Chapter Eight
Sweat dripped down from his forehead and stung his eyes.
Harcourt wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt.
He was ready to ride back to the keep. He, Callum, Tamhas, and Gybbon had been riding around the boundaries of Glencullaich since dawn, trying to find any sign of Sir Adam and discovering nothing.
It appeared that Sir Adam had directed his attention elsewhere although Harcourt knew that could not be true.
It was not easy but Harcourt beat down a creeping concern for Nathan and Ned.
They had been gone for three days and there had been no word.
It was not an unusual length of time to spend trying to gather information on an enemy.
Harcourt knew that. His concern was born of the fact that spying was dangerous work and he had been the one who had asked the MacFingals to do it.
“They will be fine,” said Gybbon as he rode up beside Harcourt. “MacFingals are hard to kill.”
Harcourt looked at his cousin and frowned. The younger man was neither sweating nor dusty despite the long hours they had all spent in the saddle. His hair was still neatly tied back with a leather thong. That was grossly unfair in Harcourt’s opinion.
“Did ye stop for a bath in the burn and change your clothes?” he asked, not even trying to hide his suspicions.
Gybbon laughed. “Nay. I simply dinnae ride about in a frenzy when I am looking for something. Or someone.”
“I wasnae riding about in a frenzy. Dinnae see the sense in ambling along like an old mon, either. And how did ye ken that I was thinking of the MacFingals? Or can say that they are fine with such confidence?”
“I just ken it. Decided ye were looking for signs of them as hard as ye are looking for signs of Sir Adam.”
“Weel, I sent them out on the hunt, didnae I. It has proven to be a heavier weight than I had kenned it would be.”
“They are MacFingals, Harcourt,” said Gybbon, smiling. “What ye asked of them is what they do with a skill unmatched by any other. They were born kenning how to slip about, hearing secrets, finding lost things, or people, and, of course, stealing.”
“Thought they stopped stealing.”
“Hard to break such a habit. ’Tis nay a way of living for them anymore, though. As Nathan likes to say, at times ye come across someone who simply doesnae deserve to have all he has so ye feel compelled to relieve him of some of it. But, as to them being hale, I just ken it.” He shrugged.
“Ah, ye have a wee gift then. I just ne’er had cause to notice it before now. Runs rampant in the clan, doesnae it. Missed me.”
“Nay, it didnae. Ye just have one that doesnae raise any questions.”
“Gybbon, I dinnae have one.”
“Ye do. Ye can see the patterns of things, look at something and see it as if ’tis drawn up by the finest mapmaker in the land. The defense of Glencullaich looked fine to all of us yet ye could look about and see the smallest of weaknesses.”
Harcourt shook his head. “’Tis just a good eye.”
“Then ye have the best eye I have e’er seen.
Wheesht, ye could fill a purse or two just offering your skill to those who wish to be certain their defenses are as strong as they think they are.
Ye cannae see it because ye just do it, but ’tis a gift.
By my oath, I think ye could look out on a cleared field and find that one tiny hollow or dip and rise that could be used by an enemy.
’Tis as if ye can see it all played out from the field itself to how the enemy could use every blade of grass.
That is indeed a gift. Trust me to ken it.
I have seen enough to ken how different what ye can do is to what any other soldier can do, even the most skilled and experienced one. ”
“Weel, I am nay sure I agree, but I am pleased that, if I do have a gift, ’tis nay one that causes the trouble some of our kin have to deal with.”
Harcourt tensed. Something was wrong. A moment later Gybbon tensed as well.
Before he could ask Gybbon if he had any idea what had them both on alert a sound reached his ears and he cursed.
A quick glance at Callum and Tamhas told him that they had also heard the sound.
Some herd of animals was headed their way at a gallop.
“I would guess cattle,” said Gybbon.
“Aye.” After looking all around, Harcourt pointed toward a small hill, the faintest hint of a dust cloud rising above it.
“O’er there and headed straight for us.” When the other two men joined them, Harcourt advised, “As soon as they are in sight we will ken which way we need to go to get out of their way. Dinnae hesitate, either. Just move. They are nay interested in harming us, only in getting away from whate’er is driving them. ”
“Ye think they are being driven?” asked Callum.
Harcourt nodded. “’Tis a panicked run. Ah, there they are.”
The cattle poured over the hill, thundering toward them at a reckless pace.
Following them were four men on horses driving the beasts onward with whips and even swords.
As he rode to the side of the stampede he had to wonder how many cattle would be lost to this new attempt to get at him and his men.
The waste infuriated him. That anyone would think he and his men too stupid to evade such an attack deeply insulted him as well. As soon as the cattle had passed, Harcourt drew his sword and went after the men driving them on, his men quickly following him.
It was a quick battle much to Harcourt’s disappointment.
One man escaped, turning his horse quickly and fleeing over the hill.
Tamhas pursued him for a while but turned back before getting too far away from Harcourt and the others.
Harcourt killed one and Callum killed another.
Gybbon wounded then captured the man he had fought with.
Dismounting, Harcourt walked over to where Gybbon held his captive at sword point and looked down at the man who was clutching his bleeding arm and wailing like a bairn.
“Cease that noise,” he ordered and lightly kicked the man in the hip.
“I am bleeding to death!”
“Then ye will miss your hanging.” Harcourt folded his arms over his chest and nodded in approval when the man paled and grew quiet. “One of Sir Adam’s men, are ye?” The man nodded. “Where is the bastard?”
“I dinnae ken. He sent us to stop ye looking about.”
“And ye thought sending noisy, scared cattle at us would do that?”
“Nay, I thought it a witless plan but Jaikie”—he glanced at one of the dead men—“he thought it was brilliant. Boasted how we would be trampling ye into the mud and finally be rid of ye all. Told him ye were on horses and could just ride out of the way but he cuffed me offside the head and did it anyway.”
“Where is Sir Adam?”
“I dinnae ken. Done told ye that.”
Harcourt placed his sword point at the man’s throat. “He gave ye the orders. Ye saw him.”
“Nay, I didnae and ye will get nay more answers from a dead mon than ye get from a live one. The mon sent another mon to tell us what to do. We are nay more than his hirelings. Mon wouldnae spit on one like me if I was on fire. I saw him but the once when we were hired. He came to look us o’er like cattle he meant to buy and slaughter.
Nay more than that. When he wants us to do something he has Clyde come and tell us. Clyde be his second, ye ken.”
“Aye, we have learned that much. Now we take this fool back to Glencullaich.”
“Och, mon, I told ye all I ken,” the man said, his voice a pain-filled whine as Gybbon none too gently yanked him to his feet. “Why dinnae ye just let me go?”
“So ye can go back to Sir Adam? Mayhap tell him all ye ken?”
“I dinnae ken a thing, do I?”
“Nay, ye will come with us. We may yet have need of what little ye do ken.”
Annys gaped at Harcourt and Gybbon when they strode into the hall. It was not that they appeared as if they had been in a battle that shocked her for a quick look at them revealed no wounds. It was the body Gybbon had flung over his shoulder. A body that was filthy, bloody, and very still.
“Where do ye keep your prisoners?” Harcourt asked.
“Ah, so he isnae dead then,” she said as she stood up and started to walk out of the great hall, waving at the two of them to follow her. “I wasnae sure.”
“Nay, he is nay dead,” said Gybbon. “Does have a wee wound that he should probably have tended to though.”
“That might be best,” she said as she led them into the ledger room. “E’en if he is one of Sir Adam’s hired swords, I am nay too fond of letting anyone rot down there.”
She unlocked a door at the far end of the room, one that blended perfectly with the heavy wood panels covering the walls quietly telling the men that it was also the door that led to the bolt-hole.
She shivered a little as she lit a torch with Harcourt’s help.
The air drifting up from below was cool and a little damp.
Annys knew that small shiver was also born of a deep dislike of going down into the bowels of the keep.
As she led them down the narrow steps, she repeatedly reminded herself that her fear was no more than a childhood scar on her heart and had no place here.
This was not her parents’ holding nor was it as cramped, dirty, or smelly as those few cells her father had kept for the occasional prisoner awaiting the sheriff.
As her right foot touched the floor of the cellar, something ran by and she had to clap a hand over her mouth to hold back a scream.
Harcourt reached around and took the torch out of her trembling hand.
He lit the torch stuck in a sconce on the wall at the base of the steps and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Out of the corner of her eye, between her and the cells, was a mouse.
“Oh, that is nay a rat, thank the Lord,” she muttered only to tense when it started to run again.