Chapter 3 #3
Sgathan wanted to rouse her and ask her those and a thousand more questions, but that was not how the clan dealt with strangers in the stronghold.
He locked her in the cell, and took with him the odd clip she’d used to unlatch the door so she could not release herself again.
When she awoke Dorchad would send down yet another vassal to play a guard or patroller to help her to escape as a show of sympathy.
They had never been forced to use three different ruses, but if the second failed doubtless his twin would think of a third.
Unless he decides to create a special torment for her.
That unlikely prospect made him grow sympathetic toward her, for his twin had always despised females.
Perhaps I should take her under my protection.
Women always liked him; they compared him to his brothers and called him gentler and kinder.
Aye, and how long should it take before this pretty stranger learns of what you hide from all?
As he walked upstairs he saw a towering silhouette waiting at the top for him. One of the biggest men of the clan, Chief of the Night Watch Lochran was no doubt making his rounds now that the sun had set.
“Fair evening, Night Watch,” Sgathan said as he passed him. When the other man fell into step beside him he sighed. “If you must ken I didnae bring the wench into the keepe. ’Twas our lord’s doing.”
“Aye, ’tis what troubles me. The laird never dallies with outsider females.
” Unlike most of their brothers Lochran had a quiet, watchful manner, and often served as a peacemaker when strife erupted among the clan.
“She’s said to be gold-haired and dressed in mannish garments. Never tell me she’s a Norsewoman.”
“I reckon no’, for she doesnae speak in their tongue.
” He had listened in on Seumas’s conversation with the strange woman, and her accent perplexed him.
“She’s as comely and flawless as a king’s kept woman, but speaks strangely and uses words I dinnae ken.
Aye, and she seems fearless. Mayhap she’s been sent to spy on the clan? ”
“Who should use a rare beauty to breach our defenses, and why? We’ve aroused no suspicions with our raids,” the chief countered. “Och, you spend too much time of late with your brother and Cath. She’s no snoop.”
They entered the great hall together, where Tair stood listening to his senior patrol captains report. He beckoned to them, and when Sgathan and Lochran joined him he dismissed the captains .
“How fares that wench?” Tair asked as soon as they were alone.
Och, fack. The laird’s expression told him that the blonde wench had somehow wheedled her way past his indifference to snare his full attention.
That meant the outsider would make more trouble than he’d reckoned.
Keeping his opinions to himself, Sgathan related how their first attempt to chase her from the island had failed.
He then offered the laird the bent clip she’d used to unlatch her cell door.
“Aye, she’s a clever one.” Tair turned it over. “’Tis a buckle?”
“More like a hair pin, I reckon,” he said. “’Twould seem she’s accustomed to escaping such conditions, my lord.”
“Mayhap you should send her to the new magistrate," Lochran said, and then shifted with lightning-fast swiftness to avoid Tair’s fist from smashing into his face. “Och, so you’re keen on the lass. I but jest.”
“Go and assure we’re no’ besieged by more wayward wenches, eejit,” the laird told him before regarding Sgathan. “Dinnae inform my second.”
“Alas, my lord, I convinced the wee man already to tell me all.” Silent as ever, Dorchad appeared in the spot Lochran had just vacated.
“Mistress Lucy Brooke claimed she came here from across the sea. She named her time as the twenty-first century and mentioned her homeland doesnae yet exist. If ’tis true, then either the Fae or druid kind brought her back in time to our island. ”
Sgathan closed his eyes for a moment. “The magic folk couldnae, for their high council forbids them now from bringing back any mortal from future times.”
“Bollocks. The sly facks may do as they please,” his brother muttered, “and none outside their tribes may prove the wiser.”
“’Twas the facking cluet,” Tair said to put an end to their bickering.
“The Night Watch, he’s no’ wrong,” Dorchad said.
“With her face and those ripe chebs she should fetch a high price from midland slavers. Doubtless some noble shall keep her well and pampered, and fack her until she swells with his bastart. If you hit me,” he added as the laird bunched his fist, “I’ll forget you’re my lord again and strike back. ”
“Do naught until I say. Curse the gods, but this wench and her wiles, they’ve addled all of you.” Tair turned his back on them and strode across the hall and into the war chamber.
Sgathan didn’t care seeing their lord in such a state. “I should send the maids to bank the fires before the storms descend.”
“Never fear. He’ll drown his foul mood in good whiskey,” Dorchad predicted. “I’ll arrange to have one of the carpenters release the wench in another hour. Mayhap he should sail with her to shore.”
“Give her the night.” He wasn’t sure why the laird had taken such an interest in the intruder, but if that grew more pressing he might decide to keep her for himself. “When did our lord last take a lover?”
“Before the start of winter he rode out across the ridges to spend a night with that smith’s widow,” his brother said.
“She remarried since, and he’s yet to look for another.
I ken a fetching red-haired weaver in a croft ten leagues south.
She lost her husband last summer during the floods, and she’d make a fine bed wench. ”
He grimaced. “Dinnae call them such.”
“He beds them, they’re wenches, what else should you name them?” Dorchad chided. “You ken as well as me he doesnae care for them beyond giving them their pleasures and leaving a pile of coin.” He frowned. “Why does he pay when they’d swive him for naught? They’re no hoors.”
“He’s no’ a pinchpenny, and they’re widows ever in need of aid. The silver, ’tis a kindness.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll take a tray down to the wench early on the morrow. By then our lord should ken what he wishes do with her.”
The chieftain shrugged and went off to speak to two of his guards.
Sgathan considered going to speak with the laird again, but decided it wasn’t worth a broken jaw.
He left the hall and went to the kitchens, where he praised Seumas to the clan’s cook before continuing on to the tower where he did his night work.
To everyone else the room at the top of the tower appeared to be a study of sorts, where Sgathan kept his household ledgers and lists of stores, livestock and other necessities to keep the clan fed, well and reasonably content.
His cat, Piseag, lay curled up on the tartan he’d left behind.
As for the scrolls he had collected over the years, no one knew they filled three trunks under a layer of old, stained garments.
He went over to give the cat a scratching about the ears. Large and plump with orange-gold striped fur, the feline looked much different from the scrawny kitten Sgathan had found huddled beside him one morning. All animals seemed to find favor with him, but Piseag seemed particularly smitten.
“We’ve a golden-haired wench in the dungeons,” he told his pet as he unlocked the trunk nearest his desk. “She’s a beauty, but och, so much trouble. You’d likely adore her.”
Piseag yawned widely and went back to sleep.
Ronan came in with a tray, which he placed on a side table before regarding Sgathan with strained patience. “Fair evening, Seneschal.”
“My thanks, Cook, but you neednae bring my meals to me,” he reminded the older man.
“If I didnae you’d forget and starve.” The cook hesitated before he asked, “Shall I send a wench with a tray to the dungeons, then?”
He shook his head. “The prisoner, she shallnae starve. In the morning she’ll be on her way.”
“The laird’s drinking up the whiskey again,” the cook said before he stalked out.
Sgathan knew that strong spirits calmed Tair more than they made him drunk, but then so did Ronan. Why would he mention it?
’Tisnae your duty to nursemaid the laird, his twin would have said. Leave Tair alone to deal with what plagues him.
He got up and dropped the bolt bar on the chamber door before he took out the scroll he’d only just purchased from a traveling merchant two days past. The edges crumbled a bit as he unrolled it to reveal the scrawl inside, which had been written in éireann.
He could read that tongue well enough to translate the text, which was a warning about men wandering the forests at night.
Steal not into the darkness to wander the woods, my friend, for among the trees dwell countless vicious creatures hungry for your flesh and blood.
They dress in garments fashioned from vines, leaves and mold, and beckon from doorways that alight in trees.
You may find them tempting, but they only wish trap you inside their cursed places, where they may feast on you powerless and unable to cry for aid.
“Melia.” He’d encountered such tales before this one, always claiming that the forest Fae intended to harm those they met. In truth they were more likely to keep them as pets, as they sometimes released them many decades later. Their captives did not age, and seemed forever afterward rather addled.
Should you attempt to elude them, beware their terrible unnatural servants. Neither man nor beast, these creatures attack and devour mortal kind from the inside out. Once they burrow into the body, the victim cannae be saved.
The rest of the text made up lists of name places where the melia lived, although most were in éire. He noted a few places in Scotland, but none anywhere near Gealladh. Another fruitless purchase, more wasted coin.
Shall I ever discover the truth?
Unlike the rest of the clan Sgathan had long concealed the one never-ending terror of his life; not even his twin brother knew of his struggle to cope with his secret.
For decades he had consulted with herbalists and druids, collecting stories and legends from those who would tell or sell them to him, but none matched the terrible creature that haunted his every nightmare.
Worse, even if he discovered the truth about the monster, he still might never escape it.
Because Sgathan doubted he would sleep he went to work on his ledgers, and then made note of the stores they would need for the coming season. Near dawn someone knocked at the door, and when Sgathan unbolted and opened it he found one of the laird’s personal guards waiting.
His presence meant trouble. “What’s happened?”
“Seneschal, that wench locked in the dungeon last night, she’s escaped again,” the guard told him.