defence. It was encircled by a partial wall at its lowest point, but nothing a bit of fire and a medium-sized battalion could not destroy.
McCrieff’s castle was, mostly, as his father remembered and recalled to him. Had they made no improvements since then? His own land was surrounded by water, but even they fortified their walls. The McCrieffs had not prospered like his own clan.
Riding slowly, they approached the village, which wasn’t empty, but full of wide-eyed silent residents. So much silence, which weighed heavier than his armour. Ominous. Foreboding. Not one resident moved. It was as if they feared one flick of a wrist would erupt in bloodshed. Rory slowed his horse even more and quieted the breaths through his lungs.
There was always a moment of stillness before a battle, but he felt none of the menacing tenuousness now. He craved to fight, but with soldiers who also craved to draw their swords. Not villagers and children. Not with domesticity that chafed more than the unusual circumstance he found himself in. Only the animals didn’t seem to understand that the unnatural stillness wasn’t to be broken.
So they rode through gaggles of squawking hens and through small herds of sheep. Always Rory observed every detail of the residents, buildings and houses. He might not feel the hatred of enemies, but he knew there were those who hated him. Anything he missed could be his death or the demise of his men. He didn’t want either, but he wouldn’t accept the latter at all.
They had prepared for battle. Instead, they walked through the McCrieffs’ village as if this was no more than a neighbourly visit. Except the silence. This was the indication that all was not welcoming. Good, he wanted to fight. Why weren’t they fighting?
Damn the coward, McCrieff. Hamish’s reputation was as a duplicitous ruler, but rumour was he faced you as he lied. This nothingness was something else and unwanted. How could he prove to his clan, to his Chief, his father, that he, too, would be worthy of power if at this moment he was denied proving himself?
On through the silent village until the wide open gates. Here, Rory stopped and Paiden pulled his horse alongside his once again.
‘I don’t like this,’ Paiden said.
‘Now you show caution?’ Rory said.
‘I wanted to turn away at the stream, but you wouldn’t let me,’ Paiden gave a fake wobble to his voice. ‘But I’ll agree if you turn back now.’
Deep on McCrieff land and it wasn’t safe for any of them. The questions kept mounting. ‘Why bother? If it’s a trap, we’re in it and it matters not if I go through that gate or not.’
Paiden gave a grim chuckle. ‘I think it matters very much. About what that is, is up to you.’
It was a trap Rory knew he must purposefully step foot into. He was already a dead man simply riding to this point. If he rode past the gate, he’d be in the Great Courtyard surrounded by McCrieff warriors who could easily strike him with arrows. Armour or not. Enough arrows and any protection would eventually fail.
However, he was also a dead man if he stood outside the gates, so it was possible they intended to take him prisoner, but the McCrieff Chief wasn’t that clever. So what else could it be? Did they intend to lay out a feast for him and his men and tell tales by the fire?
He’d rather kill the entire clan than sit at their table. If his father discovered he’d done so, he’d lose all honour.
‘Stay here,’ Rory said.
Paiden snorted, but he held his mount still as Rory approached the gate and assessed each gatekeeper. They gave no indication of their intentions to his presence. Their bodies tense, but no weapon in either hand. Of course, there was no welcoming greeting on their lips either. Just more of that unnatural stillness like the villagers.
So he passed through the gate on well-worn dirt beneath smaller buildings in different states of disrepair.
Once through to the other side, Rory could see two men above, but from the angle of the gate and the high walls, he knew there were hidden places where numerous men could walk the wall, aim their bow and arrow over the slats and pull the killing shot.
Just past the walls’ shadow and Rory spotted a lone man descending the keep’s steps. There were many steps, tightly terraced, yet he took them one at a time. He spotted no limp or deformity in the Scotsman. No, the McCrieff took the steps slowly and deliberately to waste time.
Another scan of his surroundings and Rory waited while the stranger strode towards them. He appeared the same age as his father, but that was the only certainty he could be Chief of Clan McCrieff.
He was tall, thick, his shoulders wide. Lochmore’s Chief was a scholar—this man led troops, fought in battles and had shed much blood. His father had said Hamish was large, but everything else didn’t fit. This man didn’t look as if he spoke to councils and negotiated.
A flash of movement at the top of the stairs and Rory glanced towards the new threat. It was a woman half in the shadows of the doorway, her white gown giving a shape and size to her. She appeared younger than the man striding towards him now.
None of her features were clear. But her unbound hair was a riveting flaming red. She could be across the moors in the furthest field and he’d see her.
He felt...he felt as if he knew her.
Disconcerted, Rory dismounted and took in the courtyard. As expected, the ramparts were full of men, arrows locked though the bows were not taut. Around the wall he saw more men standing. No swords drawn, but their stances were wide—they were ready to charge—and the man who had descended the stairs now stood in front of him.
‘You are not Lochmore’s Chief.’
‘You are not the McCrieffs’,’ Rory guessed.
The man gave a regal nod, but didn’t divulge any further information. So be it. Rory purposefully looked around them. ‘Is that why we face each other freely in this courtyard?’
‘You stand freely because I will it.’
‘You could not will it, if I did not freely stand here.’
The old warrior tilted his head, assessing Rory as a man, as a soldier, as an opponent. He’d been given the same look all his life from his own father. This time, however, there was humour in eyes framed by wrinkles and the slight curve lifted the harsh corners of his lips.
This McCrieff, warrior or not, wanted to smile at Rory’s words. Was the man humoured by his own words or was the joke finally on him?
‘I’ve come to address the King’s decree.’ Rory got to the point.
‘You intend to claim part of the McCrieff lands.’
Rory pulled out the royal scroll, certain the McCrieffs had received a copy as well. ‘They were no longer yours the moment Edward signed this parchment.’
The warrior didn’t glance at the seal. ‘Don’t want yours. Got one of our own.’
‘Then—’
‘I’ll ignore both.’
‘Where is your Chief?’
The
