Wedgewick Woman Read online

  “Clare McDougal, my lord.”

  He nodded, pressing her name to memory. “James you may enter your plea among those from whom you’ve stolen.”

  James Sinclair walked, head down, toward the huge desk and turned slowly to face his accusers.

  “I have been swooped into the arms of sin through a most devious woman…but it was I who agreed, out of my own weakness.” He admitted. “I am guilty.”

  Lord Carmichael felt a certain pity for the man, for he, too, had been yanked into service by that same cunning, calculating woman.

  “Sinclair, if you’ve got the forgiveness of God, you’ve got ours. Our people have agreed to let you work on, paying them back all that you took of them, if you will.”

  An audible sigh escaped the accuser’s lips. The other secret he held reproached his heart… moreso than the benevolence he had just received of the people he’d wronged so well. “I shall be forever grateful to have the opportunity to make right what harm I have done.” He said staring at his boots.

  His shame was almost too great to bear, for these people and Laird Carmichael were of good stock. But, he rationalized reasonably, he had given his word to Lady Carmichael. His own signature had been required upon the promise he sorely made one year ago. Surely the Laird would understand that a promise given was a promise kept, James reasoned. Hoped.

  Chapter 6

  The household reverted back to its routine shortly after the incident. The entire staff had now come to acceptable terms with a certain Mr. James Sinclair, who, to his credit, worked tirelessly to repay all that he’d taken.

  Even Mrs. Calvert was pleased, for James now took his meals with the staff in the kitchen and didn’t seem a bad sort of fellow. Lord Carmichael noticed a new apron or hat upon the kitchen help’s head now and again, a sign that they were no longer fearful for their positions and had a few extra pence to spend for frivolities.

  With all the new building soon to begin on the lands he received as dowry from his most unfortunate marriage, there was plenty yet to be done.

  “Sir shall I send word to bring your mount? The people of Bothwell have awaited your visit for many months.”

  “Aye.” Blithers was off to find Ross, the Laird’s Chief Commander.

  “Blithers,” the Laird’s voice echoed off the stone walls of the castle. “We’ve forgotten the assembly of the builders. They await us now in the North wing.”

  “Indeed we have…I have forgotten…your lordship.” He turned red-faced.

  Lord Carmichael instantly regretted his words, for it was he who had forgotten, not Blithers. He raised his hand and shouted , “It is I who did not remember. Send Sean McBenson in my stead. He’s well to be trusted and a builder better than I. Make certain he reports back to me and send my apologies for having called on him so late.”

  “I shall see to it.” Blithers hurried away.

  “Aye, but I’m dastardly tardy for my other meeting with the people of Bothwell and I abhor tardiness.” The Laird hurried to the kitchen to call the other servants into service. “Begin the packing of the cart. Fresh cheese this time, if you please.” He thundered, effectively correcting a foolish lass’ error in sending moldy cheese last time. The kitchen staff hurried to the business of seeing to their Laird’s provisions for the journey.

  In moments he’d dashed through the hallways and into the courtyard where he mounted Knight, his black stallion. Followed by The Four, his trusted first guards and a small company, they rode through the stone gates and over the bridge toward Greenoche to the North.

  Nearly two hours into the journey, Fergus, one of The Four, rode forward at breakneck speed and pulled his mount to a stop, “Lord, Duncan MacDougal is having conniptions.”

  Lord Carmichael turned from his thoughts and leveled his gaze at the red-faced, enormously muscled man and nearly laughed. “Take him to the physician, then.”

  “He’s…he’s swallowing his tongue, sir and the physician says he’ll die without help from the surgeon.” Fergus’ wide blue eyes stared out from his full red-bearded face, his thick head of blonde hair awry and his enormous size gave the Laird pause. The huge man whose main desire was to cross swords in a first-rate battle, looked rather ill himself; the Laird could not keep his lips from turning up slightly.

  “Ye are smiling?” he nearly shouted, forgetting himself.

  “Not at poor MacDougal’s concerns, but at your face, Fergus.”

  A proud and angry look replaced the fear in Fergus’ face, for he did not wish to be known as he truly was and that was squeamish at the sight of any man’s pain, even though he was an excellent warrior.

  “See that MacDougal is taken back to the castle.” Lord Carmichael said sternly and galloped to the lead.

  “He laughs at my weakness.” Fergus said under breath and knew his face burned red as fire.

  When the sun began to set over the mountains, Lord Carmichael called for camp. “We’re near the Campbells’ road and we dare not pass at this late hour, for I’m certain we will be put upon by the wild men.” He announced. “We’ll water the horses at the river and travel past the Campbell lands by daylight.”

  “We are in our own right to pass anytime be it black of night or bright of day,” Fergus muttered.

  “And well I know it.” Laird Carmichael told him eye to eye. “ I do not wish to incite any sort of bad blood between the Campbells, who you well know are all too anxious for a good skirmish.”

  “Well, I know.” Fergus returned, thinking of a battle or two he’d fought in his younger days. “They’d as soon chew your fingers off as set eyes upon other clansmen.”

  “Aye, my thoughts entirely, Fergus. We’ll set the tents down under that stand of cottonwoods below the hill, out of their watchful eyes and enjoy the evening.”

  Several tents went up, the Laird’s first. Food was set over the fires, for they had not stopped to eat since morn, the Laird hoping to make the journey in one pass. Preferring to spend his time beneath the setting sun, Lord Carmichael left his men to do their duties, dismissed his guards and bathed alone in the blue waters of a small loch. His men stood watch near the bushes. Settling himself upon the new grass below a white birch, he stared across the fields of clover, wild daisies and buttercups in a muse at his life…and what it had become.

  Settling his dark brown head against the tree, his eyes closed against the sun and he dozed.

  His dream…or nightmare, as it was, was of his wife Helen. And glad he was to awaken…the sun having nearly set. Shaking his mind free of the memories of the screaming woman, he stood, unclamped his tightened jaw, stretched his taut muscles and made his way back to camp.

  “Ross, are we prepared for darkness?” he asked his eldest and closest guard.

  “We are indeed. Guards are at their watch, the fires put out. Your repast is waiting.” He waved a hand and cook brought a plate and set it upon a flat rock. Lord Carmichael seated himself upon a smaller rock and ate, and as was his custom took his plate and utensils back to the cook, knowing full well it was the servant’s job; but chose instead to keep the words his mother had taught him. Not to think of oneself better than another, even though they serve you.

  Seating himself next to the burned out fire, the orange embers giving little light, he called The Four together, Ross, Fergus, Ewan and Cameron to draft their methods for next day.

  “Ross, do you know the Bothwell people well? I fear my father rarely spoke of them to me.”

  “Aye, they are a peaceful, small clan, descended from the Glencoe Massacre.”

  Lord Carmichael kept his peace for a time then spoke. “Unfortunate mess, that one. Do the people still hold the grudge?”

  “It seems that they do not forget but are not a people who like war and have chosen to stay away from the big clans.”

  “Wise they are, I say.” Lord Carmichael gazed into the embers burning low.

  “Indeed.” Ross agreed.

  “They have been asking for a visit from their Laird fo
r months now, but I have not taken the time to attend them.”

  “We do not lay blame at your door.” Ewan said quietly. “You have been busy preventing the Carmichaels and Muldoons from murdering each other, not to cite the not-so-wee task of keeping the Campbell’s from taking the last of the Mulhannon lands, which now belong to your dead wife’s sister.”

  “Twice someone has brought that up to me.” He stood to his feet, his anger burning.

  “Tis only that the small piece of Mulhannon land would put us in good stead. It would separate our lands from the Campbells. And…we would be the largest clan in the south and west of Scotland.” Ewan said, a proud look upon his face.

  Pacing back and forth, his large hands clasped behind his back, Lord Carmichael conceded, “You are right to say so. ‘Tis the truth and you say it well.”

  Ewan smiled quietly, his spare frame making no motion as he sat easily, waiting.

  “He is correct in his words.” Ross agreed.

  Fergus grunted, seeing no need to say more.

  Cameron shook his head in agreement, but uttered not a word, as was his way.

  “I will have it known I will not marry another Wedgewick woman. You must know that I have had enough of them….even to gain the last of the Mulhannon land.” His pacing stopped abruptly and turned to his men.

  He heard four “Ayes.”

  Changing the topic, for he had no allusions about marrying anyone, having so recently become a free man, he sat down and said, “’Tis our object to reach the Bothwells tomorrow before midday. I say we sleep, rise before the sun and be gone before the Campbells have stirred.”

  The Four agreed and each stood. After their Laird had given his signal the men went to their posts for the night. Some slept in tents, some beneath the carts, and others beneath the stars…which Lord Carmichael himself chose.

  “Sleeping out again?” Ross kept his vigil next to his leader as they gazed over the hills where the stars were beginning to appear.

  Lord Carmichael nodded and handed his sword to Ross, while he spread his own rugs upon the new spring grass. The sound of lapping water lulled his eyelids downward but his senses remained true.

  His training had taught him well and this eve he was well aware the Campbell borders lay only a few paces to the east. Outside the perimeter of their lands, he felt most assuredly they would have no trouble; but it was his thought that one was never to be so vulnerable as to lose one’s own life over a minor stupidity.

  It was while he was still thinking about his father’s training that his ears caught wind of a slight sound. Immediately he and Ross crouched into position, peering into the darkness, lit faintly by a high moon, not yet full.

  “Tis only a rabbit.” Ross declared after a few moments. “Rest. I will watch.”

  Clapping Ross on the shoulders, he lay again and slept.

  Chapter 7

  As was his custom, Lord Carmichael rose long before his men stirred. Knowing Ross had not yet slept, he let him off-watch and took his place. Ross knew his Laird did not have to perform the duties of watchman.

  “Sleep well, then?” Ross asked quietly.

  “Did, at that. Drink now and lay while you can. The sun will be upon us before you have twenty winks.”

  Standing with his backside to a tree, for without Ross’ protection at his back, he was easy prey, he gazed out with eagle’s eyes over the horizon, now becoming clearer with each minute as the sun made it’s way toward the new day.

  Barely into his watch he heard the familiar whistle and before he knew what was about, felt the arrow enter his left forearm. He shouted and the camp was awake.

  Ross, Fergus, and Ewan were at his side instantly, his sword having been shoved into his right hand by Cameron.

  “I see the little twit. I’ll have him ready to skin alive.” Ewan, the lightest and fastest runner shouted.

  Within minutes a lad hardly more than a wee child stood before him.

  “What say you boy?” Lord Carmichael asked quietly, his face muscles twitching, as the physician studied his Laird’s injury planning the quickest way to remove the arrow, which had pierced his arm, but had not gone through owing to the weak-armed attempt of a mere child.

  The boy, his bones showing through his filthy skin and dressed in ragged cloths, watched as the physician yanked the tip of the arrow from the man’s arm. Blood poured out. Tamping down the bleeding with a clean cloth, the physician applied a smelly yellow salve, tied up the arm and predicted that all would be well.

  Huge brown eyes stared fearlessly as he openly admired the injured man. He had not even flinched when the physician yanked the arrow from his arm.

  “Laird, what would ye have us do with him?” Ewan held the boy’s bony arm in his fist.

  Laird? He had shot the Laird of the clan? He straightened his shoulders and prepared to die.

  Fergus grabbed the boy by the other arm and yanked him forward taking the child’s bow from the filthy hands.

  “You will answer for your deed.” He jerked the boy again and forced him to stand before the Laird.

  Lee sat quietly and waited. He noted the fear that came across the young boy’s face when he’d realized he’d shot their leader. And how he’d straightened his back when he knew the punishment meted out for such an offense would be certain death.

  “If you know what’s good for ye, you’ll spend your words now and be truthful about it.” Fergus warned.

  The boy did not flinch, but took a step closer to the head of the clan and lifted brown eyes upward. “I am truly not sorry for my deed. I was only protecting my land.”

  Laird Carmichael’s eyebrows lifted slightly and he put up his good arm to quiet Fergus who pounced upon the boy ready to lay a well-deserved blow alongside his ear.

  “And who’s land would that be?”

  “Why the Campbell’s of course. Ye are upon their lands.” He informed the Laird gravely, lifting his small chin.

  “I beg a pardon. We are on the road east of the Campbell’s are we not?”

  The boy turned at the sound of horses approaching.

  “Ah, the Campbells.” Laird Carmichael seethed. “The confrontation I had hoped to avoid.”

  The men drew their swords, the sound of their thin metal blades leaving their scabbards, breaking the morning’s quiet.

  “Aye, we have the wee one at war again.” The Campbell leader sighed and laughed rudely. “So what has happened here that a wee lad has gotten you all at the ready?” He sneered.

  “The boy has shot an arrow into our Laird, that’s what this be about.” Fergus spoke as he moved forward menacingly.

  Laird Carmichael let him speak, hoping his man would hold his temper. Since that was not likely, he himself stood and walked past Fergus.

  “I am Laird Carmichael.” He said by way of introduction. “Son of…”

  “I know your father well…Laird Colin Charles William Carmichael. He was a good warrior. ‘Tis a sorrow he had to die.”

  Carmichael noticed the man’s eyes narrow as he looked around nervously. The three Campbell riders heeled their mounts forward in warning.

  “What say you about your young one?” Carmichael changed the topic quickly to avoid a calling out.

  A booming laugh caused a stir again throughout the camp. “Mine? This mere runt, who has no family, has been taken in the Campbell camp. He is not one of us.” The man sneered.

  The boy’s head drooped slightly.

  “Then he is not a Campbell?”

  “No. He is a Mulhannon whose clan thought they would have a go at one of our little villages. That is to say not one Mulhannon that attacked our village lived to tell about it except the wee one you see here.” He pointed. “He is now a wayfarer who steals our food and makes a nuisance of himself thinking to join us as a Campbell. What are we to do with him?” He shrugged his huge sheepskin covered shoulders.

  Carmichael saw fists form at the boy’s side.

  “Then you’ve no use for the boy?”
Carmichael asked gazing at the man atop the horse.

  “None.”

  “Then I say he becomes my servant…as payment for my injury.”

  “Nay. I rather like the boy inasmuch as he gets my ale for me and runs an occasional errand. He is quite worthy in that regard.”

  The silence was palpable. “Then shall we pay you 20 lira for him and be done with it?”

  The man’s face held a moment’s surprise before he caught himself and shrugged, “As you wish it.” He held out dirty hands immediately.

  “Cameron, see that he gets the funds and write out the papers.” The Laird ordered. “Aye, we shall be on our way afore you have reached your home.” Laird Carmichael said as he moved away.

  The transaction finished, the Campbell men rode away quickly, should the foolish Laird see his error and call them back.

  “The boy is a dirty Mulhannon, nothing but a babe. Now he shall have to feed the waif.” He laughed and his men with him.

  The Four could hear the Campbell’s crude laugh as he galloped away. Awaiting a good scuffle, the guards wanted to club their own young Laird for his seemingly insistent manner of being overly generous to enemy clansmen.

  Thankfully Carmichael had not heard the grumbling as his men went back to work. For all rights and purposes, their Laird should have picked up his sword and done the Campbell in, instead of paying a large sum for a child who had just shot him. To their way of thinking, the Laird had been made to look the fool.

  “Another mouth to feed.” Fergus grunted.

  “The Laird is a good man.” Ewan owned.

  “We shall be about our business and see to the boy.” Cameron said quietly breaking up the group. “Aye, we will see to it he becomes worthy of his vittles.”

  “Boy, bathe yourself…” The Laird ordered. “You deceive our noses. It smells as though there is a dead animal within the camp.”

  The boy ran to do the Laird’s bidding, his heart brave, but still shaking inside. He’d only shot the man and now he belonged to him.

  Before he was ten steps gone the man bellowed, “Boy, you forget your manners.”