Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

A ltair did not want to be forced into another healing sleep, so he planned his attack carefully.

He had not been idle since Laura and Nurse Mildred's unfortunate encounter set the English lass on a completely different trajectory in her life; the laird had told Andrew and Stephen to gather information for him while they were settling the nurse with the healer.

So he knew the gang of ruffians had caught the coachman and slain him. And two of them had left for Aberdeen to sell the horse and other items taken from the coach. As for the coach itself, the gang had probably hacked it into pieces to use for firewood.

Pushing all thoughts of Laura's soft pink lips out of his mind, Altair leapt from rock to rock, pulling himself up onto a narrow ledge where he could observe the camp from afar.

If any of the men had looked over at the ledge, all they would have seen was a dark shadow lurking next to the rock face.

This was Altair's world, not theirs. The villains would rue the day they thought to test the legend that one of the Immortal Highlanders lived in the crumbling castle above them.

Watching like a hawk, he counted fifteen men. They were the usual bunch of suspects; soldiers who had deserted their troop, petty thieves, and criminals wanted by sheriffs for murder, mayhem, and rape. Such men always managed to find one another and band together, thinking they were stronger that way. They were not, of course. The larger the gang, the easier it was to hunt them down.

They had a paltry assembly of weapons. Mainly dirks and short swords. They dare not wear armor or carry shields in case they were captured. It was better to pretend they were harmless fellows with a few knives in their belts to skin conies. Wearing armor would lead to questions about why they would feel the need to defend themselves.

But not wearing armor meant the rogues would be quick. Their reflexes and their actions would not be weighed down by shields or breastplates. After devising a strategy in his mind, Altair waited for the rain to set in.

The clouds hung low in the sky with the rain bringing at early twilight with it. The men huddled around the fire, trying to toast hunks of meat on sticks. Two sentries stood guard north and south, watching the mountain pass road with bored eyes.

After darting a look over at the camp with its warm fire and toothsome aroma of roasting meat, the southern guard gave up his post and walked to the encampment. Altair knew the man would give some lame excuse about needing to slake his thirst to get out of the rain.

That left the north guard alone. Slithering down the wet rocks with deadly silence, Altair dropped to the ground two feet behind the man. The man was staring with blank eyes ahead of him, and did not even hear the soft thud because it was masked by the drumming raindrops.

The soft shik as Altair's knife plunged into the man's neck was also camouflaged by the noise of the rain. Pitching the body over the cliff, the laird climbed back up the rocks.

When the southern guard returned, he was confused, calling for his partner in a hushed voice. It could not have been a comfortable feeling for the ruffian to peer through the swirling mist, wondering if his mate had simply wandered off the path to use the bushes for a garderobe, or maybe something bad had genuinely happened to him. This was the opportunity Altair was looking for.

He pounced on the sentry as the man blethered? * past him, calling out the north sentry's name in a hoarse bark. The man struggled when he felt the iron grip of Altair's arm loop around his throat. He let out a squeak as the air fought to reach his lungs, scrabbling with his fingers at the laird's sleeve.

Altair dispatched him quickly with a few stabs between the ribs.

Two down, thirteen to go.

Not wanting to waste time, Altair thought to hurry things along by getting a few more rogues out of the cave. They were all huddled in there, happy to stay out of the heavy drookit. The laird knew the cave well. In ages past, he would play hide and seek with his brethren on this mountain. It had been one of their favorite hiding places.

Cupping his hand around his mouth, Altair cried out. "Hie! Hie!"

Back up the rock face he swung himself as four of the gang came out of the cave. They passed by the men cooking meat by the fire and there was a short conference. He knew they would play it safe and come and check on the sentries, especially when there were no more cries forthcoming.

Sure enough, the four men split into groups of two and came trekking north and south in pairs. Only a short while later, the two men who had come to check on the northern sentry were lying dead at the bottom of the cliff.

It was time to change tactics now. They would not fall for his tricks for a fourth time. Loosening a length of rope from his sporran, Altair lowered himself with precision and a great degree of expertise over the side of the cliff. Twisting the rope into a loop, the laird laid it on the path.

The pair of men who had diverted to the south could be heard stumping up the path, muttering to each other about this "cursed mist and" "foutering drookit". As a lucky break, both men stepped into the loop at the same time. They did not even think to look down until they felt their feet yanked out from underneath them.

The only downside to this method of dispatching the villains was the fact that both men wailed loudly as they tumbled down the side of the cliffs.

With no alternative, all Altair could do was cling to the side of the cliff and start edging himself towards the cave. It was a nail-biting climb, clutching at any narrow ledge with his toes or fingers as he moved slowly but surely away from the bodies. He was confident that the rain and darkness would do most of his work for him—washing away the blood and covering the smashed bodies on the rocks below with a thick mist.

Once he got himself behind the other two scouts, all he had to do was wait for them to double back to the camp and step inside the thin rope circle lying hidden on the path. When they did, those inside the cave heard more wailing screams as the two more men fell down into the ravine.

Nine left. The two men who had been cooking by the fire came out first, but by then Altair had edged himself along the cliff for a long way. Craning his neck, he tried to gauge how many of the gang had gone to check the source of all the screaming. It was entirely possible that a rock fall or clumsy misstep might be the cause of the men making a fuss after all.

There was nothing more for Altair to do except pull himself back over the ledge, roll onto the pathway, and walk into the cave. He lay on the narrow trail for a short time to catch his breath because the rain had pummeled his clothes and face.

In the past, it had always excited him so much to hunt down brigands and outlaws in this way, but that was not the case this time. This ragtag group of men were the ones responsible for bringing Laura to his castle gates. They were instrumental in weaving his fate into a new tapestry.

Shaking his head to rid it of such sweet sentiment, Altair stood up and wrapped his cloak around him after withdrawing his weapons.

Five men had stayed behind in the cave. Two of the men continued to roast meat on sticks, and three were sitting on bolsters with their backs resting against the cave walls. It must have been a horrific sight for the men to see a dark shadow rise at the mouth of the cave with a sword in one hand and a dirk in the other.

"Saints protect us!" one of the men crossed himself "The stories are true." Three of the men dashed to find their weapons, while the two by the fire raised the sticks.

Quick as lightning, Altair flung his dirk at one of the cooks' throats. The man fell gurgling into the fire's ashes, while his colleague tossed the stick down and fled into the night.

The men had been expecting plenty of warning. Only a madman would travel the mountain pass in such hazardous weather. This presumption signed their death warrants. Before the men even reached their swords to brandish them, they were cut down.

Altair's cloak fluttered in the strong winds as he stood at the cave mouth entrance looking out. Four left. Sprinting down the path like an arrow loosed from the bow, the laird hurled himself into the mist. All the men saw coming at them was an enormous dark shape with flapping wings. Two men saw the error of their ways; they turned and ran for their lives. The other two perished.

Knowing that the blood splatter would be hidden by the dark black wool of his plaid, Altair wrapped his cloak around himself after wiping and sheathing his sword, and made his way back down to the village. He would send the Berenson sons down to clean up the bodies.

It did not take him long to find the healer's cottage. He had watched as every stone was laid to make the small town. Nothing escaped his keen observation.

And he could not wait to see Laura again.

He had been gone so long that doubt had begun to gnaw at Laura again. Despite the fact that Agnes had given her a soothing elixir to drink, Laura could not shake the feeling that something bad would happen because she was not there to watch over Altair.

"What ails ye, sweet girl?" Agnes came to sit on the stool opposite Laura by the fire. Nurse Mildred lay slumbering peacefully on the cot in the corner. It looked as if Agnes might have administered a sleeping potion to the old woman too because Nurse was snoring loud enough to make the crumbling roof fall in. By some miracle, the cottage was warm and cozy inside; the plaster on the walls had been refreshed and the roof tiles mended. A small fire burned in the grate.

Laura sighed. "Why do we worry when someone is out of our sight? The most irrational fears grip me, even though the person I worry about is not in any mortal peril."

Agnes chuckled. "That is yer controlling nature asserting itself, Maiden. Ye refuse to believe something will go right if ye are nae there to make it so."

The two women chuckled over the human condition for a short while, but then Laura grew thoughtful again. "It is as if my insides are a thin piece of twine, Dame, and I am being pulled in one direction while someone is trying to yank me in another."

Agnes patted her hand. "Ye're made of steel, lass. Ye might nae ken it yet, but ye are. Once ye reach yer tipping point, all hell will break loose."

"That does not sound like me at all," Laura admitted, but Agnes just smiled and continued to craft the girdle belt she was making.

This gave Laura the chance to observe the healer more closely. Suddenly, she noticed something that sparked her curiosity. "I see you wear the same plaid as Laird Sterling, with both the weft and the warp of the wool kept black. Is that not an unusual feature for a plaid to have?" Could it be that the healer and the Sterlings were connected somehow?

Agnes did not answer Laura directly.

"I ken the sheep of England and those of the Highlands have one thing in common. The flock can have wool of different colors. Brown, cream, or dark. But sometimes a lamb with dark wool is born into a cream-colored flock, and so sticks out from the rest in the most curious way. When a dark sheep's fleece is thick enough to be made into wool, no one wants it. Such a shame."

Laura was listening intently. "Why not? I am sure the wool is just as good as any other sheep's."

Agnes shook her head. "Nay. Ye cannae dye dark wool and turn it into pretty colors. Especially not the fleece from a pure black sheep. Those fleeces seem to absorb the darkness around them and expel no light. At least, that is the first perception of it, not so?"

Sir Morcambe tenant farmers had flocks. As a young girl, Laura would sometimes wander down to the sheds to watch the shearers cut off the fleeces every summer. It was a painstaking process, but so satisfying when the fleece eventually peeled away to reveal the true colors of the sheep underneath. Gray and yellow would become soft cream. Russet and orange fleeces would show themselves to be rich brown underneath. And dark sheep would pitter-patter away from the shearer—always leaving a pitch-black fleece behind on the shed floor.

Agnes smiled and continued. "And while there is nae much that can be done with a black fleece when it comes to changing it into pretty colors, there are those spinners who are canny enough to see its worth. They set about turning it onto the bobbin in a fine thread, and treat the fleece with the same love and care as they would for any other wool."

"Are you a member of the Sterling clan?" Laura wanted to know. "Is that how come you know so much about their sheep and spinning methods?"

The healer shook her head sadly. "The Sterling clan was forced to see the worth in those who live in the shadows, Maiden. And they embraced the black wool of the dark sheep as their commitment to remembering their heritage."

"What did they inherit?" Laura slapped a hand over her mouth after saying this. She did not want to give away Altair's secret. Backtracking, she babbled an excuse. "That is a silly question. They inherited the castle and the domain. Ha-ha!"

Shooting an amused look at Laura, the healer got up to stir the pot of soup on the hook hanging over the fire.

Laura imagined the smoke from the fire trying to escape from the chimney, only to be blown into smithereens by the gusts of wind howling around the cottage walls.

After supper, the three women chatted softly about how soon Laura could continue the rest of her journey. "I refuse to set one foot out of this cottage until those villains who attacked us have been captured and hauled in front of a magistrate!" Nurse Mildred insisted.

Both Laura and Agnes held their tongues. Every time a tree branch creaked or the goats in the byre shifted inside their shed, Laura's head would whip around to watch the door. Eventually, when Agnes was settling down Nurse Mildred for the night, Laura gave up all pretense of unconcern and went to sit by the window. The shutter was hooked tight and a canvas drape was tied fast over it, but she would be able to hear if anyone came along the path towards the cottage door.

The nurse clucked her tongue at their delay and could only be soothed to sleep after Laura's reassurance that Mistress Berenson was a diligent guardian.

"I do not like the idea of you staying in a castle where the only person guarding your virtue is a housekeeper, dear Laura," Nurse Mildred fretted.

"Do not worry about me, Nurse," Laura called out from her perch by the window, "I am quite capable of guarding my virtue, even without a housekeeper to act as my chaperone."

But later on, when the sound of heavy footsteps striding towards the cottage woke Laura from her light slumber in the chair by the window, she could not stop herself from flinging open the door and throwing herself into Altair's arms.

* ? Scottish: talk without making any sense