The Chieftain's Feud Read online

  So far the curse was winning.

  According to his father, head of the Ruthven clan, if Jamie didn’t mend his conduct, his way of acting the man was more likely to see him killed than any battlefield. His father had this habit of speaking as if his pronouncements were hung with lashings of gold and silver, and when younger, Jamie had always believed they were assertions that it would be perilous to question. Still did, as if Ruthven may be right and the lassies would be the death of him, though his last encounter had persuaded him to change his ways and turn his energies to more profitable pursuits.

  Having lasted almost twenty-two years without serious harm to his person if not his ego, after Eve’s choice had made it clear he had been wrong about her, he resolved to stay away frae court and women. Twice he had been caught in the toils of women with hair like fire and hearts like ice. Jamie had learned his lesson and wasnae foolish enough to let it happen a third time. Aye none dared cast up to him that he had been aught other than faithful since Eve left him, whether frae love or self-preservation he couldnae be certain.

  Nary a living soul apart frae the people involved, and the Ruthven, were aware of what had occurred that fateful day. He hadnae even told his friends how she had turned her back on him and gone off with her father and his brother. He had reluctantly confessed the whole to his father, who had simply said it served him right for meddling with a Buchan.

  Riding out frae Cragenlaw this afternoon with Rob McArthur and wee Nhaimeth had felt like times past. Wherever Rob went, so too did Nhaimeth, never letting his short stature prevent him taking part in their training or their amusements. It mattered not that Nhaimeth had been born a dwarf. Jamie could attest that his wee friend was more a man than many he had met. They had been a rowdy trio in yon days, and still were upon occasion, though they didnae get together as often now.

  However, they were all unusually placid today because there was a pinch of something in the air that made the three of them save their breath. A warning that any word leaving their mouths was likely to be snapped off in the icy wind.

  At least now they were on the return journey of their wee venture into the forest at the behest of the ladies at the castle. The quest made nae difference to him personally. The wives however had decided that the hall wouldnae be ready for Yule without a kissing bough and had demanded that the McArthur send the lads out in search of mistletoe—an easy mission until they left the canopy of the trees and discovered the lowering skies had dropped snowflakes galore betwixt them and the castle. Now the wind had risen, silently swooping and burling down on them, bringing with it what felt like the ghosts of the dead buried upon the brae below the forest—unusually eerie, but with nae explanation.

  Aye, chance would be a fine thing if Jamie could lay blame for the strangeness prickling the hairs at the back of his neck on the weather. And more, something worse, a sensation that made his thumbs prick as if in warning. A caution he was trying his best to ignore, to pretend the afternoon only felt disturbingly quiet in comparison to the noise and clatter of the castle. At this season, every inch of space within Cragenlaw’s granite walls rang with sounds—axes splitting wood, the rumble of ale barrels rolled into the hall, and the satisfying crackle of wild boar as it slowly revolved o’er the fire. There was naught like the delicious smell of roasting meat mingling with the scent of spiced loaves and the sweetmeats the ladies liked—aromas that gave emphasis to the approach of Yuletide, the natural progression of the seasons in Scotland’s nor’east and, of the four, the winter equinox clung closest to the memories of his heart.

  This afternoon, though, felt o’er quiet, in a fashion that meant even Faraday’s big clomping hooves were muffled by drifts of snow lying deep, a white blanket reaching higher than his mount’s knees.

  Rob McArthur’s big black fared little better; it made nae difference that the stallion stood at least two hands taller than Faraday. And poor wee Nhaimeth…

  Jamie had to admit the dwarf was as plucky as they came. Nhaimeth had definitely experienced the worst the afternoon could throw at them. His wee pony plunged through the drifts as high as its belly after they left the forest and Rob yelled out to him, “Some of yon drifts will be o’er yer head,” and, as his first words melted into the snow, warned with, “Dinnae wander off the trail.”

  Pointing their mounts towards the narrow causeway leading to Cragenlaw’s exposed perch, high on cliffs that towered above the northern sea, Jamie caught only a wee snatch of the final words Rob shouted at Nhaimeth. “Keep yon wee beast to the tracks made by Diabhal and Faraday.” Then he laughed, a sound Jamie couldnae hear, only appreciate by looking at Rob’s face as, like the rest of them, he had happed up, his plaid wound up past his chin.

  As usual, the wee man took his discomfort with a grin that Jamie felt would have become a belly laugh if only Nhaimeth were able to see for himself. Frae Faraday’s back, Nhaimeth appeared to sail through the snow, like a boat beating afore the wind. Their laughter didnae last long in freezing conditions that caught at it the back of their throats. Even the sight of the huge bunch of mistletoe Nhaimeth had tied to his saddle could raise nae more than a smile. Not even a rueful one. Little did Nhaimeth realise that the bundle of greyish-green leaves bouncing atop his pony’s rump would leave few, if any berries by the time the castle rose afore them.

  Fortunately, the mistletoe Jamie and Rob had fastened behind them suffered less abuse on the bigger mounts, having less need to force the pace. Hopefully the lasses gathered at Cragenlaw would be satisfied with their share of the offering.

  Naturally, the aulder men gathered at the castle couldnae care less—his father included—but then Ruthven nae longer had a wife to consider. Jamie’s mother hadnae lived past her only son’s seventh year, leaving him to his sisters’ tender mercies. Thoughts of kissing boughs were unlikely to trouble his father’s mind since he hadnae looked at another woman since the loss of their mother and wouldnae unless aught happened to Jamie and he needed another heir.

  Socialising was but a part of the reason for the their visit to Cragenlaw—a pretext for a meeting of three chieftains and a Sept leader. To all outward appearances, their purpose for being at Cragenlaw could be seen as festive. Those in on the secret were well aware the visit had more to do with long held alliances, strong and unbreakable through their shared histories. Now, they devised plans and preparations to ward against any Normans intent on taking leave of the borderlands, casting their greedy eyes on the north.

  It was Jamie’s sister Iseabel who had begun the lament for the white Druid berries, surprisingly aided and abetted by Rob’s mother, Morag. Surprising, for Jamie had seen for himself that she had nae need to coax kisses frae the McArthur. Nor had Kathryn, wife to Rob’s uncle Gavyn, yet she had flung her might behind the notion. That’s not to say Jamie was envious. As far as he was concerned, too many kisses led to naught but trouble, and mistletoe as a temptation for stolen kisses was best avoided—a sentiment that would most likely be tinged with a certain irony for Jamie’s fair-weather friends at court. The day had long syne past when he had felt the need of a sprig of mistletoe to steal a kiss frae any lass.

  It was a lack of interest, not opportunity that had stilled his hand, or lips, and dulled his passions as well. Few lassies were blessed with the temerity Eve possessed.

  He remembered the first words she had spoken to him. ‘So this is where yer hiding?’ They had rung clear as a bell in his head, and each time he wondered what would have happened if he had got to his feet that day and walked away from the lass.

  Truth be told, he had been avoiding her. He should have realised that might provoke her to pursue him with greater diligence. She’d broken his resistance the day she’d discovered him dozing in the sunshine down by the Ferm burn, his back against the trunk of an apple tree. He’d awoken to his downfall. A fluttering sensation like a butterfly dancing on his cheek brought him to his senses with a start. Disconcerted, he woke to see the lass who moments earlier had filled his dream. Ther
e she was, alive, real, crouched beside him, her eyes round and as green as the apple she held, attached to the leaf she had been using to tickle his cheek.

  Thinking back, he was still amazed at the control he had scraped up frae the dregs of his being, used to still his impatient fingers. Even now, his hands curled into the fists he had used to contain his urges by painfully pressing them against the gnarled tree roots he had wedged hips and thighs betwixt to support him as he slept.

  “God’s blood,” the curse leapt from his lips as he drew back frae thoughts that had everything to do with Eve and naught of the promise he had given himself to ignore her. He’d managed, largely, to forget Brodwyn, who seldom crossed his mind apart frae rare moments when he reminded himself that if could achieve his goal once he could do so again.

  Disenchantment had a grand way of putting a dampener on love if not lust.

  At Cragenlaw he had a guid example in Euan McArthur, the McArthur chieftain; he had buried three wives before Morag arrived at Cragenlaw.

  Nhaimeth had originally lived in the castle as Euan’s deceased third wife’s Fool but, to Jamie’s way of thinking, Euan McArthur was the bigger fool of the two. He had still to wed Morag because of an auld curse. It seemed the only thing that scared him was losing her.

  In any event, the McArthur had been instrumental in sending the three of them out in the snow to scour the trees for the mistletoe and keep the lasses quiet. Sent them off as if they were still naught but lads that he expected to do his bidding. Or as if, Jamie pondered, the three of them were too inexperienced to ken anything that could contribute to their elders’ plans to fend off the Normans.

  To turn his thoughts in a happier direction, Jamie cast his gaze o’er Rob’s big black stallion. Although the beast was getting on in years, there was nae doubt that Diabhal was enjoying the outing away frae the stables. Jamie found himself laughing out loud at the venerable steed’s antics, silencing any other thoughts. If there was anything he liked to watch as much as a sauncy lassie, it was the magnificent combination of muscle and bone that made up a horse.

  He wasn’t surprised when Rob pranced closer, as if to show off Diabhal. What took him aback was Rob’s shout, “Look over there, Jamie. To the north,” he pointed. “One of the horses must have got loose.”

  Turning his gaze northward, slightly farther along the shore’s edge, he remembered that the snow liked to lie in long drifts in that area, filling the narrow valley with traps for the unwary. The beast was of smallish build, though bigger than Nhaimeth’s pony—a palfrey, one of the beasts mostly used to carry lassies and priests. There was nae doubt that the horse was in distress. The animal’s head lifted, mouth open as if on a whinny of fear that the wind carried toward the sea.

  Frae the grumbling behind Jamie, Nhaimeth obviously hadnae heard Rob. Turning in his saddle Jamie realised his wee friend had ventured into a passage of deeper snow mounded between the tracks left by both larger mounts. A wide grin on his face, he turned Faraday towards his wee friend without breaking pace until the gelding had trampled down the snow blocking Nhaimeth’s passage. If he smiled it wasn’t because he doubted Nhaimeth’s courage. There had been a time when yon short legs had led them though dark tunnels that would have given the bravest of them second thoughts. “Best stay in our tracks Nhaimeth. We dinnae want to find ye swallowed up by a drift. We might never find ye until spring.”

  He made a jest of it, for there was nae insult intended. Nhaimeth could always keep up with them whether astride a horse or at swordplay. Euan McArthur had had a blade forged especially to fit Nhaimeth’s size and hands. Jamie might tease his friend, yet he could nae more bear to see him hurt than he could leave a horse to freeze to death.

  “What say ye, Rob, do ye recognise it?” he shouted, keeping the palfrey under close scrutiny as he urged Faraday to trudge through snow that suddenly felt like a mess of cold porridge. This passion he had for horses was difficult to explain to others. He found it easier to defend his fascination for the lassies. As a lad, the high point of his day had been when his father arrived home. The moment Ruthven rode into the Bailey, Jamie would rush to his side, begging to be lifted up to sit afore of him. He had seen a different world frae up there, a world where even a wee bit of a lad had more significance—a fact that had encouraged him to always take note of the horses men rode and, as often as not, his discoveries had coloured his opinion of the men themselves.

  O’er the years he‘d had developed a fine eye for a prime animal, and could recall most of them without effort. This palfrey wasn’t one of them—a fact that made the back of his neck tense, as if the snow had found its way under layers of plaid and lambskin. How did it come to be out here, on a day when even cateran were wise enough to hole up out of the cold?

  Rob’s big black ploughed ahead, his friend’s voice floating back over his shoulder as Diabhal’s long, loping strides took him closer to the palfrey’s quivering side. Gone were the days when Jamie’s eye could pick out every horse in the Cragenlaw stables—a fact that merely went to show the span of years that had passed since he last lived there. Nowadays, although Euan McArthur treated him much the same as he always had, for the first time he felt like a visitor. It made nae difference that he and Rob would always be friends, their lives had grown apart since the night he had watched his friend kill his first man—watched Rob kill Harald, spill the sleekit bastard’s blood, all the while wishing that he, Jamie Ruthven, could have found enough steel in his belly to do the deed himself.

  He shrugged his mind away frae the past, regrets werenae going to get the job done.

  The pale grey palfrey’s black mane flew out behind it in a flurry of the wind and snow. Eyes rolling at the sight of them, it gave the appearance of crying out for help—a notion that made Jamie’s innards curdle at the thought of it having injuries so bad they might have to end its life—a mercy killing. As they drew closer to their goal, his view became impeded by the bulkier frame of Rob atop Diabhal. Puzzled, Jamie looked around frae his advantageous position atop Faraday’s fine leather saddle, noticing a lack of recent footprints in the snow. Had the palfrey escaped or been abandoned by someone with nae appreciation of a bonnie wee horse?

  Ahead of him, Rob gave a shout after reaching over to grasp the grey’s reins and revealing the truth of the matter. Pulling the horse around, Rob allowed Jamie a view of the bundle of a blue plaid, muted by fallen snow, spread on the ground like an icy blue lochan.

  Though not uncommon in colouring among clans, the sight brought bile surging into Jamie’s gorge. Like an omen of misfortune it made his blood run colder than the inclement weather had succeeded in doing, filling his mind with memories of long shadows—his and Eve’s—splaying through the tower entrance of King Malcolm’s palace to darken similarly coloured plaids worn by Buchan and his brother Hadron.

  Jamie turned his back, avoiding the memory of the day that last piece of treachery had been perpetrated by the head of the Buchan clan. This time, instead of his father, he had been on the receiving end at the hands of Ruthven’s bête noir.

  He hadnae realised such a small coincidence could so easily rekindle his anger at the two treacherous acts perpetrated first by Brodwyn then Eve—women who had both pretended to love him.

  Whilst Jamie shoved aside his troublesome thoughts, Rob leapt frae Diabhal’s back. Landing hard, he sank to the tops of his thigh high wolfskin boots. Without hesitation Jamie joined him, swinging a long leg over his saddlebow. He sank into snow, soft as coney-fur, yet cold enough to skin the hide off a body. He went to the horse’s head, intent on quieting the poor beast, just as Nhaimeth arrived, setting off another louder and even more anxious volume of equine trumpeting. Jamie’s anger flamed at the careless rider who had abandoned the grey palfrey,as its sorrowful lament rang in his ears. Nae doubt the animal mourned the loss of its rider. That said, the half-frozen beast couldnae be blamed for belonging to someone who would appear to be a Buchan.

  “Is he dead?” Nhaimeth wanted to ken
. Jamie, however, declined to imagine any other outcome was possible for a body lying atop the snow in the dead of winter.

  Nae one could survive this icy cold for long.

  “Nearly dead,” called Rob, his gloved hands scooping snow from around the bundle of plaid and humanity. “There is a wee bit of a pulse, but faint. Nhaimeth, you take the other side and Jamie, for the love of God, soothe that animal; it’s fair getting on my nerves. Anyone would think I was trying to murder its master instead of rescue him.”

  “So, it’s a man?”

  Rob slashed a glance at him that encompassed their surroundings as if to imply, ‘Dinnae be daft, how could it be a woman in this weather?’ Jamie nodded a silent agreement and turned back to the anxious beast.

  Tall and brawny were attributes Jamie never gave much thought to, exercising them as necessary, as he did today, putting both his size and strength to good use. Wrapping an arm around the palfrey’s neck, he dragged its head away from Rob afore it snapped at the arse pointing skyward because of bending o’er the rider.

  Speaking in its ear, he held its sharp teeth back from any vital part of Rob’s body that he might be sweered to lose. “Hush-hush-hush shhh … the now, I’m not going to hurt ye or yer master,” he whispered.

  With the shuddering beast calming down enough for Jamie to leave its head, he put his best efforts into assisting Nhaimeth to push the frozen bundle up onto Diabhal afore Rob’s knees, kenning his friend would ne’er give up—not until he was certain life had definitely departed the body they were hoisting afore him. Loosening his own plaid, Rob wrapped it around both him and his passenger, fastening the stranger against his chest to make sure he couldnae fall. A moment later, he kicked his heels into Diabhal’s flanks and removed them both frae the scene as fast as the snowdrifts would let him.