The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  He shoved past two men loitering in the doorway to the hall. Their half-step out of his path drove his fury deeper, reminding him others saw him as the chief’s helpless lad. Defying his ma’s direct order to keep his birds out of their home, Elliott stomped across the rush-strewn floor and into the corner stairwell, the falcon still clinging to his arm. He climbed the steps, Fachan rocking gently on his arm to maintain her balance. Passing the doorways to each level, Elliott marched to the very top where his tiny room nestled beneath the eaves.

  He handed the merlin off to the back of a wooden chair next to a window which was little more than the absence of a single stone in the wall. She ruffled her wings as she accepted the new perch. Elliott plopped down onto his lumpy mattress, his fingers tapping an irate rhythm on his knees.

  “I willnae be left behind.”

  Fachan tilted her head as though considering his words.

  “I can help. I know I can.” Elliott shot to his feet and snagged a small cloth bag from a peg by the door, then knelt to rummage beneath the bed for a spare tunic.

  The door to his room opened. Fachan fanned her wings and shrieked. Elliott whirled, crouching low, ready to spring to his feet. His gaze met his brother’s scornful eyes.

  “Da’s looking for ye.” His gaze slid to the chair where Fachan perched, furling and unfurling her wings. “And Ma’ll skelp ye for bringing a bird inside.”

  Rage surged through Elliott, the unexpected emotion sparking tears behind his eyes as he stormed to his feet. “Dinnae tell me what to do. I have a keep to look after.”

  He shoved his extra tunic inside the bag, but his bravado was met with nothing more than Tom’s even stare.

  “Ye’ll never rule Eaglesmuir.” A flicker of amusement crossed Tom’s face. “Da only seeks to appease the English whilst he builds the clan. When I am chief, we will hold land as far as Eaglesmuir, but for now ye are naught but a pawn. Easily manipulated.” His scorn returned. “Dinnae stick yer wee nose in the business of men.”

  Tom pivoted on his heel, then glanced over his shoulder. “And take that beast back to the doocot before someone plucks it and has Cook bake it for supper.”

  Elliott sprang to his feet, throwing his bag to the floor. Tom slipped through the doorway with a bark of heartless laughter, closing the door in Elliott’s face. Elliott pounded the panel in impotent fury. Fachan danced in agitation on her perch, adding her high-pitched kek-kek-kek to the thud of fists on wood.

  “They willnae tell me what to do. I’ll show them. I’ll save Eaglesmuir myself!”

  He grabbed his bag from the floor and a worn cloak from a peg on the wall. He offered his arm to Fachan and, after a moment’s hesitation, she transferred her footing to the leather brace. Elliott draped the cloak over his shoulders, hiding the merlin as best he could beneath the cloth.

  “Keep yer wings furled and mayhap we’ll make it to the stable without getting caught.”

  With agility and cunning born of years of disappearing when sought by his parents, Elliott vanished from the keep as if he’d never entered, ignoring his stomach’s growl as the aromas of supper wrapped him in their seductive embrace. He slipped past the stable lads, busy emptying their bowls, and entered his pony’s stall.

  Brego greeted him with a muted nicker then whisked another mouthful of oats from his trough. He pitched his black ears forward curiously as Elliott settled Fachan on the edge of the wooden half-door, but maintained a comfortable grinding of his jaws, seemingly unwilling to let the falcon disturb his meal.

  Elliott darted to the tack room, redolent with the scent of oils and tanned leather, and grabbed a bridle from the rack, and cleaning cloths from a shelf. Back in Brego’s stall, he quickly dragged the bridle over the pony’s head, noting absently that Brego appeared to have shrunk a wee bit since the last time he’d ridden. He knelt at the pony’s side, wrapping his sturdy hooves in scraps of cloth to muffle the ring on stone. Elliott lurched forward with a shout of surprise as something cold and wet touched his cheek.

  He landed on his knees beneath Brego’s stout belly, face-to-face with Trig who wagged her stubby tail as she gave a bark of greeting.

  “Shhh!” Elliott hissed, flapping a hand at the terrier. Trig seemed to take his rebuke as an invitation to play, yipping as she bowed, furry butt in the air.

  Elliott grabbed the dog, tumbling in the hay as he rolled to collect her in his arms and silence her. Trig wriggled away and trotted to one corner of the stall, giving him a look of indignation that faded quickly to inquisition.

  “Ye cannae go with me, Trig,” Elliott said sorrowfully. “Ye are too noisy.”

  He rose to his feet and found a frayed scrap of rope coiled on the top of a barrel a few steps down the hallway. Regretfully, he tied a loop with a firm knot and slipped it over Trig’s head. He tied the other end to a hook in the wall, careful to give her enough length for comfort.

  “Someone will find ye soon,” he reassured her. Ignoring the tug of guilt as he gathered Fachan and Brego’s reins, he led the pony from the stable and vanished into heavy mists and the dark shadows of the night.

  The indignant squawk of a chicken startled Laurence. At his nod, two men-at-arms slipped silently from the wall, blending with the night and quickly gone from Laurence’s sight.

  Bernard appeared out of the darkness bearing two steaming mugs. Laurence accepted one gratefully, the hot ale burning a path to his stomach and spreading much-needed warmth through his body. After a moment of pleased reverence, he nodded after the men who’d undoubtedly passed Bernard on the stair.

  “A disturbance in the chicken coop. Care to place a bet on a wily fox—or a shifty Scot?”

  Bernard grunted. “We need a dog.”

  “A dog’d bark at everything.”

  “Lady de Wylde’s little terrier does,” Bernard agreed, “but Sir Simon’s boy’s collie is very protective. We could’ve set a dog to guard the coop.”

  “A good hunting dog might come in handy,” Laurence allowed, his thoughts largely on the men who hadn’t returned from the chicken coop. Battle-readiness flooded his veins, adding to the warm tingle of the ale. “Especially since it appears we may be looking for something other than chicken for our next meal.”

  “A brace of Alaunts would rout the Scots,” Bernard growled.

  “The size of the dog alone would be enough to frighten a man,” Laurence noted. “Bred to fight, though naught much else.” He shook his head. “I need more than a dog willing to bite all who interfere.”

  “Truth. The breed has been mixed with the wolfhounds and are fierce, indeed. It is, howbeit, surprisingly gentle with those it knows, thought quite savage when hunting or guarding. This dog would be worth considering once Sir Walter has arrived and we’ve settled the Scots.”

  Bernard’s words pulled Laurence back to the matter at hand. He pushed away from his stance against the stone parapet and handed his mug to the knight. “I must check on the guards.”

  He was saved the trouble as the two men emerged from the stairwell, their eyes alight even in the shadows, their rapid steps indicating their agitation.

  “Bloody Scots have been in the keep again. Naught left of the chickens but a scrawny rooster and a handful of feathers.”

  “How did they pass the cheval-de-frise?” Laurence demanded.

  “The guard is thin at that point in the wall,” the man reported with an apologetic dip of his head. “Once the trench is completed, we will be able to fire it and keep any from crossing.”

  “Then until such a time, the cheval shall be guarded as closely as any other point,” Laurence shouted, jabbing his forefinger against the man’s chest, though he knew he should have foreseen the lack.

  He ground his teeth as rage built. “I am finished sitting like a proper miss and merely defending this rubble from the Scottish bastards.” His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, finding comfort in the familiar grip.

  “We will take the fight to them.”

  Walter glanced
over the line of mounted men stretched across the yard. Maël shifted beneath him, the horse pawing the ground impatiently with an enormous hoof. Walter absently patted his steed’s neck. At his nod, Eadric raised a gloved hand and motioned forward. With a creak of leather and jingle of harness, the horses and knights moved ahead, the sound dulled somewhat by the gentle fall of rain. The splash of feet and hooves in puddles of water underscored the noise of the men as they headed to beleaguered Eaglesmuir.

  To his left, a band of sullen Scotsmen milled about.

  “’Tis a shame we could not come to terms quickly. It seems there is still little trust between us,” Walter remarked.

  Eadric nodded. “I did not care for the look in Chief Johnstone’s captain’s eyes. His men would have suffered your authority for as long as it took to lose sight of Middleburn Castle. He’d rather cut our throats than give ye command over his Scots.”

  “I do not have the luxury of time to discuss the chain of command,” Walter said, the sting of rejection lingering. “My duty should have been to solidifying relations with the Johnstone chief, not . . . .” He bit off his statement. He did not regret gaining Rosaline’s consent to marry him, only that his duty to Laurence and the men at Eaglesmuir required his immediate attention.

  “We must make arrangements if this alliance is to work.” Walter emerged from the castle gateway, blinking his eyes against the gloom. “I am not here to fight Chief Johnstone’s battles for him. We must fight for a common goal.”

  Eadric grunted. “Aye. I have sparred a bit with Chief Johnstone’s men and do not care to find myself on the wrong end of a Scottish sword.”

  Liam clapped the bedraggled clansman on his shoulder, sending droplets of water flying from his sodden cloak.

  “Well done, laddie! What’s a few scratches when ye’ve made off with the entire English flock?”

  The man grinned and set a rough woven trap stuffed with chickens on the ground. Their beady eyes glinted in the faint moonlight, but they were packed too tight to do much more than shift a bit, giving an occasional low brrrk of warning.

  “Sleeping hens are easy,” he announced. “Getting the box past the sharp sticks the English have placed in the hole in the wall was more the problem.” He rubbed his arm and Liam noted the rent cloth.

  “Get someone to wrap that cut, laddie,” he said, motioning him toward a burly man who had a knack for tending wounds.

  “Stealing chickens isnae the same as reiving cattle or sheep, but when ye discomfit the English—well done, indeed!” Lord Maxwell’s grim visage threatened a grin, but his eyes still mirrored the loss of his son.

  “We’ve harried the English and their bellies will be empty on the morrow,” Liam affirmed, keeping a tight line on the clansmen’s flagging spirits. It seemed the rain only ceased to gather impetus for the next round of storms, and he knew every man grew weary of cold food and wet clothing.

  “Set the guard. Turn this lot loose on the other side of the burn. There’s gorse and other shelter for them and we dinnae wish their cackling to betray our camp. Ready a few for cooking and we’ll enjoy the fruits of Jamie’s labor.”

  A ragged cheer drifted among the men, though Liam could not tell if they acknowledged Jamie’s bravery in entering Eaglesmuir’s keep beneath the nose of the English, or if they anticipated a warm, cooked meal. Likely ’twas both.

  Complete darkness had settled before Liam tossed the bones of his meal into the brush. A sliver of moon peeked from behind wispy clouds pushed across the night sky by an increasing wind. A scowl crossed his face. Robbing the chicken coop was all well and good, but his men needed more important work or he feared they would not linger much longer.

  And he’d promised Lord Maxwell revenge.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rosaline wiped a heavy raindrop from her cheek. She peered through the gathering darkness, hoping to catch sight of her errant wee brother. But the gates of the keep had closed against the night, Walter and his soldiers gone. The only sounds left were the occasional bleat of a sheep or a low, roosting cluck that rose from the chicken coop. Supper was likely over, as the scent of roasting meat had dwindled to little more than the smoke of well-dried peat.

  “What have ye done, Elliott?” she murmured.

  Trig tilted her head and gave her short tail a wag, gazing at Rosaline with expectation in her furry expression. Rosaline released a sharp breath of frustration.

  “I dinnae know what to do,” she admitted to the dog. “Yer lad can disappear into the trees and moors like a . . . .” She shrugged. “’Tis uncanny. And I dinnae wish to fall afoul of Sir Walter and his men whilst chasing after the wee scamp. I wonder if any Johnstones rode with him.”

  She snapped her fingers to beckon Trig, and set off down the path, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head against the steadily increasing fall of rain. Ducking inside the kitchen, she draped her cloak over a wooden peg by the door then pointed to a threadbare blanket in the corner.

  “Stay there,” she admonished the terrier, her voice firm. Trig’s head drooped as she stepped cautiously to the blanket then settled into its questionable comfort with a sigh.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll need ye to help find Elliott.”

  Trig cocked her head at the sound of her master’s name, then lowered her muzzle to her front legs as though she had every intention of doing as Rosaline bid.

  With a skeptical look at the dog’s unexpected obedience, Rosaline took stock of the expansive room. Two large hounds lay next to the enormous hearth, gnawing massive bones. A cat sat on a high shelf, gracefully cleaning her whiskers. Three of Cook’s assistants attended various tasks, the normal bustle greatly reduced as the last remnants of the evening meal were cleared away.

  Rosaline approached one of the servants. “Have ye seen Elliott?”

  She hid her annoyance as the lass quickly crossed herself.

  “Nae. Though I’ve heard that the chief and yer lady mother seek him.”

  In the hearth, the banked fire crackled, sending up sparks. The hounds glanced up with a whine. The back of Rosaline’s neck tingled as the servant’s gaze slid past her shoulder then dropped. Only one person in the keep inspired such a reaction. Hoping her face did not reflect her impatience, Rosaline pivoted on her heel and faced her stepmother, tongue tucked carefully behind closed lips.

  “There ye are!” Ava’s shrill voice warned Rosaline of her temper. “Where is yer brother? He is never around.”

  Rosaline’s good intentions fled. “And whose fault is that? No one pays any attention to him, yet ye expect him to come to heel like a whipped dog when ye call.”

  “Dinnae take that tone with me, lassie. Ye and Elliott have been naught but a thorn in my side all these years. ’Tis nae wonder yer da has betrothed ye to an Englishman.” Ava’s glance raked Rosaline’s unkempt appearance top to bottom. “No sensible Scot would have ye.”

  “I’m utterly aware of why Da agreed to the betrothal,” Rosaline retorted. “And if it sets me free of this place, I’m the happier for it.”

  Ava’s lips pinched together and her eyes narrowed. The room cleared of servants as if jerked away by hidden strings. Apprehension crawled over Rosaline’s skin, but she held her ground.

  “I dinnae know where Elliott is. Good luck finding him.”

  A log in the fireplace split apart, caving in to the ashes in a blast of glowing embers. Rosaline startled. Ava paled but recovered quickly.

  “If ye find him, tell him to come to me.” With a swish of her skirts, Ava swept from the room.

  “Tell him yerself,” Rosaline growled, her attention lingering on the merry flame dancing from the low fire. It winked twice then settled to a warm glow. Rosaline shook her head. She took a step away, then, taking a bit of bread from the long table, placed the offering on the hearth. She pulled the cork from a nearby flagon and sniffed. Lavender. With a nod of satisfaction, she tipped a few drops into a small bowl and placed it next to the bread.

  �
�’Tis for the faeries, wee cat,” she cautioned the animal on the shelf above the hearth. “The consequences are on yer head if ye steal it.”

  The cat flashed a yawn, showing sharp teeth, then feigned indifference, its eyelids heavy. Yellow eyes glinted between the narrowed lids. With a shrug, Rosaline moved quickly to the larder. Grabbing a small bag, she filled it with cheese and chunks of leftover bread. She tied a string to the neck of the flagon of mead and fastened it with a sturdy knot to her belt.

  “I willnae risk running into the Empty Annies with a trip to my room,” she confided to Trig. “I’ve a blade at my belt and the clothes I have on will have to do.” She grabbed her cloak and waved her fingers for the dog to follow.

  They darted across the yard, kicking up water from the rapidly-forming puddles. The interior of the stable loomed even darker than the night, doors and windows closed tight against the rain. The steamy aroma of damp horse mingled with the tang of oiled leather and the slightly dusty scent of hay. Rosaline sneezed.

  Her eyes widened. She paused.

  One sneeze for the good being said about ye.

  She frowned. Hmm. Not likely much good being said about me this day.

  She sneezed again.

  Two means the words arenae verra nice.

  She grinned, her sense of humor restored. Much more likely.

  She strode the hallway to Elliott’s pony’s stall.

  She sneezed again. She faltered as she reached for the latch.

  Three sneezes means ye’ll fall in love.

  Her cheeks warmed. I believe I have already fallen for my English knight. Would three sneezes suggest more sweet kisses to come? Her nose twitched a fourth time. Rosaline’s eyes widened in alarm as she gasped.

  Please, Saint Andrew, not four in a row! She gripped the wooden door until her knuckles whitened.

  Four sneezes foretell calamity.

  The itch eased and Rosaline sighed in relief. She pushed the stall’s half door open, noting the slight tremble in her hand at the disaster she—or someone close to her—had just avoided.