“Think you it’s the Dalwhinnies again, laird?” asked Shaw, as they rode swiftly back toward the castle.
“It’s hard to believe they’d be that bold, after what happened so recently. You heard that old Dalziel Sutherlainn died last month?” At Shaw’s nod, he went on, “A hard man to mourn—a twisty mind, an improvident leader, rash and selfish. His son Crannog is now the chieftain.”
“Know you him, laird?”
“Nay, we’ve not met, but I wonder how far the apple can fall from its tree. I want twenty men out there at least, and word sent out to all the farmers to be on their guard.”
And at exactly the same time when Alasdair turned his horse back toward the castle, Fiona was giving Dame Margery a pot of salve and a cloth bag of herbs, and glancing around her cottage. It was small and simply furnished, but clean and comfortable. “Where is Sheila?” she asked. “I’ve brought some lemon biscuits as well.”
“Thank you, mistress,” said the old lady smilingly, “most kind of you! Sheila went off to gather some kindling for our fire. Though I thought she’d have returned by now. She’ll be sorry to have missed you, for she wished to show you her slate, with her letters drawn upon it.”
“I’ll walk out to meet her if I can,” answered Fiona, and said her farewells. Holding Gealag’s reins, she led him along a winding track into the shadowy woods that lay behind Margery’s cottage. Boogeymen lived here, little Sheila had said. Fiona remembered how, when she was small, her garrulous nurse had terrified herself and her sisters with bloodcurdling tales of trolls, wraiths, demons, and, worst of all, the Sack Man, a phantomlike figure said to descend upon wandering children, scoop them up in his foul sack, and carry them off in order to eat them. How incensed Father had been when he’d discovered this. He’d sent the nurse away, back to her family, and secretly Mother had confided to Fiona how grateful she was, for the stories had been petrifying her, too.
Fiona smiled faintly.
Then she heard men’s voices, low and rough, and paused, her smile yielding to an abrupt tense alertness. It was hearing Sheila’s voice that compelled her to pace cautiously forward, to the lip of a clearing, where she saw some ten or twelve men, plainly not of the Penhallow clan, for their clothing was ragged and unkempt. Their horses, tethered, were thin, but the half-dozen cattle were fat and robust; and in this dark clearing stood Sheila, gazing up at the men whose postures indicated both fierce hostility and more than a little fear.
They were all armed, with muskets and daggers, and Fiona briefly but intensely regretted not bringing her pistols. Then again, why would she? She’d merely ridden out to visit one of their own. Besides, she’d have been badly outnumbered anyway. These men were cattle thieves, and she was deeply afraid that the belligerence they were displaying toward Sheila—looking more than usually otherworldly with her pale, wandering eyes, very blank just now, and her seemingly unlikely attitude of calm imperturbability—would erupt into swift violence.
“You’re empty, empty,” said Sheila, matter-of-factly. “Hollow, hollow.”
One of the men, bearded and balding, hissed: “Kill her, laird, and be done with it! We must be away!”
The man just addressed slowly lifted his dagger, and took a step forward. “Aye, I’ll do it, just as you say!” He was very tall, cadaverously thin, and reekingly filthy, with a rough sort of mantle flung over his shoulders, made of shabby animal pelts loosely stitched together.
“Stop!” Fiona came three, four, five paces into the clearing. She could feel her heart thumping hard in her breast, but made her voice loud and imperative. The men all swung around to face her, weapons raised, and the leader jabbed his dagger menacingly.
“Who are you?” he cried out.
“It’s our lady,” answered Sheila calmly. “Good day, lady, you came as you said you would.”
“The Penhallow’s wife!” hissed the bald man. “Leave the little witch, laird, and let’s take her, and that horse of hers! A fine ransom the Penhallow will pay for her safe return!”
“Aye, that’s for sure,” agreed the leader. “But—how do we do that?”
“Bind her wrists,” the bald man replied, “and have her put on your horse. And you ride that horse of hers! Do it!” he barked at the other men, who moved quickly to obey.
Fiona submitted to the indignity of having her hands tied together and being tossed up onto an old sway-backed mare, but when the leader approached Gealag, he found that short of killing the beautiful white horse he’d not mount him, for Gealag threw out his sharp front hooves with vicious intent.