Pride of the Clan (10 page)

Tannoch scowled, but ignored the ropes Rheade offered. He spat into the dirt. “I see no Earl and no Master,” he growled. “Only murderers. Where is Graham?”

Rheade bowed again. Margaret sensed his agitation, but marvelled at his composure. “Robert Graham was not with the assassins when we captured them, my laird. Ye would have been proud of yer clansmen. They fought hard against greater numbers to bring these men to ye.”

Margaret gulped when Tannoch’s gaze fell on her. “What the
fyke
is she doing here? Did ye aid in her escape?”

Rheade threw the ropes to the ground. It was evident the prisoners had no chance of escape. “Margaret Ogilvie was of great assistance in the apprehension of these fugitives.”

Please dinna tell them I threw a chamber pot out of the window.

Tannoch made a grunting sound, stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, then dismounted.

Margaret risked a glance at Rheade who winked before resuming a stern demeanor. She was gaining a whole new appreciation for the power of a wink.

Tannoch strode over to the Earl, spat in his face, then punched him hard in the belly. Atholl slumped to the ground, but made no sound. Tannoch kicked him several times in the ribs. “Murderer,” he shouted.

To his credit, Robert limped to stand between the two men. “There is no need for brutality,” he rasped. “He’s an auld man.”

Tannoch drew his broadsword. Margaret feared he might behead her betrothed on the spot, but he put the point of it under Robert’s bloodied nose. “Auld man, is he? Not too auld to murder the finest of kings. ’Tis a good thing yer hands are tied behind yer back, Stewart, else I’d chop ‘em off.”

He eyed Robert up and down, moving his sword to the man’s groin. “Mayhap I’ll sever another part of yer miserable anatomy. Ye’ll not be needing it again to pleasure yer pretty betrothed.”

Robert glanced only briefly at Margaret, but Tannoch noticed it. “I see ye recognize her.”

Stewart shook his head. “She was a child when we became betrothed. I didna ken she was coming. I’d forgotten her, truth be told.”

Affronted by the admission as she was, Margaret deemed it advisable not to protest.

Robert stumbled and fell backwards when Tannoch shoved him hard. “That’s as maybe. ’Tis not for me to decide her fate. I’ll leave that to Queen Joan.”

~~~

Margaret’s face, reddened by the cold wind, turned ashen. She looked to Rheade, her eyes pleading for support. He cursed under his breath. “Ye intend to take them to the Queen?”

Tannoch scowled in response, beckoning two of his cronies to secure the prisoners. “Aye, she’s taken young Prince James to her castle at Stirling. Safest place, I’d say.”

Rheade had always yielded to his brother, but now he was determined to protect Margaret. He braced his legs as Tannoch strode towards her horse. Logan’s nod indicated his support.

The chieftain seemed to sense their intention. He made no move to touch Margaret but stood nose to nose with Rheade. “Ye care for this woman, do ye?”

Rheade clenched his jaw. He’d long itched to tell his brother he should bathe more often. How did Glenna stand the man’s pungent odor? “Margaret Ogilvie is an innocent victim. Robertsons dinna prosecute women who have done nothing wrong.”

Tannoch snickered. “Aye, ye care about her.”

Rheade took a step forward. “What if I do? What’s it to ye?”

To his surprise, his brother backed up. “If she’s innocent, as ye claim, she’ll be declared so. But I’ll nay allow my brother to have any truck with a woman guilty of treason.”

There was a hint of something in Tannoch’s eyes Rheade couldn’t fathom, but then he realized what it was—jealousy, and mayhap fear. Giving Margaret over to his brother would be a mistake. It was likely he would never see her again. Fion’s suspicions regarding Tannoch’s parentage seemed more believable by the minute. Did Tannoch suspect he may not have the right to be laird? “I’ll be Lady Ogilvie’s escort,” he declared.

Tannoch shook his head. “Nay. I want ye and Logan in the Grampians carrying on the search for Graham. I’ll join ye once I’ve delivered these murderers and yer
Lady Ogilvie
to the Queen at Stirling.”

Rheade fumed inwardly. He’d never disobeyed his chieftain, but it seemed there was more than Margaret’s safety at stake. Once he and Logan were out of the way in the Grampians, he suspected Tannoch would claim he’d captured the Stewarts, mayhap in the hope of securing an earldom. He was glad he’d taken the time to conceal Robert’s sword in the stables. It obviously hadn’t occurred to his brother to question what had happened to the prisoners’ weapons. He decided to ignore the order to search for Graham. “As Margaret’s escort I will see her delivered to Stirling and ensure she receives the welcome due a noblewoman.”

Tannoch gritted his teeth and muttered under his breath, apparently unsure how to deal with insubordination. Rheade regretted it had taken him too long to stand up to his brother’s belligerence. The fear and regret he’d dreaded hadn’t materialized. Indeed, exhilaration surged through his veins.

Logan’s impish wink reassured him further.

Tannoch suddenly turned his attention to his youngest brother. “What are ye grinning at?” he growled. “Take half the men and get thee gone to the mountains.”

Logan looked to Rheade. It was humbling, inspiring and daunting that the youngest Robertson seemed to have already decided where his allegiance lay. He made no move to follow Tannoch’s order until Rheade nodded his consent.

Tannoch glowered at them both then strode away. He tugged on the ropes now binding Robert and Walter Stewart like sacks of grain to two mountain ponies. Apparently satisfied, he mounted his horse. “To Stirling,” he shouted as the column got underway.

“Go with God, little brother. Be wary of Graham,” Rheade shouted to Logan as he and Margaret watched the search party start out for the Grampians.

“Thank ye,” she murmured. “Yer chieftain is jealous of ye.”

“Aye,” he replied. But the pain of what might be behind Tannoch’s behavior was too raw. He wasn’t ready to share it. And Margaret had enough worries of her own. “’Tis the way of brothers,” he murmured.

Margaret frowned, but said nothing.

They fell in behind Tannoch’s men and began the long journey to Stirling.

CRAOIBH

As dusk fell they rode into Craoibh. Despite being swathed in numerous plaids, Margaret was colder than she’d ever been in her life. The terrain had gradually become less steep as they’d travelled south, yet the air remained frigid. The first blossoms of March would be swelling on the apple trees at home in Oban, ready to burst forth.

The cuts on her hands plagued her like sharp needles. She resolved not to complain. At least she wasn’t suffering the fate Robert and Walter Stewart were enduring. The Earl’s lolling head suggested he’d surrendered to oblivion.

It was as well the captives’ undignified position prevented them seeing the Gallows Tree as they entered the village. Fortunate too that Rheade had warned her the remains of criminals might still hang there, despite four months having passed since the October Tryst.

“Look away,” he advised as they neared the tree.

She turned her attention to his handsome face. “Tell me again the history of this place.”

He gestured to the lowlands into which they’d emerged. “At Michaelmas, Highlanders drive their cattle to Craoibh to sell in the annual market. They come from as as far away as Caithness and the Hebrides. Some must come from Oban?”

She thought back. “Mayhap. I never had much to do with cattle. My father’s interests lay in the fisheries. Shaon and Joss would know.”

Rheade must have detected the wistfulness in her voice, but he carried on the tale. “They say the fields and hillsides turn black with tens of thousands of cattle.”

She wrinkled her nose, but wished she hadn’t as a whiff of decay assailed her nostrils. Her eyes seemed drawn of their own volition to seek out the infamous tree that served as a gallows. Surely Rheade was mistaken about bodies still hanging there? “Imagine the smell,” she murmured, not thinking solely of cows.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “thieves, bandits and drunken drovers inevitably arrive at the same time. One of the ancient Mormaers of Srath Èireann—nay the current one bound to a horse with his head dangling in the muck—instituted the practice of hanging those responsible for killings and thefts on this tree. He insisted the rotting corpses not be removed, intending they serve as a warning to anyone entering the village that lawlessness won’t be tolerated.”

He touched a hand to his head in salute to the tree. “God bless ye, and the Devil damn ye,” he rasped.

She eyed him curiously.

“’Tis the tradition among Highlanders when they pass this place to utter such.”

She had to ask. “Are bodies hanging there still?”

“Aye,” he replied grimly. “Just bones.”

She shuddered. “Will they hang Robert in Stirling?”

“In time,” he replied ominously.

“I’ve heard Queen Joan has often intervened on behalf of the condemned,” she said.

“Aye, but I doubt she’ll be merciful this time. ’Tis well known James fell in love with her at first sight during his captivity in England.”

Margaret had never believed in love at first sight until Rheade. “Aunty Edythe is forever quoting the love poem he wrote for her. ’Tis famous in Oban.”

He smiled. “I too have met many a maiden who can repeat James’s
Quair
by heart. He called Joan his
milk white dove
.”

Margaret wondered wistfully what terms of endearment Rheade might whisper in her ear when they were abed. But dreaming on such things only led to despair. A vengeful queen waited. “Tannoch spoke of Stirling as Joan’s castle.”

“Aye, ’twas part of her marriage settlement. Were it not for her intervention, James might have languished forever in the custody of England’s King Henry.”

“I remember my father’s elation when our king returned to Scotland and was crowned at Scone,” she said. “Those carefree times seem long ago now.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “These are dark days for Scotland. Joan has proclaimed herself Regent, but I suspect there are many among the Scottish nobility who will challenge her for the right. She’s an Englishwoman, daughter of an Earl and niece of King Henry.”

A terrible possibility rose in her mind. “Will Tannoch be one of them?” she asked.

~~~

Rheade at first dismissed Margaret’s question with a firm
Nay
, but he fretted over it and feared it would bother him all night. Tannoch Robertson, Regent of Scotland, mentor to the young prince? The prospect sent shivers up his spine. Tannoch possessed no noble title, but capturing the assassins might earn him one as a reward.

They sat on a knoll by the river Earn while they waited for the hunters to return. “Let’s cleanse yer wounds,” he suggested. The bloodied linen stuck to some of the cuts as he peeled off the bandages, but he was relieved they seemed to be healing. “Ye’re strong,” he whispered when she only bit her bottom lip as he dipped her hands in the cold water.
 

She shrugged. “When a lass has older brothers she gets used to cuts and scrapes.”

He was reminded again of the great loss she’d suffered, but thought it best not to dwell on it. He dabbed at the water on her skin with a clean part of the bandages, then blew on her fingers. “If we were at Dunalastair, I’d apply my mother’s salve.”

She smiled. “Yer mother was a healer?”

“Nay,” he replied, “she had a knack of easing the pain of others.”

“Mine too,” she said hoarsely. “I miss her. She never recovered after—”

Pleased with the progress of her wounds, he pressed his lips to her dainty fingers. She flushed red. “Makes me feel much better,” she sighed. “And I dinna mean the cuts.”

He longed to take her in his arms and whisper words of reassurance. He admired her courage. She’d been thrust into a perilous situation, her life hanging in the balance, and she was unaware of half of the probable reasons. It was evident she was innocent, yet Tannoch seemed determined to prosecute her. A true brother would have done his utmost to protect her.

A man he recognised as a friend of Logan’s eventually brought them hearty portions of the hare the hunters had snared and roasted. He said nothing, but his nod of acknowledgement eased some of Rheade’s anxiety. There were many in the Robertson contingent who’d been loyal to his late father, and shown respect to him.
 

“The roasting meat smelled delicious,” she said, biting into the flesh. “I didna think I was hungry.” His shaft reacted predictably as he watched her lick the juices off her fingers. She looked at him curiously when he groaned involuntarily. “I was only thinking the grease will help with the healing,” he lied.

To take his mind off his arousal he built a campfire for them away from the other men. He bade her lie down close to the fire and tucked plaids around her. “Someday, my lady, ye and I will lie in a bed of fine furs and make love,” he whispered. “But if I kiss ye now, Tannoch will make much of it.”

She smiled coyly and snuggled into the plaids.

He unfurled his bedroll then lay where he might keep an eye on Tannoch and his cronies. It wasn’t likely they would attempt to molest Margaret or attack him. They were too busy hurling insults at the Stewarts whom they’d tied back to back against a tree. The Earl looked done for. The prisoners had been given nothing to eat or drink since their capture and he’d be surprised if the auld man’s ribs weren’t broken after Tannoch’s beating.

He vaguely wondered if he’d ever have to call upon men of his clan to help oust his brother. He’d never given it much thought, but now it occurred to him the people of Dunalastair fell into two distinct groups. Those who aligned themselves with Tannoch and those, the majority, who tended to steer clear of the chieftain. But such treacherous thoughts were dangerous in these uncertain times. Anyone tainted by the stigma of treason might end up like the skeletons twisting in the wind on the Gallows Tree. He couldn’t see the macabre landmark in the pitch black but it was there.

Margaret slept, if fitfully. He doubted he would sleep when the woman he desired was close and yet untouchable. He prayed for the strength to deal with whatever lay ahead in Stirling.