The Devil of Kilmartin Page 9

  “Aye. So he says.”

  “You do not sound convinced.”

  “My sources say he has had his eye on becoming chief since he first appeared. They would not put it past him to force the lass into marriage to seal his position, but no witnesses have come forward, and neither has the lass. More than one person speculated that he has her held prisoner, or worse.”

  That would begin to explain some of the mystery surrounding their guest. The chief’s daughter, fleeing a bridegroom she did not want, and who it seemed wanted her for the legitimacy she would bring to his claim of chief.

  “Did they say naught of her gift?”

  “That was most curious. When I suggested that Dunmore’s interest might be in her gift, it was as if I spoke gibberish. Either her gift has been kept a close secret, or the entire countryside surrounding Castle Lamont is invested in the secret.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “As do I,” Ranald said. “ ’Tis too good a secret to be held that closely by that many. Perhaps Fergus thought to protect her that way, keeping her apart, her gift hidden?”

  “We have heard tales of the Lamont healer for . . . well, for longer than that lass has been alive. How is it possible her own people do not know of her?”

  “I do not know, but no one could even describe the lass to me beyond her unusual height and bright hair, things that would be visible from a distance as easily as up close.”

  It seemed the lass was more of a mystery than Symon had first thought. She was the daughter of the auld chief, perhaps wife to the new. She was a gifted healer, yet her own clan barely knew her. She seemed determined to keep herself apart from everyone, yet a wee lass drew her out with a bit of a smile and a few words. She held herself stiff, apart, bristly, and cool, and yet, beneath his hands and his lips she warmed, melting like frost in the first rays of daylight.

  “The Lamonts have been formidable enemies these past years, as if they know our thoughts and strategies before we do.” He remembered the ambush that had led to his father’s death. “We need to know where this Dougal of Dunmore came from. I would know what sorts of allies he might have, who trained him, what drives him.”

  “And where he is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was last seen two days past. No one saw him leave the castle, and his own champion makes excuses, but ’tis believed he is no longer within.”

  “There is much still to be discovered about this Dougal of Dunmore.”

  Ranald nodded. “Auld Morag said as much.”

  Symon had forgotten he had sent his brother to consult the auld woman. “What did she say?”

  “She said it would take more than I would find to solve this riddle.” Ranald looked at him. “She also said the chief of MacLachlan must once more face his foe. The past would meet the future, and the circle would be complete. It was utter nonsense, as usual.”

  But Symon did not agree. Auld Morag was difficult to understand at the best of times, but she was nearly always right when you eventually deciphered her riddles.

  “Go back. Find out where this Dunmore came from. I cannot say why, but I feel it in my bones that his origin is the key to this mystery. Find that for me, brother, as quickly as you can.”

  In the meantime, he meant to get what answers he could directly from the lass.

  Wee Fia’s mum was the castle’s alewife. She was great with child, her ankles swollen, and her time near. Elena felt the woman’s eyes upon her back as Fia showed her the doll made of straw twisted together and dressed with a few scraps of wool.

  “ ’Tis a bonny doll,” Elena said.

  “Me da made it.”

  They played for a bit, Elena scratching the outline of a hut on the dirt floor and Fia arranging bits of bark and rocks for furniture. Elena could not remember ever having a doll, nor playing with another child. Her childhood had been filled with the pain of others, and the keeping of her secret from all who did not need to know of it.

  After a while Fia’s mum—Mairi she had said when they entered—rose from her stool and moved to stir a cauldron standing over a fire in the middle of the hut.

  Elena could see the heaviness in the woman’s body, the child within carried low in her belly. A tea of nettle would ease the swelling in her feet. But ’twas not her responsibility, Elena reminded herself. She rose to leave, and as she passed, Mairi grabbed her arm.

  “Is it true, mistress?” she asked quietly. “Have you come to save the clan?”

  Elena looked into the woman’s pale eyes and saw a flicker of hope kindle there. She had not seen its like in any of the adults she had met in Kilmartin so far, and it made her pause.

  “Why does Clan Lachlan need saving, Mairi?” Elena searched the woman’s tired face for any sign of collusion. Openness met her. Honesty. Hope.

  “ ’Tis hard times for this clan, mistress.” She shook her head and returned to her boiling cauldron, stirring a frothy gruel.

  “Aye. A body can see there’s been hard times. But why?”

  “Why? We be cursed, of course. You argued yourself with the blight of Kilmartin. The devil walks our halls in the guise of a chief.” She spat, as if ridding herself of a vile taste. “ ’Tis the Devil of Kilmartin that causes all our ills. Death and destruction follow him, bringing the end of Clan Lachlan. Ranald is not much better, denying the auld ways.” She grimaced. “At least he is not cursed. Little good it does us, though.”

  Elena looked carefully at the woman as she stirred the huge black pot. She sensed no falseness in her, no evil. Fear. That was the feeling emanating from her. Fear overlaid by a fragile layer of hope. Elena sighed. She did not want this woman’s hope, when she had so little of her own.

  “Perhaps he will change.”

  “For the worse, not for the better. I fear for me bairns, mistress. What will become of them when the Lamonts, or the English, or the Campbells, or anyone else who finds us weak, drives us off our land?”

  “ ’Tis the bairn that makes you worry so. I’ll bring you a tea tomorrow that will ease the swelling in your feet, make you more comfortable until the bairn arrives. ’Twill not be long now, I think. A few days at most.”

  Mairi nodded twice, surprise clear in her eyes. “Fia”—she turned to her daughter—“Mistress Elena is tired. Take her back to her chamber like a good lass.” She turned back to her cauldron as Fia dropped the doll and grabbed Elena’s hand.

  “Do not mind Mum. She’s vexed by the bairn. Me da says she’ll be fine once it’s come.”

  Elena squeezed the child’s hand and let her introduce her to a boy with a badly cut hand, a woman with a twisted and swollen ankle, a man with an odd rash. The parade of injuries and ills continued as they made their way slowly around the bailey. Elena began to think the child knew of her healing ability—impossible—or everyone in Clan Lachlan was in need of a healer’s skill. The child stopped only when Elena asked about an old weathered byre off in a corner, flanked on one side by the curtain wall and on the other by a swine pen.

  She had watched several children disappear inside as she and Fia walked, until she thought the walls would burst outward from the crowd.

  “What’s in there?” she finally asked.

  A twinkle flashed across Fia’s face and a grin spread wide. “ ’Tis the auld bolt-hole, mistress.”

  “A bolt-hole out here?” If a castle had such a thing it was usually well hidden in some unnoticed spot in the bowels of the castle. If this was a true bolt-hole, it was in a very unlikely place.

  “Aye, though ’tis a dark tunnel. It is not big enough for a great person like Murdoch, though you might be able to wiggle through. Do you want to try? It comes out by the banks of the burn near a bonny waterfall.”

  Elena tried to remain calm as the child answered all her questions without her having to voice them. Inside she was giddy and tempted to test the door to her freedom, but she knew she did not need it yet. If Symon followed through on his promise, that would be the safe
st way for her to go. But if he did not, she would have another plan. She would control her own destiny, find her own safety.

  “Nay, Fia, perhaps another time. I would like to return to my chamber now. Can you show me the way?”

  The girl bobbed her head, grabbed Elena’s arm, and dragged her toward the kitchen tower, stopping here and there to introduce her to yet another ailing clansman.

  As they passed one of the dank undercrofts, Elena heard a voice that stopped her breath.

  “ ’Tis Ranald’s wine, the spiced wine he wants.” The voice was low, odd, as if its owner sought to change it from its normal range, yet Elena knew that voice, heard it in her nightmares. She grabbed Fia’s hand and pulled her away from the doorway, around a corner, and crouched in the shadows.

  “What is it, mistress?” the little girl asked, her eyes wide with worry.

  Elena realized she was frightening the lass and tried to make her voice light. “A game, wee Fia. ’Tis a game, hide-and-seek. Have you not played it before?”

  Fia shook her head, her gaze still fixed on Elena’s face.

  “We must be very quiet, and if we are not found, we win!” She was sure she would die if the owner of that voice found her. After a moment she heard the voice bid farewell to whoever was in the undercroft, and footsteps moved toward the gate tower where Ranald’s chamber was.

  “We were not found!” Elena said brightly. “The kitchen stair is just over there, is it not?” she asked the girl.

  “Aye.”

  “And my chamber is above the warm kitchen?”

  “Aye.”

  “I want you to return to your mother now, Fia. Tell her I will visit again tomorrow with a tea for her. I will see you then, sprite.”

  “But—”

  “I can find my way now, sweetling. I thank you for your company.” She kissed the girl’s forehead and gave her a gentle push in the direction of her mother. When the child had looked back one last time, then scurried into the shed, Elena breathed a sigh of relief and turned her attention to her problem.

  How had Dougal entered this castle? She was sure it was his voice she had heard. No matter how he changed its tone, it held that unmistakable oily quality to it, slick and sickening. What was he doing here?

  But she knew the answer.

  He had come for her. It was surprising that he was being subtle in his tactics. She had been sure any attempts to regain her would have been by an assault on the castle.

  Her hands were icy and her breath was difficult to catch, coming in fits and wisps. What to do? Her mind was blank for a moment, filled with blackness. She fought her way through it, knew she had to think, and think clearly if she was to remain free of Dougal.

  She was not safe here after all. Odd, that only now did she realize she had felt safe here, at least most of the time. Symon had that effect on her, making her feel protected and safe, even as she questioned his motives. He had protected her once before unasked; would he do less now, especially when the trouble was within his own walls?

  She must tell Symon. He would find Dunmore, and then what? It did not matter, as long as he did not give her back to the black-hearted man. And he would not as long as he believed her gift would help him. He needed her gift. Perhaps at long last it would be the means of her protection instead of her pain.

  But where was he? Last she had seen him he was pacing the ramparts like a caged beast. She looked about and noticed Fia peeking out the door, watching her. Quickly Elena raised a hand and waved. The small girl grinned and pointed at the kitchen stair. Elena nodded her understanding and headed in that direction. Once inside she could search without the lass thinking she was lost. The last thing she wanted to do was put Fia or any of the other MacLachlans in danger from Dougal.

  chapter 8

  Symon watched Elena climb up the stone stair from the bailey, lost in thought. He held sanity tightly to him, fighting the first signs of madness through sheer effort.

  His thoughts circled Ranald’s news over and over again. If Elena was wed to this Dougal of Dunmore, it would be hard to bind her to his clan—or to him. The thought surprised him, but he knew it to be the truth. He would bind her to himself if she would only let him.

  But she was wed already.

  Here was a lass who did not shun him, did not seem to fear his reputation, though that would change very soon, he knew. He had allowed himself to hope for a better future with this lass. A future that this Dunmore threatened. Despair warred with the fury.

  He still had the bargain with her, though. And she would fulfill her part of it now.

  Elena stepped out of the sunlight and into the dark space where he awaited her. She gasped as he grabbed her arm and hauled her up the twisting stair leading to his chamber. Pain throbbed in his head and pierced his eyes. Distantly he heard her protest, but the pain was too strong and he needed her to stop it. Now.

  At the top of the stair she wrenched her arm free, grabbed her head, and crouched low, as if she expected blows from him.

  “I will not harm you,” he said, each word costing him in pain and effort.

  After a moment she rose. “I’ll make you some more willow tea,” she said and moved past him to her door.

  “Nay, ’twill not be enough this time.” He followed her into her chamber. “ ’Tis time to keep your part of the bargain. Then—” He paused, waiting for the stabbing wave of pain to pass. At last he was able to say, “I have questions for you.” A light burst in his head, his stomach clenched, and he nearly pitched to the floor.

  He caught his balance and leaned against the damp, cold stone wall, forcing the knifelike pain in his left eye back, away. Sweat dampened his linen tunic, and his muscles shook as if he’d fought fiercely for hours.

  Holding on to the wall for support, he groped his way to the bed and lowered himself to sit at its edge. He knew Elena watched, but she did not offer to help.

  “ ’Tis time for you to live up to your part of the bargain,” he said when he could, holding his head in his hands lest it explode.

  She moved to him slowly, reluctantly, and gently placed her fingers upon the crown of his head. He felt her flinch at the touch, and he sighed. The damned madness had destroyed the small victory he had gained. She backed away, and he instantly regretted the loss of her touch.

  “This is not madness,” she said quietly.

  “Aye. ’Tis. It will not be long now before the devil shakes me in his fist again.”

  He opened his eyes slightly, the dim light in the chamber stabbing into his head. She stood, near the door, a puzzled look upon her face.

  “I will make the willow tea for you. Jenny will bring it up—”

  “Nay. You will bring it, then perform your magic upon me.”

  “I have no magic, and this is not madness. ’Tis a headache. Perhaps the start of the ague. I promised only to do what I could to dampen the effects of the madness. I am not bound to help you in this.”

  “I tell you this is the madness, the first stage. It only gets worse from here on. I may not know you when you return. Bring Murdoch with you. He will keep you safe. I cannot say the same for me.” He collapsed back on the bed, exhausted with the effort of so many words.

  Elena moved to his side again, looking into his eyes. “I sense no madness in you.” Her words were calm, but her voice shook. “A tea of willow will be enough.”

  Symon groaned as another wave of pain arced through his skull. “Tea, then. But do not return without Murdoch.”

  He heard Elena close the door behind her, and he lay back on the bed, waiting, knowing, fearing what would happen in the next hours. Disappointment twisted in his gut. She had promised to help him, only to deny him when faced with the truth. She was unwilling to even touch him, despite her promise.

  Elena raced down the stair to the kitchen, her horde of willow gripped in her hand. Never had she experienced such a pain, nor seen anyone work so hard to overcome it. Quickly she enlisted the help of a young boy she’d seen lurking a
bout the kitchens before, fetching a small kettle, and water, setting it to boil over the ever-present fire.

  Symon was right. The tea would not be enough, but this was not madness, and she was not bound to aid him.

  This was not madness.

  She was not bound to aid him.

  She repeated that to herself over and over as she waited for the water to boil and the tea to brew. She had nearly convinced herself that she was right when she had the lad carry the kettle up to her chamber.

  Moans and cries like that of an injured animal escaped her chamber. The lad froze, and Elena had a sudden need to keep the chief’s affliction from the gaping stare of the lad. She took the kettle firmly from him and sent him back to the kitchen, telling him to send Murdoch. Slowly she opened the door, unsure what she would find inside.

  Symon paced rapidly, covering the length of the room in four or five strides. His fingers were threaded through his hair, his hands bracketing his head as if it might fall off if he didn’t hold it there . . . or maybe he wished to rip it from his shoulders. Elena could feel the pain from where she stood, not sharp and clear the way she could when a warrior was badly injured, but dimly, as if he held it to himself, struggled to keep it from touching anyone around him.

  He turned and saw her. “Murdoch?” His voice was barely above a whisper. He squinted at her, the flicker of firelight clearly difficult for him to bear. “Not safe.”

  Elena moved into the room slowly. “You do not look dangerous to me, or at least no more so than anyone hurting as much.” She set the kettle on a hook over the fire and dipped a wooden cup into it, filling it with the tea.

  “Drink this.” She walked carefully toward him, slowly, not wishing to startle him. Not entirely sure she was safe. But not entirely sure she wasn’t, either.

  Symon grabbed the cup and downed the liquid. “ ’Twill not work,” he said as if this was her fault. “Madness . . .” He flinched, dropping the empty cup to the floor and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Heal me,” he demanded.