Chapter Thirty-Four

Latham’s keep came into view through a swirl of mist, looking like a crouching black dragon puffing smoky breath. Malcolm, riding with a troop containing nearly two score household guard and other warriors—some hired—called a halt and narrowed his gaze on the place, testing the waters.

Noontime had already come and gone. The weather, following several days of strong autumn sunlight, had turned against them, with mist, rain, and now this damned fog.

Still, he was here and ready to face whatever he must—be it a battle at the gate or a full-out siege.

Yet…something did not feel right. The stone edifice before him appeared not only grim but lifeless. The portcullis hung half open; he could see no men stationed on the tower, no activity on the walls.

A frisson of unease chased up his spine, and he wished he had Mercien at his side. But Mercien lay back at Crag Corvan, struggling to recover. This fight, for Tansy Bellrose Gant, fell to Malcolm alone.

His immediate plan lay in issuing a challenge, demanding Tansy’s release before setting fire to the tower and bridge. Then in the dead of night he and his men would swim across, slit whatever throats they must, and breach the walls.

Things would be much easier with the portcullis raised. Could he be so fortunate?

Robert, head of his father’s castle guard, rode up to his side. “Sir Malcolm, what do you make o’ this?”

“Something does no’ smell right.”

“I maun agree. The place looks deserted.”

“Aye. The tower guard were quick to challenge us last time. What do you think?”

Robert, a man in his late forties, had been with Murgo Montgomery a long while. He eyed the keep and agreed, “Somewhat is amiss here, aye. Could it be a trap?”

“They would need to know we were coming.” Would Latham figure it? Would he expect a rescue? No question the man had a twisted and devious mind, but Malcolm could not see him laying such an elaborate snare on a chance.

Before he could decide, a call came from behind him and, at the rear of the troop, a furor broke out.

“Sir Malcolm, Sir Malcolm, a woman!”

Malcolm’s heart leaped so violently it hurt. He spun his mount, peering back over the heads of his men, some of whom parted to let through a man, afoot, who supported a smaller figure. In the poor light, Malcolm could not see her clearly. She wore a shawl over her hair and limped piteously, leaning on his man’s arm.

Tansy?

He drew a deep breath that contained a prayer. Let her be safe. Only let her be here with him, and he would never again ask anything. He would spend his life in making her happy. He would…

All thought broke off as the couple reached him, still with Robert at his side. The woman raised her head and put back her shawl.

He found himself gazing into Catha’s blue eyes. Her face—white and strained—contorted and worked before she forced words between her lips.

“It is I, Malcolm. Only I! Tansy is gone.”

****

Gone. The word continued to echo through Malcolm’s head long after he rode away from Dun Ballan with Catha tucked on the saddle in front of him. It persisted while they chose a place to make camp for the night and lit a fire. Even after he instructed the guard and sat down with Catha, well-wrapped in a blanket, it continued to resound. Gone, gone, gone. As if his mind would not accept it, or as if the word itself foretold doom.

He glanced at Catha, who huddled, shivering, beside him, her hands clutching a mug of mulled ale. A woman transformed, she bore little resemblance to the poised and beautiful lass he knew. But the look in her eyes—haunted and shattered—overshadowed all.

“Tell me,” he requested as soon as he felt her able to speak. The two of them sat out of earshot from the other men, and he’d waited patiently all this while since she’d stumbled out of the forest and flagged them down. His first priority must be getting her away, seeing her safe—he who had, in essence, delivered her into this nightmare.

Catha shuddered but, perhaps sensing the depth of his need, did not hesitate to speak.

“Tansy has been taken to the Royal Commission at Aberdeen. Latham sent her. I think…I think he may be dead, or dying.”

Malcolm’s lips moved, but no words came. The Commission. The very same fate from which he’d saved her when they met. He forced a single word. “When?”

“Two days? Three? I canna’ tell, Malcolm. They took her awa’ in a cart; she was in chains.”

Chains. His wild, dark lass. Might as well chain a magpie and so break its heart.

A cart, though—a slow conveyance, and all the way to Aberdeen. Might he catch them?

“Think,” he urged as gently as he could manage. “Was it two days or three? It might mak’ all the difference.”

“I…” Catha shook her head. “Three, I think. I fled, as Tansy bade me. I ran, and several of Latham’s men pursued me. I hurt myself—fell. I hit my head and lay senseless for a time. I think that’s also when I injured my leg. After that, I could no longer hear the men. I arose but managed no more than a few steps. I could no’ guess my direction. When I heard your men ride through I crawled…because I heard your voice. Och, Malcolm!”

She began to weep, and he drew her into his arms, where she sobbed and struggled to speak words he could not catch.

Gone to the Commission. Days ago. Beyond his reach? He did not know, but dread filled his gut like a load of lead.

Catha swabbed her cheeks with the edge of her filthy shawl and struggled for control.

Only then did he ask, “What makes you think Latham may be dying, or dead?”

“Tansy attacked him, twice. The first time she hit him between the eyes, marked him, and hurt him quite badly, ’Tis why he put her into the pit—”

“The pit? No’ the one alongside the cells where we were?” Horror nearly closed Malcolm’s throat. The cell in which he’d languished had been bad enough. Many times he’d consoled himself with the thought that at least he was not in the pit.

“Aye. Och, ’twas so terrible! He would no’ let me see her. The guards to whom I spoke admitted he’d afforded her precious little food or water. Latham’s anger against her—well, I’d no’ seen aught to match it. She had damaged him, see. Damaged him! He wanted to hurt her in return. He planned to kill her there at the keep—put her to the flame and watch her die. I pled for her life. For days and days I did, all while praying for a miracle.”

Catha raised a shattered face to Malcolm’s. “In the end, ’twas I persuaded Latham to send her to the Commission.”

“You?”

“Aye, Jesu forgive me! I just wanted to get her out o’ his hands. And I thought that there, at least, she would stand a just trial before sane and measured listeners.”

“They are none of them reasoned or sane, Catha. You ken fine what goes on there.” And Tansy, his wee Tansy, so full of life, in their hands…

“I do. Yet there is procedure. And law.”

“The King’s skewed law.”

“Better than Latham’s. You did no’ see him, Malcolm. You did not observe to what level he’d descended. I argued for days, as I say—for nights—and at last convinced him the King would no’ appreciate him taking power out of his hands. But then—”

“Then?”

“She attacked him once more. He ordered her hauled out of the pit, and ch-chained.” Catha gulped and pushed on. “It happened right there in the forecourt. Latham’s men had the cart all hitched, and they bore her out—she could no longer walk on her own. But she…she struck Latham wi’ her magic again.”

“Wait a moment. Struck him—wi’ magic?”

“Aye. Did I no’ say?”

“You said she hit him between the eyes—”

“With her power.” Catha’s gaze met Malcolm’s in the dim light. In a whisper she said, “Tansy is, in truth, a witch. Did you no’ ken?”

“I did.” Malcolm nodded, feeling sick. “I love her full well despite it.” Or perhaps in part because of it. When it came to Tansy Bellrose Gant, who could say?

Catha clasped his hand. “Then go after her. Speak for her if you can, be there when she is put to death, at the very least. Let her know someone stands for her—that she is no’ alone.” Catha shivered. “I think the only thing worse than the fate she faces would be the belief that there’s no one to care.”

“Aye, aye.” But could he, who had faced a hundred horrors in battle as well as in Latham’s accursed cell, face that? To see the woman he loved rendered helpless and to stand unable to save her. To watch her put to the death…

Yet he might be able to speak for her, as Catha said. And any chance, however slight, must prove better than none.

“I will send you back to Crag Corvan wi’ Robert. Ha’ you the strength to ride?”

“I will ride,” Catha assured him harshly, “if you promise to chase after Tansy for me.” She smiled grimly. “At least I ha’ Mercien, at the end of my journey.”

And what would Malcolm find at the end of his? The dread in his belly spread to his chest and made it hard to breathe.

“What of Latham?” he asked. “What was his condition?”

“I do no’ ken, Malcolm. After Tansy’s first attack—as I say, he did no’ recover completely. It twisted and withered him—he could no longer stand fully upright and needed a stick to walk. I could tell he bore considerable pain. The second strike laid him out on the stones in front of the keep. I fled, no’ waiting to tell if he lived or died.”

“His men bore him into the keep?”

“They did. Others came after me. Do you think he lives yet?”

Malcolm shook his head slowly. “The place, Catha, does no’ look right—no guards on the tower, the portcullis abandoned. Somewhat is very much amiss.”

“Latham ruled with an iron hand. He maun be either dead or, as I say, dying.” Catha’s gaze touched Malcolm’s again. “If he be dead, that is all the worse for our Tansy, is it no’?”

A thousand times worse. What, Malcolm asked himself, could save her from destruction?

Only him, perhaps—him and his love for her.