Starcatcher, page 7
Hurrying to the door of her chamber, she pounded on the thick oak portal until her fists hurt, but no one answered.
With a screech of frustration, Marsali ran back to the window, scanning the growing crowd for her cousin Duncan, who acted as Gavin’s lieutenant and carried a set of keys to all the doors in the keep. In the courtyard, crofters were sinking to the ground, either with weariness or wounds—she couldn’t tell which. She heard children crying and their mothers trying to soothe them. She saw no sign of Duncan.
Marsali’s hands clenched where they rested on the windowsill. It was her place to be with her clansmen, nursing them if necessary and providing what reassurance she could. It was her duty. No punishment her father had levied against her should take precedence over it.
Marsali began pounding on the door again, and finally a key grated in the lock.
Breathless with relief, she stood back as it opened. She was shocked to find herself facing her father.
“The Sutherlands attacked the crofters near the Sutherland border,” he said grimly. “Four were killed, twelve other men and women wounded. And a child.”
“Are you sure they were Sutherlands?” she asked, regretting the question when she saw the rage that contorted his face.
“Aye, our people are sure.” His big hands shook, as if he wanted to strike something. “The raiders were wearing Sutherland plaids, and a woman heard one man call another Patrick. Spawn of the devil! To think I harbored that bastard and even considered—” He broke off, his jaw working. “You should have taken Sinclair,” he said. “This wouldna ha’ happened with the alliance. The Sutherlands wouldna ha’ dared.”
Marsali trembled under his violent glare. Finally, she forced herself to ask, “Where did Gavin go?”
“After the bastards,” her father said, his voice quaking with rage. “After the animals that killed our people.”
I don’t believe it. Marsali wanted to speak the words aloud, but she knew her father was convinced of the Sutherlands’ guilt, and nothing short of absolute proof would change his mind.
But doubt plagued her. She would not, could not, believe it of Patrick. But his father? She was not as certain.
“You are needed,” her father said stiffly.
She nodded. “I will fetch the herbs from the kitchen. Are the children …?”
“One is hurt, and several are missing. Quick Harry’s son was hit by a hoof,” her father said. “’Tis only by God’s will he was not killed. I pray he willna lose the use of his leg.” He turned without saying another word and started for the steps.
Marsali had to work hard to bank her own anger. The boy was only seven, the son of a man who had been given his name when he was a lad. The older Harry had won every footrace he had ever joined, and he had become the clan’s messenger. Everyone thought his son would be just as fast and would follow in his father’s footsteps.
“Father.” Marsali called after him.
He stopped at the top of the stairs but did not turn.
“What about Quick Harry?” she asked. “Is he all right?”
“He is missing,” her father said, casting an accusing glance over his shoulder. Then he turned away from her again.
The burden of guilt her father had levied upon her was almost more than she could bear. Patrick had not been involved, she told herself again and again, repeating the litany as she ran for the kitchen.
The wounded were crowded into the guardroom, where they were sheltered from the cold wind that swept the Highlands. A fire jumped high in the fireplace that stretched across the back wall of the room.
As Marsali moved among the injured, it was eerily quiet. Highlanders—even their women and children—prided themselves on endurance and courage. But pale faces looked at her in bewilderment, their gazes clouded with pain, and the fresh rushes on the floor were splattered with blood.
Marsali took in the scene, clutching her basket of herbs and fresh linens and giving Jeanie a grateful look when she appeared at her side carrying buckets of clean water. A quick survey of the wounded told her that the raiders had been on horseback, the defenders on foot, for most of the injuries were sword strokes to the arms and shoulders.
“See to Wee Harry first,” one of the wounded men said.
Marsali looked down at the man, hesitating. Unable to help herself, she asked the question that was pounding in her head. “You are sure it was Sutherlands? Did you know any of them?”
The man grimaced, supporting his injured arm with his good one as he straightened to sit against the wall. “They came too fast, lass,” he said. “I couldna recognize faces, but I knew the plaid.”
“Do you know Patrick Sutherland?”
“Aye,” a woman sitting next to the man replied. “I remember him well. I didna see him, though someone said his name was called.” She looked up at Marsali. “Why? Why would they do this? The cattle, mayhap. But burning us out? My cousin is married to a Sutherland.”
Marsali wanted to cry out that Patrick would not have done this, nor would he ever condone it. But did she know?
Heartsick, she made her way through the packed room to Wee Harry, stopping next to him.
“Ah, braw boy,” Marsali said gently as she examined the lad’s bloody left leg. A hoof had opened a long, jagged tear in his calf, but someone had tied it off and stopped the bleeding. The bone, however, was broken. Examining it carefully, she saw the boy wince and felt the pain as if it were her own. What kind of man could ride down a child like this?
The boy bit his lower lip until it bled but made no sound as she washed the wound, then sewed it closed. With his head cradled in his mother’s lap, he valiantly blinked back tears as Marsali bound a long piece of wood to his leg to hold it stiff and straight.
Marsali raised her gaze to meet his mother’s concern.
“Will he be able to walk again?” the woman asked.
“Aye,” Marsali said. “I think he will be as good as new. What of your other son?”
“My sister is caring for him. Her husband went lookin’ for Quick Harry.”
Marsali finished tying the splint, then took the other woman’s hands in hers. “Tell me what happened.”
Dazed, the woman shook her head. “They came from nowhere. At least twenty riders. They took the cattle, burned our cottages. Harry was in the fields an’ came runnin’, but they were gone. He took off after them on foot an’ didna come back.”
“Fa said they were Sutherlands.”
“Och, they were Sutherlands right enough,” the woman said bitterly. “I saw their plaids, but I didna recognize faces. They were painted. Mayhap when Quick Harry returns …” But her voice trailed off, her eyes misting with tears.
They both knew that chances of Harry’s returning were slim.
The despair assailing Marsali grew more intense. Her heart wept for the child who might have lost a father, for the woman who might have lost a husband, for Quick Harry, who had a ready smile as well as swift feet. She wanted to flail out at whoever had done this thing. At that moment, she understood her father’s rage at those who would hurt innocents. His people, who depended upon him for protection.
Had she been wrong to refuse Edward? Had it been a mistake—a terrible mistake—to trust Patrick?
As she went from one injured crofter to the next, her thoughts were in turmoil. Despite her efforts, a blood feud had begun. The bitter murmurings swirling around her were like the first rumbles of thunder before a storm. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.
What in holy hell had happened? Hiram rode into Abernie Keep, one of many entering the gates at this hour. Something was gravely wrong. In contrast to his arrival weeks ago, he saw no smiles and heard no laughter, nor did he receive any drunken greetings. Instead, he found a scene only too familiar. He recognized the words of vengeance. He recognized the hate.
Pulling his horse to a halt in front of the stable, he dismounted. He expected to be recognized. He wore the plaid of his own clan, one that bore no resemblance to the Sutherlands’, but he knew his very size made him memorable. Still, he did not think anyone would connect him with the disappearance of the earl’s younger daughter, especially as Marsali had taken the blame onto herself.
The stable lads were trying to handle too many horses coming in at once, so Hiram stabled his own horse. He cooled the animal, then fed him oats, listening to the snippets of conversation around him.
The things he heard sent his estimation of Patrick’s lady spiraling upward. Imprisoned in her chamber for nigh onto a month. Unbroken in her vow not to marry Edward Sinclair; nor would she reveal her sister’s whereabouts. Released to care for her wounded kinsmen, and doing a fine job of it at this very moment. A rare lass.
But he heard other things, too. Things that made his blood boil. The Sutherlands had raided cattle, burned homes. Killed several and wounded many, including a child named Wee Harry. Horses were being readied to chase “the craven scum.”
Giving his horse an absentminded pat, Hiram went to find Jeanie, hoping that she was not infected with the anger pervading the stables and courtyard. Moving cautiously now, he stopped a boy taking water inside and asked about Jeanie MacDougal.
“She is wi’ the wounded,” the boy said. “Along wi’ the lord’s daughter.”
“Will ye be telling her that there is someone to see her?”
“And who might tha’ be?”
“A mon who admires her,” Hiram said.
The boy snorted. “Then ye are in fer sorrow. Jeanie cares naught for romance.”
Hiram shrugged his shoulders. “Mayhap. Will ye be giving her the message?”
“Aye, but she will be busy awhile. Those cursed Sutherlands …”
“I see horses are being readied.”
“Aye. Lord Gavin left hours ago, and more go to join him.”
“If I had not been on a horse these past four days, I would go wi’ him myself,” Hiram replied.
“If I were older …” the boy started, then bit his lip and, remembering his errand, hurried inside the castle.
Hiram waited an hour, leaning against the wall beside the door the boy had entered. Fires dotted the yard inside the keep, and the walls above had double the usual number of guards. He watched the activity, wondering what Patrick would do when he heard the news, until, finally, Jeanie appeared in the doorway.
She stood, hands on her hips, her gaze searching the courtyard. When she spotted him, she hurried over to him, and he swept off his bonnet in an elaborate gesture. Marsali was his public excuse for returning to Abernie, but, in truth, he would have returned in any case. He wanted to see Jeanie again.
But neither the look she gave him nor the words she spoke were welcoming. “Go away,” she said. “Ye will only cause more trouble.”
“They are saying the Sutherlands burned out yer people. ’Tis not true,” he replied.
“They wore the plaid,” she said stubbornly. “They spoke the young lord’s name.”
“’Twas not Patrick. I swear it. He’s been doing everything he can to stay his father’s hand, which is not easy while yer laird spreads calumny about him.”
Jeanie eyed him warily until, finally, she grumbled, “The Gunn has been calling Gregor Sutherland a murderer to all that listen. That’s true enough.”
Hiram shifted on his feet. “Patrick sent me to see how his lady fares.”
“Hmph.” Jeanie frowned. “She is no’ eating well. Worryin’ herself to death, she is. I think now there will be even more pressure on her to marry the Sinclair. The Gunns canna fight the Sutherlands alone.”
“There is no way for her to escape?”
“She willna do that,” Jeanie said, “even if she could. She feels it might cause war.”
He shook his head. “I ken there is little to stop it now.”
“I will talk to her,” Jeanie said. “I will tell her ye came, but ye canna stay. It is much too dangerous.”
“Ye say she is locked in?”
“Aye.”
“Who has the key?”
“Duncan Gunn. He is a chieftain and second only to Gavin.”
“Can you get it from him?”
She looked askance at him. “Be ye daft? No, I canna. He keeps the keys on his person. Whoever takes her tray has to ask permission to be let into her room.”
Hiram did not push further. He had discovered what he needed to know—what Patrick needed to know.
“Ye must go now,” she said. “’Tis dangerous for Marsali. And for ye. Leave before the gates close for the night.”
Pleased that her worry was not for Marsali alone, he replied without thinking. “Aye, love.”
Her eyes widened, but she could not have been any more surprised than he that he had spoken so boldly. He had never been a lady’s man, nor quick with words, but it seemed as if he had known this lady forever.
Confusion clouded Jeanie’s eyes for a moment, then she backed away.
“Patrick wanted ye to tell his lass that her sister is safe in the Lowlands,” Hiram said as she retreated from him. “Well and happy, as I saw for myself.”
“I will tell her. Now go.”
She turned and nearly ran back into the keep. He watched her disappear inside the heavy door, her skirt swishing on well-formed hips.
Retrieving his horse from the stable, Hiram rode through the gates unhurriedly. Once out of sight of the guards manning the walls, he spurred his horse. Patrick was waiting, probably most impatiently, for his news. Och, but he hated being the one who had to deliver it.
Two days after the raid, Gunn clansmen were still streaming into Abernie.
Patrick pulled his bonnet far down on his forehead. Hoping his disguise was adequate, he walked through the gates amidst a crowd of men, women, and children seeking sanctuary. A new beard all but covered his face, and what it did not cover was caked with dirt. He had rubbed dye into his hair, turning it gray, and he walked as if with difficulty, using a cane. The plaid he wore bore the MacDougal colors. And he doubted that anyone would really want to take a long, close look at him anyway. He smelled none too sweet.
Taking in the scene in quick glances, he confirmed Hiram’s report. Controlled chaos overlaid by anger. Witnessing it, he could barely contain his anxiety. Hiram had wanted to come with him, but Patrick feared his friend’s presence would only increase the risk to all of them. Besides, he knew Abernie as well—perhaps better—than he knew his own home. He knew every nook and cranny, every hiding place, every escape, and he possessed a speed that Hiram did not. Grudgingly, Hiram had agreed to wait, with the three horses they had brought, in a wood a mile or so from the keep.
Shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other, Patrick limped through the courtyard. His back was bent, and he moved as if every step were an effort, though his bag was not heavy: It contained only two flagons of wine, a length of rope, and a plaid. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least not in appearance. No one could see that one of the flagons of wine was drugged.
He had to get Marsali out of here. Hiram had said she was being held prisoner on a diet of bread and water, and he feared it was only a matter of time before she would be forced into marriage with Edward Sinclair. At Brinaire, he could protect her, and her presence there would also protect his clan from a retaliatory Gunn attack. Her father would not deliberately endanger his daughter. Patrick did not believe his two aims were contradictory. He hoped Marsali would feel the same way and accept the logic of his reasoning.
He wondered if she believed the stories that he had participated in the raid. Surely, she could not. She had bared her heart to him. He knew what was in her soul, and he knew his dreams of her had not been based on illusion. The moment he had seen her again, he had understood that his life was entwined with hers.
Which was why he could no more have allowed her to remain imprisoned than he could have stopped breathing. And so he would take her from Abernie, willing or not.
He would much prefer to have her willing.
Patrick knew that his greatest problem was Marsali’s concern for her people. She might not be able to leave them in their time of need. Nor would she want to leave her father and brother, he was certain, when they needed her. He respected her loyalty. But he simply could not allow it to override what he believed to be common sense.
He would worry about making his apologies later, when she was safe.
Similarly shoved aside were worries about his father’s reaction to his bringing home a Gunn bride. At least, he thought, his father could not actually throw him out. Beset with gout and unable to sit a horse for more than a few hours at a time, the Sutherland needed his eldest son.
Patrick made his way to a corner of the keep and slipped into the shadows, pulling the bonnet lower over his eyes. Gavin was the one person who would probably recognize him despite any disguise: They had lived together, played together, and trained together for nearly eight years. His best friend, who now considered him an enemy.
As darkness fell, the gates were closed. He was trapped now, unless he could obtain the keys: the one to Marsali’s room and the one to the cistern that ran underneath the castle floors. He would have to find Duncan Gunn.
Patrick remembered Marsali’s cousin. Built like a tree trunk, Abernie’s second-in-command was about two decades older than he was, but Patrick was certain Duncan would still be able to swing a sword with the best of them. Though he was a kind man, Duncan was also battle-wise, cautious, and fast. His room, Patrick recalled, was located near the armory. All he had to do, Patrick thought wryly, was get inside, outwit the guards, break in to Duncan’s room, and find the keys—all without being detected. And then kidnap Marsali.
The sound of horsemen brought his gaze flashing upward. From under his bonnet, he saw Gavin and several other men riding in through the postern. Settling back farther into the shadows, he watched and listened as the riders wearily dismounted and left their horses to the stablehands.
The arrivals reported no sign of the raiders, nor of Quick Harry, who apparently was missing. Patrick cursed silently, hearing that Gavin and his party had picked up some Sutherland cattle in exchange for the ones that had been stolen. The theft would prompt his father to act. Where in the devil would it all end?
