Bride of Lochbarr. Margaret Moore
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I remember,” Lachlann said. His hand on the latch, he turned back and flashed a grin at his elder brother. “I’m no gomeral, either, Adair.”
“THERE’S OUR CHANCE,” Adair whispered as he peered out of an alley between a tavern and the village smithy outside the castle walls of Dunkeathe.
Coming from the nearby wood, a group of laborers walked past. They were carrying bundles of long poles, probably intended for scaffolding in the castle.
“We’ll get ourselves a bundle and walk in, easy as you please.”
Dressed like Adair in tunic, breeches and short cloak, with a hood pulled up over his head and his dirk hidden in his boot, Lachlann didn’t look convinced. “Will the guards not realize we’re—?”
“They’re not even looking at the poor sods. Keep your head bowed and look humble and they’ll take no notice, the arrogant oafs. Come on.”
Planning to circle around to the wood where they’d left their horses, Adair started back toward the other end of the alley. “Hurry up, Lachlann!”
Lachlann quickened his pace, and soon they reached the clearing where other laborers stacked the bundles and tied them with short pieces of rope.
Adair waited until a group of men returning from the castle drew near. Then he hurried out of the trees and took his place at the back of the line, Lachlann behind him.
With a grunt, he hoisted a bundle onto his shoulder. The sticks were heavier than they looked, or the laborers were stronger than he’d assumed. Regardless, he started to head to the castle, pausing for a moment to glance back at his brother.
Lachlann took two tries to get his bundle on his shoulder. When he finally did, he staggered under its weight, drawing the attention of the woodcutters.
Maybe this wasn’t such a clever plan after all.
“Too much ale this morning,” Lachlann slurred, belching, sounding so much like a Yorkshireman, Adair could scarcely believe his ears. “I hope that Norman pays well, or I’ve come a long way for nowt.”
The woodsmen laughed and went back to their work, leaving Lachlann to stumble on his way. Adair slowed his steps, letting the other men get farther ahead, and easing the pace for Lachlann.
“Where did you learn to talk like that?” Adair asked in a whisper when Lachlann caught up to him.
“Listening,” Lachlann replied, panting. “I pay attention to people, and not just the bonnie lasses.”
“You always were the watchful one. If your load’s too heavy for you, I’ll take it and go myself.”
“I’ll manage.”
“If you drop it, the guards might get curious,” Adair warned. “Unless you want to cause a stramash, set that bundle on my other shoulder, go to the tavern and wait for me there.”
“You can’t carry both.”
“I can. Do as I say. I won’t be long.”
Lachlann didn’t immediately agree.
“If I’m not able to see her, you might hear news of her in the tavern.”
Lachlann sighed, then hefted his bundle onto Adair’s other shoulder. It took a moment for Adair to get the balance right, but once he did, he was satisfied he’d make it into the castle’s courtyard without arousing suspicion or undue attention. “Wait until the sun’s about a foot above the castle walls. If I’m not back by then, head for the horses. If I’m not there, go home and tell Father he may have to come and get me out of Sir Nicholas’s dungeon.”
“Losh, Adair, be careful, or there’ll be hell to pay, and from more than Father.”
“I’ll be as careful as can be, and I’d forswear my loyalty to our clan before I let any Norman catch me. Now go. These bundles are heavy.”
“Gur math a thèid leibh,” Lachlann said before he hurried away.
“Aye, I may have need of luck,” Adair muttered under his breath as he continued on his way, quickening his pace to catch up to the last of the laborers. Silently cursing his damn hood, for sweat was dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, he was still about twenty paces behind the rest when he reached the castle gates.
He kept his head down as he passed the guards.
“There’s a strong one, to carry two,” one of them said, laughing. “Where’re you from?”
“York,” Adair grunted, in what he hoped was a passable imitation of the accent, although he didn’t sound nearly as convincing as Lachlann.
“Those Yorkshiremen are built like oxen,” another guard remarked. “That’s why they’re so good at hauling.”
For a moment, Adair felt a kinship with the common folk of Yorkshire. But he didn’t want to make himself any more noticeable, so he continued to follow the laborers until he reached a portion of the wall that was far from completed. The others had put their bundles there and turned back toward the gate.
So did Adair, but instead of returning with the others, he ducked into the alley between the well-remembered mason’s hut and the storehouse.
His gaze scanned the courtyard. There was no sign of Lady Marianne, but it wasn’t likely she’d be strolling about the bustling yard full of masons, laborers and servants like a lady in a garden. She was probably in the hall.
Adair scanned the yard again, looking for something he could carry into the hall the same way he had carried the wood into the yard.
There might be such a thing in the storehouse beside him. Aware of the guards and workmen in the vicinity, he strode toward the door of the small building as if not engaged in anything secretive. He put his hand on the latch, hoping it wasn’t locked during the day.
It wasn’t, and he quickly slipped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized why the hut wasn’t locked.
There wasn’t any food in here, or drink. It contained a huge pile of sand, for the mortar, no doubt.
They could make a lot of mortar with that much sand.
Letting out his breath slowly, disappointed in his quest, he wondered why the sand smelled as it did.
Then he realized it wasn’t the sand. There were bunches of plants hanging down from the rafters—fleabane and rosemary, to be sprinkled on the rushes that covered the hall floors.
He turned and spotted a pile of rushes in the corner behind the door, perhaps excess from the last time they were swept and replaced.
He had his excuse.
TRYING NOT TO PAY any attention to the huge German mercenary leaning against the wall five feet away, Marianne sat in her brother’s hall with her embroidery, a small table bearing a silver carafe of wine and a goblet at her elbow. Polly was seated on a stool across from her, threading the needles with brightly colored woolen strands.
Polly wasn’t even trying to ignore the German. She kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at Herman, who was over six feet tall, with a hideous scar down the left side of his face. It was as if his skin had been wet clay and someone had scraped their fingers from his eye socket to his chin.
“Heavens above, my lady,” Polly murmured in Saxon. “Ain’t he a horror?”
“He’s supposed to protect me,” Marianne replied, her mastery of Saxon basic at best as she gave Polly the explanation Nicholas had given her shortly after the Scots led by Seamus Mac Taran had departed.
She’d been afraid he’d discovered that she’d been out in the yard at night, but Nicholas had said nothing about it.
Perhaps Nicholas wisely feared she’d try to flee before the wedding, even