Western Scotland,
Friday, October 13th
Morag MacKellar shivered at the rattle of the wind against the shutters and tugged her shawl about her shoulders.
“I fear you’ll be blown clear across the glen, horse an’ all,” she said, watching her brother fasten his sword about his hips. The lightness in her voice belied the weight of dread that sat like a lump of clay in her belly. Those she loved kept leaving Castle Cathan, and some of them had never returned. “Maybe you should delay your departure a wee while, Ru. See if the weather settles. I’m sure Alastair MacAulay will understand.”
Sword in place, Ruaidri MacKellar shook his head and reached for his green, fur-lined cloak that had been tossed over the back of a chair. “The ceremony is set for Sunday, Morag. Alastair MacAulay is to meet me at the bothy tonight. There’ll be no delay, especially for a wee bit of a breeze.”
“A wee bit?” Morag glanced at the shuttered window. “Are you deaf? Do you no’ hear it?”
“I hear it.” Her brother settled his cloak around him and fastened its heavy, silver pin at his left shoulder. “Sounds worse than it is, no doubt. You can badger me all you like. It’ll no’ make any difference.”
A burning tallow hissed and snapped, startling Morag. She cursed her stretched nerves and rocked on her heels. “You’ve no’ seen the lass since she was a wee thing,” she said, conjuring up an unlikely image of her brother’s future bride. “What if she has a face like a pig’s arse? Will you still wed her?”
“Her name is Elspeth, and MacAulay assures me she’s bonny to look upon.” Ruaidri lifted a canvas saddlebag from the same chair. “But the answer is aye, I’ll take her to wife, face like a pig’s arse or otherwise. I’m no’ wedding her for her looks, but to strengthen the alliance ’tween our two clans.”
Morag snorted. “’Tis a lacklustre reason to wed.”
Ruaidri sighed. “You ken fine well how things are. ’Tis a way of keeping the wolves from our gates.”
“Or maybe you are inviting them in, no?”
He cast her a stern glance. “That’ll do.”
“Sorry.” Morag wrinkled her nose. “But I dinnae quite trust Alastair MacAulay. His eyes are set too close together, for one thing.”
“Which means naught at all, you bampot. The man is a bit of a wily bastard, aye, but he wants this alliance as much as I do. More, yet.”
Something in her brother’s voice didn’t quite ring true. Morag tilted her head and regarded him. He looked tired, she thought. Burdened. Or perhaps the shadows, cast by firelight, gave that impression.
“Still, you must wonder if your future bride is bonny or no’.” A sudden rush of emotion caught her by surprise. “I hope she’s bonny, Ru, both in looks and character. I really do. You deserve a bonny lass.”
“She’ll be well suited, I’m sure.” Ruaidri smiled and tugged on one of Morag’s copper braids. “I have to go. Will you come and bid me Godspeed?”
Morag shifted her gaze to the flames, trying to shrug off the persistent sense of foreboding that troubled her. The lump of fear still sat in the pit of her stomach, but she could find no reason for its presence.
“Please take me with you.” She blinked away a prickle of tears as she turned back to him. “I promise I’ll no’ get in the way.”
“We’ve been through this, and my answer is the same,” Ruaidri replied, his voice firm. “Besides, you’re needed here. And in truth, you made a good point about the weather. ’Tis nae the season for traipsing around the mountains, and I can do without having my wee sister to worry about. I’ll be back in a few days, I promise.”
Morag pouted. “’Tis nae fair,” she said, not caring about the petulant whine in her voice. “I’m your sister. I should be present when you marry. As should others in our clan.”
“We’ll have another celebration when I return. You can arrange it while I’m away.” Ruaidri hoisted the bag over his shoulder and held out a hand. “Enough griping. It doesnae suit you. Come and see me off.”
Perched on a jagged promontory overlooking the Sea of the Hebrides, the castle walls of Castle Cathan were rarely free of the wind. On this damp and chilly October morning, it hurtled in from the northwest, snatching at Morag’s skirts and nipping at her cheeks as she stepped into the courtyard. The smell of rain wrapped around her, and she glanced inland, where Ruaidri’s direction lay. In the murky light of dawn, the distant mountains appeared grey. Colourless.
Ominous.
Morag tried to reason with herself, but the inexplicable sense of fear still sat in her belly. Ruaidri, however, apparently paid little regard to the dismal conditions. He strode past Morag and headed for the castle gate where Goliath, his handsome bay gelding, stood saddled and ready.
“The sky is sagging with rain and about to burst.” Morag ran to keep up with him. “’Tis folly to travel the mountain pass alone in such weather. What if you get into trouble?”
“I could travel the pass blindfolded, rain or not. Besides, I told you, Alastair MacAulay is supposed to meet me halfway, and he’s also providing the escort for our return.” Ruaidri turned and grasped Morag gently by her arms. “Cease your worrying. I’ll be fine, I swear it. Just keep an eye on things for me while I’m away. And make sure the place is ready for Elspeth’s arrival. I’ll leave you in charge.”
Morag huffed. “Tell Duncan that, will you? He’ll be ordering me and every other poor lackey about afore you even reach the end of the causeway.”
Ruaidri chuckled and released her. “Dinnae give the man a hard time. He means well. And speaking o’ the Devil...”
Morag glanced over her shoulder to see Duncan, the clan steward, scurrying across the courtyard, cloak flapping like wings. He blew out a hearty breath as he reached them and tugged his woollen bonnet down over his ears. “By Odin’s hairy arse, ’tis a raw day,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. “Are you all set, Laird?”
“Aye, I think so.” Ruaidri hoisted the saddlebag onto Goliath’s back. “I—nay—we should be back by Wednesday next.”
“Very good.” Duncan bobbed his head. “I shall look forward to welcoming our new lady. Dinnae worry about a thing here. I’ll take charge of everything as needs it.”
“What did I tell you?” Morag folded her arms and frowned up at Ruaidri. “Tell him.”
Brows raised, Duncan flicked his gaze from sister to brother. “Tell me what?”
“Never mind. Just dinnae kill each other while I’m gone.” Ruaidri sighed as he clambered into the saddle. “Bar the gates after me and let no strangers in, ’less you ken for certain they dinnae pose a risk. Do you hear?”
Morag huffed as Duncan’s head bobbed again. “I hear you well, Laird,” the steward said. “Castle Cathan will still be sound when you return, as will those within its walls.”
“Good.” Ruaidri shook a lock of chestnut hair from his eyes and gathered up the reins. “I dinnae want any surprises.”
“God keep you safe, Ru,” Morag said, forcing her voice over the sudden tightness in her throat. “Please be careful. Promise me.”
“Have nae fear, wee lass.” Ruaidri gave a casual salute, pressed his heels to the horse’s belly, and rode toward Castle Cathan’s gates, his departing words sailed past them on the wind. “I’ll be back soon!”
*
The shuttered windows of Castle Cathan’s great hall did a fair job of keeping the autumn winds at bay, but they also denied entry to daylight. Consequently, the hall’s lime-washed walls shimmered with the flicker of a half-dozen reed torches that snapped and hissed in their iron sconces. Atop the tables, several skinny candles also burned, their fragile flames dancing as people moved about. The peat fire in the central hearth pulsed like a fiery heart as it warmed the air. A vein of smoke leached from it, snaking upwards to escape through the slatted opening in the roof.
If not for an hour-candle, the lack of daylight would make it necessary to guess at the hour. At that moment, though, Morag didn’t need to guess. Till a short while ago, and for most of the day, she’d been atop the gatehouse, gaze fixed on the causeway leading to and from Castle Cathan. As the sun sank behind a curtain of grey, Morag’s hopes sank with it. Capitulating to the chill of the wind, she’d been driven indoors.
Another day almost gone, this being the fifth in succession with no sign of Ruaidri and his new wife.
“Something is wrong, I tell you,” Morag said, clenching her hands as if in prayer, fear and frustration knotting in her gut. She stood beside Duncan, her back to the hearth, soaking up the heat from the fire. “He said he’d return Wednesday. Today is Thursday. He should be back by now.”
“Without other considerations, I’d be inclined to agree.” Duncan grimaced and scratched his head. “But a day or two beyond what he said isnae unreasonable, given that the laird just got himself wed. That doesnae happen without something of a celebration. He’s likely lingered awhile longer ’cause o’ that. Or it might be the weather. It has barely stopped pissing here this past sennight, an’ I reckon they’ve had the same at Dunraven. Aye, and it’s turned to snow on the hills.”
Morag scoffed. “Miserable weather never stopped Ruaidri before.”
“He never had a wife to worry about before.” Duncan shrugged a shoulder. “Could be the lass didnae wish to travel till things cleared.”
“What Highland lass is afraid o’ rain?” Morag countered, although she grabbed onto a measure of comfort in the steward’s reasoning. Still, her unease persisted. “I’m worried, Duncan.”
“I ken you are, lass,” Duncan said, gentling his tone, “but I really think you worry for naught. We’ll give it one more day. If the laird doesnae arrive on the morrow, I’ll dispatch a couple of men to go look for him.”
Morag opened her mouth to respond but found her gaze drawn to sudden movement in the doorway. She frowned as Brody, one of the men-at-arms, approached them. Something in the urgency of his stride snared her attention. His expression also aroused her fear to fresh heights. The man looked as though he’d seen a ghost.
“God help me,” she murmured, stomach churning as she clutched at the small, gold cross that hung around her neck. “What now?”
Brody stopped an arm’s length away and drew a breath. Morag drew one also and held it.
“Mil…,” Brody’s voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “Milady, we have visitors at the gates requesting entry. Three men, armed. And a lad.”
“Strangers?” Duncan asked.
“Er, nay.” The man grimaced. “That is, one of them isnae. I mean, I… I cannae be certain.”
Duncan blinked. “What the devil are you blabbering about, laddie? Are they strangers or nay?”
Morag released her breath. “Do they have news of my brother?”
“In a way, aye,” Brody replied, and cleared his throat again. “But ’tis nae something I care to repeat. I think it best you come with me, Milady, and hear it for yourself.”