The Renegade's Heart (2 page)

“My lord Murdoch!” Stewart bellowed, with a
volume only he could produce. He flung his hands into the air with
joy and shouted with pleasure. “Against all expectation, my lord
Murdoch is returned! Praise be to God!”

“Stewart!” Murdoch bounded toward the man he
had known from childhood.

The older man laughed and caught Murdoch in a
fierce hug, one that nearly cracked his ribs. Murdoch felt a tear
on his cheek.

Home. He was home.

“We thought you a dead man, but here you
stand, as hale as ever.” Stewart forced a smile and clapped Murdoch
on the back. “Where have you been, lad?”

Murdoch froze. “I do not understand.” He
feared he did understand. How much time had passed?

“The Earl of Buchan was here,” Stewart said
with quiet intensity. “A year ago.” Murdoch’s thoughts flew. A
year? He had left Buchan in France, that man intending to stay
until the end of the war. Though it felt to Murdoch that no more
than a fortnight had passed, here was proof otherwise.

Stewart continued. “He stopped on his way
home to ensure that you had arrived safely.” Murdoch caught his
breath. “He told of a fearsome injury you had, an infection in the
wound that could not be healed.”

“All true,” Murdoch admitted.

“He said he had dispatched you for home.”

Murdoch nodded.

Stewart’s eyes narrowed and Murdoch braced
himself. “Almost three years ago. lad.”

Three years! The Elphine Queen had stolen
three years from his life. Murdoch had to avert his gaze for he
felt dizzy. He had his answer but he did not have to like it.

What else had changed in three years?

He could not even ask. Stewart squeezed his
shoulder and spoke quietly. “Your father took the tidings from
Buchan badly. He died believing you dead, lad. Where have you
been?”

Murdoch stared at his boots, sick with the
realization that his father was gone, and that the harsh words they
had exchanged would be the last they ever spoke to each other. “I
was detained,” he said, knowing that no man would believe the
truth. “Battle and bloodshed are best left behind.”

Stewart studied him closely, his silence
prompting Murdoch to say more.

“I have seen more than a man should ever
witness,” he said, meaning every word.

“Fair enough, my lord,” Stewart agreed in an
undertone. “Your brother will be glad you are returned. There is
much changed here at Seton Manor.” Stewart smiled. “But some
matters remain the same.” He turned then and raised his voice. “Are
you all deafened? The laird’s son is arrived home!”

People came running then, running from every
corner of the keep and courtyard and even the village. They
surrounded Murdoch, their faces familiar and filled with joy, their
eyes alight that he had returned. He was clapped on the back,
hugged and kissed, and had his hand shaken a thousand times.

Abruptly, a fierce wind swept over them, its
cold making them huddle into their cloaks and its force making the
small children stumble. Murdoch glanced back, into the teeth of the
sudden wind, to see that snow was falling thickly on the road he
had just traveled.

It had been dry only moments before and the
sky had been clear. Now the trees alongside the road were coated
with ice, each branch and needle encased in a glittering icy shell
of hoarfrost. The sky was dark overhead, and that icy wind blew
directly toward Seton Hall.

From a direction the wind never blew.

Murdoch was not the only one left
shivering.

“You have brought the foul weather, lad!”
Stewart jested and the others laughed. “Into the hall. The laird
will offer ale to everyone to celebrate his brother’s return.” The
crowd cheered and surged forward, boys leading Murdoch’s horses to
the stables, others carrying his saddlebags.

But Murdoch looked back into the eye of the
approaching storm, knowing that Stewart had inadvertently spoken
the truth.

Something had followed him. Something that
would take every sweetness from his homecoming.

Murdoch feared he knew what—or who—it was. He
had promised any thing in exchange for the chance to return
home.

Only now did he begin to fear what the
Elphine Queen would demand.

* * *

Chapter
One

Kinfairlie, Scotland—January 1424

When the moon was in its first quarter of the
new year, a strange wind came rattling through Kinfairlie’s hall.
That wind bore down on Kinfairlie with astonishing force and cold,
slipping through the chinks in the mortar, scattering spices and
making the water swirl in the buckets. Darkness came earlier from
that day hence, and the nights were filled with threat and ominous
whispers.

There was not a soul who did not curse the
change, or the relentless buffet of that wind. It seemed impossible
to evade its frosty fingers, or to ever get fully warm. Lanterns
were snuffed and candles blown out by its gusts. Fires were nearly
impossible to start, with that wind gusting across hearth and
brazier, and tempers became short.

Usually the coldest winds came from the sea,
bearing dampness and often snow. This wind was fierce and
unfamiliar. It blew from the north, ferocious and icy. Yet at the
same time, the butter turned rancid and the meat spoiled in the
larder, despite the cold temperatures. There were those who said it
was a punishment, a retribution for sin, or even for the
comparative ease of the winter so far.

Isabella did not believe a word of that.
Since the winter had been mild before this change, she had been
immersed in her studies of the healing plants, under the tutelage
of her brother’s wife, Eleanor. Ever since Isabella had tried to
play a jest upon her brother Alexander during his courtship of
Eleanor and that jest had gone awry, she had been determined to
learn the healer’s craft so she could not so err again. Eleanor had
been only too glad to have an apprentice and Isabella was an avid
student these past three years. It suited her well to be able to
make a difference in the lives of those around her.

This wind made labor for Isabella, as many in
Kinfairlie fell ill with a persistent cough, one that began the
first night of the wind’s arrival and would not abate. As well,
Eleanor herself fell ill, leaving more to Isabella. Eleanor was at
the beginning of her second pregnancy, though it was only with
arrival of the wind that she became unable to eat. Isabella worked
long, fearing that Eleanor might lose her child.

It was on the third morning of the wind’s
wailing that Isabella strode into the chamber she shared with her
two unwed sisters. As Isabella entered, her youngest sister
Elizabeth looked up from her book. Isabella saw that it was the
ledger from the kitchens. “Are you doing the inventory for
Eleanor?”

“Spices on this day. She keeps a rigorous
schedule in her inventories and I would ensure that she has no need
to rise from bed.” Elizabeth’s expression turned hopeful. “Is she
better?”

“She grows impatient with time spent abed and
tells me this is a good portent for a patient’s recovery.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“That and complaints about the fare,”
Isabella added and Elizabeth laughed. “I must go to the village to
check on those with the cough, then concoct another posset for
Eleanor.”

Elizabeth watched Isabella. “You enjoy this
labor.”

“I do.” Isabella paused at an unfamiliar note
in her sister’s tone. “Does that trouble you?”

Elizabeth frowned. “I am happy for you, of
course. You have found a task that you love and your passion for it
is clear. Even Annelise seems to be in her element, caring for
Roland each day.” She made a face, but Isabella knew Elizabeth did
not resent either their other sister or Eleanor and Roland’s
son.

“So what is amiss?” she prompted.

Elizabeth sighed again. “I have no similar
passion. Indeed, my yearnings are for things I doubt I shall ever
have.”

“Like what?” Isabella sat down beside her
sister.

“I yearn for adventure. Love. Bold deeds.”
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “A knight to capture me and claim me as
his own. He should be valiant and handsome, and undefeated in
battle.”

“As well as wealthy and landed,” Isabella
teased.

“Of course!”

“You want to live in a tale.”

“And what is so wrong with that? More than
two years have passed since our brother saw Madeline and Vivienne
wedded, then took a bride himself. Two sisters and a brother wedded
in a year! Did you not think we would be married by now?” Elizabeth
flung out her hands. “We shall die ancient and withered in this
keep!”

Isabella laughed and rose to fasten her
cloak. “I believe there is yet time.”

“Are you not impatient?”

“Alexander vowed we would wed at our own
choice. I am content to bide my time in choosing, that I might
choose well.”

“Since when is patience one of your virtues?”
Elizabeth teased.

Isabella turned away, pretending to seek some
trinket. She had seen much of the matters of women in assisting
Eleanor. She had been present when the life of Ceara, the wife of
the miller’s son, had hung in the balance in the delivery of their
first child. And Isabella was resolved that if she were to take
such a risk for a man, she would have to love him with her heart
and soul.

As Eleanor loved Alexander, and as Ceara
loved Matthew.

“And who shall you choose?” Elizabeth
continued. “There is never a man of interest to come to this keep
and Alexander will not take us to even the earl’s court.” Elizabeth
lifted the ledger. “We had best be about our labors. At least you
look forward to yours.”

Isabella had not managed a reply when the
sound of hoof beats carried through the window.

“Destriers!” Elizabeth said. She raced past
Isabella and flung open the shutter, admitting the chill of the
morning. “Knights!” she breathed in awe. She grinned at Isabella
and lowered her voice, her eyes sparkling with new merriment.
“Husbands!”

“You think of only one thing!” Isabella
teased.

“Alexander must have summoned them. Or they
come to beg his favor. I must be in the hall to greet them!”
Elizabeth hastened out of the chamber, her footsteps pounding on
the stairs as she descended to the great hall.

Isabella, always cursed by curiosity, went to
the window to look.

Two horses galloped along the road to
Kinfairlie’s gates, their manes and tails flying in the wind. They
were magnificent steeds, so large and muscled that Isabella knew
them to be destriers. Elizabeth had doubtless been right about
knights, for the warhorses were richly caparisoned. Isabella saw
the gleam of sunlight on armor.

The lead horse was so pale a silver as to be
nearly white. Its mane and tale were as dark as pewter. Its
trappings were deep blue, and the tabard of the knight riding it
was of that same deep blue. He wore chain mail and a long full cape
as dark as midnight flowed from his shoulders. As he drew nearer,
Isabella saw that his tabard bore no insignia. His hair was black
and long enough to curl over his ears.

The second horse was a chestnut with a white
star on its brow and white socks. It was no less handsome than the
first. The man riding it was older and garbed in the plaid favored
by the highlanders. He wore a leather jerkin and a white shirt, and
his hair was both short and grey. A seasoned warrior, Isabella
sensed that he was aware of all that surrounded them, but kept his
expression impassive.

Her gaze returned to the younger man.

They galloped directly to the gates, the
horses stamping and snorting when they were compelled to halt
before the gatekeeper. Their breath sent plumes of white into the
air.

“I am Murdoch Seton,” cried the man with the
dark hair. He was handsome enough to make Elizabeth’s heart
flutter, Isabella was certain of it. His voice was so rich and
deep, his confidence so beguiling that Isabella herself thought to
shiver. His manner was audacious, which snared Isabella’s interest.
“I am come to deliver a message to the Laird of Kinfairlie.”

The gatekeeper, a doughty man who seldom
smiled, barred the entry with his spear. Isabella heard the rumble
of his voice but could not discern his words.

The pale horse pranced in impatience. “My
brother’s request will not be surrendered to the gatekeeper and
forgotten,” Murdoch Seton said, a surprising hostility in his tone.
“I will speak to the laird and tell him of it myself.” His gaze
danced over the tower and Isabella withdrew slightly, fearing that
he would spot her.

There was something about him that held her
gaze, though, a vitality that was uncommon among men.

“I will send word to my laird and you will
wait.”

“I will not be deterred from this mission,”
the knight said with a determination that was surprising. “I have
but a message to deliver, and no man of integrity would turn such a
missive aside.”

“But...” It was clear to Isabella that the
gatekeeper did not trust this Murdoch Seton.

Why? Did he know of him? Or did he simply
dislike the man’s imperious manner? Isabella drew back the shutter
a little more. It seemed almost that the knight expected to be
refused or turned aside. Why?

“I see you do not send word and perhaps you
do not mean to,” the knight said with impatience. “I will take word
of my arrival to the laird myself.”

The gatekeeper obviously protested, but this
Murdoch Seton dismounted, casting the reins of his steed to his
partner. He made to push past the gatekeeper’s spear, and Isabella
saw that he was both tall and muscular. There must have been
purpose in his gaze, for the gatekeeper took a step back. He kept
the spear lowered, though.

“You will not enter this hall armed!” he
declared.