Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The heavy oak gates of Castle Strathglass slammed shut with a boom that echoed through the stone courtyard. Iron bars slid into place, sealed tight against the dark valley beyond.
Fearchar stood at the top of the courtyard steps, the night air bitter and sharp against his face. Blood—some his own, but most belonging to the corpse currently being hauled down to the vaults—crusted his knuckles and dark leather doublet.
Beside him, Duncan stood with his hand resting grimly on his basket-hilted broadsword.
“I want tae speak tae every villager. I still dinnae ken how that man managed tae hide among them.”
“Me laird, it seems he had come looking fer a job tae make some coin a few days past and he was helping the smithy.”
"Well, I will question each and every one of them.
Double the wall guard," Fearchar ordered, his voice a low, hard rasp that cut through the frightened murmurs of the gathered servants.
"Four men on the gatehouse. Three on the water post. I want archers posted every ten paces along the battlements, and nay one—nay one—moves through this inner ward without a torch and two guards beside them. "
"Aye, me laird," Duncan said, his eyes scanning the shadow-draped courtyard with dangerous intensity. "And Lady Nandag?"
"She is inside under armed guard," Fearchar said, his jaw tightening so hard the muscles in his cheek throbbed. "Four of me personal men at the door. Duncan, if a single soul so much as breathes near her threshold without me word, put steel through them."
Duncan nodded once, a sharp, solemn jerk of his head. "Consider it done."
Fearchar turned on his heel and strode back into the Great Hall.
The warmth of the massive hearth fire did nothing to thaw the cold dread settled deep in his gut.
Hours ago, this room had been a place of sanctuary, filled with weeping children and weary women eating hot broth from his wife’s hands.
Now, every shadow felt like a drawn dagger, every frightened face a potential betrayer.
The rescued villagers were gathered near the high dais, huddled together under wool blankets, their eyes wide and terrified as armed Chisholm guards took up positions along the stone walls.
Fearchar pulled a heavy wooden chair to the center of the floor and sat directly in front of them.
He didn't wear a helmet; he didn't raise his voice.
He sat at eye level, his grey eyes piercing and relentless.
"One by one," Fearchar commanded quietly. "Bring the smith first."
The blacksmith staggered forward, his arm wrapped tightly in linen where Nandag had stitched him only hours before. The man’s knees shook, his eyes darting toward the cold stone floorboards.
"Laird Fearchar," the smith rasped, his voice trembling. "We didnae ken, we swear on the Holy Book, none of us knew what that viper was daeing here."
"Quiet, man," Fearchar said, raising a broad hand. The gesture was calm, but his tone held no patience for panic. "I am nae blaming ye. I am asking ye tae help me tear this serpent out by its roots. Sit."
The smith sat gingerly on a three-legged stool.
"Tell me about the man who attacked me wife," Fearchar said, leaning his forearms on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. "He wore yer village’s soot. He walked among ye as if he belonged to the burn. Where did ye first see him?"
The smith rubbed his brow with his good hand, his breath coming in ragged hitches. "He... he came to the forge two days past, me laird. Said his name was Cormac. Claimed he was a timber-cutter from the upper glen whose cabin was burned by border reivers. He was lookin’ fer protection and a job."
"Did anyone vouch fer him?"
"He had a letter of passage," the smith whispered, swallowing hard. "Signed with the mark of the Farquharson reeve from the south ridge. We had nay reason tae doubt it. He worked the bellows, helped carry charcoal... he was quiet. Never complained."
Fearchar’s eyes narrowed slightly. "And during the attack taenight?"
"When the smoke rose, he was near the river," the smith continued, his memory sharpening under Fearchar’s steady, unblinking gaze.
"I saw him near the trees before the fighting started.
He wasnae running from the riders, me laird.
I... I saw him standing beside the mounted brute, the one ye ran through. "
"Speaking tae him?" Fearchar pressed, his voice dropping an octave.
"Aye," the smith said, a shudder running through his heavy frame. "Low and fast. Things happened so fast I didnae have time tae think of it. I now think he may have cut his own arm and started screaming fer help."
Fearchar’s knuckles turned white against his knee.
The trap had been laid with terrifying precision.
Robert Cameron hadn't simply sent a party of nameless mercenaries to raid a border settlement; he had used the attack as a smoke screen to drive a wolf directly into the sheepfold, trusting Fearchar’s own sense of honor and duty to carry the assassin straight past the castle gates.
"Bring the old shepherd's daughter," Fearchar ordered, waving the smith back toward the hearth.
The young woman stepped forward, wrapping her frayed wool shawl tight around her shoulders. She was still pale, a purple bruise purpling along her cheekbone where the mercenary had struck her, but her gaze was clear.
"Tell me what ye noticed about him," Fearchar said gently. "Anything he said. Anything he asked."
"He asked about the castle layout, me laird," the girl whispered, her voice tight with suppressed anger. "Two nights ago, while we were mending nets by the river. He knew the names of the guard captains. He even..." She hesitated, glancing toward the stairwell leading to the upper chambers.
"Speak, lass," Fearchar urged.
"He knew Lady Nandag’s routines," she said softly. "He knew she walked the gardens after evening prayers. Fergive me, me laird, I didnae think much of it at the time. I thought it was just a wee bit of castle gossip. People like tae imagine what goes on in here…”"
A dark, lethal silence settled over the Great Hall.
Fearchar stood up slowly. The sheer calculation of it burned in his chest like swallowed fire. Robert Cameron had mapped their lives from afar, exploiting their mercy, using the suffering of innocent clan members to strike at the heart of Castle Strathglass.
Duncan stepped up beside him as the girl returned to her family. "He daesnae act alone, Fearchar," Duncan muttered, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the hearth fire.
Fearchar turned his head slightly, peering at his kinsman. "What are ye saying?"
"A timber-cutter with a forged pass daesnae learn the guard rotations of the inner ward by standing near a smithy three miles away," Duncan said, his dark eyes fixed on the servants moving nervously along the periphery of the hall.
"Someone inside these walls gave him those names.
Someone told him which postern gate was weakly guarded taenight, and when ye would be stepping ontae the battlements. "
Fearchar’s gaze drifted past Duncan, scanning the faces of the castle guards, the cooks carrying cold platters, the stable hands huddled near the doors.
Malcolm’s smooth, arrogant face from the evening’s meeting flashed in his mind.
Mòrag remains the laird's eldest daughter... a true Farquharson never fergets the eldest line.
"Malcolm," Fearchar growled under his breath.
"Or someone paid by him," Duncan replied grimly. "Or a Cameron sympathizer left over from the war. If there's one rat under the floorboards, there may be three more hiding in the grain bins."
Fearchar paced to the center of the hall, his boots striking the flagstones with heavy, deliberate rhythm.
The weight of command pressed down on his shoulders, cold and unforgiving.
He had won the elders' grudging respect with timber and free milling; he had saved these villagers from fire and steel.
But none of it mattered if his home was a sieve, and his wife a target in her own bed.
He halted, spinning round to face Duncan and the gathered captains of the guard.
"Listen tae me well," Fearchar declared, his voice echoing off the high stone rafters, sharp as winter ice.
"Starting now, every man, woman, and child inside this castle is tae be questioned.
I want every servant checked against the steward's rolls.
Every guard who was on the eastern gate taenight is tae be disarmed and brought tae the solar one by one. "
"And the newcomers?" a guard captain asked, gesturing toward the terrified villagers near the fire.
"Keep them safe, feed them, but dinnae let a single one of them wander intae the upper keep without four guards at their back," Fearchar commanded.
"If anyone—guard, servant, or elder—attempts tae leave the castle grounds or approach Lady Nandag's chambers, toss them in the pit until I can deal with them personally. "
"Aye, me laird!" a captain called out, turning to shout orders to his men.
Fearchar turned back to Duncan, his expression carved from mountain granite. "I am going up tae the solar. I want the guard doubled outside Nandag’s door. I willnae leave her side again until every stone in this fortress is purged."
"Go tae her," Duncan said, resting a heavy hand on Fearchar's shoulder. "I'll handle the gate guards meself."
Fearchar didn't wait. He turned and marched up the wide stone staircase, his hand resting tightly on the basket hilt of his broadsword, his eyes scanning every shadowed alcove as he moved toward his wife.
The heavy oak door was barred from the inside with an iron-bound beam, and four Chisholm blades kept watch in the corridor beyond, but the chamber still felt vast and exposed.