Highland Captive (49 page)

Once
outside, Tormand swiftly moved into the lingering shadows of early dawn. He
leaned against the outside of the rough stone wall surrounding Clara’s house
and wondered where he should go. A small part of him wanted to just go home and
forget about it all, but he knew he would never heed it. Even if he had no real
affection for Clara, one reason their lively affair had so quickly died, he
could not simply forget that the woman had been brutally murdered. If he was
right in suspecting that someone had wanted him to be found next to the body
and be accused of Clara’s murder then he definitely could not simply forget the
whole thing.

Despite
that, Tormand decided the first place he would go was his house. He could still
smell the stench of death on his clothing. It might be just his imagination,
but he knew he needed a bath and clean clothes to help him forget that smell.
As he began his stealthy way home Tormand thought it was a real shame that a
bath could not also wash away the images of poor Clara’s butchered body.

“Are
ye certain ye ought to say anything to anybody?”

Tormand
nibbled on a thick piece of cheese as he studied his aging companion. Walter
Burns had been his squire for twelve years and had no inclination to be
anything more than a squire. His utter lack of ambition was why he had been
handed over to Tormand by the man who had knighted him at the tender age of
eighteen by the same. It had been a glorious battle and Walter had proven his
worth. The man had simply refused to be knighted. Fed up with his squire’s lack
of interest in the glory, the honors, and the responsibility that went with
knighthood Sir MacBain had sent the man to Tormand. Walter had continued to
prove his worth, his courage, and his contentment in remaining a lowly squire.
At the moment, however, the man was openly upset and his courage was a little
weak-kneed.

“I
need to find out who did this,” Tormand said and then sipped at his ale, hungry
and thirsty but partaking of both food and drink cautiously for his stomach was
still unsteady.

“Why?”
Walter sat down at Tormand’s right and poured himself some ale. “Ye got away
from it. ‘Tis near the middle of the day and no one has come here crying for
vengeance so I be thinking ye got away clean, aye? Why let anyone e’en ken ye
were near the woman? Are ye trying to put a rope about your neck? And, if I
recall rightly, ye didnae find much to like about the woman once your lust
dimmed so why fret o’er justice for her?”

“’Tis
sadly true that I didnae like her, but she didnae deserve to be butchered like
that.”

Walter
grimaced and idly scratched the ragged scar on his pockmarked left cheek. “True,
but I still say if ye let anyone ken ye were there ye are just asking for
trouble.”

“I
would like to think that verra few people would e’er believe I could do that to
a woman e’en if I was found lying in her blood, dagger in hand.”

“Of
course ye wouldnae do such as that, and most folk ken it, but that doesnae
always save a mon, does it? Ye dinnae ken everyone who has the power to cry ye
a murderer and hang ye and they dinnae ken ye. Then there are the ones who are
jealous of ye or your kinsmen and would like naught better than to strike out at
one of ye. Aye, look at your brother James. Any fool who kenned the mon would
have kenned he couldnae have killed his wife, but he still had to suffer years
marked as an outlaw and a woman-killer, aye?”

“I
kenned I kept ye about for a reason. Aye, t’was to raise my spirits when they
are low and to embolden me with hope and courage just when I need it the most.”

“Wheesht,
nay need to slap me with the sharp edge of your tongue. I but speak the truth
and one ye would be wise to nay ignore.”

Tormand
nodded carefully, wary of moving his still-aching head too much. “I dinnae
intend to ignore it. ‘Tis why I have decided to speak only to Simon.”

Walter
cursed softly and took a deep drink of ale. “Aye, a king’s mon nay less.”

“Aye,
and my friend.
And
a mon who worked hard to help James. He is a mon who
has a true skill at solving such puzzles and hunting down the guilty. This
isnae simply about justice for Clara. Someone wanted me to be blamed for her
murder, Walter. I was put beside her body to be found and accused of the crime.
And for such a crime I would be hanged so that means that someone wants me
dead.”

“Aye,
true enough. Nay just dead either, but your good name weel blackened.”

“Exactly.
So I have sent word to Simon asking him to come here, stressing an urgent need
to speak with him.”

Tormand
was pleased that he sounded far more confident of his decision than he felt. It
had taken him several hours to actually write and send the request for a
meeting to Simon. The voice in his head that told him to just turn his back on
the whole matter, the same opinion that Walter offered, had grown almost too
loud to ignore. Only the certainty that this had far more to do with him than
with Clara had given him the strength to silence that cowardly voice.

He
had the feeling that part of his stomach’s unsteadiness was due to a growing
fear that he was about to suffer as James had. It had taken his foster brother
three long years to prove his innocence and wash away the stain to his honor.
Three long, lonely years of running and hiding. Tormand dreaded the thought
that he might be pulled into the same ugly quagmire. If nothing else, he was
deeply concerned about how it would affect his mother who had already suffered
too much grief and worry over her children. First his sister Sorcha had been
beaten and raped, then his sister Gillyanne had been kidnapped—twice—the second
time leading to a forced marriage, and then there had been the trouble that had
sent James running for the shelter of the hills. His mother did not need to
suffer through yet another one of her children mired in danger.

“If
ye could find something the killer touched we could solve this puzzle right
quick,” said Walter.

Pulling
free of his dark thoughts about the possibility that his family was cursed,
Tormand frowned at his squire. “What are ye talking about?”

“Weel,
if ye had something the killer touched we could take it to the Ross witch.”

Tormand
had heard of the Ross witch. The woman lived in a tiny cottage several miles
outside of town. Although the townspeople had driven the woman away ten years
ago, many still journeyed to her cottage for help, mostly for the herbal
concoctions the woman made. Some claimed the woman had visions that had aided
them in solving some problem. Despite having grown up surrounded by people who
had special gifts like that, he doubted the woman was the miracle worker some
claimed her to be. Most of the time such
witches
were simply aging women
skilled with herbs and an ability to convince people that they had some great
mysterious power.

“And
why do ye think she could help if I brought her something touched by the
killer?” he asked.

“Because
she gets a vision of the truth when she touches something.” Walter absently
crossed himself as if he feared he risked his soul by even speaking of the
woman. “Old George, the steward for the Gillespie house, told me that Lady
Gillespie had some of her jewelry stolen. He said her ladyship took the box the
jewels had been taken from to the Ross witch and the moment the woman held the
box she had a vision about what had happened.”

When
Walter said no more, Tormand asked, “What did the vision tell the woman?”

“That
Lady Gillespie’s eldest son had taken the jewels. Crept into her ladyship’s
bedchamber whilst she was at court and helped himself to all the best pieces.”

“It
doesnae take a witch to ken that. Lady Gillespie’s eldest son is weel kenned to
spend too much coin on fine clothes, women, and the toss of the dice. Near
everyone—mon, woman, and bairn—in town kens that.” Tormand took a drink of ale
to help him resist the urge to grin at the look of annoyance on Walter’s homely
face. “Now I ken why the fool was banished to his grandfather’s keep far from
all the temptation here near the court.”

“Weel,
it wouldnae hurt to try. Seems a lad like ye ought to have more faith in such
things.”

“Oh,
I have ample faith in such things, enough to wish that ye wouldnae call the
woman a witch. That is a word that can give some woman blessed with a gift from
God a lot of trouble, deadly trouble.”

“Ah,
aye, aye, true enough. A gift from God, is it?”

“Do
ye really think the Devil would give a woman the gift to heal or to see the
truth or any other gift or skill that can be used to help people?”

“Nay,
of course he wouldnae. So why do ye doubt the Ross woman?”

“Because
there are too many women who are, at best, a wee bit skilled with herbs yet
claim such things as visions or the healing touch in order to empty some fool’s
purse. They are frauds and ofttimes what they do makes life far more difficult
for those women who have a true gift.”

Walter
frowned for a moment, obviously thinking that over, and then grunted his
agreement. “So ye willnae be trying to get any help from Mistress Ross?”

“Nay,
I am nay so desperate for such as that.”

“Oh,
I am nay sure I would refuse any help just now,” came a cool, hard voice from
the doorway of Tormand’s hall.

Tormand
looked toward the door and started to smile at Simon. The expression died a
swift death. Sir Simon Innes looked every inch the king’s man at the moment.
His face was pale and cold fury tightened its predatory lines. Tormand got the
sinking feeling that Simon already knew why he had sent for him. Worse, he
feared his friend had some suspicions about his guilt. That stung, but Tormand
decided to smother his sense of insult until he and Simon had at least talked.
The man was his friend and a strong believer in justice. He would listen before
he acted.

Nevertheless,
Tormand tensed with a growing alarm when Simon strode up to him. Every line of
the man’s tall, lean body was tense with fury. Out of the corner of his eye,
Tormand saw Walter tense and place his hand on his sword, revealing that
Tormand was not the only one who sensed danger. It was as he looked back at
Simon that Tormand realized the man clutched something in his hand.

A
heartbeat later, Simon tossed what he held onto the table in front of Tormand.
Tormand stared down at a heavy gold ring embellished with blood-red garnets.
Unable to believe what he was seeing, he looked at his hands, his unadorned
hands, and then looked back at the ring. His first thought was to wonder how he
could have left that room of death and not realized that he was no longer
wearing his ring. His second thought was that the point of Simon’s sword was
dangerously sharp as it rested against his jugular.

“Nay!
Dinnae kill him! He is innocent!”

Morainn
Ross blinked in surprise as she looked around her. She was at home sitting up
in her own bed, not in a great hall watching a man press a sword point against
the throat of another man. Ignoring the grumbling of her cats that had been
disturbed from their comfortable slumber by her outburst, she flopped back down
and stared up at the ceiling. It had only been a dream.

“Nay,
no dream,” she said after a moment of thought. “A vision.”

Thinking
about that a little longer she then nodded her head. It had definitely been a
vision. The man who had sat there with a sword at his throat was no stranger to
her. She had been seeing him in dreams and visions for months now. He had
smelled of death, was surrounded by it, yet there had never been any blood upon
his hands.

“Morainn?
Are ye weel?”

Morainn
looked toward the door to her small bedchamber and smiled at the young boy
standing there. Walin was only six but he was rapidly becoming very helpful. He
also worried about her a lot, but she supposed that was to be expected. Since
she had found him upon her threshold when he was the tender age of two she was
really the only parent he had ever known, had given him the only home he had
ever known. She just wished it were a better one. He was also old enough now to
understand that she was often called a witch as well as the danger that
appellation brought with it. Unfortunately, with his black hair and blue eyes,
he looked enough like her to have many believe he was her bastard child and
that caused its own problems for both of them.

“I
am fine, Walin,” she said and began to ease her way out of bed around all the
sleeping cats. “It must be verra late in the day.”

“’Tis
the middle of the day, but ye needed to sleep. Ye were verra late returning
from helping at that birthing.”

“Weel,
set something out on the table for us to eat then, I will join ye in a few
minutes.”

Dressed
and just finishing the braiding of her hair, Morainn joined Walin at the small
table set out in the main room of the cottage. Seeing the bread, cheese, and
apples upon the table, she smiled at Walin, acknowledging a job well done. She
poured them each a tankard of cider and then sat down on the little bench
facing his across the scarred wooden table.

“Did
ye have a bad dream?” Walin asked as he handed Morainn an apple to cut up for
him.