Amanda Scott (29 page)

Having heard the door shut behind her, Isobel watched Waldron carefully, trying to forget all that Michael had said about his cousin’s prowess and remember all that Hector Reaganach had taught her about how to defend herself. Waldron was tall, muscular, and clearly menacing, but Hector the Ferocious was taller, broader, and surely more powerful. Not that she had ever actually bested Hector, but she had thrown him once, quite by accident, simply by following his instructions.

She had known without his telling her that only the great difference in their sizes had caused that absurd fall. Standing close behind her, he had bent over her, showing her how to grasp his arm and elbow and explaining how she should position herself. As he talked, she had suddenly thrown her hip into his thigh in the manner he had shown her only a few moments before. To her great delight and astonishment, and to his own, as well, he had toppled right over her to the ground.

She could not, however, expect Waldron to be so innocently cooperative. Nor would she voluntarily turn her back on him.

He was still about four feet away when she reached up, snatched one of four candles from the sconce above her right shoulder, and hurled it at him.

He knocked it to the floor, even paused to stamp out its flame, then look another step toward her.

“Don’t come any closer,” she snapped, grabbing another candle. “I am not afraid of you.”

“You should be afraid, lass,” he said grimly. “You should be very afraid, because I am already angry that you are putting me to this trouble. If you don’t drop that at once, I will not only punish you for your insolence a few minutes ago, but I’ll make you even sorrier for having the impudence to wave that thing at me.”

She could see for herself that he was angry, and his anger was frightening, but his voice did not stir the hairs on the back of her neck the way Michael’s did when he was angry. Waldron reminded her more of her eldest nephew, Cristina’s son, who at the age of six, balked of something he wanted, had thrown a tantrum in the hope that pure fury would gain it for him. Remembering how Hector had handled that incident made her wish she were three times Waldron’s size and could simply take a strap to his backside to teach him manners. Despite the gravity of the situation, her lips twitched at the ludicrous thought.

“By the Rood, woman, do you dare laugh at me?” he demanded, closing the distance between them in less than a heartbeat.

She brought the candle upward as hard as she could, the way Hector had taught her to use her dagger, but Waldron struck like lightning and sent it flying. It hit the wall and went out before she was entirely aware that she no longer held it.

Gripping her wrist so tightly that she cried out, he yanked her to him and slapped her hard across the face.

Her ears rang, but her free hand flashed up and fisted itself as it lashed sideways hard across the end of his nose, and she had the satisfaction of hearing him grunt. His hand went up to strike again, but at a whisper of sound from the doorway, he flung her aside instead and snatched his sword from its scabbard.

Landing hard on a hip, she looked up to see Michael in the doorway, his long sword out before him in both hands, at the ready. He did not glance her way. Indeed, she thought both men had already forgotten her existence. Their gazes locked, they circled slowly, each waiting for the other to attack.

She opened her mouth to shout at them to stop, to remind them that they were in a house of God, or near enough to count as one. But realizing she might distract Michael and thus give Waldron a chance to kill him, she held her tongue.

Michael’s usual calm had enveloped him the moment he saw Waldron shove Isobel away. Watching him closely, he wondered which his cousin wanted more, the location of the treasure or Michael’s death. If the former, Michael might have an edge. If the latter . . . He realized in that instant that it did not matter a whit which it was, because whatever his cousin’s intentions had been at the outset, the moment the two swords clanged together, Waldron would care only about besting him, for so it had always been. Once begun, the competition was all that mattered.

Waldron feinted, but Michael had known he would and did not address the feint. Instead, he waited a split second until Waldron was pulling back, and then he thrust hard and straight. But the parry came as quickly, and his fingers vibrated as his sword did, its steel ringing from the clash.

He did not want to kill Waldron in front of Isobel, but he believed he would not have to, because Hugo would hear the noise and come. He need only fend off Waldron’s attack until then.

The thought gave him pause, because he knew that such thinking did not augur well for his own safety. He must put the lass out of his mind completely, a task he had already discovered to be much harder than one might think.

Movement beyond the swordsmen caught Isobel’s eye just then, as a small door at the back of the room opened.

“Michael, look out!” she cried.

Two men stepped into the room, swords drawn, but Michael seemed to ignore them, for he did not take his eyes off Waldron.

“I’ll deal with him,” Waldron snapped. “Take the lass!”

Leaping to her feet as the men turned toward her, Isobel darted toward the doorway through which Michael had come. As she reached it, Hugo appeared before her, grabbed her, and pulled her through it, stepping past her with drawn sword as he did. Hector was a short distance beyond him in the corridor, bent over the Green Abbot, with Sir Henry, of all people, peering interestedly down at them.

Hector finished tying a knot, saw Isobel, and stood. The clanging sounds in the room behind her increased in both number and volume.

“Oh, hurry, sir,” she cried. “There are three swordsmen in there against just Michael and Hugo.”

Sir Henry smiled. “Sakes, lass, that will but give that pair a bit of exercise.”

Hector cocked his head. “If I’m not mistaken, the noise within has already ceased. Also, however, Fingon appears to be stirring at last, so if you’ll keep an eye on him here, Sir Henry, I’ll just have a look in there.”

Isobel noted that, despite Hector’s confidence and the sudden silence, he removed his battle-axe from its sling as he approached the doorway. Then Adela rushed forward to hug her, and Isobel spent the next few moments reassuring her sister that she was quite unharmed.

“It all happened so fast that I scarcely had time to be afraid,” she said. “It seemed as if you had just walked away with the abbot when Michael arrived. It is the first time I’ve been glad that he walks as silently as a ghost.”

“Aye, he does move like a wraith when he wants to,” Henry said.

“He ran to that doorway, though,” Adela said. “His face was white, Isobel. I think he was truly frightened.”

With a gimlet eye on the abbot, Sir Henry said, “Lady Adela has already described how you were tricked into coming here, my lady. I am most displeased that you should have been treated so whilst a guest in this household, and by a member of my own family. Pray be so kind as to accept my profound apology.”

“Oh, thank heaven, there they are now!” Adela exclaimed.

Isobel had already seen them. So relieved was she to see Michael safe that she wanted to run and hug him, but she was not sure he would appreciate such a display of affection, or so much as a hint of her previous concern. She had noted before that men seemed to take such behavior as an insult to their skill. Moreover, had he not said that she need never worry when he had a weapon in hand?

Waldron and his two minions, weaponless now, walked together, with Hector, Michael, and Hugo following them. As they approached, Henry said, “What the devil do you think you have been doing, cousin?”

“I?” Waldron shrugged. “You would do better to ask your impulsive brother how it is that he dared to strike down a holy man who is very likely the most powerful man of the Kirk anywhere in the Isles and western Highlands.”

Instead of rising to this bait, Henry regarded him shrewdly and said, “It appears that he struck you, too, cousin, or did you forget and walk nose first into a door before you opened it?”

Waldron’s face reddened, and he shot Isobel an evil look.

Michael moved to stand beside her, and as he did, his hand brushed hers.

Welcoming its warmth, she smiled at him.

Henry said, “Although, plainly, you do not want to answer my questions, cousin, you have abused my hospitality, both of you, making me think little of you, my lord abbot, or your so-called holiness. A holy man does not trick young women into danger. Nor does any man who thinks himself a gentleman, Waldron, and until now I believed that you at least made some pretense to act as one.”

Waldron shrugged again, saying, “You speak well for a thief, Henry. But, as you will learn, thieves never prosper.”

Henry shook his head. “Michael told me about this fancy of yours, but since to believe it, I must likewise believe our revered grandfather was the thief in question, or— No, ’tis worse than that, is it not? He had to have been one of a gang of thieves, if your version of events is true. But we know he was an honorable man.”

“It matters not whether he believed he was guarding the contents of the Templar treasury or stealing them,” Waldron snapped. “Our present Pope, like his predecessors, has commanded that every item that vanished when the Templars fled Paris be returned to the custody of the Kirk. Do you dare to defy His Holiness?”

“The Pope wields no power here,” Henry said softly. “Nor do I believe that we ken the whereabouts of anything that belongs to the Kirk of Rome. What I do believe, however, is that I have come to the end of my patience, Waldron. You are no longer welcome here, nor at castles St. Clair or Roslin. I shan’t order you out on the instant, but neither may you continue to roam freely about this household.”

“You hold no authority over me,” Waldron said.

“Nor over me, certainly,” the Green Abbot declared.

“You are both wrong,” Henry said in a harder, colder tone than any Isobel had yet heard from him. “On Orkney, gentlemen, I am the
only
authority.”

Waldron laughed. “Faith, Henry, you are not even Prince of Orkney yet, and will not be until your precious ceremony on Sunday!”

“Again you err, cousin. I have been Prince of Orkney since the second day of this month, when the Norse King officially installed me at Maestrand in Norway. That ceremony was small, because his grace King Haakon preferred it so, and also because we could not expect many of my new subjects to journey to Norway, but he likewise agreed that a much grander ceremony should be held here, so that the people of Orkney might meet their prince, clearly understand the duties and privileges of his position, and welcome him. And so it shall be on Sunday at the cathedral. However, I already hold the power to mint coins and make laws. Likewise do I hold the power of the pit and gallows. So try me further tonight only at your peril.”

Michael watched Waldron carefully, knowing that his cousin was capable of moving swiftly and needed no weapon in his hand to be lethal. Clearly, he had not known about Henry’s trip to Norway, and just as clearly, the news displeased him, but nonetheless he retained his unruffled demeanor. His two minions likewise seemed more relaxed than one might expect under the circumstances.

Waldron said, “What do you mean to do with us, Henry?”

“I do not want to cause a scandal by throwing you and our lord abbot into the dungeon, supposing his eminence the bishop even possesses one,” Henry said. “However, your behavior does not incline me to trust your word that you will create no more trouble, even if you were to offer that word. Would you?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Exactly, so I will suppress my dislike of scandal sufficiently to confine all four of you to your separate chambers under strong guard. Yes, Michael?” he added, although Michael had not spoken.

“I think you are being too lenient, sir,” Michael said. “You would do better to find a stronger, more reliable place of confinement. The abbot here has already defied orders of the High King of Scots and the Lord of the Isles that ought to have kept him confined to the Holy Isle.”

“I warrant that neither the King nor MacDonald set his own guards to keep him there,” Henry said. “I shall not make that error. Indeed, I believe I hear my lads coming now,” he added as noise from the stairwell heralded new arrivals. “I took the precaution before following Hector Reaganach up here to have my captain of guards gather a few men and send them after me.”

A short time later, ten of Henry’s men led the four prisoners, their hands trussed behind them, back to the stairway. Since Henry and Hector followed, Michael decided that he could safely remain with Isobel, who had been watching the proceedings with interest but now regarded him somewhat warily.

Lady Adela, on the other hand, glowered at Hugo, who had likewise remained behind and chose that moment to say something to her. Raising her chin in much the same way that Isobel did when she was angry, Adela said, “You have no authority over me, sir, and I will thank you to remember that.”

His voice low, Hugo spoke again. Michael’s ears were particularly sharp, and although he could not hear every word, he thought his cousin was taking the lass to task for having left the hall with only an unknown gillie as escort. Glancing at Isobel, he wondered if she feared he would say something similar to her.

He grinned at her.

The slight, unexpected tension Isobel had felt evaporated, and she realized that she had been waiting to see if Michael would take her to task as Sir Hugo was so clearly doing with Adela. Just then, her sister whirled from Hugo and began to stomp angrily toward the stairway.

“Just one moment, my lady,” Hugo commanded sternly.

Over her shoulder, Adela snapped. “We are not married, so you have no right to speak to me as if we were, sir. Indeed, I would not marry you if you begged me!”

“Never fear, lass; I won’t,” he retorted. “I don’t intend to marry for many years yet, for even the Bible says that a woman’s heart is but ‘snares and nets, and her hands as bands.’ As for marrying a wasp-tongued shrew like yourself—”