The Laird Page 8

  Quickly, Glenlyon knelt beside it; there was the flash of steel, a quick slice, and the boar was finished.

  His dirk dripped blood, and he calmly wiped it on the hairy body before rising to his feet. By this time, more men had come running, wielding pitchforks and staves. He surveyed them coolly, his steady gaze an accusation and a reminder of their cowardly delay.

  “I will learn later who allowed this beast loose in here,” Glenlyon said harshly, “but first will see to the only one brave enough to offer challenge.”

  He moved to Caesar, who’d lifted to his haunches, his tongue lolling out as he panted heavily. A soft whine drifted from the old hound as his master knelt beside him, a gentle hand on the faithful head.

  “Old fellow, you are truer than most,” he said softly, and Judith jerked from her trance and moved toward them.

  “I have some small knowledge of healing,” she offered, and Glenlyon glanced up at her. “My mother was adept with herbs and salves. ’Tis a shallow wound but should be swiftly tended before corruption sets in.”

  He hesitated only briefly, then gave a grim nod of his head. “This hound is a favorite of mine. You will earn my gratitude if you can save him, Lady Lindsay.”

  “Any creature courageous enough to confront such a vicious beast to save Mairi deserves whatever my skills can accomplish. Have him brought into the kitchens whilst I fetch some herbs.”

  Access to the larders had provided her with a scant supply of necessary healing herbs. Apparently, those who sought the aid of the healing arts visited an old woman in the village for their ailments. But, still, there were some useful herbs tucked into forgotten baskets that she’d discovered in her explorations, and she’d carefully hoarded them.

  Glenlyon himself brought in the hound, cradling the tan and black body as tenderly as if he held an infant. Mairi and Tam were anxious attendants, silent and solicitous as they scurried to plump up straw into a comfortable mat near the hearth.

  Judith set to work with cleansing cloths dipped in old wine and poultices steeped in herbs and rendered fat. She spared a moment’s lament for the more familiar herbs of England, and a longer moment of gratitude that she knew the herbs she’d found.

  “Chickweed,” she said in explanation when Glenlyon gave her a quizzical glance. Her hands worked swiftly, but the old hound was quiet as if he knew she meant only to help. “It aids in the healing. Here. Help me bind him with this strip of linen to hold the dressing on the wound.”

  Obediently, he took the end of linen she thrust into his hand, lifted the hound gently as it was wound around his body over his ribs. Judith’s movements were swift and sure, done without thought, the times when she had helped her mother bind the hurts of Wakefield coming back as if it had been only yesterday.

  “Will he live?”

  His question came when the deed was done, when the old hound lay dozing on the straw mattress near the fire’s warmth. Judith glanced up. His face was creased with emotion that startled her, eyes nearly black beneath the brush of his dark lashes. She’d expected to see concern in Glenlyon’s face but not this sorrow. It took her back.

  He looked away again, said shortly, “I have experience with the wounds of men, not dogs.”

  “Yea, he will yet live a while longer, I think. He’s a hardy creature. Rather like his master, it seems.”

  A faint smile was her reward for the comfort she offered. He cleared his throat.

  “Unlike his master, he is deserving.” Before she could form a reply he stood, his voice brusque as if to deny any betrayal of emotion. “Do whatever is needed for his recovery, for he has behaved with a bravery none other exhibited.”

  She rose to her feet, wiping her greasy hands on a strip of linen. “Untrue, sir, for ’twas you who slew the beast and kept the children from harm.”

  “If not for the carelessness in the byre, none would have needed saving. There are some here who will have time to reflect upon their want of courage once I’ve convinced them of the error of their ways.”

  Bemused, she stared at him. “You mean to chastise the gillies for being frightened?”

  “Nay, lady, I mean to chastise men for being negligent. They near caused the deaths of two bairns and a faithful hound. I do not countenance such lack with my own tenants and will not suffer it here with my father’s.”

  “You are a hard man, Robert Campbell of Glenlyon.”

  He stared at her. Rosy light from the kitchen fire lent his features a softness that was a lie. His jaw was set so hard that white lines bracketed his mouth. Points of light were a glitter in his eyes, and his lips flattened grimly.

  “Aye, when I must be.”

  It sounded very much like a warning.

  Chapter 9

  SUNK INTO HIS chair near the fire, Angus nursed another cup of whisky while Fergal hovered nearby, anxious as always like a mother hen with only one chick left. The Red Devil of name and legend seemed more sodden than fiery.

  “Ye need tae eat,” Fergal persisted, pushing forward a trencher of roasted boar and peas. “’Tis tasty, I vow.”

  Ignoring him, Angus continued to sit in sulky silence. Rob watched his father through hooded eyes, sitting in the far shadows of the hall, his aching leg propped upon a block of wood to ease it some. He’d spent the morning seeing to tenants’ complaints, a task his father should perform, and it grated on his temper that Angus refused to shake off the grief and guilt he’d brought upon his own head.

  “If ’tis tasty,” Angus muttered, raking a hand through his unwashed hair so that red-gold tufts stood up like a cock’s comb, “then Auld Maggie must have died. She’s never been a decent cook.”

  “Auld Maggie thrives well enough.” Fergal smiled with relief at Angus. “Eat now, and yer belly will be grateful.”

  “My belly roils, Fergal.” Angus looked up at the old gillie with something like entreaty in his red-rimmed eyes.

  “Aye, ’tis certain it does, wi’ naught in it but whisky of late.” A finger nudged the wooden trencher closer to the laird. “Put good roast boar in it tae soak up th’ spirits.”

  His hand shook as Angus dipped it down to lift a chunk of meat with his fingers. A savory gravy dripped, redolent with spices. The shelf of brow over his eyes lifted slightly as he regarded the trencher.

  “New peas. Bannocks. Sweet Mary, Auld Maggie has done well this day.”

  Fergal waited until Angus had devoured the portions on his trencher, sopping up gravy with a chunk of bannock, then said, “Auld Maggie willna step foot in the kitchen now. ’Tis a blessing, it seems.”

  “No?” Angus shook his head, wiped a hand over his grizzled jaw, and leaned back. “A blessing indeed. Then who is running loose amongst the pots?”

  Rob tensed, expecting the worst as Fergal said, “The Sassenach. Glenlyon hae set her to work.”

  “Has he now?” Dragging a sleeve across his mouth, the red-rimmed eyes narrowed as Angus contemplated this news. “Is’t Glenlyon the laird of Lochawe? Has no one seen fit to tell me?”

  Before Fergal could form a reply, Rob lurched to his feet and stepped from the shadows, gaining his father’s instant attention.

  “Glenlyon would not need to set gillies and ladies to work if you would see to it yourself,” he said shortly, and his father’s eyes narrowed even more.

  “Is that right? Ye have set yerself to be laird here as well as yer own? Yer brother’s body isn’t cold yet in the grave and ye step into his boots—”

  Anger whipped through Rob like the crack of a whip. He moved swiftly forward to face Angus, hands descending palms-down on the table with a loud smack as he leaned close.

  “If you think to lay that blame upon any head but your own, be warned that I will not tolerate it.”

  “Ye will not tolerate it?” Angus snarled. He shook off the restraining hand Fergal
dared lay on his shoulder and lunged to his feet, not quite eye level with his taller son as Rob straightened. “Sweet Christ, ye have no rights here!”

  “So you leave stewardship of lands and tenants to the gillies? Set Fergal to hearing the tenants’ claims, then, and I will gladly go back to Glenlyon.”

  “Go back and be damned!”

  Tension crackled between them, while outside the peel tower could be heard the distant growl of thunder. A storm approached, no less savage than the one inside the hall. The air reeked of dissension.

  Into that charged atmosphere, Lady Lindsay unwittingly walked, stopping short just inside the hall.

  Angus seized upon her appearance, turned his anger to her, charging like a rampant bull.

  “Curse ye for a bloody witch. Ye’ll not be allowed to run free in my hall like a tame fox!”

  He bore down on her with all the furious speed of a runaway wagon, but Lady Lindsay stood her ground. Rob took a moment to admire her courage, if not her wisdom, before he moved to intercept his father.

  Angus reached her first, his meaty hand closing in the thick folds of plaide swathing her shoulder and breast. His arm flexed, dragging her up to her toes while he snarled, “I should not have brought ye with us! I should have slit yer throat as I wanted and not brought such shame and sorrow into my own keep . . .”

  “Aye,” she said steadily, her hands moving to grip his thick wrist and hold his fist away from her, “but if you had, who would you have to blame but yourself? It’s easier for you this way, it seems, with so many others to take the blame rightfully yours.”

  Drawing back his other arm, Angus meant to strike her, but Rob reached him then, grabbing his arm and holding it in a tight grip.

  “You will not lay hands on this woman,” he said softly. “She is hostage here of your will, not hers, and will not be misused. Leave her be.”

  Angus released her abruptly and turned his fury upon his son as he raged, “Ye’ll not tell me what I may do here! ’Tis my keep, and my hostage—”

  “’Tis your keep, but Argyll’s hostage.” Rob lifted his brow and added sardonically, “Or have you forgotten the earl charged you with her care as well as the bairn’s?”

  “Argyll gave me leave to do what needs be done with her. A ransom, he said.”

  “A worthless ransom, should you harm the lady.”

  Lady Lindsay stood still, her face white with strain and her eyes huge as she watched them. Rob saw her beyond Angus, recognized the wary fear that vibrated in her slender body and radiated from her eyes. She looked ridiculous, he thought suddenly, in the bulky Scots garments, ill-fitting and unflattering as they were on her. She should be garbed in silks and velvets, with rich embroidery at her throat and a jeweled circlet to hold a veil upon her head.

  His gaze shifted back to his father, who stood glaring at him, his chest heaving like a smithy’s bellows. There were lines of strain around his mouth and eyes, his matted hair evidence of indifference; his tunic was stained, legs bare and dirty, feet encased in scuffed leather shoon.

  Some of Rob’s anger faded, replaced by a detached pity for his father’s state. The deaths had near laid Angus low, and he struggled yet to rise above his grief. It was an emotion Rob understood, angry though he was at such waste of life. Placing blame would not bring back his brothers. The deed was done.

  Angus stepped close, the smell of whisky strong on him, his hands bunched into fists. “D’ye take her part against yer own blood?”

  “I take the part of fairness.”

  A sneer curled the laird’s mouth; his head curved back to look up at his son, taller by half a head than he, dark where he was fair.

  “Ye take the part of a Sassenach.”

  Rob’s mouth flattened. He recognized that stubborn tilt of his father’s head, the set of his jaw. There was to be no reasoning with him now.

  “You will not abuse her, Sassenach or Scot.”

  There. He’d set the boundaries, drawn the line Angus was not to cross, and the laird knew it. Grooves cut deep on each side of his father’s mouth, eyes narrowed slightly, and Rob braced himself for the expected reaction. It had been this way since he was but a bairn in leading strings. No one defied Angus Campbell and escaped unscathed.

  The fist came swiftly, and Rob did not try to avoid it. Let Angus do what he would; it may defuse the worst.

  The blow rocked him back a step, a harsh jab on his jaw that made lights explode in front of his eyes. He didn’t see the next blow until it felt as if the roof had collapsed on his head; his ears rang loudly, and the taste of blood was on his mouth. Staggering, he remained upright.

  Vaguely, he was aware of Fergal behind the laird, and the lady so still and white, her hands pressed over her mouth and her eyes wide with horror. He made no effort to defend himself, allowed Angus one more blow, then shook his head to clear his vision.

  “Enough,” he said softly and saw his father pause. A light haze obscured the hall, blurred around the edges, as if he peered through water.

  Angus stood still, panting with effort, and the rage in his eyes slowly faded. His fist opened, and he wiped his hand, bleeding on the knuckles, down the front of his tunic. He gave a jerk of his head.

  “Aye, ’tis enough.”

  Glenlyon waited until Angus had quit the hall, then lifted a hand to gingerly wipe away the blood from his mouth and jaw. Aware that Fergal watched, and the lady, he turned slowly to keep from going to his knees and traversed the length of the hall with slow, deliberate steps. Rushes snapped beneath his boots, evidence of recent cleaning, and a faint, sweet smell as of fresh herbs drifted upward with each step. Whatever else the lady may be, no one could argue with her housewifery skills.

  Scuffling sounds behind him betrayed the lady’s pursuit, and he stifled a sound of annoyance when she said, “Pray, let me tend your hurts, sir.”

  “I need no tending.”

  His curt reply was no deterrent to stubbornness, it seemed.

  “You bleed for my cause. I must see to your hurts.”

  Turning, flinching slightly at the spurt of pain in his thigh, he eyed her narrowly. “I bleed for my own cause, and for the laird’s. He has hurts that are unseen. If it eased him to inflict pain on me, then I owe him that as my sire. I can tend my own hurts.”

  Her brow rose, a delicate sketch of disbelief. “I think not. You limp yet with the wound given a month or more ago. It should be nearly healed by now. With your care, it may still turn green and corrupt.”

  “It heals slowly.”

  “It does not heal at all. No, before you offer more argument, I’ll tell you that there is a stench about it that I can detect even from here. If you survive, it will be with only one leg, I fear.”

  The suspicion that she was right formed slowly; he’d been concerned with the leg, had allowed even Auld Maggie to tend it with noxious grease and chants against evil.

  “Have you seen Caesar?” she asked, and when he nodded, smiled. “He’s as he was before the boar, not even a sennight past. I’ll do you no hurt. Allow me to tend you as best I can. If I succeed, you will be whole. If I do not, you have lost nothing.”

  “Saints above, you’re a stubborn lady.”

  “Yea, so it has been said. Do you prefer the kitchens or a more private chamber?”

  “I hardly need all of Lochawe knowing my hurts. Come to the solar on the third floor. It should be empty this time of day.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he moved on to the spiral of stairs that wound upward, climbing slowly. Niches in the wall held burning lamps; arrow loops allowed in light and wind that reeked of the coming storm. Thunder was closer now, bearing down on Lochawe like an enemy horde, the rumble a reminder of English cavalry and the din of battle.

  Even the air felt charged with danger and destruction, a familiar sensatio
n that invaded Lochawe even in peace. But it had rarely been peaceful here, nor in Scotland, not since he could recall. He’d been born into conflict, coming into the world when William Wallace rode free and roughshod over the English, when Robert Bruce was not yet recognized as king by even his own, when raids and death and burning lands were as common as sunrise. Little had changed in his thirty years.

  A sword had been familiar in his hands since he was but a lad of six, barely able to wield even a small sword yet determined to fight. It was a matter of pride to the Red Devil that all his sons were warriors, a matter of necessity to Scotland.

  Wounds were an expected hazard of battle, common enough to most. It was shameful to make anything of them. Pain was to be borne, bloodshed to be vaunted as a natural consequence.

  And now, to be tended by an English hostage was not to be made common knowledge. If not for the very real concern that he would, indeed, be a one-legged warrior, he would refuse the lady.

  In the solar, straw pallets littered the floor on each side of a wide bed. A table and stool stood near the stone hearth, cold ashes a reminder of the incompetence of Lochawe domestics. Rob sat on the three-legged stool with a grunt of discomfort. A cursed inconvenience, an unhealed wound, courtesy of an English sword in the skirmish at Norham on the day Edward III was crowned king in the place of his abdicated father. Over two months now, and it still broke open when he exercised unwisely.

  If Lady Lindsay had healing skills, as certainly made evident by Caesar’s recovery, perhaps it would soon be whole again. Men had died of battle fever, or at the least, lost limbs to the surgeon’s knife. He didn’t want to be one of them.

  A slight tap at the door heralded Lady Lindsay’s arrival. She held a basket on one arm and a length of linen tucked beneath her other arm as she entered with a brisk smile and appraising glance.

  “This should not take long. It will go more swiftly if you remove your trews, however.”