Chapter Six
Daylight, like Ewan’s hope, was in short supply. They left Castle Cathan at the crack of dawn, heading out beneath bleak, winter skies. The day would be short, the ride long. Consequently, they set a punishing pace during the first part of the journey, hoping to arrive at the mountain pass with a couple of hours of daylight to spare.
The road through the glen followed an easy, undulating route alongside the burn. Part of it also wound through thick forest, where wandering tree roots might sabotage the trail and wolves undoubtedly roamed. But the risk of mishap, especially to a horseman as experienced as Ruaidri, would have been slight. This was his land, and he knew it intimately. Even so, Ewan kept his eyes busy, but saw nothing that gave him pause.
Far greater dangers, he knew, lay ahead. Traversing the mountain pass was never without risk, and that risk increased tenfold during harsh weather. At this time of year, the combination of ice, snow and low clouds made for a formidable trinity. One wrong step, one slip of a hoof on icy bedrock, could mean disaster. Fear of what might have become of his brother sickened Ewan’s stomach.
They arrived at the foot of the pass with some daylight to spare.
“We’ll lead the horses from here,” Ewan said, his remark directed at Gabriel, who gave a nod. “The track is steep and narrow.”
He squinted up at their serpentine route, not liking what he saw. A layer of clouds blanketed the tops of the mountains, rising and falling as the wind moved it along. The landscape looked bleak and unwelcoming. His gaze scoured the misted slopes, seeking any sign of a fallen man or horse.
“You saw nothing untoward on your way here?” he asked of Alastair. “Nothing that gave you pause?”
“You asked me that last night, Templar, and my answer has nae changed. Nay, I saw nothing at all.” Alastair kicked a leg over his saddle and slid to the ground. “The clouds were down, it was pissing rain, and I wasnae looking at anything but the path.”
“What of you?” Ewan levelled his gaze at Alastair’s surly henchman. “Do you recall seeing anything that seemed—?”
“Nay, he’d have told me if he had.” Alastair gestured ahead. “Take the lead, Tasgall. And keep your eyes skinned.”
The man, seated astride a large black horse with a slash of white on its face, threw a sour glance at Ewan and slid from the saddle.
“Can the man no’ speak for himself?” Ewan muttered.
“Apparently not,” Gabriel replied, gazing up at the mountains. “And I fear things do not bode well for your brother, Ewan. ’Tis a hostile domain, and desolate.”
The prophetic warning was hardly necessary. The likelihood of finding Ruaidri alive after so long had to be nigh on hopeless. “Aye,” Ewan replied, bitter anticipation gnawing at his gut. “I fear we face a recovery rather than a rescue.”
A chill wind circled around them as they climbed, bringing tears to Ewan’s eyes and a tingle to his gloved fingers. The lonely cry of an eagle occasionally pierced the winter air, and from somewhere in the undergrowth, the distinctive clatter of a red grouse gave a territorial warning to others of his kind. Otherwise, the men travelled the trail in sombre silence.
Ewan’s eyes ached from squinting right and left, looking for any sign of his brother, but the rugged terrain gave nothing away. At least, not at first glance. The faded outcrops of heather and wilted stalks of bracken could easily obscure the body of a man. If they found nothing close to the trail, what then? Where might they begin to look?
As it happened, Ewan didn’t need his eyes. About halfway through the climb, an acrid stench permeated the wind, and his nostrils flared. To a warrior who had witnessed the carnage of battle, the odour was undeniable. Unmistakable. And horribly familiar.
“Ewan,” Gabriel said, and it was all he needed to say.
“Aye, I smell it,” Ewan replied, gut clenching as he breathed in death’s sickening bouquet. Christ have mercy.
At that moment, Tasgall halted his horse and raised a hand, his attention apparently fixed on a point below him and to his right. He glanced back, his gaze locking with Ewan’s as he pointed into a narrow gully that ran away from the path like a giant gouge in the hillside.
“There’s something down there,” he called, his voice tossed by the wind. “Looks like the remains of a horse.”
Ewan’s gut tightened further.
At that particular spot, the path widened and angled back on itself, like a bent elbow. Underfoot, a mix of exposed bedrock and loose shale made the steep incline even more precarious. Alastair moved to Tasgall’s side and peered over the edge. He grimaced, gave Ewan a dark, fleeting glance, and snapped a command at his henchman. “Move ahead, Tasgall. Let the Templars approach.”
Ewan stepped forward and peered into the gully. It was little more than a large fissure, in truth—a natural catchment for falling rocks and debris. And atop the rocks lay the grisly remains of a horse. Had he only seen flesh and bone, Ewan might still have grasped at a measure of hope. He might have speculated the remains to be those of a loose horse, perhaps driven onto the mountain by wolves before tumbling to its death.
But this horse had belonged to someone. It had been tacked and ridden, evident from the saddle, which still sat askew on its back, and the bit that rested between the gaping, exposed teeth. The horse also had a black mane and tail.
“He took Goliath. His bay gelding.”
Yet, despite all the damning evidence, a single question pushed to the front of Ewan’s brain. If this is Ruaidri’s horse, where’s Ruaidri?
“’Tis nae wonder I didnae see the thing yesterday.” Alastair sniffed. “I didnae notice that odour, either. Is it your brother’s horse?”
Ewan eyed the steep slope at his feet. “I cannae be sure,” he said, at the end of a sigh. He dropped his horse’s reins and pulled his sword. “I need to go down there.”
Using his weapon as a makeshift staff, he half-slid, and half-clambered down the precarious slope. At the bottom, he sheathed his blade, nostrils flaring anew at the stench. Wolves and likely other creatures had certainly feasted on the remains. Some of the bones had been scattered or dragged away.
Despite his non-committal response to Alastair, Ewan had no doubt this was Ruaidri’s horse. Ruaidri’s fate remained uncertain but was not difficult to surmise. Had he survived the fall and lain injured, he would not have lasted long in such harsh conditions.
God forgive him, but Ewan found himself hoping his brother’s death had been quick. That he had not suffered or at least suffered little. He crossed himself as he glanced about, disturbed to see no sign of Ruaidri. Maybe he’d survived the fall and managed to crawl away, only to die somewhere nearby. Any blood trail, of course, would have been washed away by the rain.
Then something further along the rockfall caught his attention. It looked like fabric of some sort. A remnant of clothing, perhaps? Heart racing, Ewan clambered over to where it lay and lifted it, somewhat taken aback by its heaviness. It was a man’s cloak, he realized, its unusual weight due to being saturated with snowmelt and rain.
It also had a pungent, cloying odour.
Ewan’s gaze fell to the drops escaping the cloak’s hem. They tumbled with rhythmic precision, each one an opaque splatter of red upon the rocks. He held his breath and spread the cloak wide, gut clenching at the sight of a large, ominous stain that darkened much of the lining. The rain had diluted it somewhat, but there could be no mistaking its origin. Or what it meant.
Then a glint of metal drew his gaze to the rocks at his feet. He bent and eased the object from its granite niche, settling it in the palm of his hand. The sight of it made his own blood run cold. His vision blurred as memories surfaced; memories of his father, fastening his cloak with an ancient Norse pin made of twisted silver. A pin that had been shaped into an open-ended circle, with two intricately-carved dragon heads facing each other. A pin that would have passed to the first-born son upon his father’s death.
Death.
The place stank of it.
“I’m so sorry, Ruaidri,” Ewan whispered, closing his fingers around the familiar piece of jewellery. “Forgive me.”
*
Firelight chased the shadows into the corners, and the burning peat lifted much of the chill from the air. It also threw out a thin spiral of smoke that curled upwards to escape through a hole in the bothy’s roof. Most of it, anyway. Enough remained to sting the eyes and grate on the throat.
Sitting cross-legged, Ewan pulled a whetstone from the pouch on his belt and set about sharpening his blade. He needed to do something other than pray.
“The wolves likely scattered his bones.” Alastair made a sucking noise as if trying to dislodge a morsel trapped in his teeth. “Which is why you found no trace. It’s been a sennight, too, so there’d be little left to find, I fear.”
Ewan frowned, but said nothing.
“From Templar knight to clan laird,” Alastair continued. “’Tis odd how things come about.”
Ewan remained silent and his brow remained furrowed. Could the man not take a hint? He had no desire to make conversation, least of all with Alastair Macaulay.
“Your sister isnae going to take the news of your brother’s death too well,” Alastair went on. “’Tis a blessing she has you to step into his shoes. Of course, it also means you’ll be obliged to fulfil any remaining commitments.”
At that, Ewan lifted his head. “Do you have a point to make, MacAulay? If so, make it and be done. If not, shut your mouth or share your redundant observations with your lapdog. I’m in nae mood for idle talk.”
Seated beside Alastair, Tasgall bared his teeth and released a dog-like snarl. “Dinnae underestimate me, MacKellar. I’m nae slouch with a blade.”
Ewan straightened and raised a brow. “Is that a challenge, skamelar? If so, I gladly accept. I’m in a fine mood for—”
“Brother.” Gabriel placed a hand on Ewan’s arm. “There’s been enough blood spilled on this mountain already.”
“I agree,” Alastair said, evenly. He leaned back and propped himself up on an elbow. “Ruaidri’s death is a tragedy, aye, but it willnae stop the sun from rising on the morrow. You’re the laird of your clan now, Templar, whether you like it or no’. And you’ve assumed the obligations that go with that title.”
Ewan suppressed a sigh and bent his head to his blade once more. “I’m aware of that.”
“Which means you’ll be needing an heir,” Alastair said. “Which, in turn, means you’ll be needing a wife.”
Ewan grunted. “Worry about your own marital bed, MacAulay. I understand your last attempt at securing a bride wasnae very successful.”
Alastair snorted. “I dinnae worry about filling my bed, Templar. I’m no’ the one sworn to celibacy. What kind of a daft vow is that anyway? A man’s cock isnae just for pissin’.”
Ewan drew a controlled breath and lifted his head once more, fixing Alastair with a narrow-eyed glare. “Disrespect the Order or my brother again, and I swear I’ll shove this blade into your mouth and out the back of your head. That’ll be after I’ve hacked off your cock.” He switched his gaze to Tasgall. “And while I’m at it, I’ll put your mongrel out of his misery as well.”
At that, Tasgall leaned forward and gave a low, menacing growl.
Gabriel neither moved nor spoke, a telling response from the English knight. One, Ewan knew, that spoke of suppressed, simmering anger. Alastair was on dangerous ground, if he did but know it.
Perhaps he did, for he huffed and waved a nonchalant hand. “Och, dinnae take on. ’Tis merely that there are other things to consider. Things that cannae be ignored, nor should they be delayed overlong. Longshanks might be dead,” he spat into the fire, “may he burn forever in Hell, but his accursed son yet lives. Your own problems aside, dinnae forget that Scotland’s hard-earned freedom is a fragile thing. Clans shouldnae be fighting among themselves. They should be allied, their families bonded through marriage. United, they’re stronger. ’Tis all I’m saying.”
“And this is neither the time nor the place to say it,” Ewan replied. “My brother’s bones havenae long been scattered through these mountains. And his clan have yet to be told that they’ve lost…” He swallowed against an unexpected surge of grief. “That they’ve lost their laird. So, for now, MacAulay, you’ll curb your tongue.”
“For now, then, I will.” Alastair stood, arched his back in a stretch, and wandered over to the door. “And I am sorry about your brother, Templar, but pay heed. The agreement ’tween our families, as far as I’m concerned, still stands and should be honoured, either by you or your sister. I’m going for a piss.”