The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  Eager to distract them from her painful memories, Walter seized upon his second dilemma. “Ah, Elliott. What would ye suggest we do about Elliott?”

  Laurence’s entire body ached. Worse than fighting his most dangerous opponent, a few hours of chopping points onto aged timbers they’d ripped from the ancient, ruined cottages had at last given him a desire for rest. He drew the back of one hand across his sweaty brow as he slowly straightened and set the ax aside. Soaked to the skin from the continuous rain, he was as uncomfortable as he was tired.

  “Were it not for the threat from the Scots, I vow I’d sleep well this night.”

  Bernard’s soft chuckle echoed his weariness. “We will leave this post to the men to add to the cheval-de-frise.” He peered at the neat row of sharpened posts set upon a frame that filled the gap in the wall left by Lord de Wolfe’s soldiers a few months prior. “Angled just right, also. I almost hope the bastards attempt to scale the timbers.”

  A few bedraggled chickens pecked the dirt around the base of the cheval-de-frise, not bothered by the sounds of construction.

  Laurence canted a narrow-eyed glance toward the sky. “Aye, and as soon as this weather lets up, we’ll dig a trench on the far side and toss in the rest of the thatch and scrapped wood. There are a couple of barrels near the gatehouse which contain a bit of pitch. I’m certain part was used in defense when de Wolfe’s men attacked. ’Twill provide a fine deterrent if the spikes fail to impress.”

  “De Wolfe’s men would have anticipated such a move from the Scots and not risked knights to prove it,” Bernard argued.

  “Nevertheless, the barrels are at best half full, and will only be of partial assistance. The trench will be far enough from the timbers to keep from igniting them with burning pitch, and to also trap attackers between the wall and the flames, allowing us to pick off any survivors.”

  “I will see if we can gather limestone and grind it to powder.”

  Laurence nodded. “If so, we’ve enough bones and charcoal to add to the lime.” The grim line of his lips stretched into a satisfied grin. “Scattered among the debris in the trench, it will burn no matter the weather. I doubt these bastards have ever had a taste of fire that ignites in water.”

  Bernard grunted. “I’d add a bit of tallow to help it stick and set the trench a few feet farther out. No sense in burning down the place whilst trying to keep the Scots out. The lack of bedrock beneath the keep and the ease with which de Wolfe’s men sapped the wall dictate such a measure.”

  A light laugh bubbled from Laurence’s chest, refreshing him. “I’d burn the keep to the ground before turning it over to a few paltry border bastards.”

  “The weather is not in your favor for that,” Bernard remarked with a frown at the light drizzle that had settled in after the earlier storms. “Though if the lime mixture is successful, it will be of little consequence.”

  The fine points of the cheval-de-frise glistened in the mist. Laurence grunted approval of the keep’s new defenses.

  “Let them come.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A scream rent the air, shredding the uneasy silence. Laurence whirled, his gaze piercing the low-hanging mists, all that was left of the earlier rain, searching the bare-branched trees at the edge of the forest for movement. For several long, harrowing moments, he neither saw nor heard anything. The forest was utterly still.

  Nearby, a horse stamped a hoof. The scent of wet earth mingled with the smoky aroma of a cooking fire. A mix of sweat and rain dripped from the tip of Laurence’s nose. Men paused in their work, poised for the next sound.

  “There!” Bernard’s shout seized his attention. The dip of a small sapling’s branches marked Bernard’s direction and Laurence stared at the beckoning up-and-down movement of something glinting silver in the fading light.

  Dread pooled in Laurence’s stomach, for another similar shining ‘branch’ appeared on the opposite side of the sapling’s trunk.

  “A hauberk,” Bernard spat.

  Fury tightened Laurence’s muscles. “They’ve taken Henry and Tristan.” His voice rose. “Bloody Scots! I don’t give a damn about the hauberk. Where are my men?”

  At Bernard’s sharp command, archers lined the parapet, quivers bristling, bows ready. Two armored knights, weapons at hand, stepped through the postern gate and blended into the mists. Four more knights followed, moving a few yards behind. They flanked the first pair, guarding as the hauberk was removed from the tree, then returned to the keep.

  Laurence was at the gate a moment later, his exhaustion forgotten. The chain mail glistened dully, its surface marred with bits of dirt and other dark, ominous stains.

  “’Tis Tristan’s,” a man noted. “Henry’s has a narrow gold trim at the neck.”

  Teeth grinding, Laurence fought to keep his temper reined in. Rash decisions were of no help, and could result in more deaths. Expectant gazes, filled with the desire to avenge the man at arms, rested on him.

  “I want to know where the Scots are hiding. I want to know how many there are.” His grimly stretched lips twisted in a snarl. “And if ye kill the lot of them whilst you’re at it, I’ll not complain.”

  “Have ye a preference who is sent?” Bernard’s gaze asked more than his words. There were but five knights remaining, including himself and Laurence, though their number added twenty archers and men at arms. No one would refuse the order, but with Henry and Tristan gone, sending more men would deplete the guard on their walls.

  What would Laurence risk to roust the Scots?

  A breeze ruffled Rosaline’s hair, wisping it about her face. She brushed the lock aside with one hand, an eye to the clouds swiftly gathering overhead.

  “We must hurry or risk a soaking.” Walter’s concern fell between comforting and unfamiliar. No one had worried over the state of the weather on her behalf since she was a wee lass. A tingle of pleasure rushed through Rosaline but quickly fled. Such concern from a man was not a right accorded to her. Despite the doubt begun with Walter’s failure to die from eating the berries, she couldn’t shake the fact any man betrothed to her was doomed to die. She would not allow this to happen to Walter.

  “Elliott will be in the doocot—unless Da has forbidden it.” Alarm flared. “Och, what will happen to Fachan?”

  Rosaline released Walter’s hand and grabbed her skirts. Lifting them almost to her knees, she fled down the path, Walter jogging at her side.

  They slipped through the gates of the keep, Walter’s presence occasioning a long glance from the guards. Rosaline slowed her pace, weaving around people, horses, and carts. The doocot door stood slightly ajar and Rosaline’s heart skipped a beat. Fachan’s shrill cry beckoned her inside and Rosaline pushed the door, opening it farther. Her eyes quickly became accustomed to the dim interior and found the falcon clinging to her perch, wings spread wide. A defiant gleam lit the bird’s eyes and Rosaline smiled.

  “Och, there’s my wee lass,” she crooned, crossing the space to the falcon. Fachan furled her wings with an indignant ruffle of feathers, then paced the width of her perch. The smaller bird huddled in its nest, out of the notice of the falcon. Rosaline sent the bird a sympathetic smile.

  “I wouldnae be brave, either, with a hungry falcon as my neighbor,” she said. “Keep to yer nest and dinnae tempt Fachan into attempting to give chase.” She glanced at Walter. “Merlins love to chase down their prey, though Fachan isnae so swift now.”

  Walter peered at the small, frightened bird. “Can it be released?”

  Rosaline nodded. “I think it best if ’twas moved to the chicken coop where it can be cared for over the winter. It can be released once its flock returns in the spring.” Sorrow caught her next words, tripping them as she spoke. “I . . . I dinnae know . . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I dinnae know where Elliott and I will be.”

  Walter’s hand settled on her shoulder, warm and comforting. “Ye will be at my side. Elliott will be stepping into his new role. Do not worry overmuch, Ro
saline. All will be well.”

  Wind sent the first gust of rain through the doorway to spatter against the hem of Rosaline’s gown. Fachan shrieked, unfurling her wings to catch the draft.

  Oh, how Rosaline wanted Walter’s words to be true. To face the world at his side, knowing Elliott was as safe as possible at Eaglesmuir. She smoothed the merlin’s ruffled feathers.

  “Bring the falcon.”

  “Pardon?” Rosaline peered at Walter, the dim light through the door of the doocot emphasizing the arch of his lips. Her attention flagged at the memory of their chiseled outline, firm yet soft beneath her touch. Tiny bursts of light twinkled around her, swirled about Walter’s feet. As if mesmerized, Rosaline drifted closer to him, pulled by a force she did not recognize.

  “Ye should bring . . . .” Walter’s voice faltered.

  Rosaline’s fingertips touched his tunic, light as a butterfly.

  Walter cleared his throat. “The bird . . . .”

  Rosaline nodded, an agreement to the question that lurked behind Walter’s words. She tilted up on her toes and closed her eyes at the first brush of Walter’s lips. His strong hands splayed against her back and buttocks, pulling her closer. She wrapped her arms about his neck as her world tilted crazily.

  He enveloped her, warmed her, made her heart hum. His arms held her, reassured her, almost made her believe he would never let her go.

  Rosaline slowly eased back onto her heels. Walter settled her against his chest and tucked his chin over the top of her head.

  “Marry me, Rosaline.”

  Her breath released in a deep sigh. “I cannae.”

  “This is madness, and ye know it.”

  Tears pricked Rosaline’s eyes. “I willnae cause ye harm.” Her voice faltered. “I love ye too much.”

  “I will not die. Not because ye love me, nor because we are betrothed.”

  Rosaline pulled away, wanting to believe him, terrified he was wrong. “How can ye be certain? The curse . . . .”

  “There is no curse, Rosaline. And, even if there was, it has no hold over me. For I know I was meant to love ye. Pure love is never a curse.”

  Trembling, Rosaline stepped back into his waiting arms. He lowered his mouth to hers, and searing certainty swept through her as her doubts lost their grip. Joy filled her heart to overflowing.

  Walter’s fingers winnowed through her hair. His chest swelled. She would agree to the betrothal and become his wife. Her soft lips firmed beneath his, and the moan born deep in her throat threatened to destroy what little restraint remained after she walked into his arms.

  Reluctantly, he gentled the kiss, taken aback at the sensuality of her lips fluttering lightly against his. He drew back enough to study her face. The darkened intensity of her violet eyes. Her lips, slightly parted as if she would speak. Golden hair, haloed by the pale watery light filling the open doorway.

  “I am honored your father agreed to our betrothal.”

  Rosaline’s face crumpled. “He only agreed because he believes ye willnae live to marry me.” She shook her head. “Ye should back out now whilst ye can.”

  Walter placed a finger lightly against her lips to silence her. “I will not change my mind, Rosaline. I will not say I am bewitched, though ’tis what men often say when the woman who speaks to their soul takes their breath away. For ’tis by no faerie’s hand nor any stroke of magic that my heart beats so when ye are near.”

  Rosaline smiled and all of Walter’s cares disappeared. He grinned as his entire world brightened, defying the gathering storm outside the doocot walls.

  “I care not your father is Scottish, no more than ye should care my sire is English. Rather, rejoice we were born for this day.”

  Her smile widened, reflecting merrily in her eyes. “My da is counting on the curse to rid himself of an Englishman.”

  Walter chucked her beneath the chin. “He will be sorely disappointed.”

  He dropped his palm to her shoulder and down the length of her arm until he grasped her hand. “Will ye consent to marry me, Rosaline?”

  She nodded, shook her head, then nodded again. “Aye. Though I worry . . . .”

  “Nae. We will place our future in God’s hands, not give it to the whims of the wee folk.”

  “Marry me today,” she urged.

  Walter considered her request, weighed Rosaline’s unease against the knowledge her father would drag his feet as long as possible. He drew a fingertip across her brow, smoothing the lines of worry as he brushed a strand of hair to one side. Thunder rumbled, an ominous underscore to Walter’s hesitation.

  “Why today?”

  Her eyes searched his, her brow furrowed.

  “I fear losing ye during the betrothal.”

  Walter hid his sigh. What would it take to remove her belief she had anything to do with the other men’s deaths?

  “I will speak to your father.”

  Rosaline’s smile returned and Walter considered himself the luckiest of men.

  Fachan shrieked and flapped her wings, launching herself from her perch. She struggled to climb in the narrow room, landing with a stuttering step as she gripped an empty ledge.

  A shadow cast inside the door, pulling Walter’s attention from the merlin’s odd behavior. Elliott drew up short, his red hair spiked wildly over his head, his terrier panting lightly at his feet. He drew a ragged breath, glancing from Rosaline to Walter.

  “Sir Walter,” he wheezed. “Ye must come now! Eaglesmuir is under attack!”

  Rosaline gasped, but her jaw firmed. “I will help Elliott and send someone to saddle the horses.”

  Walter nodded before he caught her meaning. “Nae. ’Tis no place for either of ye.”

  “’Tis my holding,” Elliott declared, startling Walter into a grudging respect.

  “I have no men to spare should ye fall behind, and we must arrive as quickly as possible.” He clamped a hand over the boy’s thin shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I will send someone back for ye as soon as I may.”

  Elliott shrugged his grip away, and his glare surprised Walter further. He’d not expected outrage from the boy at not being allowed to fight. The grubby hands fisted, white-knuckled. The merlin falcon launched herself from her precarious perch and Elliott thrust his forearm into the air, the leather brace providing protection from the curved talons as she came to roost. Pinning Walter with a look that would have done his father proud, Elliott spun about and stomped from the doocot, Fachan fanning her wings for balance. Trig yipped and bolted down the path.

  Walter shoved a hand through his hair. “That didn’t go as I expected.” He quickly pulled himself together. “I will return as soon as possible and settle the account of our marriage.”

  “Ye willnae allow me to help?” Rosaline’s brisk tone boded ill.

  “I am a warrior, set to do a warrior’s business and save those at Eaglesmuir. Do not ask me to play nursemaid to a young woman and a boy barely out of skirts!”

  As soon as the words left his tongue, Walter regretted them. Two spots of high color quickly appeared on Rosaline’s white face. Her violet eyes darkened.

  “Go then, and return safely.”

  Walter nodded, uncertain if she would welcome him with open arms—or cold steel.

  Rosaline feared her jaw would crack under the pressure of reining in the words she wished to speak. But though she longed to tear a strip from her English knight and teach him the error of believing her incapable of protecting herself or being of value to those at Eaglesmuir, she feared loosing a curse upon Walter. Harsh words would only bring him to the attention of the wee folk, and despite her softening in the matter of the curse, deep inside she still believed. How could she not, with so many dead lying at her feet? Men who wished for naught more than to claim her as a bride.

  She allowed Walter time to gather his men—and for her temper to ease—marveling at the change in Fachan. Elliott had pledged to one day give the merlin her freedom, and though she did not doubt her bro
ther’s dedication, she had feared the bird would remain a cripple.

  Had Walter been correct? Was Fachan’s recovery a matter of strengthening her injured muscles, now that her bones were healed? Rosaline’s heart warmed a bit toward Walter for offering what encouragement he could when others merely scoffed or suggested the bird was best put out of its misery.

  She slipped through the doorway and down the path to the keep. A high-pitched bark caught her attention and she hesitated as raindrops as big as oatcakes pattered heavily against her gown and sent up puffs of dust from the narrow trail.

  “Trig!”

  The terrier charged up the path, tongue lolling from the side of her mouth.

  Rosaline glanced about. “Where’s Elliott?”

  Trig wagged her tail, her entire body quivering with excitement. A short length of rope dragged on the ground, dangling from the dog’s collar.

  Rosaline knelt. “Elliott doesnae tie ye.” She fingered the frayed end. “Ye chewed it, aye?” Her heart stuttered as she repeated her earlier question.

  “Where is Elliott?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Fachan’s wings fanned the air, their drag adding weight to her small body. Elliott’s arm wobbled. Her talons dug into the leather brace on his forearm. Another time, he would be proud of the merlin’s progress, rejoice in the way she’d triumphed over her crippled pinion. He knew Rosaline would be happy for all he’d done to give the wee falcon a new chance at life. The short but regular bouts of exercise had worked wonders to increase the bird’s strength, and it thrilled him to see her take to the air—and return. He wanted to show his sister how much he had learned about training Fachan to hunt for him.

  He didn’t have time for that just now. Today, he was incensed.

  I’m nae a lad. Ye’ve made me a chief! Tears prickled the back of his eyes and he squinted as his scowl deepened. Dinnae tell me I must accept Eaglesmuir as mine then tell me I’m only a wean who can do naught.