The rumble of thunder purred against her eardrums and temporarily took away some of the sting of losing her only veil. It was good to feel something, even for a moment, that wasn’t dampness or cold or hunger.
But then the thunder seemed to change, vibrating more in her feet, her backbone; gooseflesh came to her skin once more and she wondered if she was soon to be struck dead by a bolt from the heavens. But the sound only increased, coming from behind her now, and so Glenna turned and she did receive a shock, but it was not birthed from the storm clouds above her head.
A small group of riders cantered toward Roscraig on the Tower road. Three of them, Glenna thought, and their mounts were not the tired nags of traveling merchants; they bore no cart, towed no extra horses.
Hadn’t they seen the signs warning them away?
Perhaps they were envoys from the king, who had somehow learned of Roscraig’s dire straits. Frang Roy had warned that the king would soon know, but that couldn’t be possible—no one had left the village to send word.
Glenna backed toward the door, her gaze never leaving the ever nearing group even as the wind dried her eyes until they stung. She felt behind her for the sturdy wood and slipped inside the opening.
* * * *
’Tis a fortress, Tavish whispered to himself as the wind roared in his ears and he leaned over and patted the neck of his horse, trying to calm the nervous mare and prevent her from racing the black thunderheads to Tower Roscraig. His own stomach clenched, mimicking the ripples of white lightning twisting through the roiling clouds rushing in from the firth, but it was not from alarm.
Tavish had only ever seen Tower Roscraig from the deck of theStygian, and when he had, he’d not given it more than a cursory appraisal, as one who briefly admires some rare and costly jewel that they know can never be theirs. And so as he now approached the double-towered keep on horseback for the first time, he wanted more than anything to stop and simply stare.
Light tan stone turned muddy in the fading light, the tall, round east tower connected to a shorter western turret by a one-story range, which boasted a single door across a bridged moat, as well as a low sweep of battlements between the two keeps that gave Tower Roscraig its name.
I have a moat,he realized to himself and nearly laughed aloud from excitement and pride.
Tower Roscraig. It was his. It belonged to Tavish Cameron.
Laird Tavish Cameron.
Tavish hadn’t realized how much he’d slowed his mount until the blasting wind threw the first cold raindrops against his warmed face. He blinked and urged his horse on, once more riding alongside Mam and Lucan Montague.
“Tav,” his mother began again in a worried voice. “The signs—”
He looked at the edge of the wood where yet more shredded flags snapped taut in the gale and large faded X’s seemed to glow like weak ghosts on the rough bark of the trees. “It’s fine, Mam.”
“But there are more of them,” she insisted. “What if it’s the plague?”
“Probably a ruse meant to keep people away, is all. Sir Montague found no record of a lawful claimant residing at Roscraig since Thomas Annesley inherited it. I have faith in his thoroughness.”
Lucan straightened even further in his saddle. “While I appreciate your confidence, it is improbable such a desirable location would be neglected. At any rate, someone has paid the taxes.”
“Neighboring lords?” Tavish suggested.
Montague’s expression was unfathomable. “I suppose it’s possible.”
Tavish allowed the idea to ride along with him for several moments and then silently decided that he didn’t care if King James himself had taken up residence at Roscraig. He’d been ready for this moment—had been preparing for it in his discontented mind—his entire life.
“Again, my thanks for accompanying us to Roscraig, Montague,” Tavish said at last. “That you are here to vouch for my claim means a great deal.”
The knight gave a shrug. “I do doubt the word of an Englishman will carry much weight. But perhaps any occupant can put forth a word or two that I can add to my investigation as I proceed. I still say it would have been preferable for you to have arrived with your captain and hired men.”
Now it was Tavish’s turn to brush off the comment. “Anyone we might find surely has expected the rightful family to one day claim Roscraig. As it is, we have shared the ever-narrowing road with no other travelers. The settlement appears deserted; the fields are overrun. Where are the villagers?”
“They’re probably all dead,” Mam muttered, and then she hurriedly crossed herself as they came around the corner of the nearest derelict cottage.
Indeed not even sheep nor goats roamed the dirt tracks of the town; no colorful banners flapped on the stone walls beneath the battlements of the keep; the torch brackets to either side of the bridge and entry hung void.
Tower Roscraig seemed to be waiting—empty—for Tavish Cameron.
They came to the bridge now, so narrow as to allow only one rider across at a time, in single file. Tavish’s mount shied and tried to back away from the suspended passage. He took a moment to quiet the mare and then looked over his shoulder.
“Mam, wait for me here.” He then nodded to Montague as he passed the knight, urging his horse onto the narrow wooden bridge first.
