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Joan shook her head, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o.’
“I wonder what is in there.” Roselyn started forward, intending to follow the men under the stairs. Joan grabbed her arm.
“Nay, we must nae. ‘Tis a secret and… ye must promise ne’er tae tell. Ye must swear it.”
“Tell? Who would I tell?” Roselyn regarded Joan in astonishment. “I merely wondered…”
“‘Tis none o’ our concern. Come, we must be away, afore they come back out.” Joan scrambled past Roselyn and reached back for the smaller girl’s hand. “This way, we shall take the main stairs back up tae the hall, the way they came down. And remember, ye must tell no one o’ this. Not ever.”
Chapter One
Isle of Skye, Scottish Highlands, 1482
The crisp thud of his stout leather boots striking the stone flags echoed along the draughty upper hallway as Blair Andrew James McGregor headed for the stairs which led down to his great hall. He had yet to break his fast and the day beckoned, his duties as laird unrelenting. Even now, at the height of summer, the days were never long enough to accomplish all that needed to be done to ensure the safety and security of those who depended upon him.
Blair took the stairs two at a time and strode across the hall. Servants who left their beds even earlier than he did had already piled the high table with nourishing bread, meat, and ale. He nodded at Elspeth, the cook of indeterminate years who had prepared his meals for as long as he could recall. In the absence of a lady to manage his household, Elspeth tended to take charge of the running of Duncleit Castle, commanding a bevy of serving wenches and lads to ensure his stomach was kept full, his bed remained clean and dry and his floors likewise. The woman sketched a quick curtsy in his direction before she bustled back across the rushes freshly strewn over the floor. She was headed back to the domain she ruled with absolute authority, the hot and heaving kitchens beneath his keep. Laird or no laird, Blair knew better than to delay her.
He selected a plump loaf and broke off a hunk of the soft bread, still warm from Elspeth’s ovens. Next he drew his dirk to spear a slice of venison which he dumped on his bread, then took a bite. He chewed as he reached for the jug of ale to swill down his food. Blair didn’t bother to sit; there was too much to be done today, he could not afford the luxury of a leisurely breakfast.
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. “Ye’re late, Robbie. The morning’ll be half gone by the time we reach Dunisburn wood.”
The giant of a man ambling across the hall to join him offered a toothless grin. “Lad, ye’ll kill yerself an’ all that ride wi’ ye. The dew’s not even warm yet an’ that stag’s goin’ nowhere. We eat, aye, then we hunt.”
Blair returned the smile. He knew the captain of his guard was right, though he’d not be admitting that any time soon. “Is there ever a time yestopeatin’, Robbie? I swear, Elspeth can’t keep up with ye.”
“It’ll be a cold day in Hades when I’m beat by the likes of this brainless brute.” Elspeth nudged Robbie with her pointed elbow to shift him from her path. “Now, out of me way, the pair of ye.”
They both grimaced at the irritated tone of the cook as she scuttled between them, this time bearing a steaming bowl of oatmeal porridge. She deposited that among the already heaped serving dishes and turned to regard her laird. “Did I hear ye say ye were going’ huntin’, Laird? If so, we could do wi’ a nice bit o’ pork to salt for the winter.”
Blair groaned. He hated hunting the wild boar but he knew better than to quarrel with Elspeth on any matter pertaining to her kitchens and their storerooms. He had long since resigned himself to the reality of their situation—it was his task to supply the food, hers to make sure it reached his table succulent and steaming. The arrangement worked well.
The clatter of feet from outside heralded the arrival of more of his clansmen intent upon satisfying their growling stomachs. He and Robbie returned polite greetings as men and boys pushed and shoved in their haste to reach the table. Blair swallowed the last of his bread and meat then grabbed a couple of apples and rammed them into his pocket before striding for the door.
“We leave in ten minutes,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Any man not ready to ride with me can stay and tend to the fields with the women.” A chorus of groans followed him from the hall, but as he blinked in the dawn sunlight Blair knew there would be no male backs bent over their crops that day.
He was halfway to the stable block when a shout gave him pause. The call came from the high wall shielding the eastern face of Duncleit Castle, the McGregor keep which overlooked on the western shore of the Isle of Skye. Blair stopped to shield his eyes as he peered up.
“What is it, Archie?” he yelled.
“Riders, Laird. Three, and approaching fast from the south.”
“Can ye make out who they are? What colours do they wear?” Blair was already sprinting toward the stone steps leading up to the parapet which surrounded the keep.
“Nay, Laird, not at this distance.” The man was still peering into the dawn haze as Blair arrived beside him. “Look, sir. Over there.” The lookout pointed to the three specks on the horizon.
Blair picked the horsemen out at once, but he couldn’t discern their identity either. It wouldn’t be long though. The men were galloping at full pelt in the direction of Duncleit.
“Raise the drawbridge and station guards on the walls.” The curt command was aimed at Robbie, who had followed him up onto the battlements. “Take no further action though until we know who they are and what they want.” Blair McGregor would fight to the death to defend what was his, but he was never a man given to needless aggression. He remained on the wall as his men hastened to take up their positions, their alacrity the product of long years of hard training. Every man knew his duty and would do it, Blair had no need to direct them in this.
“Shit, those are Mortain colours. They must be Edmund’s men.” Blair turned and bounded down the steps, then crossed the bailey at a run. “Lower the drawbridge, give them entry.” He reached the outer portal as the gate was opened to reveal the approaching riders, now just a mile or so from their fortress. Blair watched in stony, tense silence as the early morning visitors closed the distance. He knew this could not bode well. To arrive at this time the men must have ridden all night. This was no social call.
Sure enough, the men who clattered across his drawbridge to come to a halt not a yard from where he stood were dusty and exhausted as they slithered from their sweating mounts. Blair clicked his fingers to signal the stable lads to attend to the horses, then extended his hand to the nearest of his unexpected visitors, a man he did not recognise but instinctively knew to be a loyal retainer.
“Welcome, friend. Ye bring news from my cousin?”
Edmund of Mortain was three years older than Blair and held lands in the borders just north of the Tweed. His mother, Margaret, had been sister to Blair’s own mother, Eleanor McGregor and the boys had spent the better part of their early years together cavorting in the Lothian hills before the elder McGregor recalled his son to Skye to train for his future role as laird. The cousins remained close though, a bond strengthened two years earlier when Blair’s sister, Joan, married Edmund. The last news he had received from Mortain Castle had informed Blair that he was to be an uncle by the end of the summer.
The man staggered toward him and Blair noticed the blood for the first time. “Ye’re wounded.” He clasped the man around the waist to lend his support and Robbie moved to grasp his other side.
