Margaret ducked away from the window. She turned to fetch Osanna, but the girl was already behind her, peering over Margaret’s shoulder into the darkness.
“Who is it?” the girl whispered, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders.
Margaret shrugged. Angus might have ridden back for some reason. Mayhap the warden had discovered the owner of the half bolt. But then, why sneak up in the dark of night? He could just ride up with his men and drag her away.
“Fetch me my bow,” she whispered to Osanna. Thank the saints Angus had returned it.
Osanna lifted the corner of the mattress where Margaret had hidden it and took out the half-size crossbow, along with her remaining bolts. She handed them to Margaret.
Margaret separated the bolt with Osanna’s poison on it and gave it back. It was too dangerous to be shooting into the dark. Besides, it was meant for the warden. She took the large bell-shaped curfew and covered the fire. She would be an easy target at the window with the flames glowing behind her.
Osanna picked up a long-handled broom and stood by the door. Not much of a weapon, but there were few options. She gave Margaret a nod.
Margaret listened at the door, but all was silent from beyond. Perhaps she’d just imagined it. But Hamish had his nose pressed against the crack of the door frame, his hackles up. At least he hadn’t barked yet.
She climbed the stool onto the deep windowsill and peered out. In the faint glow of moonlight that found its way through the clouds, Margaret saw the glint of metal from several steel bonnets. She scurried off the window ledge.
“Reivers,” she whispered to Osanna. “Three, by the looks of it. Maybe four.”
Stupid men. There was nothing here for them to take, save her meager chickens. A full night’s work for them wasted.
Osanna’s eyes flashed wide. “Get down!” she cried.
In a burst of glass and lead, a window pane shattered, sending shards flying into the room. Margaret’s cheek stung as a piece sliced across her face. She ducked just as a large stone landed on the floor beside her.
She glanced at Osanna. The poor girl was crouched in the far corner behind the hearth.
Margaret rolled to the side, out of the direct line of the broken window just as an arrow whizzed through and stuck in her straw mattress. She wiped her cheek with her sleeve, leaving a red smear across her shift.
“By the heavens,” she said, “those men will pay for this.” Margaret nocked a bolt in her crossbow.
A golden glow shimmered outside.
“My lady!” Osanna had crawled toward her. “I think they’ve lit our woodpile.”
Sure enough, the flicker of dancing flames shone from the corner of the barmkin where they’d carefully been stacking wood for the winter. Weeks of work burning up and there was nothing she could do about it. Though the wood burned, it was still damp from the rain, and a mist of smoke hung in the yard.
“Open the door,” a voice called from outside. One of the Halls? She could not tell. But hadn’t Angus said the Halls had gone reiving with his father? Perhaps they’d succeeded in their first raid and had decided to finish at Hartfell.
“I will not.” Margaret stood with her back against the stones between the door and the broken window.
Another arrow winded past, again sticking in her mattress. This arrow had been lit, and in moments, flames erupted in the straw. Osanna grabbed a blanket and smothered them. Hamish growled and barked at the door.
Another burning arrow soared in, catching Osanna’s skirt on fire. She danced around, smacking her skirt, until those flames were out too.
“Are you burned?” Margaret asked.
Osanna shook her head. “No. But my only shift is ruined.”
Truly, they had naught to gain by attacking Hartfell. She had absolutely nothing of value. No livestock. No goods. Barely even any food. She’d thought Angus had warned them away from her, but apparently his threats had meant little to them. Or perhaps they thought she would not recognize them. But she also couldn’t be sure it was the Halls. Even with her woodpile in flames, the smoke and darkness made it impossible to see.
Another burning arrow flew through the window, this time igniting the rush mat on the floor. Osanna went at it with the blanket again while Hamish barked and barked at the door.
Margaret had had enough. Whoever was out there had no right to be here burning her out of her home. Again. Osanna could have been hurt. Margaret would not lose another person to a reiver’s fire.
Keeping her lead low, she pointed the tip of her crossbow out through the hole in the broken glass, aiming at the first shape she caught moving. She pressed the trigger, and the bolt flew into the night. A man grunted and cursed.
Margaret grinned. A hit.
She nocked another bolt and peeked through just in time to duck as two more flaming arrows came through. Osanna ran at the one smoldering in Margaret’s mattress. Margaret stamped out the arrow that landed on bare stone.
She swung around and fired her bolt into the darkness, taking no aim whatsoever. Then Margaret picked up the three-legged stool and wedged it into the window sill, pushing until it wouldn’t go in any farther. It would be enough to stop the fire arrows—at least until the stool itself ignited.
A few thunks came from arrows hitting the wedged stool. Smoke rose through the deep window sill. Margaret let it burn. Better the stool than them.
Osanna turned to her. “What do we do?”
“We wait.” Margaret checked that the door was still securely barred. “We are safe inside the tower,” she reassured Osanna, but flames or an axe would make fairly quick work of the door. Margaret withdrew her misericorde from its sheath. “Go upstairs,” she said. “If they manage to come through, hide. No matter what you hear, do not come out.” Surely they cared little about Osanna. It must be Margaret they were after.
“No.” Osanna took up her weapon again, the long-handled broom, and faced the door. “I’ll not leave ye. But what if they burn the door?”
Margaret shook her head. “It would take oil and lots of flame to burn through this door.”
“What if they have an axe?”
Margaret held out her misericorde. “Then we use this.”
The first time the Halls had come calling, she’d been alone. Osanna’s presence brought her great comfort, but if the men did break through the door, it would be better that Osanna had never come, for Osanna’s sake.
Margaret pressed her ear against the doorpost. Hamish crouched, ready to spring the moment it opened. All seemed silent beyond the crackling of her winter wood turning to ash. Rain still fell, so perhaps not all her fuel would burn.
She dared not open the door to check. No more arrows hit the stool. She could not make out the sound of horses’s hooves. Still, the risk of opening up was too great.
She looked at Osanna. “Are they gone?”
Osanna shrugged.
Margaret couldn’t believe her own mouth, but she said it anyway. “Ask the bones.”
Osanna opened her little pouch and dumped them out. The spiral shell, crow’s beak, and three bones fell into her palm. She clasped them in her hands and moved her arms in a large circle as if stirring an enormous cauldron, then emptied the bones onto the hearth.
She leaned over and studied them, holding a candle close. It looked like a pile of something a cat coughed up, but Osanna seemed fascinated.
“Well?” Margaret asked.
“They say you should not have sent Angus away.”
Worthless pile of bones. That was of no help whatsoever. When Margaret really needed foresight, of course there was none to be had. Hamish still stood at the door, his nose pressed against the space between wood and wall. His barking had stopped.
Margaret settled into their only remaining chair. Nothing to do but wait. It was cold without a fire, but she had put the fire out, and there was not enough wood inside to start a new one. She’d not open the door until daylight.
A blanket that smelled of burnt wool landed on her shoulders, and she wrapped it around her. “Thank you, Osanna.”
Hamish settled down by her feet. The surest indication thus far that the reivers had left.
* * *
A pounding on the door brought her eyes open with a start.
It was day, by the few streams of light that found their way around the three-legged stool—early, yet.
“Margaret?” Angus called from outside. He pounded again. “Are you in there?”
His farewell had been much less final than she’d thought. He was back already.
Osanna lay curled up beside the cold hearth, her own blanket cocooned around her. Hamish scratched at the door, tail wagging.
“Margaret?” Angus’s pounding intensified.
“I’m here,” she called. Her crossbow had fallen off her lap as she’d slept. She stood and crossed to the door, using her shoulder to lift the heavy beam. It fell to the floor with a thud, and she lifted the latch and opened the door.
Angus burst through, then stopped. Margaret’s bed was half burned. The rush mat on the floor had a corner scorched off. The stool she’d stuffed into the windowsill was charred and cracked.
“Are you hurt?”
She tried to say no, but before her words came out Angus had her in his arms, stroking her hair.
“You’re freezing cold.” His hold tightened.
Margaret had no gloves on. No hood. Not even her kirtle. Even so, she leaned into him, pressing her cheek into the cloth of his doublet. It wasn’t until he was here that the full terror of the night settled in. Despite Margaret’s best efforts to comfort Osanna, it would not have been that hard for the marauding men to get in.
“What happened here?” Angus asked.
Margaret pushed away from him. “Reivers. What else?” He must have guessed that already.
“Your face.” He reached for her cheek, but he wore no gloves.
Margaret ducked out of the away.
“For heaven’s sake. Can’t you for once let it go?”
Margaret shook her head. He did not understand. She ached to feel his touch on her, but it would come with a heavy price, one she was not willing to pay. All hint of his usual good cheer was gone from his face, and his lips pressed into a thin line.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
Angus stepped away, putting some distance between them. “Gillis is asking for you.”
“Gillis?”
“Aye. He rode out with my father last night and was injured.” Angus wiped a hand across his face. “He begged me to come for you. He insists on seeing you.”
“Why me?” She was no healer. That was Osanna’s skill.
“I do not know, but he is insistent.”
Poor Gillis. “Of course. I will come directly.”
Angus stepped outside while Osanna helped Margaret into her blue kirtle. She pulled her hair back simply and covered it with a matching wrap. Margaret looked almost respectable. “Will you come, Osanna?”
“You go first, my lady.” Osanna motioned at the mess their tower was in. “I’ll put things ta right here and be along shortly. And I want to gather some herbs what may be of use for him.”
Margaret nodded and pulled on the heavy door. The yard was worse than she’d imagined. No wonder Angus had been so worried. Her wood pile was scattered and burned. Her chickens gone. Perhaps she should give up on chickens altogether. The little garden they’d managed to plant was trampled to ruin. It looked like a whole herd of horses had come through. Even the little apiary Osanna had insisted on making was burned and tossed away.
Mercy. They would never recover in time for winter. “Everything is ruined.”
Osanna fell to her knees at the wreckage. “Our garden. Oh no, the angelica. And look at the beans.” Without looking back, she called over her shoulder, “This will take me longer than I thought.”
Osanna had put her heart into that little plot of land. And now these men had come and trampled it—both the garden and Osanna’s heart. There was no justice in these parts at all. Evil would always be evil, and good, it seemed, had been neatly swept away.
Angus lifted Margaret onto the spare horse. The same one she’d ridden before. “This is why I wish you would come to Carrigdean. You have no idea how I worry about you here alone.”
“I’m not alone,” Margaret said.
“Osanna is hardly protection.” He swung up onto his sturdy horse. “Who was it?”
“I cannot be sure. I could not see. Could it have been the Halls?”
He grumbled a curse. “I doubt it. They were out most of the night with my father. Whoever it was, I will find them and make them pay.” Angus need not break his vow of no more reiving over this.
“Leave it,” she said. “This is my problem, not yours.”
Hamish loped up to them, weaving around the horses, then setting off into the heather.
“One day your stubbornness is going to get you into real trouble,” Angus said.
“Perhaps.” She gave her Galloway a little kick to keep pace with Angus. “But you don’t know how much it has already saved me.”
* * *
Angus slid off his horse and then lifted Margaret down into the courtyard of Carrigdean. He led her through the house and into Gillis’s chambers. If not for Gillis, Margaret would never have come. The house of Lord Linkirk was the last place she ever wanted to be.
His mother sat in a stiff chair beside Gillis’s bed. She held a basin of water and a cloth, but she was not ministering to him, just watching him. She looked up as they entered.
Gillis lay on his bed, his face the color of the linen sheets. He looked horribly ill. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his lips were colorless. He was much worse than Angus had let her believe.
Angus walked over to Gillis and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Gillis. Margaret is here.”
His eyes flickered open. It took awhile to focus on Angus, then they slid to Margaret. He gave her a weak smile and a tiny nod of his head.
It wasn’t until his hand came out from under the heavy blankets and he held it out to her that Margaret understood his intentions.