The Laird Page 19

  “They wait for us,” Rob said as he saddled his horse, and Sir Alec grinned.

  “Aye, so they do. ’Twill be a long wait, I trow.”

  As the campfires burned brightly and trumpeters gave long blasts from their horns, the Scottish forces thinned away into the impassable marsh by the simple expedient of a series of wooden hurdles laid down over the boggy patches and lifted up when all had passed over them. When morning came, the English would see before them only a bare hillside with not a Scot on it.

  By then they would be well on their way to their native soil.

  Chapter 20

  Glenlyon

  CORN WAS HIGH in the fields that lay beyond the keep, ripening for the harvest. Sheep and cows were hazy shapes on distant slopes, and the purple dusk faded slowly into night.

  Judith stood on the topmost tower, staring at the sky. It was a soft night. Still and expectant. A full moon shed silvery light that only added to the eerie hush, as if the stars overhead were frozen in place. Nonsense, Judith knew, for the skies wheeled slowly and relentlessly over Scotland, the familiar constellations reliable and reassuring.

  What if he doesn’t come back? she thought, and she knew that for her, the stars and moon would no longer matter if he didn’t return.

  It was already August, nearly two months since Rob had gone with James Douglas. Her days were busy with the tasks that must be done, but the short nights were too long, even when she was weary. She dreamed of him and awoke with her hand tangled in the coverlet as if holding him tight.

  No word, no word, and God, she was near sick with fret for him, with wondering if he was dead or injured and no one had told her.

  “Are you breeding?” Simon had bluntly asked when she’d gone again to the top of the tower to scan the horizon. “I thought you sensible until lately.”

  “No,” she said regretfully, “I am not with child, and your impertinence is intolerable.”

  Snorting, he had muttered something under his breath but not pursued the subject.

  Now the quarter day arrived, and the Lammas rents were due. Lunasdal, in Gaelic, the first weeks of August were set aside for the tenants to pay in coin or goods for their huts and fields. Simon was kept busy from early ’til late with his ledgers and the ongoing construction of the tower and walls.

  The barnekin walls were nearly complete. Gates had been hung but needed more work. Carpenters finished the doors and roofs for the granary and storerooms, important for, with the rents due, there had to be room for the grain and goods that would be paid.

  “Come inside, lady,” Simon said behind her, and she felt him approach on the narrow walk that edged the tower roof. “It grows late.”

  She pulled the light plaide closer around her shoulders and wound her fists into the wool. “Can you feel it, Simon? It’s . . . like a wind. Waiting. Something brewing just beyond the crags.”

  “Not more rain, I pray. Christ, the crops will wash into Loch Tay.”

  “No.” She smiled slightly. “The night is clear.”

  “Storms can blow up quickly at times.” He leaned on the stone, peered over the edge and down into the bailey. A sound of disgust escaped him. “Fools. They’ve miscalculated again. The corner of that far wall is uneven.”

  “You’ll set it aright tomorrow.”

  “It will have to be undone, then done again. Another four shillings gone.” He straightened, turned to rest his elbow against the edge. Moonlight silvered his sandy hair, cast his face into sharper shadow as he regarded her. “He will come back.”

  Her fingers tightened in the edges of the plaide. “Yea, so you tell me every day.”

  “And I tell you true, lady. Glenlyon is not reckless. A fierce fighter when put to it, but he is smart enough to keep his head.”

  “Yes.” She nodded and turned back to gaze out over the darkened fields. Pale shadows drifted. “Yes, I know.”

  He blew out a harsh breath. “You say what you do not feel.”

  “Simon—” She leaned forward, frowning. “Beyond the walls . . .”

  His head whipped around, and he stared hard into the night. A clump of dark shadow moved down the slope; slivers of light glinted, tiny sparks.

  “Is it Glenlyon?” Her heart pounded fiercely, and she leaned forward, straining to distinguish the shapes. “Oh, it must be, Simon . . .”

  He took her arm, pulled her back from the ledge, his voice taut. “Seek your chamber. Bar the door, and do not come out until you hear me tell you it is safe.”

  “But if it’s Rob—”

  “Lady, do not waste my time with debate!” His hand on her arm was swift, harsh.

  They descended the curve of stairs rapidly, Simon cursing under his breath about the sleeping watch, and then he shoved her unceremoniously into her chamber and bade her bar the door. Alarmed, she lowered the heavy bar into place and heard his fading footsteps when it had fallen in a loud clunk. Another raid? Disastrous, with crops nearly ripe.

  She crossed to the window, unfastened the leather loop that held the glass closed, and opened it just wide enough to peer out. Nothing moved that she could see, and the only sound was that of Simon below, his familiar voice oddly urgent as he strode across the bailey. Dread made her mouth dry and her hands shake, and she wished she’d thought to leave a jug of wine in the chamber.

  Deep shadows hovered, broken only by a small fire on the hearth, and she moved to light a lamp, kneeling on the stones, her fingers trembling as she steadied the wick. It was too long, and she used the tip of her eating knife to trim it, a quick slice.

  When it was lit and burned steadily, she set it on the table beside the wide bed. It shed only a small pool of light that would not be easily seen from the bailey.

  Uncertainty clawed at her. She moved back to the window again, a hand against the thick, cool glass. The same hush as earlier prevailed, though there was a subtle difference now, the sense of anticipation stronger.

  Only once had men come in the night since she’d been here, and Simon had roused his kinsmen sleeping in the stables and convinced the intruders that they should seek elsewhere for beasts and goods. It had been over so quickly she’d not had time to be frightened nor even to hide.

  Morag, Sim the tinker’s wife, still shuddered at the memory of it, for she had been caught out in the stable yard when they swooped through the opening where the gates should be. They’d only terrified her, for the MacCallum kin had met them swiftly.

  The next day, the gates had been completed and hung.

  And now they would be tested, it seemed, for she heard the rolling Gaelic of the MacCallums as they spilled into the bailey. There was the muted clink of weapons, the lethal rasp of swords mingling with the heavier hiss of axes being tested on empty air.

  Yet no assault was launched, no intruders against the gates. A trick of light and shadow, perhaps, that had lent a threat to what was not there. Silence lay thickly, stretched into what seemed eternity, and she began to relax. Taut muscles in her neck and back eased, and she moved away from the window to the bed, smoothed the coverlet that lay over it, her hand drifting over the soft wool in a caress.

  She missed him. There were times when it was a sharp ache, taking away her breath. It seemed as if he had been gone for years instead of months.

  A dull thud lifted her head, and her hand stilled atop the coverlet. The tension was back, crawling up her spine to prickle her scalp, and she shuddered. Then the thud sounded again, louder this time, and heavy.

  Caution bade her douse the lamp, and when the chamber was lit by only the low fire on the hearth, she moved again to the window and eased it a little wider. Her heartbeat pushed the blood through her veins so swiftly she could almost hear it. The sense of anticipation had sharpened into danger, and she heard below a bellow of wrath.

  Raiders.

 
Several thuds shook the gates, and the bailey was suddenly a swarm of activity as men rushed to and fro, and bobs of light from torches sped like angry fireflies over the grounds. She recognized Simon and his brother Archie, a mountain of a man and as different from Simon as day from night. Others were still strangers to her, names known but little else, just vaguely familiar faces.

  A scattering of huts lay in a wide scythe beyond the tower, crofter’s huts, mostly, though of late tradesmen had begun to settle on the flatter land that edged the loch. The workmen building the tower brought with them their own kind of followers.

  Now she saw a thatched roof flare, fire licking up the roof so quickly that it must be like dry tinder. She sagged against the wall, fear and dread swooping over her. These raiders would not be dissuaded. They meant to destroy all.

  Helpless, she watched, heard the shouts of men and the screams of women as they scurried for safety. The gates were bombarded, shuddered, and there was a loud creaking sound, but they did not yield. Judith’s fingers curled into stone, a painful scrape against her skin. Blindly, she stared onto the eerie scene below, the moonlit figures occasionally illuminated by the glow of a torch, flashing splinters of silver that she now recognized as steel reflections.

  Simon had bade her stay safe in this chamber, but she could not bear to watch and wait while those below were in danger. And what would it matter, for if they breached these walls, the oak door to this chamber would hardly keep them out.

  She glanced around the chamber, moved to the table with the doused lamp, and retrieved her eating knife. She slid it into the small sheath on her belt, smoothed her hands down the folds of her tunic, and crossed to unbar the door.

  The bar slid back with a heavy whisk and thudded into place in the metal brackets. She paused, staring at the closed door, the last barrier between her and danger. Fear trickled down her back, pooled in her belly, made her legs quiver. Breathing was difficult; the air seemed thick and hot, yet she was shivering as if cold. She drew in a deep breath, lifted her chin, and swung open the door.

  A single torch flickered in the corridor, and she lifted it from the bracket with some difficulty; it spat and sputtered, showered sparks onto her clothes and hand. It needed trimming, an oversight she would rectify if the tower still stood on the morrow. She took it with her, unwilling to leave light for intruders to find their way easily, and made her way down the curve of stairs to the door leading to the hall. This door was the last defense, a thick barrier to invaders when occupants barricaded themselves on the first floor if necessary.

  It was open.

  She stood, uncertain, listening to the tumult in the bailey, and turned to make her way to the door that led down to the stores. It was close, narrow, a passage carved into the dirt of the mound on which the tower stood, and it led to a musty cavern beneath that held the casks of wine and a few other supplies.

  Even with the torch, the darkness closed around her like a fist, smothering and damp and cold. She pushed up the latch, swung open the door, and stepped into the cavern that swept the width and breadth of the tower. Beyond the wine casks, a rack had been affixed to the wall. A dull gleam reflected the torchlight as she went to the rack, and she studied the swords and pikes that hung from it. It was a foolish place to leave such things, she’d thought, in the dampness where they may rust, but there was no sign of rust on these lethal weapons.

  She set the torch into a bracket and reached for a pike tipped with a steel head and vicious-looking hook. The shaft was sturdy, and not too thick, but when she tried to lift it, it tilted dangerously to one side, banging against the wall. Dirt drifted to the floor, gouged from the wall by the hook. Too cumbersome; she’d never manage it.

  Unmanageable, too, was the broadsword she tried next, the hilt so big around she had to grasp it with both hands. The blade dragged the stones at her feet, and it took great effort to lift it into a poor imitation of the ease with which she’d seen Rob wield a sword. New respect for the men who used these weapons formed beneath the layer of growing panic that drove her to try yet another implement.

  A wicked spiked iron ball on a chain draped from a hook attached to the rack, and she grasped the handle firmly in one hand. The weight of it dragged her arm downward, and the spiked ball made a loud cracking sound as it hit the floor. She left the mace there and reached for a short sword that was half hidden behind another.

  Hefting it, she found it more easily managed; the double-sided blade ended in a sharp point, and the hilt fit her hand well enough.

  With the sword in her right hand and the torch in her left, she made her way back up to the hall.

  As she emerged from the narrow passage, she heard the crashing of wood and shouts of men. In all her years, she’d never seen a battle, though there had been times when it had raged close. She thought of the wine below, wished she had a cup of it, and braced herself as the open door to the hall slammed back with a thunderous clap of wood against stone.

  The rasp of steel against steel was loud and terrifying as men ranged into the hall. She recognized Archie MacCallum just inside the doors, bellowing fury and swinging a sword as if it weighed no more than a broomstraw. Blood spurted, and a man went down before the force of Archie’s blow.

  Wounds aplenty she had seen in her days, but never the giving of them, and she looked away, near desperate with fear and uncertainty. Where did she go? What could she do?

  A sudden movement to her left drew her eyes, and she saw a huge, bearded man bearing down on her, a grin slashing his dark beard. Though he carried a sword, he held it up and out as he charged, and without thinking, Judith brought up her left arm and the sputtering torch. She thrust it into his face before he reached her and heard his howl of pain and rage. He backed away, shaking his head, his free hand hastily slapping out smoldering fires on his jaw.

  His eyes narrowed, and he snarled at her in Gaelic that she had earned herself a rough night now. This time he held his sword as she had seen Rob do, an easy twist of his wrist and flex of arm that looked suddenly expert and deadly. She hesitated but kept the torch held in front of her. Heat beat at her, sparks shedding onto stones and her wrist, but she dared not put it away. It was a far more effective weapon than the sword would be in her unskilled hands.

  In earnest now, his grin replaced by lips curled back from bared teeth, he advanced. Judith waited, and when he was close enough, she jabbed the torch at him again, lower this time, aiming for his waist and below.

  His sword flashed, neatly cleaving the torch in two. The flaming rushes bounced onto the floor, and she was left holding a shortened stick. It all happened so fast; he was still advancing, triumph flaring in his scorched face as he reached for her, and she brought up the short sword without thinking about it, lifting it from the tangle of her tunic.

  There was a jarring bump against her, and she staggered, dropped the torch shaft to grasp the sword hilt with both hands and hold it steady, and then realized that the man had impaled himself upon it. Surprise lit his eyes briefly, his mouth sagged open, and he released his sword to grab at the blade she held, but it was halfway into his belly, his wool tunic scrunched around it.

  The light in his eyes extinguished like a candle dipped in water, suddenly and completely, and he folded over the sword and collapsed atop her, taking her down with him to the floor.

  Shuddering, she shoved at him, his body limp and heavy and pressing her into stone. Vaguely, she was aware of the noise in the hall, the metallic beats and shouts of men. The turmoil raged. Yet the world had narrowed to just this, the desperate struggle to free herself.

  Her skirts tangled around her legs, and even though she knew he was dead, she beat a hand against his shoulder, palm thrusting against him to dislodge him. His beard brushed over her cheek, and something warm and wet smeared on her face, and her throat clenched.

  And then, at last, the weight was lifted free, and
she rolled quickly away before he could flop onto her again, scrambling to her feet, hands searching the rushes for his discarded weapon. Her fingers found the hilt just as a hand grasped her shoulder and she struggled to lift it, panic surging through her. The sword dragged, and as she felt the grip on her tighten, she abandoned the weapon and snatched her eating knife from the sheath on her belt.

  Twisting away from the hand, she whirled, slashing with the sharp dirk, and heard a loud yelp of pain. She jabbed it again, the man a threatening blur, and he stepped swiftly to one side, letting her momentum carry her past him. She stumbled, and he grabbed the neck of her tunic and hauled her back, his free hand flashing out to snap against her wrist and send the dagger spinning out of her hand.

  “Christ above, Judith!” came the protest when she turned with clawing hands, “I fought for two months without getting a scratch and must come to my own keep to be sore wounded!”

  A sob strangled in her throat, and through the haze of fear and relief, she was able to whisper, “At last,” before she collapsed at his feet.

  Chapter 21

  “A MOST NOVEL welcome, my lady,” Rob said with wry amusement and saw her flush. “I see you have kept busy in my absence.”

  Judith maintained a dignified silence. She dipped the cloth into the herb-scented water again, wrung it out, and dabbed at the vicious gash in his arm. It stung, and he focused on her to keep his mind from it. Her plaide was gone, but she still wore the torn and dirty tunic, blood smears on it from the man she’d killed. Wisps of rushes from the floor clung to her hair, and her plait had come undone. Her lashes made long shadows on her soot-streaked cheeks.

  He glanced across the hall. Fire had blackened stones and walls in places, ignited by the severed torch, the new wood charred. Simon lay on a cot, wounded but not mortally, moaning about the costs of the damage to hall and fields.