When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (18 page)

The old man got to his feet, grabbing the wool underfoot as he stood. He folded the blanket and handed it to one of the men.

“Do you need a weapon?” he asked the druid. “If that pack of wolves returns, you might find yourself in need of one.”

“I have nothing to fear from wolves,” Bhaltair said. “I have my staff.”

“Take this dirk,” Aiden offered, handing him the knife at his belt. “These wolves are more ferocious than most I’ve seen.”

The old man opened his cloak and pointed to the sickle strung at his waist. “If need be, I’ll use my own blade. Keep yours.”

“As you wish.” Aiden replaced the knife. “If you like, you can remain in this meadow, and we’ll collect you on our return trip.”

“No need,” said Bhaltair. “But there is one further detail of the omen that you should heed.”

Plucking his saddle from the ground, Aiden carried it to his horse. “Oh?”

“The wee bird was crested.”

Aiden cinched the saddle tight, struggling to find the relevance in the old man’s words—and failing. “And what, if anything, am I to make of that?”

“It’s an obvious reference to the crown.”

Obvious
was clearly in the eye of the beholder. “So the omen suggests the crown might be permanently lost?” he asked, turning to face the old man.

Bhaltair scratched his head, his brow furrowed in thought. “Perhaps.”

Yet another ill-defined and uncertain response. How was he to act on such insubstantial advice? And more to the point, why was he even considering the advice of a madman? He sighed. Because said madman had befriended his father, shown him the secrets of the hill fort caves, and tasked him with preserving a legend.

“I’ll keep your words in mind,” he said, hoisting himself into the saddle. He nodded respectfully to the old druid, then urged his horse into a trot.

The Black Warriors followed.

I
sabail studied the long brown hair and the broad back of the man riding in front of her.

She’d given up her mount and now shared a horse with Ana. For good reason—their hired warrior, Magnus, was a large fellow with a very large weapon. He clearly needed a horse to himself. Not quite as tall as MacCurran, but blessed with a similar robust build, the man sat his mount with the comfortable stance of a man who’d spent many a long hour in the saddle. Which was curious. How did a peasant living alone in the woods learn to ride? Or wield a weapon—other than a pole—for that matter?

“How did you learn your craft?“ she asked him, as she ducked beneath a low-hanging branch.

“Of which craft do you speak?”

“Swordsmanship.” The bronze hilt of his weapon was quite impressive, certainly not the sort a common soldier would own. “Were you a soldier before you injured your leg?”

“Aye.”

Isabail waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming. “At the castle?”

“Does it matter where?” he countered, slowing his horse to allow her to come alongside. “Even if my talents are limited, a weak sword arm is better than no sword arm.”

“True enough,” she acknowledged. “And lest I imply otherwise, we do appreciate your willingness to aid us. But it would be remiss of me not to gain some sense of how loyal you’ll be in the thick of trouble.” Then she added hastily, “Not that we anticipate such trouble.”

“Of course not.” He shrugged. “We struck a bargain. Two deniers for a fortnight of service. I’m a man of my word, so you need not fear I’ll desert you. I’m yours to command.”

“How long will it take us to reach Tayteath?”

“At this pace? Three days.”

Isabail frowned. “That simply won’t do. A lad’s life is in danger.”

“Alone, I could make the journey in less than two,” he pointed out. “But with women in the party, there’s no hope of traveling that swiftly.”

“Is there no way to make better time?”

He shook his head. “I cannot demand the same of you as I would a man.”

Isabail considered that. Normally, she would agree. But the image of Jamie’s face as she’d last seen it in the tunnel—pale and frightened and trying to be brave—refused to be banished from her thoughts. “We are not men,” she agreed,
exchanging a glance with Ana, “but we are willing to keep the pace you set for as long as we are able.”

Magnus studied them for a long moment. He looked as if he was biting his tongue, but no scathing comment leaked out. Instead, he sat back in his saddle and nodded. “The best gait for an extended push is the trot. The horses can maintain a good speed without tiring excessively. But the trot is hard on a rider, especially without stirrups. If you grow weary, you must let me know immediately. It would be most unfortunate if you took a tumble.”

“Agreed.”

He raked a gaze over the two women. “Ensure your cloaks are securely fastened and that your hold on each other and the reins is firm.”

They did as he bid.

Ana’s hands shook a little as she grasped Isabail about the middle. “I’m not a skilled rider,” the healer whispered.

“You’re strong,” Isabail reassured her. “Just hold tight. We’ll take turns in the saddle, and if you ever lose your grip, pinch me and I’ll stop.”

“Are you ready?” Magnus asked.

Isabail patted Ana’s hand, then threaded the reins through both hands and nodded. “Aye.”

Without another word, he urged his horse into a trot and took off through the woods. Isabail sucked in a deep breath and kneed her horse into motion. She could only pray that she had not just made one of the worst decisions of her life.

* * *

Aiden and his men reached Tayteath by midafternoon. He brought them to a halt at the edge of the trees and surveyed his target. The castle stood on a narrow jut of land overlooking the sea. Steep cliffs protected the keep on three sides, forcing all access through the heavily fortified front gates. To the northwest, midway between Aiden and the castle, lay a small village that consisted of a kirk and at least twenty stone blackhouses, smoke rising lazily from their chimneys.

Niall nudged his horse alongside him. “What do you think? Is de Lourdes inside?”

“The portcullis is down,” Aiden pointed out. Unless the castle was expecting trouble, there was no reason to bar the villagers from the castle during daylight hours. “But I prefer to be certain. Send someone into the village. With any luck, the townspeople noted his arrival.”

Niall nodded. “Shall we set up camp?”

“Aye,” Aiden said, still studying the keep. “But no fire tonight.”

Gaining access to the keep would be a challenge. A full frontal attack wasn’t possible—he didn’t have the men or the equipment required to mount a siege. If they approached the gate, the archers on the walls would cut them down like hay.

Which really only left one option.

The cliffs.

“Cormac,” he called. “I have a task for you.”

* * *

Halfway across a wide plain, Magnus slowed the horses to a walk to allow them to cool. One glance
at the women and he knew the game was up. Isabail looked weary, but she remained steady and upright. Ana, on the other hand, despite an extended period in the saddle, looked ready to collapse. Pale faced and trembling, she was latched onto the reins with a desperate clutch of fingers.

“I was a fool to agree to this,” he said, reining in his mount. He handed Ana his oilskin and watched her drink deeply of the ale within.

Isabail nodded unhappily. “‘Twas unkind of me to demand this of you, Ana.”

“I’ll be fine,” Ana said as she lowered the oilskin. But her voice quavered as she spoke, belying her words.

Magnus glanced around. “We’ll head for that copse,” he said, pointing to a small stand of trees to the south. “After we rest a while, we’ll make our way—slowly—back to the glen from whence we came.”

Isabail also glanced around. “What of the wolf?”

They’d caught sight of a large white wolf several times over the course of the day, always at a distance, always alone. Isabail’s deerhound had growled upon spying the beast but seemed content to remain at their side rather than give chase. Likely a wise decision.

“There’s no sign of it,” he said. To reassure the women, he tapped the hilt of his sword. “But if it makes an appearance, I’ll dispatch it swiftly.”

They walked the horses to the trees and found a small clearing in the center in which to make camp. The remnant of a day-old fire told Magnus
that it was a popular place to stop, and he did a careful search of the woods before making camp. They were alone.

Ana’s legs gave out on her when he helped her from the saddle. “My legs are like jelly,” she said with a laugh, as she fell against him. “I thought myself able, but I was clearly mistaken.”

He scooped her up and carried her to the blankets that Isabail had laid before the fire pit.

“The pace we set would pose a challenge even for an experienced rider,” he told her as he tucked the wool about her. “You’ve done remarkably well to make it this far. The return journey will not be nearly as difficult.”

Isabail paced back and forth as he lit the fire. “How close are we to Tayteath?”

“Another half day.” He caught a glimmer of renewed hope in Isabail’s eyes and shook his head. “Ana is in no condition to continue. We must allow her to rest.”

“I’ve no desire to push Ana beyond her limits,” Isabail said. She turned to her companion. “I’ve already asked far more of you than I had a right to, but I cannot turn back. Not when I am so close. Not while Jamie remains Daniel’s prisoner.”

Crossing to his horse, Magnus removed food from his pack. He broke a round of bread in half and offered a piece to each of the ladies. He tossed a small piece of dried hare to the dog, as well. “Your concern for the lad is laudable, but your menfolk are already in pursuit. You must have faith in their ability to bring him home.”

“I do not lack faith,” Isabail said. “If it were a simple matter of who possesses the better sword arm, I would hang my favor on Aiden MacCurran’s lance. He is a formidable foe. But it’s not that simple. The castle is mine. I can retrieve the lad without bloodshed. Surely, the sparing of lives is a noble cause?”

“A noble cause, perhaps,” he said gently. “But not a practical one.”

Isabail flopped onto the blanket next to Ana, clearly unhappy with his response. She picked at her bread with halfhearted interest, her attention elsewhere.

“Hallo,” called a deep voice from the trees.

Magnus whipped around, drawing his sword as he spun.

Out of the shadows stepped an old man garbed in a dark cloak, his white beard and hair shining brightly in the early-afternoon sunlight. He leaned on a long burl-wood staff as he walked.

The deerhound lifted its head as the man drew closer, but did not growl.

“Halt there,” Magnus said. “Identify yourself.”

The old man obediently stopped and gave them a low bow. “Bhaltair of the Red Mountains.”

Magnus frowned. “You’re a long way from home, old man. What brings you to the Lowlands?”

“You do.”

The tip of Magnus’s sword lifted. “I beg your pardon?”

The old man put a hand to his chest. “I mean that in a general sense, of course.” He unhooked
the burlap bag he carried over his shoulder and lowered it to the ground. Opening the drawstring, he displayed the contents. “I sell herbs and unguents to travelers in need. You look as though you might have need of my wares.”

Ana peered at the earthenware jugs in the old man’s sack. “What sorts of unguents do you have?” she asked.

He held up a pot. “I’ve this one containing goldes and Saint Johnswort.” He dug deeper, and the jugs rattled. “I’ve also got this one with Saint Johnswort, valerian, and wintergreen.”

“Let me see,” she said, waving him closer.

The two of them huddled over the sack, talking in the riddles of herbalism and discussing the merits of each unguent and salve.

“They seem to have formed a bond,” Isabail said quietly.

He glared at her. “I know precisely what you are thinking, madam, and I cannot endorse it. He’s an old man. Hardly a reliable champion with whom to entrust Ana’s care.”

“I disagree. He travels the roads alone and carries a sharp sickle at his belt.”

“He could be a cad, or a thief,” he said. “We know nothing of him.”

“The same could have been said about you,” Isabail pointed out. “Sometimes we must base our choices on the options presented to us, rather than on what we truly desire.” She rounded the campfire and joined the other two. “Ana? Might I have a word?”

The two women stepped away, Ana limping stiffly. To Magnus’s relief, Isabail did not appear to coerce Ana into making a decision. She simply asked the healer a question and listened at length to the answer. Ana ended the conversation with a pat to her staghorn-handled dirk, and they returned to the fire.

“If it is not too much to ask, Bhaltair,” Ana said to the old man, “I wonder if you might remain with me for a few days while I regain my strength? My companions have a pressing need to reach Tayteath forthwith, and I’m afraid my horsemanship is not up to the task.”

Bhaltair nodded graciously. “Of course. In truth, it would be greatly to my benefit to spend a few days with such a learned herbalist.”

Isabail smiled and returned to Magnus. “So, are you game to continue?”

“Aye.” He helped her mount her horse. “This lad you’re so determined to save must be a very worthy sort to inspire such devotion.”

She waited for him to vault into the saddle. “That he is, Magnus. That he is.”

* * *

By the time Niall returned with the news that Daniel de Lourdes had been identified by several of the villagers and that he had arrived at the keep with a young lad in tow, Aiden had reached a decision on how to breach the keep. Drawing a map in the snow, he shared his plan.

“Our best option is to start here.” He pointed to the base of the cliffs. “At the evening low tide, we
walk out to the base of the cliffs. From there, we scale the rocks until we reach the castle, and then we enter through a window.”

“Climb the cliffs in the dark?” Niall asked.

“It will be difficult,” acknowledged Aiden. “But the rear of the castle will be unprotected. We have a far greater chance of success with the cliffs than with a frontal attack.”

Several of the men nodded, seeing the wisdom of his plan, but most remained silent. They would do whatever Aiden asked of them, but he wanted more than blind obedience. Pointing at the keep through the trees, he lowered his voice to a firm intensity. “Inside those walls lies the crown of our great ancestor, Kenneth MacAlpin. The last true king of the Picts. Do I want to retrieve it? Aye, I do. I’m sworn to protect it. But more important than any piece of treasure is kin. One of our own is held within that keep, perhaps in pain or suffering. Jamie is not only one of us; he’s the son of one of our finest warriors. He’s paid the greatest of sacrifices, losing his maither and his wee brother to a murdering thief. I, for one, am willing to pay the same price to see young Jamie freed. Are you with me?”

This time the response was enthusiastic. “Aye!”

Even Niall, who was a cautious fellow by nature, brought his fist to his chest with a resounding thump and joined the chorus.

“Pack lightly and pack quick. We leave for the cliffs at nightfall.”

* * *

Isabail and her hired warrior arrived at Tayteath just as dusk was falling. Noting an air of quiet around the castle, she wondered what had become of the MacCurran. If not laying siege to the castle, where was he? Surely, he would have arrived well ahead of her.

She voiced her thoughts to Magnus.

“Were I him,” he said, “I’d be camped in that wood.” He pointed to a thick forest a half league to the west. “No sense alerting your enemy to your presence until you’ve gathered all the information you’ll need to breach his walls.”

“Do you think you could you find him?”

Magnus smiled. “Of course.”

He spurred his horse into a canter and headed for the trees. Isabail did the same, even though she’d long since reached the limit of her endurance. Exhaustion tugged at her shoulders, and holding up her head had become a monumental chore. A short distance into the woods, Magnus reined in his mount and swung to the ground. “We walk from here.”