The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  Chief Johnstone rose quickly, shoving his chair back. Eyes glittering, he righted the flagon and shoved the ruined cloth to the center of the table. His quick gaze raked the room. Not a head turned in his direction.

  “Elliott.” Though pitched low, Thomas’ voice had the ring of steel. “Join me in my solar.” Including Walter in his command with a nod, Chief Johnstone pivoted on his heel and led them from the hall, Tom at his side.

  Something tugged at Walter’s sleeve. He glanced down, his eyes following the sight of slender fingers and a tight velvet sleeve to violet eyes in a troubled face.

  “My lady?”

  Rosaline bit her lower lip then appeared to come to a decision. “He’s a good lad.”

  Walter glanced to his host who had turned, a scowl on his face. Rosaline gave a brief shake of her head and dropped her hand. Chief Johnstone resumed his pace. Walter turned to follow.

  “Elliott is young and impressionable. He isnae usually so gawkit.” Rosaline’s voice whispered from behind his shoulder and Walter tilted his head slightly to reply, but did not change his steps.

  “Gawkit?”

  Her sigh breathed exasperation. “Clumsy. He’s truly quite smart. Agile.”

  They stepped into the torchlit passageway.

  “Do ye know why yer da wishes to turn Eaglesmuir over to Elliott?” Walter halted, pinning Rosaline with his gaze. Her startled expression surprised him.

  “Elliott?” She blinked. “Nae. I dinnae know.”

  With a nod, Walter left Rosaline staring after him as he strode into the chief’s solar.

  Rosaline paused, thinking furiously.

  Why would Da consider putting Elliott in charge of Eaglesmuir? And why insist she use belladonna drops in Elliott’s eyes when it made him sensitive to light and caused him to squint? Hoping to gain favor with the English by substituting an owl-eyed, clumsy lad for the chief’s heir did not make sense.

  Da believes Elliott is fey. His eyes mark him as different. Rosaline scowled. Elliott is kind and sensitive, not a lout like the rest of ye. Yet, if Chief Johnstone gained a keep from the English and gave it to his second son—he would be seen as canny, inventive, and generous.

  But what would happen to Elliott?

  Maxwell Keep

  The Scottish Border

  Lord Maxwell glared across the hall, his anger seeking an outlet. He hadn’t anticipated the rage that would linger these past months since his son James had died. James’s death had not been much of a surprise. For James to have turned Eaglesmuir into a thriving keep would have surprised him much more. As a ne’er-do-well son, James had excelled in only two things—swivin’ and reiving. However, the addle-pated dobbie had not been able to hold on to the lass Albert had chosen for him to take to wife. As bold as brass, she’d hied across the border and married one of de Wylde’s knights. James had died in his attempt to get her back.

  “Ye have the look of a man seeking a purpose.”

  Albert Maxwell glanced at Liam, commander of the Maxwell soldiers. The tall, angular man hooked a foot around the leg of a chair and dragged it closer to the blazing hearth. He dropped his sodden cloak across the carved back then lowered himself to the woven seat.

  “I cannae abandon Eaglesmuir,” Albert grunted. The mere thought of the keep in English hands set his blood boiling.

  A serving lass handed Liam a steaming mug then scurried away. Liam drank deeply then released a sigh.

  “Ye dinnae visit Eaglesmuir before yer half brother’s death and then ye gave the holding to yer son. Now that James is dead, buried beneath English soil, ye have little need for the keep. Especially as it lies some distance away.”

  Chief Maxwell slammed his fist against the unyielding arm of his chair. The fleeting pain meant nothing. The loss of his son and land consumed him.

  “I willnae sit idly by and allow the bloody English to garrison there!” The edges of his vision darkened, narrowing his focus to the real rub of the loss of Eaglesmuir. After more than twenty years as a Maxwell holding—albeit governed by his bastard half-brother—the keep had fallen into the hands of the English.

  The chief spat into the reeds scattered over the stone floor. “’Tis rumored the English seek an alliance with Lord Johnstone—dangling Eaglesmuir before him like a carrot before an ass.”

  Liam tilted his mug, staring inside as if the dregs of ale held the answers. “An apt description. And an alliance we cannae allow to come to fruition. Howbeit, the English have already claimed Eaglesmuir. Do ye wish to rout them?”

  “I would burn the place to the ground, and the English inside, had I the power to do so. And I havenae the men to lay siege to the keep,” Albert groused, giving the true reason he’d sat idly by and allowed Eaglesmuir to remain under English control.

  “There is more than one way to harry them. Siege is an English tactic. We’re much more likely to be successful whittling away at their support. They are nearly a day’s ride from Berwyck Castle, and the Scots in the area arenae likely to help the English—willingly, that is.”

  “Starve them out?” Albert felt better already. His head cleared and a grim smile threatened.

  “Nae, we can do better,” Liam assured him. “Leave it to me.”

  Chapter Four

  Rosaline approached her da’s solar. The two burly Scots on either side of the closed door raised a brow as she reached for the latch.

  “Ye cannae go in, lass,” one said.

  Rosaline tilted her head in surprise. Truth? She would have laughed, but she was too worried about Elliott.

  “Men’s business, ye know,” added the other with a deprecating smile.

  Her brows slashed downward in a spurt of anger and she stepped between the guards, giving them each a sharp elbow in their sides to punctuate her dislike of their attitudes. As their chief’s daughter, unless she clearly posed a threat to the chief’s life, they wouldn’t dare lay hands on her.

  Calming her displeasure with a slow breath, and dropping a bread crumb to the floor from her pocket to appease the castle brownie who assuredly was affronted by the disrespect of the chief’s daughter, she gently unlatched the door to her da’s solar, holding her breath against the squeak of the ancient wooden panel. A finger’s width, then two, and she peered through the slender opening. Two broad backs blocked her view. Giving the door another nudge to widen the gap, she slipped inside. Palms flat against the smooth wood as she leaned back and slowly closed the door, Rosaline surveyed the gathering.

  “He’s shot up in height this summer and promises to be a braw lad in another few years.” Her da jabbed a finger at Elliott. “Dinnae slouch, lad. ’Tis an honor to receive yer own keep and soldiers to guard it at yer age.”

  He’s sending Elliott away? Rosaline’s breath caught. For all her brother’s recent physical growth, he was a lad at heart. He was meant for the healing arts, mayhap even a monastery. He would never manage the brutal life-and-death decisions of running a keep the size of Eaglesmuir.

  Och, Elliott.

  Elliott pulled his shoulders back, then blinked rapidly as the movement put his face in sunlight angling through the window. He shuffled his feet and ducked back into the shadows. Rosaline’s gaze darted to Walter whose eyes narrowed. He clearly did not see the lad she knew.

  “How are his weapon skills?” Walter wanted to know.

  Even in the dimly lit room, Rosaline noted her da’s cheeks darkened.

  Her fists clenched. Ye should be embarrassed. Elliott is nae warrior.

  Chief Johnstone brushed aside a parchment on his desk. “He’ll improve.”

  Rosaline stepped forward. “Elliott is a healer, nae a warrior. He sees a person’s heart and has nae wish to do harm.”

  All eyes snapped to her like hungry hawks to a squeaking mouse. She swallowed and glanced at her brother. He blinked, the centers of his eyes wide and dark. He did not appear elated to have been given his own keep, but rather frightened, and Rosaline was certain her da had botched the job of telling h
im what was about to happen.

  “Ye should return to yer ma,” Thomas said, bristling as she crossed the floor.

  Stepmither. The response was automatic, but she did not voice it aloud. “Ye shouldnae force him to take Eaglesmuir. Not now. He’s but a lad.”

  Eyes blazing, her da nodded to a Scotsman next to her. Without a word, the guard grasped her upper arm and pulled her onto her toes. Rosaline shifted her balance, twisting her arm as she gave all of her weight to the grip holding her up. Breaking free, she took a step back, gaze darting from one looming male figure to another.

  “Dinnae fash, Rose.” Elliott stepped toward her and slammed his shin against the leg of a chair. He yelped but caught himself before he fell. Sweeping his hand to the side, he sent an inkpot and parchment scroll flying across the desk to the floor.

  Two men advanced from the dim recesses and retrieved the objects, one wiping his fingers on his trews, leaving parallel streaks of black ink across the cloth. He swore under his breath. Chief Johnstone glowered.

  “This doesnae concern ye, Daughter.”

  “He’s my brother.” Rosaline’s chest tightened. She knew her opinion mattered little, but she was tired of living as a pawn to her da’s ambitions. She would not allow Elliott to succumb to the same fate.

  “Enough. Elliott is nae longer a wean. There isnae place on the Border for a man who doesnae know how to wield a sword.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Elliott murmured, looking pale and heartbreakingly overwhelmed. “Go.”

  I’ve fought for ye all yer life. This doesnae end now.

  Elliott gave a short nod as if he heard what was in her heart. Lifting her chin, Rosaline swept about and strode back through the door.

  The exchange between Rosaline and her father unsettled Walter. He stifled an urge to twitch, to excuse himself whilst they cleared the air between them. He felt honor-bound as a knight to defend Rosaline, yet shouldn’t she leave such decisions to the men? And truly he held no authority between father and daughter. Settling for rubbing the back of his neck to ease the strain, he waited patiently for Chief Johnstone to manage his temper.

  Cheeks blotched angrily, Thomas drew two slow breaths as Rosaline left the room. He turned to his youngest son. “Will ye work with me, Elliott? The days of hiding behind yer sister’s skirts are past. I admit I’ve allowed ye freedom to do as ye please these past years, but this isnae about her future. ’Tis about yers.”

  Walter quirked a brow, weighing the chief’s rallying words. But instead of squaring the boy’s shoulders as Chief Johnstone clearly intended, Elliott’s stature slumped into a picture of dejection.

  “Aye.” Elliott’s voice scratched somewhere between that of a lost boy and tears.

  This is not what The Saint intended.

  “My lord, if I might have a word?” Walter pitched his voice to the chief’s ears, firm enough to garner obedience.

  Chief Johnstone’s posture stiffened, giving away his struggle to maintain control. When he finally glanced at Walter, an agreeable smile tugged at his lips. “Certainly. ’Twill be time to assemble for supper soon. A feast to welcome ye to Middleburn Castle.” He lifted his gaze to include all within. “Return to the hall in an hour’s time.”

  The Scots in the room milled briefly about then left the room with glances of distrust over their shoulders. Walter seconded the chief’s command with a short nod to his three knights and they followed a bandy-legged Scot from the room, his gait that of a man who’d spent his life astride a Border pony—in pursuit of English sheep, no doubt.

  A few moments later, only the chief, Walter, and Elliott remained.

  “Will the boy answer truthfully in your presence, my lord?” Walter’s barbed question sank deep into Chief Johnstone’s bluster.

  “Nae harm comes to those who speak the truth.” Thomas’s chin jutted upward, daring contradiction. Elliott’s cheeks whitened.

  Walter gave his attention to the boy. “Before today, what did ye wish to accomplish with your life?”

  Elliott swallowed. It was clear that before today, he had scarcely been of interest to his father. At nine summers, had he considered his future?

  “Sir, I’ve a hand with injured animals.” He glanced at his father’s stony face then scuffed one booted foot against the floor. “They trust me.”

  “Trust is a good quality in a man.”

  Elliott sent Walter a startled look.

  “Ye are young to be given a holding of your own, Master Elliott. Are ye willing to defend it?”

  The hopeful look which had blossomed on Elliott’s face faded. “I dinnae know how, Sir. I dinnae care much for swords.”

  “Ye have been accorded a privileged and sheltered life. Free to help those ye wouldst heal. If ye accept Eaglesmuir, the holdings and people and animals within ’twill be your responsibility.”

  Wonderment spread across the boy’s face. “Eaglesmuir?” His eyes glittered, pupils large and dark. The name clearly pleased him.

  “Lord de Wylde’s knights expected to remain until the new lord took over. My men can help teach ye to govern—and to fight.”

  Lord Johnstone frowned. “I can teach the lad to fight. He’s a Johnstone and will learn to handle the castle affairs—and his weapons—like a Scot.”

  Elliott glanced from Walter to his father, blinking furiously. Walter paused. Did the boy have an eye ailment?

  “No disrespect, but Elliott should spend most of his time at his new holding and has much to learn. My knights will be there and have been directed to assist.”

  Chief Johnstone narrowed his eyes, brows slanting together. “My son willnae be swayed by the English. He is a Scot.” A sly smile stole across his face. “Howbeit, knowledge of how things are done south of the Border wouldnae come amiss.”

  He clapped Elliott’s shoulder. “Eaglesmuir is yers.”

  Something told Walter he’d just been outmaneuvered.

  Rosaline dropped a grasshopper into the nest and the little songbird cocked its head, pinpointing the source of the scrabbling sound. With scarcely a wobble, it snatched its dinner from the straw and gulped it down. Rosaline eyed the bird’s leg.

  “A bonnie job Elliott did unwrapping the bits of wool string and cleaning the nasty wound. Lucky for ye, Elliott found ye, for ye could have lost yer wee leg. ’Twill be completely healed within the sennight and ye will be free to fly away.”

  Free. What a wonderful word. Strong, yet light as air. And as difficult to grasp as the faerie lights that dance beyond a mortal’s reach.

  Fachan screeched from her perch and Rosaline grinned as she tossed the merlin a leggy grasshopper. The sharp beak snatched it from the air. Her beady gaze demanded another, and Rosaline quickly obliged.

  “Ye’ll get meat when Elliott returns.” She reassured the noble bird with a scratch of her head feathers. Fachan allowed the caress then shook her feathers, spreading her wings wide.

  Satisfied the birds were fed, and hoping the tiny wren would remain huddled in her nest, Rosaline dug into the pouch at her belt and fished out a bit of bread she’d filched from the kitchen. Settling on a wooden stump just outside the door of the doocot, she bit into her supper, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed.

  “If Da doesnae wish my presence at the table whilst the English are here, I’ll be happy to take my meals with Trig and the birds. Better company.”

  The terrier glanced up at the sound of her name and whined, her attention on Rosaline’s fingers as they moved from pouch to mouth. Rosaline tossed Trig a morsel and the dog pounced, the bread gone in an instant.

  “We’d best leave a bit for the faeries. There arenae many Scots who still follow the auld ways, more’s the pity. I’m bound to them, Trig,” she confided. “’Tis the curse.”

  The terrier whined. Rosaline sighed. “’Tis my fault wee Ronnie died, though not for the reason Da claims. I dinnae know what harm . . . .” She shook her head, lips turned down forbiddingly. “We were children. Children who couldnae have known . .
. .”

  She tossed another bit of bread to Trig. “Yer last one, lass. Dinnae think to pilfer from the wee brownie’s supper.”

  Rosaline took a swallow from a flask she’d tied onto a long bit of thin rope looped over her shoulder. She licked the mead from her lips thoughtfully. “’Tis Da’s favorite, though a mite heavy on the lavender this time.”

  She brushed the back of her hand over her mouth and rose. Taking a small wooden bowl from a shelf beside the door, she poured a few drops of lavender mead inside. She replaced the bowl and neatened the other items on the shelf, aligning a smooth, shiny rock from the burn with a sprig of white heather, its petals browning slightly with age. A bit of bread next to the bowl finished her appeasement to the wee folk.

  “I’ve done what I can, Trig. ’Tis up to the faeries now. Come along and let’s see if we can find Elliott.”

  The setting sun cast long shadows across the rolling moorlands. The days grew shorter as did Laurence’s temper.

  “I’ve never felt as much like a sitting duck as here at Eaglesmuir.” He dropped his gaze from the inspection of the surrounding woodlands to the toppled south wall. “Damn, but de Wolfe’s men made a mess.”

  The two guards on the parapet laughed.

  Laurence smiled despite his misgivings, though the gesture bore the stamp of grim satisfaction rather than mirth.

  “De Wolfe’s men had no fondness for the thieving Maxwells. They meant for the wall to stay down,” one guard noted. “’Twill take many hours of labor to return enough soil and rocks to the tunnel to completely fill it in. I prefer guard duty.”

  Laurence nodded, aware the man would do whatever duty required of him. But repairing the wall was taking too much time. Time he was afraid they might not have. The end of a hard day’s labor often left him wondering why Lord de Wylde had chosen to send him and fewer than a score of knights and men to hold Eaglesmuir and prepare it for its new lord. The keep sat far enough to the north of the Border that they were completely surrounded by Scots.