worth riding all this way to see. Are they castle lassies, d’ye think?’
‘Sure to be,’ Hugh said. ‘Hell, Alex. Do we have time for it?’
‘Silly sod. You know we haven’t. And we have to stay hidden. Will ye take a look at the black-haired one, though? She’s a stunner, Hugh. Wheew!’ He blew between his teeth softly. ‘What a body. And a face to go with it.’
‘I’m looking at the shorter one, like a little ripe berry. They’re too good to be village lassies and too happy to be laundry-maids. They’ll be seamstresses, that’s what.’ They fell into a stunned silence, noting from the cover of a convenient hart’s-tongue fern every perfect detail of the glorious scene. And when they felt a movement at their backs, they found that a small crowd of their followers had also wormed their way forward, their eyes staring out of their sockets at the sight.
The women stood to collect their clothes, moving into a position where, with one glance up at the rock-face, the silent audience would be revealed. Quickly, Alex, Hugh and every man withdrew like a collective shadow back to the horses, almost too overcome to speak.
‘Well,’ said Sir Alex at last, ‘that was an interesting start to the day. Think you’ll be able to keep your mind on the job?’
Hugh grinned. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to weed them out when we get inside the castle.’
‘There’ll not be time for that, lad. The men will likely keep the women out of the way. Still, I’d like to take another wee look at the black-haired one, dressed or undressed. We’ll see.’ He glanced at the streaks of light that had begun to filter through the trees where they hid. ‘Move the men back into the shadows now, Hugh. And keep a man posted over there to watch the track and the gatehouse. The rest of us had better mount up. We all know what’s to be done, eh?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Hugh said, placing a foot in the stirrup. ‘’Tis a lovely morning to be raiding a castle.’
From Lady Ebony Moffat’s chamber on the topmost floor of Castle Kells, the views across the loch were to the south and east through groups of windows that were little more than slits in the eight-foot-thick stone walls. The apertures widened into wedge shapes with built-in stone benches on three sides, deeply cushioned. One such space in the corner had been curtained off to create a garderobe in the thickness of the wall, and in another corner was a door that led spirally downwards to the next level.
The cushions had not, of course, been made for young Sam Moffat to jump up and down on in excitement, nor had the windows been made just that size for him to squeeze his head through to look sideways towards the woodland path. Consequently, when a man’s shout was heard from the stairway to say that Master Sam’s grandpa was coming in. Sam found that it was more difficult to reverse into the room as easily as it had been to go out of it. For a moment, there was panic in his little breast. ‘Mama!’ he yelled. ‘I’m stuck again!’
Tempted to use the next half-minute to teach him a lesson, after the hundredth time of telling, Lady Ebony lifted her faded blue wool surcoat off the bed and slipped it over her head. After seven years, it still fitted like a glove over her linen bliaud. Her sister-in-law Meg was already making her way to the door. ‘I’ll follow you when I’ve freed him,’ Ebony called. ‘You do on down.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Meg. She had seen it before. It was his ears.
Ebony smiled, adjusting the surcoat across her shoulders. ‘As Sir Joseph’s daughter, love, you must be there or he’ll want to know why. You go and show an interest. I’ll bring Sam down in a moment.’
It didn’t take as long as usual to free him, for now he had learnt how to press his ears flat and twist. Nor did he have time today for the soothing noises from his mother when his Grandpa Moffat would surely have brought something back for him from his night raid which, to Sam, was as innocent as a trip to the market. He skipped off, reddened about his six-year-old ears, his eyes as grey as granite, blond-haired, slight-framed, bursting with an unpredictable primitive energy. After three years, Sam rarely asked about the father he so closely resembled.
It did no good for his mother to protest at Sir Joseph’s frequent gifts to his only grandson, a pony that no one had taught him to ride, money that he was not allowed to spend, clothes from another child’s back, toys and trinkets salvaged from someone’s home. Her initial objections had been disregarded, and she could not bring herself to tell her child that his grandpa gleaned other people’s property by force, mostly at night, plundering across the Scottish-English border to torch houses, kill the men, lift the cattle and bring them up on to Scottish pasture. There was only so much one could expect a child to understand at six years old, and as long as they were obliged to live under Sir Joseph’s protection, Sam must be taught, first and foremost, to respect his elders.
His cries of excitement could be heard echoing down the stairway and disappearing into the maze of chambers, halls, stairs and passageways that was now his world; hers and Meg’s too. It was unsafe for them to venture out when raiders passed so frequently in both directions, perpetuating feuds that had escalated alarmingly in the five years since the Scottish victory at the Bannockburn. Now, there was not a household, large or small, that did not fear the raids, though these would be fewer now that the hours of darkness were less. Perhaps this would also be Sir Joseph’s last raid till the autumn, when they might begin to live more normally than this.
Sharing none of her son’s urgency, she sat on the window-cushion and rested her head against the wooden shutter, her eyes scanning the pattern of massive oak beams that supported the roof. Woollen tapestries clad the walls with colour and warmth. Polished stools, a table, chests, and a canopied bed provided every comfort, and a fire at one end was protected by a hooded chimney with the Moffat coat of arms carved into it. The castle was cool at all times of the year, and this chamber was one of the most private in a place where privacy was at a premium. She had no cause to bewail a lack of comfort, and her inclination was to stay up here well out of the way rather than to be seen condoning her father-in-law’s lawlessness.
Not wishing to let Sam out of her sight for too long, she relented at last, taking up a piece of damp linen and spreading it over a chest to dry before removing from it a strand of moss that had caught in its fibres. Still damp, her hair was hurriedly bundled into a caul of gold net and pinned carelessly on top of her head in a style unknown to fashion. At Castle Kells, what did it matter how one looked and, in Scotland, who except the nobility cared a damn about fashion in these uncertain times? She took a quick look round and went down, descending the steps slowly with her skirts held up. It would take her quite some time to reach the great hall.
The unusual absence of men made Ebony wonder if Sir Joseph’s return was in some way out of the ordinary. She quickened her step. He had taken about thirty men with him, this time, but still she would normally have encountered members of the household at every turn, as she had done earlier that morning. The guard who always stood in the window niche overlooking the courtyard was missing. She peeped through the arrow-slit, but it was set too high to show her more than the gatehouse on the opposite side and yet, even as she watched, an archer on top of the tower took aim at something below him. Before he could complete the draw, however, his arms went up and he fell backwards with an arrow in his throat.
‘Reivers!’ Ebony whispered. ‘It’s the reivers! God have mercy on us.’ Reivers. Border raiders. Murderers and thieves. Merciless destroyers. How had they got in? And where was Sam, her precious child? Panic rose in her breast like a sickness. Men such as this had killed her Robbie three years ago; she could not let them take Sam, too.
Picking up her skirts, she ran like a hare, flying through arches and open doorways, leaping down steps to reach the great hall on the first floor. Breathless,
