Chapter 2 #2
“Of course ye do. There is no shame in that. Now, I am thinking I have sat here long enough trying to gather up the courage to go to Sir Simon’s house. If I dinnae have it now, I ne’er will. Best we clean up and finish the journey.”
“Are ye afraid?” Reid immediately began to help Ilsabeth pack up her supplies.
“A wee bit,” Ilsabeth answered as she dampened a cloth and gently wiped Elen’s face and hands.
“I want to put my faith in the mon my family has sent me to, but I have ne’er met him.
‘Tis difficult to trust a stranger, especially when ye are dealing with matters of murder and treason. Aye, and he doesnae ken me, either, so why should he be believing a word I say?”
“But ye said he has helped your family before, aye?”
“Aye, he has helped the Murrays, cousins of mine. Dinnae ken them all that weel either so I cannae say I learned much of this Sir Simon from them. And, I am but half a Murray. The rest of me is Armstrong.”
“Is that bad?”
“ ‘Tis nay a good thing in many eyes, laddie. My wee clan and my father the laird are all good, honest people, but the ones that came before them werenae. They put a verra dark stain upon the name and some of his kinsmen still arenae too honest.” She winked.
“There are a lot of reivers in the family, ye ken.” She grinned when he giggled and then helped the children up onto Goliath.
“I will try to nay be too insulted if he favors my Murray blood, at least in the beginning.”
“If he doesnae help ye, then I will,” said Reid.
“Ye are a good, brave lad.” Ilsabeth grasped the reins and started to lead the pony into town. “Ye have your sister to watch o’er, however, so we must hope Sir Simon truly is the stalwart seeker of the truth all claim him to be.”
Especially since she had come up with no other plan herself, Ilsabeth mused. She continued to try and think of one as she walked but facing the end of her journey inspired her no more than all the rest of the hours she had traveled to reach her destination.
By the time she stood before the door to Sir Simon Innes’s home, she gave up all hope of coming up with something clever and started fervently praying that the man would help her.
Simon Innes sprawled in a chair before the fire, a goblet of fine wine in his hand, and frowned down at the cat in his lap.
It had been a mistake to give in to that spark of charity and feed the huge black and white tom.
The animal had finished off the scraps he had given it and then moved in.
He glanced down at his dog Bonegnasher, spread out gracelessly at his feet, a fresh set of scratch marks on his nose.
Who would have thought his large, fierce dog would turn coward when slapped on the nose by a cat?
He sighed and lightly stroked the cat, causing it to rumble with a deep, raspy purr.
It was, at least, a more pleasant noise than the animal’s snoring.
The beast also looked and smelled better since Old Bega had got her hands on it.
The cat had endured her scrubbing, combing, and rubbing some oil on him to kill fleas with a quiet, injured dignity.
“Of course, for that small inconvenience, ye are now set in front of a warm fire, your belly full of chicken,” he drawled, and then sipped at his wine.
“I cannae believe I have let ye sit on me. Men dinnae keep cats, ye ken.” The cat turned its head so that Simon could better scratch behind one of its tattered ears.
He was behaving like an old man, he thought crossly.
Thirty years of living was just around the corner.
Thirty was not old in his opinion, despite the fact that far too many people never reached that age.
It was definitely too young to be spending nights sitting before the fire talking to his dog, or cat.
Yet, it had been many months since he had done anything else.
The only change in his new habit for far too long was the presence of an ugly cat.
Simon winced. He was becoming a pathetic recluse.
It was time to get himself a wife, he mused, and fought to quell the curdling in his gut.
Not every woman was faithless. Not every marriage was hell on earth.
He had seen the good in such arrangements lately during his time helping the Murrays.
The part of him that was still bitter and bruised from the past wanted to doubt, shuddered at the mere thought of marriage, but he told himself it was past time he overcame that dread.
If Tormand Murray, a man who had seduced half the women in Scotland, could find a wife like Morainn, a loyal, loving woman with wit and spirit, Simon suspected there had to be one out there for him, too.
Even James Drummond, a Murray foster son, a man accused of murdering his first wife, had found a good woman even as he fought to prove his innocence.
“So why am I sitting here stroking an ugly cat instead of a fulsome wife?” he muttered.
The cat briefly dug its claws into Simon’s thighs as if to protest the unflattering adjective.
Simon winced but resisted the urge to shove the cat off his lap. He would never admit it aloud but he found the warmth, the soft fur, and the raspy purr of the animal oddly comforting. It was probably why some women favored the beasts despite all the superstitions swirling around the creatures.
Just as Simon was wondering if he should simply accept his fate and name the cat there was a rap at the door.
He sighed in resignation as his man MacBean walked in immediately after the knock sounded.
The man stubbornly refused to wait until he was told to enter.
It had taken far too long just to get the man to knock at all.
“So, that cursed beastie is still about, I see,” said MacBean, glaring at the cat. “Want me to toss it out?”
“I dinnae think it will stay out,” Simon replied.
MacBean grunted. “The old woman shouldnae have wasted food and water on it. Beast is more tattered than my old aunt’s blankets. Got more scars, too.”
Simon gently bit his tongue to stifle the urge to ask MacBean about his old aunt’s scars.
Too much curiosity was one of his besetting sins.
The craving he had for uncovering secrets and lies made it difficult to make and keep friends, although he could not fully regret that.
He also admitted to himself that he had a few secrets of his own that he would prefer to keep buried deep in his past. Old Bega knew them for she had traveled with him from his boyhood home, but, despite how much she loved to talk, the woman held fast to them.
“What good is a cat when it’s all fat and happy, I ask ye?” MacBean asked, obviously expecting no answer. “Only purpose the creatures have to be alive at all is to catch vermin. Beastie there isnae going to do that if the old lady keeps his belly full.”
“MacBean,” Simon said a little sharply to interrupt the man’s tirade before it went any further, “did ye come in here only to speak of this cat?”
“Nay. Ye have a message from the king.”
“I would think that something like that would take precedence over a discussion of this cat,” Simon said as he took the message MacBean thrust toward him.
“King isnae trying to live here, is he? And he doesnae have fleas.”
“I wouldnae be too sure of that and this beast has none since Bega tended to it.”
“He will be getting them again.”
Simon ignored the man as MacBean entered into a staring contest with the cat.
The message held dire news, bad in so many ways that Simon swiftly finished off his wine and held the goblet out for MacBean to refill.
A king’s man had been murdered. Worse that man had been the king’s own cousin, and one the king had been fond of.
Young Ian Ogilvie had been following whispers of treasonous activities, of plots against his royal cousin and benefactor.
The name of the clan held responsible was not familiar to Simon except for the fact that everyone knew of the Armstrongs, a border clan well known for its reiving ways.
What chilled him to the bone was that this particular branch of the Armstrongs was connected through marriage to the Murrays.
If the Murrays were not already in hiding, they might soon need to be.
“Bad news?” asked MacBean.
“Nay good. Murder, treason, accusations being flung about that have already cast a shadow on the Murrays.” Simon drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.
“The Armstrongs involved are kin to the Murrays through marriage. A close enough bond to cause our king to wonder if they, too, now plot against him.”
“The king and his advisors are forever seeing plots.”
“True, but this one may nay be born of naught but suspicious minds. Sir Ian Ogilvie was certain there was a plot afoot and went in search of some answers. What he got was a dagger in the heart, an Armstrong dagger.”
MacBean frowned and then shook his head, his thick, graying, brown hair shifting wildly with the movement.
“Nay. Dinnae see that clan troubling itself much with treason and plots and all that. They dinnae follow many of the king’s laws nay matter who sits on the throne so why bother plotting against the mon they dinnae listen to anyway?
Now, if ye said they stole the king’s cattle?
Weel, I wouldnae doubt that. But treasonous plots? Nay.”
“I feel the same. And, Sir Cormac Armstrong has appeared to be trying to rise above the reiving ways of so many of his kinsmen.”
“Is the king asking ye to hunt down the killer?”
“Aye, that and to discover who else plots treason against him. I but wish he had asked that I prove who truly is the guilty one for the lack of that question makes me think he has decided the Armstrongs of Aigballa are guilty. That is worrisome.”
Before MacBean could express his sour opinion about getting tangled up in uncovering plots for the king, there was a knock at the front door. He cursed and hurried away to see who was there. Simon smiled faintly over his man’s ill temper and then frowned down at the message he still held.
He was going to have to answer the king’s command, but he did not like it despite his recent craving for a puzzle to solve.
This time he was not only trying to find the truth, he was going to have to try and protect his friends as he did so.
Simon doubted Sir Cormac Armstrong’s family had anything to do with treason, but that did not mean there was not one of his family who might play such a dangerous game.
Pulling out that one rotten tooth could easily cost Simon some of the few friends he had.
MacBean’s return drew him from his dark thoughts, and Simon looked at the man. “Weel, who was at the door? Was there another message?”
“Nay. There is a nun and two bairns,” replied MacBean in a tone that would have better suited announcing death itself.
“A nun?”
“Aye, and she says she must speak with ye now. Have ye been breeding and nay told the old woman? That crone willnae be pleased with ye if ye have.”
“Nay, I havenae been breeding and, if I had done so, Bega would already ken it for she would be helping me care for the child. Mayhap the nun wishes my help in finding the ones who should take responsibility for the children. Show her in, MacBean, and fetch us something to drink and eat.”
The moment a grumbling MacBean left, Simon struggled to get the cat off his lap and stand up.
He ignored the animal’s growl of displeasure and tried to brush the cat hair from his clothes.
MacBean clearing his throat caused him to look up and he slowly straightened.
A slight wave of his hand sent the man off to get drink and food for his guests.
“Sir Simon Innes?” asked the nun.
“Aye,” he replied, bowing to her. “How can I help ye, Sister?”
“I have need of your ability to find the truth.”
The low, husky voice of the woman tickled to life feelings he should never have for a nun.
To distract himself, he glanced at the two children who clutched at her skirts.
They looked hungry and their clothes were mere rags, but he saw nothing of anyone he knew in their looks. “Ye seek the kin of these children?”
“Nay, for they have told me they have none. The only one they have who should be caring for them is the one who cast them aside, and some day, I will see that he repents that. Nay, I seek help for myself for I am in trouble as is my family.”
“And who are ye?”
“My name is Ilsabeth Armstrong. I am the daughter of Sir Cormac Armstrong of Aigballa and Elspeth Murray.”