Highland Protector (6 page)

Simon nudged the cat off his lap, stood up and stretched. He would be spending a lot of time in court over the next few days and it was best if he got some sleep. A man needed a sharp mind to weave his way safely through all the intrigues, lies, and betrayals that went on in the king’s court. It was good to have another puzzle to solve, he mused as he strode off to his bedchamber, Bonegnasher and the cat at his heels.

It was not until he was settled into his bed that he realized there was another more subtle reason that he was eager to get started ferreting out the truth. A part of him wanted to prove that Ilsabeth Murray Armstrong was innocent. Worse, to his way of thinking, it was not simply his thirst for justice that made him eager. It was a pair of bright blue eyes and a soft, husky voice that acted like a caress on his skin every time she spoke. Simon cursed. Ilsabeth was definitely trouble and not just because she was caught up in plots, murder, and treason.

Sir Walter Hepbourn was the type of man most women found very pleasing. Shining fair hair, a flirtatious smile revealing good teeth, and a well-muscled form dressed in the finest court clothing. Simon wondered why all of that irritated him so much. If what Ilsabeth told him was true, it was very daring of the man to come to court so soon after committing the murder of the king’s cousin and throwing around false accusations. He must have left not long after Ilsabeth had. It would have been wiser to stay close to his home until the suspicions against the Armstrongs had hardened.

Simon nearly grimaced in disgust over the way the man played the stunned, embarrassed, and heart-bruised betrothed who had been betrayed and used by his love. It was all an act. Simon was certain of it. Unfortunately, his certainty did not mean the man was guilty of all Ilsabeth said he was. It just meant that Sir Walter knew how to play with the sympathies of the courtiers who clung to the king’s court in the hope of some favor.

One other thing that Simon was now certain of was that Sir Walter Hepbourn thought himself far and above any Armstrong. The man’s distaste for that clan wove around and through every word he spoke. After two days of watching the man, however, that was the only suspicious thing Simon had discovered. Why, if Hepbourn so utterly despised the Armstrongs, had the man betrothed himself to one of the clan’s daughters? Ilsabeth’s explanation was the only one that made sense, but he would not accept that as fact just yet.

It was another puzzle, however. The more Simon sought out the truth, one he now confessed to himself he was eager to find so that his attraction to Ilsabeth was no longer a danger to himself, the more puzzles he came across. He did not find it all that difficult to believe that Hepbourn would do all Ilsabeth said he had and Simon knew that was one small step toward uncovering the truth needed to prove she was innocent.

“Psst! Simon! O’er here.”

As covertly as he was able, Simon moved toward the shadowed alcove that sibilant command had come from. He had the strong feeling that not all the Murrays had disappeared from court. Either that or they had sent a friend and ally few in the court would associate with their clan or the Armstrongs. Yet the man had called him Simon, an informality that implied a close relationship. Once within the alcove, Simon studied the man who had called to him. Even in the deep shadows he could see enough to know who faced him now.

“I dinnae think it is wise for ye to be here now, Tormand,” Simon said, shifting so that he could keep a close eye upon all the other people in the hall.

“How did ye ken it was me?” Tormand asked, his annoyance over the easy recognition clear to hear in his voice. “I thought myself weel disguised.”

“Smearing something white in your beard and hair and wearing ugly clothing isnae a verra good disguise, leastwise nay to one who kens ye as weel as I do. Nor, I suspect, to the many women here who kenned ye verra weel indeed ere ye got married. And how is dear Morainn?”

Tormand cursed softly. “Fine. Healthy. The bairns are healthy. Is Ilsabeth safe?”

“Safe enough. She is secure within my home.”

“Secure as in safe? Or secure as in imprisoned?”

The thread of anger in Tormand’s voice told Simon he was right to think that trying to prove Ilsabeth innocent could become very complicated. He had several close friends amongst the Murrays and they were a very closely bound family, their loyalty and affection stretching out to even the most distant cousin. If he could not save Ilsabeth, or he decided she was guilty, Simon knew he could destroy friendships, even make a few enemies.

“Ye would rather I had sent her to the king?”

“Curse it, Simon, that lass didnae kill that mon nor would Cormac have anything to do with treason.”

“Ye ken Ilsabeth weel, do ye?” “Nay weel, but I do ken her. I also ken Cormac. He has spent his life trying to scrub away the stain his parents left on their name. He wouldnae toss aside a life’s work or endanger his own child.”

Simon did not think so either, but men had done stranger things. Fathers did not always have full control over or knowledge of what their children were doing. The fact that it made no sense for Sir Cormac to plot treason or Ilsabeth to kill a man she did not even know was not enough to declare them innocent, mere victims of someone else’s plots.

“Ye ken weel that I always seek the truth,” Simon said. “Always. My way worked for ye and for your cousin James. If Ilsabeth is innocent, I will prove it and find the guilty one, but allow me to say if until I get that proof.”

Tormand sighed. “As ye wish. Did she tell ye what happened? Did she e’en ken anything at all?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Simon told Tormand all Ilsabeth had told him. “It sounds as if it is the truth.” He caught sight of Hepbourn. “And that man is vain and foolish enough to be a traitor. But I need more than her word and the word of her kin. Proof, nay just my word or belief in her innocence, is what will get her free of this deadly tangle. ‘Tis why her father sent her to me. He trusts me to find that proof.”

“I ken it. I do,” muttered Tormand. “ ‘Tis just that I want this shadow o’er us all to go away. I want an enemy I can get my hands on instead of naught but accusations, lies, and whispers. I want Cormac and his clan to be able to cease running and hiding. God’s tears, if this continues for much longer there could weel be a lot of my clan running right alongside them.”

Simon understood his friend’s frustration. He shared it. Patience was something he had taught himself, learning that finding the truth required slow, tedious work at times. He was finding that patience difficult to cling to now. Simon tried to tell himself that was because the king was in danger, but he knew that was a lie. He wanted to grasp some hard fact, even some hint, of what plot was afoot and who was behind it for one reason only. He did not want to see that flare of hope in a pair of beautiful blue eyes die again, as it did each time he returned home with no news, no answers.

“We need to find David,” he said.

“David? Who is David?”

“Sir Hepbourn’s cousin. If what Ilsabeth tells me is true,” he ignored Tormand’s whispered curse—“this David is part of the plot. He follows Hepbourn, and a follower can often be a weak spot in any plan, easily broken.” Simon could see that some people were beginning to take too much notice of how he remained in the shadows. “Ye cannae be seen here nor can ye be seen to be helping me, but mayhap ye can move about enough to aid me in finding this David. Mayhap Morainn can help, too. I dinnae suppose she has had a vision about all of this.”

“Nay. Not one about what is happening now. She did have one in time to make certain that Cormac was ready when the danger came. By the time the soldiers entered Aigballa the only ones left inside were the old and the lame. The soldiers soon decided they were of no use but I fear a few died ere the soldiers gave up trying to get them to help take down their laird. Now the soldiers camp within the walls of Aigballa and word is that, if they arenae driven away soon, t’will be years before Cormac can clean up the mess they will leave behind.”

“I will see that he is recompensed for this. Nothing can bring back the dead, but some payment will help ease the burden of the damages done and make certain no more die as they try to restock their stores. One thing ere ye leave–”

“I am leaving, am I?”

“Aye. Too many grow curious about the shadow I speak to. Ilsabeth has two children.” “Nay, she doesnae. She is a maid.” “Foundlings, ye fool.”

“Bad time for her to take them in, but I cannae fault her for that.”

“Nay, and I dinnae. Howbeit, she has made me swear that, if she cannae care for them, I will see them safely to your family.”

“Agreed.”

“Good. That is if Old Bega will let them go.”

“Ye would let them stay with you?”

“Dinnae sound so surprised. I like children. I particularly like these children. And Old Bega has already clasped them close to her heart. I just wanted to be certain there was a place for them nay matter what happens. Now, go, because a few people have grown brave enough to draw nearer and your disguise wouldnae fool anyone.”

A moment later, Simon knew he was alone. He walked out of the shadows and made his way toward Sir Hepbourn. It was past time to have a talk with the man. If luck was with him, he might just get the fool to say something that would help show Simon which way to look next for the truth he sought. The way people around Hepbourn slowly stepped back as Simon approached was a little amusing. His reputation as the king’s man, or the king’s hound as some called him, made many people nervous.

“So, Sir Simon, the king has set ye on the trail of the traitors, has he?” asked Sir Hepbourn.

“He has,” Simon replied, thinking that the man was cleverly bold to bring the matter up so quickly, or innocent. Simon’s instinct told him it was the former. “I but wondered if ye had an opinion on where your lady might have fled. As the mon who was to be her husband, I thought ye may ken a secret or two that would help us find her.”

“Ah, weel, I assumed she was hiding with the rest of her clan.”

“Did ye. One shouldnae assume anything about a lass who would stab a mon in the heart and plot against the king.” The flare of anger in Hepbourn’s eyes pleased Simon. “Ye must have spent some time at Aigballa.”

“I did indeed.” Sending a brief, sad smile to the people nearest them, Hepbourn sighed. “A secretive lot they are. I thought that their reluctance to fully embrace me as a new member of their clan, as the mon who would soon claim the laird’s own daughter as his wife, was odd. Now I ken that they didnae wish to risk the chance that I might uncover their plots or any of their bolt-holes.”

“Mayhap such confidences would have come later, once ye were truly the lass’s husband.”

“Mayhap. Yet, Ilsabeth is one and twenty, far past marrying age. Ye would think her father would have welcomed a husband for her with open arms, especially one of my standing. But, I often got the feeling Sir Cormac watched me as if he feared I was about to rob him blind.” He laughed and shook his head. And mayhap Sir Cormac sensed that ye were a threat to not only his daughter but his whole clan, Simon thought. “Did ye ken that the king’s own cousin was in the area, a lad he was verra fond of?”

“Nay. He ne’er approached me, nay e’en for a bed to sleep in for the night. I assumed that he was there to watch the Armstrongs, that he had some idea that they were a threat to our king, and that is why the poor mon was murdered and left in a field of thistles to rot.”

“Assumptions again. Dangerous things, assumptions.”

Simon asked a few more questions and then walked away, ignoring the sudden flurry of whispers that erupted behind him. He needed to leave the court and think hard on his conversation with Hepbourn. Every word the man had uttered had carried the taint of falsehood. Hepbourn was clever, however, never saying anything that could draw suspicion to him yet constantly strengthening the suspicions that had sent the Armstrongs into hiding.

What kept Simon’s interest in the man keen, however, was the utter lack of doubt the man showed about Ilsabeth’s guilt. The man had courted her for months, become betrothed to her, yet he had never once expressed disbelief that the woman he had meant to wed would kill a man and plot to kill the king. Nor did Hepbourn make even the slightest attempt to seek the truth himself, if only to ease his own humiliation or to gain some revenge for being made to look the fool. The way Hepbourn was acting was wrong and it made Simon more certain, with every word the fool spoke, that Hepbourn was a very guilty man. It would take time, and luck, to prove exactly what the man was guilty of.

Children’s laughter greeted Simon as he entered his home and the sound caused a strange pang in his heart. The laughter belonged, he thought as a somewhat tousled MacBean arrived to take his cloak and gloves. Simon stepped into his hall to find Ilsabeth and the children wrestling together on the floor, Bonegnasher occasionally hurling its furry body into the melee. The cat was curled up in a chair safely out of the way.

“Si–mon!” called Elen when she saw him, and immediately ran to him.

Simon caught the child up in his arms. She put her small arms around his neck and hugged him. It felt good, he thought. It was a welcome home any man would enjoy. He realized he had quickly come to like arriving home to his three guests and that worried him. Simon knew that he was seeing what his life could be like with a family of his own and the lack of it would hit him hard when Ilsabeth and the children were gone. He was going to have to try harder to hold himself away from them, to continue to simply seek the truth and not fall into some impossible dream of hearth and home.

Ilsabeth stood up and smoothed out her skirts all the while keeping a close watch on Simon. When Elen had rushed to greet him, Ilsabeth had seen those cold gray eyes soften. Something very like a smile had touched Simon’s mouth. Then his expression had hardened again, as if he had suddenly realized what he was doing and retreated into the cold tool of justice he so tried to be.

She knew there was more to him, however. He might keep his distance but he was good to the children. He had not sent her to the king to sit in a damp, filthy dungeon while he searched for the truth and the real traitors. It was that part of him that he tried so hard to keep hidden that she wanted; it was that man who had her feeling things she had never felt before, wanting things she had never really wanted before. Ilsabeth was determined to get Simon to stop burying that man under the ice.