The Dark Crusader

by Jackie Ivie

  “I told you I wrote sonnets to her. Did you think they were nae good?”

  Rhoenne sobered. “I think you wasted a dearth of talent and years on her already. But she did one thing for us both.”

  “What is that?

  “We sure ken what a witch looks and acts like now. And how to avoid them.”

  “True. Well, my laird. You ready to race again?”

  “Where to?”

  “Back up, of course.”

  Rhoenne grunted.

  “We should na’ waste a moment, you ken?”

  “I celebrate and you call it wasteful?”

  “I’m actually thinking things through.”

  “Ponder away, then! And allow me some happiness!”

  “Oh, verra well. As long as the others have horses prepared and ready to ride.”

  “In the midst of the night? After a night of feast and drink? What sprite has stolen your wits?”

  “A mud puddle.”

  “Look about you, mon! Everywhere you step is a mud puddle.”

  “You are na’ listening. We need to leave, Rhoenne. As soon as possible. Think, mon! Even if young LeRoy rode nonstop, it takes three days from Edinburgh to Tyne. He’s young. Fit. He still had to rest. So...I’m guessing it took four days, mayhap five.”

  “And this has meaning, why?”

  “The wife is at Tyne Castle.”

  “Aye! And I still can na’ believe it!”

  “It will be three days afore we can reach it. If we get fresh stock and do na’ rest.”

  “So?”

  “The mud puddle is also at the castle.”

  Rhoenne shot to his feet. “Oh, dear God. She will be at Aileen’s mercy for a sennight!”

  “Exactly!”

  Rhoenne didn’t hesitate a second longer. He took off, racing up the moonlit path of castle rock. Grant passed him before they reached the summit. Rhoenne knew why. Joy had been an energizer. Worry was the exact opposite.

  His Honor Guard were already assembled at the stables, packed. Ready. Henry handed Rhoenne his sword and a thick sett. He tossed it over his shoulders and pulled the hood over his head. They were good men. All of them.

  “We have one stop afore we set off,” Rhoenne told them.

  “St. Margaret’s Church?” Henry retorted.

  Rhoenne smiled. “You ken me too well, my friend.”

  Thus it was that a band of seven men and one woman entered the chapel built in the last century in honor of King David’s mother, late at night. When most souls were abed. The sanctity of the enclosure surrounded them. An aura of peace enwrapped them. Rhoenne strode up the aisle, knelt before the altar. Bent his head. All around him he felt the others follow suit. He spoke words, but there wasn’t a prayer with enough gratitude for the blessing he’d just received.

  And he knew it.

  “Princessa?“

  Cassandra turned from contemplation of the castle grounds directly below Rhoenne’s tower. Emin stood just inside the door Nessa had opened. Emin made the woman look small. Rhoenne would dwarf her. But he did that with most women. Cassandra smiled at them both. She already loved this tower. She had since she’d first entered it.

  The west tower was sturdily built of thick gray stone. Rhoenne’s room took up the entire top and was at least six stories above ground. The tower was octagonal. Long narrow windows had been constructed into three sides, two facing outward, one looking over the inner courtyard. The view included what looked like an herb garden - if it received some care. The garden was located along the inner courtyard wall. Beyond the barbican walls was a vista of sky and water. Chill wind whipped white-topped waves along the loch’s surface. Today the sky was gray and cloud-filled, promising another bout of sleet or snow. It looked damp. Cold. Bereft.

  But none of that filtered through the thick glass at her nose.

  The fire behind her burned brightly, its warmth chasing any chill into submission. There was a large shield and display of weapons on an inner wall. An immense wooden target hung on another, the multiple missing chunks mutely telling of Rhoenne’s practice. The bed was enclosed on three sides, large and sturdily built. There was a stool. A small table. A low bench. Some pegs for hanging garments.

  When she’d first seen it, the place had been filmed with dust. Disused. In need of a good cleaning and airing. But the FitzHugh women weren’t the only ones who’d accompanied her to the tower. There’d been at least a dozen women at Emin’s heels. Cassandra had waited with him on the landing while every piece of fabric was taken from the room. They’d hauled out rugs and tapestries and bedding. They’d even maneuvered the old mattress out the door. Nessa and Maysie had stayed behind, dusting and straightening and sweeping. Maysie definitely sent lingering glances in Emin’s direction. Cassandra caught more than one of them. That was amusing.

  Clanswomen had returned with buckets of water, newly woven rugs and clean plaides. And before the day was out, two clansmen had lugged a newly stuffed straw mattress up the steps. The chimney had been checked, a fire kindled in the fireplace. Everything smelled and looked clean and fresh, adding to the aura. The chamber had welcomed and soothed when she first entered it.

  A sennight later, it still did.

  Cassandra smiled at Nessa and answered Emin. “Yes, Emin?”

  “The chieftain chambers are readied.”

  Cassandra made a face.

  “Everything has been replaced, Highness.”

  “Everything?”

  “Your people are most industrious. They possess great skill with woodcarving. I am quite impressed. They have crafted new furnishings for His Excellency and you. The wall and floor coverings have been replaced. Everything is new. I have been assured all is in readiness.”

  The baby kicked sharply. Cassandra placed her hand atop it. Nessa beamed at her.

  “If you think it best,” she replied.

  Emin dipped his chin slightly. “I do not know how to reply, Highness.”

  “You don’t?”

  “None ask me what I think.”

  “Well...maybe it’s time we started.”

  There was a knock on the door jamb behind him. He and Nessa turned.

  “My lady?”

  Margaret FitzHugh bobbed a curtsey. Angus FitzHugh was an excellent steward. He’d done wonders. Even before she’d reached Rhoenne’s tower, he’d been changing things. The old staff had either retired to their own crofts, or undergone some manner of testing to assure loyalty. Cassandra hadn’t needed to ask. Angus informed her daily of progress. There hadn’t been but a handful of women in the entire complex. Very few clansmen had allowed their daughters to work at the castle while Aileen had been in charge. Now that Cassandra had arrived, things changed. It wasn’t subtle. Angus’s wife, Margaret assumed management of the household. She controlled an army of women, cleaning and refurbishing. Dusting and polishing. Replacing rushes. The entire structure was starting to sparkle.

  “Mistress FitzHugh?” Cassandra greeted her.

  “The seamstresses are ready for you in the ladies solar.”

  “’Tis time already?”

  “They have a lot of work still to do.”

  “But, of course. And they do such fine work, so na’ they?”

  Cassandra lifted her skirt. She wore a light gray colored kirtle atop a linen under-dress. The kirtle had been woven from finely spun wool. It was then embroidered all about the hem and bodice with satiny white stitching in a floral motif. It was ladylike and refined, and gathered beneath her bosom for fullness. A matching cap was atop the hair Nessa had just finished braiding.

  “Aye. That they do. And Maysie has just baked sweet rolls. With cream-filling. Best get one while they’re hot. They will na’ last. And I’m to make certain you ken which ones are for you, Master Emin.”

  Cassandra flicked a glance toward him. Emin was studiously avoiding meeting it. Maysie had been put in charge of the kitchens, and seemed intent on sending the most mouth-watering dishes for each meal. The woman
had her sights set on Emin. She wasn’t keeping it secret. And they all got to enjoy her culinary artistry.

  Cassandra followed Margaret down the wheel stair to the third floor. They left the spiral steps and entered a hall leading not only to the ladies solar, but it ended at the chieftain’s chamber. She needed to move there. She knew it. Leaving the rooms open only gave ballast to Aileen.

  She just wanted Rhoenne to be there, too.

  The solar backed the great hall, sharing chimneys with one of the immense fireplaces. They burned a combination of dried peat with wood chips most of the time. The smell was distinctive and would take getting used to. The room had high windows that didn’t let in much light, but the sconces held flickering flames, and there was a fire kindled. The room seemed filled with fabrics, sewing implements, the smell of fresh bread, and a quantity of chattering women. They stopped as Emin escorted her to the door, took a look over the room, then turned his back to the proceedings. After greetings were exchanged the chattering started right back up. Nothing was whispered. Nobody sent malignant glances. Occasional laughter rang. And the sweet rolls were divine. Cassandra ate two of them between fittings. It wasn’t remotely reminiscent of the harem.

  Emin knocked on the door.

  “’Tis your steward, my lady.”

  “Ah. Angus. Please. Come in.”

  He looked impressive, wearing a new sett and full weaponry. He pulled the tam from his head before giving her a bow. Gave his wife a wink. That was a heartwarming gesture.

  “You have an update for me?”

  He nodded. “The widow has na’ left her chambers. Still. We’ve added another guard.”

  “Another?”

  “Three more men sit in the dungeons because of the woman.”

  “Good heavens. Three? Has she tried to get another message out?”

  “Worse. Perhaps we should speak...elsewhere.”

  Cassandra nodded. All talk ceased as she walked to the door. Margaret was at her heels. Emin shut the door behind them.

  “What has she done now?” Cassandra asked as soon as door closed.

  “We caught two clansmen at the well. Another stood watch.”

  “The well?”

  “Aye.”

  “Poison?”

  “Monkshood.”

  Cassandra gasped. The baby reacted as well. She put a hand atop it protectively.

  “Rest assured, Highness. They did na’ do the deed. And she will na’ get another chance.”

  “Was...your nephew involved?”

  He shook his head. “Nae. Calum remains steadfast and loyal. I’d stake my life on it. My sister runs the alehouse now. Even if the lad were under a spell, he’d na’ betray you. My sister has him well in hand.”

  “The woman has that much sway?”

  “Well. Aye. She is his mum. He is her lone son.”

  Cassandra nodded and gave a small smile. “I see.”

  “We’ve got loyal clan guarding the well now. All the food stores. Every egress. And I’ve got men overseeing those men. Maysie has the kitchen under control. Everything is being taste-tested. You are safe. The bairn is safe. We will na’ allow harm to come to you, or anyone in Castle Tyne.”

  The sound of boots interrupted him. They all turned to watch a group of guards approach at a trot. High slits in the wall brought the only illumination. The group was in shadow as they arrived. Panting. The foursome went to their knees before her in a flurry of plaide and clink of weaponry.

  “This here is my brother, Rory, and some of the men. Rory FitzHugh! He has assumed commander of the guards...until such time as the laird returns and can assign such duties.”

  “Rise, Commander FitzHugh,” Cassandra replied.

  The man stood. He was younger than Angus, bore a distinct resemblance, but he was a lot bigger. He was almost as large as Emin.

  “Well?” Angus prompted loudly. “You have news?”

  “Aye. We just got word. The laird’s been sighted.”

  Oh, dearest God!

  They spoke of Rhoenne!

  A flicker of excitement shot through her at the instant realization. Her heart jolted. Her breath caught. The babe did all manner of antics. She was surprised she wasn’t bouncing. Like magic, Emin was there beside her, placing a hand beneath her elbow. Protecting. Stabilizing. Supporting.

  “’Tis the earl?” Angus continued. “You certain?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, speak mon! How close is he?”

  “Apologies.”

  The man tipped his glance briefly to her, before looking back to his brother. There was none of the usual surprise she received whenever anyone got a good look at her. That was disconcerting. And slightly worrisome.

  “We just barely heard the pipes. Pipers are relaying. And you ken how sound travels out on the moors.”

  “Can ye give us nae clue?”

  “Well...he’s on Ramhurst soil. But ’tis a large fief. Could be hours yet.”

  “Outset?”

  “Evening. We’ve got men stationed. I’ll apprise as soon as a rider gets here with a report.”

  “Verra good.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Cassandra said.

  He bowed his head, turned about and the men trotted off.

  “Oh dear,” Cassandra remarked.

  “My lady?” Angus queried.

  “I look the size of a horse. What am I to wear?”

  Angus looked startled. “Oh, please, Highness. You are a slip of a thing. Well. I mean—.”

  Margaret clucked her tongue. “Go on with ye, Angus FitzHugh. This is ladies work. Be off! We’ve got all manner of wardrobe almost ready...and it sounds like we’ve got all day to find just the right garment. No worries, my lady. We’ve got that well in hand.

  “Verra good. My lady?” He nodded to first her and then his wife. “Meggie. I’ll report back as soon as we receive word.”

  Angus clicked his heels, swiveled, and disappeared into the gloom at the end of the hall.

  They spent horses only to exchange them for fresh mounts. Euan rode ahead, setting up the exchanges, paying for food, heat, extra woolens. He was the best horseman and the lightest. If anyone lagged, they’d be left behind. Iain, Graham, and Grant kept pace. Henry and Ida had branched off the first night. Heading west would be easier going, but slower. Rhoenne and the others kept a northwest direction, over wind-whipped moors, through bog-filled forests, between icy passes of the Grampian Mountains. They were forced to shelter at a MacHugh croft for three hours. Sleet made the path impossible to decipher. Everyone slept. Even Rhoenne.

  The moment they crossed onto Ramhurst fief, he heard the pipers. Saw a rider take off. The next stop gained him a lot of shoulder smacking and grins. More than one swept-away tear. More clansmen for escort, although most lagged almost instantly. And the most important - they had news from the castle. Angus FitzHugh was back as steward. Rhoenne hadn’t even known he’d been dismissed. The countess was well. According to rumor, his wife had the witch well in hand. No one bothered sweetening anything. They all knew who the witch referred to.

  It started sleeting again at the second-to-last stop. The men shoveled in stew. Fresh bread. Joints of mutton. Washed down with full foamed tankards of ale. Well-wishes abounded. Dry plaides were donned. Heavier woven setts were wrapped atop that. They even had a pair of boots that fit Rhoenne. All of it a God-send.

  Snow blanketed the last league, plastering them with a coating of wet, slowing the pace to a slog, making it difficult to see and appreciate Castle Tyne even as they bore down on it. They didn’t approach as a lone group of four. Rhoenne had at least a hundred clansmen with him, most on horseback, but quite a few bringing up the rear on foot. Rhoenne led across the drawbridges without breaking pace, the volume of horses with him making thumping sounds akin to drumbeats. They rode beneath the portcullis. Trotted through the corridor between the walls. Spilled into the outer courtyard. Past the priory. Stables. The place was awash with light. Pipers blaring. Drummers drum
ming. And clansmen yelling. Shouting. Gesturing. Swords high.

  Clansmen lined both sides of a pathway straight through to the inner courtyard. Rhoenne raced along it, sped to the base of the front steps, reined his horse in at the last moment, jumped onto the stairs, and raced up them two at a time. Grant was at his heels. Iain and Graham right behind.

  The plaid atop him was saturated. Cold. He shoved it off as he crossed the foyer, holding it out behind him. Grant took it without breaking stride, then passed it back. He felt Grant doing the same with his own outer plaide. No doubt the others followed. Rhoenne had his broadsword pulled before he stomped into the great hall. The place was lit up like a fest was in play, despite holding only a few occupants.

  They had four trees burning, one in each fireplace. All of the torches, and even the wheeled chandeliers were lit. Light reflected from all the weaponry on display. Sound swelled as the pipers accompanied him gave a final blast. The sound hadn’t finished dying out before he spoke.

  “Where is she?”

  Rhoenne’s shout carried through the room, the words stained with pent-up worry. He didn’t care. From the shadowy recess of a chair atop the dais, a woman stood. It wasn’t Cassandra. Rhoenne sheathed his sword.

  “Why...I’m right here, my laird. Rhoenne. To welcome you...home.”

  Aileen used extremely low, sultry tones. She’d obviously dressed with care. She wore a pure white ensemble, extraordinary pristine-looking. She did a beautifully executed curtsey, designed to show off her bosom, the perfect skin of her face and throat, the mass of arranged hair down her back. Rhoenne sneered across at her.

  “Viscount Tyneburgh!” he lifted his chin to yell it. He didn’t move his gaze from Aileen.

  “Aye,” Grant answered at his side.

  “You are to handle the witch until I return.” There was a collective gasp at his words. Rhoenne just got louder. “Use as many clan as you need.”

  “Aye, my laird,” Grant said.

  “You have any issue with my order?”

  “Na’ in the slightest,” Grant replied, then added, “mud puddle.”

  Rhoenne smirked. “Angus FitzHugh!” he shouted next.