Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The faint smell of iron and horse sweat hung heavy in the solar as Fearchar stood by the narrow arrow-slit window, running a soft whetstone along the broad edge of his dirk. Below in the lower courtyard, the rhythmic clack of iron shoes against cobblestones signaled the changing of the gate guard.
The heavy oak door swept open without a knock.
Fearchar turned, the blade arresting mid-stroke.
Nandag stood in the threshold, her breathing shallow, her cheeks pale beneath the warm glow of the wall torches.
She held a small, crumpled square of parchment pinched tightly between her fingers, the pale wax of a broken seal still clinging to the edge of the fiber.
She didn't speak until she had pushed the heavy door shut, dropping the iron latch into place with a sharp thud.
"It came through the kitchens," she whispered, her voice tight, vibrating with a high, strained tension. "A boy from the lower glen delivered a basket of dried trout. This was tucked beneath the damp salt cloth."
Fearchar set the dirk and whetstone down on the edge of the trestle table. He crossed the room, his boots silent over the rushes, and stopped directly in front of her. He reached out, his fingers taking the parchment from her hand. His knuckles brushed hers, they were ice-cold.
His grey eyes dropping to the jagged, frantic handwriting across the slip.
"Mòrag," Nandag said, stepping close beside his shoulder as he unrolled the quiet warning. "Read it."
Fearchar held the paper toward the torchlight. The ink was thin, smeared in places as if written in haste on a knee:
Nandag,
Dinnae trust the quiet in the glen. Robert moves under cover of night.
He has met twice with MacLeod’s emissaries and sent three riders south tae the High Court.
He gathers men-at-arms near the Red Ford, but he daesnae intend tae scale your walls.
He buys lawyers and lords. He claims Fearchar took ye by shadow and blade, that our faither’s hand was forced, and that yer union is an illegal theft of the Farquharson title.
He carries signed depositions tae the King’s magistrates in Stirling.
Be ready. He means tae strip the chieftainship by royal decree before the winter snows close the pass.
Fearchar stared at the dark ink until the letters blurred into heavy black lines. The quiet, simmering rage that usually ignited in his gut didn't come; instead, a cold, hard clarity settled over his mind.
He looked down at Nandag. Her dark eyes were fixed on the letter, her thumb nervously tracing the silver brooch at her shoulder.
"He isnae going tae fight us on the field," Fearchar said, his gravelly voice dropping into the quiet register he used when drawing battle lines. "The bastard knows he cannae breach Strathglass steel. So he’s turned tae the ink-stained skirts of the King's court."
Nandag looked up, her jaw setting into the hard, unyielding line he had come to rely on.
"If he reaches Stirling first with sworn depositions from corrupted lairds, the Regent can issue a writ of treason against ye, Fearchar.
They will declare our marriage void by coercion, freeze the trade routes, and grant Robert legal right taea march intae the glen with royal troops behind him. "
"Aye," Fearchar growled, rolling the parchment tight and thrusting it into the inner pocket of his leather doublet. "He turns a Highland blood feud intae a dispute fer crown bailiffs."
He strode to the heavy oak door, threw up the latch, and barked into the echoing stone corridor: "Duncan! Get in here. Now."
Within a dozen heartbeats, the heavy footsteps of his captain thundered up the spiral stairs. Duncan burst into the solar, his gauntlets tucked into his belt, his eyes darting instantly between Fearchar’s hard face and Nandag’s pale composure.
"Me laird?" Duncan asked, his hand instinctively hovering near his basket-hilt.
"Robert’s changed his angle," Fearchar said flatly, leaning his palms against the edge of the trestle map table. "He’s gathering steel at the Red Ford, but it’s a distraction.
His real strike is heading south tae Stirling with a packet of lies fer the King’s judges.
He claims I stole Nandag and usurped the Farquharson lands without clan consent. "
Duncan swore beneath his breath, a sharp Highland curse. "The King’s lords love nothing more than an excuse tae meddle in mountain land rights. If they sign an order of outlawry—"
"They willnae get the chance," Fearchar interrupted, pointing a broad finger at the map.
"Double the watch on the curtain wall. Pull the scouts back from the outer glens and choke the main road.
If any man attempts tae cross the lower ford without Strathglass iron on his breast, hold him.
I want nay more of Cameron's messengers slipping past our perimeter. "
"And the men at the Red Ford?" Duncan asked.
"Let them sit there," Fearchar replied, his grey eyes cold. "They’re a shadow intended to draw our spears away from the road. Keep sixty men inside the courtyard, armed and ready. Move."
Duncan gave a sharp nod, turned on his heel, and hurried out, his heavy boots fading down the stairwell.
Fearchar turned back to the room. Nandag had already moved to the small writing desk near the hearth. She had pulled out three fresh sheets of heavy, cream-colored vellum, unstopped the dark ink pot, and was carefully trimming the tip of a goose-quill feather with a small ivory knife.
He walked over, stopping behind her chair, his broad shadow falling across the blank parchment. "What are ye writing, lass?"
Nandag didn't look up, her hands working with calm, deliberate speed.
"Robert builds his case on shadow and hearsay.
He relies on the King believing I am a helpless captive weeping in a tower.
" She dipped the quill into the black ink, her dark eyes flashing with a fierce, brilliant intellect.
"We hit him with steel he cannae bend. I am writing directly tae the Lord Chancellor in Stirling.
I will tell him me faither is ill and that I write fer him and me both. I will have him sign it too."
She looked up at him, the quill hovering over the vellum.
"I will detail the precise lineage of the Farquharson deeds. I will attach me faither’s original seal.
More than that, I am drafting a formal declaration of consent—signed in me own hand, witnessed by the clan elders—stating that our marriage was entered freely, witnessed under Highland law, and sealed by sacred choice. "
Fearchar looked down at her small, ink-stained fingers, a profound heat swelling in his chest that had nothing to do with war. He reached down, his heavy, calloused hand resting over the curve of her shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath.
"It must be airtight, Nandag," Fearchar murmured, his low voice thick with pride. "The crown lawyers look fer any tear in the parchment tae claw their way intae local holdings."
"It will be seamless," she answered, her quill already touching the page, leaving a dark, elegant line of script behind it. "If Robert wants tae fight us with parchment and seals, I will show him that a daughter of Clan Chisholm knows how tae handle a quill just as well as he handles treachery."
Fearchar pulled up a heavy wooden chair, sitting close beside her as the fire crackled in the hearth. He watched her work, supplying names of old border chieftains who could verify his own lineage, his broad hand occasionally reaching out to steady the edge of the parchment as she wrote.
Outside, the first dark shadows of evening began to creep up the high stone walls of Castle Strathglass, but inside the small room, the fire burned bright, casting their unified shadows long and unbroken against the rough stone walls.
The morning sun cut through the river mist in sharp, golden spears, glinting off the rushing waters of the Glass. The air smelled of damp pine needles, crushed fern, and the deep, rich earth of early autumn.
Fearchar kept his bay stallion at a slow walk along the elevated ridge above the water, his eyes constantly moving—scanning the dense treeline, tracing the rocky ledges across the river, and measuring the depth of the muddy banks.
Beside him, four of his best scouts rode a hundred paces ahead, their steel caps gleaming faintly through the high hazel brush as they checked the ground for iron-shod hoofprints or snapped branches.
Nandag rode right beside his left stirrup on her dark mare. Her wool plaid was wrapped tight against the river chill, her dark hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, though a few stray curls fluttered around her face in the breeze.
Fearchar pulled his stallion to a halt near an old ash tree, looking down at the wide curve of the river.
"The water is low enough tae ford here," he murmured, turning his head to look at her. "The timber on the eastern side gives too much cover fer an advancing party. It’s dangerous fer ye tae be out in the open like this, lass."
Nandag didn't even blink. She gathered her reins slightly, bringing her mare half a head past his, her dark eyes locking onto his with a look that would have withered a lesser man where he stood.
"I am nae going back tae sit in a drafty solar while ye scout me faither's lands, Fearchar," she said evenly, her voice carrying that quiet, stubborn edge he had come to know all too well.
"I ken these glens better than yer scouts. If Robert comes through the eastern pass, he willnae use the main trail. He’ll use the sheep tracks. "
Fearchar stared at her for a long moment, trying to hold a hard, unyielding expression, but he saw the utter lack of fear in her face. He let out a low huff of breath and shook his head.
"Ye are the most stubborn woman in the Highlands," he muttered.
"And ye are repeating yerself, me laird," she replied, a faint, victorious spark lighting her eyes.