Highland Storm (12 page)

K
ing Henry
of England was dead, felled, not by a broadsword, but by a lump of eels. Rumors were circulating that he’d been poisoned, and he’d left no clear heir.

At one point, Henry had supported his Empress daughter, but Matilda had since roused the rebels against him, and so the instant Henry was pronounced dead, the king’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, rushed to England to seize his throne whilst Matilda remained in Anjou, supporting rebels against her dead father. These were not the actions of a beloved daughter and the people of England bore the Empress little love. Unfortunately for King David’s niece, they gave Stephen a king’s welcome, embracing him as the new sovereign lord. Stephen was crowned on the twenty-second day of December; and the matter was settled. But perhaps not entirely…

The three messengers had been sent by David mac Mhaoil Chaluim. They settled themselves before the fire, partaking of the evening’s meal—a fact no one saw fit to complain about, because they’d brought along with
bit o’ news
a bit o’ bread and ale—gritty ale and stale bread, though on a cold night like this, even dirty ale was a far more welcome than tea. At hearing the news, even Keane had a taste for a wee dram tonight.

The youngest of the three messengers had broken the news. Keane recognized him from Keppenach, where he served Jaime. The other two served the king directly. Peering at Lianae—wondering how this should change his plans—he cut away at an arrow fletch, trimming it whilst he listened to the report. Lianae sat beside him, leaning against his shoulder—a fact that may have pleased him were it not for the simple fact that the discussion at hand brought with it an undeniable note of dread. A wolf howled in the distance, the sound mournful and prophetic.

“Matilda claims she’ll nae kneel to Stephen,” Luc said, while the elder messenger stuffed a chunk of meat into his gob and then followed it with half a loaf of stale bread.

“What d’ ye suppose it’ll mean for Scotland?” Murdoch asked.

“He’s her uncle, ye ken,” he elder messenger said, speaking of David. “So he rallies his liegemen, even now.”

By virtue of his marriage, David mac Mhaoil Chaluim would no doubt claim all of Northumbria, though Stephen of Blois was bound to oppose him. Keane brushed a thumb across the sharp blade of his knife, directing his question to Luc. “Where is he now?”

“Keppenach for the moment. He awaits the MacKinnon’s response to a call for arms.”

“MacKinnon?” Cameron interjected. He slid Keane a glance.

The messenger nodded. “They sent cartloads of grain and men enough to see Chreagach Mhor rebuilt—I saw them off myself. All he asks in return is for MacKinnon’s alliance once the time arrives.”

A few weeks ago Chreagach Mhor had burned to the ground—storehouses, silos, supplies, all lost. Keane knew this secondhand, because Aidan never bothered to send him word. At the moment, his brother was not his greatest fan.

Peering down at his feet, Cameron offered, “MacKinnon has rarely chosen sides.” But the fact that he did not reveal his kinship left Keane curious.

The quiet messenger spoke up now, struggling around mouthfuls of food. “Word is… he will now… his wife is heir to Aldergh, in the disputed lands… her father has died.”

The disputed lands were in essence the entirety of Northumbria—land that had been mostly enfeoffed to David, albeit with Henry as his lord. It was an arrangement that suited both kings, only because the two were thick as thieves. This was not the case with Stephen of Blois, and David would waste little time in fortifying his claims. So long as MacKinnon swore fealty to David, giving Aldergh to him should suit David well. However, should Ian choose to do so, he would clearly be taking Matilda’s side. It was a gamble to be sure, for there was none to say Stephen would remain seated upon England’s throne.

Cameron tilted the man a look. “An’ so ye say FitzSimon is dead?”

The same messenger nodded, his lips shining with grease. “According to Broc Ceannfhionn. I hear tell the man was slain by MacKinnon’s brat—that boy who was held by FitzSimon some years past.”

“Malcom?”

“Aye, that’s the one.” The messenger swiped at his mouth with a dirty sleeve. “Guess he’s no longer a wee one.”

The flames cast a feverish hue on the faces surrounding the fire. Outside the glow of the campfire, the night had long turned black.

“Imagine that,” the elder messenger said. “The boy put thirty inches of good steel into his granpappy’s belly and he gets tae keep the spoils. I’d say ’twas vengeance well done.”

For a moment, the camp went silent, each man considering this fact. Justice, it seemed, was as fickle as the Highland weather. After a moment, Cameron asked, “So, then… David plans to approve the claim to Aldergh?”

“Something like that.” It was Luc who now replied. The other two sat, staring across the fire at Keane, devouring their meals whilst they assessed Lianae.

“Willie here—” The elder man waved a hand at his silent companion— “overheard him say he planned to send troops to Carlisle within the week.”

“We’ll go to war,” Cameron said.

“Aye, well, war is what ’twill be.”

“War is what it always be.”

Every man nodded to that truth, their looks solemn and full of uncertainty. Between them, the burning fire sizzled and sputtered.

His mood soured, Keane returned to his fletching.

Lianae placed a hand about his arm, squeezing gently. He wished he knew precisely what to say to allay her fears, for the thought of Scotia again at war—a battle never-ending—could hardly set any man or woman at ease. It had been less than five years since they’d laid down their arms.

And yet… with David pre-occupied in Northumbria, he would have little enough to say about the fate of the woman sitting beside him. With a bit of luck, and a bit more time, mayhap he could see to her himself…

He could then return her to Lilidbrugh to retrieve her stones, and he could help her determine where best to go from there—not back to her
husband
, this much was certain. Though in his dreams, mayhap the vale?

In the meantime, David would expect them to return to Keppenach—not Dunloppe. And now there were more important things to consider: How might Scotia’s war affect the vale? Would David force Aidan to finally take a side? And if so, what would his brother do?

Keane knew Aidan well enough to predict he would never agree to do battle to further David’s cause—particularly not down in the borderlands. And once again, he would defy Scotia’s king, and how would this go? For Aidan? For Lael?

Everyone would be forced to choose a side.

Including Keane.

As for Lianae… not for the first time, Keane found himself wondering: Who were her people? Where did they fit in this battle David planned to wage? And clearly, he wasn’t the only one who was wondering…

“What about you, lass? What’s your sad tale?” the elder messenger asked. He was staring at Lianae.

Picking at the underside of her fingernail, Lianae slid Keane a nervous glance. “I have no story,” she claimed.

T
he man screwed his face
. “No story?
Everyone
has a story.”

Lianae shook her head.

King David’s soldier considered Lianae a long moment, before sweeping his gaze over the rest of the men as though to gauge their expressions as well. And now everyone was staring at her as he turned to address her once more, squinting his blue eyes at her. “So, then, how di’ ye come to find yourself… here… amidst these wretches?”

Lianae blinked. “Me?”

“Aye, lass,” he said a bit impatiently, his tone a little more condescending. “I ken how the rest of these dolts all came tae be here.” He waved a hand to indicate the lot of them. “They were sent by decree of the king. ’Tis why we came searching, after all. But what about ye?”

“I…”

Lianae peered from one man to another, uncertain how to continue. Fear paralyzed her tongue. The only one thing she knew for certain was that she could not afford to reveal aught to these men about whence she had come. At the moment, they were content enough to loathe the English, though if she revealed who she was, she was certain they would return to hating her people all at once. She looked toward Keane for salvation, praying silently that he would intervene, silence their conversation once and for all. But he did not. Like the others, he too seemed to be waiting for an explanation, and Lianae inhaled a shaky breath and decided to appease them with a half-truth. “I am… searching for my brothers.”

The elder messenger lifted both his brows. “Your brothers?”

Lianae nodded, averting her gaze almost as once, her heart beating a little faster.

“An’ ye happened upon these wastrels… where?”

“Lilidbrugh,” Lianae replied, swallowing. There was no true reason for anyone to be near Lilidbrugh… unless they were leaving a changeling for the faeries…
or hiding.

The one called Luc eyed Keane with a lifted brow. “That auld pile of rocks?” He returned his gaze to Lianae and she nodded uncomfortably, once again averting her gaze. A heavy silence followed her declaration and Lianae could feel the tension mounting in the air.

The elder messenger persisted. “Where might be these brothers o’ yours, lass? Er’ they friends o’ the faeries perchance?” The men all laughed a little awkwardly. “I believe that’s all what be hanging ’round those parts.”

Most of the men quieted at once, waiting to hear what Lianae had to say.

Keane watched her as well, his curious green eyes catching a glint of moonlight.

The sound of their horses nickering softly outside the warmth of the fire was the only sound to breach the silence. “I dunno,” Lianae confessed. “I ha’e not seen them in… awhile…”

“Is that so?” the elder man asked. “An’ ye say ye ha’e two?”

“Two brothers?”

“I’m nae talkin’ ’bout faeries, lass.”

The men all snickered yet again.

“And what be their names?”

For a moment, Lianae’s throat felt too thick to speak. She searched all their faces, reassuring herself that she did not know these men and neither could they possibly know her. And how many men shared the same name? “Graeme and Ewen,” she replied at last.

The eldest of the three messengers nodded slowly. “And so Keane here…” He slid a chin in Keane’s direction. “He agreed to help ye find your brothers?”

Nodding uncertainly, Lianae looked belatedly to Keane. He lifted a brow, although he did not refute her, and his friend Cameron cast them both a narrow-eyed glance.

“I see,” the man said, and after a painfully long moment, he nodded and then went back to mauling his piece of bread.

Lianae had little more to say, so she sat, picking at the imagined grime beneath her nails. After the hunt, she’d washed her hands thoroughly down by the burn, and they were perfectly clean, but she didn’t know what else to do with them whilst so many pairs of eyes were trained upon her now.

The camp went silent after that, bored, it seemed, with Lianae’s thin, unimaginative tale. Admittedly, it wasn’t nearly as intriguing as the death of a king and the
politiks
therein.

After awhile, the fire began to wane, and Cameron was the first to rise, excusing himself, he claimed, to go searching for more wood to keep the fire going through the night.

Murdoch rose as well. “I’ll go wi’ ye,” he said, and grumbled again about his belly. The two of them whispered together as they went, and then Murdoch suddenly sprinted ahead, into a thicket.

“Well, now, that was a welcome feast,” the elder messenger said, as he watched the two men disappear. “We had nae idea ye’d be so near. We thought for sure ye’d be at Dunràth by now.”

“Tis good fortune,” Keane said, leaving it at that. He continued to trim his fletching. After another considerable moment, the man hoisted himself up, brushing himself off. The rest of the men took it as their cue to go make their pallets for evening and maybe see to their mounts. Only Lianae and Keane remained seated before the fire.

Already, Keane had beside him a small pile of grouse feathers that he planned to use, or so he’d claimed. Lianae searched for something to say. She might tell him more now—about her brothers and the Earl—if only he would ask. She sorely needed an ally, she realized, but she still was afraid. He was, after all, King David’s man…

He watched her out of the corner of one eye.

“My brothers always used hawk feathers,” she remarked, uncomfortable with silence.

“That works well enough if ye plan to put your arrows on a shelf.”

Lianae heard a note of something in his tone—scorn perhaps—and took offense. “My brother said most feathers are too easily frazzled.”

“And which brother was that?”

“Graeme.”

Keane smiled tightly and nodded. He said, “An archer must use what he must, else he’s an archer only for sport.”

Lianae narrowed her eyes, prepared to take offense in her brother’s behalf. He could not know her brothers and had no idea of what he was speaking about. Neither of her brothers were fat rich men, who’d used their bows only for sport. Nay, they were brave men of Moray, who’d lived to serve their people.

“My father
never
used grouse,” Lianae assured him, even despite that she didn’t know it to be true. But her
father would have known best, for he was a great man. Too bad she couldn’t say so, and so she held her tongue, wanting desperately to say that her menfolk were not milk toast—unlike a king who licked English boots.

“Ach, lass… but ye dinna even ken what grouse was until yesterday.”

Lianae grit her teeth and clenched her fists within her lap. That was neither here nor there, and his questioning tone annoyed her. Still, she sensed there was something more behind his needling and he wanted her to say something more.

Well, let him pry all he wished! She wasn’t about to tell him aught more than she already had. Clearly, she was wrong to want to confide in him.

Whatever warmth she had felt for him fled now, Lianae rose from her place beside him, and eyed his waiting pallet. He’d made it beneath the low-lying branch of an ash tree, just in case it should begin to snow again. Alas, despite the fact that he had angered her, she realized his bed was still the safest place to sleep. “Well… g’nite,” she said.