The Scotsman (30 page)

Not even the village church had been spared. Rope still dangled from the roof where the steeple had been pulled down to topple on the ground. Bits of bright glass from shattered stained glass littered grass and stone, and some windows had been removed to leave empty sockets like dead eyes staring out at the destruction. A priest sprawled in his cassock at the foot of the stone steps, his drawn sword still clutched in his lifeless hand. She did not look to see if she knew him, but glanced away with rising nausea.

Behind her, Alex was silent, but she felt his rage in the taut muscles of his arms on each side of her, the clenched fists on the leather reins as the horse danced nervously along the frozen ruts of the street. Tears stung her eyes and a sob clogged her throat.

Then someone recognized him and cried out in Gaelic, a hoarse bellow of anguish. Alex halted and answered him, his tone curiously flat. The man’s face was black with soot and streaked with tears that made odd patterns on his cheeks. His bleary gaze flicked to her, and he said something else, his voice harsh this time. Alex answered sharply, and the man looked away, gesturing to the pile of rubble that must once have been his shop and home. Shattered splinters of wood and blackened stones were all that was left of it, save a single tiny
shoe lying amid the ruins. It was untouched by fire or water, lying in mute testimony of the small foot that had worn it.

Never had she envisioned such ruin, and Catherine felt suddenly as if she could not bear to look any longer. Turning her head into Alex, she buried her face in the folds of his wool cloak. He put an arm around her to hold her against him, a comforting gesture in the midst of what must be a distress much greater than hers.

Beneath her, the horse pranced restively, and Alex nudged it forward again, the pace swift. In a blur, she glimpsed scenes of grief and despair as they rode through the street, not toward the castle road, but to a narrow, twisted lane of burghers’ shops. Or what had been burghers’ shops. Now charred, smoking rubble remained. Alex reined in the horse before a building that was only half-burned, and she heard a familiar voice greet them.

She looked up to see Robbie approaching. Soot streaked his face and his light hair was nearly black. Despite the cold, he wore a sleeveless jerkin, and mail chains covered his legs. He spoke Gaelic in the same oddly flat tone that she had just heard from Alex, and gestured to blanket-shrouded forms lying on the ground nearby. Alex sucked in a harsh breath and dismounted swiftly, nearly unseating. Catherine as he leaped from the horse to move to the still forms on the ground. She watched, clinging to the horse’s neck as Robbie grabbed at the dangling reins.

Alex knelt and flipped back the edge of a blanket. She could not see the forms, but knew with sudden horror who must lie there when a hoarse cry was wrenched from him. Then she saw the small bare feet peeking from beneath the wool, smooth, childish toes curled toward pink soles.

Catherine pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, knuckles digging into her lips. Robbie stood stone-faced, and one of the women she recognized from the hall as the mother of Alex’s child fell to her knees sobbing beside the bodies. Snow powdered her black hair in gauzy drifts.

“Ohon! Ohonari …!
” she wailed over and over in a keening cry that pierced Catherine, the sounds of her grief a sharp blade that cut all within hearing.

With hot tears running unchecked down her face, Catherine began to murmur a prayer for the dead, the Latin familiar on her tongue:
“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccáta mundi: dona eis réquiem … Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccáta mundi: dona eis réquiem sempi térnam….”

Robbie looked up at her with ravaged eyes. “Yea, pray God grants these wee bairns eternal peace and rest, for there willna be peace in this land until the bloody English are all driven frae Scotland.”

She held his gaze, somehow knowing the answer but compelled to ask the question: “Who did this, Robbie?”

The single word spat like a curse confirmed her worst fears and extinguished the flame of hope that had flared so brightly and so briefly.

“Warfield.”

Alex turned, and she saw in his face and eyes the awful promise of retribution. He lurched to his feet, and his voice was a harsh rasp, unashamed tears wetting his cheeks. “When I have buried my children and those of my village, I will avenge them, blood for blood, life for life.”

The English words were directed to her, and there was nothing she could say. In truth, she did not lay blame for his vow. How could she? Knowing that her father was responsible for this? For the first time, she
truly understood the ravages of war, the scope of loss, and it appalled her.

Sickened, and aware that there was nothing she could do or say to assuage his loss, she watched numbly as Alex bent to tenderly lift the lifeless bodies of his children and bear them away.

Robbie stared at the stone floor of the hall, his downbent head and taut posture evidence of his grief and misery. Yet Alex did not relent.

“How was it,” he asked softly, “that a mere maid was able to so easily escape Castle Rock? And that my sentries did not see the approach of an entire bloody army?”

Anguished eyes glanced up at him beseechingly. “She tricked the relief guard when I had gone to the garderobe. By the time he found me, she was not to be seen. We closed the gates and searched, but she had already slipped away. I drew the sentries from their posts to look for her, then Tarn came to say she had asked him about Langholm Priory. It made sense that ’twas where she would go, but we could not find her. We had not been back long when Warfield struck, just after first light. We barely had time to close the gates, and those that did not make it in time …”

His words drifted into helpless silence. Alex could visualize it, the frantic villagers fleeing to the gates before they closed, with Warfield’s armed soldiers in hot pursuit.
Their screams of panic must have been agonizing to hear, their death cries devastating.

His anger dissipated abruptly. He did not blame Robbie. He blamed himself. Most of all, he blamed the Earl of Warfield and his devil’s spawn, Lord Devlin. Curse them both to hell, he would not let them escape this act without harsh retribution.

Robbie made an aborted gesture with his hands, his voice choked. “The bairns had asked to go with Mairi to visit their mothers … I did not think of them fast enough when we returned from searching for the lady. It all happened so quick—by the time we were able to arm ourselves, Warfield was gone.”

“Do not blame yourself, Robbie. What is done is done. It may well have happened had I been here.”

“Nay, you would not have let the lady from your sight. I failed you, Alex.” Robbie fell to his knees suddenly, despair wracking his shoulders in harsh shudders. “Now they are dead and I am to blame for it….”

Firelight flickered over Robbie’s light hair. It still bore black streaks of soot, and his arms were raw and red from burns he had received in fighting the fires. But Alex could not offer Robbie more comfort when his own sorrow sat so near the surface, ready at the first crack to break through and unman him. He looked away from his comrade’s awful grief, his jaw tight with emotion and his tone flat.

“Siusan still lives, though grievously wounded while trying to protect the children. She asks for Christian.” A tight band constricted his chest as if a merciless hand were squeezing his heart, and for a moment, he could not finish his words. Never again would he see his bright-eyed son and daughter, hear their childish giggles, and feel their chubby arms around his neck. It was a pain to exceed even the grief of losing his parents, for the two
innocents had been shorn of life before it began for them. Clearing his throat, he said hoarsely, “I cannot tell Siusan that he is dead, as is her husband. See that her father does so if he thinks she can bear the truth. On the day after the morrow, we will bury the children and Main in consecrated ground.” He did not look up to see if he were acknowledged, unable to bear Robbie’s despair as well as his own. “Pay the customary deid-dole to the beggars from my coffers. I will gather the deid-claes to clothe them for burial.”

Robbie’s words were thick. “And the wake? Grant that I may sit with them and keep the candles lit ’round the biers.”

Alex nodded. “Aye, you may sit with them when I do not. After the burial, I will take all the men that can be spared with me to harry what of England I can compass. ’Tis your choice, Robbie. If you wish to stay here and hold the keep, I will leave you in command. If you wish to ride with me, you will ride at my side.”

For a moment Robbie did not speak or look up. Another shudder trembled through him, then finally he tilted back his head. “I failed you the first time, but I will not fail you again, Alex. I will guard the lady and hold Castle Rock ’til the death.”

Alex put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and held it tight, his fingers digging into strained muscle until he felt Robbie relax beneath his grip. Then he withdrew, leaving the hall and Robbie as he moved to the steps that led to the second floor. There were those who would blame Robbie for their losses, and those who would blame him as laird. But most, he had already seen in the faces around him, blamed Catherine.

When he opened the door to his chamber, he saw her at once. She sat stiffly on the edge of a chair, her hands
folded in her lap as she stared blankly at the far wall. He shut the door, and she did not move.

“Catkin….” Slowly, her head turned to him, and he saw his own grief mirrored in her eyes. He halted warily, unable to bear it if she wept.

But she did not, though her voice was strangely tight. “Alex, ’tis my fault this happened.”

He almost smiled. “You will have to fight Robbie and me for the privilege of bearing the blame, I fear.”

As if she had not heard him, she said in the same taut tone, “It was my temper. My own foolish vanity that I was being made fool that pricked me to unwise action. It is a grievous fault of mine that I allow others to provoke me when I know better.” Silence fell. Candles danced in the growing darkness, pinpricks of light in a world of gloom. “Had I remained, Robbie would not have been unprepared. If there is to be vengeance, let it be on me.”

His brow rose. “Was it your arm that held the sword? I did not think so. ’Tis Warfield and Devlin who must bear the blame.” He drew in a deep breath. “I am not without blame myself, catkin. How many villages have I burned? Slain the men and beasts, and pulled castles to the ground? As many, no doubt, as your father. Though God strike me if I lie, I have never killed a woman or child, nor would I allow my men to do so. Tþs enough to slay fighting men without visiting war upon women and children.”

“Alex?” Her lower lip quivered as she looked at him, and he steeled himself for what he knew she would ask. “If you have the chance, would you kill my brother?”

“Yea, milady, without a doubt.” He did not flinch from her soft cry, though it sorrowed him to see her grief. “It is war, catkin. Devlin would be the first to agree.”

Burying her face in her palms, she did not speak for a
moment, but sat in the lengthening gloom with her back bent in anguish. He did not go to her. There was nothing he could say that would ease the truth. For if he had the smallest opportunity, he would run his sword through Devlin and send him to hell. It would be small penance for the work he had done in Kinnison this day.

A large banner snapped so briskly in the wind that its red lion appeared to be dancing on the field of white. Held high, Warfield’s standard was visible before his father hove into sight, and Nicholas reined in his mount to wait. The earl came into view moments later, leading an armed troop over the Lyne River. Snow lay in sodden drifts along the banks, frosting grass and trees.

Nicholas spurred his horse across the field and rode to meet them at the bridge. He drew alongside the earl as he rode up the riverbank. Without preamble, he said, “I am told you rode to Castle Rock.”

“Yea, my cockerel, so I have.” The earl met his gaze with an ironic twist of his mouth. “Fraser will not soon forget my visit, I vow, though he seems to forget yours soon enough.”

Nicholas scanned the mass of soldiers and said softly, “Yet I do not see my sister with you. If you have been so successful, where is she?”

“My notion of success is the annihilation of the enemy. You prate of negotiation and give Fraser command of the situation, while I take command from him.”

“Yet I do not see Catherine or even Fraser with you—did you breach Castle Rock? Rescue Catherine? Slay Fraser? Or did you strike down those who cannot fight back, and name it victory….”

“Curse you for an impudent dog. The difference between you and me, Nicholas, is that I am not told what to
do by my inferiors—if they dare challenge me, I destroy them.”

“Pray God that is not the only difference between you and me, for I could not stomach knowing we are like in much else.” Rage made his voice harsh, and the earl’s eyes narrowed hotly at his words.

“Do not think to lesson me in front of my own men, or I swear I shall strike you down! If you had the courage for it, you would have gone with me.”