Читать книгу Pride Of Lions - Suzanne Barclay - Страница 9

Chapter One

Scottish Middle Marches

August, 1393

A thin crescent moon shed pale light on the Cheviots. Desolate and treeless, the hills stretched toward the horizon like a great rumpled quilt, pocked by narrow valleys and steep bluffs. Atop the most prominent sat Luncarty Tower, its stark stone walls blending with the hillside that plunged fifty feet to the Lune Water.

Stretched out on her belly in the coarse grass of a neighboring hillock, Allisun Murray scanned the fortress domain of her clan’s most hated enemy. Jock McKie’s ancestors had chosen the site well.

Small ravines guarded the approaches on either side of the tower, and the only entrance was a winding trail up the face of the bluff to a drawbridge spanning a deep ditch. On the other side stood the tall gatehouse, its stout door tightly shut, a pair of arrow slits staring out like giant, malevolent eyes. A single McKie manned the open battlements above, his round helmet and long spear gleaming in the moonlight as he paced to and fro.

“It’ll no’ be easy getting in and back out again with our stock,” muttered Owen Murray.

Allisun sighed and shifted fractionally on the hard ground, her muscles cramped, her bones jarred by the hard ride from their hideaway at Tadlow. But she dared not let her fatigue show. Though the death of her brother, Daniel, had made her head of their small clan, no Scot would follow a woman into battle. She was here only because she’d insisted and Owen, Daniel’s captain, had backed her. “We must find a way,” she said.

“I’m for throwing our scaling hooks over the back wall, climbing in and fighting for what’s ours,” growled Black Gilbert, hunkered down behind a pile of rock to her left.

A murmur of agreement swept through the thirty Murrays sprawled along the hill’s summit, clad in riding leathers and armed for battle, their faces bleak with fury and frustration.

Allisun understood both. For twelve years the feud between the Murrays and the McKies had raged. She’d lost first her father, then her home and finally, her two brothers, Sandie and Daniel to Jock McKie’s punishing raids. Daniel’s death had cut the deepest, for he’d been only twenty and a gentle soul. “Aye, let’s give them a taste of Border justice,” she muttered.

Owen caught her arm with a wide, scarred hand. “Easy, lass,” he whispered. “I know how you feel, but ’twould be suicide. Getting ourselves killed will not bring Danny back.”

“Have you forgotten how that foul, deceitful old man lured Danny into meeting him with promises of a truce, then tortured and killed him?” She shuddered, torn by the memory of her peace-loving brother, lying broken and bloody in a high meadow twenty miles from here.

“Nay, I’ve not forgotten a single one of Jock McKie’s crimes against us. Each death is carved into my heart. But young Danny withstood Jock’s brutality for our sakes.”

Allisun nodded. She knew full well why Jock had tortured her brother—to learn the whereabouts of their camp so he might finish what he’d started so long ago.

“We cannot let his sacrifice be for naught,” Owen added. “You’ll be remembering Danny’s last words ere he rode out.”

She looked up at the weathered face of the man who’d been like a father to her since her own had been killed by the McKies five years ago. Before leaving to meet with Jock and, hopefully, forge a truce, Danny had ordered them not to avenge him if something went awry. “I cannot let it pass,” she said.

“You must. You and your sister are all that’s left of your family. What of her and the others waiting for us back at Tadlow Mountain?” Owen asked roughly. “Who will hunt for them, who will protect them, if aught happens to us?”

Duty dulled the hunger for revenge that clawed at her. Privately Danny had urged her to take Carina and leave the Borders if he was killed. That she could not do, but neither could she let Danny’s death pass. “They do outnumber us.”

“Pair of weak-willed women, ye are,” Black Gil taunted, his scowl as black as his hair. Though five years younger than Owen’s forty, he was as hard as the land, the wicked scar bisecting his cheek a memento of the feud. “I say we go in and kill as many McKies as we can.”

“Aye,” growled a chorus of Murrays.

“We’ve got to strike back,” muttered Wee Harry, the giant who served as their blacksmith. else they’ll keep picking us off one by one till there’s not a Murray left alive.”

That, Allisun knew, was Jock’s goal, his obsession. And Wee Harry was right. They had to do something to keep the McKies at bay. To do that, they needed food. Meat, preferably, to keep their fighters strong and their bairns alive through the long winter. They had no coin to buy sheep or cattle to replace those lost to McKie raids this year. Eighteen head, to be exact. Allisun was determined to get them back. “Where do you think he’s got the stock penned?”

“In the barmkin beyond yon walls,” snapped Black Gilbert. “Which is why we’ve got to go in.”

“What of that shieling we skirted on the way here?” Allisun asked, recalling the large huts they’d bypassed to avoid having anyone sound the alarm and alert the countryside to their presence. “I heard cattle near there. We could relieve the crofter of eighteen head to replace ours.”

“What of Jock McKie?” snarled Black Gil. “Does it not trouble yer conscience that he lives free and clear whilst yer father and brothers molder in the ground?”

“Of course it does.” Allisun felt the tears gather behind her eyes but blinked them back. “And we’ll have our revenge against the McKie. That I swear,” she added, looking around the circle of hard-faced men. She’d known them all her life, lived with them from the good days at Keastwicke Tower before the feud began and the McKies burned them out. They’d been driven from one hovel to the next, forced to take shelter in burned-out towers and abandoned huts. How hard she and Carina had worked to turn them into some semblance of a home, only to be forced out into the hills each time Jock found them.

Tough living, it was, and it had scarred them all. Short rations turned their bodies thin and wiry. The constant threat of discovery bred children who seldom cried and never laughed. Allisun’s heart bled for them. Somehow, someway, she was going to make Jock McKie pay for what he’d done.

Allisun glanced at Owen, drawing strength from the approval in his dark eyes. Throwing up her chin, she challenged Black Gil. “There must be a hundred McKies behind Luncarty’s walls. To venture within would be tantamount to suicide, and we can ill afford to lose even one man. Nay, we will wait till we can lure Jock McKie out into the open where we stand a fair chance of winning.” Seeing her men nod in agreement, she added, “Mayhap the raid on Jock’s herds will do just that.”

“Aye.” Gibb’s Martin, tall and lanky as his sire had been before he’d caught a McKie spear in the chest, turned to crawl back down the hill. “Allisun has the right of it. We’ll attack the croft, lure the bastards from their tower, then cut them down as they did our kinfolk.”

“Wait,” Allisun said as the others made to follow. “We’ll not succeed if we go crashing off through the woods. Let us ride to that hillock behind the croft. We will wait there while Owen and Mouse scout the area to judge where their guards are posted. When we’re sure of success, we’ll strike.”

Owen smiled. “Exactly right. You’ve as canny a mind as your da, God asoul him.”

Allisun flushed, warmed by his praise. Though her father and brothers had forbidden her to ride out with them, she’d spent many an hour listening while they talked strategy. Little did any of them realize she’d need those lessons.

Black Gilbert grunted. “I still say we should—”

A shout from Luncarty Tower sent the Murrays scrambling up the hill to observe a party of mounted men hailing the tower. Allisun counted twenty in the band. Even from this distance, their horses looked enormous, great black beasts draped in red blankets. Their riders were no less amazing, tall men clad entirely in metal that gleamed like fire in the moonlight.

“Who do you suppose they are?” she asked.

“Knights,” Owen replied. “French, likely. Or English.”

“English.” Allisun savored the word. “If we could prove Jock is treating with the English, Andrew Kerr would be forced to investigate, wouldn’t he?” The Warden of the Scots Middle March was charged with keeping the peace, but he had rejected the Murrays’ complaints against the McKies because Jock paid Sir Andy a handsome quarterly bribe.

“But we know proof is hard to come by,” said Owen.

“Aye.” How different things might have been had that not been the case, Allisun thought.

The guards at Luncarty called out, no doubt asking the identity of the newcomers.

The foremost man, more richly dressed than the others, his armor covered by a sleeveless tabard, removed his helmet and shouted something back. His reply was inaudible to the Murrays, but it sent the guards scrambling to lower the drawbridge.

Allisun eyed the leader of this band. His hair gleamed bright as newly minted gold in the light of wind-whipped torches, but it was his bearing that impressed her. He sat taller in the saddle than any man she’d ever seen, his back straight as a pikestaff. Arrogance, she decided. Aye, he carried himself like a man who owned the world., “Do you think he is an Englishman?” she asked.

Owen shrugged. “Possible. Though I’d not have thought lock so foolish as to trade openly with them.”

“The standard they carry, the black lion on red, I’ve seen it before,” said Black Gil.

“Where?”

“I do not know. ’Twas a long time ago, but I’ll remember.”

Owen scowled. “Mayhap we should stay and see what they do.”

“I say we go after those cattle,” Gilbert grumbled.

“Agreed,” Allisun said, but as the Murrays began to creep down the hill, she looked back at the armored knights walking their mounts over the drawbridge. “Those metal suits look vastly heavy.”

“Aye, and cumbersome. Ill suited to the sort of fighting that goes on hereabouts.” Owen kept pace with her during the descent. At the base of the hillock, he spoke gravely. “Once we’re back at Tadlow, I’m going to see about getting you and Carina away someplace safe.”

“Nay.” Allisun cursed and spun away from him.

Owen caught her arm. “Mind your tongue. Your poor lady mother is likely spinning in her grave to see how I’ve let you forget all she taught you about being a fine lady.”

“Lady.” Allisun spat the word. “What good are lessons in reading and playing the harp with my menfolk dead and the McKies hounding us? Better you teach me to wield a sword.”

“Nay.” Owen enclosed her icy, knotted fist with his warm, callused one. “I swore to Danny that I’d take you away to live in Edinburgh before I’d let aught happen to you.”

Allisun shook her head so vigorously her thick red braid beat against her back. “Never. I—”

“This is no’ the time, nor the place to discuss this.” Owen rubbed a hand across his whiskered jaw. “But our time is running out. Clearly Danny did not tell Jock where we’re hiding, but someday soon the old bastard will find us, and then—”

The McKie would not only kill them all, he’d discover the secret her father, brothers and countless other Murrays had died to protect. “Before it comes to that, I’ll take Will Bell up on his offer of protection,” she teased.

Owen’s eyes rounded in horror. “You cannot be serious, lass. Desperate we may be, but III Will Bell is—”

“A disgusting old reprobate.” And leader of the most infamous reiving family on the Borders. It had been her bad luck to be spotted by Ill Will one day when she and Danny were in Kelso fetching supplies. The old coot had . leered at her and offered to aid the Murrays in their little disagreement with the McKies. The price of that help had been patently obvious. Shuddering, Allisun thrust away the memory. “Come, if we’re going to lift a few head of McKie stock, what better time than whilst Old Jock is busy entertaining these knights.”

“Does it seem strange to be back here?” asked Gavin Sutherland as the party cantered over the wooden drawbridge.

“Aye. If Uncle Jock had not sent for me, I’d have been content never to set foot here again.” Hunter Carmichael’s mouth was held in a grim line, torchlight flickering on features as bleak as the land they’d traveled to reach this place.

Gavin knew full well what had caused his usually jovial cousin to look so dour. “Not since Aunt Brenna disappeared.” Though Brenna Carmichael McKie, sister to Hunter’s father, Ross, had not really been Gavin’s blood kin, the Carmichael and Sutherland clans were as close-knit as the dark Highland plaids both men carried rolled behind their saddles.

“Not since she was kidnapped—” Hunter corrected him “—by those cursed Murrays.”

“It has been a bloody feud.”

“One I vow to end—permanently.” Hunter’s oath echoed hollowly off the stone passageway that led them under the gatehouse and thence to the barmkin.

It was no idle threat, Gavin mused as he followed his cousin through the open meadow, bounded by Luncarty’s high walls and filled with grazing sheep. This second son born to Lady Megan and Ross, Laird of the Carmichaels, carried on the family tradition for valor and ferocity. While his older brother, Ewan, distinguished himself on the field of battle, Hunter was a warrior with words. Chief justice of King Richard’s high court at the age of five and twenty, so fiercely did he defend the cause of justice that he was often called the King’s Lion.

None outside the family knew that Hunter’s obsession with justice stemmed from the guilt he felt over that fateful moment twelve years ago when his aunt had been taken by the Murrays while Hunter, a youth of three and ten, watched helplessly.

He was not helpless now, Gavin thought as they passed under the portcullis and into the tower’s courtyard. Standing well over six feet tall, with muscles honed by hours of rigorous swordplay, and a razor-sharp mind, Hunter was a match for any man, be he statesman or swordsman. Almost, Gavin pitied the Murrays whom Hunter had come to punish for this latest outrage against poor Jock.

“Dieu, Luncarty’s a dour-looking place.” Gavin gazed up at three stories of sheer gray stone, broken only by a pair of tiny, shuttered windows on the uppermost floors.

“Aye, the peel towers are drear and poorly furnished,” Hunter said, glad for the change of subject. “Especially after what we’re used to at Carmichael Castle. And though you’ll not believe it when we get inside, Luncarty is finer than most Border peels. Uncle Jock’s a wealthy man. We’ve been riding on his land for nearly half the day, and those cattle herds we passed are his, too.”

“Pity he has no son to inherit all this.”

Hunter nodded. Walter, Jock’s son by his first wife, had died the year before he wed Brenna. That union had been too brief to bear fruit, nor had any of his mistresses quickened. There were some who speculated that Jock’s seed was dead.

“Why, ’tis wee Hunter, all grown-up,” said the old man who’d come out of the tower to greet them.

“Hutcheson, isn’t it?” Hunter swung down and handed the reins of his warhorse to his squire.

“’Tis Old Hutch, now, my lord. This is Young Hutch, my son. He’ll be steward after me.”

A skinny youth with his father’s pale eyes and hooked nose stepped forward and nodded. “We’ve put ye in the new tower.” He waved toward a two-story structure of gleaming gray stone.

Hunter smiled, grateful to be spared the room he’d stayed in the last time. “My uncle?” he asked anxiously.

“Ach, the old bird’s too tough to kill,” said Old Hutch. “But ’twas a near thing.” He shook his head dolefully.

“They say he’ll no’ walk again,” added Young Hutch. “The Murrays took a Jedburgh ax to him. Crushed his leg, it did.”

“Aye. He’s lucky to be alive,” said Old Hutch.

“He does not see it that way.” Young Hutch’s features tightened. “Better dead than crippled, he says.”

Hunter’s belly cramped, recalling the big, energetic man who had taught him to fish and trap. If only he’d been stronger, quicker himself twelve years ago, none of this would have—

“Hutch!” bawled a coarse voice from an upstairs window. “Is that my nephie come at last?”

“Aye, my lord,” the steward shouted back. “Just coming up.”

“See ye’re quick about it!”

Hunter smiled, the fear that had plagued him since receiving Jock’s call for help easing. “He sounds the same.”

“A bit testier is all.” Old Hutch herded them through the tower’s only entrance, a set of double doors, one of metal grating, the other made from thick oak planks banded with steel. “Go on up, ye know the way. Young Hutch’ll see yer men settled in the barracks building across the way. Tell Jock I’ll be along directly with ale and meat.”

“Come with me, Gavin.” Hunter led the way through a maze of kegs and oat sacks that filled the ground floor storage room to the turnpike stairs. The tightly coiled steps spiraled clockwise, so right-handed attackers would find their sword arms pinned against the wall as they tried to fight their way up.

“Practical folk, these Borderers,” Gavin mused, his steel-clad shoulders clanging on the close walls.

“Oh, aye, you’ll find they’re a breed apart, fiercer even in some ways than you Highlanders.”

“Ha, that I’d like to see.”

“Likely you will if I cannot persuade Uncle Jock to handle this matter my way.” Though why should he, when I mishandled things so badly last time? Hunter thought, sobered by the memory of his aunt’s abduction and subsequent death.

“Aye, well, your Border reivers will find this Highlander battle-trained and well protected.” Gavin thumbed his fist on the steel breastplate made in France of Spanish steel.

“Our armor is stronger than, their quilted leather jacks, but they’re a tough lot, hardened by a life spent constantly at war with reiving English and raiding Scots alike.”

They crested the stairs and found themselves in an entryway the size of a horse stall. It was as dark as one, too, the faint light of a single torch playing over walls whose only decoration was a coat of soot from a long-ago fire.

“Charming.” Gavin wrinkled his nose.

A muffled bellow turned both of them toward a heavy, iron-banded door, the worse for a few ax cuts.

“Coming, Uncle.” Hunter reached for the door latch and took a deep, steadying breath. It did nothing to ease the knot that had cramped his belly from the moment Jock McKie’s disheveled messenger had banged on the gates of Carmichael Castle. It wasn’t fear, it was the hunger for revenge dueling with his inbred sense of justice.

“The Murrays have paid for what they did to my sister,” his father had told him before he left. “Jock saw to that. There’s been enough blood spilled—on both sides,” added Ross Carmichael, a man of peace and reason. “Jock would not listen to my pleas he end the feud, but now that he’s sent for you, use that golden tongue of yours to make him see reason. More deaths will not bring our Brenna back.”

Nay, nothing would do that, Hunter thought, his hand tightening on the latch. But he would give all he owned—coin, property—to be cast back twelve years and have a chance to plunge his blade into Alex Murray’s black heart. He wrenched open the door and was driven back a step by the harsh light, the stench of smoke and unwashed bodies.

“Dieu,” Gavin whispered, goggle-eyed. “I’ve stayed in taverns that were more...”

“Civilized? Luncarty was once.” When his aunt was alive. And yet, the great hall was much as Hunter remembered—narrow, dark and low ceilinged, a peat fire smoldering in the corner hearth, hard-looking men in rough wool seated jowl to jowl at the scarred trestle tables, eating and arguing fit to raise the dead. It was a world away from Carmichael Castle with its linen-draped tables, tapestry-covered walls and multicourse meals served by liveried maids while a minstrel plucked at a harp and his parents spoke of books or his mother sang an ancient poem.

Hunter sighed. “When I came here to visit, I thought this the grandest place, so wild and free. Of course, with Aunt Brenna the lady here, things were much finer and cleaner.”

“Hunter? Damn and blast, where is that lad?”

“Here, Uncle.” Hunter squinted through the smoky pall to spy a big four-poster bed set square in the middle of the room.

“Does he not have a bedchamber?” Gavin whispered.

“Aye, he does, I expect, but Uncle Jock would have to be dead to stay away out of the thick of things.”

The man propped up in the bed was nearly as unchanged as his tower, Oh, time had dulled Jock’s black hair to steel gray and cut ragged lines in his square face, but the eyes staring from beneath beetled brows were as sharp as ever.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Ye’re bigger even than old Lionel Carmichael was. Come here, lad!” Jock waved an imperious arm.

Conscious of the grinning McKies, Hunter flushed and trailed across the room, feeling like a lad again.

“Aye, ye’ve your mama’s coloring, but yer grandsire’s size. Foul-tempered old bastard, he was. Always liked that about him. What of ye?” Jock grabbed hold of Hunter’s forearm and squeezed hard enough to draw a wince. “Not bad... not bad. See,” he shouted to the room at large. “I told ye he’d have been lifting something weightier than those bloody books of his da’s.”

“I—”

“Chief justice of the king’s court, he is.” Jock’s whiskered jowls lifted in a huge grin. “Mighty proud of ye, lad. Mighty proud. Aren’t we?”

The chorus of congratulation barely swelled when Jock cut across it. “Still ye must have found a few quarrels ye couldn’t settle with them fancy words yer da pounded into ye.”

“Actually, it was the university in Paris that did the pounding,” Hunter said dryly. His concerned parents had shipped him off to study only a few weeks after bringing him home from Luncarty—as much to prevent him from joining Jock’s war against the Murrays as to educate him. Distance, time and exposure to the fundamentals of law had accomplished their goals. He’d returned to Scotland four years ago a cautious, educated man who weighed the outcome of a step before venturing to take it.

Belatedly recalling his manners, Hunter turned and beckoned Gavin over. “This is Gavin Sutherland of Kinduin. You may recall that Aunt Elspeth wed Lucais Sutherland. Gavin is my second cousin, the son of Uncle Lucais’s—”

“Whatever. Welcome, Gavin. Robbie!” Jock bellowed, causing a young man to spring from those crowded around the bed. “See young Gavin has food and drink. And give my nephie and me a bit of privacy.” While the space around them cleared, Jock waved Hunter onto a stool beside the bed.

“’Tis good to see you looking better than I’d expected,” Hunter said.

“And glad I am to see ye.” Jock’s wide cheeks deflated. “Though I wish it’d been under better circumstances.” He waved at his left leg, a huge mound under the coarse blanket. “Broke it in two places trying to get away from Mad Danny Murray.”

Hunter sat forward on the stool. “He attacked you?”

“Aye, under a flag of truce.” Jock’s lids sagged. “I lost three men before we brought him down.”

“Your message said Daniel Murray was dead.”

Jock smiled. “Aye. The last of Alex Murray’s sons is dead.”

“So, it’s over, then.”

“Over!” Fire leaped into Jock’s eyes. “It’ll no’ be over till I’ve wiped out every one of the murdering bastards who stole my—”

“But the man who took Aunt Brenna is dead, and his sons, too. You burned the Murrays out of their tower five years ago,” Hunter added, summing up the facts as he did in many a case from the high bench. “So ’twould seem the feud is at an end.”

“Nay!” Jock sat up straighter, cheeks puffing, face red. “There’ll be no end to it till I’ve found and killed them all.”

“But, Uncle, there can be little left of the Murrays except old men, women and children.”

“Aye, what of it?”

“’Tis not Christian to make war on women and children.”

“Was it Christian for that rutter, Murray, to take my Brenna away from her home and family? Was it Christian of them to send her bones back to me when he was done with her?”

“Bones?” Hunter’s blood ran cold.

“Aye. Six years ago they sent her bones in a bag, her cross still around her neck, my ring on her finger.” He waved his left hand under Hunter’s nose, light glinting off the gold band on his little finger. “Dod, I wish I could kill Alex Murray again.”

Hunter shivered. Twelve years he’d spent trying to forget, now the pain and the rage flooded back. “I did not know of this. My father never said—”

“Likely trying to prevent ye from riding down here and helping me and the lads deal with these bastards.” Jock clapped Hunter on the knee. “Narry fear, lad, ye’re here now, and yer help’s most welcome, what with me unable to sit a horse.”

“What would you have me do?”

“We need to find out where they are holed up. They’re a wily lot, these Murrays, dodging and hiding from our patrols. Owen Murray will be leading them now we’ve finally gotten rid of Mad Danny, and Alex’s oldest daughter may be riding with them.”

“A woman reiver?”

“Aye, that Allisun Murray’s a hard bitch, and canny, too, they say, like her cursed sire.”

Hunter frowned, picturing an ugly crone dressed in riding leathers and wearing a sword.

“Rumor has it she was seen treating with Ill Will Bell.”

Air whistled between Hunter’s teeth.

“Ye’ve heard of him, even in Edinburgh, I see. Dod, the man’s a vicious beast. I dinna need to tell ye what’ll become of the McKies if Allisun seduces III Will into making war on us.”

“Nay,” Hunter said slowly. “I’ve a warrant outstanding against the Bells for kidnapping, ransom, thievery...”

“Oh, aye, and that’s only the evidence presented by folk who were brave enough to complain—or still alive to do it.”

“Why does Sir Andrew Kerr do nothing about this?”

Jock hawked and spat onto the rush-covered- floor. “Ill Will’s got Andy by the short hairs. Took his youngest daughter in a raid on Kelso last year. Threatened to send her back in pieces if Andy moved against him. ’Course—” Jock shrugged “—if she’s still alive, she’s doubtless in a bad way. Will’s got a taste for rape, they say.”

Disgust rose in Hunter, a bitter, choking wave. What kind of people lived like this?

“But—” Jock brightened “—we’ve set a wee trap for the Murrays. If they take the bait, ye can follow ’em home and wipe out every one of them,” he added with relish.

Bloody hell. The thought of killing women and children went against everything Hunter believed in. “I’ll take them and bring them to trial, Uncle.”

“Trial?” Jock shrieked. “My Brenna died unshriven, and ye blather about niceties like trials and such.” His eyes narrowed. “Or mayhap it’s that ye’re afeared to fight the Murrays. There were some who said that was why ye didn’t stop Alex from carrying off my Brenna all those years ago. I told them ye were no coward, just a wee lad. But ye’re a man grown, now, with strength aplenty to wield that sword ye wear.”

“I’m no coward.”

“Jock! Jock!” A flushed and sweaty clansman dashed into the room. “There’s a party of raiders sniffing about the cattle.”

“Murrays?” Jock demanded.

“Aye.” The man seized a cup of ale and drained it, panting as he wiped the foam from his mouth. “There’s twenty or so of them, dressed for reiving. I spotted Owen Murray and the one called Wee Harry, for sure.”

Jock crowed and clapped Hunter on the back. “Go to it, lad. But mind ye let the Murrays lift what cattle they will so as ye can follow them. Then—” he grinned wolfishly “—ye’ll get a chance to see how we Borderers deal with thieves.”

The McKies clansmen roared their approval of the plan and swarmed from the hall like angry bees, shouting for their horses and buckling on their swords.

Hunter nodded grimly to his uncle, then he and Gavin trailed after the clattering McKies.

Jock looked up at the one man who’d remained at his side. “Well, Cousin, has he not grown into a likely looking lad?”

“Humph.” Red Rowy McKie was younger than Jock by a dozen years, but just as burly and ruthless looking, his muscular body straining the seams of his leather jack. “Dinna see why ye had to send for him. I’m yer heir, I should be the one—”

“I’ve told ye a hundred times, ye great ox, Hunter’s here to lend a bit of respectability to our little venture.”

Red Rowy spat a curse. “We dinna need him.”

“Aye.” Jock’s smile turned calculating. “Aye, we do, if I’m right about what Alex Murray did with those tally sticks Brenna stole from me. Now go along with ye. I need ye to be there when they breach the Murrays’ hidey-hole. Ye know what to do?”

“Aye. I know.”