Читать книгу Taming The Lion - Suzanne Barclay - Страница 9

Chapter One

Kennecraig Keep, Scotland

August 17, 1407

Thunder rumbled across the broad-shouldered Grampian Mountains and down the narrow cleft that was Fmglas Glen. As it collided with the walls of the keep set on the lip of the glen, the low, ominous roll accented the drama unfolding in the chamber beneath the keep.

The tasting of the uisge beatha.

The water of life.

The life’s blood of Clan Boyd.

Clad in a gown of virgin white wool, her honey-colored hair falling free to her waist, Catlyn Boyd stepped into the high-ceilinged room. This was the moment she had trained for nearly all her life. Her palms were slick from nerves, but the anticipation she should have felt was clouded by sorrow.

“Papa,” she whispered. “You were taken from us too soon.” Sweet Mary, how she missed him, the patience with which he’d answered her hundreds of questions over the years, the wisdom he had unstintingly shared with her, the courage he’d shown in insisting she be named heir after her brother died.

“I need you, Papa, now more than ever.”

Silently she scanned the room, gathering what strength she could from the familiar. It was not a large chamber, measuring twenty feet by twenty, but rich in history. On the walls hung the tapestries woven by her mother, her grandmother and so on back for six generations. Two stone columns supported the vaulted ceiling from which hung an iron wheel set with a dozen tallow candles. The light gleamed softly on the only piece of furniture, an oaken table nigh as old as the keep. In its center sat an heirloom of even greater age. The chalice.

The tiny scallop shells on the base were white and worn smooth from use. The bowl formed of rock crystal was so clear the torchlight passed right through the dark amber liquid in it. Centuries ago, a restless ancestor, Henri of the Boyd, had returned from trading in the Mediterranean with the chalice and the recipe for distilling spirits from grain. Each succeeding generation of Boyds had improved upon the original.

Family pride and a sense of destiny filled her as her eyes moved from the chalice to the kinsmen assembled in the golden circle of light. Each man was here because tradition dictated it, and because he had a stake in the whiskey’s making. Roland the brew master’s narrow face was tight with anxiety. If the whiskey was found lacking, he could lose the position held by his father and his father before that. His son and apprentice, Wesley, grinned at her with the confidence of youth. Gordie the cooper stared at the small keg on the floor beside the table, grateful, no doubt, to see it did not leak.

Lastly Catlyn looked at Adair, the craggy-faced captain who was mentor to her as he’d been friend to her father.

Oh, Papa. Pain squeezed tight in her chest. Even after a month, it was hard to accept the fact that he was gone, the bluff, generous man who had guided her steps as a babe and taught her the craft when fate decreed she would succeed him.

“’Tis time, lass,” Adair said gently. In his level brown eyes she saw grief held at bay by the prod of duty.

Catlyn nodded, took a steadying breath and moved to the table. Without hesitation, she lifted the chalice and let the pungent fumes waft up her nose. Strong and so sharp they nearly stole her breath. Just as it should be for whiskey that was only a year old. She had been bred and raised for this, educated in the ways of marrying barley mash and fire while other lasses learned needlework and housework.

It was time to put theory into practice.

The cool liquid burned in her mouth. She tilted her head, let it slide achingly down her throat to set her belly afire. The heat lingered on her tongue then receded. In its wake subtle nuances tickled the back of her pallet. Earth and smoke and fire. Intriguing, but it was the underlying hint of sweetness that soothed away the sting and demanded to be sampled again.

“How can ye tell if it’s fit?” demanded Roland, scowling.

Catlyn jerked, swallowed a second sip too quickly and choked, something she had not done since she’d had her first taste at age five or so.

“That strong, is it?” Adair plucked the cup from her hand and clapped her on the back.

“Whiskey’s a man’s drink,” grumbled Roland. “Laird Thomas should have left one of us in charge of the stills.”

The implication that she was not fit to succeed her father dried Catlyn’s tears and brought her chin up. “I worked by Papa’s side from the time I could walk.”

“Watching and doing’s two different things.” Old Roland filled a plain horn cup and drank. The others, even Catlyn, held their breath. “It’ll do,” he growled.

Wesley let out a whoop and grabbed up a cup of his own. He filled and drained it, then sucked in air. “Dod,” he wheezed, eyes round and wet. “It fair steals yer breath, it does.”

“Just as it should.” Roland took the cup. “And ye’ll be showing more respect for my brew, not swilling it like a drunken sailor in a dockside alehouse.”

“Aye, Da.”

“Best in several years, I’d say.” Adair took another sip, rolled it on his tongue, then swallowed.

“And why not? Laird Thomas knew what he was about. Had the touch, he did. And experience.” Roland looked down his hooked nose at Catlyn, clearly hinting she lacked both.

“I know I am young,” Catlyn said, her gaze meeting each man’s in turn. “But Papa said I had the nose and pallet.”

“Ye’ll need more than that if ye’re to keep Hakon Fergusson from taking everything we’ve got,” Roland said darkly.

Adair glared at the brew master. “Kennecraig has never been taken, and it won’t be while I’ve breath in my body.”

“Brave words. Laird Thomas said much the same when Hakon came sniffing around. Look where he is,” Roland muttered.

“Dead,” Wesley whispered.

Catlyn shivered, fighting sorrow and fear. “We have Hakon over a barrel. He cannot attack for fear we will destroy the distillery and the whiskey he covets.”

“He’s stymied for the moment,” Roland allowed. “But—”

“Papa said he was the sort of bully who expects his victims to roll over and give him what he wants. When he sees he cannot best us, he will go off in search of easier prey”

Roland grunted. “Well, last year’s whiskey is ready for the kegs and the four-year-old is ready for market. But how will we get it there with Hakon lurking about like an evil spider?”

“That is my worry,” said Adair. “If we had the coin, I would hire mercenaries to guard the shipment.”

“We are over a barrel of our own. Till we sell some of the Finglas, we’ve no money. Not even for food, and God knows if we do not get supplies soon, we will all starve and save Hakon the trouble of attacking the keep.” Roland looked almost pleased.

Did he want her to fail so badly he wished them all ill? Catlyn wondered. The weight on her shoulders felt even heavier, yet she dared not show any weakness. “I will find a way to—”

A knock sounded at the door. For a stunned instant, they all looked at one another. It must be something important to interrupt the sacred ceremony.

Adair scowled, then went to open it a crack, revealing Eoin’s handsome face. “I told you that you were not welcome here,” Adair growled.

Catlyn’s former betrothed lifted his chin. “There’s a party of men at the gate seeking shelter from the storm.”

“Fergussons,” Roland whispered. The word echoed ominously off the stone walls.

“Nay,” Eoin said quickly. “They are travelers. I think—”

“No one cares what you think,” Adair snapped.

Catlyn laid a hand on her captain’s arm. He could not forgive Eoin for supposedly breaking her heart, but this bickering divided them when they most needed to pull together. “Thank you for bringing word, Eoin. I’ll come see for myself.”

Up the steps from the distillery she went, down the dimly lit corridor and out into the courtyard. The wind tugged at her skirts and whipped her hair about, carrying with it the damp promise of rain. Overhead, thunder rumbled and lightning raked through a sea of bilious gray clouds.

“Best hurry before you get wet,” Eoin advised. He trotted along beside her like a faithful hound.

Nay, not faithful. He had betrayed her with the woman who had once been her dearest friend. Despite her best efforts, Catlyn could neither forgive nor forget their treachery. Dora had accepted this and stayed out of Catlyn’s way as much as possible. Perversely, Eoin seemed determined to win her back.

“Careful, the steps are steep.” He reached to help her up the stairs of the guardhouse.

Catlyn neatly avoided his grasp. “I have been climbing them all my life,” she said through clenched teeth. Clinging to the wall with one hand, she battled through the wind to the top of the tower. Looking down, she spied a group of men huddled in the lee of the gate. “Oh, dear, we must do something.”

“We cannot let them in,” Adair said.

“I know, but Papa is doubtless spinning in his grave to see us turn travelers away in such weather.”

“If we let them in and they prove to be Fergussons, we’ll be moldering in our graves,” Adair reminded her.

At her other side, Eoin snorted. “What Fergusson ever dressed so fine? That’s chain mail they’re wearing under their cloaks, and the leader has full armor.”

“They are mercenaries, then,” said Adair.

“Hakon couldn’t afford to buy one man, much less—”

“He could if he pledged to pay them after he’d gotten his hands on our distillery,” Adair growled.

Eoin stuck his handsome face into Adair’s weathered one. “Lot you know, old man. Mercenaries want coin, not promises.”

“Hush, the both of you. I cannot think what to do with you ripping at each other.” Catlyn returned her gaze to the man who had hailed them moments ago. Ross Sutherland was the name he had given Eoin when he sought shelter for his band. He claimed they were travelers lost on their way to Inverness.

In defiance of the biting wind, Ross Sutherland sat straight in the saddle, controlling his restive mount with ease. His face was raised expectantly toward the gatehouse window where Catlyn stood, but there was nothing of the supplicant in his pose. Arrogant, he was, from the tilt of his head to the stubborn set of his square jaw. The rest of his face was hidden in the shadows cast by his visor, but she knew his eyes would be as dark and imperious as his bearing.

“Not Fergussons,” Eoin said. “I say we send someone down to look them over closely and—”

“You get no say,” Adair snapped.

Eoin flushed. His eyes—the big brown ones that had looked so sincere all the while he lied about giving her a lifetime of love and devotion—slid to Catlyn. “The decision is yours.”

She resisted the urge to slump beneath this latest burden. “We cannot afford to let them inside. If they were fewer.” Five and twenty, she’d counted. True there were one hundred men of fighting age under her roof, but...

“I know it pains your tender heart to leave them to the elements.” Eoin laid a hand on her arm. “Let me go down and speak with them, see if I can learn their intent.”

Catlyn extracted her arm from his grasp. Once his touch had made her blood warm with possibilities. That was before she had learned Eoin had been warming Dora’s bed all the while he’d been courting her. “’Tis a kindly offer, but if they captured you—”

“Good riddance,” Adair grumbled. He’d been all for tossing Eoin out for breaking Catlyn’s heart.

Catlyn scowled at her captain. “If they took Eoin, we’d be forced to bargain with them.” Pleasant as it was to think of life without Eoin trailing after her.

“Hello the keep!” shouted Ross Sutherland.

Catlyn whipped back to the window and opened her mouth.

“We cannot let you in,” Adair leaned out and bellowed.

“Not very Christian of you.”

“A man’s gotta look to his own.”

“We mean you no harm.”

“The world is full of liars.” Adair glanced at Eoin.

A rumble of thunder cut off Sutherland’s reply. A few fat raindrops began to fall from the darkening sky.

Catlyn flinched. “A moment, sir knight,” she called down, ignoring Adair’s grunt of disapproval.

Ross Sutherland’s mouth swept up in a smile, his teeth a slash of white in the gloom. “My thanks for your intervention, my lady. It is getting right wet.”

“Oh, we cannot let you inside, but if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll have food and blankets lowered to you.”

The smile became an angry slash. “We’ve blankets aplenty. Yours would no doubt soak through as quickly as ours. What we need is a roof over our heads ere this storm breaks loose.”

Catlyn glanced at Adair and sighed. “I—I am sorry, Sir Ross, but we cannot.” Pride made her add, “Please do not think us uncharitable, but we’ve a powerful enemy hereabouts and dare not take the chance that you are allied with them.”

“So be it.” Ross Sutherland obviously had his pride, too, for he wheeled his great horse and started down the narrow road to the plateau below.

Kennecraig Tower sat on the edge of a deep cleft in the mountain, stark and nearly unassailable. The only access to it was up this trail. Archers on the walls could send a withering stream of arrows or even hot pitch down on the attackers who must move single file up the trail. Every Boyd knew that Kennecraig could not be taken, except by treachery.

Reason enough to turn the Sutherlands away, Catlyn thought. Still she hated doing it. Cupping her hand to her mouth, she called out, “There’s a thick stand of pines along river.” She expected no reply and got none, but she watched them anyway.

When they reached the plateau, the troop stopped abruptly. The reason came clear, for a horde of men suddenly stepped out from behind the huge boulders rimming the plateau.

Catlyn gasped, recognizing their dark plaid with its distinctive threads of red and white. “Fergussons!” And in the fore was Hakon, of the sparse figure and long blond hair.

“Hakon’s leading them.” Eoin scowled. “What are they doing this close to Kennecraig?”

“They must have been waiting to attack us,” said Adair. “If these Sutherlands had not spotted them—”

“Sweet Mary. You don’t think Hakon will harm them.”

“I do not know.”

“But these men have done nothing to Hakon.” Catlyn held her breath and watched the drama unfold in the gathering gloom. She saw Ross Sutherland gesture toward Kennecraig, the wind whipping his cloak back from wide shoulders as he explained their predicament. ’Maybe Hakon will take the travelers back to Dun-Dubh and give them shelter.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than Hakon drew his sword. The Boyds’ gasps of horror were drowned out by a sharp clap of thunder. Lightning flashed across the sky. In the spats of dark and light, the battle was joined. The Sutherlands fought valiantly, but the Fergussons were pressing them back. When the first Sutherland fell, Catlyn made her decision.

“Adair! We must do something,” she cried.

“Aye. Archers to the wall!” Wheeling, Adair ran down the tower steps with a swiftness that belied his forty years. Eoin and Catlyn scrambled after him.

“What are you going to do?” she demanded, grabbing Adair’s arm at the base of the steps.

“Get the Sutherlands inside if I can.”

“You won’t have to go out there, will you?” A hundred fears crowded her mind. Concern for her kinsmen’s welfare. Terror that the Fergussons would somehow sneak inside Kennecraig.

“Aye.” Already the creak of chains and gears accompanied the winching up of the portcullis whose iron bars shielded the gate. “But the archers’ll cover us and see no Fergusson gets up the road. Stay inside, mind,” he admonished, patting her cheek. “You’d best be ready with bandages and the like.”

He was gone before Catlyn could protest. As she turned away from the gate, she nearly fell over a knot of household servants. They clung together, whimpering and shivering. Before Hakon Fergusson entered their lives, the folk of Kennecraig had not known fear or violence.

“Is it true?” asked Ulma. “Is it Hakon?” Her maid’s normally ruddy face was white, her merry blue eyes stark.

“It is.” Her parents had taught her that the truth, even a terrible truth, was better than a lie. “But his plans were foiled by the Sutherlands. Some of them have been wounded,” she continued briskly. “We must make preparations to tend them.”

“What shall we do?” a frightened voice cried.

“Dora will know what needs...” Catlyn stopped. Dora was no longer housekeeper here. Catlyn had little training in such matters. Between them, Dora and Catlyn’s mother had run the keep, but Catlyn had dismissed Dora when she’d found her with Eoin, and Lady Jeannie had not been herself since Thomas died.

“Maybe we should tell Old Freda to ready her medicine chest,” Ulma said gently.

“Of course.” Catlyn nearly kissed the old woman. “Freda will know what should be done. Go along, all of you, and help her gather what is necessary.”

Feeling grossly inadequate, Catlyn raced back up into the gatehouse. Buried beneath the grief of her father’s loss and the weight of her new responsibilities, she had given little thought to who was running the keep. Tomorrow she must remedy that.

From the window, she watched Adair and a score of Boyds trot down the path. It had begun to rain in earnest now. Their weapons—swords, spears and a few fearsome Lochaber axes—shimmered in the cascading lightning. For a moment, she feared Adair planned to take her men into battle against the Fergussons, but halfway to the plateau, he halted.

“To me, Sutherlands!” Adair cried.

The battle seemed to stop as Fergussons and Sutherlands turned and looked up the mountain.

“Retreat!” Adair screamed. “Come within! We offer succor!” To punctuate the offer, he hurled a spear at the nearest Fergusson, catching the gaping man full in the chest. As he toppled off his horse, the gruesome tableau scattered.

Hakon Fergusson roared something coarse and pithy.

The Sutherlands wheeled and spurred back up the hill.

The Fergussons raced after them, swords aloft.

“Archers!” Catlyn screamed, turning to the men pressed shoulder to shoulder on the walls.

The night sky filled with arrows. Metal tips glistening against the lightning-raked sky, they arched high then fell just behind the retreating Sutherlands.

Catlyn grinned as she watched the Fergussons halt, their mouths wide with rage. Their mounts danced in agitated confusion, hooves perilously close to the edge of the ravine. “Again! Another volley,” she shouted.

The second flight of arrows kept the Fergussons at bay while the Sutherlands clattered through the gate, with the Boyds streaking in just after them.

Catlyn hurried down the steps and into the courtyard looking for Adair so she might congratulate him. All was chaos: servants darting to and fro like fish in a barrel, horses pawing and shivering with latent excitement, men shouting triumphantly and clapping one another on the back.

One voice rose above the others.

Catlyn whirled around just as a man swung down from an enormous black stallion. She instantly recognized Ross Sutherland by his size and commanding air.

“God damn!” He tore off his helmet and flung it on the ground. “Ambushed. Of all the heathen deeds.” Rain slicked inky hair back from a tanned face too rugged to be called handsome. Arresting, more like. Even dripping wet, he exuded strength and power, like some dark, raging beast. A wolf. Nay, a dragon.

Catlyn gaped in astonishment. She had never seen anyone remotely like this large, fierce-looking warrior. Around her, all activity ceased.

“Don’t stand about like you’ve been struck dumb,” the knight growled, voice sharp as thunder. “Gordie, go up on the wall and make certain the ambushing bastards are gone. Lang Gil, see to the horses. Nigel, take stock of our wounded.”

His men scrambled to obey. The Boyds hung back. Huddled together in anxious knots, they eyed the knight as they might some strange and fearsome beast.

We never should have let him in, Catlyn thought. Out of habit, she looked for Adair. He stood a few paces away, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his worried gaze on Sir Ross.

“Who is in charge here? Who ordered the gate opened to us?” Ross Sutherland raked the crowd with narrowed eyes.

Catlyn, who had always met trouble head-on, fought an unaccustomed urge to flee.

“I am captain here.” Adair stepped forward.

“Ah.” Ross crossed to them in two long, determined strides. “I am indebted to you.” His eyes flicked to Catlyn, then widened. “You were in the gatehouse.” She’d been wrong about his eyes. They were not dark at all, but a clear, pale blue. In the flickering torchlight, he appeared even more formidable than he had in the shadows. His face was lean and rugged. His wide shoulders and broad chest strained the seams of his chain mail.

Dark, powerful and uncomfortably large.

A shiver worked its way down Catlyn’s spine. Fear, she thought. Nay, not fear, not exactly. There was an untamed quality about this knight that made her feel skittish, she who had worked alongside men all her life. “I—I am Catlyn Boyd, lady of Kennecraig,” she stammered, shaky and unsettled.

“Indeed?” His unusual eyes widened and skimmed her from head to toe. Something flared in them. Something that could have been triumph or smugness or a trick of the light. “Well, I am grateful to you for letting us inside, Lady Catlyn.” He purred her name, then smiled, a slow, dazzling grin that transformed his face from arresting to sinfully handsome.

Catlyn stared at him, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, her mind empty.

Adair cleared his throat. “We’d best be getting inside. The rain grows worse. I’ll see to your men and horses.”

“I would appreciate that.” Ross looked away from Catlyn, but still she found speech impossible.

“Dry clothes, hot food and the care of your wounded is the least we owe you,” said Adair. “Had you not discovered him lurking at our gates, Hakon might well have attacked us the next time we ventured from our keep.”

“Hakon?” The knight scowled.

“Hakon Fergusson. That is the name of the fiend who so foully ambushed you.”

“Is it?” Ross Sutherland glared at the gate once more. “Fiend is an apt description. I begin to see he is more ruthless than I’d supposed.” He turned away and gave orders for his men to disarm.

Catlyn started for the keep, feeling gauche and damp and a little dazed.

Ross stomped across the muddy courtyard in the wake of his reluctant hosts. So, Robert Dunbar had lied about his name. Hakon Fergusson. That name set off a distant bell in Ross’s head, but his mind was so full it scarcely made a dent.

Instead, he cursed the Fates that had brought him here. And he cursed Lady Catlyn for looking younger and more beautiful than he had expected. In her pure white dress, her honey-colored hair flowing loose about her shoulders, she looked exactly right for the part she must play. The virgin sacrifice. The innocent victim of Robert Dunbar’s fiendish plot.

Nay, Hakon Fergusson.

Furious with himself, but mostly with Hakon for forcing him into this, Ross glanced over his shoulder and picked out a narrow, crafty face among the familiar ones of his men.

Donald Dunbar grinned smugly. If that was his name.

Ross cursed and dropped back to walk beside the wiry man sent along, ostensibly to guide them to Kennecraig. “Are you a Fergusson, too?” he hissed.

“Aye, Seamus Fergusson’s the name, but it’d doubtless be safer if ye continued to call me Donald.”

What Ross wanted to do was strangle the man. “Did you know your master planned to attack us?”

“Well...” Seamus shrugged. “He said he might have to do something if yer good looks and glib tongue weren’t enough to talk us inside.”

“Two of my men were wounded,” Ross growled.

“And a dozen Fergussons, as well.”

“Serves them right. Of all the foul—”

“Got us into the keep, didn’t it?”

Ross looked ahead to the litter bearing the still, bloody form of his young squire and his hatred of Hakon intensified. “Your master promised me there’d be no bloodshed.”

“Aye, well, yer men are not like to die from their hurts. And himself is that determined to have the Boyds’ fine whiskey-making secrets for himsclf. By the looks of things, he did well in choosing ye for the task of getting it.” Seamus chuckled. “Young Catlyn was fair struck dumb by that pretty face of yers. Should be child’s play for ye to pry what we need from her.”

“I will get what he wants.” Ross had no other choice. The safety of his clan was at stake. “But I will do it my way.” He glared at Seamus. “And there’s to be no more bloodshed.”

“Like my master, I will do what is needful to win,” Seamus whispered as they crested the steps and entered the keep. “He said as how I was to watch ye close like. At the first sign ye’re failing, I’m to take matters into my own hands.”