The Chieftain's Feud (2 page)

His sword slid back to its place by his side without a sound. Unwrapping his fingers frae its hilt, Jamie’s arm dropped to his side as he watched—aching, silent. The only loud noise came from inside him, the thud of his heart against his breastbone, beating inside his ears. He glanced down, almost surprised as his hands formed fists, bunched tightly the way one did against pain … or to compress into a hard kernel the frightening notion that it might be better this way.

Mayhap her father had the right of it. Jamie Ruthven wasnae good enough for such a bonnie bright lass, didnae deserve such a gift.

Hadron hurried Eve away, hand on her elbow urging haste, their backs to him. Only Buchan spared him another glance, leaving him with the taunting memory of the expression in her father’s eyes that said, ‘I’m no’ finished with ye, Jamie Ruthven.’

Jamie was never going to come for her, come here and fetch her away. As usual her heart sank, for why would he when it had been naught but lies? Her father had tricked Jamie Ruthven, aye and her along with him.

Evangeline Buchan struggled into an auld sheepskin jerkin belonging to one of her brothers; it covered her frae neck to knee, to the top of the boots another brother had worn as a boy. Under it she wore silk next to her skin and worsted o’er it for warmth, and had added a fur-lined short coat her father had broken out and provided so that that she might wear it at court—all for show. Providentially, this was one of the times her father’s meanness worked to Eve’s advantage. Buchan had always been sweered to part with anything, a born miser except when it came to the king and using his wealth to gain advancement.

Now his ambition was like to kill her.

She tugged a dark knitted bonnet down o’er her ears and tucked her hair under its edges to make sure the moonlight didn’t shine on its brightness, giving her away as she made her escape.

Softly, she opened a small door that led to the upper Bailey, her hand filling the gap betwixt the handle and the door, hitching it higher to make sure the bottom corner didn’t scrape on the flagstones, since no one had seen fit to mend the hinge that made its weight sag.

A quick peep and she was off, running for her life and holding up the plaid o’er her arm to make sure it didnae trip her up. The cobbles were dangerous enough since a frost lay o’er all, making them slippery. The stables were warm in comparison to the night air. A temptation to linger there swamped her, nae matter that there was a strong scent of their steeds and the inevitable puddles of horse piss and piles of droppings—a temptation that could be excused since it was freezing outside, icy; but it wasnae like she had any choice in the matter even if her stomach churned at her boldness.

I
t wasnae only her life at stake this night.

Three lives counted on her flight. Aye three, if she counted Jamie Ruthven.

Her father’s and brothers’ mounts were given the best stalls, the best feed; however, she had snuck out earlier and given her palfrey, Mirabelle, a bucket of oats without anyone being any the wiser of her visit to the wee stall at the far end of the stables. She had thought long and hard about ways of hindering her brothers and father but had abandoned them, even though the three of them had conspired to rip her away frae Jamie with falsehoods. On the morning her father and Hadron took her away frae Dunfermline, they had made her fear for her brothers’ lives, and all the while John and Callum had sat snug at home in her father’s Keep, unaware that they too had been used.

She hadnae believed the Buchan quarrel with Ruthven ran so deep, hatred ingrained. It was indeed more than a quarrel; it was a feud that had parted her and her lover, her man.

Mirabelle’s restlessness came as nae surprise, unaccustomed as she was to being saddled up at midnight, or to being ridden at all of late. Her father hadn’t been backward about informing her he didnae trust her not to run away. If only he knew… It was now or never.

It was the knowing that she could nae longer disguise her growing belly beneath the folds of her plaid that had made her situation imperative. Every time she sat at the board in her father’s company, she ate large amounts to explain her extra weight. It had been little bother to share a fair portion of her food with the dog that lay at her feet, but the time had come when she could nae longer be sure of fooling him, of fooling her maid—though Gillian at least made a pretence of ignoring the expansion of the waist under her kirtle. Leaving her flight o’er late would bring her father’s wrath down on the only friend left to her in this cold loveless Keep.

It had been different when her mother was alive, though she had heard tales of her father storming out of the Keep when he couldnae get his own way. And the brothers that she had left Jamie for were of nae use, both lads being proud to follow in their father’s footsteps with hardly a thought for her feelings, though she had rushed to their sides when believing them to be at death’s door.

Wrapping her plaid around her frae nose to hip, she mounted Mirabelle, speaking softly to the nervous beast, all the while wishing she had Jamie’s way with horses. Seated in the saddle at last, she aimed Mirabelle’s nose at the side gate and headed out through a site used as a midden for the Keep’s rubbish, including frae the stables. Gillian was already there waiting to let her through and close the gate behind her.

She could hear the lass crying, snuffling into her plaid to hide her sobs. “Whist now,” Eve whispered. “Go back to yer bed in the kitchen and quit yer crying. It will give us away. Come spring I’ll find a way to bring ye to me, my word on that, Gillian. This is my only chance and I have to take it. Now shut the gate after me and sneak back inside while they are still all the worse for drink frae celebrating the fetching of the Yule log into the hall.”

“I’m afaird for ye Mistress, so I am.”

“Well I cannae afford to be afraid. I must be on my way to Cragenlaw, for I heard my uncle laughing about all the McArthur allies meeting there, and Jamie’s sister Iseabel is married to Graeme McArthur. I’m certain he’ll be with them.”

She brought round Mirabelle’s head, kicking her heels into the palfrey’s flanks, for she couldnae afford to hang around the gate. However, Gillian wasnae done, “I heard it might snow,” she warned.

“I’m not worried. Look up. Did ye ever see such a bonnie starlit night. I’ll be well away and nearing Cragenlaw by morning,” she told her, filling her words with a confidence she didnae truly feel. But what alternative did she have?

There was nae way her father would allow a Ruthven bairn to live in his Keep.

Jamie felt it strange to be back at Cragenlaw again, staying within the wall of the castle where most of his boyhood had been spent. It was here as a lad he had learned the necessary skills of a warrior, those that would eventually shape his measure as Chieftain. It was to be hoped those skills helped him live up to his father, as well as his friend Rob’s father, the McArthur.

Aye, Euan McArthur had taught him well, but it was the other skills a man should ken that had got him into trouble, and all that strife could be laid at his deceiving lover Brodwyn’s door. God’s blood, he could hardly bear to think her name. It was as if the mere thought of it would pull down a curse on his head.

So far the curse was winning.

According to his father, head of the Ruthven clan, if Jamie didn’t mend his conduct, his way of acting the man was more likely to see him killed than any battlefield. His father had this habit of speaking as if his pronouncements were hung with lashings of gold and silver, and when younger, Jamie had always believed they were assertions that it would be perilous to question. Still did, as if Ruthven may be right and the lassies would be the death of him, though his last encounter had persuaded him to change his ways and turn his energies to more profitable pursuits.

Having lasted almost twenty-two years without serious harm to his person if not his ego, after Eve’s choice had made it clear he had been wrong about her, he resolved to stay away frae court and women. Twice he had been caught in the toils of women with hair like fire and hearts like ice. Jamie had learned his lesson and wasnae foolish enough to let it happen a third time. Aye none dared cast up to him that he had been aught other than faithful since Eve left him, whether frae love or self-preservation he couldnae be certain.

Nary a living soul apart frae the people involved, and the Ruthven, were aware of what had occurred that fateful day. He hadnae even told his friends how she had turned her back on him and gone off with her father and his brother. He had reluctantly confessed the whole to his father, who had simply said it served him right for meddling with a Buchan.

Riding out frae Cragenlaw this afternoon with Rob McArthur and wee Nhaimeth had felt like times past. Wherever Rob went, so too did Nhaimeth, never letting his short stature prevent him taking part in their training or their amusements. It mattered not that Nhaimeth had been born a dwarf. Jamie could attest that his wee friend was more a man than many he had met. They had been a rowdy trio in yon days, and still were upon occasion, though they didnae get together as often now.

However, they were all unusually placid today because there was a pinch of something in the air that made the three of them save their breath. A warning that any word leaving their mouths was likely to be snapped off in the icy wind.

At least now they were on the return journey of their wee venture into the forest at the behest of the ladies at the castle. The quest made nae difference to him personally. The wives however had decided that the hall wouldnae be ready for Yule without a kissing bough and had demanded that the McArthur send the lads out in search of mistletoe—an easy mission until they left the canopy of the trees and discovered the lowering skies had dropped snowflakes galore betwixt them and the castle. Now the wind had risen, silently swooping and burling down on them, bringing with it what felt like the ghosts of the dead buried upon the brae below the forest—unusually eerie, but with nae explanation.

Aye, chance would be a fine thing if Jamie could lay blame for the strangeness prickling the hairs at the back of his neck on the weather. And more, something worse, a sensation that made his thumbs prick as if in warning. A caution he was trying his best to ignore, to pretend the afternoon only felt disturbingly quiet in comparison to the noise and clatter of the castle. At this season, every inch of space within Cragenlaw’s granite walls rang with sounds—axes splitting wood, the rumble of ale barrels rolled into the hall, and the satisfying crackle of wild boar as it slowly revolved o’er the fire. There was naught like the delicious smell of roasting meat mingling with the scent of spiced loaves and the sweetmeats the ladies liked—aromas that gave emphasis to the approach of Yuletide, the natural progression of the seasons in Scotland’s nor’east and, of the four, the winter equinox clung closest to the memories of his heart.

This afternoon, though, felt o’er quiet, in a fashion that meant even Faraday’s big clomping hooves were muffled by drifts of snow lying deep, a white blanket reaching higher than his mount’s knees.

Rob McArthur’s big black fared little better; it made nae difference that the stallion stood at least two hands taller than Faraday. And poor wee Nhaimeth…

Jamie had to admit the dwarf was as plucky as they came. Nhaimeth had definitely experienced the worst the afternoon could throw at them. His wee pony plunged through the drifts as high as its belly after they left the forest and Rob yelled out to him, “Some of yon drifts will be o’er yer head,” and, as his first words melted into the snow, warned with, “Dinnae wander off the trail.”

Pointing their mounts towards the narrow causeway leading to Cragenlaw’s exposed perch, high on cliffs that towered above the northern sea, Jamie caught only a wee snatch of the final words Rob shouted at Nhaimeth. “Keep yon wee beast to the tracks made by Diabhal and Faraday.” Then he laughed, a sound Jamie couldnae hear, only appreciate by looking at Rob’s face as, like the rest of them, he had happed up, his plaid wound up past his chin.

As usual, the wee man took his discomfort with a grin that Jamie felt would have become a belly laugh if only Nhaimeth were able to see for himself. Frae Faraday’s back, Nhaimeth appeared to sail through the snow, like a boat beating afore the wind. Their laughter didnae last long in freezing conditions that caught at it the back of their throats. Even the sight of the huge bunch of mistletoe Nhaimeth had tied to his saddle could raise nae more than a smile. Not even a rueful one. Little did Nhaimeth realise that the bundle of greyish-green leaves bouncing atop his pony’s rump would leave few, if any berries by the time the castle rose afore them.

Fortunately, the mistletoe Jamie and Rob had fastened behind them suffered less abuse on the bigger mounts, having less need to force the pace. Hopefully the lasses gathered at Cragenlaw would be satisfied with their share of the offering.

Naturally, the aulder men gathered at the castle couldnae care less—his father included—but then Ruthven nae longer had a wife to consider. Jamie’s mother hadnae lived past her only son’s seventh year, leaving him to his sisters’ tender mercies. Thoughts of kissing boughs were unlikely to trouble his father’s mind since he hadnae looked at another woman since the loss of their mother and wouldnae unless aught happened to Jamie and he needed another heir.

Socialising was but a part of the reason for the their visit to Cragenlaw—a pretext for a meeting of three chieftains and a Sept leader. To all outward appearances, their purpose for being at Cragenlaw could be seen as festive. Those in on the secret were well aware the visit had more to do with long held alliances, strong and unbreakable through their shared histories. Now, they devised plans and preparations to ward against any Normans intent on taking leave of the borderlands, casting their greedy eyes on the north.

It was Jamie’s sister Iseabel who had begun the lament for the white Druid berries, surprisingly aided and abetted by Rob’s mother, Morag. Surprising, for Jamie had seen for himself that she had nae need to coax kisses frae the McArthur. Nor had Kathryn, wife to Rob’s uncle Gavyn, yet she had flung her might behind the notion. That’s not to say Jamie was envious. As far as he was concerned, too many kisses led to naught but trouble, and mistletoe as a temptation for stolen kisses was best avoided—a sentiment that would most likely be tinged with a certain irony for Jamie’s fair-weather friends at court. The day had long syne past when he had felt the need of a sprig of mistletoe to steal a kiss frae any lass.