His gillie stood before him, his tam-o’-shanter twisting in his hands so his bald scalp shone in the lamplight. ‘Wha’ are your plans, my laird?’
Anghus laughed, an ugly sound. ‘To send ye in search o’ the water o’ life, my man.’
‘As ye wish, my laird. I mean, after that.’
‘Is there anything after that?’
‘That is for ye to say, my laird. I just wish to ken when we plan to leave this place, my laird.’
‘Now, never, what does it matter?’
Donald did not reply, his big hands gripping his tam-o’-shanter. Then very deliberately, he pulled it on, picked up his plaid and prepared to leave. Suddenly Anghus called, ‘Nay, man, bide a wee.’ He paused, obviously struggling for words, then said abruptly, ‘I’m sorry, Donald, a bad laird I am to ye indeed.’
Donald’s face softened almost imperceptibly. ‘Ye are troubled, my laird.’
‘Aye.’ Anghus regarded his hands, then said huskily, ‘I do no’ ken which way to turn, Donald. The path before me is unclear.’
Knowing what a difficult admission that was for a MacRuraich to make, Donald took off his tam-o’-shanter again. The shiny dome of his head was pink. He listened in silence as Anghus told him what Meghan had said. ‘I have promised to search for the Cripple as the Banrìgh instructed. I have given my word on it. Yet I know I have been told only lies about my Fionnghal. Meghan may have given me the clues to searching her out. Everything, all o’ me, yearns to track her down.’
‘Then why do ye no’?’
‘To do so would be rebellion, Donald, can ye no’ see that? I have a royal order, signed by the Banrìgh’s own hand. I have given my word, and a MacRuraich’s word is his bond. If I break my word, am I any better than them? Besides, I canna take such a risk. I have to look to my people, and they have suffered enough at the hands o’ those blasted Red Guards.’
‘Aye, and angry they are indeed, my laird, and hiding their weapons in the thatch as they used to in the auld days. Ye ken ye are their laird, and they will follow ye no matter wha’ road ye take.’
Anghus looked sharply at the gillie’s wrinkled, apple-cheeked face, but it was open and guileless as ever. He replied slowly, ‘The MacRuraichs have always been faithful to the MacCuinns.’
‘My laird, I do no’ understand how searching for your daughter is a declaration o’ rebellion,’ Donald said, with a slight stress on the third last word. Anghus stared at him. The gillie went on slowly, ‘Besides, is it no’ just the Banrìgh’s squiggle on that piece o’ paper? Ye have sworn no oath o’ loyalty to the Rìgh’s wife, only to him.’
Anghus nodded. ‘That is true.’
‘And do they no’ think the winged lad is the Cripple, and did they no’ tell ye to hunt him down? If ye follow him to this rebel camp, where ye think your daughter may be, are ye no’ just following their orders? It is only Meghan o’ the Beasts who told ye he was no’ the Cripple.’
Anghus’s hazel-green eyes glowed brightly. ‘Indeed, indeed, that is so,’ he said. ‘And who are the Awl to be questioning my movements anyway? It is no’ as if I were some shoddy witch-sniffer, having to report my every doing.’
He got up and asked irritably for his boots. ‘Surely ye’ve had them cleaned by now!’
Donald crammed his tam-o’-shanter back on and said he would go and retrieve them from the bootboy. Anghus, rummaging through his pack for a clean shirt, said, ‘And do no’ forget my whisky, Donald, else I’ll pluck your beard for ye!’
Anghus had not been able to avoid having an escort thrust upon him, though he had persuaded Humbert that a seeker would be more likely to hinder him than help. So he and Donald had ridden out from Dunceleste with six soldiers, among them the three who had lived through their journey to the heart of the Veiled Forest.
They were on the trail of the winged prionnsa, and a torturous trail it was too, leading through valley and dale, back down into the forest and over some difficult rocky terrain. If he had not been following an extrasensory trail as well as a physical one, Anghus would never have been able to track him.
Although he gave no hint of his intentions, the men knew enough about tracking to know he was following someone. As Anghus seemed to know the path regardless of physical signs such as footprints, broken branches or dead coals hidden by earth, the men began to look at him askance. Floinn Redbeard in particular was suspicious. Staring at Anghus with his watery blue eyes, he asked one day where it was the prionnsa was leading them. ‘There be nothing in these mountains but woolly bears and coneys, m’laird. I thought ye were meant to be on the trail o’ that blaygird Cripple, but it seems to me we’re just chasing our tails.’
Anghus said calmly, ‘Then do no’ trouble yourself, Floinn, I am no’ lost. A MacRuraich is never lost.’
As he repeated these words, which had become over the centuries something like a mantra, it occurred to him how ironic they were at this point in history. One could argue that all MacRuraichs living were lost—Tabithas, Fionnghal and himself, all lost and changed beyond recognition. The thought made him weary. It cost him an effort to spur his horse on, and he could not mask his expression from either Donald or Casey Hawkeye. He was conscious of the latter’s intent blue eyes on his face, and wondered what he was thinking.
Anghus knew he had to rid himself of the soldiers before he got too near the rebel camp, but he was loath to commit himself to any action that would narrow his options. So violence was out of the question. He had to wait for an opportunity to trick them instead. It came during the course of the second week, when they were so deep in the mountains that the soldiers would have difficulty in finding their way out without assistance. Anghus did not want word getting back to Humbert too quickly. He did not want to harm the soldiers either, particularly the young piper with his ungainly wrists and doglike eyes, or the keen-eyed Casey. So when he saw the weather beginning to worsen he rode down towards the forests.
They were trekking along a ridge in single file when the storm that had been threatening all day broke over their heads with a crash of thunder. ‘It’s dangerous out here in the open,’ Anghus shouted. ‘Let’s look for shelter as quickly as we can.’
With the downpour obscuring their eyes, the soldiers all plunged into the forest after Anghus. The prionnsa, hiding in the thick underbrush, heard them crashing through the bushes. He whistled like a tree-swallow, and soon Donald wriggled silently up beside him, leading his horse. He had already muffled the riding tack and had his hand over the mare’s nose to stop her from whickering.
Both Anghus and Donald were seasoned hunters and foresters, and they had no difficulty in losing the soldiers in the tangled undergrowth. They slipped silently back to the outskirts of the forest and resumed their journey.
Some time during the night they heard something in the woods behind them and concealed themselves warily in the undergrowth. It was Tabithas, tracking them nose to ground. It was the first time Anghus had come close to the wolf since Meghan’s revelations and he was surprised at the wave of emotion which overwhelmed him. He found himself on the ground, his arms full of whining, wriggling wolf, tears mingling with the rain on his cheeks.
‘Tabithas, Tabithas, is it really ye?’ he asked, and she yapped and thrust her head under his chin for him to scratch.
He stared into her yellow eyes, searching for some resemblance to his sister, but there was no sign that the wolf had ever been a woman, let alone a powerful sorceress. Grief and anger filled him, and he leant his head against her thick ruff. She whined and licked his cheek, her tail wagging furiously, and he swallowed the knot in his throat. ‘I canna believe it is really ye,’ he said hoarsely, and she leant her bulk against him, looking up at him with such a clear expression of understanding and sympathy on her lupine face that he suddenly no longer doubted this silver-ruffed wolf was indeed his sister.
By sunrise they were far away from the forest where they had left their companions, tired, hungry and thoroughly chilled. Both were wet throu
gh to the skin, and their clothes clung to them clammily. ‘Should we stop, my laird?’ Donald asked. ‘The sides o’ my stomach are fair clemming together.’
Anghus shook his head. He had an uneasy feeling, and the wolf seemed to share his anxiety, for she looked back often, her lip lifting in a snarl. ‘Nay, those Red Guards are trained trackers and we’ve left more o’ a trail than I would have liked. Let us push on while we can.’
They ate as they rode, Anghus swallowing a few mouthfuls of whisky to warm his blood. He felt strangely vulnerable, as if a few layers of skin had been flayed away. He had kept his heart and mind locked up for so long, but now all his careful defences seemed to be dissolving. ‘Soon I shall find her, my Fionnghal,’ he said to himself. The wolf barked and looked up at him as she ran alongside the horses, unnerving them with her wolf smell.
By noon Anghus was sure they were being followed. Every hair on his neck was bristling, his spine felt stiff and tense, and the wolf stared back down the trail with raised hackles and a low growl. He decided he had best see who it was before taking decisive action, so he and Donald concealed themselves in an outcrop of boulders. After about ten minutes they saw Casey Hawkeye come trotting out of the woods. Behind him rode Ashlin the Piper, his wayward knees and elbows showing he had not yet mastered the art of riding. Casey pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted gracefully, kneeling to examine the ground. Anghus and Donald had wrapped their horses’ hooves in cloth to try and conceal their prints in the soft mud, but an experienced and keen-eyed scout would still be able to identify the blurred marks left behind. Casey Hawkeye was evidently such a scout.
‘Lose ’em or lump ’em?’ Donald asked.
Anghus played with his crisp beard, then came to a decision. ‘Talk to them, I think. I like both Casey and the lad, and do no’ wish to hurt them. We’ve used just about every trick we ken to shake them and they obviously do no’ wish to be shaken. I would like to know why.’
He rose, stretched and made his way down to the path. By the time Casey and Ashlin rode round the corner, they were sitting at their ease on boulders by the wayside, smoking their pipes. Casey reined in and observed them with expressionless blue eyes. Ashlin was not so reticent. His eyes lit up, a broad smile broke over his freckled face, and he clumsily urged the horse into a trot.
‘So ye’ve decided to catch us up,’ Anghus said pleasantly, knocking out his pipe. ‘We wondered what happened to ye. Have a seat, we were just thinking about some lunch.’
Casey regarded him thoughtfully, then dismounted and strolled over to them, leading his horse. Ashlin was talking excitedly. He obviously thought that Anghus and Donald had become separated by accident in the storm, and he was delighted to meet with them again. Casey had no such misconception; Anghus could tell by his cagey expression that he knew perfectly well that Anghus had lost them on purpose.
‘And what happened to your delightful associates?’ Anghus asked as they prepared a makeshift repast.
Casey answered carefully, ‘They seem to have got themselves lost.’
‘Such a shame we do no’ have time to wait for them,’ Anghus replied.
‘For some reason they seem to think ye continued to head south into the woods,’ Casey said. ‘I heard them cry out they had found tracks …’
Anghus’s eyes gleamed green. He wondered if the soldier had had anything to do with that. Casey Hawkeye was a dark horse indeed.
‘Wha’ a pity. I was just beginning to feel an affection for Floinn Redbeard,’ Donald said.
They saw Casey’s hard mouth quirk at the corner, and knew the cavalryman had found the red-haired giant as objectionable as they had. Anghus began to wonder if he should take Casey into his confidence. He had found the cavalryman a good companion in times of trouble, cool of head, strong of arm and keen of eye. Surely it was too much of a risk, though. Nothing Casey had said had shown he was anything but loyal to the Banrìgh. Anghus was still hoping to keep his intentions a secret—he was not ready to declare Rurach and Siantan at war with the Rìgh, which is what any overt act of rebellion would mean.
The cavalryman accepted the food Donald handed him. ‘I wonder what it is ye hunt, my laird,’ he said, very politely.
‘Hunt?’
‘I have no’ been able to help noticing the black wolf’s nose is to a trail.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Aye. I have heard that the black wolf never gives up the hunt once his—or her—nose is to the trail.’
Anghus laughed. He decided he liked Casey Hawkeye. ‘Unless a more attractive scent crosses his path,’ he said. ‘Any wolf will abandon a trail gone stale and auld when one more to his—or her—liking comes along.’
Casey smiled and got out a long clay pipe, thoughtfully cramming in tobacco. Ashlin the Piper was listening closely, not sure he understood what was being said. Casey lit the pipe with his thumb and puffed away peacefully.
Donald and Anghus exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised. ‘Ah, ye’re a smoking man,’ the gillie said agreeably and brought out his own worn leather pouch. ‘But how is it ye can afford smokeweed on a cavalryman’s pay?’
‘My uncle Donovan is harbourmaster at Dùn Gorm. The traders from the Bright Land were kind enough to gift him with a cord or two as they came through the rivergates. I had a parcel waiting for me at Dunceleste when we rode in from the Veiled Forest.’
‘Are ye a whisky man too?’ Anghus asked, bringing out his silver flask.
‘And me a highlander,’ Casey said sadly. ‘That ye could be asking such a question.’
Anghus poured them all a dram, Ashlin’s noticeably smaller. ‘To the future, then, my friends!’
Iseult woke early the morning after their war conference, troubled by how much of their plan still relied on luck and happenstance. Gitâ was curled on a cushion and chittered to her as she dressed. She stroked him, knowing how much the little donbeag must miss Meghan.
As soon as she stepped outside she became aware of being watched, and smiled. ‘Where are ye hiding this time, Finn?’ she called.
A chestnut-brown head popped up from behind a stack of barrels, a tiny black head with tufted ears appearing beside it. ‘I be here, Iseult,’ Finn called back, crawling out on her hands and knees.
‘Do ye want to come to the loch with me?’
‘Aye!’ Finn jumped about in excitement, her legs below the short, ragged dress very skinny and very dirty.
‘Do ye no’ have any other clothes? Ye must be cold in that auld rag.’
‘Well, aye, I am almost always cold, but I’ve worn nothing else for years,’ Finn replied in surprise. ‘It used to be big for me—now I’m busting out all over.’
‘Do ye no’ have any shoes?’ Iseult asked, looking at her filthy bare feet, cut all over from thorns and sharp stones.
Finn’s expression of surprise deepened. ‘Where would I be getting shoes?’
‘Winter is coming, we shall have to see what we can do for ye,’ Iseult said, leading the way through the noisy camp.
Finn laughed. ‘It snows in Lucescere in winter; the puddles all freeze over and the wind through the auld city cuts like a dagger. I am used to it now.’
‘Nonetheless, there must be a cobbler here, and probably someone who can sew too. I shall make sure all ye children are warm before winter comes!’
Iseult stripped off to immerse herself in the loch, and after a while Finn joined her in the icy waters, splashing and squealing. Iseult made her wash the matted dirt out of her brown tangles and scrub her filthy feet with a bristled brush. The sound of her squeals brought the other children out of their caves, and soon the loch was bobbing with small heads, the air ringing with their shouts.
Afterwards Iseult made Finn show her how the elven cat climbed, and she watched with amazement as the kitten scrambled swiftly and easily straight up the out-curving cliff. Her sharp claws seemed to dig into the very rock face, and Finn said longingly, ‘See, if I had claws like that I could climb as easily!’
An id
ea presented itself to Iseult like a gift from Eà, and she made her way back to the camp thoughtfully, Finn dancing and chattering along beside her. After they had eaten, Finn devouring half of Iseult’s breakfast, they sought out Duncan, and Iseult explained her idea to him.
‘Could we no’ make shoes that are clawed like a cat’s? Our wee Finn here says she can climb most walls but needs something to help her if there are no cracks or crevices. It seems she must be the one to breach the rampart behind the Tower o’ Two Moons, but it is well known for being as smooth as glass. If we could attach spikes to her feet, would that no’ help?’
‘Well, we have a cobbler, o’ course, but I dinna ken if he could make anything like that,’ Duncan said dubiously. He took Iseult and an excited Finn along to meet him nonetheless, and after much exclamation the cobbler said he would try. He also promised to make sturdy boots for all the children if he could find the time, though he said the soldiers’ feet must come first. Iseult also found the soldiers’ tailor and asked him to make the children some warmer clothes before they left. He simply altered some old clothes to fit them, and soon all of the League of the Healing Hand were dressed in woollen breeches, cross-gartered under the knee, with long-sleeved tunics and jerkins on top.
The next few weeks were spent preparing for the journey and working with the soldiers. Iseult found the rebels were mostly poorly trained, many of them mere crofters’ sons or runaway apprentices. She and Duncan worked closely together and found a rapport beginning to grow between them. Although the big-shouldered man had hidden his feelings well, he had been both doubtful and suspicious of his laird’s new wife. After a week observing her efforts, some of his doubt left him and he began to respond to her more readily.
Iseult also joined the daily hunting parties and impressed the soldiers greatly with her hunting prowess. Meghan is no’ here now, she told herself. Better to win the men to our cause than confuse them by Meghan’s peculiar notions. Nonetheless, she found she could not eat much of the meat, preferring the roasted roots and vegetables.