Pride of the Clan (17 page)

Her
léine
and plaid had been cleaned. She retrieved the garden dirk from her cubby, and tucked it into the girdle at her waist. She covered her head with the plaid and wrapped its sweet smelling warmth around her. It would be her mantle, her armor against whatever lay ahead. She only wished Rheade was with her. She needed his courage, his strength. But at least she had the knife.

At the last minute, she decided to filch a small jar of Triduana’s spikenard ointment. She’d been punished for a crime she hadn’t committed. May as well give in to one naughty urge. It would be a memento of the sometimes cantankerous nun, and the scratches from the thorns hadn’t healed completely.

She savored the sweet elation of freedom as the iron gate of the Priory clanged shut behind her. The fare-thee-well had been as cold as the welcome. But the experience within its walls had strengthened her. She’d survived, and learned a great deal about plants, and about herself. She wasn’t the Margaret Ogilvie who’d left Oban. She was stronger, and she was in love. Whatever obstacles lay between her and Rheade Robertson she resolved to face them with courage.

Braden had been sucked into Brecan’s Cauldron and survived—somewhere. Incredible as it seemed, the notion lightened her heart.

A handful of burly highlanders awaited outside, probably Erskine’s men. “Lady Margaret Ogilvie?” one of them asked gruffly.

She was tempted to retort that since there wasn’t a flood of women exiting the convent, who else might she be but Lady Margaret Ogilvie, but at least the man had greeted her. “Aye,” she replied.

“Angus Roy,” he said curtly as a palfrey was brought forward for her. “We’ll be escorting ye safely to Stirling.”

The palfrey wasn’t Bàn, but looked to be a decent mount, and he’d said
escort
, leading her to believe she wasn’t a prisoner. She accepted his assistance to mount, though she didn’t need it. “I thank ye, Angus Roy.”

He mounted his own horse, indicating she should ride in the midst of the group as they set off for Stirling Castle.

LOCH BHAC

“Ridiculous,” Tannoch exclaimed, his beefy arms folded across his chest. “It would be a complete waste of time.”

Garth poked at the peat smoking in the hearth. Despite the warmer April weather the nights were still chilly at Blair Atholl. “Mayhap not,” he said. “We’ve looked everywhere else.”

“Nay,” Tannoch replied gruffly. “I hate to say it, but the rumors of Graham’s flight to France might prove to be true.”

They’d gone back and forth with this same argument since Rheade had suggested searching around Loch Bhac two days before. He was sick of it and ready to set off on his own. He toyed with the idea of revealing why he’d suggested the loch, but decided it would make matters worse. He heard the taunts now.

Message from a dead man, eh? Conveyed to ye by a moron?

Trouble was, he wouldn’t blame them. It was ludicrous, and yet, how did Margaret learn of Loch Bhac? It was small, off the beaten track. There were likely many locals who were unsure of its location. And how did she know a burn emptied into it on the west side?

He knew of the loch because Da had taken him and Logan there once when they were boys. They’d fished and hunted. He couldn’t for the life of him recall why Tannoch hadn’t gone along for the journey.

He tried again. “Loch Bhac is indeed the perfect place to hide. Garth didna ken of its existence. It’s isolated and difficult to reach, yet there’s fresh water and a forest teeming with game. The mountains are close by if a body needed to flee quickly. But it’s not as remote as the Grampians. A man hiding there is within striking distance of the coast or several large towns.”

“I agree,” Garth said.

“As do I,” Logan confirmed.

“On the morrow then,” Rheade suggested.

Tannoch pouted, staring into the smoking peat. At length he scratched his fuzzy head and muttered, “Aye. May as well.”

~~~

Twenty men set off at dawn, some on ponies, most on foot. They followed the River Garry as far as
Coille Chreithnich
. The climb had been gradual, then they went downhill for a while before striking out to the west, skirting the mountains above Loch Tummel.

As the going got steeper Rheade was relieved he hadn’t brought Dubh. In this rocky terrain, he had confidence in the stocky mountain pony he rode.

He’d barely slept, yet he was filled with a sense of peace, certain deep in his heart they would find Graham. It was a daunting prospect. The fugitive wouldn’t surrender willingly.

Logan rode behind him on the narrow track. “Ye seem verra sure about this,” his younger brother called out to him.

“I am,” he replied, recognizing Logan’s curiosity but not yet willing to explain his reasoning.

Tannoch led the column. He’d steadfastly maintained the excursion was a waste of time and hadn’t turned around once to converse with anyone.

The higher they went, the colder it got. “Still winter up here,” Logan yelled over the wind.

“Aye,” Rheade replied, “but look yonder. Hares, already shedding their winter coats.”

“Yer right,” Garth called from behind Logan. “I espied ptarmigan a while back with half their winter plumage gone. Comical sight.”

“It will get colder yet once we turn north to the loch,” Rheade said.

“How does Tannoch ken the way if he’s never been there before?” Logan asked.

“I went over the details with him last night,” Rheade explained. He’d done so out of respect, knowing his brother wanted to lead, despite his insistence the trip was futile. He hadn’t shared Tannoch’s revelations with Logan, still unsure about the implications. He fingered the sachet to ensure it was still firmly attached to his plaid. A faint trace of Margaret’s perfume lingered, his only link to her, and it bolstered his determination to track down the last of the assassins.

It took seven hours to climb to the limestone outcropping that cradled the loch, but they’d decided to camp away from the water, lest the sounds of their activity alert Graham.
Cocooned in an eerie silence,
they watched darkness creep over the
Bheinn a’Ghlò mountains beyond Blair Atholl and the River Garry far below, then turned to watch the sunset bathe the distant snowcapped peak of Schiehallion in glorious pinks and golds.

“Home of Caledonia’s Fairies,” Tannoch rasped. “I love this
bluidy
country.”

No one else spoke but Rheade knew the same passion flowed in the veins of every Highlander present.

They set up camp in silence and no fires were allowed. Garth and the Robertson brothers sat crosslegged, huddled into their plaids.

Rheade had suggested searching near the burn on the west side of the loch, but there was a danger they might waste hours unless he pointed the searchers in the direction of the rock. The longer it took, the greater the likelihood Graham might escape. “If I remember correctly, there’s a giant rock near the burn. Forms a sort of cave,” he whispered. “Mayhap that’s where he’s hiding.”

“I dinna recall a cave,” Logan said. “To my recollection, we didna explore that side of the loch with Da.”

Rheade elbowed him, hoping his brother would get the hint. “Och, ye were a wee laddie.”

Tannoch studied him. “’Tis as though ye’ve had a vision, Rheade. As if someone told ye exactly where Graham is hiding.”

Rheade shrugged and curled up on the rocky ground. “Aye. A vision. I’ve the second sight. Now shut up and go to sleep. We’ll needs be up before dawn.”

In the darkness he sensed after a few minutes Tannoch was the only one still sitting upright.

“Aye,” his chieftain rasped, unexpectedly grasping Rheade’s ankle. “Ye may have been gifted with the second sight just in time. This is a perfect place to hide. We’ll see on the morrow.”

~~~

The marshy shores of the loch made the going difficult, especially in the half light just before dawn. Rheade cursed under his breath more than once when his foot landed in ice cold water.
 

“I dinna recall any o’ this,” Logan complained.

“’Tis dark,” Rheade hissed back. “Once the dawn breaks, ye’ll recognise the place.” In truth their Da had never brought them to the western side of the loch, but Rheade hoped they’d have Graham in their custody before Logan’s complaints raised doubts.

He considered the punishments Queen Joan likely had in mind for the assassin. To his surprise, Tannoch hadn’t spoken of the Stewart executions, but the barbaric details were told and retold by many who were there. Had Graham heard the hellish stories up here in this paradise? Even if he hadn’t, capturing him would be no easy matter.

With the advent of a weak sun, invisible insects rose up in swarms to plague them. “I’ve a thousand needles pricking my legs,” Logan whined.
 

“Aye,” Tannoch grunted, “and if one more tree branch pokes me in the eye—”

They heard the rushing waters of the burn before they saw it. Rheade raised his hand and pressed a forefinger to his lips. The men stood stock still.

He’d feared this was a wild goose chase, a macabre jest played on him by a woman robbed of her wits by grief. Or mayhap he’d completely misunderstood Joss’s message.

Then he smelled it.

“Woodsmoke,” he whispered to Tannoch.

His brother’s eyes brightened. “Aye.”

They advanced slowly to where the waters of the burn cascaded into the loch. Tannoch motioned for the men to remain there, and he, Rheade, Logan and Garth stepped into the water to begin the trek to a large rocky outcropping a few yards away.

Rheade made the sign of his Savior across his body. He had no doubt Robert Graham was minutes away from capture. There truly were things in this life beyond a man’s ken.

They were confident the water masked the sounds of their footsteps, but suddenly a group of men burst forth from the shelter of the rock, and fled into the forest. Four, mayhap five.

“
Shyte
,” Tannoch growled as he cupped his hands to his mouth. “To the woods, lads,” he bellowed.

The men waiting at the lakeshore sprang into action and disappeared into the trees, yelling like demons loosed from Hell. Rheade drew his dagger and followed his brothers into the forest, his heart beating too fast.

His waterlogged boots hindered his progress. Mayhap paddling in the burn hadn’t been a good idea.

GRAVELY WOUNDED

Stirling Castle

Margaret had lodged for two days in what was basically a cupboard. However, she didn’t complain. It was preferable to a cell, and Hannah had once more been assigned to take care of her needs.

It was a great relief to see a friendly face, and Margaret came close to tears upon first catching sight of the girl. She was touched when the first thing the maidservant did was exam her hands. “All healed, I see,” she exclaimed with a smile. “But new scratches, and we’ll need to clean those mucky nails. Been diggin’ in the dirt?”

“Aye,” Margaret whispered, thinking of the sharp-edged garden tool hidden under her mattress.

She’d neither seen nor spoken to anyone else since her arrival. The door to the chamber wasn’t locked, but she was sure she wasn’t meant to go exploring. Not that she wished to anyway. Hannah brought food, too hearty and tasty for a prisoner, increasing her confidence she wasn't being prepared for the gallows.

But why had she been brought here?

On the third morning, Hannah failed to appear with food to break her fast. She dressed and took care of her own needs, then craned her neck to look out the arrow slit of a window, knowing she’d see nothing but a grey stone wall.

The certainty something would happen this day lay like a weight on her lungs. She lifted a corner of the mattress to make sure the dirk was still there, hastily jumping atop the bed when Hannah burst in.

“They’ve captured him,” the maid squealed.

Rheade had tracked Graham down. Joss had made it to Blair Castle. “Thank ye, Braden,” she whispered under her breath, making the sign of her Savior across her body.

“They’re bringing him through the streets to the cells on a cart. They’ve stripped him naked and nailed—”

Margaret’s belly lurched. She held up a hand. “Nay, Hannah. I prefer not to hear the gruesome details.”

The girl was instantly contrite. “Of course not. I’m sorry, my lady. I’m so excited I forgot noblewomen should hae no knowledge of such things. The whole of Stirling is agog with the news ’twas the Robertsons who captured the assassin. Tracked him down near some loch nobody has ever heard of.”

Margaret ought to rise from the bed, but doubted her trembling legs would hold her up. “Do they say if the Robertsons have returned safely?”

Hannah’s smile fled. “One was gravely wounded, slashed with a dagger. He’s been taken to the Infirmary.”

The trembling spread from Margaret’s legs to her belly and lodged like an icy hand on her nape. Had she sent Rheade to his death?

“But dinna worry, ’tisna yer braw laddie. ’Tis his scruffy brother, the chieftain. Now, let’s get ye properly dressed in case the Queen wants to see ye.”

~~~

Rheade stared helplessly at Tannoch, who lay on a raised pallet in the Infirmary. The monks had stitched and bound the deep gash in his belly, but blood had oozed into the linens covering his nakedness. “I’ve never seen him so pale,” he whispered to Logan, his gut in knots.

“Nor so helpless,” Logan agreed. “He’d be mad as hell if he were awake.”

“He lost a lot of blood coming down from Loch Bhac,” Rheade said, haunted by memories of the frantic descent he’d never forget. He and Logan had handed the battered Graham and his one surviving son over to Garth, intent only on getting their wounded brother down the mountain. Six of their clansmen had borne him on their shoulders down the treacherous gravel trail. Rheade wanted him carried home to Dunalastair, but Tannoch insisted on personally delivering Graham to Queen Joan.

“She’ll nay be happy if ye die in the process,” Rheade shouted in exasperation, terrified by the notion it might actually happen.