Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (9 page)

The work around the tower was advancing well, and Branan’s community at Thistlewood thrived. He heard the long, low whistle of a sentry, warning of more arrivals from Brackenburgh. Branan gazed down the trail.

Through the fog, a knight rode before two wagons. A dozen men and women on foot walked next to the wagons with six mounted knights flanking them. Behind them rode three more knights, but the one in the middle had a lady in his arms. She huddled against him and Branan’s throat tightened, remembering how Catriona had ridden with him in much the same fashion. He dropped his tools and hurried toward them as a crowd gathered.

“Branan,” Duguald whispered harshly.

Branan checked his pace, remembering the plan they had devised. “The lass with the knight,” he whispered back. “What if she’s injured?”

Duguald’s eyes narrowed and he stepped in front of Branan. “Is anyone injured?” he asked, his gaze focusing on the woman.

“Nay,” the lead knight said and glanced over his shoulder. “Weary and footsore, nothing more.”

Duguald nodded and Branan sighed in relief. The lead knights rode fine battle mounts, their armor gleaming in the muted sunlight. The three in back, while their armor was not as fine, appeared to be in good repair and their horses sound.

“I seek the lord of Thistlewood and bring an offering of goodwill,” the lead knight said. Branan noted the man appeared close to his age and size. He had long light-brown hair and blue eyes. He uttered the greeting Branan and de Courcy had agreed upon so Branan could be assured de Courcy had truly sent them. The offering of goodwill could be almost anything, but one part of it would be a special silver coin, notched and scarred in a seemingly random manner. But to Branan, the randomness was exact.

“I am the lord of Thistlewood,” Duguald said, playing his part in their arrangement to protect Branan.

The knight scowled. “I expected you to be much younger.” He removed a small pouch from his belt. “I have been instructed to give you this.”

“And who gave ye the instructions?” Duguald asked as he took the pouch. Branan moved next to him, in position of guard, his hand on his claymore, as did three other Scots.

“A monk advised me of a penance,” the knight said. “To bring an offer of goodwill to those in need.”

So far all was well. The knight followed the code exactly.

Duguald opened the pouch and the contents tumbled into his hand. Branan stole a quick glance at several coins, then spotted the one he wanted. He gave Duguald a slight nod.

“Welcome to Thistlewood,” Branan said and the knight looked at him in surprise.

“Who are you?”

“Branan MacTavish, the true lord of Thistlewood.”

The knight blinked at him, glanced at Duguald, then chuckled. “I understand.” He dismounted and bowed. “Well met, my lord.”

Good. He was quick of mind.

“I am Sir Tristan of Greystoke and I lead a group of six. We are stipendiary knights and specialize in guarding those of noble rank. We pride ourselves on our professionalism and our skills. My men are highly trained, but will not cause offense to nobility with repulsive behavior. We have come to pledge our blades to your service.”

Branan arched an eyebrow in appreciation. “Greystoke is a large holding if I recall.”

“Aye, my wife and children still reside there, but . . . ” He hesitated drawing a deep breath, his eyes flinty with rage. “Thanks to Strickland’s bastard, I am near destitute. I make good money as a hired sword, but even that will not cover the ever increasing amounts he claims I owe. If I lose my holding, my family will have nowhere to go.” He motioned to the three knights in the back. They rode forward. “These men, while not part of my mercenary group, are my friends from holdings near mine. In the middle is Geoffrey, with his wife Beth, and the other two are members of his family. We all have suffered mightily under Strickland’s abuse.”

“Strickland razed my small holding a few days past,” Geoffrey said as he stopped his horse before Branan. “I bring with me my cousin, Guy, and brother by law, Alaric. We also wish to pledge our blades in service to the true Warden of Inglewood. With us are the tradesmen who worked in my holding; we have nowhere else to go.”

Branan’s throat tightened. “I mean to bring an end to that persecution,” he said, the softness of his voice conveying the power of his determination.

Greystoke smiled brightly and glanced at Geoffrey, whose shoulders visibly relaxed.

Branan extended his hand to Greystoke first as the ranking noble. “Well met,” he said. “I offer ye the protection of Thistlewood. Ye are most welcome here.”

Greystoke accepted his outstretched forearm with a strong grip of his own. “Thank you, MacTavish.”

“Follow my Uncle Duguald; he will help get ye settled.”

The young knight nodded and signaled his men to dismount.

HHH

Over the next few days, Catriona discovered herself drawn to the small area Branan used for his woodworking. She watched in amazement as he planed a large beam.

“What’s that for?”

He glanced up and smiled, running his hand over the oak. “One of the beams for the new roof.” He straightened and motioned to her. “Look at this.”

She followed him and he hefted a large support block. “This is one of the joists. Even though we are pressed for time rebuilding this tower, I dinna see a reason for things to be plain.”

Catriona gazed at the wood, her eyes wide. A beautifully carved angel emerged from the grain, its hair, wings, and garments flowing around the support as if it would spring from its perch at any moment.

“Branan,” she whispered in soft amazement. “This is beautiful.”

“Thank ye, lass.”

She looked around the small shed and saw more pieces Branan had been working on: a large table for the great hall, chairs, and many other items. Most had decorative carvings on them. They were not extravagant, nothing that would slow production of the pieces, but they were beautiful.

“You have great talent, Branan.”

His cheeks darkened a little. “‘Tisna much, lass, but I do what I can.”

“Did Duguald teach you?”

He nodded. “Our clan has a fine reputation for woodworking. As soon as I arrived, Duguald and the other men began teaching me. I enjoy the feel of the wood.”

“Will you show me how you create such beauty?”

He gaped at her a moment.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve...I’ve never had a lass interested in how I do my work.” His lips curved upward in a mischievous smile. “They only cared about the results.”

“You know this lass is different from the others, and I’m intrigued by your art.”

“Art?”

“How else can I describe it?” She pointed to a large chair which had a charcoal pattern traced on it. “Now, tell me about that one.”

“Verra well, lass,” he replied.

Soon, Catriona was not only watching him work but helping as well.

The Hunt

D
espite renewing her friendship with Branan, Catriona felt as if she had fallen into a pit of despair. Three weeks had passed since their arrival at Thistlewood, but her nightmares of the burning manor house only grew worse. She slept little and lost her appetite. It was as if a chasm of blackness threatened to engulf her. She joined in the work at the tower each day. Even though more people arrived at Thistlewood regularly, Catriona knew everyone was needed to help. But most days, she struggled to find the strength to rise from the bed. All she wanted to do was sleep—yet that thought terrified her, for when she slept, the nightmares became real.

Richard shocked her, visiting the camp every few days. Catriona did her best to avoid him. She was too weary to argue with him. When he walked in her direction, she usually went the other way. She found Gavin and Branan both watching her closely. Many times, if Richard continued his pursuit, one of them would intercept him and distract him with a trivial matter of building Thistlewood.

Leastways when he was unable to harry her, Richard put himself to good use. He surprised her by stripping off his tunic and working right alongside the other men. Why would he do such a thing? He was strong and fit, mostly from working with sword and shield. Although a business man, he never allowed his fighting skills to suffer. But other manual labors he usually tried to avoid.

The men worked to rebuild the tower and Richard joined them, hauling rotten wood, and moving broken stone. Was he trying to impress people, or prove he could work as hard as the next man...a man such as Branan?

One morning, Richard arrived and managed to corner her while Branan and Gavin were working in the tower. Catriona swallowed hard and stood her ground.

“Catriona,” Richard said gazing at her critically. “Are you feeling well? Your face appears quite pale.”

She shrugged, keeping her attention focused on her work: gathering laundry for delivery to the washer-women.

He sighed softly, his voice taking a gentler tone. “My lady should not be so taxed with manual labor,” he said, crouching before her and putting a tunic into the basket. “I want you to return to Brackenburgh. You will be safer there.” He paused and smiled as if trying to make light of his words. “There is no reason why my betrothed should sully herself with peasants’ work.”

She shrugged. “I enjoy the work, Richard. It keeps my mind occupied. If I returned to Brackenburgh, I would be driven daft with boredom.”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “Catriona—”

“Catriona?” Branan called.

“Aye?”

De Courcy’s gaze turned flat.

Branan flashed her a bright grin, shoving his thick forelock from his brow. She wanted to laugh—the action reminded her of the mischievous lad who Branan only freed on rare occasion. “I need to speak with ye, lass. As chatelaine, we need to discuss the spinning and weaving.”

“Of course.”

Branan looped his arm in hers. “Excuse us, de Courcy.”

Richard said nothing, but the veins in his forehead grew more prominent.

Branan led her away.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Nay, but I dinna like the way he cornered ye.”

She sighed softly. “He wants me to return to Brackenburgh. He thinks I’m sullying myself with peasants’ labor.”

“And what do ye want, lass? Ye are looking a bit pale.”

“I want to stay here, Branan, with you and Gavin.”

“Then here ye shall remain.”

“Thank you.”

“But I am concerned. Perhaps we shouldna focus so much on work.”

“It needs to be done and I enjoy working.”

“I remember a lass who was a fine shot with her bow. Gavin tells me ye have grown even more skilled.”

She nodded. “But my bow was lost in the fire.”

“The bow-maker from Brackenburgh has arrived. Mayhap we should speak with him.”

Catriona almost clapped her hands in glee. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

“This way, lass.”

She walked through the camp with him, her heart lighter, and it took a moment for her to realize what he had done. Branan had given her a fine distraction and kept her occupied so Richard would not see her alone again. She couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Something amiss?” Branan asked innocently.

She laughed again, stepping closer, her arm tightening on his. “You are a cunning man, Branan MacTavish.”

He winked at her. “I’ve heard mention of that afore.”

Catriona grinned. As they passed the door of the tower, Richard emerged, his eyes locking on hers. Branan guided her to a different path, leading her away from the tower and into camp. For an instant, Richard looked confused. Then his expression darkened like a thundercloud as she walked away.

HHH

Days later, the bow-maker brought Catriona’s bow and asked her to try it. She agreed, but moved toward her shelter first.

“Where are ye going, lass?” Branan asked.

“To change. You keep working. I don’t like people watching when I try a new bow until I get a feel for it.”

He smiled and nodded.

Catriona changed into a heavy tunic, breeches, and boots. She found it difficult to shoot in skirts if she had to move with any speed, or if she was hunting in the woods, where skirts became impossible. Her father had actually defended her choice of clothing and she wondered if he had taken pride in her abilities. Thinking of him brought tears to her eyes.

She walked with the bow-maker to a small clearing where he had filled barley sacks with sand. It took her a moment to adjust to the bow, but soon she was sending her arrows through the center of the target with ease.

“Nicely done, lady,” the bow-maker said, retrieving her arrows.

“Thank you. I am most pleased with your work.” She dug into the pouch on her belt for a few precious shillings.

The bow-maker saw her actions and held up his hands. “Lady, ’tis not necessary.”

“But you deserve something for this fine work.”

“Mayhap,” Duguald said as he approached, “the bow-maker would agree tae a meal brought down by this fair weapon.”

Catriona turned and saw the burly Scot standing there with his own bow.

“Branan and I were considering a quick hunt.”

“That is a fine suggestion, Duguald.”

“Come then, lass. Let’s fetch Branan, the day’s wastin’.”

To Catriona’s shock, Branan and Duguald gave her the lead on their small hunt. A part of her wondered if this was some sort of test, but the other part of her didn’t care. She was having too much fun. She spotted the recent track of a deer foraging for grass under the snow.

The musky scent of the creature hung in the still air. She pointed to the track of upturned earth. Duguald nodded and signaled Branan to move out and to the right while he went to the left. Catriona continued straight ahead.

They entered a small clearing and spotted the large stag ripping at the earth with his hoof. Catriona readied an arrow, but the stag stood closer to Branan; he had the better shot.

She sensed rather than saw Branan move, the stag oblivious to them. With deliberate slowness, Branan drew his bow and aimed. Suddenly, the stag’s head shot up, just as Branan released his arrow. The missile buried into the heavy muscle of the stag’s neck, but it wasn’t enough to bring the animal down. The stag turned and bounded away—moving closer to Catriona.

She quickly rose, pulling back her bowstring. For a brief instant, all she could hear was the beat of the creature’s hooves. She felt her pulse thundering through her veins and took a breath to steady it. She sighted down the arrow, waiting for her shot, and slowly exhaled. Her gaze locked on the animal’s neck where the vein of life ran through it. The stag surged into the air, leaping over a bush.

Catriona opened her fingers.

The arrow shot forward, landing solidly in the stag’s neck, and ripped through the vein she had targeted. The creature’s head dropped and its momentum launched its hindquarters over its head, snapping its neck. It plowed into the earth and lay still.

Branan whooped, raising his bow and charging forward. “Och, lassie, a fine shot indeed! We shall feed our camp well tonight.”

“Aye,” Duguald said. “The wee bairns will be glad for new wraps of soft deerskin.”

Catriona blinked. “Babes? There are babes in our camp?”

“Aye, lass. Three women with a haggle of children arrived this morn, begging for sanctuary. Strickland slaughtered their menfolk and they near starved this winter.”

Branan knelt beside the stag, working to remove the key glands. “’Tis a good buck,” he said. “Not sickly like the others we’ve seen.” He glanced up at her, his eyes dancing merrily. “Well, lass, it seems ye proved the tales. Ye can outshoot a man.”

She laughed and crouched beside him. “Only a bit of Providence, Branan, you know that.”

“I dinna think so, lass. Now, let’s hie this beastie back to camp.”

Catriona returned to camp in time to see an enraged Richard gathering men, his sword in hand. The bow-maker cowered before him, his fearful gaze locked on the ground.

“What do you mean she went hunting?” Richard roared. “Women don’t hunt!”

“I...I told ye, m’lord, I made her a bow and—”

“Richard,” Catriona snapped, quickly stepping forward. “What is going on?”

He spun, and for a brief instant she thought she saw relief in his eyes, but his anger quickly returned. “What in the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Hunting,” she replied, her own anger rising. “Just like I used to do almost every day at home.”

“Are you daft, woman? What if Strickland’s men patrolled the woods?”

“I was with Branan and Duguald the entire time.”

He glanced at the two men, his eyes widening when he saw the stag.

“Glory,” Gavin said. “That one is the best I’ve seen yet.”

“It’s her kill, Gavin,” Duguald said, but his gaze remained focused on Richard, a scowl creasing his brow.

A soft murmur of surprise rippled through the camp.

Richard ignored the others as he stared at Branan, rage simmering in his eyes. Branan returned the glare equally.

Suddenly, Richard rounded on her. “Never again...you are not allowed to leave this camp. If you do, I will take you to Brackenburgh by force.”

She gaped at him. “What?”

“I’ll not have you throw your life away!”

“What would you have me do? Sit here and wallow in my own misery?”

“If it keeps you alive, then aye.”

Rage coiled through her, pushing tears into her eyes, but she refused to give way to them. “I’ve had my bloody fill of you, you stubborn, lack-witted barbarian! God’s teeth, why can’t you leave me be?” She spun on her heel and stormed back to her shelter.

HHH

Branan watched Catriona vanish into her shelter, fury clawing at his reason. His gaze returned to de Courcy and his fury increased. Slowly, he lowered the carcass to the ground and motioned for some men to remove it. As they did, his eyes never left de Courcy’s.

The young man, his face red from Catriona’s diatribe, stepped forward. His body bowed, but for a moment he didn’t move as he attempted to master himself.

“I see ye have learned one lesson,” Branan said between clenched teeth. “Ye willna threaten her with injury in my presence even when she lets loose with her sharp tongue.”

“I’m more angry at you than her,” de Courcy snapped. “Endanger her like that again and I will have your bollocks.”

“She was never in danger.”

“How do you know? Strickland’s men could have stalked you just like you stalked the deer.”

“I would have ken they were there...and so would she.”

“Mind my orders, MacTavish, I have equal say in our partnership.”

Branan snarled a curse. “And mind that ye dinna continue to slight her or underestimate her talents.”

“You overstep your bounds,” de Courcy snapped and stormed away.

Branan sighed, shaking his head. “Fool,” he muttered.

Duguald looked at him, arching an eyebrow. “Take care, young Branan. De Courcy knows ye have an eye for his lady.”

“She is my foster-sister and I dinna have an eye for her.”

“Ye spend most of yer waking hours with her and ye dinna have an eye for the lass?”

Branan’s shoulders sagged. “All right, Duguald, mayhap I find her a bonny creature and fair of grace. But her future is with de Courcy...and...” He almost choked on the words. “She willna break the betrothal because of me.”

“But ye need the fire of our beloved Catriona, do ye not?”

“Aye, but that be not the reason I do this.”

“Then why, lad? Why court the rage of the lord who finances yer cause?”

“De Courcy is a fool and a coward. Catriona hasna any friends here,” Branan said firmly. “She lost all that was dear to her except myself and Gavin. But de Courcy persecutes her for nary a reason.”

Duguald nodded. “Just see tae it ye dinna push de Courcy too far, or ye may just find yer bollocks on his plate.”

“I’ll goad him into raging fits if it causes him to give the lass her due,” Branan snapped.

Surprisingly, Duguald chuckled. “Verra well, lad, ye may be willing to endanger yer family jewels, but see tae it ye dinna lose yer heart as well.”

Muttering, Branan strode away.

HHH

“Catriona!” Richard barked from outside her shelter. “A word with you.”

She flinched and her heart pounded. She had stayed in her shelter until dark, hoping Richard would give up and leave. Unfortunately, he seemed to be determined to harass her.

Catriona squared her shoulders and purposefully stepped out. “What is it?”

“I insist that you return to Brackenburgh.”

She noticed movement behind him. Branan approached, but in the torchlight, it appeared as if he materialized out of the darkness.

“De Courcy,” he said, his voice laced with warning.

Richard saw him and curled his lip. “She is not safe here.”

Catriona lifted her chin, anger sparking through her. She would not be safe at Brackenburgh either. “I appreciate your concern, but I am perfectly secure here. I assure you I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

Richard’s anger faded and he looked genuinely amused. “Taking care of yourself? Please, lady, your words only prove your foolishness. If you had been able to take care of yourself, Strickland’s men wouldn’t have harried you like hounds on a rabbit. They wouldn’t have run you into the ground. Do you have any idea what would have happened if they’d caught you? If it hadn’t been for MacTavish and your brother, you would have been assaulted and probably left for dead.”