Until the Knight Comes (28 page)

If only she could remember.

But then she did.

“Daughter of a moonless night!” Her breath catching, she pushed up on an elbow and peered across the room at the only object capable of giving off such light.

But the golden lute resting on her table didn’t blaze with the bright, sun-white glare she’d expected. Instead, it shimmered with a soft, luminous glow.

A glow that beckoned in its warmth and lulled with the gently swirling mist flowing over and around the lute’s sleek, jewel-encrusted lines.

But even as she stared, her heart knocking in excitement, the mist began to spin, whirling into a column of shimmering light that disappeared inside the lute before she could even blink.

Slack-jawed, she nudged the tri-colored cat curled so close to her heart. “Mab—old lass! Did you see that?” she cried, her eyes widening as the mist reappeared on the lute’s side.

Even Mab took notice, arching to her feet to fix the lute with a sharp, feline stare.

Heaving herself to her own feet, Devorgilla pressed a hand to her hip and hobbled to the table. Awe filling her, she clutched its edge and looked on as the mist lost all luminosity.

No longer glowing, it thickened and spread, billowing like an eerie, grayish fog until the lute vanished into its hazy depths.

“Goddess have mercy,” she breathed, only half aware of old Mab rubbing against her legs, the feline’s loud purring.

Mab only ever purred when
good
magic was underfoot.

Too aged and fond of her comfort to tolerate peculiarities of any other kind, Mab would still be snuggled in the warmth of the pallet plaiding if the swirling mist held danger.

So Devorgilla leaned close, poked at the mist with a crooked finger. “Come,” she coaxed, “show me your secrets.”

But when a gap appeared in the whirling grayness, only the well-worn wood of the naked tabletop came into view.

If she was even looking at her table, for it seemed to have narrowed to a mere
haft.
Long, smooth, and anything but naked, the well-used wood appeared marred by numberless little notches.

Tiny gashes cut into the shaft of the most fearsome battle-ax she’d ever seen.

A
Norseman’s
ax—or such as carried by only the most ferocious warrior men.

“Mab!” Realization hit her hard, splitting her heart with joy and relief. “Och, lass, the fates have been kind—our prayers heard,” she crooned, reaching down to gather her little friend into her arms.

And as she stroked Mab’s silky-warm fur, another gap in the mist appeared and a large, age-spotted hand reached for the ax. An older man’s hand, to be sure, but a strong hand, its grip firm and true.

Unerring.

As was the overwhelming sense of love and forgiveness that flooded the cottage as the old warrior’s fingers clenched around the notched shaft.

But before Devorgilla could even swipe at the tears damping her furrowed cheeks, the mist cleared, its vanishing tendrils taking the hand and the ax back whence they’d come.

Nothing remained save the lingering emotion of a lonely man who was braw enough to admit when he’d been wrong.

And hoped to reclaim what he’d lost.

“Ach, Mab.” Devorgilla sniffed, blinked the moisture from her eyes. “I do think I’m getting too soft for such meddling.”

But as she shuffled back to her pallet, she knew such was simply her lot in life.

And ne’er in a thousand tomorrows would she wish it otherwise.

Chapter Fifteen

K
enneth went to the gatehouse window and peered out into the morning gloom. A light rain fell and mists gathered, slow-drifting curtains that cloaked the hills and thickened the soft, damp air. And as always, the Bastard Stone loomed dark and frowning above Loch Hourn, the cliff’s black face and door-like arch minding of the ancient tragedy.

Cormac’s legacy, a brooding heritage now his own.

He swallowed, a sense of belonging such as he would ne’er have believed possible making his breath catch and his heart swell with purpose.

Especially now.

I would have no other.
His lady’s words filled his mind, the joy and wonder he’d heard in them, overwhelming him. He curled his hands to fists and closed his eyes, something inside him tightening and warming, a glowing happiness such as he’d never known.

Opening his eyes, he stared long and hard at Cormac’s nemesis. A new calamity would
not
unfold in the Bastard Stone’s shadow.

Not now, in the morning of his life.

And with surety, not a disaster with
her
name on it.

He’d see to that, he vowed, his gaze passing from the heights of that dark-tinged promontory to the loch’s rocky shore. A stretch of stony silence with nary a sign or stir of life showing, yet menace lurked near.

Of that, he was certain.

The prickly chills at the back of his neck warned him—as did the continued quiet.

The same eerie hush that had robbed his sleep.

A stillness so deep he’d almost believe all of Kintail watched and waited, holding its breath to see how well the new Keeper
kept
Cuidrach’s peace.

Determined to do that and more, he scanned the trees, the skirts of the hills. “Nothing,” he said, straining his eyes. “Just a rolling sea of mist and mizzling rain.”

“Bah! Mist, rain, and scab-headed despoilers of innocents, I’d wager,” one of the garrison men tossed back as he passed by on his way to the parapet wall-walk.

Those remaining voiced hearty accord.

Agreeing as well, Kenneth turned from the window, faced the men bustling about the crowded room.

Mailed and armored men who fussed and fidgeted, fingering the hilts of their swords as they, too, peered out the tower room’s windows.

A bearded man, older and barrel-chested, snatched up an ale flask and drank deep. “Tchach! A pox on ’em, I say!”

He slammed down the flask and looked around at the others. “They will have to show some movement soon—if only to cut and gather gorse and brushwood to torch our door.”

“Hah!” another shot back. “They’ll no bother to smoke us out when they can just stroll through the holes in yon curtain walls!”

Kenneth frowned.

A small party of his own men were out there now, scrounging about in the mist and rain to collect armloads of gorse and whate’er else might catch quick flame.

Their last-ditch defense if all went wrong—the self-burning of the wooden stairs to their own keep!

Something he did not want to see happen.

But he would—if such measures were needed.

He rubbed a hand down over his mouth and chin, hoping his instincts about the day were wrong.

The day simply . . . odd.

Shadowed, as some days were. Especially in dark and lonely reaches like Glenelg.

He looked out the window again. Nothing had changed. “Ne’er in all broad Scotland have I seen a more still morn,” he said, turning back to his men. “Perhaps we are letting a shift in the weather confound us?”

But he knew otherwise.

As did his men—he saw it on their faces.

“’Tis the hush that e’er falls before a battle. Naught else!” The barrel-chested man reached for the flask again, took a swig, and offered it round. “I’ve been in enough to know.”

“Colm has the rights of it. They will come,” Sir Lachlan agreed. He stood by the door to the battlements, but now stepped forward. “I feel it in my bones—can smell their putrid breath.”

“And I can feel the heat of their stares,” Kenneth agreed.

No matter that a thin rain blew off the loch. The chill wind couldn’t banish the scorching fury.

“Aye, hot anger brews out there.” Sir Lachlan went to a vacant window and looked out. “Whether the dastards mean to take their time showing themselves or no.”

But just when he moved to turn away, the sudden winding of a horn shattered the quiet.

Loud and ululant, the sound shrilled as a huge, broad-built man spurred from the shadows.

“By the Rood—here they are!” Kenneth swore, watching the rider’s arrogant approach.

Rough-hewn and draped in a wet, ragged-looking plaid, the man cantered to within easy bow-shot of the gatehouse and raised a booming voice. “Ho! MacKenzie! A word—if you would see this day progress so peaceably as it began!”

“And who speaks so bold?” Kenneth threw back. “I already see the style of you. I would hear your name e’er we exchange . . . words.”

“As you will.” The big man shrugged, rode closer. “I am Ewan the Witty, garrison captain of Drumodyn Castle in Assynt, the holding of the murdered Hugh Alesone, Bastard of Drumodyn.”

“And what is your business here? In my territories?” Kenneth leaned out the window, staring down at the man. “Your liege’s name is not known in these parts.”

“Mayhap not, but I’ll wager the name of his murderess is!” The man sneered up at Kenneth. “’Tis she I seek! The Lady Mariota—Mariota Macnicol of Dunach. Wagging tongues claim you’ve given her refuge.”

Kenneth tensed, his fists clenching. “Prattling tongues do not always speak true. But if the lady is here, ’tis no concern of yours.”

“Ha—there speaks a man besotted!” Ewan the Witty barked a laugh and slapped his thigh. “I say you, MacKenzie, hand her over. The lass will have done with you in your sleep. Dirk you in your own bed—after you’ve pleasured her! Forby, she carries the blood of two men on her hands!”

“’Tis your own blood you’ll soon be seeing if you do not mind your tongue, good sir.” Kenneth pressed his hands on the window ledge, leaning forward again. “Every stone of this keep will have to fall into the sea before I’d hand over
any
lady to the likes of you.”

Ewan the Witty harrumphed. “From the looks of it, your holding already
is
falling into the sea!”

A chorus of hoots and guffaws rose from the trees. A brief outburst, but enough to reveal just how many men rimmed the wood’s edge, hid themselves on the slopes.

“Did you hear them, sir?” One of his younger knights edged near. “They sound to be thrice our number.”

Kenneth grimaced, keeping his attention on the rider below. “Hear me, you,” he yelled to the man, “I’m in no mood for such . . . belly-aching this early in the day. I have more to do with my time—as you can see! But if you think to test my strength, then be on with it.”

He leaned farther out the window, flashed a challenging smile. “But be warned—when you leave here, some of you might find yourselves shortened by a head!”

This time his men laughed, but already scores of would-be besiegers men streamed down the hills or edged their mounts out from beneath the trees.

Brutish-looking, plaid-hung caterans, many with mail glinting beneath their tartans, they formed a great semicircle behind their leader.

All looked armed to the teeth.

“What say you now, MacKenzie?” Ewan the Witty smirked up at the gatehouse tower. “Some might say the lady’s fate doesn’t fall to you to decide.”

“Others might say we shall see,” Kenneth called back. “Aye, my friend, you have been warned—the worse for you if you misjudge my strength.”

Sir Lachlan joined him at the window. “Have a care—and keep him talking,” he cautioned, low-voiced. “The longer he and his men blether before the door of the gatehouse, the better our chances of getting the others safely out the postern gate. With good fortune, they can be at Dun Telve long before you arrive with yon blackguards.”

He clapped a hand on Kenneth’s shoulder. “
If
they take your bait.”

“They will bite.” Kenneth placed his hand over his captain’s and squeezed. “I spent too many years with sea merchants and traders not to recognize greed when I see it. That one would cut the throat of his own grandmother for less than a handful of siller.”

“Saints of mercy—your strength?” Ewan the Witty burst into laughter again. “I’d not wager on such false hope were I you,” he roared. “Your holding is ruinous, the curtain walls looking to crumble at the next good wind. I vow your keep will prove even easier to topple! Think hard before you refuse to let us have the woman. Your raised drawbridge is worm-eaten and half-rotted, and a bairn could breach your portcullis.”

Kenneth slid a glance at Sir Lachlan. “Braggart loon. We ought to fire a red-hot bolt right through him—now, before he knows what hit him.”

“Let me, sir.” The younger knight put his shoulders back, swelling his chest. “I’d send a bolt right through his honey hole, I would!”

“Dinna think to launch arrows at us,” the lout below yelled then, almost as if he’d heard their exchange. “We have ropes and grappling hooks. And know this—we are as many as sands on the shore. For each of us that you might shoot down, another score will rise to take his place!”

He spurred closer, raised a balled fist. “Yield the lady and we shall leave in peace. Your lives will be spared and your moldering keep left intact—such as it is!”

Sir Lachlan gripped Kenneth’s elbow.
“Now,”
he urged. “Make your bid.”