Chapter Eight

Two mornings later Sorcha woke, not entirely well-rested, with the sun and got about her day in the usual manner, stoking the fire beneath the kettle and completing her toilette before throwing open the door to admit Grimm so that they might break their fast. It had been days since she'd added anything new to the kettle so that the pottage, though steeped well in flavor, was mostly broth. It had been weeks since they'd had barley to make porridge, and sadly, years since she'd enjoyed a fine oat porridge as she grown up with. She might have liked to forage for berries today but knew instead she would need to continue to work on gathering and binding straw for thatch, which she'd begun yesterday. ?Twas a task at which she did not excel, having only learned the basics of it in the last year. While she'd labored painstakingly over such yesterday, Grimm had begun replacing some of the exposed and worn hazel rods to the roof, the wooden stays, so that the new thatch might be attached to them.

And just as she opened the door and told herself the sooner she completed the necessary but unpleasant task of making the thatch sections, the sooner she could get to work on replacing the ruined skeps and hackles, she nearly tripped over several full yokes of long straw, a veritable gift of ready thatch there at her door.

Sorcha stared, stunned, and then lifted her gaze to find Grimm walking toward her. His face and much of his hair was wet, as it normally was each morning. She imagined he began his day at the small brook closest to her plot, performing his own morning ablutions there.

When Grimm realized her presence in the doorway, Sorcha pointed to the bundles, her brow knit with confusion.

"Did you make these?" She asked, even as she didn't suspect he could have. Grimm was a man of many talents, but these yoked bundles, at a quick glance, seemed to have been made by a craftsman.

Grimm's response, immediate and animated, suggested the idea was absurd. He reached her stoop and touched the bundles before Sorcha might have, investigating the foremost one, inspecting the fine quality.

"I don't know who might have...." Sorcha began only to trail off. She glanced down at her hands, at her palms which Augustus had looked upon, seemingly with genuine concern. For being separated from the task of working with the straw over the last two days, since it needed to dry first, her hands had improved quite a bit. The redness was reduced and most of the slivered cuts were closed over.

Bent at the waist while inspecting the boon, Grimm lifted only his eyes to her, this new expression informing her that she'd have to be daft to not be able to guess who might have given her this gift.

He then swung his arm up at her, shoving something light and floppy into her hands.

Sorcha recoiled slightly and just for a moment until she realized that though it was animal skin, it was not alive as she'd fleetingly feared.

"What...?" She collected the soft leather, startled to discover a pair of women's gloves, crafted of fine deerskin, which might serve her well in summer for unpleasant chores or during the winter to keep her hands warm.

Her gaze filled with wonder, she asked of Grimm, "Were these in there? They came with the thatch?"

Grimm nodded and planted his hands on his hips as he stood, marking her with a level stare. His brows were lifted, conveying a sense of anticipation and expectation. The corners of his lips were turned down in displeasure and his eyes, always so demonstrative, silently urged Sorcha to connect the dots to imagine the source of the unexpected favor. He lifted his brows further, the motion rife with impatience.

But Sorcha only pretended ignorance, knowing exactly who was behind the generosity.

"Don't look at me like that," she said pertly to Grimm, befuddled by what the Rebel—supposedly—had done for her. "I didn't ask—I hadn't anything to do with this. You know that." At his prolonged look, she thinned her lips and considered the high-quality of the thatch compared to the lone bundle she'd managed to make a day ago, which was messy and made with straw that wasn't as dry as it should have been. She lifted her chin, squeezing the precious gloves in her fist. "As it is, and no matter the source, it would be criminal not to put it to good use, either the gloves or the yokes." At Grimm's next look, Sorcha declared, "Just because I accept the gift—charity, really—doesn't make me beholden. I didn't ask for it." She shrugged. "I'm simply not an idiot, to refuse what is necessary. Certainly, my pride is not greater than my annoyance with that stupid opossum and her clicking and hissing right above that largest hole in the roof, and certainly pride would be further diminished when the nights turn cold, or rain comes again. And no, I won't feel indebted to him and there will be no payment, mark my words."

Though Grimm's countenance remained severe, he gave her no more silent grief but walked into the cottage.

Sending one last glance at the beautiful sheaves of straw and now clutching the gloves to her chest, Sorcha followed Grimm inside, briefly wearing a secretive smile. Until she realized that she was smiling and smoothed her expression into implacability. She had no interest in the Rebel's not-so-subtle attempt to force an appreciation of him, she reminded herself. Everything, each small act of supposed kindness, had a price, one that she wasn't willing to pay, as she'd just vowed to her friend.

And yet she could not escape the truth, that the MacKenzie earl had managed, as no other had been able to do, to infiltrate her thoughts, encroaching upon the cherished moments she had reserved solely for Finn. Unlike the gentle and comforting memories of her late husband, the earl"s presence was invasive, disrupting her tranquility of mind.

Betray the memory of Finn for the MacKenzie? For the Rebel? Absolutely not.

Several hours later, Sorcha worked beside an old ladder nestled against the front of her cottage collecting all the debris fallen down from Grimm's work up on the roof. He'd begun at the eaves, and little did Sorcha know of the application, but had to wonder if Grimm knew any better. Rather than attach all the gifted yokes of thatch to all the open spots and then complete the repairs with the cutting and raking, Grimm worked in small sections, affixing, raking, and cutting each part.

On the ground, required only to pass on tools that he'd laid them on the roof but which had fallen, Sorcha busied herself filling a barrel with the raked and cut straw which Grimm had dusted from the roof, and which at some times, had stood in piles as high as her shins.

Sorcha waved her hand in front of her, dispersing the straw dust that glistened gold in the morning sun and floated in front of her. She was quite sure she would blow her nose at some point today and find her kerchief straw colored.

Her focus was interrupted by the distant but unmistakable sound of riders approaching. The rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth pierced the tranquil air and turned her around toward the horizon and the direction of Caol proper. Upon spying a party possibly as large as twenty men, and thereby assuming that the MacKenzie earl came, possibly to receive what he might expect was hearty thanks, Sorcha bristled, even as she couldn't deny the sudden racing of her pulse.

As she recognized that the small scraping sound of Grimm's work had ceased, she realized as the riders closed in on the cottage that these were not MacKenzie men, but rather outfitted in the de Montfort colors, green and gold, and that they came at a great speed.

Grimm climbed down the ladder, hopping off without employing the last few rungs to land at Sorcha's side, and exchanged a wary glance with her. He stepped forward, holding out one hand to indicate that Sorcha should remain under the eaves, while in his other hand he held the knife he'd been using to trim the thatch.

Though curious about the coming of the men from Ironwood, she knew no alarm until they reined in, and several soldiers dismounted straightway and drew their swords. Knowing Grimm could not or would not speak and that she must, she rushed forward as they came.

"What is the meaning of—?"

"Mind yerself, beekeeper!" Called out a still-mounted man, his tone sharp and laced with superiority. ?Twas Malcolm Blackwood, de Montfort's bailiff, known for the pleasure he derived from menacing the folks of Caol. "?Tis nae ye we're after but the Oaf."

"Grimm? For what? And why do you draw your weapons?" She reached Grimm's side and curled her fingers into the rough fabric of his sleeve while the rest of the horsemen surrounded her and Grimm in a half-circle.

"And dinna I say to ye, to keep clear?" Asked the same man, urging his steed near.

The three sword-wielding men kept coming.

Grimm flipped the long dagger until he held it by the blade, offering the handle to the first man to reach him, who flicked it out of his hand with a swipe of his sword.

While Sorcha clung to him, Grimm lifted his arms in supplication.

"What is happening?" she asked, truly puzzled, at both the arrival of de Montfort's henchmen and Grimm's easy surrender. She fought against the man closest to her, when he latched onto Grimm's huge arm and tried to pry Sorcha's finger from his person. "Stop! Why are you—?"

The backhand across her face was unexpected, taking the words and the breath from her, knocking her onto the side, where she stumbled and, unable to right herself, fell to the ground, landing hard on her hip. Stunned by the unprovoked attack, and tasting blood inside her mouth, tears pooled in her eyes.

A scrum followed, Grimm's roar of fury being the loudest element, none of which Sorcha could see, with her hair covering her face and because momentarily, bright dots of white danced in front of her eyes. When she righted herself, she saw Grimm now being attacked by more armed men. He butted his head against one, sending him staggering backwards, and struck out his fist to meet with the side of another's helmed head. It took eight men and plenty of kicks, shoves, and punches to finally wrestle him into submission, forcing him to the ground. Three men took up various positions directly over him, with knees, swords, and hands pressed into his back while his hands were bound with rope behind him.

All the while Malcolm Blackwood called out loudly the reason for the fracas.

"Effie, the weaver, says ye raped her, Oaf," claimed the bailiff. "Used and bruised her against her daft will."

Aghast, Sorcha glared at Malcolm Blackwood. "That is absurd. You lie," she spat, coming to her feet. Wobbly she was for the first half second, until she shook off the dizziness and tried to reach Grimm. "Stop this at once. De Montfort will know of this debacle!"

"Sent at the lord's behest, beekeeper," called out the nearest man, shoving her away again.

"No! It's all a mistake," Sorcha persisted. "A lie, either yours or Effie's. I won't stand for it."

A dark shadow was cast over Sorcha as Malcolm Blackwood walked his horse between her and where she wanted to be, with Grimm.

She pushed the hair out of her face and looked up at him. He was a hulking man, with a belly as wide as his shoulders, as ugly in countenance as he was in spirit. His face, weathered and scarred, and his eyes, cold and calculating, mirrored the cruelty for which he was known.

"Cease, wench," he commanded, giving a kick with his foot, stirrup and all, which connected with Sorcha's shoulder. "He'll nae be strung up swiftly. There'll be a court session for ?im."

"This is—"

"Jesu, will ye stop with yer bluidy havering!" Blackwood spat. "The oaf's done got ?imself caught, and innit what he gets for terrorizing the peasants hereabouts?"

Her lips curled but she ignored the menace atop the horse, attempting to go around him and his mare. Blackwood taunted her a bit, moving the horse backward and forward as needed so that Sorcha could not pass. He chuckled while he did so, the sound as ugly as all the rest of him, until finally with a heckling chuckle he allowed her to move around him.

Grimm was on his feet once more, his red face a mask of stony rage, his hands secured behind his back. A rope was placed around his neck. While his fury was directed at her, it was not for her but for the situation and likely for Sorcha's mistreatment, which was renewed when next she went to him. She thought to slap her way past two soldiers barring her progress toward Grimm but received a jab to her stomach from the butt end of a sword, dropping her again to the ground.

Once more she flipped the hair away from her eyes, just in time to see Grimm's bared teeth before he was yanked forward by the rope in Blackwood's hand.

"Off we go, rapist," chirped the bailiff, forcing Grimm to jog along so that he did not stumble and fall, and risk being dragged, possibly to his death, by the rope around his neck.

"You're a vile wretch, Blackwood!" Sorcha called after them, struggling to her feet. "You'll answer for this injustice!" She swung her fist in the air, but there were no witnesses to her wrath and promise of retribution.

Her chest heaving, she stood still for a moment, until indignation spurred her to move. She raced inside and unearthed the buried coins, what few she had, and shoved them into her pocket. Without care for her disheveled appearance, she left the cottage. She did not hesitate, did not wait until Grimm and his captors were small specks in the distance but followed immediately after the party. She didn't need to arm herself, as she had no weapons but her small dagger and a tongue she wasn't afraid to use, even if it meant begging for his release. She would first appeal to de Montfort or his lady wife and offer all the coin she had to compel Grimm's release.

While she marched after them, she was plagued with equal amounts of puzzlement and worry, wondering why Effie might have lied—or who might have induced her to. Not for a minute did Sorcha believe there was any truth to the charge.

***

Augustus watched Lord Aldric and a small company of his army ride away, parting from them about a quarter mile from the main street in Caol, where a rarely used path ended at a short stone wall, which enclosed all the meadowland belonging to Ironwood. They'd been out all morning at Lord Aldric's invitation to participate in a bit of scouting as Lord Aldric professed to have evidence that the MacNabs, loyal to the English, had been recently noted in the area. According to de Montfort, though the MacNab stronghold was only a few miles yonder, there was no reason for them to be "sniffing round these parts".

While it struck Augustus as a vague justification—the possibility of this sighting being manufactured occurred to him as well—he was tasked with discerning where lay de Montfort's true fealty and thus he wasn't about to squander any occasion to be in his company.

Little did he learn, save that de Montfort liked to talk about himself, liked to extoll his virtues, and plenty time he'd had to do so as they'd covered as much as a dozen miles in their travels by Augustus's estimation. Curiously, not only did they fail to discover any MacNab in the area, but they found no evidence of any riders being someplace they should not. With the most recent savage storm, which likely would have eliminated any trace of a person or group loitering inside the de Montfort demesne—the supposed sighting came after the storm—it should have been easy to find evidence of this.

Turning his horse around, he led his small unit of twenty men in the opposite direction, along the stone wall in grass as tall as his destrier's hocks.

"Sore's on his arse and mark my words," suggested Geddy a moment later, from Augustus's right. "Man's nae more used to the saddle than me auld mum, may the guid Lord keep her...there instead of here."

"Posing is what it is," suggested Angus, on Augustus's left, after a brief chuckle at the captain's quip. "I wonder if he ken what we're about, spying on him, and only putting on a guid show."

"A farce, ye mean to say," was Augustus's opinion, still half believing they'd been chasing invented ghosts today. "Aye, and mayhap he does suspect what we're about, and that was his attempt to keep us occupied and oblivious to other goings-on."

Their debate about the unfathomable earl was disturbed by Augustus's sudden stop, drawing his horse to a halt while he squinted out across the sea of grass on the north side of the low wall, given pause by the sight of a woman traipsing across the grass, headed toward the wall.

With so much distance between them, only a small figure was revealed and yet the unfiltered sunshine assisted in identification, reflecting brightly off a head of pale gold hair.

"Other goings-on, ye say," Geddy remarked. "There's a strange one, the lass oot and aboot and nae oaf at her side."

"On a mission, is she nae?" supposed Angus, referring to her determined gait.

Behind them Gryffin snorted something mysterious.

More than a hundred yards away, possibly oblivious to their presence, Sorcha scrambled over the low wall with a clumsiness not previously noticed and continued on. Frowning a bit at her purposeful stride and as Geddy mentioned, without her man in sight—though he himself had encountered her twice with Grimm nowhere around—Augustus clucked his tongue, urging his destrier forward. He made an arc in his pursuit to be able to come straight at the wall, his large horse easily able to vault over it.

Sorcha"s steps faltered as she climbed the hill of green pasture inside the enclosure, as if a sense of unease settled over her when she realized she was being followed. She turned sharply, her brows furrowing in annoyance as she caught sight of Augustus and his men trailing behind her. Their unexpected presence seemed to irk her, evident in the slight downturn of her lips and the tensing of her shoulders. With a frustrated huff, she pivoted back around and resumed her ascent, trudging up the hill with steps more determined than just a moment ago.

"I have no time for this today," she called out loudly, well before they'd come upon her.

Augustus did not respond until he came abreast of her. "Nae time for what?" He asked, scowling over her unkempt appearance, in that her hair was as disheveled as he'd ever seen it, mussed all around her face. Her left shoulder was caked with a bit of dried dirt and several sections of her skirt were dusted with dirt and debris as well, as if she'd rolled on the ground.

She didn't look at him. A hand sneaked out from within the folds of her cloak and spun around several times with impatience. "This, whatever you are about. And neither do I have a wish of company."

"Getting somewhere in a hurry," Geddy commented.

Having recognized an unusual wobble to her voice, Augustus moved several paces in front of her, angling his face downward to have a look at her. "Sorcha," he said sternly when she did not lift her face to him.

"Please just leave me be," she begged, tucking her chin nearly to her chest, lifting her hood to cover her head.

He didn't yet know her well enough to distinguish emotions in her voice but was perfectly able to identify the sound of fear. When he moved his steed closer to her, she overreacted, cowering and jerking a full foot away from him.

Nonplussed, Augustus hopped off his destrier and grabbed her by the arm to make her stop.

Shrinking away, as far as his hold would allow, she turned a startled expression upon him.

He'd opened his mouth to question her unaccountable rudeness, but no words came. Instead a surge of rage swept over him at the sight of the bruise marring the perfect porcelain of her face.

The injury was fresh, the skin around her mouth softly red and slightly swollen. Her lip was cracked in the corner and stained with a wee bit of blood.

Unconsciously, his fingers tightened on her arm.

"Who did this?" He ground out. "The oaf?"

Sorcha's frown came as quickly as had his fury. "What? Grimm? No—he would never. He was...it doesn't matter. Please leave me be. I must get to Lord Aldric."

Augustus refused to release her, even as she tugged forcibly at her arm. "Who did this?" He persisted.

Her eyes closed briefly, and mayhap she decided it would benefit her to simply spill her truth so that he might leave her to her task. "Blackwood did this—Ironwood's bailiff," she said curtly. "He and his goons did when I opposed his arrest of Grimm on a grotesque charge. Grimm wouldn't hurt a soul—I know it's all a lie."

"For what crime was he apprehended?" Augustus asked, his brain jolted in another direction with this startling news.

Again, she closed her eyes and lifted her chin, shaking her head. "He didn't do anything! It's all a lie—"

"What dinna he do, but which they claim he did?"

"Assault Effie, the weaver," she snapped.

"Assault?"

"Rape," she cried, opening her eyes, staring at him as if her were a simpleton, as if he couldn't imagine what kind of assault a man might perpetrate against a woman. "But it's all a lie," she maintained tersely before her shoulders shrunk, fear briefly overpowering her resolve. She asked plaintively, "How could he have done something like that when he's always with me? When he saved me from the very same thing?"

Augustus ground his jaw tightly, staring at her, trying to make sense of what had transpired and why.

"They attacked him," she cried, possibly further distressed by the ferocity of his dark gaze, "as if he'd already been found guilty, and then struck me when I tried to stop them. Please release me," she begged anew. "I must speak to the earl."

Finally, he lightened his hold on her arm, though he did not let go completely.

"Aye," he said, turning to collect the reins of his destrier. "The MacKenzies will escort ye."

Sorcha's brown knitted anew. "What? No. I don't need an escort."

"Aye, ye do," proclaimed Augustus, closing the distance between them, horse in hand.

"If they're nae true, lass, the charges," Geddy said, "ye should nae be alone. If false, it begs the question: why would someone want him arrested and out of the way? What's he ever done but provide protection to you?"

Possibly sensing they meant neither to harm her nor detain her, Sorcha lost a bit of her rigidity as she directed her responding query to Geddy. "But why would someone—I don't understand. What do people care about either Grimm or me?"

Another of Gryffin's incomprehensible snorts earned a glare from Geddy.

Why did the townsfolk care about her? Like as not, they did not. But Augustus would wage his last coin that any man, given the opportunity, would happily spend any amount of time in her company, minutes or hours, engaged in either their carnal dreams or simply attempting to draw a smile. Regarding the same matter, the exquisite beekeeper, Augustus would also wager a guess that there were few women who didn't envy her beauty, perpetrate broad and false rumors about her character to denigrate her and thus elevate their own comprehension of themselves, or outright loath her for how their men desired her. Possibly if the oaf was capable of speech, he'd have enlightened her in this regard.

"Aye, and let's go and discover what lies beneath these claims," Augustus suggested. "C'mon up."

In all likelihood, the utter trauma of her assault and Grimm's arrest had befuddled her so that without a quarrel she allowed Augustus to lift her into the saddle. She did not groan aloud but with his gaze trained with such steadfastness upon her, he did not miss the wince she gave when he did so, his hands large and strong at her waist.

"Did I harm ye?" He asked as she grimaced once more, situating herself more comfortably while Augustus stood at her side, one hand on the pommel and the other on the cantle, about to hoist himself upward.

Sorcha shook her head. "?Tis nothing."

It was not nothing, Augustus knew. He shoved aside her skirt to step into the stirrup and mounted directly behind her, exchanging a look with Angus, who was closest to the pair. Angus's darkly quizzical look suggested that he might be imagining what Augustus was, that she'd been struck more than once.

His nostrils flared with renewed rage, and he ground his teeth tightly, but he was gentle as he wrapped a hand around her middle, advising, "Hold on to my arm," so that he wasn't compelled to embrace her too tightly as they rode.

And while he might have preferred to catch Lord Aldric unawares and still upon his horse, having not yet reached Ironwood, he was not of a mind to exacerbate whatever other injuries Sorcha might have and thus set the pace at a slow canter, upward, over the hill.

Geddy rode beside Augustus and Sorcha.

"Ye sure ye ken the oaf well, lass?" He wondered. "Nae much to tell of his nature, as he dinna say anything by which to judge."

"Enough should be gleaned," Sorcha retorted pointedly, "simply from his protective nature toward me. Do you suppose he safeguards one person so diligently and then abuses another?"

"De Montfort up to something?" Geddy surmised next.

"That'd be my guess," chimed in Angus. "He's unlikely to get at the lass while the big man stands in his way."

Sorcha swung her face quickly in Angus's direction, her profile showing a heavy scowl and lips parted in furious wonder. While Augustus subscribed to Angus's theory, he'd rather that it hadn't been mentioned to Sorcha so frankly—or at all for that matter.

Her fingers curled into his forearm, bringing a different awareness to him, of their proximity, of her soft bottom nestled into his groin, the feel of her long hair brushing against his cheek as the wind moved it, the scent of her—did he imagine it, or was she enveloped in the sweet musk of honey and heather?—the curve of her lip, even tilted downward disagreeably, her lips were delectable, a temptation almost beyond reason or, apparently, fair timing.

"I don't care very much for that inference, sir," she stated pertly. "I am not something to be gotten."

"Yes, ma'am," Angus replied mechanically, catching his beard point with his broad fingers. "But Lord Aldric might see it differently."

Sorcha made no response but drew in her bottom lip with some conjecture so that Augustus supposed she'd not been completely oblivious to de Montfort's yearning for her.

The remainder of the journey, naught but another quarter mile, was made in silence. Along the arm wrapped around her, Augustus felt Sorcha's large inhale when they crested the last knoll and Ironwood loomed before them.

They rode through the gates shortly after the de Montfort had, this timing discerned by the stable lad just now walking his lord's horse into the stables. Other men of de Montfort's cavalry milled around inside the bailey, some still mounted.

Augustus wondered if some of these soldiers might have been assigned to Blackwood this morning.

He ducked his head a bit, putting his cheek against Sorcha's silky hair. "Do you see any of the ones who struck ye?" Blackwood himself was nowhere in sight.

Shaking her head softly against his cheek, she answered quietly, "No."

Their entrance through the gates was neither questioned nor challenged, an oddity over which Augustus mulled, considering that de Montfort had expressed that concern about MacNabs in the area.

He dismounted in the middle of the yard and reached for Sorcha, being careful with her person. He thought she might have schooled her expression to show no pain now. Seeing again the thick and reddening bruise at the side of her mouth reinvigorated his wrath.

When her feet touched the ground, she gripped his shirtsleeves and lifted plaintive eyes to him.

"Grimm is innocent, I swear to you," she said.

Though he leaned toward that belief, Augustus nodded but said nothing.

As he led her toward the arched doorway of the hall, he heard Angus say in a low voice, "Kael and I will hang about here, see if we canna discover who it was raised a hand to the lass."

"Aye, ye do that," Geddy said as he and others followed Augustus and Sorcha. "And quietly see that they are unable to do so again."