The Cursed

by MacRae, Cathy

  “Eaglesmuir is now my home. Ye dinnae know me well enough to decide if this is good or not, so simply listen. The men plaguing ye are Maxwells, by our prisoner’s admission. I dinnae like them any more than ye do—even if they werenae outside my walls.”

  My walls. The words felt strange yet good. Elliott grinned.

  “I also know ye’ve been unable to rout them. Or even find them. That’s because ye dinnae think like a Scot—which is understandable and why we will work together to fix this.”

  He glanced at Sir Laurence. “The measures ye have put in place are well done.”

  The knight’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a short grunt of acceptance.

  Elliott folded his hands to hide their tremble. “Getting rid of the Maxwells is our first order of the day.”

  Sir Bernard rubbed his chin then dropped his forefinger to the table as if making a point. “M’lord, if you will explain how we will locate a dozen men who do not wish to be found, and who change camp at least once daily, in the forests surrounding Eaglesmuir.”

  “Burn it down,” someone muttered, but Elliott did not catch the speaker.

  He shook his head. “Nae. We willnae burn the trees. Birds and other wild animals live there.”

  Sir Laurence pushed away from the wall. “Ye speak as a youth. When we are against a determined enemy, there is no room for sentimentality. Only swift retribution.”

  Emboldened by their leader’s claim, another man rose. “We do not have time to debate with a child. Ye have no experience in warfare.”

  Rage swept through Elliott. He clenched his teeth, firmed his hands into white-knuckled fists. He wanted to pound the table. Rave at the men who’d put him in the position of making him in charge of an entire keep. Impotence rushed over him like a scouring brush, abrading his courage. He glanced at Rosaline. Her steady gaze settled his ire, loosened his jaw.

  “I dinnae, but I will learn. And this day, ye will learn what it takes to find a wily Scot.”

  “How did ye get inside the keep?” Rosaline asked, her voice low to keep from gathering the attention of the men in the room. All but Sir Laurence, Sir Bernard, and Sir Walter had left the solar, and Rosaline had finally been able to hug her wee brother and take him aside for a brief chat.

  Elliott’s lopsided grin enhanced his boyish charm as a lock of his dark red hair slipped over his forehead. Rosaline licked her fingertips and smoothed it back in place. Elliott ducked and batted her hand away.

  He glanced side to side then leaned close. “I came in through the kitchen sluice.”

  Rosaline’s eyes opened wide and her hand flew to cover her mouth and muffle the bark of surprised laughter. She stared at her brother then giggled, grabbing his hand and giving it a quick squeeze.

  “That’s brilliant! A big, braw man wouldnae think to watch the hole where the cook tosses her scraps.”

  “Nae. Though without a proper cook to keep the sluice clean, the place was a bit smelly.” Elliott’s grin widened. “Luckily, I’m tall for my age and one of the archers is about my height. His trews fit, though I’d brought a clean tunic with me.”

  Rosaline shook her head. “Ye wee skunner. Ye’ve more wits about ye than the lot in the hall.” She indicated the three knights in the room with a tilt of her head. “Keep these in mind, though, when ye plan yer next skullduggery. Their eyes are connected to their brains.”

  Elliott worried his lower lip, youthful uncertainty written on his face. “Aye. I need yer help. I’m only fairly certain my plan to find the Maxwells will work.”

  Rosaline hurried to keep up with Walter’s rapid long-legged stride. “Ye must help him. Ye must not allow him to do this on his own.”

  Walter wheeled about. Rosaline shot past him two paces before she spun to meet him, skirts whirling about her feet.

  “How can ye believe his plan will work?” Walter fisted his hands on his hips, staring steadily on some point above her head. With a visible effort, he met her gaze. “I will support him, but once this is finished, I will send him back to his father. ’Tis the right thing to do. These men will never support a mere child to lead them.”

  “Children are crowned king,” Rosaline flung at him. “Elliott is a chief, hardly royalty, and has more sense than men twice his age.”

  “Men twice his age are still boys,” Walter growled. He released an enormous sigh, his broad shoulders losing a bit of their tension. “I like Elliott. His lack of years and experience does not endear him, however, to a room of knights who have lost a great deal at the hands of your kinsmen.”

  Rosaline drew back, feeling as though she’d been slapped. “Not my kinsmen! The Maxwells hate the Johnstones almost as much as they hate the English.”

  “Howbeit, ye must understand my knights have no love for the Scots of any clan.”

  Rosaline gentled her response. “Do ye, Walter? Have I not convinced ye to love those whom ye dinnae know? To open yer heart to things beyond what is comfortable and known?”

  “Ye know ye have, Rosaline.”

  “Much has changed in a short time, Walter. Defense of a keep north of the border. A wee lad to rule it.” She tilted her head, willing a smile from Walter. “And betrothed to a Scottish lass. What is yer world coming to?”

  Walter scratched his head. “I am slow to change, Rosaline. Yet I hope I never cease learning. Will ye help me?”

  Reining in the impulse to kiss him, she lifted a hand and swept the backs of her fingers slowly across his cheek. “With my last breath.”

  The grin she’d longed for flashed across his face. “We’ll make certain it doesn’t come to that.”

  They strode quickly down the hall and into the yard of the keep. To her right, the cheval-de-frise bristled in the early morning mists. Beyond the wicked-looking defense, the trench lay ready to be lit after the knights passed through the gates. Knights armored only in chainmail and helms mounted their horses, the swish of the meshed steel all but lost in the rattle of brittle leaves in the brisk wind. Elliott had insisted the clank of full armor would give them away, and it had taken a direct order from Walter for the knights to comply.

  Rosaline’s gaze found Elliott on foot, Fachan on his arm. A young man stood near, holding Brego’s reins. Her palfrey was not to be seen. Rosaline frowned.

  Elliott glanced up, his brows drawn together.

  “Nae. Ye willnae catch Scots bumbling about the woods on yer war horses. Leave them with yer squires and let them follow, but come with me on foot.”

  For a moment Rosaline imagined the knights refusing to follow Elliott’s command. Sir Laurence and Walter exchanged looks and the older knight stepped down from his horse. The others followed with a slow creak of leather.

  “ . . . get us all killed,” one man close to her growled.

  “Ye werenae doing so well here on yer own, were ye?” she tossed back at him, earning a look of disgust from the unhorsed knight. She propped her fists on her hips and sent the man a frigid glare.

  Elliott appeared unfazed by the disgruntlement, untouched by the tension singing in the air. He motioned Walter and Sir Laurence to his side, and led them through the gate.

  As soon as they cleared the portal, Rosaline snatched her skirts and darted to the tumble-down barracks that housed the knights. At the far end was the common room for the archers and men-at-arms, bundles of their possessions stacked against the wall. Rosaline quickly hunted through two bags before she found a pair of trews that were only a few inches too long. Sending a glance over her shoulder to assure she was still alone, she yanked the leggings on beneath her gown, rolled up the cuffs, and laced the waist as tight as she could.

  She grabbed a tunic from the bag, her nose curling at the scent of poorly washed cloth. Tucking it beneath her arm, she raced for the stable, sagging in relief as she reached the relative privacy of Blossom’s stall. She finished dressing and draped the pony’s blanket over her shoulders.

  “’Tis good to see ye well cared for. The place needs a bit of repair and pol
ish, but I think we’ll like it here.”

  Dropping a few bread crumbs at the stable door in hopes the faeries would protect the keep whilst she was away, Rosaline hurried to follow the last of the men passing through the gates of Eaglesmuir.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rosaline pulled the blanket tighter about her shoulders, her braid tucked within its folds. As soon as the knights entered the woods, she slipped away, not interested in being discovered before she could make it to Elliott’s side.

  He wants to use the falcon to find the Maxwells.

  The idea had merit. A fierce bird, Fachan would not take kindly to trespassers on what she considered her hunting ground, and could soar far overhead, sighting much a man on foot could not. But would her alert be enough?

  Rosaline tripped, landing with a grunt on her hands and knees amid the autumn leaves. Her blanket slipped to the side, and she grabbed it before it landed in the wet, slippery debris. The heavy wool smelled of horses and hay. She sat, bottom on the cold ground, and dusted the mud and bits of leaves from her hands.

  The men of Eaglesmuir seemed very far away.

  A bird chirped and Rosaline realized how still the air had become. Where was she? The uneasy sensation of being watched grew.

  Turning her head by increments, she studied the woods. Nothing moved except the bird overhead. Little more than a small bit of darkness silhouetted against the gray morning sky, it hopped from branch to branch as it sang, then paused as if waiting for her to follow.

  “I’ve nae wings, little one.” Rosaline chuckled at her fanciful thought. She placed a hand on a nearby tree to push to her feet, then halted.

  Before her hovered a cluster of tiny greenish lights, winking in and out.

  Faeries?

  She argued with herself. Nae. They’re glow worms. She swallowed hard. Faeries dinnae exist. But she could not voice the words aloud.

  Glow worms, however, didn’t live in the woods. They climbed the tall grasses of the moors. Didn’t they?

  A shiver ran down her back. The pale greenish lights shimmered. Rosaline rose cautiously to her feet. The lights moved farther down the dark path between the trees then waited.

  Waited? Should she follow?

  Rosaline peered over her shoulder where the path wound back to the castle. She was alone.

  The bird chattered happily from his branch. The little lights bobbed enticingly. Trepidation trickled coldly down her back as Rosaline stepped after the mesmerizing glow.

  Rosaline smelled the smoke before she saw the dark stain in the sky. She knelt at the edge of the burn, cupping the cool water to her lips for a drink. The water smelled faintly of moss and trickled cold between her fingers. She lifted her head as the scent of burning wood drifted to her nose. She rose to her feet, flinging the water from her hands, struggling to determine the direction of the keep. The sun shone bright to her left which meant Eaglesmuir lay behind her. The smoke rose ahead.

  She glanced about and spied the cluster of lights, their glimmer almost disappearing as the sun shredded the last of the mists, its rays touching even the darkest corners of the woods.

  I must find Elliott. The lights danced. The sharp cry of a hunting bird reached her ears. Rosaline darted past the lights, ignoring a frisson of alarm as she climbed the small rise that led away from the sparkling burn. She crested the ridge, clinging to the trunk of a tree for cover. The woods ended abruptly in a small glen. Elliott stood at the edge of the glen nearly opposite Rosaline, three men clustered about him, their faces turned to the sky. A faint glimmer like that of rippling water marked the men-at-arms and knights in the trees behind them.

  Good for ye, Elliott! Ye got them to listen.

  A stain of smoke drifted upward. Rosaline turned her gaze to follow. In the woods to her right, a handful of men crept from tree to tree, their clothing making them almost invisible amid the golds and browns of the forest. Fachan wheeled just above the trees, her cry alerting Elliott and the knights to trouble ahead.

  Ye’re a braw lass, Fachan! Rosaline grinned to see a line of English men-at-arms move out in a sweep through the woods, while others apparently waited with the knights for the Maxwells to be driven to them. Brego was brought to the edge of the glen and Elliott mounted his pony. The men clustered about him protectively.

  Be safe, Elliott.

  Long moments passed. Rosaline’s heart raced to see the battle slowly coming together. Her vantage point gave her a clear picture of the Maxwells’ approach from her right as they circled through the woods. Walter’s men swung wide, flanking the Scots.

  A group of unknown men approached the glen from Rosaline’s immediate left.

  She stepped closer to the edge of the ridge, trying to get a better look. Rocks clattered beneath her feet, skipping down the steep slope. She grabbed a slender tree behind her, moving into its shadow.

  The men drifted from one tree to another. They’re Scots. Not a shiny bit of armor among them and they move like ghosts through the woods.

  More Maxwells?

  They drew closer to Elliott’s men, approaching their rear at an angle. Rosaline glanced at the two parties of Scots. They were outnumbered by the knights and men-at-arms, but the second group would have the element of surprise. Elliott may have found the Maxwells, but he was headed into an ambush.

  A pang struck Rosaline’s heart. Walter?

  They were not yet married. Rosaline panted in sudden fear. Would she witness the death of her betrothed this morning?

  Without a clear thought except to warn Walter, Rosaline hurtled down the hill. Fachan shrieked overhead. The little merlin dove, ripping the air before Rosaline with a single flap of her wings before climbing once again. Rosaline ducked and fell, landing on her bottom to slide to a bumpy halt.

  With a hissed word of disgust, Rosaline wiped her hair from her face and rubbed her bruised thigh. Her heart pounding like that of a hunted deer, she glanced about. A flash of tan and brown caught her attention only a few feet away. Rosaline held completely still, hoping she would not be seen.

  Fachan’s next dive caused the man wrapped in the tan and brown plaide to duck, his hiss of complaint more descriptive than Rosaline’s had been. Rosaline smiled and swallowed past the fear clogging her throat. A moment later, the man moved past, unaware she was near.

  Rosaline stood. There was no time to waste. The Scots approached the glen, the knights skirting their flank. They would reach Elliott in a matter of minutes.

  So would the unknown group from the left.

  Dragging her blanket over her head, Rosaline darted across the glen. Shouts rang out. An arrow whistled past her, caught at her blanket and ripped it from her shoulders. Breathless, she reached the glen and skidded to a halt before the threat of sword points. Walter strode forward and escorted her quickly to the safety of the trees.

  “What are ye doing here?” he demanded.

  “There are men in the woods behind ye!”

  Walter’s face cleared, his furious scowl wiped away. His gaze snapped to Sir Laurence. “Defend our rear guard.”

  In a macabre dance perfected by long hours of practice, four knights pivoted to face the rear. Swords slid from scabbards, underscoring the shouts of command punching the air. Five men-at-arms surrounded Elliott on his pony, weapons drawn. Archers rimmed the group, ready to loose the first round of arrows. A cry rang through the trees, guttural rage sliding into a pitch designed to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies. The English soldiers held firm.

  The battle surged around Rosaline, the dagger in her hand of little use against the rage of men, but the men-at-arms kept the enemy at bay. A small sword faltered in Elliott’s hand. Brego snorted and danced, unused to warfare. Rosaline calmed him with a trembling hand. Elliott’s white face was drawn, but he sat stoically atop his pony.

  It was quickly over. Shouts gave way to groans and cries of pain. The clash of steel faded. The odor of churned leaves and mud blended with the iron tang of blood—and fear.

&
nbsp; Walter approached. His gaze met Rosaline’s.

  “Ye risked your life . . . .”

  Rosaline interrupted, overflowing with relief at seeing him alive, and the need to explain. “I saw them closing in. And there’s a fire . . . .”

  He settled a gloved hand on her shoulder. “’Tis being attended. Let’s go home, Rosaline.”

  His soft voice warmed her, yet warning still tapped against her heart. She had not exactly disobeyed a direct order, but Walter had made it clear battle was no place for a woman. He had not expected her to follow. Had he?

  The sun was high overhead, a few dark clouds flirting with the brilliant morning, promising rain soon, when they reassembled in Eaglesmuir’s hall. Walter, his hair glinting with its recent washing, stood amid the boisterous celebration, casually sipping a libation. He glanced up as Rosaline entered the room. Setting his mug aside, he met her at the foot of the stairs. He grasped her hands in his and kissed her fingers.

  Pleasure shot through her, piercing her apprehension. She allowed Walter to lead her to an alcove near the hearth. He bent his head and kissed her, gentle lips firming as she leaned into his embrace. After a moment, he drew back. He pushed an errant strand of hair from Rosaline’s face.

  “I am proud of ye, Rosaline. Ye saw what was happening, and did what ye must to save us.” He gave an impatient shake of his head. “The Maxwells would not have beaten us, but there would have been many of us who returned to Eaglesmuir wrapped in our cloaks.

  “I knew ye dinnae wish for me to follow . . . .”

  “No more, Rosaline. I fear what might happen to me if ye started being obedient.” He peered at her down his long, slightly beaked nose, and his grin told her he was not angry.

  “I have decided I do not wish to be burdened with an obedient wife.”

  “’Tis a good thing.” She barely managed to keep from turning her words into a question. “I am fairly certain I willnae be verra obedient. Though I was as a child.”