Chapter 9 Whose Fault Is It Really?
Whose Fault Is It Really?
Senga backed away until she bumped up against the crumbling well wall. She stared at her father, advancing steadily from the shadows.
“Stay back,” she gasped. “Stay away from me!”
How long had it been since she’d seen him? He had aged more than she could have imagined. His hair was gray now, his skin papery, and he’d never had jowls like that before.
It was still him, though. It was still her father.
“That’s not how this is going to go, lassie,” Robert sighed, sounding almost reluctant. “I have been looking for ye for some time. It’s high time ye came home.”
“I’m going nowhere with ye.”
He sighed again. “Ye always did have trouble seeing things the way they were. This is not a choice, lass. Ye can come with me of yer own accord, which I’d prefer.
We can go back to the Keep, arm in arm, as a success story.
Ye will be Lady Senga Murray again, of Clan Murray, instead of a…
what was it ye were living as? An aspiring nun? Come on, lass, that isn’t ye.”
He advanced steadily, and Senga scrambled to the side, putting the stone circle of the well between them. Fumbling at her belt, she withdrew the short knife she used to collect herbs and plants and aimed it shakily at her father.
“I’ll tell ye once more,” she quavered. “Stay back.”
Robert did not seem deterred in the slightest.
“Put yer wee blade away, lass. It’s embarrassing to us both.”
At that moment, more figures stepped out from around the blackened house. They wore Murray tartan, of course. She recognized Tobey, his sword drawn. He grinned nastily at her. She noticed a scar on his forehead and allowed herself a faint smile.
I did that.
“Come quietly. It’s for the best,” Robert said, taking another step towards her.
He stretched out his hand. “Ye are coming with us, one way or another. I tell ye what, Laird Dickson has great plans. He’s going to Keep Kenneth next.
There’ll be nowhere to hide. So why not make yer peace with it? Don’t fight it.”
She stared at him, fear stiffening her limbs.
She saw her father’s plan in his eyes a half-second before it happened.
He lunged forward, trying to grab her. She struck out blindly with the knife, catching him across the back of his hand.
It was only a shallow cut, but it made him stop trying to grab her at least. He gave a strangled scream, backing away, blood dripping from his hand.
“Ye wee bitch!” he bellowed. “Tobey, take her. Bind her tight!”
But his yell had echoed across the quiet village. A shout of warning echoed from the gates. Tobey glanced around uneasily.
“M’Laird—” he ventured, but that was all he managed to say.
Running footsteps were their only warning. Abruptly, Noah came plunging forward out of the mist, sword drawn. His eyes flashed, taking in the scene, and he lunged towards Robert.
Tobey was there in an instant, lifting his sword and deflecting Noah’s blow. There were voices and more running feet approaching. Help was on its way.
“She is my daughter!” Robert bellowed, hastily backing away behind a row of his men. “She is mine.”
“She is no one’s!” Noah roared back.
“M’Laird, it’s time to go,” Tobey snapped, backing away from Noah.
The two men faced each other down, swords raised.
Robert and Tobey had enough men to overwhelm them easily, Senga realized. But if they stayed to do that, the rest of Noah’s soldiers would arrive and outnumber them instead. There was only one way this could end.
“This isn’t over,” Robert hissed, catching Senga’s eye and jabbing a finger towards her. “Oh, this is not over. Ye are coming home, lass, even if I have to cut ye into pieces to do it.”
“Don’t speak to her that way,” Noah ground out, pointing his sword towards Robert. “I won’t let ye lay a finger on her, do ye hear me?”
Robert gave a harsh laugh. “I thought ye seemed familiar. What, has Laird Grahame let ye feel as though ye are something now, Noah Gordon? Ye are not, I can promise ye that. Ye think that because ye hold a sword, ye deserve to have a laird’s daughter?”
“I don’t want to have anyone.”
Robert shook his head, eyes blazing. “Ye were born to shovel horse shite, lad. When I kill ye—and I will kill ye—I’m going to bury ye in it.”
With that, he backed away further still, the mist eating him up. The rest of the soldiers followed suit, disappearing into the gray veil, leaving Noah and Senga alone.
Noah did not relax, though. He stood in front of her, every muscle taut, head whipping around as if he were afraid of being outflanked.
Instants later, a group of soldiers, all with their swords drawn, came charging out of the mist.
“Captain, what was it?” one of the men gasped, drawing the back of his hand over a mist-drenched forehead.
“Some Murray men stayed behind,” Noah responded grimly, relaxing a little. “They no doubt hoped to do more damage. Are the tents set up?”
“We’ve just begun. Only yer tent is set up right now, but the rest will be done by nightfall. There’s a fire, and the healers are getting to work.”
“I must get to work, too,” Senga added, drawing in a ragged breath.
“Rest first,” Noah ordered firmly. “I mean it. Look, yer hands are shaking.”
Senga glanced down at her hands, her fingers green-tipped from years of handling herbs and plants to make into medicines. They were indeed shaking, but she curled them into a fist.
“I’ll rest when the work is done,” she stated firmly, meeting his eye. “Not before.”
Noah opened his mouth, as if planning to argue, then shut it again. He turned to one of the soldiers.
“Have her speak to old Serafina. She’ll know whether she needs to rest or not. Will ye abide by what Serafina says, Senga?”
Senga hesitated. Serafina was, of course, the older healer, the woman who’d identified that terrible grieving wail. She didn’t want to rest. There was work to be done, and if she rested, she’d just sit still and think about her father.
He really won’t rest until he has me in his clutches again.
But Noah was looking at her, waiting for her answer. Senga sighed.
“Aye, I’ll do what Serafina suggests.”
Serafina made her rest. Senga was told to go to the only tent set up at that moment and obeyed with bad grace.
The tent was sparsely laid out, with a pallet bed tucked in a corner and a rug spread out on the ground. There was a wooden chest that doubled as a seat and a storage space for something. She remembered, a moment too late, that this was Noah’s room.
That made things a little strange, somehow. Not wanting to sit on the bed, she perched on the chest.
A moment later, the tent flap pulled back, and Noah ducked inside. He carried a jug of ale, two wooden glasses, and a plate with bread, cheese, and a hunk of meat.
“It’s hardly a feast, but it’ll fill ye,” he remarked, holding up the plate. “Here, take it.”
“I cannot believe ye wouldn’t let me help,” Senga muttered, the old annoyance surging up.
“Ye heard what Serafina said. Ye have had a shock, and ye are no good to anyone until ye rest. Relax, lass.”
“I came all this way and accomplished nothing.”
“Not quite,” Noah observed, crouching beside her. He pushed a cup of ale into her hand, and she took a gulp. “We learned that Laird Murray will do whatever he must to get ye back. We have to wonder why, eh?”
“He can’t stand that I escaped.”
Noah shook his head. “Nay, it’s more than that. Ye escaped him for years, and he did not seem to care. What has changed? If we can find out what has changed, we might learn something about the clans’ dealings with each other. Laird Dickson is behind this, I warrant.”
“He probably wants to marry me off,” Senga remarked bitterly. “That was the reason my father wanted me before, too.”
The reminder of their shared past hung in the air between them. Senga felt a prickle of unease creep over her skin. She glanced at Noah, drawing her lower lip between her teeth.
He kissed me. That means he still has some feelings for me.
I don’t know how I feel about that. What does it mean for us? Does it mean anything?
“This is all my fault,” Noah stated flatly, breaking the silence.
“What?”
He shrugged tightly. “I should not have left ye alone.”
“Ye cannot blame yerself, Noah.”
He gave a chuckle. “Can’t I?”
Abruptly, he rose to his feet and turned to go.
Before she knew what she was doing, Senga had reached out and grabbed his hand.
He paused, glancing back at her, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop spinning.
It narrowed to him and her, staring wide-eyed at each other, their breath catching in their throats.
“I don’t much feel like being alone right now,” Senga managed at last, giving a faint, rasping laugh.
Noah swallowed and nodded wordlessly. He turned back to her, crouching before her. This put them more or less on eye level, him crouching and her sitting on the low chest. Picking up the plate, Senga tore the bread in two and silently offered him a piece. He took it, chewing.
“We must stop him,” Noah said, after a few moments of silence. “Laird Dickson. Laird Murray. The deaths won’t end until we put a stop to this.”
“Nay, I suppose not,” Senga murmured. “It’ll only get worse. More innocents dead, more villages destroyed like this one.”
As far as she could tell, there wasn’t a single family left whole in the village.
There were perhaps fifty or sixty left alive, out of a village of around five hundred people.
Some were injured and might not last the night.
Some were injured but would recover, but the scars—inside and outside—would never disappear.
“When I heard that shout,” Noah whispered, his voice catching. “I recognized Laird Murray’s voice at once. But I never heard yers. So I thought… I thought the worst. I thought ye were gone, Senga. I thought I had lost ye.”
She tried to meet his eye, but he kept glancing away. At last, he looked at her straight on, and she was surprised to see tears glittering in his eyes.