Chapter 7
B irdi couldn’t recall ever being more furious in her life. Hissing “Sheet, sheet, sheet,” she clawed at the saddle as Angus’s horse pranced.
Her initial terror—of being discovered by heavily armed strangers—had dissolved as quickly as a puff of smoke listening to their and Angus the Canteran’s conversation.
Now, not only was she naked—thanks to the blasted horse stepping on the velvet and yanking it from her body as he shifted this way and that, thwarting her efforts to climb upon him—but the Canteran had done the unthinkable.
He’d called her his woman!
He hadn’t, apparently, been satisfied with taking her from her home and tearing through miles of forest with her. Oh no! He had to claim her— aloud —before Goddess and three strangers! Twice!
She was now handfast to Angus MacDougall.
Oh, aye, she kenned handfasting all right. Two summers before her mother passed, she’d brought Birdi to the annual Beltane gathering—the last Birdi ever attended—where a young man and woman became handfast. Minnie had explained it all in depressing detail.
Did Angus the Canteran think her an idiot?
When she got to him—if she ever got to him—she’d give him what for. Oh, yes, she would! Thanks to his obstinacy, she no longer had a roof over her head, hadn’t food nor clothing, and now no freedom.
She was his for a year and a day.
Holding onto the stirrup for dear life with one hand, she slapped the horse’s side. “Halt, ye blasted beast!”
To her amazement the animal froze in place.
Sputtering her limited list of profanities, most of which referred to cattle droppings, she grasped the leather dangling from the saddle with both hands and hauled herself up, hand over hand. When her foot caught the stirrup, she vaulted into the saddle. Relief flooded her. She took a deep breath, wondering how one steered the beast so she could drive it toward home after she rode over Angus the Canteran.
A whistle pieced the air, and the snorting horse lunged forward, its neck arched, hooves thudding like thunder. Birdi yelped and grabbed onto the saddle pommel for dear life.
As the beast closed on its master, Birdi silently cursed it, the strangers, and Angus MacDougall.
She came to an abrupt halt. Hair billowing about her, she straightened, took a deep breath, and heard a collective gasp. Metal clanged as it fell to the ground.
Eyes blazing, she turned in the direction of the sound and hissed, “What are ye staring at?”
The dark lump, a man, to her right murmured, “Merciful mother of God,” and backed away.
Humph!
The saddle suddenly shifted beneath her and Angus MacDougall engulfed her. As his arm clasped her waist and the horse bolt forward, he laughed, “Ye are a wonder, lass.”
Ha! Wonder or not, she would have a word with him as soon as she could breathe again; his arm had a death grip on her. Not only had he declared them handfast, he’d left her clothes and the costly velvet behind. The man was totally wode!
After an interminable reckless ride, they came to rest beneath a treed canopy where the shadows felt cool and the air hung heavy with the scent of sap and fern. Birdi asked, “Are we now safe?”
Angus shifted behind her and dropped to the ground. “Aye, lass, for now.”
Raking hair out of her eyes, she muttered, “Thank ye, stars.” She’d had her fill of strange feelings—of odd flutters and heat—as they rode.
Initially, the Canteran’s calloused hand had grasped her waist in a tight hold, but as the miles passed and the danger ebbed, their pace had slowed, his grip had relaxed. With every jolt of the horse, every dip in the trail, his broad palm and long blunt fingers shifted. And his touch was far more disturbing than any of her dream-induced yearnings had ever been.
Aye, and the feel of his hard thighs and chest brushing her naked thighs and back…
Ack !
The sooner they parted ways, the better.
Angus grasped Birdi’s waist.
As tempting as it was to press Birdi’s delightful nakedness to his chest, he held her out at arm’s length. The moment her feet hit the ground she wrenched free of his hold. Looking fit to kill, she stomped off some ten feet, then turned to face him.
He sighed. With her hands strategically placed, jet curls shifting ever so slightly over her breasts and barely masking the dressing about her waist, Birdalane Shame was a sight to behold.
And if he lived to be a hundred years old he wouldn’t ever forget the stunned expressions on the Fraisers’ faces as she rode up on them, as naked as the day she was born, her incredible icy blue eyes blazing fury.
They wouldn’t likely forget it, either.
Grinning, Angus started pulling off his tunic.
Birdi growled, “Now what are ye doing?”
“Getting my shirt off so ye have something to wear.”
The feel of her satin-smooth skin had nearly driven him insane over the last mile.
She tapped an impatient foot. “Ye, sir, are stark raving wode! How dare ye claim me as yours? How dare ye take me to wife without my consent? I’ll not have it! I will not, do ye hear!”
Angus gaped at her. “What on earth are ye blathering about?”
Birdi snarled deep in her throat. “Did ye or did ye not tell three strangers I was yer woman?”
“Aye, but—” The implication hit him like a gauntleted fist to the chest. Oh my God!
He and Birdi were handfast.
When the Fraisers had asked if he’d taken a wife, he hadn’t denied it. Had called her my woman. The fact that he’d done so to protect Birdi mattered naught.
But he couldn’t take Birdalane Shame to wife. He had to marry a lady—a devote gentlewoman—to get Donaliegh! God’s teeth!
Birdi shook her fist at him. “I want this undone. I will not be handfast…nay, I will not.”
Aye, he wanted it undone, as well, but how? Thanks to his stupidity she was now his for a year and a day. Oh my God. And his priest upon hearing this would naturally insist he sanctify the union within Blackstone’s kirk…
Oh my God!
As if reading his mind, she hissed, “Ye will take us to the sacred well and undo this, Angus MacDougall!”
He eyed her warily, his mind racing through the folklore and tales he’d heard as a youth trying to recall a story of nullifying a handfasting. “Undo this how?”
Birdi huffed. “We need go to a sacred well, repeat three times that we dissolve this union, and then drink the water. ‘Tis all, and this…this farce becomes a thing of the past.”
“Are ye sure, lass, ‘tis all that we need do?” Please say aye.
Birdi bit into her lower lip. “Mayhap there is more to the ceremony, but ‘twill be enough for me.”
Thank God.
“Consider it done.” Angus pulled out of his shirt and held it out to Birdi. “Here, put this on before ye catch ye death.” Or I catch ye up by yer bonnie hurdies, spread yer lovely white legs, and make ye mine in truth before God.
Consummating their erroneous handfasting would be equivalent to a life sentence if his priest learned he had. And hear it, he would. If not through another priest—the men in black had a network of spies that put even the Sassenach king’s agents to shame—then he would through a wandering minstrel. Angus the Blood had proved rich fodder for many a bard’s witty but oft-barbed tongue.
As he approached her, Birdi snatched his shirt from his hand and made quick work of donning it. As it settled around her calves, she asked, “Then ‘tis agreed?”
“Aye, lass, ‘tis agreed. I dinna want to be handfast to ye either.” He’d lose all if he remained attached to Birdalane Shame. “Now where is this well?”
Birdi’s furious expression shifted to one of open-mouthed surprise. “What do ye mean, ‘where’s this well?’ ‘Tis you who ken where we are. ‘Tis you who should ken where the well is!”
“How should I ken such a place?” Humph! Good Lord, what was the woman thinking?
Birdi stomped a foot. “Are ye a blithering heathen, then?”
Teeth grinding with indignation, Angus closed the distance between them. He puffed out his chest as he loomed over her, hands on hips. “Nay, I’m a Catholic, if ‘tis any of yer concern, so there’s nay reason for me to be kenning where some superstitious lot’s sacred well is!”
Birdi gaped at him. “Superstitious lot? Why ye—”
She punched him in the gut.
Had she turned yellow and flown away, he couldn’t have been more surprised. Here she was nearly naked and all of five feet and a bit, and she had the audacity to hit Angus the Blood in anger.
He laughed, great barks rolling out of his chest like thunder.
Birdi, wide-eyed, scrambled backward.
His arm shot out and caught her. “Now where do ye think ye’re going? Ye’ll be staying with me until we undo this. I’ll not be losing Donaliegh because of ye.”
She tried to wrench free. “What care I for some Donaleigh?” She slapped the hand that held her wrist. “Ye dinna need me. Ye can go to the well by yerself, say the words, and I’ll swear—if asked—that I did the same. Truly, I will. Just please let me go.”
Tears pooled in her lovely eyes.
Ack! He snaked a hand about her waist and pulled her into his chest. Here she was crying and carrying on and she’d done naught but catch his attention as she took a bath in a glen.
He brushed the hair from her face. “Lass, hush, there’s nay reason to fash, but we have to straighten this out. Together.”
With her palms pressed to his naked chest, she shuddered and sniffed. He kissed the top of her head, and then with a finger lifted her chin. Lord, she was breathtaking with her cheeks all flushed with righteous indignation and her eyes glittering like melting ice in the sun. Were she a lady, he’d never let her go, no matter how she pleaded—would, in fact, drive her to distraction with his efforts to win her heart just as his da had successfully wooed his mother—but given their current circumstances…
“Lass, we have to dissolve this union and haven’t much time to do it.” Word of his handfasting could get to Beal before he did. “We need ride as fast as possible to the nearest village, to Ardlui. There we’ll seek out a mid-wife.” Seeing her brow crease, he amended, “A howdie-wife.” Most were reported to practice the auld religion. “She should ken where the nearest well of which ye speak lies. Agreed?”
Birdi nodded and he silently thanked the Blessed Virgin. Donaliegh was still within his grasp if they made haste.
“Are ye hungry, lass?” They hadn’t the time to snare a rabbit or hunt berries, but if she was hungry…
Birdi shook her head. The last thing she wanted was food. Her stomach felt so gnarly she feared she’d likely toss anything she ate.
Her every move was being controlled by another, one far bigger than she, who kenned the area and had the advantage of sight. As she loathed her own helplessness, another thing disturbed her.
She had very sound reasons for not wanting to be handfast to Angus the Canteran. She didn’t want him getting her with child. But why was he so opposed to their union?
He didn’t fear her. Was Mary the cause? The woman was certainly on his mind enough. Given the man’s size and preference of horse, Birdi easily pictured Angus’s hale and hearty Mary; a big solid woman with honey colored hair and breasts the size and shape of beehives. She snorted. It certainly explained why he hadn’t accosted her, had let her be even while she slept. By comparison, Angus MacDougall no doubt found her—Birdi—lacking.
Ack! She shook hard. The man was making her wode. What did she care if he found her lacking? The sooner she got away from him the better. Aye. And to do so she would have to phrase her message to Tinker in such a way that the auld man would have nay choice but to do her bidding. Just as she, at the moment, had nay choice but to do Angus MacDougall’s.
“Are ye ready, lass?”
Birdi looked up to find Angus dressed in sparkling scarlet. She blinked in surprise and eased closer. “My word.” The open, waist-length coat he now wore had great puffy slit sleeves and was threaded with argent—silver. Buff colored trews covered his legs.
Angus cleared his throat. “‘Tis my courting costume. I’d have given it to ye to wear but as ye ken, it canna close.”
He had a point. The magnificent coat showed off his equally magnificent chest for the world to see. “Tis lovely…the coat, I mean.”
“Humph.” He held out a hand. “Shall we go?”
#
Robbie Macarthur, tired and parched, reined in and waited for his brother to pull alongside at the crossroad.
They’d been ordered into enemy territory by the Macarthur and charged with bringing home the spae. Their chieftain knew they were not only brawn and skilled swordsmen, but thorough.
The way before them leading west was little more than a deer path heading up into rugged terrain; the way heading north was a wagon road—flatter and regularly traveled. “What think ye?” Robbie asked as he brought his water bag to his mouth. “Continue north as ordered or turn west?”
They’d followed MacDougall’s tracks as far as they could—before the bastard took to the gravel-strewn riverbeds, where they’d lost him—and were now deep in enemy territory and a day’s ride south of Crianlarich.
Fegan stroked his pony’s sweating neck. “My gut says we need to turn west toward Ardlui. Though rugged, it cuts the distance, but…”
“Aye, but…”
Their liege had ordered them north, convinced Angus the Blood would take the spae the easiest and therefore the fastest route to Drasmoor and Castle Blackstone. MacDougall had, after all, raced off due north, and their liege believed he’d continue north to Crianlarich, then head west across the top of Loch Awe toward Oban. From there he’d have a fast ride south to safety.
“Macarthur has a point. Carrying the spae before him and despite the horse’s might, the Blood will not choose to court trouble. If his horse slips up yon and the spae falls…
“Aye, she’ll be of little use to him dead.”
Robbie grunted. “‘Tis agreed then. We turn right.”
Kicking their ponies into a gallop, Fegan grumbled, “With any luck, his charger will come up lame, and we’ll catch them by dawn.”
#
At the north end of Loch Lomond, Birdi murmured, “What’s burning?”
Scowling at the suspicious black columns rising above the treetops ahead of them, Angus muttered, “I dinna ken.”
They scrambled up a steep, shale-strew incline and came to rest on its tree-lined crest. Angus cursed. On the opposite shore of River Dochart only charred ruins remained of the village Ardlui.
Birdi whispered, “What’s happened?”
Angus tightened his hold on Birdi as he kicked Rampage’s sides. “We’ll not ken that until we get there.”
Fording the river proved easier than he’d expected, with the water running low. As they scrambled up the west bank, Angus’s gaze raked the mass devastation. “Merciful Mother…” Not one croft remained intact. Maimed, blood-soaked bodies—men, women, and bairn—lay everywhere.
The bloody bastards.
He carefully scanned the area for the butchers of Ardlui as he eased an agitated Rampage into the village. Finding the place stone quiet, he reined in, dismounted—silently cursing himself for not retrieving his chain mail—and pulled Birdi to the ground. “Stay by my side. Whoever did this appears to have fled, but…”
Angus reached for the pewter-and-bronze hilt of his claymore. He hauled the broadsword from its sheath in one fluid motion and took Birdi’s hand. “We need check to see if any have been left alive.” When Birdi said nothing, he glanced down and found her—white as snow—staring at a pool of blood at her feet. He wrapped an arm around her waist and eased her away. “Come, lass, we need seek the living, not fash over the dead.”
Eyes stinging and noses burning from the fetid smoke, they went from charred croft to charred croft—most still too hot to enter—and found no one alive.
On the far left of the village they found a croft with its roof burned away but the door still intact. Angus let loose of Birdi’s hand. Praying someone had survived the carnage—might have found refuge in a root cellar or ingle-nook, he threw his weight against the door and it fell off its leather hinges and crashed to the floor. Inside, he found the charred remains of a lad of mayhap six years huddled in a corner. Throat tight, Angus again cursed the cowards who could take an innocent’s life.
What manner of men were these savages?
Outside he found Birdi, some twenty yards from where he’d told her to stay put, keening as she knelt beside an ashen young woman whose throat had been slashed. As he approached, Birdi looked up. Flooding tears had made white tracks down her soot-coated cheeks.
“I…I canna do anything,” Birdi keened. “‘Tis too late. She’s cold.”
He raised Birdi by the arms and pulled her into his side. “‘Tis naught anyone can do, lass.” The damage had been done hours ago.
Shaking in his arms, deathly pale, she asked, “But…but why? Why would someone do this?” Her head turned left, then right. “Death is everywhere. And the stench—”
Her head suddenly snapped back to the left. “There! Do ye hear it?”
Angus, his sword arm already tensing, looked about. “Hear what?”
She pulled free. As she took off at a near run, her hands out before her, she cried, “I’m coming! I’m coming!”
Staring after her, Angus cursed. He never should have brought Birdi into this smoldering hell.
Like any warrior, he’d grown accustomed to the sights and smells of death and destruction—God knew he’d caused enough himself—but he’d given no thought to the fact that gentler folk weren’t steeled to it.
Hearing voices where there were none—in a manure pile, no less, for that appeared to be where she was heading—could mean only one thing. Birdalane Shame had lost her mind from the horror of it all.
He raced after her.
Heart thudding, palms itching, Birdi stumbled into a head-high mound of manure. Her nerves were afire, the need upon her in full force. Someone was frightened, in pain, but alive. But where? She spun, trying to catch the wee sound she’d heard just moments ago. “Where are ye?”
To her relief the mewing came again, this time low and directly before her. She dropped to her knees and frantically clawed into the warm, decaying mound. Within a heartbeat her fingers found a piece of wool. She clawed faster, deeper, and uncovered a blanketed bundle. She pulled it free as Angus came around the mound.
“Birdi, stop.”
Paying no heed, she whipped the blanket open and found the pudgiest, most beautiful babe she’d ever laid eyes on. It blinked up at her, opened its toothless mouth, and wailed like a banshee.
At her back Angus muttered, “I dinna believe it.”
Birdi scooped the babe into her arms. “Hush, dautie, hush.” To Angus she said, “His mother must have hidden him. He’s alive. ‘Tis wondrous!”
Angus helped her to her feet, and Birdi checked the babe for injuries. Satisfied the wee howling creature was sound, she cradled him to her chest. The babe immediately tried to rout at her breast. “Ack, the poor wee bit is hungry.”
Angus scratched his head and looked about. “Aye, but whoever did this reived all the cattle so there’s no milk to be had. Can we give him some water?”
Birdi jiggled the wailing babe. “Aye. Do ye think ye can find a bucket?” The babe needed a good wash.
Angus dutifully nodded and turned. A moment later she heard a chicken’s frantic clucking and pounding footsteps. Something whooshed past, a chicken screeched, and all fell silent.
“We’ve sup,” Angus called to her.
“Grand.” The babe was still howling and couldn’t eat chicken.
Angus shouted, “Put yer wee finger in its mouth.”
“But my hands are filthy.”
Something dropped with a soft thud and Angus, now at her back, murmured, “Give ‘im here.” He took the babe with sure hands and the yowling immediately stopped. Birdi craned her neck to see what he’d done and found the babe sucking Angus the Canteran’s wee finger, soot and all.
Oh, well. She asked, “What now?”
“We get something in this wee one’s belly and then secure the dead.”
“Secure the dead?”
“Aye, in what’s left of the barn. There are just too many slain for me to bury.” He looked none to happy about the task as he bent and picked up what he’d dropped. ‘Twas, she saw, a bright orange rooster.
Birdi cautiously followed Angus down the village road to the river’s edge. With her gaze locked on his broad back, she stumbled over an auld man, his face a mask of agony and his chest a gaping wound. Hand over her heart she murmured, “Blessed Mother of All.”
Ten feet later she tripped again, this time over a woman her own age. Birdi bent, closed the woman’s vacant eyes, and without thought righted the basket at her side. It contained folded linens. The poor lass had been doing a simple chore when the butchers had cut her down. How could anyone be so cruel…so heartless?
Minnie had had her faults—too many to count—but she’d been right about one matter; this world beyond the glen was not for the likes of her.
At the river’s edge Angus handed her the babe and a bucket. “Tend the wee one while I tend to the dead.”
Cradling the fussing babe she murmured, “Be careful.”
He surprised her by stroking her cheek. “Are ye all right, Birdi?”
She wasn’t, not in the least, but she said, “Aye. Go and do what needs be done.”
“If ye see or hear anything untoward, yell, and I’ll come at a run.”
She looked down at the babe in her arms. “He’s too young to be orphaned.”
Angus lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “‘Tis never a good age to be orphaned, but ye managed and so shall he.”
With that Angus left and Birdi settled on the bank. Using her fingers, she nervously dripped water into the babe’s gaping mouth. Initially, he was none to happy about the taste, but he grew accustomed and eventually sucked on her fingers. As he did, her heart raced with the flush of maternal success. Caring for a babe wasn’t so hard after all.
As the babe suckled she studied his almost white curls, wee perfect fingers, and dimpled arms. Warmth—the likes of which she’d never experienced before—filled her. He was such a bonnie lad. One who—with the proper guidance and love—could grow up to be a good man.
She heaved a sigh. Who would care for this precious bairn?
Something bleated in Birdi’s ear. “Ack!” She jumped nigh a foot, startling the babe.
As she soothed him with pats on the back, Angus chuckled, “Look what I found hiding in the barn…A nanny goat. ‘Twas probably too fast for the bastards to catch.” He grunted in satisfaction as he tied it to a nearby post. “We now have milk for our wee lad.”
Birdi edged closer to study the gray, shaggy beast. It stank and had horizontal slits in its eyes. Horrified that Angus expected her to place the precious babe against one of the beast’s teats, she clutched the babe tightly to her chest. “Ye cannot be serious?”
“Aye.”
She shook her head and inched away.
Angus made a thick “humphing” sound in the back of his throat. “Have ye not handled a goat before?”
“Nay.” She’d never even seen one before. Oh, she’d heard one a time or two when she’d been summoned to the village, but—
“‘Tis easy. Watch.” She eased closer as Angus squatted and placed the bucket between the bleating beastie’s legs. He reached under the nanny with both hands and grumbled, “Starting at the top, ye squeeze yer fingers down in sequence, like so. Do one hand then the other.” Hearing a rhythmic squish, squish, squish—milk hitting the bottom of the bucket—Birdi heaved a relieved sigh. Angus hadn’t expected her to put the babe to teat, after all. Just take the milk out of the goat. That she could do.
Angus placed the bucket beside her. “This should do for now. Once the babe is satisfied, ye can lay him down and milk the goat again.” He rose and left her to flounder on her own.
With a good bit of fussing and choking, the babe finally drank his fill of goat milk. When he fell asleep in her arms, Birdi rose and sought out the basket she’d tripped over.
The dead woman’s body was gone but the basket remained. Propping it against her free hip, Birdi moved out of the path of the drifting, acrid smoke. Settled in the shade of what turned out to be an old elm, she went through the basket’s contents and found scraps of soft linen, a wee tunic, a man’s shirt, an apron, and a kirtle. Tears welled in her eyes. The woman whose eyes she’d closed might well have been the babe’s minnie.
Ack, ye poor laddie.
Birdi, at least, had had her mother until she was of an age where she could feed and tend herself. And she had memories. Most had faded away but some still remained. If asked, she could still describe her mother. Black-headed, green-eyed, and thin. Painfully thin.
She made a pallet on the bottom of the basket with the shirt and apron and then laid the babe down to examine him more fully. Ugh, the poor wee thing was filthy.
The babe finally tended—’twas indeed a laddie—she stared at the gray and brown lump that was the goat. “‘Tis now yer turn.”
The goat, apparently no happier than she about the prospect of milking, bucked and pulled at its rope each time Birdi placed the bucket beneath it. After a sixth try, her patience snapped. She grabbed the beast by the ears, glared into its evil-looking eyes, and hissed, “If ye dinna want to be stew in the next few minutes, ye nasty creature, ye’d best heel.” To her utter amazement the nanny froze.
“Humph.”
She set the bucket beneath the nanny again and gingerly reached for one of its swollen teats. Milking, she discovered, wasn’t as easy as the Canteran claimed.
After innumerable grumbled curses, Birdi finally eked out enough milk for the babe’s next meal. Bucket in hand, she returned to the shade of the tree to find the babe, its thumb in its mouth, still fast asleep.
She settled beside him and stroked a pudgy arm. “What a lovely wee bit ye are…” She didn’t ken his name.
That wouldn’t do. He needed a new name, one mayhap not as fair as his mother had given him, but one he could grow into. One that might bring good fortune. She discarded several she’d heard over the years—Ian, John, Peter, and Robbie—wanting something that better called to mind power, thoughtfulness, and grace.
She was pulled from her musing by now familiar footsteps, and looked up to find a mass of scarlet before her. “Is all done?” she asked.
Angus, reeking of soot and the metallic stench of blood, collapsed at her side. “Aye. One and thirty now lie in the barn.”
He’d laid the dead out with as much dignity as possible, said a prayer over them, and then nailed a makeshift cross to the propped door. Using a piece of charred wood, he’d written in Latin, Herein lie the dearly departed of Ardlui, slain by unknown hands. May God have mercy on their souls. He’d then signed his name.
Needing to touch something vital, alive, Angus reached into the basket and stroked the wee one’s pudgy arms. “I canna help but wonder what would drive a man to commit such horrors. I’ve fought for my clan and for my king—killed more men than I have digits—but never have I slain a bairn or woman. Good God, I dinna ken this.”
Birdi placed her hand over his. “Angus, I dinna ken the why either, but this one still lives and we need be thankful for that.”
Angus blinked in surprise. Birdi had tried to console him and had finally called him by name. Feeling inordinately pleased, though why he should be he didn’t know, he turned his attention back to the charred ruins of Ardlui. “We need leave this place. ‘Tis not safe.” In his experience, disease followed death like a tax collector followed a full purse.
“I’ll be most glad to go.” Birdi lifted the sleeping babe from the basket and settled him on her shoulder. Handing Angus a bundle, she whispered, “They’re nappies. We need also take the goat.”
Angus came to his feet and heaved a resigned sigh. He now had only a fortnight and a week to find a pagan howdie-wife and a sacred well, break a handfast, find a home for a wee orphan, find one for Birdi, court a wife, and beat it back to Blackstone. All while hauling a fractious goat.
God help him.
#
An hour later, Birdi, still fretting over what would become of the babe in her arms, heard a familiar soft cooing in the trees to her right. Did her doves still come to her croft looking for crumbs? Had the titmice taken over her bedding and grain stores? Had her precious apples already started to rot?
“Angus, where is yer home?”
“The village of Drasmoor.”
“And where is this?” Tinker hadn’t mentioned it.
“On the west coast, on the Firth of Lorne.”
“Tis far?”
“Aye, six days’ ride away.”
“Ah, and do ye pass Aberfoyle to get there?” ‘Twas where Tinker had said he was heading.
“Nay. Aberfoyle is far to the north, and we’re headed west.”
“Oh.” ‘Twas not what she wanted to hear. “Have ye a croft in this Drasmoor?” Mayhap if he did have a comfy croft, he’d understand her craving for her home.
“Nay, I live in Castle Blackstone at the pleasure of my liege, Duncan MacDougall and his wife.”
“Oh.” This man at her back must be of some import. This could be good or bad. “Tell me about this castle.”
“Blackstone rests on a wee island in Drasmoor Bay. My liege started construction some ten years back, shortly after the plague swept through our village and a vast number of our clan perished. He built Blackstone on an isle so that should the plague return, he could keep our sept safe.”
Sept —Angus had used the word before. It apparently meant clan.
Birdi had trouble picturing an entire clan living under one roof. Wouldn’t the women be at each others’ throats over what cooked in the ingle-nook? “How many are in your clan—sept?”
“At last count, there were over one hundred.”
She craned her neck to look at him. “Ye must be sleeping twenty to a bed!” She’d have no part in that!
Angus, his blue eyes suddenly sparkling, crinkles forming at the far corners, chuckled. “Nay, most live in the village of Drasmoor or up in the hills. Just a few, like myself and the Silversteins, live with our liege and his family in Blackstone.”
“Oh.” She tore her gaze from his nicely shaped lips just as Rampage bucked and the goat bleated. Kenning what would happen next, she tightened her grip on the sleeping babe.
Angus kicked Rampage in the side for the umpteenth time; the horse snorted, frog-hopped, and then trotted a few jarring steps before settling again into a sedate walk.
All back to normal, she asked, “And what does this castle look like?” She hoped Angus the Canteran had Tinker’s talent for painting pictures in her mind.
“‘Tis big, takes up most of the isle, and is square and made of dark gray granite. It appears black in the rain.”
She waited, hoping for more. When he remained silent she arched her neck and frowned up at him. “And the inside?”
He scratched his chin. “‘Tis like most castles. There’s a bailey, a well, barracks for the unwed men, a kirk, sheds for the cattle, a smitty.”
Birdi heaved an exasperated sigh. “Inside, where the people live, MacDougall.”
“Oh. In the keep there’s a great hall with fireplaces at either end. We eat there. Above are storage rooms and sleeping quarters.”
When Angus fell silent again, Birdi fought the overwhelming urge to clout his ears scarlet. “Is there colored glass and tapestries within?” Tinker’s descriptions had made her heart race with the desire to see and touch all that Tinker had. “Are there shimmering golden chalices and huge pewter plates? Are there argent-backed mirrors? Is there a great stuffed elk on the wall?” Angus the Canteran was a pitiful storyteller.
He chuckled. “Blackstone is not so wealthy that it has colored glass and chalices of gold, but there are mounted heads and horns aplenty, and ‘tis bonnie now that Lady Beth has come.”
Ah. “And this Lady Beth? Is she fair?”
Before he could answer, their horse bucked, the goat bleated, and Angus again cursed and kicked. When they were finally moving in sedate fashion again, she murmured, “Lady Beth?”
Birdi had met only one lady, the Macarther’s wife, and hadn’t liked the brittle woman who took her frustrations out on those beneath her. After tending a lass of only twelve years with a lashed and festering back, Birdi had decided ladies were on level with boars. Something one kept a healthy distance away from.
“Ah, Lady Beth. She’s not particularly fair of visage, not like ye, but she has a heart as big as a keep.”
Birdi blinked in surprise. He was obviously taken with the lady—respected her, and if her ears weren’t mistaken Angus thought she—Birdi—fair! But how? She was filthy; she stank, and hadn’t combed her hair in three days. Minnie had been right about another matter…men were strange creatures. But this one was strange in a most interesting way. She need learn more.
“And what do ye do at the castle?”
“I command and train warriors at the lists, in sword play, and in defense.”
“Sounds far grander and more exciting than my life.”
He chuckled and she again felt vibrations—pleasant and alarming—ride down her spine.
“Nay,” he told her, “most nights I’m so weary I fall into me bed face first.”
Birdi smiled at that. He was a dedicated leader of men. ‘Twas good, but his darg—this soldiering—put him at great risk. She fingered the scar on her right wrist—recalled the second time she’s been called to the Macarthur’s side—and decided mayhap she should give the matter of Angus MacDougall and the babe more thought.
#
Four hours later, Angus, frustrated beyond all civility, reined into a small grove that bordered the west bank of Loch Lomond. Through gritted teeth he growled, “We’ll spend the night here.”
He slid to the ground and reached for Birdi and the babe. Just as his hands encircled her waist, the goat bleated and Rampage, ears pinned, let fly a hoof. This time the goat landed with a mighty splash in the loch. Water flew, the horse immediately shied, and a hoof slammed down on Angus’s toes.
He rammed a shoulder into his mount. “Ye bloody idiot, get off me!”
Eyes ringed in white, Rampage backed, and Angus set Birdi down. “So help me God, if I survive this…”
As the goat scrabbled out of the water Birdi asked, “Are ye alright?”
Angus growled deep in his throat. “Nay, and I may never be again.”
They’d made only five miles’ progress to the next village thanks to the blasted goat and the babe’s constant need for attention. Angus was tired, filthy, hungry, and physically frustrated thanks to Birdalane Shame’s fine hurdies grinding into his groin for three whole days. “Tend to the babe.”
Birdi nibbled at her lower lip. “As ye wish.”
As I wish? “Humph!”
Had he had his druthers, the babe, Birdi, and the blasted goat would be off his hands this instant.
Matters couldn’t get worse.
Grumbling, he grabbed the goat’s tether and tied the stinking waterlogged animal to a tree. He unsaddled his idiot mount, and then set about cutting small boughs to make a pallet for Birdi and the babe under a low-branched pine. He then filled their water bag and checked Rampage’s hooves for stones. A crippled horse was the last thing he needed right now.
Finally satisfied all was in readiness for the night, he hauled their sup out of his saddlebag, returned to Birdi and the sleeping babe, and was pleasantly surprised to find that Birdi had covered the pine boughs he’d cut with a thick layer of pine needles. They’d now sleep a good six inches off the cold ground in relative comfort.
“Here.” He held out a meaty chicken leg.
She took it and grinned. “Where did ye find this?”
Mollified by her deeply dimpled smile and the thought of a comfortable bed, he sat down beside her and muttered, “‘Tis the rooster.”
She took a bite. “‘Tis wonderful, but I didna see ye cook him.”
“While I tended to Ardlui’s dead, he cooked in one of the smoldering fires.”
“Ah, very clever of ye.”
“Thank ye.” He finished his chicken leg in two bites, and tore into the breast meat. “I’ve been hungrier, but I swear I’ve never tasted fairer chicken.”
Birdi chuckled. “I’ve been wondering how ye’ve been managing to stay alive on what little food we’ve had.”
He hastily swallowed his meat. “I didna mean to starve ye, lass.”
She shook her head. “Ye’ve not. I’ve lived on far less for a lot longer. ‘Tis just yer size that had me pondering.”
He grinned. “Ah. I have been known to down a fair-sized hog when the mood strikes.” Seeing she’d finished her chicken leg—she was indeed hungry—he tore off another piece of breast meat and handed it to her. “I’m sorry ye had to see all the death in Ardlui. Ye did well…finding the babe and tending him as ye have.” She’d really been surprisingly calm.
Birdi looked down at the babe lying between them. “‘Tis easy. He’s the fairest wee bit.” She took another bite of meat. “I’ve been thinking and have decided to keep him.”
Aghast, Angus stared at Birdi as the remains of the rooster dropped into his lap. “Ye what!”
“Sssh, ye’ll wake him.”
Angus rocked onto his knees. Either Birdalane Shame had finally lost her mind, or he had. Deciding it had to be her, he collected the fallen meat. “Ye canna keep him. Ye’ve seen what can happen to women and bairns that have protection. They can still become prey. Ye’d be defenseless.”
“But the babe and I shan’t be defenseless.” She smiled, flashing her glorious dimples at him. “We have ye…for a year and a day.”