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Ranald turned his head away, his shoulders
slumped with the memory of how abandoned he had felt.

“He slipped away more than once. He was near
to Kelso one night when Dougald caught up to him. That next morn,
the laird sent a letter to the Abbot. When the messenger returned,
yer sire made a great show of saying he had word that his second
son had died of a fever and was already buried.”

Ranald smacked his hand against the cold
stone beside him and fought for calm.

“He has Satan’s own cold heart to claim that
a son who still breathes is dead!” His words hissed through near
clamped teeth.

Raik snorted. “Heart? Are ye certain he has
one? I oft wondered.”

“I heard many tales of Moridac. I could not
ken the wild things he did. The men he killed. That he gloried in
it?”

“Aye, ye can say he did.” Raik nodded and
hesitated but a heartbeat. “Yer brother threw himself into fighting
and killing, mayhap with reason. Most times, it was after a rousing
argument with the laird.”

Raik frowned and steadied a foot on an open
crenelation, then leaned over to brace his arms on his knee. He
heaved a regretful sigh before he continued.

“More than once, I came upon him unaware and
saw fear flash in his eyes when he looked at yer sire.”

“What had he to fear? My sire loved him since
his birth.”

“Likely, he thought if his father could maim
and discard his twin like so much offal, he could do the same to
Moridac if he displeased him.” Raik raised his brows and studied
Ranald’s face.

Ranald nodded.

“Moridac was weak; ye were strong. Mayhap ye
were destined to be the second son, because ye could face what life
had in store for ye.”

“Nay. Moridac was not weak. He was far more
daring than I. ‘Twas he who thought up most of our ventures. We
were so much alike. We fed on each other’s strengths.” He lowered
his head, then lifted it and glanced aside at Raik. “Had I been
strong, I would have returned here after I healed. I was the weak
one.”

Raik shook his head.

“I ken yer twin was afeared. In the years
growing up together, was it not ye who defied yer sire? Ye who took
all the chances, who claimed the guilt to protect Moridac when he
got into trouble?”

Ranald grimaced and shrugged. It had been
second nature for him to step between his sire and his brother.

“Once he no longer had ye to protect him, he
made himself into the image of yer father. The more he became like
him, the more the Chief praised him.”

“Ne’er did I think on it that way.” Ranald
closed his eyes, picturing Moridac lost and fearful. “Hm. Moridac
drank the most when our sire was in a temper.”

“Aye. He did. After they took ye away,
Moridac locked himself in the bedchamber ye shared. He let no one
in until your father threatened to take an axe to the door.”

“Many times, in those brief spaces between
sleeping potions, I felt him calling to me.” Ranald sighed, and his
impatient fingers jerked off his mask. “‘Tis nice to feel the air
on my face.”

“It is not necessary to use it.” Raik picked
up a stone from beside his foot and tossed it far out into the open
bailey.

“Mayhap not with men. I have no wish to see
the look of horror on Catalin’s face should she come upon me
without it.” His fingers shoved through his hair as he lifted his
face to the waning sun.

“Ye give her too little credit.”

“Mayhap because I gave her too much
before.”

Ranald gave his hair one last tug and
shrugged. Both were silent for a space, thinking.

“Ye said ye felt Moridac call to ye those
years ago. Did this feeling fade over the years?”

“Aye. Somewhat. Not all. There were times
when out of nowhere I would glimpse his face.”

He shuddered, remembering. He had thought
himself daft, at the time. Was certain of it that day in December
when he heard Moridac’s voice scream his name, begging his aid.
Should he ask? He cleared his throat.

“The day he was injured. Were ye there?” His
heart pounded, waiting.

“Aye. Not close, though. I heard shouts,
horses crashing through the brush and screams. Domnall, Giric and I
arrived as Kerr slit the boar’s throat and dragged him off
Moridac.” Raik clasped Ranald’s shoulder. “Until he was not able to
speak, yer brother begged for yer help, asking ye to greet him and
guide his way when he breathed his last.”

Ranald’s eyes stung. He straightened, and as
he slid his mask on, furtively swiped the moisture from his eyes.
He growled softly, deep in his throat, and nodded.

“Thank ye.” He stopped to clear his husky
voice.

Eyes normally as blue as the sky now held a
hint of gray as Raik studied Ranald’s face. It was always thus when
Raik delved into a person’s thoughts.

“What?” Raik asked.

“I understand now.”

“Understand?”

“Aye. My father.”

“Ye do? I expect God shakes his head at
Broccin’s thinking.”

“Nay, I dinna ken Broccin, only his anger at
Kelso.”

Raik tilted his head, drew his shoulders up
and held his hands up.

“Eh? He was in a temper from the moment we
left Raptor. Remind me so I can follow yer thinking.”

“Do ye not remember him shouting it was my
fault Moridac died? That I should have been there to heal him?”

“Aye. I think I see yer drift.”

“He had to blame me else he must admit it was
his fault I was not there.” A glimmer of sympathy pried at Ranald’s
mind. “Can ye imagine the guilt, the horror that something ye had
done made the passing of a loved one so terrible?”

“That’s the monk in ye talking. I feel no
sympathy for him. He earned all the anguish he feels now.”

Ranald shrugged, then straightened and cocked
his head to listen as he studied the open field leading to the
drawbridge. Two men on horseback galloped out of the far woods
toward the castle. The way they leaned forward in the saddle lent
urgency to their appearance. He pointed to them and turned.

“Come. Cormac and Duncan return from Baron
Rupert’s castle. They are one man short. I dinna see Egan with
them.”

Raik followed at his heels as they bolted
down the stairway to meet the men clattering through the
barbican.

o0o

Catalin could not stop the shivers that shook
her. They were more from what Ranald had said than from the cold
air blowing on her back. On the last of the wooden steps, Elyne
grasped Catalin’s hand and tucked it in the crook of her arm.

“Come, your hand is like ice. It’s turning
wet and windy again. A warmed cup of mead will be just the thing to
chase the dampness from us.”

“Did you hear what they were fighting over?
Do you think he really meant it?” Catalin bit her lip and glanced
sideways at Elyne.

“Who meant what? Ranald or Father?”

“Both, really. Either way, I will mayhap lose
this child I carry because of one of them.”

Had all in the castle heard Broccin’s yells
and Ranald’s responses? No matter where she looked, people peered
at her from the corner of their eyes. Even the goose girl found a
reason to herd her charges closer. Was she trying to overhear what
she said to Elyne?

She stumbled, and Elyne tightened her grip on
her arm.

“Lose to one of them? What crazy thing were
they fighting over?” Elyne’s head cocked to the side, her brow
creased with thought.

“Your father declares that if this babe is
proven to be Moridac’s, Ranald and I will live at Hunter Castle,
but the child will stay here to be raised by him.”

“What? Moridac’s?”

Surprised, Elyne tripped over her own feet.
Had not Catalin grabbed tight to her arm and steadied them both,
they would have landed on their bottoms in the dust.

“Aye. Your father says he will prove the
child is Moridac’s and will take it from us. But Ranald said if
your father names the child a bastard, then Ranald will see it sent
to the church.” She gulped and let out a wavering breath.

“Huh! They are brainsick to think such a
thing.” Elyne frowned, her eyes puzzled as she pondered the idea.
“Sent to the church for what?”

“If it is a boy, he will be given to Kelso
and raised to become a monk.”

“What if it’s a girl? Will they still fight
over her?”

“Your father cared naught about a girl.
Ranald did. He claims a bastard girl child will live at Saint
Anne’s Abbey with the good sisters.” Catalin’s last words trailed
off like the wind had taken the sound from her. “Oh, heavenly
saints. Whoever wins, they will take my child from me.”

“I canna believe Ranald would do such.” Elyne
sucked her teeth and shook her head. “By God’s love, how could a
man who has lived a life of prayer and healing think of such an
evil thing?”

“Because that same evil thing was done to
him. He believes it would be a fitting revenge, since your father
wants this child so badly. But I will not let them take my babe
from me.” Catalin lips pursed with anger and her chin lifted. Afore
this child was born, she would make her way to Letia and Warin for
safety. They would help her petition King Stephen for
protection.

She remained silent as they approached the
keep’s entrance, for young and old men alike were gathered around
the well flirting with cleaning maids and cook’s helpers who were
drawing water. Before he hoisted water to fill the small bucket she
clutched, Sir Fergus flourished a bow to a blushing lass. The girl
was near stumbling over herself, she was so flustered.

Sirs Giric and Kerr leaned back against the
boulder next to the well and watched, smirks lifting the corners of
their lips. ‘Twas certain they had been well-sated the night just
passed, for neither attempted to favor any of the lasses.

Catalin recognized Sir Kerr as the warrior
Ranald had fought with earlier. He looked most pleased with
himself, and although his green tunic bore blood stained rips, he
wore it as if it were a badge of honor. He bowed with respect,
while Sir Giric lounged back and eyed them as they passed. On
straightening, Kerr frowned and muttered something to him Catalin
could not hear. Giric shrugged and made a slight bow. His probing
regard searched her form much as Broccin’s had, and as they went
past him, he chuckled as if he had learned a nasty secret.

She quickened her steps, wanting to be away
from so much speculation.

“Ada, fetch hot mead to Lady Catalin’s
bedchamber,” Elyne called out as they passed her in the hall. “It’s
likely she has taken a chill.”

She hustled Catalin up the stairs. Neither
spoke until they reached the room and closed the door behind
them.

“Oh, Elyne, the wind must have carried Ranald
and your father’s voices throughout the bailey, and now their words
are being spread to all within the castle walls.”

“They squabble and fight like two hounds over
a meaty bone.” Elyne sucked her teeth and pulled a stool over.
“Sit. Ye need the rest,” she said as she lightly pressed Catalin’s
shoulders down.

Catalin sat, her teeth worrying her lips.
What was she to do? Her stomach roiled, and she took a slow,
soothing breath and let it out.

“I won’t have it! This babe is not scraps
from a table for them to fight over. It is mine. I bear it, not
they.”

“Aye, but how will we stop them?” Elyne
pressed her lips together, her forehead furrowed in thought. “Hm.
When it comes time to start the siege, I shall beg Ranald to allow
us to go to Letia’s. I will say we canna trust Father, and yer
bairn will be safer away from him.”

“It is a good idea. Once we are at Letia’s, I
will persuade the baron to send an escort with me to King Stephen’s
court.”

Catalin shuddered, fearing the time when the
babe fought to come into the world. She had heard the screams of
laboring women; had seen the bloodied sheets. She would have no
loving husband anxiously waiting to learn if he had a son, or if it
was a daughter. And what would she do if the babe came afore she
could get to the English court? She would have to rely on Letia and
Warin to protect it.

She squeaked and near jumped off her stool
when someone scratched at the door and immediately opened it.

Hannah held the door wide while Ada entered
with a tray filled with hot, freshly baked scones and a pot of
honey. Beside them was a thick earthenware jug filled with hot
mead. A wooden stopper held in the heat. Hannah looked back over
her shoulders and pulled the door shut.

“Ada no sooner had the words of your morning
sickness out of her mouth afore Broccin was charging out the door.
I thought mayhap he would fall over the stairway to the
battlements, so fast did he take the steps.” Hannah shook her head
as she helped Ada set the food on the small table.

“Aye. The master was near aside himself, he
was so gleeful.” Ada sniffed and muttered under her breath while
she poured mead into two cups. “He near drove me dafty with all his
questions. I lost track of how many times he asked when yer signs
started. I told him again and again! It was a month after ye
wed.”

“Knowing my sire, he will ask ye again later
to be sure ye say the same. Dinna change yer story.” Elyne took one
of the cups and handed it to Catalin. “Drink this, love. There is
nothing like warm mead to chase a chill away.”

Catalin cradled the cup close to her face and
sniffed the steam. Hannah handed her a scone, but she shook her
head. Her stomach would not welcome food now.

Hannah was so aware of her mistress’ feelings
that she went over to Catalin’s side of the bed and pulled out the
wooden bucket.

“Just in case you have need of it,” she said
and beckoned to Ada. They left the two young women alone.

As Catalin took the last swallow of mead,
they heard hooves clattering across the wooden drawbridge.

“Umm, Catalin, come look.” Elyne leaned out
the bedchamber window, the better to see the man sliding from his
lathered horse. “That handsome captain of the guards is below.”