited patiently. The men to either side of him scanned the area, alert to a sudden attack. A horse stamped its foot. Tension climbed.

  Moments later, the gates opened and six burly, armed Scots stepped through. They parted, three to either side, then halted. A seventh man walked between them and stopped a few steps in front, feet braced apart. A sword was sheathed at his side, and the butt of a dagger hilt protruded an inch or so from the top of one of his short leather boots. A slender braid hung on either side of his weathered face, and his shaggy hair brushed the top of his broad shoulders. Walter was certain this was Thomas Johnstone, chief of the Johnstones of Middleburn—and equally certain he didn’t care to meet the chief on the wrong side of a sword fight.

  Walter dismounted and, with Eadric at his side, strode forward. The Scot eyed them speculatively.

  The man’s brilliant blue eyes flashed beneath dark brows. “I am Chief Johnstone. Ye’re from de Wylde?”

  Walter pulled his helm from his head and tucked it in the bend of his elbow. “Aye.”

  Chief Johnstone’s fingers tapped the wide belt at his waist. “Well?”

  Eadric cast Walter an exasperated look and picked up the introductions. “Sir Walter de Ellerton, and I am Sir Eadric the Younger. We have the authority to answer questions ye may have regarding the proposed alliance. Our men are to help fortify Eaglesmuir until such time as yer son is able to fend for himself.”

  The Scot grunted. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and rocked forward on his toes. “My elder lad will inherit Middleburn. Holding Eaglesmuir as well could prove difficult as it lies some miles southwest of here.”

  Walter’s eyebrows sprang upward. “Ye refuse the alliance?”

  The Scot shook his head. “Nae. I’m transferring it to my younger lad.” His chin jutted out belligerently.

  Walter paused. Was there a stipulation Eaglesmuir go to the eldest son? Why would Chief Johnstone appear to believe he’d be challenged on his decision? Was there a reason his younger son shouldn’t have the running of the keep?

  “How long before your son is of age?”

  The chief shrugged a shoulder. “Me youngest son has passed his ninth summer. Though ’twill be some time before he
is capable of running Eaglesmuir on his own, I will have a man to advise him.”

  “I will consider this.”

  Chief Johnstone’s nod came a few breaths later, his hesitation brief. He pivoted on a heel and strode through the gates. At Walter’s command, the knights dismounted and led their horses into the stronghold of Middleburn Castle. A shiver of unease raised the hairs on his neck and arms as the gates closed once again.

  Chapter Three

  Elliott bumped Rosaline’s arm. “Do ye think Da will lock the English in the tower?”

  Rosaline waved impatiently at Elliott to shush him. Her gaze fell upon the men as they appeared in the courtyard, eyes blinking at the sunlight after the long dark walk through the gatehouse.

  Elliott craned his neck to see around her and Rosaline was struck anew at how tall her brother had grown in the last few months. He appeared far beyond his nine summers, if height was the only aspect considered. As his sister, she was privileged to consider his lesser charms.

  “Dinnae be a daftie, Elliott. Da wouldnae wish to draw The Saint’s wrath.”

  “I wouldnae allow English into my keep,” he avowed with a belligerent jut of his chin.

  Rosaline sent a startled glance at her brother. Gentle Elliott dinnae like the English? ’Twas well and good to distrust the blighters, but peace was peace, and as long as the terms were fair, she’d allow English access to her keep—well, if necessary.

  The little terrier at Elliott’s feet barked, the force of her exertions lifting her shaggy feet from the packed earth.

  “Tell Trig to hush,” Rosaline hissed. “We dinnae wish Da to see us.”

  Elliott lifted a forefinger and the little dog fell silent. She plopped her stumpy tail to the ground and waited, tongue lolled out one side of her mouth.

  The English knights halted as stable lads hurried to take charge of the huge destriers. The day before, Rosaline and Elliott had helped clear a number of stalls midway through the stable. Close enough to the front so the knights could not complain of a lack of care, yet far enough from the main doors to make stealing away in the night difficult. Thomas Johnstone was not a fool.

  She held her breath as her da’s gaze swept the yard. His piercingly blue eyes met hers and he murmured something to her elder brother at his side. Tom nodded and disappeared into the crowd, only to reappear next to Rosaline.

  “Ye’re to get Elliott washed and dressed, and dose his eyes with belladonna. Bring him to the hall. Be quick!”

  Rosaline stiffened. Her da was sensitive to Elliott’s different colored eyes and the subtle flick of fingers to ward off evil when a person thought he wasn’t looking. Belladonna widened the pupils, darkening Elliott’s eyes to nearly the same hue. Normally, her da simply managed to keep his son away from important visitors. Why would he now wish Elliott in the hall with the English knights?

  “Come, Elliott. I’ll help ye find something suitable to wear to supper.” She took his arm and, tossing a scowl over her shoulder at her eldest brother, led Elliott away. Trig scampered at their heels, then darted off to a pile of stacked peat. Elliott wrenched away and hurried after his pet, ignoring Rosaline’s protests. Trig’s whine rose excitedly, her wiry haunches and furiously wagging tail protruding from a hastily dug hole in the earthen pile.

  “Da willnae like the delay, Elliott,” Rosaline scolded. “And Ava willnae like the mud on yer knees.”

  Ignoring her protests, he knelt beside Trig then rose a moment later, a triumphant smile on his face as he dangled a dead mouse by its tail.

  “Fachan’s supper,” he announced, stuffing the limp body into his pouch.

  Rosaline grabbed his arm again and hauled him to the narrow back steps into the rear of the keep.

  Walter’s gaze followed Rosaline and the boy as they hurried around the corner of the tower. He’d known her the moment he stepped into the yard. Despite the bright sunlight after the long trek through the tunnel of the gate house, his gaze had immediately settled on her golden hair, flowing in sun-kissed strands about her hips. His recognition struck him as a solid punch to his gut. If he’d ever been uncertain of his memory of her, he doubted no longer.

  She was beautiful.

  A pang of uncertainty struck. A young woman such as this would undoubtedly entertain a number of potential offers for her hand. He shook his head. If it was God’s will, Rosaline would marry him. He had no time to worry over things beyond his control. His immediate concern lay with Chief Johnstone and his proposed change to the alliance. Walter was interested to see the young man in question—a boy, truly, at only nine summers. But if all went well, the next seven to eight years spent awaiting the boy’s taking control of Eaglesmuir could be years of peace and alliance between Johnstone and the Saint. And, with care, continue for many years after.

  The chief jerked his head, catching Walter’s flagging attention as Rosaline disappeared from view, and indicated the tall, double doors into the lower keep. Walter matched his stride to that of his host and followed him inside.

  A quick glance told him Rosaline was not in the hall. Walter put aside the distraction and gave his attention to Chief Johnstone, knowing Eadric and the rest would remain on full alert. He took the seat indicated by the chief. A servant filled goblets and placed them before each man.

  A woman, three young ladies trailing behind her, their dark red hair marking them as kin, approached the table. Chief Johnstone inclined his head to the woman and held her chair as she seated herself and arranged her skirts. The other three sat on her far side, craning their necks to stare at Walter until a low reprimand sent them back into their chairs amid a flurry of twittering and giggles.

  “My lady wife, Ava, and my three youngest daughters.” Chief Johnstone turned the introduction. “My dear, this is Sir Walter de Ellerton and his man, Eadric the Younger.”

  “Welcome, Sir Walter.” The woman’s voice held enough warmth to not take offense, but it was clear she’d rather host almost anyone other than an English knight.

  “Welcome . . . .”

  “Sir . . . .”

  “Walter,” echoed the three girls, their eyes dancing with delight.

  Chief Johnstone quelled their enthusiasm with a furrowed brow then motioned to the young man at his side. “My son and heir, Tom.”

  Walter nodded to each in turn.

  The chief resumed his seat and picked up his goblet.

  Chief Johnstone lifted his cup. “A toast to the alliance.”

  Walter accepted the toast with a nod and a sip, then placed his goblet back on the table. The wine was floral and sweet, and not entirely to his liking. What was that elusive note? It reminded him of—a woman . . . . Scented hair and sheets. Walter’s ears heated. He pounced on the topic of the alliance, dodging the burgeoning desire to see Rosaline again.

  “I understand the distance to Eaglesmuir is a potential problem, but why place the keep in the hands of a boy of fewer than ten summers?”

  Chief Johnstone leveled a shrewd glance at him, then softened the look with a grin. “Och, ’tis a rare treat to acquire a holding such as Eaglesmuir at the time a poor man such as meself is wondering how to support my youngest lad. I was, mayhap, a bit slow to think of it, but it appears a sound plan.”

  “Not all younger sons are so lucky, Chief Johnstone,” Walter agreed.

  “Call me Thomas.” The chief lifted his cup again.

  “Walter,” he reciprocated. He retrieved another small sip from his goblet. The flavor was growing on him.

  “An unusual wine.”

  Thomas shrugged. “’Tis an auld recipe. Mead. With lavender notes.”

  “Lavender.” Of course. The taste permeated Walter’s senses then faded away. He took another sip.

  “Best take it easy, laddie.” The chief’s eyes twinkled. “Mead sneaks up on ye and will have ye on yer butt faster’n a kick from a temperamental horse.”

  The Scots seated at the high table grinned, a rather predatory showing of stained teeth that made Walter
wonder if they’d prefer their chief hadn’t passed along the warning.

  Tension wound about the room, tangible, scented with sweat and spiked with challenge. Walter nodded politely as the Johnstone chief spoke of the fall harvest and the placement of sheep during the winter, trifling matters which required little attention. Walter’s gaze slipped about the room, alert to a foretelling of violence. But the clansmen must have been given strict orders of conduct—as had his knights—for he saw nothing more dangerous than keen, watchful eyes and the space between English and Scots at the long tables.

  “Och, here’s the lad.”

  Thomas Johnstone’s exclamation told Walter why they’d delayed in the hall. Walter followed the chief’s hand motion, his gaze coming to rest on a lanky boy of a good height. Dark red hair lay flat against his head except for a short bit sticking straight up above one eye. Walter hid a smile at the youthful picture, for the boy’s face radiated both eagerness and apprehension.

  He appeared to be made of long bones and sinew and not much grace, for he stumbled as he approached the table. His three sisters giggled behind their fingers. Their mother frowned.

  Rosaline appeared a step behind Elliott. Walter’s chest tightened.

  “Elliott, make yer nod to Sir Walter de Ellerton.”

  The command sufficed to tear Walter’s attention from the boy’s golden-haired sister. He glanced at the boy, his face sunk in shadows as his father shoved the branched candle stick situated near his elbow farther down the table. Young Elliott squinted in Walter’s direction.

  “An honor, Sir Walter,” he said, his young voice clear.

  “Pleased to meet ye, master Elliott.” Walter rose and extended his hand.

  Elliott jumped as though prodded and reached across the table. He mis-judged and bumped against the flagon of mead. It jolted to one side, teetering precariously. Elliott grabbed at the flask, but only succeeded in knocking it over. The golden liquid spilled across the white table cloth, reached the edge, then dripped into his da’s lap. The girls squealed and scrambled from their seats, saving their costly silk and velvet gowns.