Читать книгу Secrets Of A Highland Warrior - Nicole Locke - Страница 11

Ailsa set the bowl of bone broth and bread on the table and raised the cup of tisane to the thin lips of the Chief of Clan McCrieff. Only a few drops did he take this morning, only a few more throughout last night. The tisane was important for the pain, the beef-broth mixture crucial to retain his strength.

But this last fortnight both had been increasingly difficult for him to swallow. It was that which was telling of the sickness overwhelming him more than the grey pallor of his skin and his laboured breath. His body was slowly wasting away. His ice-blue eyes, however, were sharp as ever and steady on her.

If his eyes could speak, Ailsa knew the barrage of hate would be fierce. Though he was losing his strength day by day, he hadn’t lost his opinions.

The fact he didn’t speak now meant he was saving his strength...for what she didn’t know. She never could understand their Chief who was and had always been filled with rage and suspicion.

Even towards her, their only healer. She glanced up to find his eyes piercing her the entire time he drank the tisane. Mistrust. As if her long sleepless nights and tireless searching for calming herbs weren’t because she was there to help, but to harm him.

She would never, could never, do so. It went against everything she was. It was also a sin. God’s law should have been enough to appease Hamish McCrieff that she would do her duty to him. But she suspected Hamish had committed so many sins he didn’t see the breaking of one as much of a deterrent.

Blasphemous thoughts. This man was Chief of the Clan and deserved respect and loyalty. But everything about him made fear climb like poisonous vines under her skin.

Standing and setting down the cup, Ailsa nodded towards Mary, one of the most faithful of servants, who stood as well, and they adjusted the bedding so Hamish was made more comfortable. She didn’t know what ailed him, but she’d seen it before. The decline was slow, the body consumed on the inside until there was nothing left. All that could be done was to ease the pain and ensure a longer sleep until he died.

A quick death would be more merciful and she had heard of men doing so to their brethren on the battlefields. But for her it was too kind for this man, who wasn’t worth risking her soul for. There was many a day when she wanted to. Something she went to confessional with often. Weeks of confessionals now. The seasons were changing and still McCrieff lingered, leaving the clan in a vulnerable state.

It was no relief when Hamish’s gaze shifted over her shoulder. No relief at all since his accusing stare was aimed entirely at the only other person in the room. Her father, Frederick, who months ago had been elected to be heir apparent to the Chief. To become, in effect, Tanist. Further because Hamish was so ill it was also agreed that her father would be privy to any and all decisions that Hamish would decree. Most significantly, Frederick could suggest and, in certain circumstances, make decisions of his own that would be equally revered by the council. Unusual, but Hamish was dying and her father was a greatly respected warrior, with a bloodline linked to chiefs in the past. The decree was unanimous, including that of Hamish himself. However, Alisa always felt Hamish had given it unwillingly.

Her father must have felt the same way as well. And whether it was because of loyalty to the Chief who he had served under for years or to keep the peace among the Clan, Frederick still consulted with Hamish. In front of the clan, it kept the peace. Only she knew what a toll it took on her father and it was no surprise that, after he gained her attention, he left the room.

As quietly as possible, Alisa stepped away from the bed and let Mary continue with the rest of the routine. Months of working together, they no longer had to discuss the Chief’s care...they only had to endure it.

The room next to the chamber was empty save for her father and Alisa closed the door behind her. He let out a breath.

‘He eats less every day,’ Ailsa said.

‘But drinks your tisane more. Is this because of the pain?’

Hamish hid his pain from her; Ailsa suspected, because he didn’t want her father to know. But at night, when Hannah or Mary took over, when he tried to sleep, he cried out. For a man of Hamish’s stature to do so meant the pain was horrific.

Ailsa nodded. ‘The pain is expected at this stage. For now he seems aware, but it will increase and he will be less... He may not even know who he is.’

Frederick exhaled. ‘The others will not care.’

‘Others?’

Her father raised his finger to his lips and shook his head once.

Ailsa tightened her jaw and kept her words to herself. If Hamish’s health was in further decline, more decisions would be made by her father. The issue, of course, was even at the height of Hamish’s power, her father never saw eye to eye with their Chief. In the past, there were arguments, but to keep the loyalties strong, her father always yielded to the clan Chief...as he should.

Since Hamish didn’t have the strength for all decision making, the clan would lean more on her father, whether Hamish wanted it or not.

There should be no others when it came to the rule of McCrieffs. Everyone should be behind her father, who was a fair man. The Tanist vote and shared ruling was unanimous. It was rare and, to keep McCrieffs strong, to everyone outside the clan it was unknown, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the right course for her clan. Hamish couldn’t be expected to rule as he once had. However, Hamish had lived long and had spread his venom deep. There were rumours that others were loyal to only him. It incensed her. Her father had every right by blood and sword to rule the McCrieffs and rule them justly. Yet, as long as Hamish lived, Hamish still kept his power and her father was forced to keep the balance.

And she was forced to keep Hamish alive. When Hamish died, her father would face adversity no other McCrieff had ever faced before: To mend a divided Clan. Her father was a warrior, not a negotiator.

However, Hamish’s decreasing strength could change the stalemate—

The outside door burst open and both swung their gaze towards the messenger who bent over his knees to catch his breath. ‘Lochmores are here,’ he panted.

Ailsa’s entire body seized. Their enemy was on their land. How could this have happened without her father being at the forefront of the fight? ‘Father, what is—?’

Frederick kept his gaze on the young man before him. ‘How far?’

‘Just outside the village.’

‘Again!’ Ailsa gasped and Frederick laid a hand on her arm.

The Lochmores were on McCrieff land. It was too soon since the last time. The bodies were still raw in the graves and they were here this soon again? Never!

Lochmores attacking again and this time their clan was divided. They were weak. Is that why they struck? While she’d been tending a dying man, already her clan were dying defending their land.

Ailsa wrenched her arm free of her father’s restraint. ‘They’ve never returned this soon before. Why now?’

‘And the people?’ Frederick asked the messenger.

‘Holding steady.’

For how long? As Tanist and warrior her father would want to be part of that battle. As Clan healer it would be her duty to attend those in need. ‘My pouches are full and ready, I need to only go to my room.’

‘No,’ her father commanded. His expression was not one she’d seen before. The warrior, the father and leader were there, but a flash of something else exposed itself to her. A look she’d never seen before and it took her aback. That vulnerability was of a man facing something far stronger than himself.

‘Whatever happens here today, stay hidden until I say otherwise.’

‘Stay hidden while people die?’ The last time there had been an attack was mere months ago and he’d let her tend the injured. Two McCrieffs had died. The time before that, she’d been a mere child. Too young to comprehend what she saw, but old enough to remember her friend, Magnus, charging towards the oncoming Lochmores. Too small to make a difference and far too inconsequential to be seen. The horse’s hooves cut his life down immediately. ‘You can’t expect me to sit still. I can’t!’

‘There will be no deaths today, not by my hand or decree. If it was my will, all would be spared. Except...’

‘Except?’ She seemed only to think and speak in questions now. Stupid. Ineffectual. Useless. Even her emotions were weak. She knew that all too well. Magnus had been all smiles and then violently nothing but blood and crushed bone. The Lochmores were no longer just some clan hated by the McCrieffs. She hated them, too. But then... Ailsa shook her thoughts away. There should be no but then... ‘There are no exceptions! If the Lochmores are here, then I am needed.’

‘You have twenty years, my Ailsa, my daughter, and I’m a selfish man—if I could keep you for longer I would.’

‘I’ll stay safe. I have and can again.’

‘I’ll keep you safe...until I can’t any more.’

‘Father?’ Did he mean to sacrifice himself? No. To sacrifice himself was one matter, but he was Tanist and he’d be sacrificing his clan, his life, the life of his ancestors.

‘Stay hidden, Ailsa, until I call for you. That is my only wish and desire as a father, but if that won’t do this time, I order you to. Do you understand?’

An order. Aware the messenger was rapt with every gesture and word, Ailsa held still. She would question her father, but never the clan’s leader. When she nodded, her father swept out of the room with the messenger following.

Exhaling the breath she held, Ailsa thought only a moment about what she would do. Quietly, she stepped into Hamish’s room. He was mostly awake, so she waved Mary over to her to whisper what was happening. Told her to stay with Hamish and care for him. Mary glanced at Hamish, but agreed.

With that done, Ailsa left the room. She’d keep her silence in front of others, but to stay hidden wasn’t an order she’d obey from her Tanist or her father. Their enemy was on McCrieff land. Blood had or would be spilled. A true healer was neither daughter nor clan member. She would heal.

* * *

The battle armour Rory wore weighed heavily on him as he travelled further on to McCrieff territory. Paiden rode by his side, watching his back, and the rest of the men stayed evenly spaced behind them.

They were as silent as a troop of Highland warriors could be. Only he, because of his armour, made sounds unlike the others. The sound and the burden chafed the further they travelled on McCrieff land. Rory rolled his shoulders, but it gave no relief in the tightness of his gambeson over his tunic, nor did it ease the weight of the chainmail of his hauberk. None of the others wore armour. Their shields and swords were enough for any true Highland battle.

An hour, maybe two, travelling like this and he felt as tense as a burdened deer being hunted. A weighted deer was a slow one.

What he wouldn’t give for flinging both shield and sword in the air and crying out for war. This hiding game of the McCrieffs wore thin. Mere months ago, when Edward granted McCrieff land to Lochmores there’d been a clash of swords. Small, significant...unsanctioned. The border of their land was always patrolled. Some Lochmores, gloating over what they perceived as a victory, had raced over to McCrieff land. It was a small battle unknown until too late by their Chief and the men had been well punished. More so since blood was shed. Two McCrieffs had died and one Lochmore.

That had been nothing more or less than it’d been for generations until this very moment. His sword arm ached with the need to swing. To feel the rough reverberation of metal against metal. Instead, they rode through empty fields until they saw the village surrounding the motte and bailey with a centre keep.

Even from this distance, Rory could see the weakness of the McCrieffs’ half-stone and half-timber defence. It was encircled by a partial wall at its lowest point, but nothing a bit of fire and a medium-sized battalion could not destroy.

McCrieff’s castle was, mostly, as his father remembered and recalled to him. Had they made no improvements since then? His own land was surrounded by water, but even they fortified their walls. The McCrieffs had not prospered like his own clan.

Riding slowly, they approached the village, which wasn’t empty, but full of wide-eyed silent residents. So much silence, which weighed heavier than his armour. Ominous. Foreboding. Not one resident moved. It was as if they feared one flick of a wrist would erupt in bloodshed. Rory slowed his horse even more and quieted the breaths through his lungs.

There was always a moment of stillness before a battle, but he felt none of the menacing tenuousness now. He craved to fight, but with soldiers who also craved to draw their swords. Not villagers and children. Not with domesticity that chafed more than the unusual circumstance he found himself in. Only the animals didn’t seem to understand that the unnatural stillness wasn’t to be broken.

So they rode through gaggles of squawking hens and through small herds of sheep. Always Rory observed every detail of the residents, buildings and houses. He might not feel the hatred of enemies, but he knew there were those who hated him. Anything he missed could be his death or the demise of his men. He didn’t want either, but he wouldn’t accept the latter at all.

They had prepared for battle. Instead, they walked through the McCrieffs’ village as if this was no more than a neighbourly visit. Except the silence. This was the indication that all was not welcoming. Good, he wanted to fight. Why weren’t they fighting?

Damn the coward, McCrieff. Hamish’s reputation was as a duplicitous ruler, but rumour was he faced you as he lied. This nothingness was something else and unwanted. How could he prove to his clan, to his Chief, his father, that he, too, would be worthy of power if at this moment he was denied proving himself?

On through the silent village until the wide open gates. Here, Rory stopped and Paiden pulled his horse alongside his once again.

‘I don’t like this,’ Paiden said.

‘Now you show caution?’ Rory said.

‘I wanted to turn away at the stream, but you wouldn’t let me,’ Paiden gave a fake wobble to his voice. ‘But I’ll agree if you turn back now.’

Deep on McCrieff land and it wasn’t safe for any of them. The questions kept mounting. ‘Why bother? If it’s a trap, we’re in it and it matters not if I go through that gate or not.’

Paiden gave a grim chuckle. ‘I think it matters very much. About what that is, is up to you.’

It was a trap Rory knew he must purposefully step foot into. He was already a dead man simply riding to this point. If he rode past the gate, he’d be in the Great Courtyard surrounded by McCrieff warriors who could easily strike him with arrows. Armour or not. Enough arrows and any protection would eventually fail.

However, he was also a dead man if he stood outside the gates, so it was possible they intended to take him prisoner, but the McCrieff Chief wasn’t that clever. So what else could it be? Did they intend to lay out a feast for him and his men and tell tales by the fire?

He’d rather kill the entire clan than sit at their table. If his father discovered he’d done so, he’d lose all honour.

‘Stay here,’ Rory said.

Paiden snorted, but he held his mount still as Rory approached the gate and assessed each gatekeeper. They gave no indication of their intentions to his presence. Their bodies tense, but no weapon in either hand. Of course, there was no welcoming greeting on their lips either. Just more of that unnatural stillness like the villagers.

So he passed through the gate on well-worn dirt beneath smaller buildings in different states of disrepair.

Once through to the other side, Rory could see two men above, but from the angle of the gate and the high walls, he knew there were hidden places where numerous men could walk the wall, aim their bow and arrow over the slats and pull the killing shot.

Just past the walls’ shadow and Rory spotted a lone man descending the keep’s steps. There were many steps, tightly terraced, yet he took them one at a time. He spotted no limp or deformity in the Scotsman. No, the McCrieff took the steps slowly and deliberately to waste time.

Another scan of his surroundings and Rory waited while the stranger strode towards them. He appeared the same age as his father, but that was the only certainty he could be Chief of Clan McCrieff.

He was tall, thick, his shoulders wide. Lochmore’s Chief was a scholar—this man led troops, fought in battles and had shed much blood. His father had said Hamish was large, but everything else didn’t fit. This man didn’t look as if he spoke to councils and negotiated.

A flash of movement at the top of the stairs and Rory glanced towards the new threat. It was a woman half in the shadows of the doorway, her white gown giving a shape and size to her. She appeared younger than the man striding towards him now.

None of her features were clear. But her unbound hair was a riveting flaming red. She could be across the moors in the furthest field and he’d see her.

He felt...he felt as if he knew her.

Disconcerted, Rory dismounted and took in the courtyard. As expected, the ramparts were full of men, arrows locked though the bows were not taut. Around the wall he saw more men standing. No swords drawn, but their stances were wide—they were ready to charge—and the man who had descended the stairs now stood in front of him.

‘You are not Lochmore’s Chief.’

‘You are not the McCrieffs’,’ Rory guessed.

The man gave a regal nod, but didn’t divulge any further information. So be it. Rory purposefully looked around them. ‘Is that why we face each other freely in this courtyard?’

‘You stand freely because I will it.’

‘You could not will it, if I did not freely stand here.’

The old warrior tilted his head, assessing Rory as a man, as a soldier, as an opponent. He’d been given the same look all his life from his own father. This time, however, there was humour in eyes framed by wrinkles and the slight curve lifted the harsh corners of his lips.

This McCrieff, warrior or not, wanted to smile at Rory’s words. Was the man humoured by his own words or was the joke finally on him?

‘I’ve come to address the King’s decree.’ Rory got to the point.

‘You intend to claim part of the McCrieff lands.’

Rory pulled out the royal scroll, certain the McCrieffs had received a copy as well. ‘They were no longer yours the moment Edward signed this parchment.’

The warrior didn’t glance at the seal. ‘Don’t want yours. Got one of our own.’

‘Then—’

‘I’ll ignore both.’

‘Where is your Chief?’

The man remained quiet, but he turned his gaze to men along the sides. Men who kept their weapons lowered, but who walked slowly towards them.

‘Are you or the Chief ignoring our missives as well?’ Months of preparation. Hours of manoeuvring and counselling for every circumstance. But there wasn’t a circumstance here. The sun was well risen, the day was warm, the armour was heavy and getting hot, and nothing...nothing was occurring. He wanted this done with and to return home. ‘Are you conceding the lands are ours without a fight?’

‘I’ll concede those lands will remain as they are, Rory, son of Finley and only heir.’

Rory didn’t let his gaze stray from the man in front of him, but he was acutely aware of the bowmen at the top of the gates and the men on the ground. Aware of the woman trying to hide in the door’s shadows and failing. She wore white, her hair like a bright flame, her hand now rested on her stomach as if she was holding herself in.

He knew how she felt. A trap he had stepped in and one that was unavoidable. He could take on one, maybe two of the men before him, but not all. ‘You know who I am and yet...’ Rory let the sentence drop, hoping the man in front of him would complete it.

The warrior shrugged. ‘Time would be better spent eating and drinking, no?’

‘You prepared a feast for our arrival?’

‘We knew you were coming. You wrote us a missive to that effect.’ The man turned slightly and indicated for Rory to follow him to the keep. ‘You haven’t broken your fast yet?’

Rory ate nothing other than was necessary for strength this morning. Any more and he couldn’t fight well. ‘Lochmores have never eaten at a McCrieff table.’

‘That is because you’ve never been invited before.’

This conversation was more along Paiden’s gift for circuitous conversation. What he wouldn’t give for his friend beside him to interpret. All Rory knew in this moment was if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Sparring with words wasn’t his way, being direct was. ‘Tell me what game this is and get on with it.’

‘Do you like games?’

‘I never played a game in my life.’ He’d been honed to be a weapon by his father and, when he could think or act for himself, he’d kept to the regime. Once the arrow was shot, it had no choice but to continue where it was aimed.

‘But this one you’ve entered into already. I know you see her.’

Anything of frustration in him left immediately and his focus remained locked on to the warrior before him. Older, but no less deadly. A worthy opponent by the way he held himself. Fearless since he had no weapon out in preparation to an attack.

His father was like this as well. But the man did keep his eyes on Rory their entire exchange. The woman, for she was the only woman visible in this courtyard, was still half-hidden. Yet this man knew she was there watching them.

‘She’s hiding from you.’

‘Little escapes my observations.’

‘Who are you?’ Rory said.

‘I’ll introduce myself and my daughter when you’ve entered the McCrieffs’ Hall, son of Lochmore.’

So be it. Rory turned to signal his men. A fatal mistake. A bite of steel against his side, a harsh grasp of one arm, then the other.

There was time to free himself, to fight, but Rory knew it would be brief. He could negotiate for his men better alive than dead. With a shove at the men holding him, he allowed the wrenching of his arms behind his back as he faced the McCrieff.

The warrior gave a knowing smile. ‘I said you’re invited, I didn’t say as a guest.’