The Firebrand (27 page)

“How is it that we have never heard of these knights?”

The two sisters’ confusion was increased by the look that passed between their husbands.

“Sometimes we do not know even those who are closest to us.” Athol asserted. “I, for one, believe that your father was a member of this brotherhood.”

“And I am certain of it,” William asserted flatly. “Though Wyntoun is my friend, he would not have agreed to help us so quickly had he not been so interested in the well-being of Edmund Percy’s kin. These knights protect their own. Wyntoun not only safeguards your sister. He will find out where your mother is through the Brotherhood of the Veil.”

“Wait.” Catherine glanced from one Highlander to the other. “How do you know this…about our father being a member of this brotherhood? None of us were told anything about such a group of men.”

“What I know of them comes from…well, comes from Wyntoun.” William sat himself beside his wife and encircled her hands with his. “The Knights of the Veil are extremely secretive. For many, their existence is considered nothing more than a shadowy illusion, an imaginary organization of knights, brave and true, who have sworn to fight for the weak and the needy.”

“But they are real,” Athol chimed in. “They formed in Palestine during the first great Crusade. While some knights were combining their forces to protect the kingdoms they had carved for themselves in the Holy Land, though, ‘tis said that these men, the Knights of the Veil, formed to wield the sword of justice for those not strong enough to do it for themselves.”

“How is it possible that our father was a member of such a group?” Laura asked.

“Because
his
father…and
his
father before him may have been a Knight of the Veil.” William answered. “Merit and blood are the requirements for entry. Some who are asked, though, decide for themselves that they are not worthy.”

The Ross chief stood up abruptly and went to the fire, and silence fell over the group for a few moments as they stared at his broad back.

“But…” Catherine said finally. “But our father was an Englishman; Wyntoun MacLean lives here.”

“As I said before,” Athol replied, “they are not bound by the borders of any country, nor by their allegiance to any one king.”

“And that’s another reason why they have to keep their existence so secret.” William Ross cut in, facing the others. “There is nothing more threatening to a king than having a group of warriors in his kingdom who fear nothing and are unified under a banner not his own. Why do you think King Henry hates your family with such passion?”

Catherine and Laura gazed in silence at each other for a long moment, suddenly remembering things from their childhood. Small things, like the private chamber in their home that the three daughters were forbidden ever to enter. And the warlike, dark-visaged men who came—sometimes in large groups—to their manor house. These cloaked men were knights, to be sure, and always unaccompanied by families. Disappearing into the forbidden chamber, they would meet only with their father, riding out in the middle of the night and never returning.

“And you believe our father
was
a member?” Catherine asked, directing her question to William.

“Aye. Wyntoun MacLean met Edmund Percy on two different occasions that I know of…and probably more.”

“Wyntoun knew our father?” Laura exclaimed.

“Aye, that he did.”

“I cannot believe that our mother knew nothing of this,” Catherine said suddenly.

“On the contrary,” William replied. “I believe your mother
did
have knowledge of her husband’s friends.” The two men exchanged a look. “Though ‘tis difficult to know whether she knew of Wyntoun’s involvement when she was searching out husbands for the three of you.”

“Husbands!” Catherine looked mischievously at Laura. “Did
you
suspect Mother of meddling?”

“Only after I was already married.” Laura smiled at her sister. “I wonder if we
shall
hear of another marriage…from the Isle of Barra!”

“Adrianne? Married?” Catherine stared into the fire with a half-smile. “I can only imagine how tempestuous a household that would be.”

“If the lass is as wild as you say, Wyntoun MacLean might just drown her in the Western Sea,” William said, adding, “but at least I know he will send us her portion of the map.”

The two sisters smiled at each other.

“Well,” Laura said wryly, “just so long as we get her portion of the map.”

****

Torches flared in the crisp night air, casting huge shadows on the stone walls of the keep as the three kilted riders spurred their steeds into the courtyard. Behind them, two foals pranced at the end of leather leads, flecks of sweat sparkling in the dancing light.

The early, winter darkness had reigned over Duart Castle for hours now, and from the sounds of revelry coming from the wee windows of the Great Hall, Wyntoun knew that the dinner meal must be well advanced. As he leaped from his horse, he could hear his father’s laughter booming out over the rest. He wondered if Adrianne was there with them. Not bloody likely, he decided.

As the horses were taken in hand by a trio of stable lads, Wyntoun stood for a moment in the middle of the courtyard.

“Go on, lads,” he said, slapping one on the back and nodding toward the doors leading into the Great Hall. “I’ve been listening to your grumbling bellies long enough. Go on in to your supper. I’ll be along shortly.”

He turned and watched the horses and his new foals disappear into the stables. Fine young animals. The filly, he thought with a frown, was a wee bit on the wild side, though. That one would take a steadier hand.

Filling his chest with the wintry air, he glanced up at the towers of the castle looming black in the starry blue overhead. That open door into the Great Hall was a welcoming sight to a tired and hungry traveler. But Wyntoun’s gaze immediately shifted to the east wing. He stared up with furrowed brow at the closed shutters, where he knew a rather headstrong young woman was sure to be keeping watch beside a sick lad’s bed.

Riding out across the open moors of Mull, Wyntoun had told himself over and over that what he was doing was the right thing. By the Virgin, just staying out of Duart Castle was a damned victory. And ‘twasn’t as if he’d needed these young horses—the MacLean stables were the finest on the west coast of Scotland already.

Nay, he’d successfully stayed away from her. He’d not thought about Jean’s words on her behalf, nor about his father’s prodding. He’d stayed away. He’d not given in to the desire to court her, to woo her, to feel her in his arms, to touch the smooth ivory skin and kiss those rose-colored lips. Nay, he argued silently, ‘twas a victory indeed that he’d not been here, fighting a battle he was certain to lose—in the end surely carrying her into that cold marriage bed and stripping away all that lay between them until skin and flesh alone separated their beating hearts.

Strangely enough, though, standing alone in the darkness now, he felt far from triumphant. How empty some victories can be.

Wyntoun took a deep breath, expelling the air in a puff of smoke. Stop right there, he commanded silently. He was a man of reason. A man of self-control. He was proud of his ability to plan and to direct his life where he himself chose to go, and when it suited him to go there.

So what was happening to him? After spending but a few short hours in Adrianne’s company on that first night of their wedding, he’d realized that the impetuous, hard-headed chit had the
most
unsettling effect on him. When he touched her, he no longer had the ability to think straight. His reason became clouded, and his will focused on one thing and one thing alone…Adrianne Percy.

He stared up at the small windows of the keep. It had truly been unfortunate finding Gillie when they had. Though the Highlander genuinely hoped for the lad’s speedy recovery, he still knew that the entire incident had saved him from himself. A second chance had been given to him to gather his wits and rethink his approach to this temporary marriage.

“She is still there.”

At the sound of Coll’s gravelly voice at his side, Wyntoun tore his gaze away from the building and turned to his seasoned sailor. The man scratched a bald spot on his head and then pulled his wool cap back on.

He squinted up at the window his master had been watching. “The lad is faring much better, though. The fever is near gone, and, though the lad is a mite weak, auld Bege was saying in the kitchens that the wee fellow has calm seas ahead of him.”

Wyn nodded. “Very well. The lad deserves a bit of clear sailing. He’s survived being thrown overboard into the sea. He’s lain half a night in an icy river.” He snorted, and then paused. “Tell me, Coll, what do you hear about Gillie bringing bad luck?”

“Nary a thing, master.” Coll scratched his head again and flashed a grin. “From what I hear, the lad has had none of that. Everyone knows that Gillie’s a favorite with you and the Mistress Adrianne, though…”

The sailor hesitated and then nodded toward the high windows in the east wing. “But you’d best be speaking with your bride, Wyn, if you want things to stay that way. If Mistress Adrianne keeps carrying on as she’s doing, the lad will surely have a bad name lashed onto him before he’s even well enough to leave his bed.”

“What do you mean, the way she’s carrying on?”

“Everyone on Mull knows that the lassie has not left Gillie’s side since you brought him back here half-frozen on your wedding night. Everyone talks about her not returning to…well, to her wedding bed.” Coll glanced toward the kitchens. “And I nigh cuffed that blathering Makyn this morning when I heard her telling others in the kitchens that your wife must be under a spell. Not leaving the lad’s side and not letting anyone else be left alone with him—not even for a moment—just ain’t natural, says she before I take her by the ear.”

“Some people just cannot mind their business. But Gillie will be back on his feet soon enough, and that should stop some of the tongue wagging.”

“Aye, master. That’s true enough. But the problem, as I see it, lies not with how the lad is faring. The problem lies with Mistress Adrianne. Every day the lass is looking more ragged than the day before.”

Wyntoun could easily guess at the rest. At the rumors that must already be starting among these simple, superstitious folk. If Adrianne gets sick, then it will be Gillie’s evil spirit taking over Adrianne’s body. And whether she gets sick herself or not, the gossippers will have her withered and dying before the boy even puts his two feet on solid ground. Glancing at the window again, he wondered why was it that she couldn’t guess at this new hardship she could be causing Gillie.

Wyntoun started for the building.

“Should I be getting one of the serving lasses to put up a trencher of food for you in the Hall?”

“Nay, Coll. There’ll be no supper for me yet. There is something I need to be doing that’s more important than eating.”

“Like lying on a puff of clouds,” Gillie whispered sleepily, smiling at Adrianne before his eyes drifted shut.

“Dream of angels, Gillie,” she murmured softly.

As the boy sank deeper and deeper into a restful slumber, her fingers played with the dark tendrils of his hair, her eyes studying the perfection of one side of his face and the scars of the other. She couldn’t wait to talk to Auld Jean about the comment the midwife had made that first night in this chamber. Jean had said that Gillie hadn’t been born with the scars and running sores and whitish crusty scabs. She’d meant that there was a cure for the boy; Adrianne was certain of it. How wonderful it would be to shake off the curse that he had carried with him since infancy!

Thanks to her parents’ belief in the power of knowledge, she had been raised in the world of books. But even without the wisdom of the ancients, she just couldn’t imagine herself behaving toward others who were different in the way that so many had behaved toward Gillie. From the time of his birth, with only a few exceptions, the poor creature had faced hardness and cruelty at the hands of people who were, in so many other ways, good people. It was beyond her how people’s belief in fairies and in the other powers of the old religions could lead them to harbor within their hearts such a callousness toward the needs of others. Here, we call ourselves Christians, and yet we treat a child so unjustly.

What were we all so afraid of? she thought, gazing at the lad’s scarred face. It was just a face.

She withdrew her hand and pushed herself to her feet. Only two steps lay between herself and the single chair that sat by the bed, but she could barely muster the energy to reach it. She slumped into the chair, laying her head against the carved wood back.

But Gillie’s life, Adrianne silently vowed, would not be a waste. And neither would her own. It was just as her father once told her, “‘Tis not what we are born that matters in life, ‘tis what we become.” Adrianne was determined to shape the person Gillie would become.

And then…maybe…she would figure out something for herself.

The door of the chamber swung open smoothly, and Adrianne looked away as old Bege directed a disapproving glare in her direction upon seeing the tray of food sitting untouched on the small table where she’d left it earlier.

“Mistress!” the serving woman complained under her breath, seeing the lad was already sleep. “Do not even think to ask me to keep this to myself. Lady Mara will take one look at yer face come the morrow and she’ll know that ye are still not eating or sleeping as ye should. ‘Tis not right, mistress, I tell ye, and do not be thinking I’ll be keeping any secrets. Nay, not I.”

The woman continued to grumble and huff as she piled Gillie’s empty trencher on top of Adrianne’s. “I suppose ye’ll be telling me ye helped the laddie eat this one.”

“Nay, Bege. He ate that all himself. Is it not wonderful?”

“Hummph.” She stopped and glanced at the boy before looking back at Adrianne pointedly. “And in case ye might be wondering, your husband is back.”

“Is he?” Adrianne asked noncommittally.