Amanda Scott (32 page)

“Do you really want us to row, Michael?” The voice was decidedly female, decidedly cool. “I think we would prefer to sleep. Hugo said he put blankets inside that locker. Pray fetch them out to us. Doubtless your bride would like one, too.”

“Madam,” Michael exclaimed. “What are you doing here? You must go back. Everyone will expect to see you tomorrow—aye, and as hostess at St. Clair.”

His mother said in the same cool tone, “Do not stand prattling but do as I bid you. Jean is the proper hostess at St. Clair, and I cannot stand by and allow you to subject your new wife to this clandestine journey without a single suitable female to accompany her. And who, do you suppose, is more suited to the task than I am?”

That question being wholly unanswerable, Michael wisely held his tongue.

The journey east from Orkney and then south to the Firth of Forth proved tediously long but without incident, despite the presence of the countess and Fiona, her waiting woman. The countess remained cool but civil, and although Isobel did not warm to her, she could be civil, too. Michael kept horses stabled in the city of Edinburgh, so they encountered little delay and hurried on, although the day was already half over by the time they entered the harbor there.

The city fascinated Isobel, and it was as well that she rode a well-trained mount, because so delighted was she with everything she saw that she paid scant heed to its direction or guidance. They took only a dozen men with them, and the last ten miles passed swiftly. The countess and Fiona fell back a short distance with the men, and so Isobel passed the time by asking Michael question after question about Lothian and Roslin. He was describing a famous battle fought in Roslin Glen when they came upon the cart track leading down into the glen itself.

“The castle lies three miles yonder,” he said. “We’ll follow the river Esk for a time and then take a path up and out of the glen to its western rim.”

“I thought you told me that the river runs right by the castle,” she said, recalling his answer to an earlier question.

“Aye, it does, and curves around it on three sides, but the castle sits high above the water, as you’ll soon see.”

The glen was lushly green and eerie, almost as if it were haunted, Isobel thought. Remembering the battle fought there, she asked him to tell her more about it. He did so, and by the time he reached the Scots’ victory over an invading English army, they had begun their climb out of the glen, the others still well behind them.

The great round towers and square keep of Roslin Castle loomed ahead of them, less than half a mile away, turned golden in the setting sun.

“Why is it called Roslin?” she asked abruptly after moments of silence.

“Because of its location,” he said. “Roslin means ‘rock of the falls,’ and there are two waterfalls that I’ll show you tomorrow. Near the larger one, carved into a mossy rock wall, is an odd-looking head—not a bearded one, I’m sorry to say.”

“Do you have any idea what to search for when we get to the castle?”

“I think so,” he said. “I have been thinking about those bearded men in Henry’s letter, as well as the underscored words and the many carvings at Roslin. I suspect we’ll find that one particular likeness repeats itself many times. If that proves true, we need only find that likeness and follow where it leads.”

The approach to the castle startled Isobel. She saw only too easily how it towered over the glen far below because, only a few feet from the castle wall, the ground fell away steeply to the river Esk, flowing swiftly in a sharp U around the high promontory on which the castle stood. The pathway they followed narrowed dramatically, becoming no more than a bridge over a deep ravine.

Riders approaching the castle could therefore proceed safely only if they did so in single file. For a good thirty feet, Isobel resisted looking down, because it was as if the world had fallen away from her on both sides, but she made no comment lest the countess think her a coward.

Inside the wall, servants flocked to the courtyard to welcome their master and the countess home, greet his bride warmly, and assure them all that supper would appear within the hour.

“Come, sweetheart,” Michael said after dismissing their escort and leading her toward the huge keep in the southwest corner of the yard. Telling his mother in the entryway that they would see her at supper, he led Isobel away, adding quietly, “I’ll show you where we’ll sleep, lass, and give you time to tidy yourself.”

“But don’t you want to begin looking straightaway?”

“Not until after we eat,” he said with a smile. “It is too late to do much exploring tonight in any event, and I don’t want my mother hovering over us.”

“You can show me the carvings at least.”

“Aye, I’ll show you some of them. You’ll understand our dilemma better when you see how many there are.”

“Your mother won’t come down right away,” she said, her curiosity growing by the minute. “If we change quickly, we can begin searching before we eat.”

He laughed. “I can see that I’m going to have a hard time retaining my position as master of this castle, madam. Pray remember that I am.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, but in the end, she had her way. The number and variety of the carvings he showed her did prove daunting, because although the countess retired after supper and they searched only a few rooms of the keep that night, the carvings were everywhere. Moreover, many depicted heads, and many of them were bearded. Occasionally they found two or three that looked alike, but in trying to follow them, discovered they led nowhere.

Isobel went to bed that night thinking they could search for a month without finding what they sought, but the next day she found Sir William’s bearded men.

Taking advantage of the countess’s decision to nap that afternoon, they had searched for a time without success. Wandering to the lower hall, feeling frustrated and depressed, Isobel had stopped near the huge fireplace and stood staring for some moments at a bearded face with a straight line for its nose, and cavernous eyes, before she realized she had seen one like it only moments before. Gathering her wits, she hurried back the way she had come and soon found the second one near a doorway. Passing through it, she found a third. Then, across the landing on the lintel of a second doorway, in a line of nearly similar heads, she found another.

Running to find Michael, she showed him what she had found, and together they discovered three more. But their search ended abruptly at the opposite end of the keep near a small chamber, apparently full of wine casks. No bearded face graced the framework of its door or any nearby wall.

Near a corner of the wine chamber, a colorful tapestry caught Isobel’s eye, and thinking it an odd place to hang such a thing, she eased her way among the casks to have a closer look. A moment later, she exclaimed, “Michael, I think the head is woven into this tapestry! Fetch a candle and look for yourself.”

He brought two, and she held them while he pulled the pegs at the bottom of the tapestry from the wall and lifted the heavy cloth to reveal a door. It opened easily onto a narrow, circular stairway.

Elated, Isobel slipped through, giving Michael one candle and holding the other to light her way. But elation faded quickly, for the stairway that had looked so promising led to a solid stone wall.

Chapter 19

D
isappointment surging through her, Isobel stared at the huge stone blocks, then turned back to Michael, who had stopped two steps above her.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to move one of those stones,” he suggested.

She shook her head, thinking that his father and grandfather must have been as eccentric as Henry or as mad as Mariota. Anyone could see that the large granite stones were as heavy and solid as they could be. The stairway led nowhere.

“It must go somewhere,” he said, as if he had heard her thoughts. “The space below us here is a veritable warren of cells and dungeons, although Henry and I have thoroughly searched every one of them over the years. Still, let me see if one of the stones might be hollow inside.”

Moving past her, he held his candle close to the bare wall, carefully examining it, then drew his dirk and methodically began tapping each stone with the handle.

After some minutes of watching him, Isobel turned with a sigh to go back up the stairs. As she shifted her candle, its light glowed stronger for a moment, lighting a section of the outer wall above the wide end of the lowest step. She knelt and looked closer, holding the candle near a figure carved into the stone.

“Michael, look at this,” she said, scarcely daring to hope that it might actually mean something.

He moved to stand by her, resting a hand warmly on her shoulder. “It is just another carved head,” he said. “Doesn’t even have a beard. It looks more like the mossy one near the waterfall that I told you about. They call him the green man.”

“Does this one look exactly like that one?”

“Aye, near enough,” he said, knocking the dagger’s hilt against the stone, and then trying to shift it. “This stone is solid. I don’t think it can mean much.”

“But it is the only thing here,” she protested. “It must mean something. Moreover, it
is
the Green Man.”

“Aye, well, the other one is green, too,” he said. “But only because of the moss.” When she did not reply, he shifted his candle up to look into her face. “What is it, lass? What are you thinking?”

“I tend to forget that you were not raised in the Highlands and Isles,” she said. “The Green Man is the Celtic god of plants and vegetation. Since we’re not in the Highlands now, it seems odd to find him here—odder still if he appears twice. If someone chose to honor a Celtic god in such a way here, he must have had reason.”

Michael frowned. “But does it mean that we search here or at the falls?”

“Since the bearded heads led here, your father’s message to Henry could mean we are supposed to look behind that stone for a key to the treasure’s hiding place, but I’d like to see that other head before we attempt such a thing. Is it far?”

“Come, I’ll show you.”

They hurried upstairs and outside to a steep path leading into the lush glen—an apt location, Isobel thought, for the Celtic god of greenery. Soon trees on either side of them created a green canopy so thick that only occasional beams of sunlight penetrated it. Ferns, flowers, and dense shrubbery carpeted the woodland floor, obscuring their view. The cool air was redolent of herbal scents and damp earth. The trail zigzagged down until Isobel could hear rushing water, and soon afterward they came to the roiling, froth-filled river.

Michael strode along the path ahead of her, and when he came to an arched stone bridge spanning the river, he said, “We’ll cross here. We’d get closer to the falls by following the track on this side, but the carving we seek lies yonder.”

“Is there a path on that side, too?” Isobel asked.

“Aye, sure,” he said. “I’ll warrant fishermen have worn tracks along every bank of every burn and rivulet in Scotland.” With a smile, he added, “Art afraid I’ll get us lost, sweetheart?”

“Of course not, but I am not wearing stout shoes, and I don’t relish the notion of clambering about on wet rocks near a waterfall,” she said.

“We won’t get that close to it,” he said, holding back a branch for her. “The carving I want to show you is in the cliff face some yards from the water.”

The path remained narrow, and with Michael again in the lead, they made their way up the river gorge without speaking. Except for the soft padding of their footsteps and the rushing sound of the water, the woods were silent.

Isobel realized that they were too silent. When a faint equine whicker sounded ahead of them, she said urgently, “Michael, wait!”

He had heard the sound, too, and had already stopped, but as she spoke, a vast, weighted net fell from the tree above him, ensnaring him in its web. Men erupted from the shrubbery and quickly overpowered him.

Isobel took two or three hasty steps toward them only to stop short when a hand of iron grabbed her upper arm from behind so abruptly that it nearly jerked her off her feet. A muscular arm clamped around her waist and the large, gloved hand that had caught her arm shifted to smack hard across her mouth, yanking her head back against a brawny chest as a harsh voice muttered in her ear, “How thoughtful of you to bring my cousin to me, lass. I’d expected to spend more time pondering how to entice him outside, but you’ve made that unnecessary. Nay now, do not bite me,” he warned. “My gloves are thick enough to protect me, but biting is most unmannerly. If you try it again, I’ll beat you until you screech.”

Isobel ignored the threat, struggling as wildly as she could, kicking and biting until he cupped a hard palm over her mouth in such a way that her teeth could not gain purchase. Even then, she kicked and squirmed, but he tightened his hold around her waist until she could scarcely breathe.

“Ah, you’re tiring,” he said. “I think you need a lesson in conduct though, so we’ll see if you learn quickly. I want to know how many people are in the castle.”

“Waldron, damn you, let her go,” Michael said, struggling against his captors but severely hampered by the netting. “What sort of villain makes war on women?”

“Not your sort, certainly,” Waldron said. “Hand me his sword and any other weapons he might have, lads. Then wrap that netting around him and we’ll carry him back to the castle to find out what he knows. Now, lass, tell me, how many?”

Isobel pressed her lips tightly together.

“Very well, then, I’ll have my lads begin by cutting off his fingers and toes.”

Shock surged through her. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“You think not? Dom, take out your dagger,” he commanded. “If she does not answer my question, begin with the little finger on his left hand.”

“By heaven, you’re a madman!” Isobel exclaimed as the ruddy-faced, barrel-chested man he’d called Dom drew a long dagger.

“How many?” Waldron asked again.

Michael had not spoken, but Isobel believed Waldron would do as he threatened. “I don’t know exactly,” she said, adding hastily when he looked toward his man again, “We brought sixty men with us from Kirkwall, but some stayed in Edinburgh to look after the ship, and Michael gave others leave to visit their families. I think a dozen came with us to the castle. There are the servants, too, a few guardsmen, a cook, the baker, and their minions. I can’t think of any others.”

“Where is Hugo?”

“He went with Hector Reaganach and the others to St. Clair.”

“So he was the one pretending to be Michael. Who pretended to be you?”

She was silent, terrified that he would force her to name Adela.

“I can guess,” he said. “They will both have to pay penance for that, I think. What about stable lads?”

“Oh, aye, there are several. I forgot.”

“I wonder who else you forgot,” he said. “Not that it will make much difference, but we’ll unfurl him, lads. We cannot take him up trussed in that net if guards on the wall can see us. That pathway is treacherous enough without the added threat of a rain of arrows. But don’t let him get free,” he added sharply as he pushed Isobel toward another of his men, whom she recognized as Fin Wylie. “Don’t let the lass slip away this time,” Waldron warned him. “Not if you value your life.”

“Nay, master, she’ll go nowhere,” the man promised, gripping Isobel around the waist nearly as tightly as Waldron had.

Remembering that Michael no longer had his weapons, Isobel watched as the others pulled the netting off, hoping he could still manage to regain his freedom, and determined to do what she could to aid him. As always, she had her dirk.

But Michael remained quiet as he said, “You do no honor to your family, cousin. I once admired your skills, your energy, and your clever brain. But I see now that you have only the instincts of an animal. Your brain serves no more to improve your character than would the brain of a badger or a wolf.”

“Stand him up,” Waldron said. “But hold him in place, and watch his legs and feet. He’s no great warrior. Faith, I’d have bested him easily last time, had our Hugo not come to his aid, but even a rabbit will fight if a fox corners it.”

Michael offered no resistance, standing to face Waldron, even thanking one man who picked up the hat he had been wearing from where it lay on the ground. Then, to Waldron, he said gently, “Is greed alone what drives you?”

“As I will say every time you ask me, I am bound by my word of honor to make restitution for a wrong your branch of our family committed years ago.”

“By my faith, I do not know why you keep harping on that stupid tale.”

“And I do not know how you dare speak of faith when you and your family have stolen from the Holy Kirk what rightfully belongs to it.”

As he said the last words, Waldron’s fist shot out, and although Michael clearly saw the blow coming, Waldron anticipated which way he would duck, for the blow struck the point of his jaw, and he slumped in his captor’s hands.

“You vile, horrid man!” Isobel exclaimed angrily. “We have done naught to harm you or yours. You can have no cause to harm us.”

He grabbed her arm again in his viselike grip, and Fin Wylie released her. Looking closely into her eyes, Waldron said, “If I did not know my cousin has better sense than to prattle his secrets to a woman, I’d question you harshly, lass. Still, he made a mistake in marrying you and another in letting me see that he cares what becomes of you. A man’s courage is no greater than his willingness to sacrifice all he has. Only one who cares for naught and has naught to lose will fear naught.”

“Michael is not so callous.”

“True, and therefore he will soon tell me all he knows. You recall how you reacted when I threatened his fingers. Imagine how he will, when I threaten yours.”

She gasped.

Laughing at her, he said, “Aye, sure, and it does astonish me that a fool like Henry and a weakling like Michael have kept their secrets as long as they have.”

“Mayhap you should simply believe them when they say they do not know those secrets,” she said. “I have found them both to be honest men.”

“Have you, indeed?” He jerked her forward, saying, “Take him tenderly, lads. We’ll leave the horses here. I don’t want his men fearing us and rushing out to meet us on that damned path. As for you, my lady, you will behave decorously, or I’ll slit his throat and yours before my men and I depart. Do you understand me?”

“Aye,” she muttered, trying to imagine how she could put a rub in his way, if only to divert her thoughts from his apparent fascination with fingers.

She could think of no way to warn the castle and keep Michael safe at the same time, however. She could only be grateful that Waldron believed she could tell him nothing of importance. Trying to remember if she or Michael had said anything revealing that Waldron or one of his men might have overheard, she recalled the deep silence that had seemed too quiet for too long, and realized that they had not spoken at all for some time before the attack.

The journey back up to the castle seemed to take no time at all. As they crossed the narrow part of the pathway, Waldron leaned close to her, one arm tight around her shoulders, the other hand bruisingly gripping her wrist. She knew that to the men at the gate, and to anyone who might have watched their approach from the wall-walk above, he would look as if he were reassuring or consoling her.

As one of the guardsmen stepped in front of the gateway, Waldron murmured, “If they try to stop us, we will kill them, so be sure they understand that we are welcome. And do not imagine that they can succeed in overpowering my men, because you would be making a fatal error.”

Believing him, Isobel forced a smile for the guardsman and said, “Sir Michael slipped on a wet rock and fell whilst he was showing me the glen, but by heaven’s grace, his cousin’s men came upon us and were able to help. We must get Sir Michael inside, however, so that he may rest and recover his senses.”

“Then he is not . . .” The man hesitated. “Seeing him brought up like that gave us all a shock, my lady.”

“We’ll take him inside straightaway,” Waldron said.

At a shout from the guard, the porter opened the main door. Frowning at seeing his master in such a state, the man said anxiously, “Shall I send for the herb woman, my lady?”

“No need,” Waldron said. “Sir Michael merely took a knock on the head when he slipped in the glen. Is my aunt expecting us in the great hall?”

“Nay, sir, her ladyship be still enjoying her wee nap. Shall I send to tell her that ye ha’ arrived?”

“Nay then, do not disturb her yet. We’ll look after Sir Michael first.”

As they passed into the entryway with Waldron’s men herded behind them, Isobel heard the door shut, then noise of a scuffle. Looking back, she saw that Fin Wylie and another man had overpowered the porter. They bound and gagged him, then perched him on his own stool in his own alcove, no more than a widening of the entryway landing. No other men-at-arms were posted nearby.

Impulse tempted her to beg Waldron’s men to treat the man gently, but she stifled it, certain from what she had seen of their master that such a request would stir him to do something horrid. As it was, they merely closed and barred the iron yett across the main door. Should anyone try to enter the castle now, he would find himself locked out.

The three men carrying Michael, two at his head and one at his feet, stood watching the others, and she saw Michael’s eyes flutter open, then shut again. His lax expression did not change, so she could not tell if he was conscious or still comatose, but her relief at seeing him move was enormous.