The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,16

What are you saying?”

McInnes paced the short stretch before the fire, oblivious to the wolf, the sleeping child, the late hour. “I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to think. It happened so fast and I don’t know how I managed to survive—”

“Macleod?” Kirk asked.

“The clan Fergus has been quarreling for months with the Macleods. Then last September, Dunbar and his men marched on Moray, taking several Fergus nobles captive, seizing the odd castle. James Fergus, the clan leader, has been waiting for an opportunity to strike back.”

“Why was Angus Castle not better prepared?”

“The castle had been opened for the festivities, the traditional banquet for the servants and staff. It’s nearly Christmastide.” He swallowed hard, light-headed. “Yet today the castle is littered with dozens of clansmen, Macleod and Fergus.”

“And Dunbar?”

“Dead.”

“His three sons? The young lords, Kenneth, Alasdair, Alick? Not them too?”

“All slain.”

“Christ!”

“Worse, the Duke—”

“No.”

“There was no one left to protect him.”

For a moment there was just the crackle of the fire and the slow drip of melting snow from McInnes’ cloak.

Kirk struggled to put his thoughts in order. “The Duke. Did you see to it that the he had a proper burial?”

“I could not.” It was clearly an effort for Geoff to speak. “A Moray commoner strung the Duke from the drawbridge over the moat. I alone am left. There was no one else alive to help cut the duke down. None to defend the castle. That is why I go to London. The Duke and Bolingbroke were friends. Bolingbroke could send troops. He will help. He is the King.”

Geoffrey staggered to a chair, burying his face in his hands to suppress the tears. “Ah, but Kirk… there is nothing left at Angus.” His voice broke as if a child again, “Not a lord, not even a man.”

“Hush, the child is waking,” Kirk whispered, going to Cordaella’s pallet where Culross had positioned himself.

Reaching over the wolf, he touched her head. He was grateful that she hadn’t woken earlier.

Now he glanced over at Geoffrey. “Don’t say anything about this in front of her. She doesn’t need to know. It will only frighten her. She has had nightmares since visiting Lochaber. She is sure someone will come here.”

“Killed in his own castle. Not far from his bedchamber. Late last night—or was it this morning?—I can’t tell, I’ve ridden for hours to get here and can’t stay long.”

“But who did it? Why?”

“Papa?” she stirred.

“I’m here,” he answered, even as Culross crept closer to her curled body, licking her hand and between her small fingers.

“Is someone here?” she murmured.

“No one, Cory. Go back to sleep.”

“But I heard—”

“It’s just a dream.” He motioned Geoffrey to the door, one finger pressing against his lips. “It’s just a dream.”

*

CULROSS HAD ALERTED them to the noise outside.

“It is probably McInnes,” Kirk said, rising from the hearth where he had been adding wood to the fire. It was November and winter was already heavy upon them.

Cordaella sat up in her bed, excited by the prospect of a visitor. Maybe someone from Lochaber, she thought, rising to her knees. She waited while her father unlatched the door, sliding the bar open. He stepped into the night, Culross growling low in his throat. “Who is it?” Kirk called.

“We are lost,” a voice answered from the darkness, the moon half-hidden by clouds, just the barest trace of silver in the sky. “Can you give us a bit of food to keep us until we reach the town?”

Culross growled again, his teeth baring. Kirk patted the wolf’s head to quiet him. “How many of you are there?”

“Just my boy and me,” answered the man. “We were crossing the mountains and took a wrong turn.”

“You come from the south, don’t you? A long way to be traveling.” Kirk shut the door behind him, his voice carrying into the cottage. “We haven’t much,” he said, “but if you come this way, perhaps I can find you a bite—auugh—” His words were broken by a scream. Culross howled, a long low desperate howl, and Cordaella jumped from her bed, running to the door. She heard Culross howl louder, his cries fierce, terrifying, and she threw the door open calling to him, and then calling for her father. She could see nothing outside, the moon too small, too far away and her bare feet crunched ice on the slick white step.

“Papa!” In the distance she heard a horrible thudding and Culross’ wild howling. “Culross—” she screamed, knowing without understanding that it was him being beaten, him