The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  And yet, the men of Eaglesmuir, his conroi, men with whom he’d fought and bled, were more than mere suits of armor to be played like figures in a game.

  “Sentimental old fool.”

  With a growl, he grabbed his gambeson and drew it over his head, followed by his chain mail. Cinching his belt tight to help support the weight of the protective armor, he stomped his feet into his worn boots and headed to the staircase which wound through the corner tower to the hall below. Pouring a mug of warm ale to help ward off the dreary autumn chill, he grabbed a chunk of bread then returned to the stairwell.

  His belly somewhat mollified, he approached Bernard whose bright yellow hair and sharp eyes reminded Laurence again of his advancing years.

  “I was about to send for ye.” Bernard glanced over his shoulder then back to the rain-soaked moors and forests beyond.

  Laurence halted just inside the sheltered nook. “Any sign of Scots?”

  Bernard scowled. “Movement beyond the walls, though of what is anyone’s guess. Damned Scots’ clothing blends into the grasses and trees—and this cursed rain.”

  Laurence sipped his ale, relishing the warmth as cold air drifted through the curtain of rain pouring from the overhang. “The men are away to find Walter?”

  “Aye. Though in this weather I doubt they’ll travel fast.”

  A flash of lightning replaced the midday sun hidden behind thick clouds. Something moved among the rubble of the wall.

  “Damn! Put archers on the parapet. If it moves, shoot it. If it’s not a Scot, we’ll eat it.”

  “Deer and rabbits aren’t out in this weather. Only Scots.”

  “Then shoot at will.”

  Bernard nodded, slipped from the protection of the alcove, and jogged inside. Laurence studied the rain-drenched ground, but the shades of gray, silver, and black confused his eyes. Moments later, movement along the wall told him Bernard’s archers were in place. The gentle shush of rain covered the twang of bows, but Laurence caught a glimpse of two arrows, their white fletching flashing like the underside of the tail of a deer, as they sailed through the air. A nearly silent thud of impact reached his ears. Wet leaves rustled, displaced rocks clattered, the movement audible even at this distance.

  “Looks like ye hit something.”

  “Scots,” Bernard replied with confidence. “They’re carrying their man away.”

  “Keep archers on alert. We’ll not shift rocks today, but mayhap we can reinforce the breach with sharpened timbers from the cottages.” Laurence drained his mug. “I’ll put men to work on it. Damned if I’ll allow Scots into Eaglesmuir again.”

  Rosaline raced down the path at a panic-driven pace. Ignoring the stares from villagers, she flew past the security of the keep to the sanctuary of the bend in Eaglesfield Burn which she and Ronnie had claimed as children.

  An oak tree rose from the earth along the bank, its massive girth squat and twisted, roots spilling into the burn to create gentle whirlpools of frothing water. Branches gnarled like the elbows of an old man spread wide over the stream. Honeysuckle vine, its leaves crisp and brown in the shelter of the ancient oak, twined through its limbs, blending with the autumn leaves yet to fall. Acorns crackled and popped beneath Rosaline’s boots.

  She slowed her pace and approached the tree with reverent care. A pile of boulders rested at the oak’s back, the many crevices home to small animals—and, once upon a time, faeries.

  Magic happens here. Memories of childhood wonder rose; laughter and happiness—and deep sorrow.

  Hagberry trees nestled against the oak. Their leaves, yellow and pink from the changing weather, brushed reverently against the aged bark. Shiny black berries littered the ground while others clung to their vines, food for the birds. An offering to the faeries.

  Rosaline shuddered. Ronnie ate them and died.

  Picking a handful of the bright leaves, she scattered them in the chipped bits of stone before the largest boulder, softening the shards for the tread of faerie feet. A gap between two rocks angled off to one side of the cairn, framed with lichen in a delicate green and gray pattern.

  Portal to a land of stories and dreams.

  Kneeling, she gently brushed away a layer of decaying mold at the base of the rocks, exposing the moss beneath. The short bristled, dark green stalks tickled her palm like rough velvet as she slowly dragged her hand back and forth.

  “What am I to do?”

  A flock of sparrows flitted about the low branches of the hagberry tree. A robin plucked a berry, cocking his head before he swallowed the tiny fruit.

  “I dinnae wish to marry. Elliott doesnae wish to become lord of a keep.”

  The burn rippled past, chuckling carelessly over Rosaline’s troubles.

  “This isnae about giving Elliott or me a place in the world. ’Tis about appearances.”

  “I agree,” a deep voice offered.

  A shriek rose in Rosaline’s chest. She wheeled about on her heels, one hand on the hilt of the dagger at her belt, the other, fingers splayed wide, touching the ground for balance.

  Walter leaned a shoulder against the burly oak, palms up and spread to either side to indicate peace. Rosaline drew a shuddering breath then relaxed. One brow tilted upward, Walter held out a hand, offering to help her to her feet. Against her better judgement, she placed her fingertips in his palm and closed her eyes against the warmth of his touch. She suppressed a shiver and glanced away, placing an additional step of distance between them as she rose.

  “I need to offer an apology. Ye do not appear at all pleased with my talk of marriage.”

  “’Tis I who should apologize. ’Twas not seemly for me to . . . .” Rosaline’s neck heated at the memory.

  “To scream nae and dash from the garden?”

  “I shouldnae have acted on my first impulse.”

  “I am glad ye did. I find it saves a lot of misunderstandings.”

  “But mayhap it doesnae save wounding another.”

  Walter nodded. “Agreed.”

  “Ye—when I knew ye at North Hall—seemed quiet, cautious.”

  “I am accused often of over-thinking my responses.”

  “Thoughtful. Restrained.” Rosaline tapped a finger against the rough oak bark. “So why did ye ask my da for his blessing after being here scarcely more than a day? Ye dinnae know me that well.”

  Walter pushed away from the tree, his slow steps measuring his uncertainty.

  “’Tis true I do not know ye as I should. Yet, ye caught my attention at North Hall and I have not been able to forget ye.”

  “Why did ye say naught?”

  Walter’s eyes widened, clearly shocked. “Ye were betrothed to another.”

  Rosaline frowned, remembering why she’d been at North Hall and why she could not agree to another betrothal.

  Walter bowed his head. “I am truly sorry he died. Mayhap ’tis too soon to speak of marriage. Mayhap ye need time to mourn.”

  “’Twas arranged. I dinnae know him well.” Her words sounded callous to her ears, but she’d not shed a tear at James’ death last spring, and she wasn’t likely to experience a sudden bout of guilt now.

  Walter sighed, his lanky frame relaxed, and a tentative smile lit his face. “Rosaline, when we are together—when we touch—I can think of nothing but what it would be like to kiss ye.”

  She swallowed. Heat suffused her skin. Her wits scattered.

  A kiss? No one had dared. She glanced at Walter. Nor would he if she did not give him her consent.

  Impossible! And yet . . . . She swayed forward. The tip of her tongue parted her lips then retreated.

  Fire exploded in Walter’s groin. Nothing existed that did not include touching Rosaline, holding her, kissing her. His breathing labored.

  Rosaline drew back. Autumn sunlight flashed through the tree branches and thunder rumbled in the distance as if warning him to tread carefully. Walter’s heart pounded as he brought himself back under control.

  “I would never hu
rt ye,” he murmured. “I could not believe my luck when I heard . . . .” He swore softly. It may have been to his benefit Rosaline’s suitor had died, but he’d hardly consider it luck. He corrected his blunder.

  “Ye are a beautiful, desirable young woman. I did not wish to give your father a chance to make another alliance. I will give ye time. I will not push ye . . . .”

  Rosaline retraced her step, her breasts nearly touching his chest. Her fingers pleated the front of his thick tunic. Words failed him as she rose on her toes. Tentatively, she touched her lips to his then pulled away.

  The corners of her mouth tilted up and her eyes softened—like a cat which had stolen a bowl of cream. “I like it,” she whispered.

  With a groan, Walter shoved his fingers through the golden hair at the back of her head and drew her close, his other hand splayed across the small of her back. He sank into the softness of her lips and lost himself in the kiss.

  Rosaline arched into his embrace. Walter cradled her head against his shoulder, tilting her chin upward, slanting his mouth across hers. Nothing existed beyond the sweetness of her lips, the heavy silk of her hair—and the indescribable moans echoing softly in her throat.

  He reluctantly ended the kiss, yet could not release her pliant form.

  “Ye will marry me,” he rasped, his voice rough with emotion.

  Rosaline stiffened. “I cannae.”

  Shock and dismay flashed like icy water over Walter’s skin, dousing his hunger. “What? Ye like my kisses well enough. Do ye merely tempt me?”

  Yet he knew she did not. Though the kiss had thoroughly taken his lust to a level previously unexplored, it was clear she’d never been kissed before.

  Rosaline pushed away, and he released her. Her eyes darkened, her brow furrowed.

  “Were I to wed, ye would be my only choice,” she whispered. “For ye are a good man and claim my heart like no other. But I must not—I cannae agree to marry ye. If I do, ye will die.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rain dripped through the leafy canopy, scattering autumn leaves in a varicolored riot across the forest floor. Water seeped steadily from the edges of plaides pulled low over furrowed brows, soaking everything it touched, denying the men the warmth of a campfire. Liam squatted near a large boulder, using its bulk to keep the worst of the wind at bay. Chief Maxwell paced the sodden leaves, his muted plaide blending with the rain-soaked browns and grays of low-hanging branches.

  “I havenae seen such a storm in years,” one of the men complained. “I’d sooner be home than squatting here in the rain.”

  A muffled derisive snort of disagreement rumbled. “I’d sit here all day, soaked to the skin, to avoid my wee wife. She’s a right ghast no matter she’s a bonnie lass.”

  “Ye’ve sired six bairns on her,” came the mocking reply. “Took ye long enough to decide she frightens ye.”

  Half-hearted laughter rippled through the motley group.

  Chief Maxwell spun about, his face contorted with rage. “Enough! I willnae sit here and catch my death and do naught about the English. I willnae give them the last laugh.”

  Sensing the need to appease his chief, Liam rose. “I’ve another use for this dreicht weather.”

  Interest and attitude shifted. Liam warmed to his subject.

  “It seems to me we should use this rain in our favor.”

  “Wee Rupert thought the same, and the bloody English pierced him with an arrow.” A murmur of agreement answered. Rupert gripped the bandage about his meaty thigh with an apologetic glance at his chief.

  Liam agreed with a half-grin. “Aye, but we’ve an English knight to show for Rupert’s pains.”

  Heads turned to the man tied against a sturdy tree. Stripped of his light armor, he sported mud, a bit of blood, and dark stains on his skin that would soon blossom into impressive bruises, marking the trouble he’d given Liam and his men.

  “Why keep him?” someone grumbled. “Naught but an aggravation watching over him tied like that.”

  The knight paled beneath the grime.

  “Aye, a shame to waste our time and efforts. But he might be worth a fair bit of ransom. Him and the fine horse we took off their hands.” Liam grinned as the Englishman tested his bonds.

  Albert Maxwell sloshed through the puddles and approached the bound man. His fingertips drummed lightly on the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

  “What were ye doing away from Eaglesmuir?” he demanded.

  The man shifted slightly, but did not reply. The chief scowled and tucked his chin in a menacing gesture. Tension thrummed in the small clearing. Silence stretched to the breaking point. Liam held his breath as Chief Maxwell slowly drew his dirk.

  Walter stared at Rosaline, wondering at her rebuff. His skin prickled, hairs rising as her words sank in. A gust of wind punctuated his reaction, chilling him further.

  If I do, ye will die.

  He wanted to retreat, to pull his self-respect about him like a cowl, to pretend her dismissal didn’t bother him. Did she truly care so little for him? Walter didn’t want to believe so, but there was, after all, little to recommend him as a husband.

  Were I to wed, ye would be my only choice.

  Rosaline blinked furiously, her eyes over-bright, and he had his answer.

  Tears. For him. For what could be if . . . . If what? If she didn’t believe in the damned faeries and their curse.

  “Rosaline, ye must not cling to things which ye believe curse ye.”

  She swiped the back of one hand across her eyes then glanced away. “Ye are English. I dinnae ask ye to understand.”

  “I wish to know why ye believe ye are the reason the men ye’ve been betrothed to are dead. James died in the attack on Friar’s Hill. I know he did not die by your hand.”

  Rosaline swung about, eyes blazing, hands fisted at her sides. “Naught but my curse touched him—all of them. Ye know naught of this. Ye are . . . English.”

  Walter stiffened. “I do not believe we are so different. Ye told me ye and your clan worship the Christ. Why, then, do you cling so devoutly to the old ways?”

  Something appeared to die inside Rosaline. Her shoulders sagged and despair overshadowed the fire in her eyes. Walter wanted to tell her it didn’t matter, for he saw how much the memory upset her. But the urge to protect her was too strong. He would save her no matter the cost.

  “I will not lose ye over something in your past, Rosaline. Whatever it is, ye have allowed it to control ye too long.”

  She glanced about—seeking escape? Her chin dropped and she squished a small black berry beneath the toe of her boot, exposing the dark purple center.

  “’Tis a fruit used to make jams. The bark is brewed to treat fevers.” Her gaze drifted upward, her words seeming to have no relation to their conversation. “Beautiful no matter the season, the hagberry tree is beloved by all manner of wee folk. But when I teased Ronnie about believing in faeries, he ate the fruit and died.” Her voice fell. “’Twas cursed.”

  Walter took a closer step to the tree, one of several in a clump near the stream. Plucking a berry from a slender stalk, he popped it between his fingers, noting the large stone in the center and the purple juice that stained his fingers. He sniffed the ripe fruit, inhaling a faint scent of almonds beneath the slightly bitter aroma. Ignoring Rosaline’s gasp of alarm, he touched his tongue to the dark fruit, then sucked it into his mouth.

  With a shriek, she launched herself at him, fists flailing as she hammered his back.

  “Spit it out! Dinnae swallow!”

  Walter choked, coughed, then spit the seed out as he raised one elbow to ward off her blows. He caught her wrists and pulled her before him, tucking her fists against his chest.

  “’Tis a bird cherry tree, Rosaline, naught else. The berries can be eaten as long as ye do not swallow the stone and ye reject the very bitter ones.”

  She shook her head, fighting his hold. “’Tisnae the same. These are cursed by my willful disregard.” Her face crumpled.
“Ye must vomit it up. I dinnae want ye to die.”

  Walter leaned close, tucking her head beneath his cheek. “If your words were spoken in love, ’twill be enough to break the curse, Rosaline.”

  She hesitated, her chest heaving in agitated breaths. A twinge of guilt tweaked Walter’s honor to use her pagan beliefs against her.

  “Love is the same in any language. Ye must mean it for it to be true.”

  Settling against him, she sighed. “Aye. If not in true love, then from a regard enough to trust ye.”

  A swift shaft of dismay darkened Walter’s mood, no match for the doubt she held. He rested his face against her hair a moment longer, then released her.

  “We will see if respect is enough.” He could do nothing about the regret in his voice.

  Rosaline’s eyes widened and her lips parted. Walter placed a forefinger against them, requesting silence. “I have eaten these berries as a lad and taken no harm. Did the boy—Ronnie? Did he mention they were especially bitter, or did he swallow the stone as well?”

  Rosaline’s brow creased and she glanced away. Moments passed as she alternately chewed her lip and tugged at her ear. “I dinnae know. I remember his scowl, but thought it was for tormenting him about his . . . .” She glanced about as if searching for signs of the wee folk then shrugged. Her hand sought his and his heart warmed as she squeezed his fingers, though he rather thought she merely wished reassurance, which he gladly gave.

  “How old were ye, Rosaline?”

  Her gaze startled back to his. “We were both twelve.” She motioned to the trees and stream. “This was our place. We claimed it as bairns, maybe eight or so. We shared everything. He was an only child whose ma had died—same as me, though my half-brothers and sisters came along soon enough. His da never remarried. Their clan is but an hour’s ride away, which was naught to two lonely children . . . .”

  Her voice faded away. With a slight jerk, she brightened and sent Walter a false smile. “Luckily, his da and mine enjoyed hunting, and the journey wasnae so arduous on horseback as when he slipped away on foot. He was the brother I cherished most—until Elliott came along.”