Chapter 25
The cold evening air settled on the outer courtyard, and the slowly dimming light slid across the floor as Jack followed Troy down the steps.
The cold bit through his shirt, and the anger from the quarrel upstairs still prickled at the back of his neck, but he kept his hands loose at his sides to tame it.
“So, what was so urgent that ye couldnae wait for me to finish speaking with Lady Emma?”
“Me Laird, we found a man near the woods. Said he must speak with ye alone,” Troy revealed, keeping a brisk pace.
“Ye found a man near the woods,” Jack repeated.
“Aye,” Troy said quietly.
“If he is an intruder, why in God’s name would ye bring him near the gate?” Jack asked.
He cast a look at the wall-walk and counted the helms, then looked back at Troy.
“Because he kent about the prisoner,” Troy responded calmly. “The one who tried to breach the walls last week.”
He pointed toward the outer courtyard as if to urge speed while Jack processed his words, letting the silence press down on him like a folded linen.
“He kent?” Jack asked, moving right behind him.
“Aye. He said the man’s name was Gale,” Troy said. He pushed the gate a fraction so they could step onto the open ground.
“Who is he?” Jack scanned the tree line and felt for the weight of his knife. “The man by the gate?”
“We daenae ken, me Laird. He says he’ll only speak to ye.” Troy gestured to the waiting guards and set a steady line of sight toward the woods.
Jack balled his hands into fists. There was the note he had found the other day in his study, and now this.
Something was off. Something was dangerously wrong, and he feared that he might not be able to recognize it until it was too late.
They reached the outer courtyard, and the figure ahead grew clearer with each step Jack took.
A short, red-haired man stood close to the gate, his cloak torn and boots thin at the soles.
His breath fogged from his mouth in quick bursts, and he rubbed his hands almost involuntarily, as if he had been chasing the cold away his whole life, and this was no different.
“Me Laird,” he greeted as Jack drew closer.
“Ye wanted to talk?” Jack grunted, stopping two paces away. He took in the man’s eyes and the set of his shoulders.
The man bowed quickly. “Good evening, Laird MacLeod. I am certain yer man has disclosed to ye the fact that I have information ye might wish to hear.” He swallowed and kept his gaze on Jack’s boots.
“What is yer name?” Jack asked, shifting his stance so he could see both the man and the trees behind him.
“Heron, me Laird,” the man answered, mustering a toothy grin. “Though that hardly matters. Would’ve reached ye sooner if walking from the Black Wolf were easier than riding.”
Jack felt his heart skip a beat. Black Wolf. That was where he theorized the intruder had stayed before coming here.
“Ye need to ken, me Laird, that it’s harder than swallowing bad ale, that road,” Heron continued. He rubbed at a scuff on his boot as if the joke might soften the talk.
“Black Wolf?” Troy echoed, confirming Jack’s suspicions.
It looked like Heron might just be telling the truth, after all.
“Aye, ‘tis a tavern,” Heron explained. “South of here. Fine place till ye owe the mistress a drink, which I still do.” He lifted his hands as if to show that he carried no blade.
“We ken where Black Wolf is. And enough chatter with ye. If ye have information, spill it out. Do ye ken who the intruder was?” Jack asked, watching the man’s expression for any twitch.
“Better,” Heron said. He rolled his shoulders like a hawker about to show a prize. “I ken who sent him, and what he wanted.” He tapped one finger against his cloak tie as if it were a coin.
Jack felt his knees tremble. This was it. This was his chance to find out who was behind the letter and the threat to Emma’s life.
“Then speak,” he ordered, doing all he could to mask his anticipation. He kept his face blank and his stance ready.
“There’s a wee problem, me Laird,” Heron said, raising his hand. “The truth is quite heavy, and ye ken that sometimes, heavy truths need encouragement.”
“Encouragement?” Jack let the word hang in the cold air.
“A bit of coin, ye see. A man like ye values knowledge,” Heron said, angling his body toward the courtyard, as if the empty space might protect him.
“Ye want coin?”
Heron smiled, his crooked brown teeth gleaming in the dull light. “I ken ye are a wise man.”
Jack scoffed. “Ye’re just another grifter looking to bleed the keep, are ye nae?”
Heron’s voice lowered. “I daenae—”
“I ken people like ye. Ye need money to buy more ale, so ye thought ye could just come to the first laird ye find.”
“That is nae the case at all. Me Laird, I—”
“Tell me, Heron. Do I look like a fool to ye?”
“Me Laird—”
“Do I look like a fool to ye?”
Heron shook his head slightly, rubbing his palms together. “Nae at all, me Laird.”
“Because ye are obviously in need of money, I will let ye go this time. If any of me men catch ye around these parts again, I willnae be as kind.”
“Me Laird—”
“Get him out of me sight.”
The guards came closer and reached for Heron’s hands as Jack turned around, the castle back in his view. He took a few steps forward but stopped when Heron cried out again.
“Wait. ‘Tis about yer daughter!” His voice cracked on the last word.
Jack froze mid-stride and swallowed. The air seemed to grow colder, and he cleared his throat. Slowly, he turned back to Heron.
“What did ye say?”
“Yer wee lass. Stella,” Heron said. He wet his lips as if the name were dust. “That is her name, is it nae?” He glanced toward the trees and then back at Jack. “I told ye, me Laird. I am nae lying.”
A brief silence passed between them, punctuated only by the evening wind.
“Troy, fetch the pouch from me study,” Jack instructed, breaking the silence.
“Me Laird—” Troy started, the concern in his voice evident.
“I am in nay mood to argue,” Jack cut in.
Troy started to speak again, but then closed his mouth. He nodded once and ran as fast as he could into the castle.
Jack stared hard at Heron. “If I find out that yer tale is false, I’ll hunt ye meself. Ye’ll beg for death before I am done with ye,” he threatened, splaying his hands so the man could see them and fear them.
“Aye, aye. Fair enough.” Heron bobbed his head and curled his fingers as if the coin had already warmed them.
Troy returned with a leather pouch and pressed it into Jack’s palm. The weight settled against his cold skin as he turned to Heron once again.
“Now, tell me. Who sent the intruder?” Jack asked. He loosened the string a little with his thumb and held the man’s eyes.
“It’s someone ye ken well,” Heron began. Then, he leaned in until the guards retreated a little. “Someone who wants nothing but to see ye dead.”
“Who?”
Heron opened his mouth to speak, but an arrow split the air at that exact moment. It whizzed past Jack’s ear and plunged clean through Heron’s throat. A gurgle rose and died. Heron dropped to his knees and clawed at the shaft as if to pull it out.
“Christ!” Troy shouted, shoving a guard behind a cart and pulling his own blade free in the same breath.
Jack spun toward the treeline and saw a cloaked rider burst out of the shadows. He made eye contact with Jack for the briefest second before whipping back into the woods and riding into the darkness.
Jack balled his fists and bolted after him. His boots dug into the ground and kicked up sand as he ran. He sprinted across the outer steps and cut across the yard’s edge to steal the angle.
The rider hit the bend and cast a glance back. Jack dove into the trees, the sand underfoot urging him forward, even though a part of him knew this was a losing battle. A branch caught his sleeve, and he tore it free with a jerk.
Another arrow hissed wide from the rider, and Jack ducked just in time. The arrow’s sharp point slammed into the tree behind him and remained buried there.
Jack ran until his lungs burned, and only when the horse’s hoofbeats faded into the dark did he stop running. He looked around the woods for a few more minutes, hoping to find something. A clue, some link to whoever had been on that horse.
He found nothing.
The gate was almost shut when he ran back in, gripping his arm where a tree branch had torn at it. Heron still lay flat with his eyes open to the whites. The coin pouch had spilled, and the silver had scattered in a half-circle at Jack’s feet.
“Take the coin, Troy,” Jack ordered.
Then, he looked at the shaft in the dead man’s throat and saw the narrow head and the neat trim of the feather.
Whoever had shot the arrow was an expert marksman. That much was evident. And for some reason, it only made him more curious as to who he could be dealing with.
For now, though, the warning was well received. And if he did his job well, there wouldn’t be another warning. Of that much he was certain.