Authors: Patricia McAllister
Of them all, Merry felt the most helpless, though never more so when one of the guards from the gate found her late that afternoon in the Rose Tower. Stepping hesitantly across the threshold, the guardsman found her keeping her a silent vigil, and when Merry looked up and spied the folded parchment in his hands, she let out an inadvertent cry of hope. Had Ran heard they were looking for him? Was he coming home?
As if reading her mind, the burly guardsman quickly shook his head. “’Tis nae from Lord Lindsay, milady. ’Twas fired over the wall minutes ago, attached to an arrow. Nobody saw who did it. It has yer name on it.”
“Mine?” Uncertainly Merry rose from the velvet settee and accepted the heavy ivory-colored vellum. It was closed with a plain red wax seal. The words “Lady Lindsay” were roughly scrawled across the flap. Merry nodded to dismiss the guard, who hesitated slightly before he bowed and left. She had the terrible feeling it was not good news, another plea for help from Edzell, perhaps, but far more likely it concerned her missing husband.
Taking a deep breath, Merry slit the seal and unfolded the paper. The unevenly scrawled, black ink letters leaped off the page at her:
Lady Lindsay—If you want to see your husband again, come alone to Badanloch just before sunset. Tell no others.
The bluntly worded note was unsigned. Merry’s fingers trembled. What should she do? This clearly did not come from Elizabeth Tudor’s men. Someone else was involved with Ran’s disappearance. She realized she should alert the others, but the note had warned her not to tell anyone else. She was desperate now, worn from waiting, worrying. It might be a trick, but could she risk Ran’s life? She shook her head in reply to the fleeting thought. Nay. If she was ordered to go alone, she would do exactly that. There had been no mention of ransom, and maybe the responsible party wanted to lure her into their clutches as well. Even if Merry was taken prisoner, at least she would be with Ran. She must simply have faith she would not be hurt.
Most likely, someone wanted a bargaining ploy with the Lindsays. Macleans or Padons, probably. Ran would be forced to pay a hefty ransom, no doubt, but then would be set free. Merry could only hope the rebels reasoned the same way she did. If not, she and The Wolf of Badanloch might well never set foot in Auchmull again.
* * *
IT PROVED MORE DIFFICULT than Merry imagined not to confess her secret predicament to the others during the evening meal.
The curious guard had mentioned the strange note to others, but when Nell asked Merry about it, she lied and told the maid it had merely been a well-aimed taunt by a passing Maclean. It must have been consistent with the other clan’s behavior, for Nell asked no more about it.
Meanwhile, the frightening note burned a hole in the pocket of Merry’s gown. She had ordered supper early, so she might have time to prepare for a long journey to Badanloch. Not certain of her directions, she had casually mentioned the place earlier, and Hertha had chimed in with a bitter little laugh, saying that it was the same spot where Siany claimed to have met with her lover.
With more offhand questions to Nell, Merry learned the burn was nestled in a nearby wooded copse, about three miles or so from Auchmull. She would set out promptly after dinner. Each bite tasted like ashes in her mouth, but she knew she would need to keep up her strength for Ran’s sake. If the note was genuine, someone clever had managed to capture him off guard. It seemed very unlikely they had known of Ran’s exact whereabouts, unless they had an inside informant. It was a chilling thought.
After the meal, Merry escaped to Ran’s room and quickly exchanged her gown for a pair of his wool riding trousers and a plain white shirt. Both were too big for her small frame, but she rolled up the cuffs and sleeves and cinched the breeches snugly with a bit of corded hemp. Then she crept carefully down the hall to her own room, and added a pair of sturdy leather boots, a dark cloak, and gloves.
She felt like her bold sister Kat, donning men’s trews, and laughed at the irony of the circumstances. She had always been the proper one, scandalized by any unladylike actions or garb, and suddenly nothing mattered but Ran’s life. She felt icy resolve settle over her like a cloak. She would do what she must.
Merry knew the hardest part would be retrieving her mare from the stables, and distracting the Lindsay guard from their post of duty so she might ride out. Divine providence intervened that night, for one of the guards took ill from a stew made with tainted meat, and while Nell and the others scurried to tend the ill man, Merry was able to slip unseen from the keep and reach the stables without being questioned.
There she found the remaining mounts untended, for Brodie had already ridden out with the main body of Lindsay men, looking for Ran. Merry remembered her riding lessons at Ambergate and managed to secure the bit and bridle on her mare without incident. The saddle was more difficult, for although Orlaith was well trained, the three-year-old lacked the patience of an older horse.
After the first few attempts, Orlaith began side-stepping the irritated efforts of her mistress to heave the awkward saddle up on her back. Finally Merry managed to distract the horse and drop the saddle in place. Quickly she cinched the girth before Orlaith had second thoughts. The mare gave a disgusted snort, and nudged Merry’s shoulder as if to say, “Y’must needs practice this a bit, milady!”
Merry chuckled at the mare’s ire, realizing haste had made her clumsy. She paused to pat the sleek golden neck of her trusty mount, then quietly she led the mare out of the stables into the growing dusk. There was still one man on guard duty, but Merry saw him flirting with one of the young maids who was lingering by the gate. She watched and waited as the saucy minx finally lured the fellow from his post into the shadows behind the stables. The moment they disappeared, Merry dashed across the yard with Orlaith in tow, and there stopped to tug at the wheel mechanism. A moment later she closed her eyes in defeat. It was too heavy! She didn’t have the strength to raise the gate herself. She must risk ordering someone to do the deed, and pray he wouldn’t try to stop her.
A moment later, Merry heard a muffled hollering on the other side of the gate. One of the search parties who had ridden out earlier had just returned. Their leader sounded irritable.
“Damme,” she heard him curse. “Where’s Sullivan?”
“Prob’ly off porkin’ Agatha again,” sniggered another male voice.
“Sullivan! Get yer lazy arse up here!” bellowed the first man.
Merry managed to hide herself and Orlaith in the shadows near the well house just before the rumpled-looking guard hurried out from behind the stables and back to his post. Flustered, the young man hefted the gate up, his muscles bulging from the effort. He wasn’t paying attention to anything but the disgruntled party who rode through, and Merry seized opportunity to slip out just behind them. The leader of the party began berating the lackadaisical guard as the gate descended again. Soon their heated words were muffled by the solid thud of the wooden barricade hitting the ground.
Merry’s heart pounded furiously, and her mouth felt dry. Nevertheless, she managed to mount her horse, realizing too late she had forgotten to bring so much as a candle to light the way. She would be racing the sun’s fall in the snow. Judging by the dull reddish glow behind the gray clouds, she had little more than a half hour.
“Show me what you’re made of, girl,” she begged Orlaith, setting her heels to the mare’s sides. She turned the animal’s head in a northeasterly direction, remembering Hertha’s words. Orlaith lapsed into a smooth canter, Merry’s cloak flying behind her like dark wings. As they set out, she heard the distant rumble of thunder. Soon there might not only be darkness to contend with, but a storm as well.
The horse’s hooves were muffled by the thick carpet of undergrowth as she entered the forest’s edge. Quelling a pang of uncertainty, and fighting her own childish fears of the dark, Merry relentlessly pressed the mare for more speed. Something had unsettled Orlaith, as well, for the golden steed pranced and balked when Merry tried to urge her deeper into the cavernous gloom.
Merry brooked no disobedience from her mount. Ran was in danger, and that superseded any horse or human fancies. She slapped her palm smartly on the mare’s right flank, and with a snort of surrender, Orlaith plunged into the snow and shadows. Merry clung to the mare’s mane as they moved at a reckless pace through the woods. Childhood tales of evil trolls and woodland monsters rose to engulf her now; the ancient copse seemed alive with weird shadows and sounds.
“’Tis only the trees, Merry,” she rebuked herself as the mare raced deeper and deeper into the murk. “Only the trees.”
Time blended into one dark blur, punctuated only by the brief intrusion of nature when a mist drifted down through the canopy of firs. Merry was seized by a momentary panic when she saw the first tendrils of mist curling through the boughs above, as if bony fingers were reaching to pluck her from the saddle. She was seized by a sudden, violent shiver and was almost too panic-stricken to go on.
When Orlaith cleared a fallen log, nearly pitching her rider from the saddle, Merry was forced back to reality with a jarring thump. The mist inexplicably cleared, and she glimpsed a smoky orange glow ahead that appeared to be rising from a pool of water at the edge of the forest. She knew it must be Badanloch by Hertha’s description, and she drew the lathered mare to a halt. Her six senses were tingling, her scalp prickled with a nameless fear. There was no sign at all of other humans. Only the loch, glittering smooth and polished as a piece of black jet, utterly tranquil and yet somehow more frightening to her than all the dancing shadows of the woods.
Merry tried to imagine Siany and her lover sharing a romantic interlude here, but all she saw was the dark water sketched before her like some bottomless abyss, surrounded by the strange smoky mists. Merry’s palms dampened on the leather pommel. She remembered Nell’s stories of the Each Uisge, and shivered. Sensing her rider’s fear, Orlaith snorted and bobbed her head as if to say, “Aye, you little fool, ’tis dangerous. Let’s get out of here!”
Before she even considered fleeing, visions of Ran flashed before Merry’s closed lids, superseding the fear and uncertainty. Her husband was in danger. Only she could help him. She would wait. Sooner or later, whoever sent the note must come. She imagined they would hardly pass up the chance to make a passionate speech about their cause. What better opportunity than when they held the new Countess of Crawford as a captive audience?
Merry considered dismounting to stretch her cold, cramped muscles, but she was still far too wary. What if Orlaith should bolt and leave her here? She shuddered at the thought. She could think of a thousand places she’d rather be, even gloomy old Ireland.
Aye, Siany and the kelpies were welcome to Badanloch. Merry far preferred the comforting confines of Auchmull, and the man who had made it home for her. Ran. Her lips curved in a slight smile as she pictured his reaction to her actions in her mind. She knew he would be furious with her for riding out unescorted into such a dangerous situation. Probably he would lecture her about her flightiness, toss in terse comments about women in general, and then decide on an appropriate punishment. Later. If only it was in the privacy of their bedchamber.
While Merry mused and distracted herself, the wind suddenly shifted from the incoming storm, and she caught her first strong whiff of acrid smoke. Her eyes flew open; she realized the strange orange glow she had glimpsed earlier must be from a nearby campfire, and the smoke was drifting slowly in her direction now. Perhaps someone had been observing her all along.
She felt a sudden tingling on the back of her neck. Danger surrounded her like a dark cloak. Too late, Merry attempted to wheel her horse about. Several shadows shot from the dark woods like wraiths, and a burly hand shot out and seized Orlaith by the bridle. Merry cried out, drumming her heels uselessly into the mare’s sides. Horse and rider were pinioned fast.
She stared wide-eyed into a man’s face as he stepped forward into the shifting twilight. The flash of the silver badge fastened to his breccan was the first thing she saw.
Chapter Thirty-Four
AN ICY WIND GUSTED around the figures gathered in the clearing. The pale-haired man smiled crookedly at Merry.
“What a coincidence, milady,” Sir Jasper said, then released the mare’s bridle. Merry knew, however, she wasn’t free to go. There was no point in protesting when he reached up to lift her from the saddle, and though her knees wobbled when she stood, she managed with some effort to keep her head high.
“The queen has a number of questions for you,” was the first thought which came to her mind. Hurled from her lips, it sounded exactly like the angry warning it was meant to be.
Sir Jasper merely nodded. A green-and-black plaid breccan billowed around his shoulders, secured by a silver badge Merry had never dreamed might be in his possession. She recognized the tower decorating the badge. It was the Maclean emblem. The same one she had embroidered upon a wall hanging. Clad in a Maclean tartan, he straddled the earth as if he were in possession of the very soil itself. She glanced around at the others; his men all wore mock Maclean tartans. When Merry stared into those pale eyes, she saw they were every bit as flat and ominous as the waters of Badanloch.
“Robert the Bruce, I presume?” she said dryly.
Sir Jasper looked surprised, then laughed. His laughter was neither warm nor amused. It was but the satisfaction of a soulless man as he reflected back over a long day’s work.
“Tell me, Merry, why you don’t seem shocked to find me wearing Maclean colors.”
“Because it makes sense now. Cullen may be a scoundrel, but he is no murderer. Yet you find him handy for pinning your crimes upon.”
Sir Jasper smiled thinly. “Aye, Scots weasels do have their uses.”
“There was always something odd about Duncan’s death. Too convenient Cullen was in residence at the time. Of course, you assumed Ran would blame his old adversary.