The Raven's Moon (3 page)

And that damnable Spanish wreck had thrown him into this current dilemma. Had he never walked that beach, he would not be here now, about to ride home to Blackdrummond after a long absence. Nor would he have official orders to find his rogue of a brother and bring him to justice. He never cared to see his brother again, but the orders had put him in a tight corner.

Where the hell was Geordie Bell, he thought—a rhyme that had made many a reiver smile, even with Bell, a sturdy English deputy, close on their tail. By the looks of that blackening sky to the west, Rowan had best ride out soon to the northeast and Blackdrummond Tower, as he had planned.

He cursed softly, impatiently, and went back inside the inn, closing the door against a gust of wind.

He sat down with his back to the wall so he could watch the wild, darkening sky through the window. The hearth fire warmed his left side from his dark hair to the square toe of his long boot. When the innkeeper passed by with a crockery jug, Rowan motioned for a refill of threepenny ale.

"Wicked night," the innkeeper muttered as Rowan slid a few coins across the table. "Storm's coming from the west. Ye'll want a bed, then?"

Taking a quick sip of the thin stuff, Rowan shook his head. "I'll ride out soon. I trust my horse is as well fed as I am."

"That fine bay stallion? He's well cared for, sir. Travel on the morrow, man. The de'il himself would not ride this night."

"That may be, but I must leave shortly."

The innkeeper narrowed his eyes. "Ye're a familiar face. One o' the Scotts, I would wager, hey?"

He nodded. "Rowan Scott o' Blackdrummond."

The man grinned. "Blackdrummond himself! Welcome! Ye've been gone a while from the Middle March."

"Three years," Rowan said softly.

The innkeeper leaned closer. "It were puzzling when the English March warden named the Black Laird o' Blackdrummond a thief and a murderer years back," he said. "We knew ye for a fine and notorious Scottish reiver, a man to be admired for his cleverness, and nae petty brigand."

"Notorious then. I've changed," Rowan said evenly.

"No English prison could change a Blackdrummond Scott. That lot is born to reiving and riding. Yer brother Alec is another, hey? There's a rascal!"

Rowan sipped his ale without reply.

"Hardly a riding family on either side o' the Border has finer outlaws to its credit than the Blackdrummond Scotts." The man grinned again. "My own kin have ridden out wi' yer kinsmen. Armstrongs, we are."

"Fine riding companions," Rowan said.

"Ye'll ride again wi' us, now that ye're back?"

"Hardly wise, man," Rowan said. "I've been named a deputy here in the Middle March."

"Is it so?" The man chuckled. "Well, a reiver named an officer is common enough in the Borderlands, and it doesna deter the reiving on the side much." He scratched his bald head, a bemused grin on his face. "A Blackdrummond Scott as deputy to a Kerr! Now I like that! The king's council makes a good jest. Here, man, I will not take yer coin. Drink what ye will, and welcome to it." He pushed the coins back to Rowan, nodded and walked away.

Smiling faintly, bitterly, Rowan leaned his shoulders against the wall and stretched out his long legs in high black boots. He knew the innkeeper would spread the word about Rowan Scott's new position. Good. It would save him the trouble of establishing his position in the Middle March.

Word had already spread about his equally notorious brother, Alec Scott. Yet another rogue from Blackdrummond Tower, Rowan thought wryly. How the innkeeper would have crowed, if he knew just why the Black Laird had come back.

He picked up the silver coins and dropped them into his leather belt pouch. Then he withdrew a small gold medallion and held it in his fingers, turning it in the firelight.

Elaborately engraved, the golden oval framed the tiny figure of a saint raised in delicate relief. Tiny letters spelled out a prayer in Spanish on the reverse side.

Closing his fingers over it, Rowan glanced up. No one noticed him, each man absorbed in drinking ale, gambling at dice, or teasing the redhaired serving lass who moved among them. He wondered if any of them knew the information he sought—about missing Spanish gold, or about his brother.

The little medallion had washed ashore with the wreck of the Spanish galleon, along with coins and a polished stone mirror. He had picked up the items and kept them, not bothering to seek out English officials to turn in items of scant value, despite his orders.

Bright pieces of gold and silver, coughed out of the sea, had disappeared into the pockets of Scottish fishermen. Rowan did not begrudge them their profit, even though he was expected to collect scavenged items for English authorities.

Queen Elizabeth's advisers regarded the salvage as victor's spoils following the defeat of the Armada. They were furious that sacks of salvaged stuff had been stolen from the beach. In part, that theft had brought him here.

He glanced outside again, growing concerned that Geordie Bell had still not arrived. The English March deputy, a friend and reiving companion years earlier, had sent word that he would meet Rowan before sunset, bringing news of the missing gold.

Rowan was anxious to travel on to Blackdrummond Tower, having already sent word to his grandparents that he would arrive that night. He had an hour's ride yet, and he did not want to worry Anna and Jock Scott. He would wait only a few more minutes.

Settling back, he slipped a hand inside his sleeveless leather jack, worn over a woolen doublet and shirt, and withdrew a round, flat object. The thing was nearly as wide as his palm, wrapped in linen, which he opened slightly.

The smooth, polished black stone winked at him like a dark star. He ran a finger slowly over its convex surface and the surrounding wooden frame. The piece might have little value, ugly and plain as it was, but it was a curious thing and a serviceable mirror. He would give that and the little medallion to his grandmother. Though his grandfather might think the gold bit a papist gewgaw, Rowan thought Anna might like it.

He tilted the mirrow. The carved wooden frame, gilded and cracked, had empty niches where semiprecious stones might once have been. The frame encircled a slick stone which looked like onyx, though smokier and slightly translucent.

The surface reflected the hearthfire and the window. It must have been intended as a hand mirror, for it was too large to be jewelry. Tipping it, he saw a reflection of his face.

He saw a lean, dark man who appeared younger than he felt just then; a man who looked tired and hard-edged, his eyes and mouth traced with the fatigue of a long prison confinement.

His features were firm, stubborn, well-balanced, and his hair and beard stubble looked black as the stone he held. He looked like his father—but his mouth resembled his late mother's, as did his black-fringed eyes. Even in firelight, they were the deep green of the northern sea.

Then his image dissolved. Tipping the mirror, he found a face again—but it belonged to a young woman.

Startled, Rowan glanced up, but the serving lass was not nearby. He looked at the mirror and saw the strange girl still there—a ghostly image with wide gray eyes, oval face, a cascade of dark hair. Serene, perfect, she seemed to float inside the stone. This was no reflection.

Rowan turned the mirror over, wondering if a portrait had been cleverly painted on the backing to show through the gleaming semi-transparent stone. But the wooden back revealed nothing. He examined the stone, finding no explanation, and suddenly no girl. She had vanished.

He saw himself again, keen eyes frowning, long hair in need of a trim. He rubbed at the slick stone. No girl.

Either he was greatly in need of rest—or the threepenny was stronger than he thought.

He rewrapped the mirror and slipped it inside his jack. Then he picked up his sloped-brim helmet from the bench, settled it on his head, and stood. Fastening his dark brown cloak, he left the inn with a brief wave to the innkeeper.

He had hoped to see Geordie Bell, but if that lad wanted to find him, he could send word to Blackdrummond Tower. For now, Rowan needed to ride out before the storm grew worse on this devil's night.

Ducking his head against the fierce wind, he crossed the innyard toward the stable to fetching his horse and weapons.

He did not hear the footsteps behind him until too late. Grasping the hilt of his dirk, he whirled, but someone grabbed his arms from behind, jerking him back so that he lost his footing, struggling.

A large, powerful arm circled his chest, and the sharp edge of a dirk pressed against his throat insistently. Growing still, Rowan peered sideways, but the wide brim of his helmet blocked a clear view of his attacker.

Had he been able to free his trapped arms, he would have slammed a fist into the man's face or an elbow into the stout belly behind him. But he stood motionless, wary now.

"Give it over," a rough, low voice said. As tall as Rowan, the man seemed a good deal heavier and was strong as an ox.

"Give what?" Rowan gasped. The man squeezed Rowan's chest so that he exhaled in a wheeze—and felt a knife edge press against his throat and cut slightly. He felt the sting, and knew that moving forward would slice his own throat; moving backward would only invite further attack.

"The moon," the man growled. "Do you have it?"

Rowan could only see, sideways, a broad neck and a whiskered jaw. A second man, big and bulky, stood in front of him now, wearing a frayed leather jack. His broad face was bearded and a conical helmet shadowed his eyes.

"What the devil do you mean—the moon?" Rowan rasped out. Perhaps these two were not thieves, as he had first thought, but mad vagabond soldiers. Crazed, and asking for the moon.

"The raven's moon," the bearded man said. "We know you were there on that beach where the Spaniard ship wrecked. We're thinking you took it. The raven's moon."

"I have naught o' value," Rowan said.

"Check his pouch," barked the man with the knife.

The bearded man tore open Rowan's leather pouch and reached inside. "Coins, and a wee papist thing," he said, snatching the medallion.

"Look again," the first man said, as the second thrust a hand in the leather pouch again.

Rowan frowned. Did the men want that strange mirror? Ruffians would have no use for that unpretty thing, lacking gold or gems to give it worth. Likely they wanted gold, Spanish gold in particular.

Sensing a slight relaxation in the hand that held the blade to his throat, Rowan tipped his head back suddenly and slammed his helmet against the nose behind him. Then he jutted his elbow into the man's solid belly and kicked at the fellow's knee. His captor howled and stumbled, the knife blade fell away, and the restraining arm loosened. But the second man lunged.

Breaking free, Rowan kicked out and caught the bearded man in the knee as well, before slamming the edge of his hand into the broad throat. The brigand stumbled backward and began to fall.

An explosive sound ripped through the howl of the wind. Something zipped past his helmet, sounding like a fast bee. As Rowan glanced around to see who had fired the gun, his attackers scrambled to their feet and barreled into him, knocking him off balance. The larger man grabbed him around the legs and slammed him down to the damp ground.

Another shot sounded. Both attackers stumbled hastily over Rowan and ran past, less like thieves than like opponents in a football match who had just grabbed the ball.

Getting to his feet, Rowan launched forward in pursuit as the men ran out of the yard. Even if they got away, he would find them, he thought. Although he had not seen their faces clearly, and both wore the common gear of so many Bordermen—leather jacks, sloping helmets, long boots—he would know them best by their sturdy, big builds. The larger man moved like a mummer's trained bear.

Hearing a shout, he glanced back to see a wide-shouldered redhaired man, grinning and waving two smoking pistols, running toward him. Rowan waved at Geordie Bell and ran on.

Quickly he covered the length of the yard, tearing past the stable and out onto the moor, where he saw the two men disappear over a hill. Geordie soon caught up with him and together they crested a grassy slope.

Reaching the hilltop, Rowan saw two men on horseback galloping across the moorland. He swore loudly and turned.

"By hell, Geordie Bell," he said, catching his breath.

"At least you're unharmed," Geordie panted, shoving the pistols into his belt. "I shot, but was too far away to save you."

"Godamercy, man—you'd have put a lead ball in me if you'd been closer," Rowan growled. He took off his helmet, shoved his fingers through his hair, and drew a deep breath.

"What did those rogues want?" Geordie asked.

"They took a few bits of gold, and demanded something called a raven's moon."

"A what? Sounds like a night for witches."

"A stone of some kind, they said. I do not know who those ruffians were, but no doubt they know something about that missing Spanish salvage. They knew I had been on that beach, and they thought I had this thing, this moon stone, and they were ready to slice my throat to get it."

"Did you pick up aught from that Spanish wreck, then? Something of value?"