Читать книгу Highland Warrior - Hannah Howell - Страница 9

Intimidating was the first word that came to mind when Fiona got her first look at Scarglas. Dark, eerie, and lonely were her next impressions. The way it loomed up ahead, cold and somewhat threatening, tickled at a memory in Fiona’s mind. It made her think of sorcery and murder, but she could not think why. If she had ever heard of Scarglas or the MacFingals, the memory was proving obstinately elusive at the moment.

Scarglas Keep sat on a small rise in the midst of a brutally cleared area. Its outer walls were thick and high. A wide moat encircled those walls, and she knew it was probably dangerously deep. Several yards outside the moat was an encircling berm as tall as a man, yet another barrier an enemy must cross before reaching those trecherously high walls. Off in the distance, in a direct line with the four corners of the keep, she could see the tops of four wooden watchtowers. Everything about Scarglas bespoke a keep under constant siege.

The passage through the high berm was barely wide enough for a wagon. Fiona was not surprised to find that the bridge over the moat was the same. No enemy could approach the tall, iron-studded gates of Scarglas in any great number. The somewhat narrow strip of land between the edge of the moat and the base of the walls was cluttered with small stone cottages. Another obstacle, Fiona realized. Even if the thatched roofs were fired, that would impede the attackers far more than the defenders, and she doubted such fires would do any damage to those walls.

She wondered how long the MacFingals had held Scarglas. To build such a place would take many years and a lot of coin, something few Scots had. If the clan had been upon these lands for a long time, then why had she never heard of them? Fiona knew her knowledge of the various clans was not very extensive, but any clan so contentious it was surrounded by enemies would surely have been talked about. Yet, she had never heard one word about them, or could not recall one.

A brief glimpse of a village to the north of the keep, and an intriguing circle of standing stone to the south, softened the stark look of the place, but not by much. Fiona repressed the urge to shiver as they rode through the gates. Scarglas was certainly strong enough to protect her from Menzies if he was ever able to track her to it. Unfortunately, it seemed that hiding from one man was putting her in the path of many another eager to raze this place to the ground. It might be time to rethink her plan.

Ewan was just setting her on the ground when a tall man burst out of the keep. He flung open the heavy doors so ominously decorated with iron spikes as if they weighed nothing. Although his hair was white, the resemblance to Ewan was unmistakable. Fiona prepared herself to meet the man who apparently bred children and enemies with equal abandon. She was annoyed when he completely ignored her.

“Been in a fight, have ye, lad?” the man asked, glancing only briefly at Simon. “Lost the boy, did ye?”

“Nay, Simon is but wounded,” replied Ewan. “Twas the Grays.”

“Set a trap for ye?”

“Nay. I believe they but stumbled upon us and thought they had enough men to beat us.”

“Hah! The Grays were always fools. So, got yourself a prisoner, eh?” The man frowned at Fiona. “She doesnae look much like a Gray.”

“We didnae take her from the Grays,” Ewan began.

“Ah, so ye have finally found yourself a bride. That pleases me, laddie. I was beginning to get concerned.”

Fiona noticed the heat of a blush darken Ewan’s cheeks. “Concerned about what?” she asked, but both men ignored her.

“She isnae my bride. We found her, lost and on foot. Decided to hold fast to her until she tells us who her clan is. Then we can ransom her back to them.” Noting the telltale licentious glint entering his father’s eyes as he studied Fiona, Ewan held her by the arm and tugged her a little closer to his side. “Father, this is Fiona. Fiona, my father, Sir Fingal MacFingal.”

“Fiona what? Of where?” demanded Sir Fingal, scowling at Fiona.

Fiona scowled right back. “Just Fiona. Tis all I am willing to say.”

“Tis for the best she isnae your bride, I be thinking, Ewan,” said Sir Fingal, looking Fiona over in a way that made her want to strike him. “Too small, dresses like a wee lad, and she is scarred.”

It was not easy, but Fiona resisted the urge to cover her scarred cheeks with her hands. The man was insulting, arrogant, and rude, but that was not the reason she was beginning to heartily dislike him. It was the way the man acted concerning Simon that had her aching to kick him. Sir Fingal had appeared completely unmoved by the possibility that the boy, his own son, was dead. He had barely glanced at the boy and, when told that Simon was only wounded, had not even asked where or how badly.

“We need to get Simon into a bed,” Fiona said, looking up at Ewan. “I need to look at his wounds.”

“Mab will see to the lad,” Sir Fingal said and he looked toward the keep.

Following his gaze, Fiona saw a small, plump woman hurrying toward them. Her graying light brown hair was a wild tangle around her round face, and her clothes looked equally disordered. She stopped every few steps to pick up something she had dropped and put it back into the overfilled basket that swung wildly on her arm. If her healing supplies were in that basket, they were now well sprinkled with the dirt from the ground of the inner bailey.

Just as Fiona was about to curtly order the woman to stay away, she got a good look at the woman’s face. There was a kindness in the woman, a sweetness that Fiona suspected ran bone deep. Mab frowned in confusion as she noticed all the various bandages on the men. Fiona caught a glimpse of disappointment as well as fear upon her face and inwardly grimaced. Mab was undoubtedly the healer of Scarglas and Fiona had just trespassed upon her territory. The fact that Mab looked uneasy instead of furious told Fiona the woman did not feel secure in the position she had probably claimed for herself. Mab would not fight if Fiona turned her away, but Fiona knew she would feel like an ogre if she did that.

“I tended the wounds, Mistress Mab,” Fiona said, noting that Mab’s big brown eyes held only curiosity when the woman looked at her. “There was a battle which left a few men bleeding and I thought they would make the rest of the journey here in more comfort if those wee holes in them were corked.”

“Ye have some healing skills?” Mab asked.

“Some. I had some training, was taught by several weel-respected healers.”

“Who? Mayhap I will ken the name.”

Fiona thought out her answer carefully before replying, “I spent some time with Lady Maldie Murray when I was younger.” She felt that made the association sound appropriately vague, thus useless to Ewan.

Mab gasped and clutched her small, plump hands against her generous bosom, causing several things to tumble out of her basket to the ground. “Oh, how verra fortunate ye are. Lady Maldie is a lauded healer. How I wish I could have met her ere I came to Scarglas.”

Not sure why Mab’s coming to Scarglas would mean the woman would never have the chance to meet Lady Maldie, Fiona picked up Mab’s things and put them back in her basket. Somehow she was going to have to keep this woman from using any of those now filthy items on the wounded men. She could not shame this woman or push her from her place in the clan, not in Mab’s eyes or those of the MacFingals, but Fiona was going to have to teach Mab a few things before she left Scarglas.

“Mayhap ye should find a basket with a top or use a bag as I do, mistress,” Fiona said. “Twould save ye the extra work of having to clean the things which fall upon the ground.” Fiona could tell by the look upon Mab’s face that the woman had not intended to clean the things nor knew why she should.

“Oh, of course,” Mab said. “I was in such a rush to see to the lads, ye ken, and just threw all my things into the first thing I could find.”

Inwardly, Fiona breathed a hearty sigh of relief. She had found the path to take. It would not be easy to make every lesson sound as if she was simply stating a fact Mab already knew, but she would try. Instinct told her that Mab would not take offense at more direct speech, but Fiona would do that only when they were alone or Mab asked a question. Somehow she knew that Mab desperately needed her place as the clan’s healer and Fiona could never be so cruel as to take it away, especially since she was not staying at Scarglas for very long.

“I need to get Simon to a bed, mistress, so that we may look at his wounds,” Fiona said. “The ride here may have opened them.”

“Of course, of course.” Mab looked at the two men who had unhitched Simon’s pallet from the back of Gregor’s horse. “If ye two could bring the lad along with us, please?” Mab grasped Fiona by the arm and started to lead her toward the keep. “Twill be wondrous to speak to someone who trained with Lady Maldie Murray. Just wondrous. I am always trying to find cures, ye ken. Tis my duty to keep the lads hale. I have recently mixed a cream that will make scars fade. I shall have to give ye some.”

A glance over her shoulder brought Fiona’s gaze in line with Ewan’s and Gregor’s. Both men quickly shook their heads and she understood. Mab’s tender feelings were obviously protected by a lot of people. Mab’s cures, however, were obviously meant to be avoided. Somehow she was going to have to convince Mab that she was happy with her scars. Since that was a lie, it would not be easy. Fiona shook the concern aside and followed Mab into the keep, forcing her thoughts to the more important matter of caring for Simon.

“I thought ye said she was a hostage,” grumbled Sir Fingal, scowling after Mab and Fiona.

“She is,” replied Ewan as he started toward the keep, Gregor and their father falling into step on either side of him.

“She doesnae act like one. Nay sure ’tis wise to let a hostage treat our men’s wounds.”

“Fiona has a true skill. She willnae be using it against the men, either.”

“How can ye be so certain of that? Ye dinnae e’en ken who the lass is. She could have been sent here by one of our enemies, could be here to kill me or ye, or to spy on us.”

Ewan considered that possibility as they entered the great hall, but could not rouse more than the faintest glimmer of suspicion. That was unusual, for he had learned long ago not to put much trust in women. He did not like to think he was letting lust and a pair of beautiful violet eyes steal his wits.

As he, Gregor, and their father took their seats at the head table, two maids swiftly setting ale, bread, and cheese before them, Ewan felt his briefly wavering conviction return. He could trust Fiona to care for Simon, for any of the people of Scarglas. The way she had tended the wounds of Simon and his men revealed that she was a healer to the very marrow of her bones. She would never use those skills to cause harm.

In every other thing concerning her, he would be wise to use caution, to carefully weigh her every word and deed. Despite that warning to himself, he still could not fully believe she had been sent to spy on them. Their meeting could not possibly have been planned. That still left the chance that she had been journeying to Scarglas to spy upon them and had simply stumbled into their path. Women, especially young, beautiful women, made excellent weapons and spies. It was a fact he would have to keep reminding himself of.

“How did ye get a hold on the lass?” Fingal asked.

Gregor answered and Ewan only half listened as he drank some ale and took the edge off his hunger with some bread and cheese. He did think Gregor found far too much amusement in the confrontation. Later, when he wrestled the unwise attraction he felt for Fiona into submission, Ewan knew he would also find it humorous. At the moment, however, he could only view Fiona’s advent into his life as a curse. He did not think it a good sign that his father saw little humor in the tale, however. His father saw enemies around every corner, and although the man did have far too many, he often carried caution to excessive lengths.

“Tis all verra suspicious,” muttered Fingal. “I think we ought to toss the lass out.”

“Nay,” said Ewan. “Ye cannae send a wee lass like that out alone. There is too much danger out there.”

“Ye may have brought danger right into our keep. I say she could be a spy, sent here to sniff out our weaknesses, mayhap e’en to find a way to let some of our enemies into the verra heart of Scarglas.”

“Then we watch her closely until we can find out who she belongs to and ransom her back to them.”

“And just why havenae ye found out who she is?”

“She willnae tell me. Says she willnae help me pick clean the pockets of her kinsmen.”

Fingal cursed softly. “So we make her tell us. I ken many ways to make someone spill the truth.”

There was a chilling implication behind his father’s words that Ewan did not want to think on too long. When Fingal felt threatened, he could act callously, even cruelly. The man saw threats and insults everywhere and often reacted without thought, which was one reason they found themselves ringed by enemies. About the only things that kept his father diverted from thinking vast hordes of people were striving to steal all he had, betray him, or kill him were money and women. Since Ewan found the thought of his father turning his lecherous gaze upon Fiona extremely distasteful, he would have to make the man believe that she could greatly enrich them.

“There isnae any need to exert ourselves,” Ewan said. “We must simply take careful note of all she says. The truth will slip out. It may come in bits and pieces, but it will come.”

“How can ye be sure?”

“Tis already happening. I ken her brother is a laird, there is a close female relation named Gilly, and she has the sort of connections that would allow her to train with Lady Maldie Murray, a legendary healer. Once I can speak with Simon, I suspect I will discover e’en more, for she talked with him a great deal last eve.”

“Weel, that might work. No lass can hold tight to a secret. But are ye sure she will e’en be worth a ransoming? She isnae dressed as a fine lady and she had no escort as a fine lady should.”

“Her clothing is of a verra fine quality as are her weapons. Her mount is also one only a weelborn lass could afford. Despite her odd attire and skill with weapons, all else bespeaks a lass of good blood. Aye, someone will pay to have her returned, and ’tis best if she is returned to them unharmed and with no tales of cruelty to tell.”

Ewan breathed a silent sigh of relief when his father nodded, his attention distracted by Bonnie, a plump maid who was the current object of his father’s lust. Fingal had abandoned his role of coldhearted warrior to become the warm-blooded lecher all too well known to the people of Scarglas. It was his father’s constantly changing moods, his inability to keep his attention and energy set on any single path for long, as well as his inability to control his emotions, that had allowed Ewan to take the man’s place as laird. The fact that Fingal had not cared about the change in leadership made it all too clear that he did not really want the burden of leading and caring for his clan.

It was such erratic behavior which had made the people of Scarglas accept Ewan’s place as laird. It was also such behavior which made Ewan, and far too many others, uncertain about the health of Fingal’s mind. Ewan would watch his father act with no restraint or shift from one mood or thought to another within a heartbeat and fear that madness lurked there. It was that fear which made Ewan strive for control and restraint in all things. At times he could feel fierce emotions and desires stir to life within him and would fight hard to banish them, chilled by the fear that he might be just like his father. Fiona stirred such emotions within him, which was why he intended to do his best to ignore and avoid her.

There was a beast within him, a creature of strong emotion and fierce desires. That beast was nudged awake every time he looked at Fiona. He had thought he had tamed it, but he now knew he had only caged it. For the sake of his own sanity and the welfare of the people of Scarglas, he had to keep it caged. That meant that he had to keep his distance from Fiona even as he rooted out the truth of who she was. The days ahead looked to be long and troublesome, he thought, and then tried to turn his father’s attention back to matters of importance and away from the sway of Bonnie’s ample hips.

“Do ye truly believe such cleanliness is necessary?” asked Mab as she frowned down at a sleeping Simon.

“Aye,” replied Fiona, slouching in a chair on the other side of Simon’s bed. “I cannae say why it is, but wounds kept clean heal faster and better. They dinnae go putrid, risking the life of the wounded one. There is less chance of a dangerous fever as weel. Since infection and fever can cause e’en the smallest injury to become mortal, I am willing to do anything to fend them off, e’en if I dinnae ken the why of it.”

Mab nodded. “I confess that I have but a meager skill. When I came here, there wasnae anyone who truly wished to be a healer, so I took that place for myself. Twill be verra helpful to learn from ye as I can see that ye have a true skill and much knowledge.” She smiled at Fiona. “I am verra good at making potions and salves, however. I am certain I shall soon hit upon a grand cure for something.”

Before Mab could yet again suggest Fiona try her cure for scars, Fiona asked, “Ye say ye came here? Ye arenae from Scarglas? Ye arenae a MacFingal?”

“Nay. I came here, oh, ten years ago, I think it was. I am a Drummond. Weel, I was a Drummond. They made it verra clear they didnae want me anymore.” Mab sighed. “I still dinnae understand where I went wrong. My salve should have worked. And I am verra certain I mixed that potion right. They must have all had verra delicate stomachs for it to work so swifty and fiercely. And I did offer to clean up the mess, foul though it was. I tried to explain to the laird that the potion wasnae a poison, that ’tis good to purge the body now and then. But he wouldnae listen. Wouldnae listen to my assurances that my salve would grow his hair back on that odd bald spot and that the strange green shade to his hair would assuredly grow out in time. He wouldnae heed a word, just tossed me and my belongings out.”

Fiona tried to picture the results of Mab’s potion and salve, then quickly ceased. It was not a pleasant picture. “So ye came here? Ye had heard of the MacFingals?”

“Och, nay. I had ne’er heard of them. The old laird found me hurrying away from a village.” Mab grimaced. “I was just trying to be helpful and I did rid that vile woman’s hair of lice. And it was a rather nice color in her hair, much akin to bluebells. But I must nay brood o’er such things. As I left, I met the old laird, and, weel”—Mab blushed—“he was so charming, so ardent. I was quite swept away. Twas a wee bit disconcerting to arrive here and discover that he had a wife, but I needed a home, didnae I? So, I stayed and took my place as the healer. My laddie is nine now and is seeking his place within the clan. This week he works with the armorer to see if he would like to learn that skill.”

“Ye bore the laird a son?”

“Aye, my wee Ned. A lovely laddie and the joy of my life. I was afeared that I would be sent away by the laird’s wife, but she was dead ere anyone noticed I was carrying. Killed by lightning whilst trysting with a Gray.”

“Oh, and that is what began the feud, is it?”

“Nay. The old laird had already made enemies of near everyone by then.” Mab idly smoothed the blanket over Simon. “The Grays have been our enemies from the verra beginning. They wanted Scarglas and werenae happy when Fingal got his hands on it. They claim it was promised to them, but the mon who held it gave it to the old laird, who was his cousin. Fingal was blood after all. Twas only right.”

Before Fiona could ask anything else, a plump, dark-haired woman entered the room, set a large tray of food and wine on a table near the fireplace, and left. She said not one word. The only notice she gave of the other occupants of the room was a brief, fierce glare aimed at Mab. Fiona moved to sit in a chair near the table and waved Mab into the other seat. For a moment, she sipped her wine and nibbled on a thick piece of bread.

“Who was that woman?” asked Fiona as she cut herself a piece of mutton.

“Clare,” replied Mab. “She doesnae like anyone. Used to be a MacKenzie, but fled her clan. She is thrice a widow, and when her third husband died, many thought she was killing them. She doesnae care for the women who bed the old laird, especially the ones who did so when he had a wife. I suspicion she lowered herself to bring this food to us because she was curious about ye. She has been here, oh, near to a dozen years. She married Angus the stablemaster near ten years past and he still lives, so I think her other husbands were just an ill-favored lot.”

“So, she is now a MacFingal, too. Just who are the MacFingals? I have ne’er heard of them yet they must have held this land for many years as it was a kinsmon who gave it to the old laird.”

“He wasnae a MacFingal. The MacFingals are a new clan.” Mab chuckled. “Verra new. Tis the truth, the old laird started it. He had a falling-out with his kinsmen and turned his back on them. Decided to start his own clan, named it after himself. Fingal came here a few months before his cousin died, a verra distant cousin, and obviously wooed the mon into naming him his heir. Fingal married the mon’s daughter to secure it all, e’en though she was promised to another. She gave Fingal one son ere she died.”

“Then what is the name of his kinsmen’s clan?” Fiona was astonished when Mab suddenly looked fearful, even going a little pale.

“We cannae say the name. Tis forbidden.”

“I dinnae think anyone will hear ye, Mab.”

Mab shook her head. “Tis forbidden. If the old laird kens anyone has said it, he goes into a rage which can last for hours. Nay, ’tis best if ye just see us all as MacFingals.”

Fiona began to think she had landed in a keep full of lunatics, the old laird being the worst. Lunatics, broken men, and castoffs. The banished and the bedeviled. Her curiosity was roused, however. Before she left Scarglas, she was determined to find out exactly who Fingal MacFingal was and why he had turned his back on his kinsmen. A small inner voice sneered that her interest was stirred more because of a tall, dark warrior named Ewan than by some angry old man, but she ignored it.