Chapter Thirteen
It was a route Andrew knew well. Ancient and covered in scars, it reminded him of himself. He was as worn out and damaged by all this conflict as the road they traveled along. Even the rain sensed his mood, growing heavier the further they traveled, soaking the men and their horses.
Beth had mentioned rebuilding the roads and the system she’d described made sense but what was the point when the road itself crossed into MacLeish land. Was he supposed to patch up their land as well as his own? If not, there was little point in his tracks draining better if the horses only had to stumble along once more when they reached the borders.
The ride from the castle took them north, first passing by the ruins of Pluscarden and the old hall. The new building was coming along but he noticed the window in what would become the bedchamber was in the wrong place. It was supposed to be further to the left. He’d have to have a word with the laborers on the way back. Now was not the time to get involved in the master mason’s job.
He knew mistakes were the price of keeping Beth back in the castle but look what happened when he let her out last time. The two of them had almost been killed. She was safest there.
The faces of those who attacked were seared into his brain. If he ever saw them again, he would deal with them properly. They were ill trained and poorly fed, that was the only reason why he’d been able to win. Six of them and yet none fit to wield a sword. Were they all dead? He could only hope so.
It made him nervous to wonder if anyone more competent might be out there. He was taking a risk riding to MacLeish castle but it had to be done. What would it say about a laird if he was too afraid to ride out from his own castle?
He had only brought Gillis, Finley, and Wallace with him. Given how high tempers had risen the last time he’d seen Duff MacLeish, he wanted to do nothing to raise suspicions on this foray.
The road eased left after Pluscarden, taking a lazy path between fields of oats until it reached the great wood at the foot of Am Basteir. The mountain was a jagged lump of gray rock that seemed to point an accusing finger at the sky. He remembered climbing to the top of that peak when he was twelve, proving to the clan that he was worthy of being laird one day, pointing his finger at the sky.
He had stood on the top for two full days as storms raged around him. He well recalled the fear coursing through him that lightning might strike at any moment. It didn’t of course, exactly as Fenella had foretold. He had climbed back down on the dawn of the third day, his arms aching, his body shaking from the cold and the hunger. Only then was he truly a MacIntyre.
He smiled as he recalled how scared he’d been by a bit of lightning. So different to the true horrors that were waiting for him when he came of age. A succession of images flashed through his head, one battle after another, his sword cleaving skulls, that mace strike that crushed his arm, rendering it useless for weeks. He’d only survived that thanks to Gillis coming to his aid.
Then he thought of the attack by the pool and he grimaced, staring into the distance but not seeing anything.
He thought of the kiss he’d shared with Beth, the hunger it had given rise to inside him. He had wanted more. Much, much more. The moment his lips pressed to hers, he wanted her in her entirety. He wanted her body, her mind, her soul. He felt as if part of her reached inside him and tugged at his heartstrings, wrapping around them and not letting go.
Poor Beth. She didn’t deserve any of this. He felt a pang of anxiety at the thought of her laid back in her infirmary bed. At least she had Derek and James keeping an eye on her. She should be safe. If only the same could be said for him.
He had no idea what would happen at MacLeish castle but he needed to know the truth. Was Duff MacLeish trying to get him killed? It didn’t make sense but it was the only possible explanation. Twice an attempt had been made on his life. The first time Duff had denied it and he’d believed him but for it to happen twice? That was too much for coincidence.
The attacks were unusual though, not MacLeish’s usual style. They weren’t Norman methods either. The English tended to come in force, provoking battle and attempting to overwhelm the highlanders with superior numbers.
It was only Andrew’s intimate knowledge of the terrain that had kept them at bay so far. The southerners dared not fight among the mountains with so many hiding places for the clan to mount sneak attacks on their rearguard, picking them off one by one, weakening them enough to send them running for home with whispers of highland ghosts chasing after them.
The track descended into the valley for a couple of miles before climbing again, passing between two mountains and then coming to a cairn of stones beside the road. The end of MacIntyre land and the start of MacLeish territory.
It was only a single step forward and yet with it the risk increased tenfold. From here on in, the MacLeishes might attack at any time. Would they honor the peace accord or see the strategic advantage of taking Andrew when he only had three men with him?
He knew he was relying on a truce that had lasted well over a decade but had they not already broken it? He sat up straight and tall on his horse. If they were to come, let them come. He would fight with honor if it came to it. Could the same be said of them? God would judge them all in the end.
People looked at them as they rode past, glancing up from the fields, muttering to each other at the sight of MacIntyre tartan on their land. Andrew ignored them, staring straight ahead. He had a job to do and nothing would distract him.
Another hour and then they were there. An escort had appeared from nowhere, six gruff unspeaking MacLeish men at arms, riding three to the left and three to the right, keeping pace with them for the last few miles until they reached MacLeish castle.
The old keep was still standing inside the walls but next to it the broken walls of the new building were higher than when he last saw them, at least twenty feet and still rising. The sound of masons chiseling echoed out to them as they stopped by the drawbridge.
On the far side, the guard looked pale. He was no more than fifteen. Duff MacLeish was clearly not expecting anyone. Was that significant?
“Halt,” the guard said in a squeaky voice.
“We already have,” Finley shouted back. “Are you going to stand there dithering or are you going to inform your lord the laird of the MacIntyre clan is here to see him?”
“Let them in, Malcolm,” one of the escort shouted. “Show some manners.”
“Come in, my laird,” Malcolm shouted, beckoning them over.
Andrew rode in through the gate, stopping in the courtyard and looking once more at the new keep.
“He looks like he’s planning for quite the siege,” Wallace said in a low voice. “Perhaps he is preparing for clan war after all.”
