Ravenheart (8 page)

He stood silently, waiting for one of the sentries to pass by the kitchen window. It would not be wise for the Moidart’s son to be seen collecting coal. All the guards were obliged to note down every unusual activity while on watch. The Moidart would scan their records every week. Gaise waited. The grounds of the Winter House, though large, were easily patrolled at night. It would not take a man more than a few minutes to walk the perimeter of the house. Time dragged on. No guard passed the window. Gaise felt a flicker of annoyance. It was getting very cold standing there in nothing but his nightclothes.

Moving to the door, he lifted the latch. The guards were obviously huddled somewhere out of the cold. Gaise stepped out and made his way to the coal store. With great care he half filled the bucket and then returned to the kitchen.

A dark figure flitted past the window. Gaise jerked. The man was moving fast, and Gaise barely glimpsed him. Yet he saw enough to know that it was no soldier. Retracing his steps, Gaise walked back to the hallway and saw that the main doors were ajar.

Fear touched him. Stories of night creatures, demons, and blood drinkers swept up from the depths of his imagination. Angrily he forced them away. He had seen a man. No more than that. Probably one of the servants returning from an assignation with a serving girl. Gaise reached the staircase and began to climb. The coal bucket was heavy, and his arms were still weary from the sword work earlier in the day.

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard a cry that echoed from the gallery. There was a crash, and a pale figure appeared at the top of the stairs. The light was not good, but Gaise could make out the Moidart’s sharp features. He was wearing a white nightshirt stained at the shoulder by something dark. A black-garbed figure rushed at the Moidart, and the two men grappled and fell to the floor. Another man came
into view. Gaise saw the gleam of a blade. With a great heave Gaise hurled the coal bucket at the knifeman. It struck him on the shoulder, knocking him back. Gaise ran up the stairs two at a time. He could hear the Moidart shouting: “Assassins! Assassins!” But no guards came.

Gaise rushed at the knifeman. The blade slashed out. Gaise swerved and threw himself to his right. The assassin was fast. Gaise managed to block a thrust with his forearm. The knife blade slid along his sleeve, ripping the cloth and creating a shallow cut in his skin. Gaise leapt at the man, ramming his elbow into the assassin’s face and following it with a head butt to the nose. The assassin cried out and fell back, half-stunned. In that split second Gaise sensed someone behind him and threw himself to his left. Something heavy cracked against his right shoulder, sending searing pain into his neck. Gaise fell to the floor. The new attacker, wielding an iron club, ran in. His foot twisted on a lump of coal, and he, too, fell. Gaise rolled to his feet and launched a kick into the newcomer’s face. The man made a grab for Gaise’s foot and missed. Gaise ran back to the gallery wall. It was decorated with shields and ancient weapons: lances and spears, broadswords and bows. Gaise tried to lift clear a sword, but it was held too firmly in place. Instead he grabbed a hunting lance, wrenching it from its bracket. The man ran at him. With no time to turn the spear point toward his attacker, Gaise spun on his heels, the haft of the lance cracking against the man’s temple. With a grunt he toppled to the floor. Bringing the lance to bear, Gaise hurdled the fallen man and plunged the lance into the side of the attacker struggling with the Moidart. The man gave out a terrible scream and dropped his knife. The Moidart took up the weapon, ramming it into the assassin’s throat. Pushing aside the corpse, the Moidart wrenched the blade clear and rose to his feet.

The last of the assassins hefted his dagger. “I’ll kill you yet, you black-hearted bastard!” he yelled. He rushed at the Moidart. A gunshot boomed. The assassin staggered, blood pumping from a great tear in his throat. He grabbed the
gallery rail and tried to pull himself toward the Moidart. A second shot echoed in the gallery. The assassin’s head snapped back. Gaise saw that he had been shot this time through the right eye. The young noble swung to see the tall figure of Mulgrave walking along the gallery, two long-barreled dueling pistols in his hands. Gaise ran to a curtain, wrenching it open. Moonlight bathed the gallery.

Mulgrave placed the pistols on a nearby table and moved alongside the Moidart. “You are cut, my lord,” he said.

“It is nothing,” said the Moidart, his voice cold. “I see one of these wretches still lives,” he said, pointing to the unconscious man Gaise had struck with the lance butt. “Take him to the cells. I will attend his questioning myself.”

“Yes, lord.” Mulgrave glanced at Gaise. “You fought well, sir,” he said. Gaise bowed and returned his attention to his father.

The Moidart did not look at him but walked back toward his room. “Send the surgeon to me,” he told Mulgrave. Then he paused and stared down at the carpet. He swung toward Gaise. “I see that you were stealing my coal. We will speak of this another time.”

At thirty-one Maev Ring was a handsome woman, tall and green-eyed. Her hair, still a lustrous red, now shone with faint streaks of silver. She was regarded by many clansmen as cold and remote, largely owing to the fact that following the death of her husband ten years before, she had refused all advances from the many widowers among the clan. Maev had been just sixteen when she had wed the young warrior Calofair. It was widely accepted that they were the best-looking couple in the highlands. Many of the young men envied Calofair’s luck. Maev not only was beautiful but also was the sister of Lanovar, the chieftain, and all men knew that this brilliant and gifted warrior would bring prosperity to the clan. Through his efforts, the Rigante name would be restored to the Scroll of Clans and lands stolen from the clan would be
returned to their rightful owners. Those were days of golden promise.

But Lanovar had been murdered by the Moidart, and the Beetlebacks had descended on clan villages, killing and burning. For years those with Rigante blood were forced to stay away from towns and settlements, building homes in the bleak highlands. They survived by raiding Varlish settlements and convoys and stealing cattle and coin or any merchandise that could be useful. Life was harsh back then.

Maev Ring remembered it without sentiment: the squalid sod-roofed dwellings, the sickness and death among the old and the weak. As she sat now by the kitchen window of her six-room house, she thought again of Calofair, his flesh eaten away by the fever, the wound in his chest festering and angry. He had been beyond speech at the end, only his eyes showing any sign of life. Maev had sat with him, holding his hand. And then, as the light of life had faded, she had kissed his brow. She had been tempted to take a dagger and slash open the veins at her wrists, to fly away from the woes of the world and travel with the spirit of Calofair. She shivered at the memory. Four-year-old Kaelin had approached her, tears in his eyes. “Will Uncle get better, Aunt Maev?”

It was a summer night, and the last of the sun’s rays was shining through the roughly wrought door of the hut. By its light the twenty-year-old Maev could see the flea bites on the child’s ankles and wrists. His face was pinched and sallow. Maev put her arms around him, drawing him into an embrace. “Uncle
is
better now,” she told him. “He is walking across green hills with comrades he has not seen in years. He is tall and proud and wearing the colors of the Rigante.”

“He is still in the bed, Aunt.”

“No, Kaelin,” she said softly. “All that lies in this bed is the coat of flesh that Calofair wore. And we must bury that coat, you and I.”

Ten years on, and even now the memory brought a tear to Maev’s eye. Angrily she brushed it away and rose from her seat. She gazed around the kitchen at the furniture crafted
from pine and the iron stove set upon a bed of slate in the hearth, at the windows with leaded panes of clear glass, at the floor with its neatly fitted flagstones. Pots and pans hung from brass hooks above the worktops, and the larder had food aplenty.

Kaelin walked into the kitchen and sat down at the bench table. “Shula is sleeping,” he said. “I left Banny with her.”

“She should have come to me sooner,” Maev said sternly.

“Aye, she should,” he agreed. “Banny said she went into Eldacre to the poorhouse to ask for food. She was turned away.”

“Where did she get the cuts and bruises?”

“Banny says it was Morain, Galliott’s wife. She and several other women beat her as she was making her way home.”

“There is a deep well of bile in that woman,” said Maev. “It shames us all that Morain has Rigante blood.”

“Will Banny’s mam be well again, Aunt Maev?”

“We will do our best for her, Kaelin. We will feed her and keep her warm. Do you still have that chailling Jaim gave you?”

“I do.”

“Then go to the store man and buy a dozen eggs and three jars of honey. Then go to the butcher and tell him I want double the amount of beef for Holy Day. Then …” She paused. “Can you remember all this, Kaelin?”

“Aye, a dozen eggs, three jars of honey, double the beef. What else?”

“Go to the apothecary Ramus and tell him I need some powders for fever and a potion for the cleansing of the blood. If he has any fat hen weed, I will take that, too. The woman has a festering wound on her lower back. Tell him that.”

“Is that all?” asked Kaelin.

“Aye. Is Jaim still in the front room?”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“Send him in to me and then be on your way.”

Kaelin smiled at her, then swung away. Maev walked to the
larder and lifted down the stone milk jug. She filled a cup, then sipped the creamy liquid.

“You wanted me, Maev?” said Jaim Grymauch. She finished her milk, leaving the huge, one-eyed warrior standing in the doorway. Then she turned and looked at him. Jaim normally radiated a physical power that was almost elemental, but he was nervous now under her gaze.

When she finally spoke, her voice was hard and cold. “ ’Tis said that one of the Moidart’s men was killed when two raiders made off with his prize bull.”

“Whisht, woman! No one died. ’Tis a terrible lie.”

“It is also said that the Moidart has offered a five-pound reward for the naming of the criminals.”

“Five pounds. That is a lot,” Jaim said with a grin. “By heaven, I’m tempted to hand myself in for such a reward.”

“Wipe that smirk from your face!” snapped Maev. “Will you be smiling when they take Kaelin and put the rope around his neck?”

Instinctively Jaim touched two fingers to his lips, then tapped them upon his chest in the sign of the Sacrifice. “Do not say such things. Not even in jest. Kaelin wasn’t seen. When I took the bull to the Pinance, I made the boy stay back in the woods.” He stepped in closer. “Now tell me the truth. Are you angry with me for stealing the bull or for carrying the sick woman here?”

Maev was shocked. “Do you think so little of me, Grymauch? Bringing her here was to your credit. No, I am angry because of your stupidity.” Maev sighed. “It is more than the bull, Grymauch. I think you want to die. I don’t pretend to understand it, but there is a need in you to spit in the eye of the Devil. Had I known you were planning to rob the Moidart, I would have refused Kaelin permission to go with you. All cattle owners know that some of their stock will be lost. Largely they accept it. Not the Moidart. He will not rest until the thieves are found and hanged. You will take Kaelin on no more raids. You understand?”

“He’ll be a man within the year, Maev. He’ll make his own choices then.”

“Aye, he will. But until then no more raids. I’ll require your oath on that.”

Lifting the black headband clear of his face, he rubbed at the stitch marks above the empty socket. “It troubles me still. Can you believe that?”

Maev was unmoved. “Your oath, Grymauch.”

“Aye, all right, woman,” he snapped. “You have it. No more raids until he is a man. Then perhaps you can find him employment licking the boots of the Varlish.”

She stepped in close, her green eyes blazing with anger. Even so her voice was calm and controlled. “And what will you teach him, Jaim Grymauch? How to puke after too much ale? How to break the bones of men you do not know? How to hide in the heather while other men gather crops or tend cattle? Where is your home, Jaim? Where is your wife? Where are your bairns? You have none. So what are you?” Maev moved in even closer to the big man. “You’re a seed blowing in the wind. You cannot settle, you cannot change, you cannot grow. When you die, Jaim Grymauch, it will be as if you never were. You will leave nothing behind save a few memories, and even they will fade in time. Lick the boots of the Varlish, you say? How long would it take them to defeat us if all men were like you? One generation, Jaim. Then we’d all be gone.” She swung away from him and moved to the larder, returning the milk jug to its place on the shelf.

“It might be better if we were,” he said softly. “Once we were wolves; now we are puppy dogs to be kicked and thrashed by the Varlish. And look at you, Maev. You are bright and intelligent. Aye, and you are rich. But you wear old clothes, and Kaelin has threadbare shirts. And why? So that you will not appear to
shine
before the Varlish. They will accept a wealthy clanswoman only so long as she does not stand out. Do not lecture me, woman, especially not on the subject of a wife and bairns. I had a wife and two sons. Varlish soldiers ripped out her throat and drowned my boys in the weir.
But tell me, Maev, where are
your
sons? Where is your gift to the future of the Rigante?”

“The man I loved died,” she said. “You know that.”

“Aye, he died. But it was you who chose to shrivel up inside and turn into a harridan.”

Maev Ring swung away from the shelf and moved swiftly across the room. Her hand lashed out. Jaim made no attempt to block the blow, and her hand slapped against his face.

“Well, at least there’s still
some
fire in you, lass,” he said.

Then he turned and walked from the room.

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