Laird of Flint: A Forbidden Love Scottish Medieval Romance Adventure (The Warrior Lairds of Rivenloc

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

As a youth, Hew always relished the glorious rites held at Rivenloch whenever a noble warrior perished in battle. Because the clan was comprised of Viking invaders, Norman knights, Scottish warriors, and one intrepid assassin from the Orient, he was never certain whether the deceased was headed to heaven, hell, or Valhalla. Any ceremony on Rivenloch land was bound to be a melding of Viking tradition, pagan superstition, and Christian doctrine. But the event was invariably celebrated with fire and feasting, singing and storytelling.

So it was a disappointment to learn that burying the deceased layman at Kildunan involved none of these. Indeed, the ceremony stipulated even more decorum and prayer, less food and drink.

The dead man had no living kin. Still, the monks gave him a lengthy and somber service in the church. The man had apparently donated enough wealth to earn him a grave within the monastery walls.

Halfway through a day of burning candles and monotonous chants, Hew had had enough. His belly was growling. And the litany of prayers made him wonder if the monks intended to recite the entire Bible.

But then the elusive Father James made a surprise appearance.

At his arrival, the abbot fawned over the elderly priest. He welcomed him into the church and remarked on what a blessing it was to the deceased to have him present.

Hew studied the man. White-haired and wizened, there was a spark of intelligence in his snapping eyes. Withered he might be, but he missed nothing. His gaze immediately settled on Hew, and Hew could almost hear his thought… What is he doing here?

Just as quickly, the priest turned his attention back to the matter at hand. He blessed the body and began intoning words of prayer as monks wafted incense over the shroud.

Hew used the opportunity to sink back into the shadows and observe.

Could Father James be the thief?

Was he devout or devious?

Did his holy vestments hide a black heart?

Was his practiced genuflection an indication of his light-fingered habits?

Suspicion must have shown in Hew’s furrowed brow, for beyond Father James, the prior glared pointedly back at him, wordlessly reminding him not to let on that anything was amiss.

He supposed that was wise. A watched outlaw was always careful. Hew needed the thief to think he was safe. Overconfident robbers made mistakes.

The priest didn’t stay long, and it seemed neither the time nor place to inquire about his visits to Kildunan. But Father James did speak at length to the abbot and the prior. And once or twice he glanced in Hew’s direction. Clearly, he wished to know who the stranger at the monastery was. Hew wondered what they were telling him.

According to the prior, when a monk died at Kildunan, he was buried in an unmarked grave in the orchard. But there was a special graveyard behind the orchard for notable guests. Two rows of small gravestones were embedded into the sod there like crooked teeth. At one end was a new hole gouged into the earth where the latest body would be buried.

By late afternoon, the rites were over. The monks dispersed from the grave until only the prior and he remained.

“Well?” the prior asked with a smirk, raising one judgmental brow.

Hew frowned. “What?”

“Ye can’t possibly think Father James is…” He glanced cautiously about the orchard for stragglers. “Ye know.”

“The thief?”

The prior winced. He obviously didn’t want to speak the words aloud. “Aye.”

Hew wasn’t ready to say. “I’m not certain yet.”

The prior thinned his lips in disapproval.

Hew had a question of his own. “What did you tell him about me?”

“Just that ye were visitin’ the monastery.”

“You didn’t tell him I was from Rivenloch?”

“I did not.”

“Good.”

“The abbot, however, might have mentioned it.”

Hew growled.

Bloody hell. Loose-lipped monks would be the death of him. Soon all of Scotland would know a warrior of Rivenloch was hiding at Kildunan. And when the king found out, he’d no doubt come running with a betrothal. A betrothal between Hew and some milksop daughter of an English lord.

Hew wanted to punch something. But he’d resist the urge. He didn’t want to alarm the prior. He needed the man’s trust and cooperation. The sooner he could get it, the sooner he could solve the crime. The sooner he could solve the crime, the sooner he could leave this purgatory and find a safer place to hide. Hopefully with his cousin Gellir at Darragh.

So he reduced his temper to a low simmer. “Brother Cathal comes on the morrow, aye?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll want to question him.”

“O’ course.”

As he left to find something to eat, he called back over his shoulder, “And henceforth, I wish to be introduced simply as Hew.”

Since he’d had little to eat all day, Hew treated himself to double portions of supper, ignoring the scowls of scorn from the prior. Afterwards, he borrowed the monastery’s rarely used wooden tub, filling it from the well. Then he coaxed the cook to heat a cauldron of cinnamon-infused water for him to add to the tub. An hour later, he sank into his first decent bath in a fortnight and scrubbed off the cloying scent of incense and the lingering stench of death.

The steaming, fragrant water lulled him to drowsiness. He bathed, dried off, and cracked open the shutters to let in the fresh evening air. Then he fell into bed, asleep almost before his head hit the pallet.

Sometime in the middle of the night, through the gap in the shutters, a shadow falling across the full moon abruptly awakened him.

His eyes flew open. But he lay motionless, listening.

Were those footfalls?

He wrapped his fingers around his axe on the floor beside him and rose without a sound.

Peering between the shutters, he spied a dark figure stealing across the cloister.

Then he mouthed a silent curse. When he’d gone to bed, he’d assumed he was done investigating for the night. It appeared he’d assumed wrong. He needed to find out who the mysterious figure was and what he was up to. But first he had to get dressed. Quickly.

He wrenched his leine over his head and pulled up his trews, cursing as he struggled to tie the points. He shoved his feet into his boots. Finally, whirling his plaid over his shoulders, he crept out of his cell. Thankfully, the moon was bright enough to follow the path of bent grass where the man had trod. It led straight to the monastery gate.

Hew gripped his axe tighter as he cautiously nudged open the unlocked gate. Who else but an outlaw would steal out of a monastery in the middle of the night?

He spotted the figure far in the distance on the westward road. The man had wasted no time fleeing Kildunan. And he was making haste now. Hew’s delay meant the outlaw was not much more than a faraway speck.

But that was good. It was best that Hew keep his distance and make sure the man didn’t know he was being followed.

An hour later, he was still headed west. In the direction of Dunlop Castle. And Hew began to have doubts about the man and his motives.

What if the figure was not a thief, but the physician returning to Dunlop?

What if he’d only arrived in the middle of the night because someone in the monastery had taken ill?

What if his visit hadn’t been for a robbery, but a mission of mercy?

The man crested the grassy hill before the castle. Hew continued his pursuit, staying close to the trees. When he ran out of trees at the clearing, he stopped to watch.

The barbican gates of Dunlop would open for either the physician or a man of God. As Hew expected, the man swiftly disappeared within the castle walls.

Axe-wielding Hew, however, was not likely to be welcomed by the guard.

Sooner or later, if he’d come from monastery, the mysterious visitor would need to return. Likely before dawn.

Hew settled down onto the hard ground to wait.

For Carenza, the full moon and the cloudless sky were both a blessing and a curse. The light would help her find her way across the courtyard, out of the castle, and over the hills. It would also leave her visible—and vulnerable—to anyone else who happened to venture forth on the clear, crisp night.

But too much misgiving spawned cowardice. And Carenza was not a coward. Besides, she’d gone too far to turn back now.

Still, before she committed to the challenging journey, she had to finish one less complicated task.

Entering the shadowy garden, she crouched between the apple trees, juggling the pair of squirming hedgepigs in her hands.

“Winter’s comin’,” she explained in a whisper, “and I can’t hide ye in my chamber anymore. Ye’ve got to go on now and make your own cozy nests.”

She set Blancmange and Pokerounce down in the soft mulch, just a few feet away from the garden wall, where she’d left a jumbled stash of willow twigs. To her simultaneous dismay and relief, they toddled off without a backward glance, eager to investigate.

Letting her animal wards go was always bittersweet. But Carenza was under no illusions. They were not hers to own. None of them were.

As she watched them waddle away, she felt a twinge of envy. They were on their own now. Free.

The only way Carenza could be free to roam where she willed was if she did it behind her father’s back. Which was why she’d been reduced to sneaking out like this in the middle of the night.

She understood his protectiveness. He didn’t want to lose her. He needed her to be his adoring daughter. To bring him light and laughter when the world grew too dark. To be the dutiful lass who fulfilled all his hopes and expectations. The compliant young lady he would one day surrender to another man. A man to whom she’d become an adoring wife.

She would always be some man’s pet, she supposed. Such was the fate of a laird’s daughter.

Still, she longed for more.

And she couldn’t help but feel spoiled and selfish for wanting that.

After all, she lived in luxury. She was well-fed. Well-dressed. Bedecked with jewels. Blessed with good health. Spoiled by servants and tutors. Provided with entertainments. Given all she desired.

Perhaps being a man’s pet wasn’t so bad. A pet was beloved. Well cared for. Treasured. As long as Carenza stayed obediently on her leash and didn’t bite, she would always be protected and cherished.

Why then did the prospect of being kept in luxurious captivity depress her so?

She sighed heavily, making a soft mist in the chill air.

She gazed up toward her father’s window. She certainly wasn’t staying on her leash tonight. Fortunately, the laird was asleep. His window was shuttered. If all went well, he’d never learn about her midnight adventure.

As she eased open the garden gate, she saw movement beyond it. She froze. Someone was striding across the courtyard.

She narrowed her eyes. It was a monk. What was he doing here?

She watched as he headed toward the keep and was let inside. Perhaps someone in the clan was ill and had summoned him—for prayers, a blessing, or to administer last rites. She was just grateful she’d lingered in the garden. The last person she needed to encounter on her sinful enterprise was a man of the cloth.

She shivered.

Not from the chill in the air. She was well protected from the cold. Her bulky garments made a thick if unwieldy barrier against the weather. She’d thrown an old plaid over her shoulder. If anyone spotted her at a distance, they’d assume she was a short, stout, crusty old fellow.

Nay, she shivered because, of all the clandestine excursions she’d made under the laird’s nose, this was the most daring. The most perilous. And the most illicit.

Lifting her eyes to the barbican, she saw the guard slumped against the wall. She wasn’t proud of the fact she’d fortified his beer with aqua vitae at supper. But the strong drink assured he’d sleep for the rest of the night. Plenty of time for her to slip in and out of the castle unnoticed.

Still, her heart pounded with trepidation and excitement as she passed through the barbican gate and hiked down the slope. She wondered if this was how the hedgepigs felt, released into the wild.

It was a long trudge over several hills to where the coos slumbered for the night. But Carenza wasn’t afraid. She knew about the wild animals that roamed the countryside in the dark at this time of the year.

The only danger she might face was a pack of wolves. And they would generally rather pick on small, timid prey. Not full-grown coos with sharp horns. And not someone who looked like a substantial, barrel-shaped crofter, tramping boldly over the hillocks.

She took large, confident strides across the grazed slopes. Despite the warmth of her makeshift garb, it was heavy, and her labored breath made frosty curls in the air.

Finally she spotted the cluster of dark forms beneath the pines. Hamish and the rest of the fold, drowsing in the grass.

She approached with stealth then. She didn’t want to startle the beasts.

Hamish was the first to rouse. He tossed his shaggy head, as if shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, which woke the others. But since the cattle were accustomed to her presence, once they caught her scent, they settled back into slumber.

Only Hamish stayed awake, waiting for her to come and give him a scratch.

She meant to be strong. But her eyes filled with tears as she rubbed the furry spot behind his crogged ear. She remembered what a brave wee calf he’d been when he had to be marked and gelded. How he’d rested his head in her lap afterwards. How he’d let her sing him to sleep.

She remembered how she’d occasionally sneak a turnip from the kitchens to take to him. How his eyes rolled with excitement as he crunched the special treat.

She remembered how he always lowed for her that first day after winter when the fold was driven to the ferme to graze. And how eagerly each fall he trotted back to the stone close, knowing Carenza would visit him every day.

A sob escaped her as she brushed the hair out of his handsome face. If all went as planned, Hamish would come back to the close no longer.

She needed him to stay safe. To move on to greener pastures. To leave Dunlop and civilization. To find a wild herd and never return again.

Sniffling and wiping a tear from her cheek with her palm, she murmured, “Are ye ready, lad? Are ye ready to go with me on an adventure?”

She looped the rope she’d brought around his head, dodging his horns and cinching it around his neck. She planned to lead him northeast to the mountains beyond Dunlop. She knew of a secret spot where herds of wild coos sometimes passed. A lovely glen hidden between two high peaks. A glen where a steer could feed to his heart’s delight. Where he could live out his days in peace. Where nobody would find him. Least of all, her father, who meant to cut his life short.

The ground was hard. The air was cold. But Hew didn’t mind. The blood of Vikings flowed in his veins. Besides, it was no less comfortable than his cell at the monastery.

He stretched out his legs, crossing his boots, and draped his plaid over them for warmth. Then he set his axe on his lap, folded his arms over his chest, and leaned back against the trunk of the pine to wait.

He’d barely settled in when the barbican gate swung open again.

He sat forward, unfolding his arms and seizing his axe.

It wasn’t the man he’d followed. This figure was smaller and stouter and walked with a shorter stride.

Hew frowned. Was Dunlop a gathering place for mysterious nighttime travelers?

This stocky fellow wasn’t even using the road. He clambered down the slope and began hiking off across the hill.

Where was he going?

Hew came to his feet.

The figure strode surely through the wet grass, as if he knew exactly where he was headed.

Hew hesitated.

He didn’t want to leave his post. The man he’d followed could emerge at any time.

On the other hand, perhaps this man was the thief. Perhaps he was on his way to a robbery right now.

The man from the monastery had only just arrived. If he was the physician, he’d remain within. If he was a man of the cloth, he’d surely spend at least an hour inside.

Meanwhile, Hew would follow this new stranger and see what mischief he was up to.

After a long trek over fell and dale, it seemed the man at last found what he sought. A fold of cattle sleeping beneath the trees. They stirred when the man approached, then settled back down to doze.

“Sard me,” Hew muttered in self-disgust.

The man was obviously just a cooherd come to watch over the laird’s cattle. Hew had wasted time, following the fellow.

Still, it was curious that he’d come in the middle of the night. And his behavior toward the coos was odd. He was standing far too close to one of them, scratching its head between two horns that could have easily tossed the man heels over head clear across the glen.

Perhaps the cooherd was soft in the head.

He sighed. It wasn’t Hew’s affair. He had a thief to catch.

But then, just before he turned to go, he saw the cooherd lead the familiar beast away from the others while the rest of the fold slumbered on.

Where was he taking it?

His interest piqued again, Hew crept down the hill after the cooherd. And the farther he got away from the rest of the fold, the surer Hew was that this was not a cooherd after all, but a cateran, a cattle reiver.

He’d never seen one work alone before. As a lad, he and his cousins had occasionally thieved cattle from the neighboring clans for sport. They were chided by their parents and always returned the coos. Just as often, the neighboring clans stole Rivenloch coos. In the Lowlands, reiving cattle was considered harmless fun.

But there was a bit of danger in it. Not only from the coos. Sometimes drunk or angry clansmen took the thefts too seriously and came after young caterans with their fists or swords. That was why they always went reiving in groups.

Reiving alone was risky.

Another curious thing was that the cateran had come out of Dunlop, but he was leading the coo away from the castle.

Before he could wonder further about that, he spotted something the cateran hadn’t seen yet. Two figures had emerged from the woods and were scrambling down the hill after him. They were probably the cooherds who watched over the fold.

Hew grimaced. There were two of them and one reiver. They were twice his size. Young and brawny. When they caught him, they would likely pummel the poor fellow to within an inch of his life.

Hew couldn’t stand by and watch that happen.

As the pair closed in on the unwary cateran, Hew sidled down the hill to intercept them.

Hamish snorted and lifted his wary head.

Carenza froze, alert.

“What is it?” she whispered, praying it wasn’t a pack of wolves.

Hamish chuffed out a foggy breath on the chill air. But he wasn’t afraid. Hamish was vexed.

She scanned the hillside, looking for the source of his ire.

Then she heard scuffling behind her. She turned to see two men clambering down the slope, headed straight for her.

She nearly leaped out of her disguise. Her worst fears were confirmed. She’d been seen. Not by the monk. Not by a guard. But by two men who must have been waiting near the coos.

Neither of them were Cainnech, the cooherd. When the weather turned this cold, Cainnech left the cattle on their own until it was time to bring them to the close.

Who were they then?

“Stop, thief!” one of them commanded.

“Hold it right there!” the other said.

Hamish startled at the sudden noise. If she hadn’t had an arm around his muzzle, he might have bolted and run off.

But the other cattle were not so restrained. If the pair of barking fools charging down the hill weren’t careful, they’d panic the beasts and wreak havoc.

One of them sneered, “That’s Dunlop’s coo.”

She recognized the voice. It was a Boyle. Gilbert or Herbert. She couldn’t tell which. She didn’t dare lift her head to look.

What were they doing here, in the middle of the night, on Dunlop land?

The second brother shrugged a rope off his shoulder and chimed in, “And we’re goin’ to take the beast—and ye—straight to the laird.”

She gulped. Not her father. That was her worst nightmare.

“But first,” he added, punching a fist into his palm, “we’re goin’ to show ye what we do to filthy caterans.”

Carenza gasped.

Sweet Mary! Did they intend to beat her?

Fear drained the blood from her face. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

For one horrible instant, she wondered if she would die on this hill. If all her father would find of her when he went out riding the next morn would be her bloody and battered corpse.

Then, as the bullying brothers grew near, she glimpsed their bloodthirsty sneers and their vicious eyes. She suddenly saw them for what they were. Spineless, entitled cowards who preyed on the weak.

Slowly, her fear curdled into rage. How dared these dunderheads trespass on her father’s land? How dared they threaten her with violence? Who did they think they were?

She wasn’t going to let them ruin her best-laid plans.

She couldn’t fight them on her own, of course. She had neither the muscle nor the mass to do battle against this ox-sized pair of brutes. But she had friends who did.

Still calming Hamish, she began waving her free arm about wildly. Then she took a deep breath and let out a loud, long, wolf-like howl.

As she expected, the sound pushed the rest of the cattle to the edge of panic. Lowing in alarm, they rocked up onto their hooves. They danced in confused agitation, kicking up moss and gravel as they bolted in all directions.

The Boyles, intimidated by the deadly thunder of hooves rumbling on the sod, yelped and separated, fleeing for their lives.

Carenza wasn’t afraid. She knew these beasts. They might charge about wildly for a while, shaking off the dregs of fright. But they’d never hurt her. Carenza was practically part of their clan.

And while the brothers were looking after their own safety, dodging the rush of cattle, she could steal away into the night as planned. Unrecognized. Uncaptured. Unbeaten.

Allowing herself a small smile of triumph, she gave Hamish a soothing scratch behind the ear and tugged him forward. “Come on, Hamish. ’Tis all right now.”

“Stay where you are, lad!” a new voice called out to her. “I’ll come to you!”

Carenza’s smile instantly drooped into a frown. Now what?

She wasn’t about to stay where she was. She’d already outsmarted the Boyle brothers. She wasn’t going to let anything else stand in her way.

But before she defied his command, she would steal a sidelong peek at the new arrival.

Her breath caught.

He was big. Bold. Brawny. His hair shone like wheat in the moonlight as he strode across the sod between the great black charging beasts. He had the face, not of a berserker as she’d expected, but of a god.

For a brief yet impressionable sliver of time, she stood stunned. Breathless. Enthralled. Overwhelmed by the magnificent cut of his jaw. The furrowed determination in his brow. The dark promise in his eyes. Then, in the next instant, her gaze fell to the axe clenched in his fist, and fear struck her heart.

This must be the Viking warrior. Sir Hew of Rivenloch. The prospective bridegroom she was supposed to invite to Samhain three nights hence.

Thank God they’d never actually met. If a Rivenloch warrior discovered the daughter of Dunlop reiving cattle, her reputation—and that of her father and her clan—would be ruined.

Ballocks. This was a disaster.