The Scotsman (32 page)

Of course, they would want vengeance for the vile depredation her father had visited upon Kinnison, shaming the garrison that was intended to protect it. Yet in war, even she knew that villages were often left defenseless when the castle closed its gates to invaders. It was one of the most horrifying aspects of the constant conflicts.

And it had gone on so long … would it never end? Now there was to be more war, another great battle fought, and yet she thought with sinking despair that it would not end the strife either. The brutal reality of war had been brought home to her with sickening clarity when she had seen the ruined village and shattered lives. Nothing had been the same since. People who had been cordial to her before, even friendly, looked at her now as if she were the devil’s handmaiden. Even Tarn avoided her. His brother had been one of the men slain in the assault on Kinnison.

The men in the hall began to celebrate, singing loudly, while the pipers were brought in to play deafening ballads, rousing tunes that stirred the blood. Alex leaned close to her when she winced at a particularly shrill tune, and murmured that it lent men courage to hear of heroes.

“No doubt, but ’tis my thought that the wine lends them more than a fair share of that unwise bravery.” She’d spoken tartly, and his brow rose as he studied her.

“Does the knowledge that we go to fight the English so distress you, Lady Catherine?”

Lady Catherine
… his usage of her proper name meant he was displeased, and she sighed. How could she
possibly tell him that it was not so much the thought of his fighting her own countrymen that distressed her, but the thought of his being wounded or killed? Nay, she could not. To admit such a thing when he had spoken no words of love would leave her open to him, and she could not. Looking away, she shook her head.

“Nay, ’tis the knowledge that this war is yet dragging on that distresses me. Does it surprise you? I have yet to meet a woman who appreciates war, yet men rush out to embrace death with an alacrity that still astonishes me.”

An amused smile touched the corners of his mouth, as she had meant it to. He regarded her view of war as quaint and very female. He placed a hand atop hers where it lay on the table, and pressed lightly.

“You have a tender heart, catkin, as do most women. It is not fitting that such gentle natures enjoy war.”

She held her tongue, though she wanted to tell him quite sharply that it was even less fitting for women to watch the men they loved ride off with such witless enthusiasm to slaughter one another. But she had engaged in these conversations before with Nicholas, and knew the futility of attempting to dissuade men from the notion that war was great sport. Even when they endured losses, such as the devastating ruin of Kinnison, their only thought was to go out and visit such loss on others. It baffled her, and not for the first time she thought that surely she must have been meant to spend her days in a nunnery rather than the brutal reality of the secular world.

And yet … and yet, there was the constant whisper in the back of her mind that reminded her of how it felt when Alex touched her, when his lips met hers and he filled her world with all that was so precious to her.…

Tilting her head to one side, she looked up at him and smiled, unwilling to concede but more unwilling to disagree.

The harsh jangle of pipes and lute clashed, and men roared loudly with battle song and drink, and yet she could think only of this one man, this beautiful, brutal man with the scarred face and clear eyes like polished silver. And she knew then that she was truly lost.

The music finished with a flourish, and the piper stood breathless and red-faced from his exertions, waiting for the laird to indicate his appreciation. Alex turned his attention to him, and made a comment in Gaelic that must have pleased the piper, for he grinned broadly and nodded. The hall had grown more noisy than usual with the celebration, exceeding even the tumult of the Christmas festivity, and Catherine heard shouts of laughter rise above the chaos.

A feminine voice rose even higher to cut through the clamor, and she turned curiously. Coming through the crowd was a young woman who looked vaguely familiar to her. She had seen her before, but could not quite place where. It was a teasing memory … but when the young woman drew near the dais and called out to Alex in a tortured voice, it came to Catherine where she had seen that face and dark hair, and she tensed. In Kinnison, kneeling beside the body of her dead son, this young woman had cried loudly in her grief.

Alex rose to his feet and spoke sharply in their native tongue to the young woman. She answered him just as sharply, and with a trembling arm, pointed an accusing finger at Catherine. A spate of words flowed from her, among them a Gaelic term,
a’mhuirt
. Catherine knew what that meant, for it had been directed at her before, and Robbie had always quickly remonstrated with those who said it. He had translated it for her when she demanded to know what was being said.

Murder
…
murderer
.…

Blood drained from Catherine’s face and she sat stiff
and still as the young woman railed and wept, huge choking sobs that sounded as if they had been torn from her very soul. The hall had grown quiet except for the shrieks of the grieving mother, and Catherine felt hostile gazes bent in her direction from those watching and listening. Frozen, she tried to ignore them, tried to have compassion for the young mother, for in truth, she understood her grief.

These people would never believe that, would never believe that she had grieved for all the dead and the futility of their fates.

Again, Alex spoke sharply, and this time he beckoned someone forward who came to the mother’s side to take her arm. It was an older man who tried to draw her away, but the woman pulled free and lunged at the table, throwing herself at Catherine. Her open mouth was spewing Gaelic venom, spittle flying over Catherine’s hands.

Shocked, she did not retreat, but stared into the wet, red-rimmed eyes so close to her own. Not long ago, she had been very pretty, dark-haired and lively, with brown eyes that flirted with Alex, but now her face was thin and wan and ravaged with grief. Catherine thought of her as she had looked then, and wanted to weep as well.

Soldiers rushed forward at Alex’s command, and took the woman by the arms, although not unkindly. They pulled her from the table and the dais. Then the older man took her again, and tears tracked his face. Sobbing, the girl collapsed in his arms as if suddenly boneless and allowed him to prop her against him. As he led her away, she looked up again at Catherine, and though she did not understand the words, she certainly understood the deadly threat in them.

Another harsh word from Alex, and finally she ceased her torrent of hate and rage, slumping into the man’s
embrace as they left the hall. People moved aside silently to allow them to pass, and Catherine could feel the censure directed at her, the hatred and resentment and something else: a sense of danger. In only a few hours’ time, her father had managed to undo all the progress she had made in four months. Never would these people accept her, even if Alex did.

Unable to look up at him, she sat stiffly in her seat and stared at the ruined table, feeling the world move around her in a haze of jumbled impressions. Alex spoke to her, taking her hand in his and lifting her to her feet; faces stared at her as he walked her from the dais through the hall and to the winding staircase that led up to peace and seclusion … torches burned in holders on the wall and spit sparks that singed her clothing and burned her bare skin, the vivid scent of wax candles permeated it all and then Alex spoke gently to her though his words were a low incomprehensible blur.

Something clogged her throat, and she could not answer or make any sound, even when he gripped her hands tightly. His face swam into view, but was blurred by something wet that puzzled her until she realized it was her own tears.

Slowly, she put up a hand to touch his cheek, her fingers tracing the familiar, beloved line of the scar that curved from his brow to his mouth, and then she leaned forward to press her face against his chest and weep. Never had she wept like she did now, harsh racking sobs that shook her until she could not breathe, rattled her entire frame with paroxysms of grief so brutal she could not stop. She wept with all the abandoned surrender of a child, yielding herself to raw emotion and uncomplicated sorrow.

And through it all she was aware of Alex Fraser holding
her against him, cradling her in his arms as if she were indeed just a child, rocking her back and forth as no one had done since she was still in the nursery. It was purging and liberating. It was the moment she finally knew that he loved her.

“Take her with us?” Robbie stared at him as if he had gone mad. “We go to fight, Alex, not tat lace.”

“Christ above, do you think I do not know that?” His fierce retort silenced Robbie, and he drew in a deep breath to calm his temper. “I cannot leave her here. You heard Siusan. If I leave Catherine behind, she will be dead before Kinnison is out of our sight.”

“Och, Alex, idle threats from a grieving mother.” But Robbie stirred uneasily, and frowned as he stared across the hall. A fire burned in the hearth, and a dog barked lazily.

“Nay, Robbie, you know better than that. Mairi poisoned Siusan’s mind against Catherine even before Warfield’s attack on Kinnison. That only sealed it. Did you look at those faces, Robbie? Not a man there that did not agree with every word Siusan said, every blame she laid at Catherine’s feet. It was as if ’twas not Warfield who burned and sacked the village, but Catherine herself.”

To his surprise, Robbie agreed. “Aye, you are right, I
fear. She is in danger if we leave her behind, and I cannot guarantee any man here would protect her. But what the devil will we do with her on a cursed battlefield?”

“Bruce is camped in Torwood Forest. Not far from there is a hamlet where she can stay. It should be safe enough for a time, with all the surrounding area save Stirling now in our hands.”

A gleeful smile broke across Robbie’s face, one of the few genuine smiles since Warfield’s assault, and he shook his head. “Aye, with Roxburgh and Edinburgh Castle both taken, the English hold is weak. Does Black Douglas know Moray matched his feat so well?”

Alex grinned. “He does. It was a stroke of brilliance that yielded Moray the fall of Edinburgh Castle.”

“And men adept at climbing sheer stone walls, I vow.” Robbie laughed softly. “I wish I had been there to see the pride of Edinburgh captured by a band of thirty Scots. It must have been humbling for the English.”

“The real humility will come soon, when we take back our country from them.” Alex’s grin faded, and he thought of the odds against it. They could not lose now, not after all that had brought them this far. Too much had been risked and too much lost. He thought then of Jamie, and of his children who had not been allowed to choose their fates either.

The loss of the last still grieved him sorely, but their deaths had been avenged.

Warfield keep was too well fortified, but not the outlying villages that belonged to it, and he had ravaged them with a thorough viciousness that rivaled the earl’s brutality. It sickened him when he thought of the misery and death he had inflicted, and the open screaming mouths of terrified children as they fled the swords and burning brands. None had he slain, nor the women, remembering only too well his own dead. But the men who stood to
fight were cut down with ruthless efficiency, all but the one man he wanted most: Robert Worth, Earl of War-field.

When Warfield was plundered, he moved to harry Devlin’s estates with the same merciless intensity, burning fields and storehouses, firing villages, killing the men who defied him. Though soldiers garrisoned Devlin’s keep, the baron was not there. He had pulled down the fortress and left it a pile of smoking rubble for Devlin to find when he returned. It gave him small satisfaction, though it did not ease the vengeance that burned in him.

And his dead children were still dead.…

Curling his hand into a fist, Alex raked it across his jaw and looked up at Robbie again. “We leave on the morrow. See that all is in readiness.”

“And the lady?”

“I go now to tell her to make ready.”

Robbie nodded, and Alex moved toward the staircase. It would not be easy taking her with him, but he dared not risk leaving her behind. Not only would she be in danger from Siusan or others at Castle Rock or Kinnison, but if Warfield or Devlin learned that she had been left virtually undefended in a castle with only a small garrison, he would be risking Jamie as well.

It was a miracle that Jamie and de Brus were still alive and in Warfield keep, for he had been certain they would either be dead or delivered to King Edward by now. Yet word had come from de Brus that they still lived, urging him to come to terms with the earl as soon as possible. The message had been delivered by one of Devlin’s men, another amazement. Perhaps there was truth to the rumor that there had been disagreement between the earl and his heir, and they were at odds. If so, it explained why they had not yet banded together against him.