Chapter Six

T ucked in the curved bow of the long birlinn, Margaret lifted her face to a chilly breeze. High above, the wind billowed the square sail. Awkwardly, her hands tied together, she pulled a plaid blanket around her. Malcolm Lennox had tossed it toward her when they had boarded the birlinn. It smelled of sheep and fish.

"To hide your bonds, lad," he had said.

Nearby, Sir Duncan Campbell stood silent, looking out over the water.

She flexed her right knee to ease the ache that plagued her. She had been injured in the attack on the escort party, and the mad race through the forest had not helped. Wincing, she was glad of the blanket that warmed her and hid her bound hands and feet.

Earlier, Duncan Campbell had tied ropes around her to keep her in place. Only he and Lennox knew she was a prisoner. Even Campbell's clerk, a lanky young man with fair hair and a fetching smile, did not know. No one else aboard the boat paid any mind to a lad in dull clothes and a black cap; she was just the sulking adolescent accompanying the justiciar on the great loch. The sail would take three or four hours from what she had overheard.

Traveling on the birlinn were a few farmers, sheep as well, several animals clustered near the upright mast, bleating and shuffling about. The helmsman and his two strapping sons sailed the craft, worked the ropes, and took up oars if the wind stilled.

The water was calm and as blue as glass as the boat skimmed along. The clinker-built birlinn sat low, equipped with twelve oars with four in use.

Margaret watched the water sluice past and looked out at the pebbled shoreline and the hills and woodland beyond as the boat passed one small island after another. Brechlinn Castle was their destination. She heard it belonged to Sir Duncan, a remote fortress at the northern head of the loch. He intended to tuck her away there for her own protection while he sorted out the matter, or so he claimed.

He had said little about her identity or his. That needed sorting too, she thought.

But most immediate was the matter of Lilias Bruce. She had not yet had a chance to explain what had happened. During the journey, Duncan Campbell kept his distance, talking to Lennox or the helmsman. He seemed to be avoiding her, though he sent Lennox over to her.

"Sir Duncan wants to know if you are comfortable."

"I am not," she said, seated on a bale of hay between barrels. "Why does he care?"

"For some reason he does, which is good for you. Do you want ale?"

"No more." Earlier she had sipped ale and had a crust of bread. But she could not piss over the boat's side as she noticed some men doing, so she was loath to drink more. "Where are my bow and arrows?"

"I brought them aboard. But you will have no chance to use them. You might decide to shoot that justiciar over there."

She scowled. "I just want my things."

"They are safe."

"Thank you," she said grudgingly. She had no quarrel with Malcolm Lennox, who had been helpful. A brawny man with glossy black hair, a big, easy smile, and dark eyes that seemed to see through her, he gave her a bemused tilt of his head now.

"Aye then. Watch that sheep," he said, as one walked past bleating. Margaret leaned away. Lennox went back to stand with Campbell.

Now and then Duncan Campbell glanced her way as he talked with Lennox. She lifted her chin and looked away.

Leaning her head against the nearest barrel, she closed her eyes and sought rest while the boat moved over the loch. The rocking motion made her slightly queasy at first, then eased her into sleep.

*

"That lad," Malcolm said, "is a lass. Did you know?"

"Aye." Duncan was not surprised that Malcolm, a clever sort, saw it too.

"A puzzle, hey." Lennox gave him a careful glance. "Would you lock up a lass at Brechlinn?"

"Best she be there for now. There is a woman nearby who sometimes comes to help. Perhaps she can stay for a bit."

"What does that wee bit lass have against Menteith to shoot him?"

"I mean to find out. She says she did not do it deliberately. The arrow was off, she claims."

"That lass is no poor shot." Malcolm sat back. "Though if I could stick an arrow in Sir John, I might do it. He has been disruptive to the valiant efforts of good Scotsmen. Some want him out of the way. But she is not that sort, is my guess."

"Aye," Duncan said. "I meant to ask earlier—have you any news of, er, misbehaving clergy?"

Malcolm gave him a wicked grin. "The false preachers employed by Bruce, as the English claim? The holy men charged with advocating war, that lot?"

"And said to be behaving worse than ever," he agreed with a half laugh.

"The English are in fits over these poorly behaved priests. Did you sentence some of them?"

"Aymer de Valence, Edward's loyal lieutenant, sent them to one of my courts. I released three on bail. They later went through Brechlinn and out to the Isles."

"Ah. So long as De Valence does not know."

"I am not inclined to report it. I gave my vow to comply with certain measures of justice, but I will not volunteer what they do not need to know."

"If we had more naughty priests in need of better justice than Edward would dispense, what would you say?" Malcolm cast him a side glance.

"I can help them."

"Bruce thought so. You can expect another soon. It is a help, but also dangerous."

"Brechlinn's location is an advantage. No one will look there. A small ramshackle castle held by a justiciar who is no trouble at all. Use that as you see fit."

"A good place to hide a lass who is not a lad, as well."

"For now, until I understand the circumstances. Malcolm, you came north to look for a girl and her escort. Tell me more."

Lennox blew out a breath. "Bruce would want you to know. She is his bastard daughter. He has a few by-blow children, and to his credit, cares about each one and protects them well."

"So I have heard. How old is this lass?"

"She is the first of three or four now. I would not be surprised if he has more. He loves his queen, but—" He shrugged. "Elisabeth is thirteen."

Menteith had mentioned a girl who supposedly belonged to the MacDougalls. "Twelve is the age of consent for girls. That wee lass is a valuable marriage property."

"And if she has been taken, or God forbid, harmed, it is dire indeed, especially with the other Bruce women captured by English," Malcolm emphasized. "Duncan, I know your brother's wife is one of the captured royal women. I am sorry."

"Aye. Neill's wife is Lady Mary Bruce. She is one of the women locked in iron cages and exposed on castle battlements."

"No wonder Bruce is desperate to protect any Scotswomen close to him. He has set trusted men on the task—myself, Sir William Seton. You," Malcolm added. "He wants your help in finding his daughter's escort and ensuring she reaches the west. But I have no news of them. They have vanished."

"The wee bit lass over there," Duncan murmured, "spoke of a missing girl."

"Did she. Is there proof?"

"In the court today, an incident came to our attention." He detailed what he knew of the attack on the road, and Menteith's claim that his men had rescued a girl. "If that was a lie and she is not a MacDougall, could she be Bruce's girl?"

"If so, we have a problem," Lennox said.

"We do indeed." Duncan looked down the length of the birlinn, past ropes, crates, and woolly sheep, to the slight girl draped in an old plaid, asleep against a barrel.

"I am thinking your wee bit lass is another problem."

"More than you know," Duncan muttered.

*

If she still believed in dreams, having lost that trust years ago, they would be born and flourish at Brechlinn. Margaret sat in a small boat while Lennox rowed them up the last part of the loch—the birlinn had docked to let them depart, turning south again. Now they headed for a castle that jutted up from a narrow peninsula. Fieldstone walls and a blocky keep rose from the green and rocky sward to form a powerful silhouette against a twilight sky streaked pink and gold. The castle was power and beauty and welcome, its reflection almost magical in the calm sheen of the water.

She caught back a sob of yearning that came out of nowhere. The pull she felt to the castle was strong, as if she were coming home. But this was not her home. It was her prison. And it was another barrier in her search for Lilias.

The urge to tell Duncan what troubled her most overwhelmed her. She half rose.

"Sit," Campbell growled. "Do not think to leap into the water and swim."

"I will add Brechlinn is a very good swimmer," Malcolm Lennox said.

She sat, frustrated, on the verge of tears, unable to tell them what they most needed to know. She did not even know if it was safe to reveal what happened to Bruce's daughter—what if Campbell was for Edward? Then Lilias would be in more danger. Though she thought Lennox would be receptive; Edward had given his lands to Menteith, after all.

She rubbed her aching knee. Her feet and hands were free now, for Campbell had untied her before guiding her to the small rowboat to cross the water toward Brechlinn.

For a moment, she savored the sweet clean breezes, the wild vista of water and trees and hills at the remote northern end of the loch. The castle seemed to be the only touch of civilization.

But she could not savor anything for long. Lilias's unknown fate hung over her like a pall. And now Andrew was gone again too. Her eyes welled with tears. She dashed them away. Duncan Campbell gave her a sharp glance.

Lennox oared the small craft beside a wooden dock and secured the ropes to a post. Duncan brought her out, guiding her up to the castle that sat on a rocky thrust of land. They followed stone steps up to a doorway set inside a stone arch. Margaret heard dogs barking distantly as Campbell pounded on the door. After a bit, the door opened.

A huge man blocked the threshold, torchlight behind him. He wore a tunic and stockings without boots, a helmet crooked on his head as if hastily added. In his hand was a chunk of cheese. He tore his teeth into it, chewed, and considered them.

"Back so soon? Who is the bairn?"

"I am not a bairn," Margaret muttered.

"Good to see you too, Bran," Campbell said. "Fetch us some food up to the tower if you will." He stepped inside with Margaret as Bran stepped back, Lennox following.

"Am I a servant? Hold, you there! Hold!" he shouted as three dogs came skidding around a corner. "Stay! Dinna scare the bairn!"

As the dogs pushed closer, Bran caught two huge hounds by their collars. They stilled, both brindled gray, one dark and one light, both standing near as tall as Margaret's shoulder. The third, a small terrier, slipped between Bran's legs.

Margaret squatted to greet the little dog, glad for a happy welcome. She let it sniff at her, then ruffled its head and coat. The two larger dogs stepped forward cautiously, sniffed, and let her pet their magnificent heads. Then they both turned to Campbell.

"Hey, you. Good lad, good girl. Stay," he said, and stood with a hand on either head. Margaret straightened as the brown terrier jumped for more attention. "The wee one is Broom," Campbell said. "This is Freya. The big lad here is Mungo."

She patted heads, shoulders, the small one eager, the two larger dogs calm and regal. "Beautiful sighthounds, and the wee cairn is lovely too."

Bran grunted. "A bundle of mischief, that one."

"Bran," Duncan Campbell said, "bring something upstairs for us in a bit. We are starved. And send to the village to fetch your sister here, if you will."

"It is late to fetch her. Gone gloaming already."

"We need her help. The lad is injured."

Then Duncan Campbell took Margaret's arm gently as he led her along a dim corridor. Lennox and Bran followed, the dogs weaving in and out. They greeted Lennox and were curious about her, but craved Campbell's attention. Reaching a passageway, Bran held cheese out to lure the dogs away with him.

Campbell led Margaret up a turning stair, Lennox behind them. The wedge steps were worn and treacherous in the shadows, the only light the yellow gleam of a wall torch.

On the third level, a stone platform with two doors, Duncan Campbell opened the right-hand door, fitted with a latch and brackets.

"Go in," he directed, guiding her inside the dark room. "You will stay here."

She turned. "Is there a candle? Can I make a fire in the brazier? I am a bit hungry," she added, plaintive and hoping. She had expected to be led down to a grim cell rather than to what appeared to be a bedchamber.

Silhouetted in the doorway against torchlight, his face was inscrutable. "Someone will see to your needs." He shut the door before she could reply. Then she heard the decisive click of a latch and a thunk as a wooden bar slid into brackets. Footsteps sounded as Campbell and Lennox descended the stairs.

So it was a prison after all. Fear ran through her and she folded her arms against it. Turning again, she peered through the shadows.

The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a narrow bed against one wall, covered in a plaid blanket with a few folded linens. Red woolen curtains strung on ropes were draped partly around the bed. Nearby was a small wooden table and a bench.

An iron brazier stood cold and dark in a corner, but the promise of heat reassured her, if she could find flint and kindling. A wooden cupboard on spindly legs filled another corner; on top of that was a candlestick, a cup and bowl, a stack of small books. But she did not see a flint. Hearths and braziers generally were not put out entirely, and could be quickly ignited. She hoped someone would bring a light to banish the damp chill and shadows.

A tall arched window was framed by wooden shutters beneath a top section of leaded glass roundels. She crossed to the window and opened one of the unlatched shutters to find the window open with no barrier. But as she peered down, she saw the tower wall and a long drop to the bailey yard.

She breathed in the cool damp air carried off the loch and rose on her toes to lean on the stone sill. The view overlooked the curtain wall planted on the peninsula at the water's edge. Far beyond, hills and tall pines were dark against the twilight sky.

Closing the shutter against the chill, she sat on the bed and gathered a blanket around her, shivering. The mattress rustled, giving off a dusty blend of heather and pine.

The chamber seemed more suited to the occasional guest than a captive. Cold and empty now, it would be comfortable with a fire in the brazier. But the drawbar was a telling detail that said she was definitely a prisoner.

She rubbed her aching shoulder and then her knee as fatigue crept through her bones. Time seemed to pour by, and she had found no way to help Lilias yet. Her sense of frustration and desperation increased.

Though she regretted Menteith's wounding, she had not done it deliberately. Somehow the arrow's track had curved to catch him. She did not understand how that had happened. Then Campbell, doubting her innocence, had dragged her to the far end of the loch, leaving Menteith hours away. She had lost Andrew Murray again, and could only hope he would find his way back to Kincraig, or wait in the hiding place in the forest until she could get away.

And Lilias de Bruce might be more in danger with every sunset and sunrise. Margaret either had to convince Campbell to help, or had to get out of Brechlinn.

Hungry, thirsty, tired, feeling despair overtaking her, she stretched out on the bare mattress, curled in the old plaid, and fell asleep.

A rattling at the door woke her suddenly and she sat up in deep darkness, dazed, wondering where she was, just as the door burst open. A blaze of candlelight flowed inside with Bran MacArthur, a mountain of a man carrying a flaming brand in one fist, a plate in the other, and a jug tucked under his arm. Another person stood on the stone platform in shadows. Skirts. A female.

Margaret stood, clutching the plaid around her.

"Here you go, bairn." Bran set a wooden platter on the table along with the ceramic jug. "This is all I could find—cheese, oatcake, more cheese. And a bit of dried meat, though it be tough. Ale is here too. Not fancy." He cocked a brow, regarding her. "By the look of you, rags and dirt, I doubt you are used to fine things—but there is something about you. Something," he repeated thoughtfully. "Do you come from a fine household? Servant or such? Either way, a boy will be hungry."

She approached cautiously, for Bran towered, an intimidating sight. He wore no helmet now, his hair a brown riot, his eyes crinkled, irises pale and surprisingly pretty.

"Thank you." She tore off a bit of cheese. "There is a cup on the shelf."

"Huh. So there is." With a long step and a longer reach, he snatched it up. "Here. Eat. Brechlinn says you need it." He sloshed dark ale into the wooden cup. "Later you can piss in that bucket in the corner. Or in the tub. There's one coming up."

"Tub?" Margaret saw a woman enter the room through the shadows.

"Here's my sister, come to tend to you." He jabbed a thumb toward the doorway. "Campbell says you are injured. He thinks the wee bairnie needs a mother."

"I am not a bairn. And I am not injured badly, just a twisted knee and shoulder. They will heal." Her mouth was already crammed with cheese that was buttery soft and wonderfully good. She glanced toward the door. "Sister?"

"Aye." The woman came into the circle of candlelight and set a basket on the table. "I am Euphemia MacArthur." Her voice was warm.

Margaret blinked, expecting a female version of Bran, large and beefy, perhaps disagreeable. But Euphemia MacArthur was young, a large woman yet small beside her massive brother. Where he was creased and scruffy, untidy and scowling, she was lovely, golden pink, and calm in a gray gown. Her round face was pleasant, her form generous and curving, her honey-gold braids were wrapped about her head in a pretty frame. Her eyes were ice blue under arched brows, and her dimpled smile brightened the room.

"After you eat and bathe, I will tend to your wounds."

"A soak in a hot bath will do. You can both leave."

"Sir Duncan asked me to see you. He says you had a trying day and need to rest here in the guest chamber."

"Is that what he calls it," she said wryly.

"Sorry?" Euphemia looked baffled.

"Are you wanting that oatcake?" Bran asked.

Margaret shook her head and handed it to him. She smiled at Euphemia, feeling relief despite all. The past few days had been difficult. Having sisters, she found she missed the company and comfort of a female friend, and here was a kind stranger. Food, candlelight, and the prospect of a bath would help too. But the hospitality originated with Duncan Campbell.

"Thank you, Euphemia."

"It is Effie, if you will. Here is the bath," the woman said, as Margaret heard a noisy clunking and scraping outside the room. A lanky boy stepped through the doorway, dragging an empty wooden tub that he had pulled from another room. He rolled it to the middle of the chamber. An old man followed, lugging a basin of steaming water that he dumped into the tub.

"Not much, but we will fetch more," the old man said. He beckoned to the lad and both disappeared down the steps.

"Thank you, Hector, Artan. Bran, it is chilly in here," Euphemia told her brother. "The shutters should stay closed and that brazier should never go out. This room should always be ready in case Sir Duncan brings a guest."

"It is a waste to keep it fresh. No one has used it since the last priest we—"

"Give me a candle," Effie said briskly. Taking it, she knelt beside the brazier in the corner, lit a twist of cloth, and applied the flame to a small stack of peat bricks inside the brazier. "This will take a while. Do eat," she told Margaret, standing. "Bran, you may go. Please tell them to hurry with the bathwater."

While Margaret ate, Euphemia moved around the room, tucking sheets on the bed, adding blankets. The old man and the boy returned with buckets to pour streams of water into the tub, vapor rising.

Euphemia thanked them as they left, shut the door, and went to the table to open the basket. She took out a ball of gooey soap and rolled linen toweling.

"Now then, my dear," she said quietly, "let us get you into that tub."

Margaret stared. "Do you know—"

"Aye. Duncan told me, and Malcolm Lennox knows too. My brother thinks you are a lad and will not guess otherwise until he is told. Duncan asked me to help you. He says your arm is hurt, or your knee. Warm compresses will help. Do you want those clothes, or this?" She dipped into the basket to hold up a soft drape of dark blue cloth. "I thought to lend it to you."

"It is lovely," Margaret said.

"I brought a shift too. You might be tall enough to wear my gowns with a belt, but they will be large on you. Are you done eating? Sorry. Bran does not know much about serving food."

"He was kind to bring it. And I appreciate the gown."

"You should give up that awful cap too. Oh, my saints!" Euphemia said as Margaret tugged it from her head, red-gold tresses spilling out. "What glorious hair! Though not a lucky color, is it, such red, they say. But you have been a lucky girl, and you are in a good place here. I brought a comb too, if you like."

"Effie MacArthur, I rather love you," Margaret said.