Heads turned his way. Robert swallowed thickly and set down his tankard. Truthfully, he was glad of an excuse to stopdrinking. Laird Dickson served strong, fine wines and ales at his table, and already Robert’s head was fuzzing, and his tongue was growing heavy in his mouth. It was never wise to let oneself grow drunk and foolish at one of Laird Dickson’s feasts.
“I have indeed found her, M’Laird,” Robert answered, relieved that he could at least offer good news. “It was as ye said. The Abbess of St. Deborah’s was sheltering her.”
A ripple of murmurs ran around the room. The convent had created more trouble for Laird Dickson and his allies than one could have imagined. Frankly, Robert could never get his head around the fact that a group ofnunshad rallied the clans in such a way.
Why, Laird Dickson had taken his army to the convent, intending to burn it to the ground and kill all within, and had limped away the loser. He had even lost his son to the Abbess’ cunning. At least the Abbess and her flock had been scattered now. Perhaps that would weaken their influence. Perhaps.
“Of course,” Laird Dickson murmured. “I might have known. And where is she now?”
“She is sheltering at Keep Grahame,” Robert answered, feeling moderately more confident now.
He was pleased with himself at finding his daughter so quickly, within weeks of Laird Dickson requesting him to do so. She was his only child, but Robert had never felt much of a paternal tug. After all, a daughter was his property, was she not? She had no right to defy him, none at all.
He had searched furiously for her the first month after she had defied him and left home, but there had been no sign of her. Robert had assumed she was dead. After all, no woman could survive out in the wilds for long.
Once I get her back, she’ll fall in line, alright,he thought grimly.If I have to whip all the skin off her body to make her obey, I’ll do it.
Underneath the table, one of Laird Dickson’s scrawny, half-starved dogs crawled around Robert’s feet, desperately searching for scraps. Absent-mindedly, Robert’s foot shot out, connecting with the creature’s ribs and sending it flying. The dog scrabbled away, yelping piteously.
In truth, Robert would have been happy to hang his daughter from the Keep walls when he brought her back, to make an example, but that wasn’t what Laird Dickson wanted.
And Laird Dickson had given his command, and that was that. Perhaps he wouldn’t be king of the Highlands for long, and then Robert could make his move. But that would count for nothing unless Robert could rise in the laird’s favor. Now, in fact, he had the chance to deliver some excellent news, something that should put a spark in Laird Dickson’s eye and raise Robert up in his estimation.
“In fact,” Robert continued, catching the Laird’s eye, “my men should be closing in on her now. She might be brought back by dawn.”
This was met with approving cheers and a few toasts to Robert’s health. Not too many, of course, not enough to make their host feel second-rate.
“Nicely done, Rob. Nicely done indeed,” Laird Dickson said at last, nodding approvingly. “Ye have done well. Now, lads, we will punish all of our enemies in time. It’s high time we showed our children what it means to conquer the Highlands. We must show them that a father must be as a god to his children. We must teach them toobey. Make them wish they never betrayed us.”
There were more cheers, more raised tankards. A few men shouted vague threats, aimed towards their distant enemies, and another round of wine went through their ranks. It was good stuff, potent, and Robert swigged his goblet back more quickly than he should.
Leaning back in his seat, head blurry, Robert allowed himself a low chuckle. He hadn’t missed his daughter, but at the same time there was a sensation of shame. After all, what sort of man couldn’t keep a grip on his own daughter? Fathers were meant to rule their families.
He thought of his daughter, focusing his mind properly upon her in a way he hadn’t in years. Beneath the self-satisfaction and ever-present fear, Robert had to admit that there was a kernel of sympathy.
Ye had better run, Senga,he thought dizzily.Ye have already tried to hide, but that didn’t work, did it? So run, lassie, run for yer life.
“More shadesflax,”Sister Abigail announced curtly. “We are nearly out of it, and shadesflax is unmatched for cleaning wounds. Senga, can ye go fetch some?”
Senga paused in her task of bandaging a bloody stump. The stump belonged to a Grahame cavalryman, and he seemed more upset about the possibility that he might never ride again than about the reality that he had lost his leg.
“Shadesflax grows on the hilltops,” Senga murmured. “It’ll take me hours to walk there and back.”
Sister Abigail tutted. She was a tall, thin woman and had been in charge of the convent’s infirmary for as long as Senga could remember. They weren’t at the convent now, of course, but the Great Hall of Keep Grahame had been converted into an infirmary, and Sister Abigail had taken charge quite naturally.
“Not if ye ride,” she responded brusquely. “Take some guards with ye.”
Senga climbed to her feet, shaking out her dirty, bloodied skirts. There’d hardly been enough time to turn around twice, not since the injured men began coming in. The battle for Keep Grahame had finished by now, but the injured were still suffering. People were missing, and bodies still piled up in the courtyard. People were scrabbling through the bodies to find their loved ones. The horror wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
“There’s nobody to be spared,” Senga sighed. “I’ll go alone.”
“Take my horse,” offered the man she’d been bandaging, staring up at the high ceiling. He was doing poorly, and Sister Abigail had privately confided that he would likely not last the night. “Her name is Bluebell, and she’s the most beautiful gray mare ye’ve ever seen. I’d hate to think of her languishing in the stable alone, poor thing.”
Senga offered him a faint smile that did not reach her green-blue eyes. He did not smile back, though. She wasn’t sure she could blame him.
Sister Abigail squinted at her. “Are ye well, Senga? Ye are quiet. Very quiet.”
Senga cleared her throat, turning away. There was a heavy brass mirror on the far side of the wall, and she caught a glimpse of herself. It was not a pleasant surprise. Her hair was tangled, with blood streaks staining her pale blonde locks. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and of course her dress and apron were heavily soiled, too. At least six inches of mud and water soaked the hem, and the vibrant green of poultices and herbs mingled with bloodstains painted her apron.
