The Raven's Moon (16 page)

"I am not inclined to trust you, lass," he murmured, "after that crackpate you gave me. But if you think to ride out again to find some justice for Iain, take heed. It could go badly for you."

"I would give my life for Iain."

"On the Lincraig road? That is foolish," he said brusquely.

"He is my twin."

He paused, watching her. "Ah. Then such fierce loyalty is understandable." He let go of her arms. "But you are warned."

"Warned?" She watched as he mounted the bay.

"If you ride out again, Mairi Macrae," he said, "I will take you down myself. I swear it."

"I must do what I must do," she answered.

"Then God keep you safe, madam." He snapped the reins, and the bay moved forward.

Bluebell ran after him for a short distance. But Mairi stood as if rooted in the yard, watching Rowan Scott. Sunlight glinted over his steel helmet and weapons, and his back and shoulders were proudly balanced. The Black Laird would never bend his will to hers.

Nor would she bend to his.

Chapter 11

He was a hedge about his friends,

A heckle to his foes, lady...

—"Rob Roy"

Rowan dismounted in the yard of Lincraig Castle and tethered Valentine. His boots crunched over crumbling stone as he walked toward the corner tower and descended the stairs.

A quick scan of the familiar cell in which he had spent three days showed him that his leather pouch was not there. Nor was it in the corridor, or anywhere else. If Mairi had indeed simply lost it, then it was not here.

Sighing in exasperation, he went up the stairs and crossed the yard. If he found the pouch accidentally dropped, he could believe Mairi's claim that she lost it. He wanted to believe her.

He thought of her anguish as she had pleaded with him not long ago. He was tempted to help her. But he did not trust her.

He walked, searching over the stones and grasses and bracken that had overtaken the yard. The castle, once graceful, was wild and elemental, as if the Lincraig haunts had changed the place to suit their own needs. He moved on, nearing the roofless chapel.

Lincraig's chapel had been destroyed over forty years earlier by English soldiers when King Henry had ordered his army to ride ruthlessly through the Lowlands. The English attempt to force the Scots to agree to a betrothal between their infant queen, Mary Stewart, and King Henry's son Edward had failed. The arrangement, thankfully, would not be made.

But Lincraig, along with several other Scottish castles, had never been rebuilt after the damages. Jock Scott had put up another tower, Newhouse, and there he and Anna had raised their sons.

But on the night the Kerrs had killed Rowan's father and uncle, they had burned Newhouse Tower. And Jock and Anna had come to Blackdrummond Tower to live. Though he was glad to have them there, Rowan wished that he had the funds to rebuild Lincraig and Newhouse both, for Jock and Anna's sake.

Turning, he saw a dark shape near a pile of broken stones. His leather pouch was there, caught in some bracken. He picked it up and opened it, and quickly found nothing missing. Twenty Scots coins, some of his pay as a Border deputy, glinted inside. The black stone mirror in its broken gilt frame, which he had salvaged on the beach weeks ago, was wrapped in its linen covering. He had thought to give the thing to his grandmother.

He hefted the stone in his hand, tilting it, and frowned as he remembered the vision he had seen in the stone, that day at the inn. A woman's face, serene and ethereal, with a sheen of dark hair and soft gray eyes—

Jesu.
His fingers tightened on the frame. Mairi's face. Now he knew why she looked so oddly familiar to him.

He peered into the mirror now, but saw only his own face reflected in the slick black surface. Nothing more. Turning the stone, he thought of the Scotsmen who had attacked him outside the inn, demanding a "raven's moon" from him.

He was certain, now, that they had wanted this strange wee mirror. The thing was dark as a raven, round and black as a new moon. Other than that, it seemed to hold no value and was not even a particularly good mirror.

But something strange had happened, that day, when he saw Mairi's face in the thing, before he had ever met her. He was normally skeptical of supernatural claims, and had no trace of the fabled prophetic Sight that some Scots were said to possess. But he had seen her—he knew that now. Perhaps it was some sort of charm stone. There were stories of such things.

But why would it be carried on a Spanish ship—and why would spies attack to retrieve it? And why would Mairi Macrae's face appear to him in the thing?

Unable to answer his own questions, he put the mirror back in his leather pouch. Then he slid his dagger free and slit the silk lining of the pouch—a hidden pocket. And there, tucked safely away, was a parchment sheet, its red wax privy seal still intact.

Rowan nodded in satisfaction. Then he closed the pouch and slipped its loop onto his belt. Mairi had told the truth. She had not taken his coin or valuables, or even the stone mirror.

And she had not found the warrant regarding Iain Macrae.

The document ordered Simon Kerr to give custody of Macrae to the English warden. The English would not have much sympathy for a Scot accused of treason. The parchment, in effect, was Macrae's death warrant.

Mairi's impassioned and persistent defense of her brother made Rowan wonder, now, about Iain's guilt. So he intended to investigate the matter himself.

But the writ must be delivered and the council must receive a statement signed by Kerr and Rowan, of the delivery. Rowan had two weeks before he himself could be charged with obstruction. And he needed the Crown's support if any charges were laid against him concerning Spanish gold, as Geordie Bell had hinted might happen. So he had to work quickly, although first he would have to fetch Alec's son.

He walked toward Valentine, still nuzzling at stray grasses near the old chapel, and paused when he saw a small, distinct bootprint. Frowning, going inside, he entered the nave.

Roofless, its pointed walls soared toward the blue sky, broken stone softened by moss and ivy. Rowan walked along the aisle, following the footprints. He suspected whose they were.

On the collapsed altar slab, he saw the imprint of a hand pressed into the undisturbed grime of decades. Turning, he saw more prints—this time on a side doorjamb that led down into the crypt. He went there, boots scraping softly in the silence.

He had not been here since he had been a lad. Once, he remembered, he and Alec had sheltered in the crypt during a heavy storm and had the fright of their young lives.

Curving steps led downward into darkness as Rowan descended toward the Lincraig crypt. He smiled a little, remembering how his brother had frozen in panic when a burst of lightning had illuminated the tombs. Rowan, at eleven, had summoned enough courage to enter the dark chamber with its carved stone tombs and engraved memorial brasses. Alec had fled up the stairs to wait.

More lightning had brightened the carved faces on the tombs, and Rowan had soon run back up the steps to catch his brother's hand and run out. Alec had only calmed down when Rowan had reassured him there was nothing to fear.

Later, Rowan had returned alone, at first to test his bravery. After that, as his fears diminished, the crypt became a refuge. He found a certain peace in the silent tomb, a balm for youthful loneliness. As a young man he had taken Maggie here; but she had not appreciated the peace as he did, refusing to enter.

Now, walking down the steps, he felt the tranquil silence surround him. He gazed at the tombs and brasses, pausing for a moment to honor his ancestors.

Then, his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw the imprint of fingers on one of the effigies.

Mairi Macrae had been here, where only Rowan Scott had set foot for decades. More footprints, small and narrow, disturbed the dust on the floor.

Puzzled, he wondered if she had taken refuge here while planning to waylay some unsuspecting traveler. Turning to leave, his hand bumped softness where only stone should be. Bending, he saw a cloth bundle tucked between the little pillars that decorated the side of a lady's tomb. He drew out the packet and laid it on the effigy's knees.

Inside the cloth were folded pages. More than one bore the seal of the privy council. Quickly he scanned the contents. Dated two months earlier, the writ ordered Simon Kerr to interrogate the spy Macrae and send word of the result. But the paper had never reached Kerr. A highway thief had snatched it from the council's messenger.

A broken stick, painted red, clattered to the floor. He picked it up, recognizing part of the red wand carried by the king's messengers at arms. The wands were broken by the messengers themselves if the secrecy of their packets were compromised. Indeed, Rowan thought.

The next letter was a similar one from the council, with another date—and Kerr had not seen that one either. The last two pages were written in a cramped hand in what he realized was Spanish. A letter of some kind, or a long document.

Rowan swore out loud, his voice an abrupt echo.

Wrapping the packet and broken wand, he shoved the whole inside his doublet. Then he took the steps in pairs, his boots ringing in angry echo toward the sunlit chapel.

Mairi Macrae was not only a thieving, spying wench—she had caused even more danger for her brother. The missing orders had led the council to issue the more serious warrant that Rowan himself was bound to deliver.

* * *

Where the road forked and plunged into wildness both ways, either boggy moorland or craggy slopes, Rowan guided Valentine right toward Abermuir. The left fork would take him back to Blackdrummond, but he had other business.

Mairi and Devil's Christie were clever, he thought, to watch from the Lincraig hill for messengers. The highway there was rough and isolated, hardly traveled except for those with business at Blackdrummond or Abermuir.

His temper was thoroughly soured after his tour through the ruined chapel. And he wanted to know how Mairi had come by the Spanish letter, which would not have been carried by King James' messengers. He had almost accepted her as charming, stubborn, a bonny lass defending her brother by unusual methods. He had thought her innocent if misguided—until he found the packet in the crypt.

Now, he told himself that Mairi was an integral part of the network of agents to which Iain, and Alec, belonged. He wondered if that damnable Spanish gold—missing salvage—was stashed nearby, with Mairi fully aware of it.

And he wondered with fresh dismay if Davy's lad, Devil's Christie Armstrong, was involved as well.

He swore low and rode on as the sun slipped down behind the hills and an autumn chill gathered. The advent of winter, with its longer, darker nights, marked a season of reiving in the Borderlands. Rowan glanced around and behind him. He had best be wary—a night like this could invite a host of scoundrels to venture out on the roads.

Soon, hearing hoofbeats, he looked ahead. Five men rode across the moor, their steel breastplates, helmets, and lances gleaming in the sunset light.

Warden's troopers, he realized, slowing Valentine to a halt to wait. The men saw him and one of them spurred toward him. A big man, heavily bearded, he rode stiffly. A gun was sheathed prominently in his saddle loop.

"God give you good day, sir," Rowan called pleasantly.

The trooper halted. "Who would ye be, sir?"

"Rowan Scott o' Blackdrummond. You?"

"John Hepburn, land sergeant to Simon Kerr, warden o' the Scottish Middle March. Can ye prove yer name?"

"I can, and I'll show my proof to Simon Kerr."

"Then ready it, for the warden rides this way." Hepburn gestured behind him. Another man now crossed the moor. Even at a distance, Rowan saw that this man had the wide build, swarthy coloring and coarse features of the Cessford Kerrs. He folded his hands over his saddle and waited.

"He says he's Blackdrummond, sir," Hepburn called.

Simon Kerr halted his horse and openly glared at Rowan. His nose was red in the chill and his close-set eyes snapped with fury. "You are over a week late, Master Deputy!"