Chapter Five
Domnall awoke wrapped in a fur mantle and lying by the hearth where he’d fallen asleep the night before. Who had covered him? ’Twas a mystery Domnall could not solve. Surely not Fitz Duncan. He had never before given the slightest care to Domnall’s warmth or comfort.
When they departed the next morning, the sky was gray and it had once more commenced to snow. With the path to the castle obscure, the way was treacherous and progress slow, but Fitz Duncan pressed onward in his determination to reach Carlisle in time to celebrate the New Year with King David. But as the weather worsened and nightfall approached, Fitz Duncan called for a detour, announcing that they would shelter until the weather cleared at Roxburgh Castle.
Other than the cold, the journey was relatively uneventful until they came to the junction of the road to Carlisle and the path leading to the castle, where the horses became strangely agitated.
Fitz Duncan impatiently spurred his horse, only to discover the reason for its protest—a grisly trail of bloodstained snow.
“What the devil?” Fitz Duncan leaped from his horse to investigate.
His captain and Champernon followed suit, while Domnall held their horses. Was it left by an injured animal? Was there, perhaps, a wolf or a bear prowling about? That might explain the horses’ behavior.
Domnall drew a few paces closer as his sire examined the tracks. It was soon apparent, even to Domnall’s inexperienced eye, that there had been a struggle here and that the victims were human.
“’Twas an ambush,” Fitz Duncan declared after a time. “You need only look at the tracks. There are two sets coming from the south. They were a horseback. Four others laid in wait, likely in those woods.” He pointed to the hoof and footprints that suggested it was, indeed, an act of premeditated violence. Like a limer on a scent, Fitz Duncan tracked the blood trail into a nearby thicket.
He soon returned, his expression grim. “This was no random robbery,” Fitz Duncan announced. “’Twas premeditated murder.”
“How can you be certain?” Champernon asked.
“There are two headless bodies behind the thicket.”
“H-headless?” Domnall stammered. Though his pulse raced with trepidation, morbid curiosity proved more powerful than his fear. Fighting the fretful horses, Domnall crept toward the thicket and craned his neck for a glimpse of what lay beyond it. There were two blood-soaked bodies. One was a man, and the other was a boy, probably no older than himself. Both were, indeed, missing their heads.
Domnall turned away from the gruesome sight, fighting the unmanly urge to retch. Fitz Duncan, meantime, had remounted his horse, and drew his sword, commanding his men to do likewise. Leaving the bodies behind, they cautiously pressed onward toward Crailing Tower.
About a hundred yards from the tower gate, the horses once more balked, this time, with nostrils flared and bodies quivering. In his struggle to control his frantic horse, Domnall first thought the smell of smoke had spooked them, until his gaze landed on the most gruesome sight he’d ever beheld—a pair of severed heads mounted on pikes flanking either side of the gate.
Fitz Duncan dismounted and approached the piked heads. This time, Domnall did not follow. Instead, he turned away in a feeble attempt to hide his gagging and retching.
“Do ye know them?” Champernon asked Fitz Duncan when he returned.
Fitz Duncan’s gaze flickered, but he otherwise demonstrated little sign of emotion. “Aye. ’Tis Rémin of Crailing, and his son, ambushed before his very gates.”
“What kind of fiend would do such a heinous deed? And to what purpose?” Domnall asked. He’d never been exposed to so much blood and death. It was almost too much to take in.
Fitz Duncan ignored the question. With swords in hand, they proceeded through the gates into the bailey, where they discovered smoldering embers and another body sprawled on the ground. At least this corpse was still intact.
“Three dead,” Fitz Duncan said. He then commanded his men to search the grounds. Or what remained of them. “Do not let your guard down. They could yet be inside.”
It wasn’t long before his captain returned. “Two more,” he announced. “An old man and a woman, presumably the housekeeper.”
“Everyone is slaughtered? ’Tis a message of a most personal kind.” Fitz Duncan’s brows met as he fingered his beard. “It can only be an act of vengeance.”
His frown deepened. “I knew Rémin to be a man of honor. He lived strictly by the code. He was not one to make such enemies. This makes little sense.”
To Domnall, it made none at all. But, then again, his mind was too overloaded with visions of the violence to allow any consideration of the cause.
Once his men returned and declared the grounds free of danger, Fitz Duncan dispatched another party to retrieve the bodies of Rémin and his son. He then assigned another group to dig graves for the dead, leaving Domnall and Champernon to tend to their horses. Champernon grumbled at the assignment but Domnall was more than happy to stay out of the way. In truth, he found a small measure of comfort in caring for the animals.
Having been warned from using the water troughs, for fear of poison, Domnall went in search of fodder, but found the stables had been torched. Nothing remained inside but charred animal carcasses and the acrid smell of burned flesh. Why hadn’t the marauders taken the livestock? He couldn’t even begin to comprehend such evil.
*
Davina was scrounging the remains of the kitchen for food when she heard the sound of horses. Flattening herself to the charred ground, Davina watched an entire army of intruders enter the gates. Who were they? And why had they come? Some were dressed as knights, but that meant little. The men who’d attacked her home had worn similar clothes, but they were no knights. They were murdering monsters whose faces would forever haunt her.
Her heart clenched with fear as the men began searching through the ruins. What were they looking for? There was nothing left to steal. Were they friend or foe? Perhaps they were only strangers passing through who’d been alarmed by the smoke. With no way of knowing their intent, Davina once more sought the safety of her hiding place under the boat.
Though her body shivered with cold and her belly ached for sustenance, her fear was too great to risk exposing herself to more danger. No, she must wait it out and hope they would leave something behind to sustain her.
From her spot by the river, she continued to spy on their activity. One group of men were digging a hole in the ground. Several others soon appeared bearing large bundles wrapped in blankets that she recognized as bodies. Why would murderers bury the dead? Were they seeking to hide the evidence of the crime?
Davina was still trying to puzzle it out when someone emerged from the bailey leading several horses toward the river. Clutching her pitchfork, her heart hammered in her breast. She’d felt safe in her hiding place but the closer he came the more her terror mounted—until she realized the vicious killer she’d conjured in her mind was naught more than a lad. Nevertheless, her fear only slightly eased.
She prayed he’d continue past her spot to another place on the river. To her dismay, however, he released the horses right there beside her. Some of the animals lowered their muzzles to the water to drink, while others sniffed, snorted, and pawed the ground, seeking forage beneath the snow. He then sat down against a nearby tree, presumably to keep vigil lest his charges stray.
Feeling trapped, Davina found herself paralyzed, unable to move and barely able to breathe. After a time, he began to whistle a Gaelic tune that her mother used to sing to her. Davina’s heart gave a painful squeeze at the nearly forgotten memory.
Davina pressed her body to the ground and peered out to get a better look at him. She guessed the lad was close to her age. He had dark, shaggy hair and wore Highland garb with a fur mantle that she desperately coveted. The more she observed him, the less of a threat he seemed.
A blast of hot, grass-scented breath suddenly hit her face. One of the horses had discovered a small clump of forage under the edge of her boat. Should she reveal herself? Her body was growing colder and weaker by the hour, yet her mind was muddled with indecision. The lad was only one among many. No, she could not afford the risk.
Still exploring, the horse had moved downward toward her feet. He nudged the boat, pushing it backward and exposing her legs. Davina jerked them back beneath her shelter, but the sudden movement must have caught the lad’s attention.
He rose and unsheathed his dirk. Davina sucked in a breath as he approached, knife poised. With nowhere left to run, she had little choice now. Pitchfork in hand, Davina rolled out from her hiding place and clambered to her feet.
His eyes widened with surprise as Davina charged, but he dodged her assault and countered it. Clamping his arm around her waist, he pulled her to the ground, but Davina wasn’t finished fighting. The horses snorted and scattered as she kicked and scratched and hissed like a wildcat, until she finally managed to break free from his hold.
“Stop!” he cried with a look of alarm. “Ye are spooking the horses!”
Chest heaving, Davina retrieved her weapon and faced him again, prepared to make another attack.
“I mean ye nae harm,” he insisted, his expression earnest. “’Twas ye who attacked me! I was only defending myself.”
He spoke in her mother’s Gaelic tongue. He also told the truth. He held a knife but had not used it when he’d clearly had the opportunity.
Sheathing his dirk, he took a small step toward her.
Staring at his outstretched hand, Davina licked her lips.
He took another step toward her.
This time, her instincts cried out to run, but her feet refused to move. Terror had once more taken her into its paralyzing grip.
Her body began to quiver.
Her vision blurred.
Her knees buckled.
And then there was nothing.