The Rose and The Warrior (29 page)

“You disappoint me, Derek.”

The young warrior said nothing, believing silence would be better received than a bevy of weak excuses.

“You were given a simple task,” continued Laird MacTier, drumming his fingers upon his desk. “You were to crush the MacKillons and ensure the safe return of four MacTier warriors. Instead, you permit nearly one-third of your army to be captured, and allow the remainder to be chased away with hollow threats and posturing.”

“You wanted Roarke and his men returned alive,” Derek pointed out. “I could not secure their safe release if I proceeded with my attack on the MacKillon holding.”

Laird MacTier slammed his fist upon the oiled wood of his desk. “You should have penetrated their pitiful defenses within minutes, leaving them no time to retrieve their hostages and use them for bargaining! The force that attacked them previously was inside and opening the gate before the MacKillons had stumbled drunkenly from their beds!”

“Their defenses have been improved upon since then,” Derek replied stiffly. “They were able to hold us off longer than we had anticipated.”

“Keep your sniveling excuses to yourself,” snapped Laird MacTier. “They are of no interest to me.” He rose from his desk and went to the window, pondering his next move. “I should have you relegated to shoveling filth for the next year. Instead I am going to give you the opportunity to redeem yourself from your pathetic failure.” He paused, studying the magnificent expanse of land stretching before him. “I am most displeased by the fact that the Falcon continues to prey upon both my people and my possessions. As I have just assigned new duties to Roarke, I find I am in need of a warrior who will be able to swiftly find this troublesome outlaw and bring him to me for reckoning.” He turned to face him. “Do you think you can manage that?”

“Yes,” said Derek without hesitation.

“We shall see,” said Laird MacTier, unimpressed by his assurance. “As my patience has grown severely strained in this matter, I expect you to use whatever means necessary to capture this thief. Do you have any ideas?”

“I will set a trap for him.”

“How?”

“Several of my men who were taken prisoner by the MacKillons noticed something strange about their captors,” explained Derek. “It seems a number of the MacKillons were wearing plaids of MacTier colors. There were others who swore that they recognized a particular sword or dirk. And all thought it strange that amongst the ragged attire of the clan, one could find an occasional gown or shirt of exceptional quality and workmanship.”

“What are you saying?” demanded Laird MacTier impatiently. “That the Falcon is a MacKillon?”

“Perhaps,” allowed Derek. “Or it's possible that the Falcon is giving away what he steals to struggling clans like the MacKillons.”

Laird MacTier's eyes widened in dismay. “You think he gives it away?”

“He could also be selling it to them. But it couldn't be for much, given how little the MacKillons retained after our previous assault. Whichever it is, it appears the Falcon is concerned about the plight of the less fortunate. That will prove to be his undoing. I will harass the MacKillons until one of them reveals the identity of the Falcon, or the Falcon delivers himself to me in the name of protecting those he apparently cares for.”

“You had best be right,” warned Laird MacTier ominously, “or you will be up to your knees in excrement for the next year. Is that understood?”

“I will deliver the Falcon to you,” Derek vowed.

“See that you do. Now get the hell out.”

Laird MacTier watched with impatience as the conceited young warrior left his chamber. When he was alone, he rose from his desk and went to the window to study the meadows and woods spilling out beyond the walls of his castle in a glorious tapestry of texture and color.

When he first inherited the title of laird from his father, the MacTiers had been a sizable clan, but its lands had not nearly matched the needs of its people. He had set out to extend its borders, enabling his people to build homes and hunt and fish in woods and streams far beyond their traditional boundaries. The clan grew as conquered people were absorbed into its fold, and therefore the need for land continued unabated.

He had not initiated this campaign of expanding his borders with anything in mind other than providing for those who depended upon him, but over the years it had gradually evolved into more than that. He had discovered there was an intense, almost sexual pleasure to be found in conquest. Although his clan's holdings and riches now far exceeded his youthful expectations, he found he constantly hungered for more. Roarke had been crucial in establishing the MacTiers as a powerful and feared clan, and MacTier prided himself on having cultivated the warrior's extraordinary abilities from the time he was a mere lad. But it seemed Roarke had lost his zest for battle, and the callow young idiots who surrounded him now were good for little more than ramming or charging—there was not a decent military leader among them. If the expansion and prosperity of the MacTiers were to continue, he would have to assume control of the military campaigns himself.

And for that, he needed the amulet.

Fury streaked through him at the thought of the precious relic having fallen so easily into the Falcon's grasp. The fool priest who had been delivering it to him had blathered on incessantly about how he had very nearly been disemboweled in his attempts to guard it from the Falcon. MacTier had coldly informed him that having his guts smeared upon the ground would have been preferable to the fate that now awaited him. Ultimately, however, his threats had proven hollow. He was a pragmatic man, and had no desire to risk God's wrath by hacking open one of His precious servants unnecessarily. Instead he had given the priest ample time to consider his failure in one of the dark pits below the west tower.

He frowned, wondering if he had ever given anyone the order to release him.

No matter.

All that was of import now was capturing the Falcon and forcing him to return the amulet. Within its silver sphere lay a fragment of bone from St. Columba himself, the shrewdly powerful abbot who had established a monastery on the isle of Iona some six hundred years earlier. Columba had been a man of remarkable foresight and abilities. Not only had he helped to replace the pitifully weak heir to the throne with Aidan the False, a bold monarch who led the Scots to countless victories against the Picts, Columba had also single-handedly vanquished a hideous monster on the shores of Loch Ness. The emerald at the center of the amulet was said to have been found upon the shore by the saint just before that extraordinary altercation. In the centuries since, there were countless tales of how the amulet had faithfully protected its wearer from sudden death in battle.

With that precious relic hanging round his neck, there were no limits to what he could achieve.

He chafed at suggestions that he was growing old. Although he could not wield a sword with the supple ease of his youth, he could still direct the movements of a battle with more wit and skill than any of the dung-brained clods surrounding him. Nevertheless, it was only judicious to secure for himself the finest protection possible. His wife had finally managed to produce a son for him, but the lad was barely ten and worse, he struck MacTier as a weak and cowering brat, who needed many years of rigorous training and education to prepare him for the role to which he had been born. MacTier could not permit himself to be killed, or the clan would select another to assume his lairdship until his son was deemed of age to take his place. In the meantime, a lifetime of brilliant work could be destroyed. No, he could not go into battle without the protection of the amulet. He didn't give a damn if he had to slaughter every last bloody MacKillon in his quest to force the Falcon to bring it to him.

As for the elusive Falcon, the outlaw would pay dearly for daring to steal from him, and for interfering with his rightful destiny.

C
HAPTER
10

“Blast it, Gelfrid! You nearly crushed my hand!”

“I thought you were finished spreading the mortar,” apologized Gelfrid sheepishly.

“You might have taken the time to ask me before you dropped that bloody stone on it!” Ninian complained. “I'll be lucky if it isn't broken!”

“Try to move your fingers,” suggested Gelfrid helpfully.

“Just get away from me!” Ninian snapped, cradling his hand against his chest. “I've had enough of your clumsiness for one day!”

Gelfrid's face grew crimson with insult. “Clumsy, is it? Very well—let's see how quickly you build that merlon by yourself!”

“It may take longer,” Ninian allowed, “but at least I'll do it without crushing any
bloody bones
!”

“Here, now, what's all this commotion about?” asked Magnus.

“Gelfrid nearly broke my hand,” reported Ninian furiously.

“ 'Twould never have happened if you weren't so bloody slow!” Gelfrid snapped.

“Come, now, lads,” interjected Magnus, “we've got to work together if we're going to fix this damage.”

“What difference does it make if we fix it or not?” Mungo demanded sourly. “The MacTiers are just likely to come back and destroy something else.”

“Roarke said we must make our repairs immediately,” said Lewis hesitantly, afraid of being barked at yet again. So far his gentle attempts to organize the men had failed miserably.

“And that is exactly what we should do,” added Melantha, looking up from the arrow she was fletching. “Otherwise it is clear to everyone that we are vulnerable.” She added the finished shaft to the pile of arrows she had already completed.

“We weren't so vulnerable when we sent those bloody MacTiers scampering home with their tails between their legs, by God,” swore Thor, who was sitting on a chair lovingly polishing his pipes. “Now, there's a tale you pups will be able to tell your bairns!”

“Your pardon, Thor, but if memory serves I do believe 'twas Roarke and his men who in fact helped us to win the day,” pointed out Laird MacKillon. “As you may recall, he told our men to put dirks to their throats and pretend we were going to kill them.”

Thor blinked in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘pretend'?”

“Look out below!”
Hagar peered over the battlements to watch one of the timbers from the crumbling hoarding hurtle toward the ground, barely missing Colin. “Are you all right, son?”

“Yes,” said Colin tautly, wincing at the pain the sudden movement had cost his heavily stitched back. “Do you want me to come up there and help you?”

“No need,” Hagar informed him cheerily. “Everything is under control. You just stay down there and rest like your mother told you.”

“Fine,” muttered Colin, resuming his restless pacing of the courtyard.

“What are you lads doing up here?” asked Melantha as her three brothers appeared.

“We want to help,” Daniel informed her seriously.

“To repair the castle,” added Matthew.

“We're not babies,” Patrick chirped, in case there was any misunderstanding on that point. “I helped Myles build one of the platforms.”

“You may help in another area of the castle,” Melantha informed them. “Not up here.”

“Nothing is going to happen, Melantha,” Daniel assured her, his voice edged with defiance. “We'll be very careful.”

“I said no, Daniel,” Melantha repeated firmly. “If you really want to help, then go and ask Beatrice or Edwina if they need any assistance preparing dinner.”

Daniel snorted in disgust. “I don't want to do kitchen work.”

“I do,” sang out Patrick.

“Isn't there something else for us to do?” pleaded Matthew, who in fact wouldn't have minded working in the kitchen, but wanted to ally with his older brother.

“Fine,” said Melantha, feeling totally exasperated. “Take these arrows and vanes and go ask Colin to show you how to fletch them,” she instructed, deciding that Colin needed a task to keep him occupied as well. “Once you've finished the lot to Colin's satisfaction, place them in a neat pile by the arrow slit in the south tower.”

“That's a good job, Daniel,” Matthew said, trying to assess his brother's reaction. “We'll be making weapons.”

Daniel scowled.

“Look at all these pretty feathers,” marveled Patrick, happily gathering a bouquet into his hands.

“Be careful not to break them,” said Melantha. She helped to pile the shafts into Daniel and Matthew's arms, then watched as they went off to find Colin. Then she began to restlessly walk along the wall head, wondering what to do next.

“I'm thinking it's been a while since we went hunting,” said Magnus offhandedly. “For meat,” he added, lest she think he was suggesting a robbery.

A burst of renewed energy coursed through her.

Matthew tossed his feather into the air and watched as it drifted toward the ground. “You're sure Melantha won't be mad?”

“Why would she be mad?” asked Daniel, trudging ahead of him. “She just said we couldn't go up to the wall head—she never said anything about going into the woods.”

“But we're not allowed to play with a bow and arrows.”

“We're not playing,” Daniel assured him. “We're hunting.”

Matthew looked doubtful. “I don't think we're allowed to go hunting, either.”

“Why not? Melantha always used to talk about how Da would take her hunting from the time she was scarcely more than a baby. I'm thirteen and you're almost eleven—that's more than old enough.”

“But what if something happens?” fretted Matthew. He stooped to pick up his feather. “Then Melantha will be angry with us.”

“The only thing that's going to happen is we're going to shoot some nice, fat rabbits and bring them home and have everyone crowd around us and tell us what fine hunters we are,” predicted Daniel. “And Beatrice will take them to the kitchen and prepare them for supper, and everyone will cheer us for helping to feed the clan.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Then Melantha will see that we're practically men, and she'll tell us we can always go hunting with her from now on.”

Matthew's eyes shone with pleasure as he considered this possibility. He tossed his feather high into the air and watched again as it gently landed on the pine-strewn earth.

And then the feather began to tremble.

The acrid scent stung Melantha's nostrils long before she and her men burst from the woods.

Thick plumes of black smoke were rising from a half dozen cottages upon the hill, and a series of blazes dotted the dry, scrubby grasses of the fields. Her people were racing in every direction; frantically tossing buckets of water and shovelfuls of sand and earth at the flames in a desperate effort to contain the grass fires and perhaps salvage some part of their homes. Melantha galloped toward the castle, her chest tight with fear. She had to find her brothers. She had to see that they were safe, had to kneel down and wrap her arms around them and feel their lean bodies shift restlessly within her embrace.

Then, and only then, could she focus on what had happened.

She thundered through the gate with Magnus, Lewis, and Finlay following close behind her. Throwing herself off her horse, she flew through the door and into the great hall.

Laird MacKillon, Thor, and Hagar were seated at a table, while Colin paced anxiously before them. On seeing Melantha their expressions, already grave, crumpled.

And she knew something terrible had happened to one of her brothers.

“Tell me,” she pleaded, the words small and choked.

“It's Daniel and Matthew,” said Colin. “The MacTiers have taken them.”

A sickening dizziness swept over her, making her feel hot and cold all at once.
No,
she thought, struggling to make sense of what Colin had just said. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, fighting the shifting and turning of the hall.
Please God, no—

“ 'Tis all right, lass,” said Magnus, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her tight against him. “Just lean against me and take a breath. There ye are. 'Tis no time for panic, do ye understand?” he demanded sternly.

She did not speak but leaned against Magnus, taking comfort in the strong, solid feel of him as he held her steady.

“We're going to get them back, Melantha,” Colin vowed fiercely. “I promise you that.”

“Aye,” agreed Finlay, moving protectively to her other side. “Even if we have to kill every last bloody MacTier to do so.”

Lewis also moved closer, saying nothing, but closing the comforting circle of strength and determination around her.

Melantha inhaled a shallow breath, fighting the terror that was pulling her toward hysteria. She could not give in to it, for if she began to rant and weep she would lose precious moments.

“What happened?” she asked, forcing herself to push her emotions aside.

“Daniel and Matthew had gone off to play in the woods,” explained Colin. “The MacTiers captured them before we even knew they were near.” His gaze was agonized, as if he felt he should have been able to prevent it. “I'm sorry, Melantha.”

“It wasn't your fault, Colin.”
It is my fault,
she reflected in anguish.
My fault for bringing Roarke and his men here and daring to ransom them. My fault for raising the ire of the MacTiers.

“After they took the lads, the MacTiers set fire to the cottages and fields,” continued Laird MacKillon.

“Was anyone hurt?” asked Magnus.

Hagar shook his head. “Everyone is fine. The MacTiers never even tried to breach the wall. They just thundered about terrorizing everyone and setting things ablaze.”

“Filthy, depraved demons!” stormed Thor. “If only I'd had my sword, I'd have chopped them up for stewing meat!”

A terrible question uncoiled in Melantha's mind. Her voice was hollow as she asked, “Were Roarke and his men among them?”