Chapter Nine

De Montfort was found in much the same circumstance as when last Augustus visited Ironwood, sitting at the boards at one end of the hall, a feast laid before him, including a bright silver carafe of wine near his silver goblet. A dozen soldiers idled about the hall but snapped to attention when Augustus and his party entered. Likely it was one of the few times Sorcha's presence, her very appearance, did not command all attention.

The lord's wife, Lady de Montfort, stood as she had previously beside her husband, hovering at his elbow as if she only awaited commands to see to his every need. Her pinched face showed a great dismay at the sight of the intruders, her eyes wide with a silent alarm. ?Twas the first time that Augustus noticed her gaze removed from the back of her husband's head.

To Augustus's chagrin, Sorcha rushed forward with great urgency before he could stop her, pleading for the Oaf's release before she'd reached the dais.

"My lord," she began, her voice quivering, dropping to her knees a few yards before the table, "I beg of you to have mercy on Grimm. He is innocent of the charges brought against him. I swear it," she vowed, clasping her hands together. "Please, release him from your possession and allow him to defend himself against these false accusations."

To one not acquainted with the beekeeper, and possibly to some who were, Sorcha appeared a beggar, a pleading supplicant at the feet of the lord. Her cloak, once elegant, now bore stains, her skirts were soiled, and her hair fell untamed around her face. One side of her mouth was swollen, a sight not uncommon among peasant women. Yet, despite her battered appearance, she spoke with unwavering strength, in an authoritative tone honed over many years rather than conjured for this occasion alone.

Lord Aldric's reply came with a veneer of politeness, his eyes betraying a bit of amusement to have Sorcha begging before him. "My dear lady," he began, his tone smooth and measured, almost unrecognizable, "I appreciate your concern for your...companion, but the matter at hand is not easily dismissed. Grievous harm was caused—these are serious accusations—"

"They are lies!" Sorcha interjected fiercely, sitting back on her heels. "Where is Effie? I want to speak to her, to hear from her own lips what—"

"Rest assured," Lord Aldric continued, raising his voice though he did not increase the tempo to out pace Sorcha's urgently given demands, "the Oaf will be given a fair trial, and all will come out. If indeed he is innocent, he shall be released unscathed." His thin lips curved into a faint smile.

Unmoved by this promise, Sorcha rose to her feet and pointed a slim arm and trembling finger at de Montfort's bailiff, Blackwood. "And what right has he to cause injury to my person? Is it your practice, my lord, to keep in your company men who abuse women? Will you arrest this man for his assault on me same as you have Grimm for his supposed attack of Effie?"

With a gaze as sharp as honed steel, Augustus fixed his eyes upon Blackwood, who seemed oblivious to Augustus's rage, mayhap unaware that Augustus would have cause to seek retribution for raising a hand to Sorcha. Silently, he vowed to seek vengeance against him.

After an intemperate look at the smirking Blackwood, Lord Aldric snapped his ire at Sorcha, "Interfering with the lord's business is a crime as well, lass. But I shall overlook it in this instance as you—"

"Interfering with the king's business is a crime," Sorcha corrected smartly. "There is no law against questioning the actions of those in power or against outrageous, patently false accusations, especially when those actions result in harm to innocent people. If you wish to be seen as a just lord," Sorcha ranted, "you would do well to hold all your men accountable for their deeds, regardless of their station. Or does justice only apply to those who serve your interests?"

Lord Aldric's facade slowly changed, his previously glib chuckle fading into a menacing silence. His expression, once filled with casual disdain, burned with a newfound fury. The air in the hall thickened, heavy with the weight of his growing rage. Surrounded by an armed retinue, every movement he made, from the curl of his pasty lip to the clenching of his pale fists, exuded a palpable threat.

"In these parts, lass, I am king." He said these words in a hard voice and then looked pointedly at Augustus, as if to remind him of this as well.

"My lady," Sorcha implored, "have pity. Please."

Lady Alice's eyes narrowed as she lifted her chin piously, but she made no response.

Having followed Sorcha forward, Augustus now set a calming hand on the small of her back, the action containing a bit of a warning to her as well. She turned to him at his touch but before she might have voiced an objection or questioned his familiarity, Augustus addressed de Montfort.

"If I might intercede on behalf of the beekeeper and her man," Augustus began, only to be cut off by lord Aldric.

"Bah," he scoffed, waving his eating knife as he spoke while a tender morsel of meat flopped back and forth with is action. "What is it to you, MacKenzie? Leave the law-keeping in these parts to those who dwell in these parts."

Maintaining the tenuous hold upon his own temper, Augustus replied, "We have become friendly over the last few weeks, the Oaf and I," Augustus lied evenly. "I suppose it might be possible that I—"

De Montfort snickered crudely at this. "Friendly? With a man who does not speak? I can hardly fathom it, MacKenzie."

Augustus stared him down for an extended moment. In the same manner as he would establish dominance over a horse or hound, Augustus stared unblinking and let de Montfort be the first to break eye contact.

"As an agent of the king, my lord," Augustus clipped in a sharp tone after de Montfort had looked away, "I should like to convey to him that all is governed satisfactorily in these parts, in a manner befitting his expectations."

True, he'd tipped his hand a bit. De Montfort might now believe he was being spied upon or, just as possible, he might simply equate Augustus's tactic with a juvenile attempt to gain the upper hand, equivalent to a bairn threatening to tell his mam what his sibling had done. Augustus did not care what the man presumed of the barely concealed threat.

"Is the prisoner to be allowed visitors?" He asked blankly. "Or will I be denied access?"

?Twas evident that de Montfort neither expected to be nor relished being challenged. His florid face showed a bit of agitation, literally spasming a wee bit, until he settled his countenance and affected a disinterested mien, as if he only wished to be done with the matter for now and move on with his day. "Go on then," he said, flapping his hand impatiently. "Take him down—the Mackenzie only," he insisted to the closest hovering de Montfort soldier. "He's nae going anywhere, the Oaf, nae until the court session at the end of the month," he reminded Augustus.

Augustus inclined his head, acknowledging this, and sent a meaningful glance at Geddy, which his captain should understand to mean keep an eye on the goings-on here in the hall and particularly, on Sorcha while he went below.

"Why do you deny me the same access you allow the MacKenzie laird?" Sorcha railed.

Twirling around, Augustus caught her arm, and was subsequently favored with a murderous glare from a pair of enraged blue eyes.

"Take yerself off, with Lady de Montfort, if ye please," called Lord Aldric indifferently.

"I do not please," Sorcha snapped, fisting her hand, making her arm rigid in Augustus's grasp. "I will not be denied. I don't want to be—"

Augustus stepped in front of her, blocking de Montfort's view of her.

"Cease," he said quietly. "Right or wrong," he continued, his voice only loud enough for Sorcha to hear, "he has the power just now. Let me confer with your man while de Montfort allows that and later—"

Tears fell, along with her shoulders. "But it's not right. He didn't do anything."

Fleetingly, his thumb stroked up and down against her trembling bicep. "One thing at a time, Sorcha. I ken ye have nae reason, but ye have nae choice but to trust me now."

"I don't know you. I trust Grimm and no one else and look what they've done—"

"Shh," he cautioned when her volume increased. "Let me speak to Grimm—"

Sorcha bristled impatiently, reminding him through clenched teeth, "He doesn't speak. I can understand him, but you cannot. How does this help?"

Geddy and Colin had come to stand near Augustus and Sorcha, so that the four of them appeared huddled in a small group.

"Lass, nae matter what I learn or dinna," Augustus advised her, "or what ye might have gleaned had ye been allowed access, Grimm is nae leaving here. Nae today and nae for a while."

"Patience, lass," Geddy advised. "The process has to play itself out."

Before Sorcha might have argued further, Augustus said to Geddy, "Send one of the lads out for the remainder of the army. Bring ?em all in. Take Sorcha back to her cottage—hush," he commanded when she opened her mouth to gainsay this directive. "I'll meet ye there when I'm done here. Leave only Angus and a handful with me."

"Aye, he dinna like the pressure here, with a full unit of ours and he nae done with his meal," Geddy concluded, his hand resting comfortably upon his sword. "Ye get on to see the oaf and aye, nae sense in being coy. We'll camp out all around that wee cottage, hem her in against de Montfort's designs."

"I am not leaving without Grimm," Sorcha persisted, ignoring Geddy's insinuation while appearing incredibly small between Augustus, Geddy, and Colin.

Geddy spoke the words Augustus would have. "Ye'll do as I say at this moment, lass. Until we ken the who and why behind this—presuming the oaf's innocence at yer say so, by the by," he said, lifting a weighted brow at her, "we'll keep everything tight."

Though her bottom lip trembled, and her neck and jaw were rigid with tension—and a want to argue further, no doubt—Sorcha nodded.

Geddy and Augustus pivoted to face the head table, where Lord Aldric sat motionless, his glare fixed upon them, clearly displeased by their whispered conversation.

Geddy chuckled, the noise loud in the quiet hall. "Aye and we've got her all squared away, my lord," he announced, seemingly in good humor. "Needs but a certain way, these lasses, to make them understand who's who and what's what."

"You are abhorrent," Sorcha ground out in a whisper.

Augustus turned a fierce stare onto her but then was stunned himself to hear Geddy's next words.

"Ah, but ye ken all about that, do ye nae, milord?" Geddy pointed to Lady Aldric. "Another spitfire there, am I right? Firm hand, ye ken all about that, I'm sure. I'll take the lass out of doors, in my firm hand, and ye'll nae be troubled nae more." With that, he bowed his head slightly and latched his thick paw onto Sorcha's arm.

?Twas a good ploy, Augustus decided, so that de Montfort didn't suppose they'd been conspiring and conniving with Sorcha, but now might believe they'd been quietly scolding her for her disrespect.

Sorcha did not see the benefit of it, but fought against Geddy's heavy hand, scratching at his flesh, crying, "Unhand me this instant! Let me go, you fiend! You're as bad as they are!"

"Come along, spitfire," Geddy said calmly over her protests, pulling her toward the door while her feet slid against the cool stone floor, her feeble strength no match to his.

When they were gone, with Colin following, leaving Augustus as the only MacKenzie inside Ironwood, two armed de Montfort lads beckoned Augustus to follow. With a bow of false courtesy at Lord Aldric, Augustus pursued one and was trailed by another through a passageway that twisted and turned, and down a musty set of stone steps that opened up into an expansive cellar. They proceeded, Augustus was sure, from one end of the keep to the other, underground, before reaching a locked portal, which the foremost soldier accessed by turning the key that had been left in the door.

The lad then collected the torch that burned in a sconce on the damp wall and handed that to Augustus, his gaze earnest upon him. "That way, milord," said the lad as he stood aside, allowing Augustus to pass.

Briefly he wondered if he were now to be locked beyond the door, along with Grimm, but dismissed any concern over this; Geddy would know where to find him. Ducking under the low doorframe, Augustus was pleased that once past the door, he was able to stand straight again. Torchlight illuminated the space inside, an open area flanked by four cells segmented by iron bars and gates. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and mildew, and the sound of dripping water echoed in the distance. The walls were rough-hewn and coated with moisture while the floor was uneven and littered with debris.

The lads who'd escorted him must have gone—he didn't believe they'd only politely allowed him and Grimm some privacy—as their voices were heard further away, as naught but muffled sounds. The door that separated the dungeon from the rest of the cellar remained open.

"Grimm," he called, having no need to raise his voice.

The sound of shackles being moved pulled Augustus's attention to the cage on his right. He moved closer and upon spying a hulking form beyond the bars, he set the torch into an iron holder on the wall.

Grimm stepped closer, coming as near to the bars as the shackle upon one wrist would allow. His face was illuminated by the flickering light of the torch, but immediately Augustus could not read his expression—not until Grimm smirked meanly, which Augustus read quite easily.

"Nae, I dinna have anything to do with your circumstance," he enlightened the man, whose face was battered and bloody. "I and my men ran into Sor—the beekeeper—upon returning from an outing with de Montfort. She was, ye may nae be surprised to hear, stomping across the fields, intent upon coming to your rescue." He was unperturbed by Grimm's initial judgment, which supposed Augustus had been behind his incarceration. He'd have suspected the same if he were in his shoes.

Grimm received this slowly, seeming to consider it, before he froze and grimaced mightily, and appeared to grapple with an unseen force for an excruciating ten seconds, much to Augustus"s growing frustration and bewilderment.

What he wrestled with was revealed in the next moment.

"Where is Sorcha?" The once-silent oaf inquired, his words slackening Augustus's jaw with disbelief.

Augustus's mind raced, trying to process the sudden turn of events. Not only had Grimm broken his silence, but his thick and decidedly English accent added another layer of bafflement to the already perplexing situation. It was a confounding moment, leaving Augustus at a loss for words, as he'd not been as far back as he could recall.

"So there," Grimm said in his flawless English, though he kept his voice low, "there is the reason I do not speak."

Finally regaining his composure, Augustus stared hard at the man and said, at length, in a low rumble of residual shock, "I guess that there is reason enough." He shook his head, as if to clear cobwebs. "Jesu, an Englishman posing as a mute Scot. What the bluidy hell—?"

"It was necessary," Grimm said.

"Explain yourself," Augustus growled.

Grimm sighed. "I was part of a caravan heading to Stirling Castle when we were overtaken by a force under the direction of Magnus Matheson, and left for dead by my fleeing comrades," he said. His voice was gravelly, rusty with disuse, and the words came slowly, as if speaking, words rolling off his tongue, were indeed new to him. "A...a woman took me in, hid me from her neighbors, and made me well again. She was...it doesn't matter, but it became dangerous for obvious reasons for me to remain with her. Even before I was well enough, I left her but then I was behind enemy lines and not quite well enough to make a straight run for it." He paused, looking at the bars between them and not directly at Augustus. "I found myself near Caol and meant only to skirt around, out of sight, going south. But then I heard her song." He raised his gaze now, and some bit of torture was briefly glimpsed before he shuttered his expression. Another sigh preceded his next words, "It was the first bit of relief I'd known since I'd left the...the woman who healed me. All the battle noise and screams inside my head were quieted." Again he raised his dark eyes, gauging Augustus's reaction. "I remained close, initially simply to hear her song. But then, as you might guess, it became evident how vulnerable she is. I made my presence known one night when she was being accosted by one of the locals and then...how could I leave her, knowing how susceptible she was to danger?"

"And ye needed her song," Augustus reckoned.

Grimm nodded.

Augustus studied him intently. "She dinna ken, does she?"

Grimm shook his head.

"And by name in truth, you are...?"

"Wycliffe" he said begrudgingly. "Richard Wycliffe." Reluctantly, he added, "Of Winteringham."

"Bluidy hell." Some vague recollection, a mention of a Baron Wycliffe, with lands in Lincolnshire, teased at the periphery of his mind.

For a long moment, Augustus and Grimm—nae, Richard Wycliffe—stared at each other. Internally, Augustus struggled to piece everything together. At length, he said, "Let's start anew, with what we have. Did ye assault the weaver?"

The baron's response brimmed with instant indignation.

"No," he confirmed. "and how could I have? When could I have when I am every hour and every day in Sorcha's company?"

Augustus countered, "I met her twice in the last few days, including the morning after the storm, at the apiary in the forest. On both occasions, you were nowhere in sight."

Wycliffe growled. "I was gone but a moment from her shack and upon my return, she had left already. I met her upon her return, after she'd tangled with you. For all your blatant and obsessive study of her, it should come as no surprised that quite of bit of my time is spent chasing her down. She does as she pleases, with little regard to her safety, and with an inflated opinion of her own capabilities."

No, that certainly did not surprise Augustus. "But then what is at play here?"

"I have no idea, other than the obvious, but that which is so obvious, it's almost inconceivable that he could be so foolish as to attempt it?"

"De Montfort?"

"Yes," Richard stated hotly. "You were there. You saw how he salivates over Sorcha. She'll never willingly lay down for him, but he's a man used to taking." He shrugged. "I stand in his way."

"What about this weaver? Why would she commit to this falsehood?"

"Effie is weak, easily cowed, and has no man to stand for her. She has neither the pluck nor the resolve of Sorcha. De Montfort likely threatened her. I haven't laid eyes on her in a week perhaps, but I wager she'll be bruised and battered, to have compelled her testimony and to align with the narrative of my alleged assault."

Pushing his tongue over the front of his teeth, Augustus considered this and the man telling it. He was eager to believe him, if only for Sorcha's sake, but he simply lacked the ability to trust without tangible proof.

Needing to know more about this man, to understand him better, he said, "But ye...ye dinna hang about, silent and creeping, only to hear her song."

"I did."

"Ye are in love with her," Augustus accused.

"No," Richard insisted. "She's exasperating and too headstrong and impossibly outspoken—her voice drips with noble birth at times—but otherwise perfect. I would not stain her with my sins." He quirked a brow at Augustus. "Will you?"

Wycliffe's sins, Augustus had to imagine, were related to all those battle noises and that incessant screaming inside his head, something Augustus was not entirely unfamiliar with. "What you consider sins, I call necessity," he said, in regard to his conduct during war, how many lives he'd taken, and all the cries he'd quieted with his blade. "I sleep verra well at night."

"You are to be envied then." Grimm paused. "Or deemed a liar."

"Your opinion is negligent."

Wycliffe nodded and pursued that topic no more. "There is no truth behind the charges," he said, returning to his claim of innocence. "And now Sorcha is...she's vulnerable again. And you are absolutely the last person I would ask to safeguard her, but I sense, beneath all the rumors behind the legend, that there is some honor in you, that you wouldn't have a lass only by foul or underhanded deeds, and thus...."

"Ye have nae choice but to trust me and my character," Augustus finished.

The baron's lips curled derisively. "It does not sit well with me."

"But ye are desperate, because de Montfort is powerful."

"But you are the Rebel and so I put more stock in what you can accomplish, meaning if anyone can keep her out of his hands, I wager you can."

"So much gambling."

Wycliffe scoffed humorlessly. "In this position, hope is all I have."

"But dinna tell me ye aren't in love with her."

"I am not. At any rate, she knows only him, her lost lover. I wouldn't jeopardize what I have. It would ruin everything, take her song away and I...I, Lord help me, I need her song more than I need her."

"Ye are in love with the woman who healed ye then?" Augustus ventured. Sorcha's healing song notwithstanding, a man simply did not dedicate so much time and effort to protect a person who was not kin to him, who was a stranger until she needed help, without reason. Ah, but perhaps it stemmed from a place of love, a desire for another to experience safety, born from that other woman.

Wycliffe returned his steady regard but gave nothing away and offered no response.

Though few conclusions had been reached, Augustus felt he'd asked all that was pertinent and had what answers he desired. For now.

Augustus raised a brow, glancing beyond the huge man into the darkness of his dank prison.

Wycliffe shrugged. "I knew eventually I'd have to figure it out, how to silence the noise in my head. This seems a safe place to start."

Augustus considered him with a jaundiced eye. "Dinna do anything foolish."

"Neither you," Wycliffe advised. "Was that you? Laid the thatch and gloves outside her door?"

"Aye," he replied, and waited but the topic was not pursued. "Sorcha gave de Montfort plenty of grief up there," he said. "I'm guessing he was about three seconds or one more slur fired at him away from tossing her down here. So now—"

"You would not have allowed that," Wycliffe contended.

"I would nae have," Augustus acknowledged briefly, but did not elaborate. "Geddy and the lads took her back home. She's nae in any danger now."

"Not even from you? I swear if you harm one hair on her head, I will make it my life's mission to hunt you down and visit upon you the—"

"Calm yourself, English," Augustus suggested, holding up his hand. "I've nae more plans to injure Sorcha than ye do."

"She doesn't want what you're hoping to give her, or be to her," Wycliffe said.

Augustus nodded, but only in consideration of that man's claim, not because he believed it.

"I'm nae the one deceiving her," he said.

Wycliffe growled at him. "I am helping her."

A harrumph erupted from Augustus.

"She needs to help me, or to believe that she is," Wycliffe explained, "otherwise, she wouldn't allow herself to accept my protection."

"She is pursued, often I imagine," Augustus supposed.

Wycliffe shook his head. "No. She is an outcast. There is no polite pursuit, only the illicit variety, for which she has me to thwart. The locals have caught on; they know I wouldn't hesitate to kill any who tried."

August nodded, digesting this. He set his hand on the cross bar of iron and tapped it twice with his palm. "Be smart, English," he said as farewell.

"It was Blackwood, Ironwood's bailiff," Richard said next, "and a man called Milton that struck her. I assume you will address that." At Augustus's nod, Wycliffe reiterated firmly, "Don't let her out of your sight."

After one last nod, and after pretending to forget the torch, Augustus took his leave.

Out in the courtyard, he noticed a ruckus inside the stables, one that apparently had drawn de Montfort from his feast. Only mildly curious, Augustus hung around only long enough to discern heavy cries from what surely was an injured man, and someone hollering that "Milton's been impaled."

Smirking, imbued with greater knowledge than he should have possessed of Milton's injury—his men had apparently worked swiftly and effectively outside while Augustus had been inside the keep—Augustus collected his steed and vacated Ironwood's bailey.