Nothing Else Matters (23 page)

Stian did no more than snarl at the man’s advice. “Come with me or go home,” he told him. “I’m off to kil Muraghs this night.”

“I’l come with you,” Malcolm said. “But it won’t do any good.”

It had to do some good. Kil ing the bastards would do him good. Someone had to pay, Stian knew that. Only death would satisfy this consuming rage

clawing away at his insides. He had to have revenge or else how could he be whole again? Al he truly wanted was his father.

“Conner Muragh’s head wil have to do,” he said. “Fetch every man who can ride,” he ordered Lars. “We’re leaving right now.”

* * * * *

Eleanor tiredly dragged off her dripping headrail and gazed upon the sorry state of the hal . Not that there was much she could see in the near total

darkness. There was but one rush light sputtering on the wal next to the tower doorway, and the hearthfire was out. There was more il umination from the lightning almost continual y flashing across the narrow windows than from inside the hal . She’d been more afraid of the weather than attackers as they came back from the vil age in the raging storm.

She had no idea of the hour, no idea of the state of the household. She was tired, more than tired, soul-weary. She wanted only to rest in Stian’s arms but knew that longing was not likely to come to pass this night. She’d had word of Lord Roger’s death and her heart ached for it, pain that was for Edythe, herself, al Roger’s loyal people but mostly for Stian. She would have gone to him, even leaving the vil agers to deal with their own troubles but Ranald had come back from the castle with word that Stian had set out to track the raiders.

She rubbed her temples and tried to find some strength to get her through the rest of the night. She’d been tired enough just from the journey. That

exhaustion was long forgotten, replaced by weariness from more grisly tasks. She couldn’t let herself dwel on the death and pain she’d seen. If she let herself think, she wouldn’t be able to do anything but cry. She would save her tears for later.

“Crying won’t do anyone any good,” she said. “A hot meal might.”

“Aye, my lady,” Ranald answered.

She’d forgotten the lad was at her side, though how she could have overlooked his presence surprised her. He’d been with her, loyal y protective and

helpful for many hours.

She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Thank you.”

His voice came shyly pleased out of the darkness. “For what, my lady?”

“For just being here, lad. I truly appreciate al your help.”

“’Tis no more than duty, Lady Eleanor. Sir Stian would have my hide if anything happened to his lady.”

“Thank you, anyway,” she said. “Think you can roust out some of the servants,” she went on before the fondness she felt for the squire brought out al the other emotions she was careful y keeping in check. “Where could everyone be? There’s much to do.”

“I’l see who I can find, my lady,” Ranald promised.

“Good. We need to get a fire going and find out if there are any supplies left in the undercroft so we can get people fed.”

So much to do, she added to herself as Ranald went off. So much.
Edythe. I must see to Edythe. She lost a husband this day. She must need me.

As she slowly picked her way toward the tower entrance, she couldn’t help but wonder again where everyone was. There had been a guard at the castle

gate when they rode up and a few men in the stables. Between the aftermath of the attack and the fury of the storm, al life seemed to have fled Harelby.

She found that she was not only chil ed from the rain but from the heavy silence of the hal . Or perhaps the silence was only of her imagining since the wind and thunder were a constant roar even through the thick stone wal s.

Passing below the windows over the dais, she glanced up as a white flash of lightning, more bril iant than any before it, burned across the glass. The blue-white brightness blinded her for a moment. In the afterglow she thought she saw a figure seated in Lord Roger’s high-backed chair.

Whether it was ghost, man or her imagination she didn’t know but the thril of fear it sent through her sent her running up the stairs. The staircase was dark and smel ed of blood. It was not until she reached the turning leading up to the third floor that she saw light in the distance. Unfortunately the light also served to show her a stack of bodies on the landing that must have been cleared off the stairs. The bodies blocked the entrance to her own room. She

eased past them, panting, choking out prayers and fighting the urge to be sick.

She set her gaze on the light above and hurried on until she reached the torch set in a bracket next to the bower door. She stopped there, just looking at the fire for a moment until her attention was caught by the sight of long gashes in the wood. It looked as if someone had taken an axe to it. Someone

probably had but the thick old wood had given up but a few splinters for al the attacker’s troubles. There was blood splattered on the wal s as wel , but she refused to dwel on whose blood it might be.

The door was ajar, letting out the sounds of wailing, prayer and murmured conversation. She slipped inside, glad of the people and the light despite the circumstances of the gathering. Edythe was by the bed, with al the gentlewomen surrounding her. Hubert knelt at the head of the bed, mud-encrusted

hands tightly clasped in prayer. The cut on his forehead showed as an ugly red line in the glow of candles set on a nearby table.

Eleanor was not yet ready to look at the body on the bed, though the man’s large form was decently covered a cloth. So she turned at the sound of men’s voices to see Lars and Malcolm seated in the alcove where the women spent their days. It was a corner ful of thread baskets, embroidery frames,

spindles and piles of dyed wool waiting for the loom. The big men, stil dressed in mail and leather looked like a pair of cuckoo chicks set in a sparrow’s nest made of bright yarn. They were passing a wineskin back and forth between them, but their gazes were set on the bed and the people surrounding it.

Eleanor knew she should go to Edythe. She saw the tears streaming down her sister’s face and knew she should comfort her. She couldn’t make herself

do it. Though her sister was only a few steps away, Eleanor simply could not bridge that short gap. Her own weariness weighed her down so much she

just wanted to sink to the floor and die.

“Or just sleep,” she whispered, “and let this al be a bad dream.” She had a hopeful vision of waking in Stian’s comforting arms then forced the yearning away to concentrate on bleak reality. She went to speak with the men. Malcolm stood to offer his chair.

“You look very bad, lady. You need dry clothes and to rest.”

She shook her head but did sink grateful y into the seat. “I thought you’d gone after the raiders.”

“Aye,” Malcolm said. “For a while.”

“With darkness and the storm there was no tracking them,” Lars said. He glanced over at the bed and Eleanor watched tears rol down his cheek. “My

father sent me to Roger when I was seven. Everything I learned was at his hand as page and squire and fighter. I—” He shook his head then shifting his attention to Edythe said very softly, “I owe him everything.”

Eleanor left the warrior alone in his grief, thinking he would prefer it so. She turned to Malcolm. “I sent Ranald to rouse the servants. There wil be hot food soon.” As he nodded, she recal ed the grisly pile she’d found on the stairs. “And I’l have those invaders buried tonight, storm or no.”

“My men wil help, lady,” Malcolm told her.

Eleanor nodded her thanks. She knew she should get up to give the orders but she sat back farther in the cushioned chair instead. It was so tempting to rest her head and close her eyes. She did rest her head but looked up the long distance to Malcolm’s face. Looking at him, in his armor and his curls al wind-tangled, a simple, obvious truth slowly occurred to her. “Stian’s back,” she said. “If you turned back, Stian must be at Harelby.”

“He’s here,” Malcolm acknowledged. “I hit him over the head myself to get him to come home. It wasn’t easy bringing him in tied over his own saddle but someone had to show sense.”

Eleanor would have jumped to her feet, but the combination of exhaustion and wet skirts made it a struggle to rise. “He’s here! He’s hurt?”

“Not hurt.” Malcolm put his hands on her shoulders and eased her back into the chair. “We left him with a wineskin in the hal . Let him be, girl,” he ordered when she tried to stand again. “Let him grieve in his own time and his own way.”

Eleanor remembered the brief il umination of a figure in Lord Roger’s chair. Not a ghost then, but her husband. She hated the thought of him brooding

alone in the dark but she also didn’t think he’d want to be seen spil ing his grief out in tears. He might think it made him seem weak. She thought Malcolm understood his touchy pride. Perhaps she would let him alone as Malcolm seemed to think he needed, at least for a little while.

So she folded her hands together, trying to keep stil so as not to betray her own agitation and made herself talk to the men. “I heard some of the tale in the vil age, about how the Muraghs took the castle by surprise. But how they breached the defenses, I’m stil not certain.”

“’Twas through the space Lord Roger had had opened in the curtain wal ,” Lars answered. “The hole was narrow but scaleable, and it led straight from the moat to the bower.”

“But—” Eleanor did manage to get to her feet this time. “But what outsider knew of that?”

“Now that, wife, is just what I’ve been wondering.”

Stian’s voice rang out loudly from the doorway, slightly slurred, ful of anger. Al eyes turned to him as he stepped forward. His own hate-fil ed gaze raked across them and people moved back as he halted in the center of the bedchamber. He held the wineskin in one hand, a dagger in the other.

Stian couldn’t bring himself to look at the cloth-covered mound on the bed. A part of him wanted to kneel and pray, to say goodbye. He could not do it. He could hear the man laughing from the shadows of the room, could hear the shouts of their arguments. It had always been a clean anger between them,

maddening, but the storms never left any anger in their wakes.

Now, he could only make one concession to his father’s passing. He looked to Hubert. “He died unshriven?”

The young priest shook his head. “He made confession just after Mass…this morning.” Hubert’s last words trailed off into confusion. “It feels like a month since dawn,” the priest said, and knelt down to pray again.

Stian left him to it and turned his attention on al the staring people. “Stop it!” he snarled. He pointed to the door. “Don’t look at me. Get out! I want no strangers here.”

Edythe took a step toward him, her hand held out like a supplicant. Before she could say a word he rounded on her, the dagger held to strike. “Back,

bitch.” She shrieked. And while she scrambled back behind her women, he went on, “Was it you?” He turned toward Lars. “Or you?” His pointed to

Eleanor. “You?” He tossed the drained wineskin at his wife.

Malcolm caught it before it reached her. “What are you talking about?” his cousin demanded.

“Someone betrayed my father,” Stian answered. “Don’t you see it? Someone told the Muraghs of the weakened wal . Someone.” He glared at Lars while

he pointed toward Edythe. “Do you want her that badly?”

When Lars’ hand went to his sword hilt, Eleanor stepped in front of him. “Peace,” she said. She looked to her husband. “Leave be, I beg you. I know you hurt—”

Stian just turned his cold glare on her. His eyes looked like ice and she saw nothing in his face but hate. “Did you want the title sooner than you

deserved?” He gave her a mocking bow. “Wel met, Lady of Harelby.”

Suddenly he was on her, pressing her back against the wal with his arm across her throat. He’d moved so fast she hadn’t seen it. Eleanor couldn’t

breathe. She couldn’t cry out. She could only look into his angry face, smel the sour wine on his breath. She heard the women scream, Malcolm shouting.

She felt muscle before her and the stone wal at her back, both equal y hard.

Sweet Jesu! She’d never been so afraid in her life. Please! She could only mouth the word, no sound would come out. He shook his head, just once, eyes never leaving hers. Then he eased the pressure enough for her to breathe.

“Did you betray my father?”

“No. I swear!”

He raised his hand above his head. “Did you?”

“Don’t strike me,” Eleanor pleaded, her voice a bare whisper. “Please. I’m with child.”

Stian’s hand dropped to his side as though it was made of stone. Some of the cold seem to leave his eyes. “With child?” He closed his eyes. “Sweet

Jesu, he wanted grandsons.”

Stian never saw the dagger hilt that knocked him out but Eleanor did. She didn’t try to warn her husband as Malcolm hit him on the head. She did grasp him around the waist and helped ease his fal to the floor. She went down with him and ended up with his head in her lap.

“Damn drunken fool,” Malcolm muttered, and nudged Stian’s body with his foot. “His head’s too hard for that to keep him out long but maybe the wine wil keep him asleep.”

Eleanor looked up. “Why did he—?”

“And damn the wine too,” he answered. “He’s mean as a wounded boar when there’s wine in him.”

“Aye, that’s so,” Lars agreed.

Malcolm knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said.
Not where it shows.
“Why would he think I’d betray—?”

“Why accuse any of us?” Lars said. He sounded both offended and petulant.

“There’s an easy answer for that,” Malcolm said. “I remember when my own da died. Though he died in battle, I stil felt guilty. There’s a curse that comes with being an heir,” he explained. “You want the lands and title and power, but you come to it over another man’s body. If you love the man, you blame yourself no matter how he dies.” He put a comforting arm around Eleanor’s shoulder. “He feels powerless right now. He wants someone he can punish