I don’t want to linger here,” Adair muttered as he punched Neas’s side with his heels and went to join his father.
RIDING BESIDE ADAIR at the head of their party, Seamus drew in a deep breath. They were in a pine wood between Lochbarr, their village on a long lake, and Dunkeathe, recently given over to the Norman. Several small streams splashed their way down the rocky, needle-covered slope to the loch.
Lachlann had moved forward, so that now he was behind Adair and his father, and beside Cormag. The rest of the men came after, including Roban, who was robustly singing a bawdy song at the top of his lungs, scaring the birds and sending the wildlife scattering.
The chieftain raised his voice to be heard over the sound of Roban’s deep voice and the jingling of the horses’ accouterments. “This is better than being in that Norman’s castle. A man can breathe out here.”
“Aye,” Adair agreed. “I felt like my belt was too tight the whole time I was in that place.”
“Not too tight to keep you from wandering in the night,” his father pointedly remarked. “Where were you?”
“I went to the mason’s hut. I wanted to see the plans for the castle.”
His father abruptly reined in his horse, causing them all to halt. “You did what?”
Adair met his father’s shocked gaze steadily. “I wanted to know more about the fortifications he’s planning on building. That castle makes Lochbarr look like a farmer’s yard.”
“You could have got us all killed!” Cormag cried, his anxious horse dancing beneath him.
Adair twisted in his saddle and studied his cousin, catching sight of an equally thunderstruck Lachlann. “I wasn’t caught.”
Not by the guards, anyway.
“But you might have been,” Lachlann said, aghast.
“I had my excuse ready.”
“Which was?” his father demanded.
Adair put on a pained expression. “That I was having trouble with my bowels and looking to relieve myself.”
His father, Lachlann and some of the other men smiled. Cormag, and those in the band who were his cousin’s friends, did not.
“You were lucky,” Lachlann said.
“Not that lucky,” Adair replied. “I couldn’t find the plans. They must have been locked away in the box I saw in the mason’s hut.”
Beneath the table Lady Marianne had leaned against, watching him warily, as if she was afraid he might bite. He couldn’t bear the thought of any woman being frightened of him—another reason he’d stayed, he supposed.
“What a surprise they weren’t left lying about for anybody to see,” Cormag said sarcastically. “Even your father’s tact couldn’t have saved you if you’d been found looking over the plans. We might all have been hung for spying. But you didn’t think of that, did you?”
In truth, he hadn’t. He’d been too keen to find out all he could about the castle. “Don’t fash yourself, Cormag.”
The chieftain nudged his horse into a walk, as did the others. “Whether you were caught or no,” he said to his son, “I have to agree that wasn’a a wise thing to do, especially when you might have guessed that the plans would be kept away from prying eyes.”
“Aye, ’twas a fool’s errand,” Cormag loudly complained. “We don’t need to see any plans to realize the Norman’s fortifying Dunkeathe in a way that’ll make it hard to beat him.”
“With one wall, or two?” Adair asked, defending his fool’s errand. “I’ve heard that some Norman castles have two curtain walls, and a few even three. They have towered gatehouses and bossed gates, secret passages for escape, dungeons and even a murder hole.”
“A murder hole? Losh, what’s that?” Lachlann asked.
“’Tis a hole in the roof between the portcullis at the entrance to the gatehouse and the gate at the other end. They can drop rocks through it on invaders, or boiling oil.”
“God help us,” Lachlann murmured, and a few of the men crossed themselves, or made the sign against the devil.
“Aye. That’s why I wanted to see what Sir Nicholas was up to. He strikes me as the sort to have a murder hole. And lots of dark, damp cells.”
Perhaps he’d lock his sister away in one if he somehow found out she’d met a Scot in the mason’s hut, or was trying to escape his castle.
Adair shoved that thought away. “Father, I’m thinking we should rebuild our own defenses.”
“Aye, my son, so am I.”
“Especially if the Norman’s making an alliance with Mac Glogan.”
“That’s a bad business, right enough,” his father agreed.
“Can you not put a stop to it? You could go to the king. You’re a thane and a chieftain. Alexander ought to listen to you.”
“Sir Nicholas has Alexander’s favor, so any objections will have to be made carefully,” his father replied.
“Then Adair’d better stay at home if you decide to go,” Cormag said. “Or he’ll likely lose his temper with the king.”
“Shut it, Cormag,” Adair warned.
“If you really want to prevent the marriage, why not seduce the woman, Adair?” Cormag suggested, his voice full of scornful mockery. “Women are helpless to resist your pretty face and braw body, are they not?” He grinned and raised his voice, imitating a woman. “Oh, Adair, kiss me! Hold me! Raise my skirts and—”
Adair was off his horse and dragging Cormag from his before any of the other men had time to blink.
“Father!” Lachlann cried as the two Scots wrestled in the mud of the narrow path, all bare legs and plaids and curses. “Stop them before they kill each other.”
“They’ll not do that,” Seamus said as he continued to ride for home. “Let them fight awhile. Then maybe we’ll have some peace in our hall tonight. Those Normans weary me something fierce, and I need to think.”
CHAPTER FOUR
FIVE DAYS LATER, Neas fairly danced with impatience to be free of the confines of his stall.
Motes of dust and bits of chaff from the hay swirled in the air and about the beams of the stables. The scent of thatch mingled with dung and the leather of bridles, saddles and harnesses. The other horses munched contentedly, or shifted and refooted, some more lively than others because one of their number was going to be leaving as soon as its master could saddle it.
The stable door opened, throwing a shaft of sunlight into the dimmer building.
“Adair!” Lachlann exclaimed as he paused on the threshold. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here. I thought you’d be on patrol with Roban and the others.”
Partly hidden by Neas, Adair silently cursed. He’d hoped to ride out without having to explain where he was going, or why. “I was, then decided Neas needs more of a run.” He threw a fleece over his horse’s back. “It’s been too long since he had a good gallop.”
“Aye. I can’t remember a wetter summer.” Lachlann strolled closer, studying his brother’s face as Adair heaved the saddle onto Neas. “You’re healing, I see.”
“Thanks to that awful stinking stuff Beitiris makes. Smells worse than a bog, but it works.” Adair bent down to buckle the girth. “How’s Cormag?”
“His eye’s a charming motley of purple and green and yellow, but he can open it now,” Lachlann answered. “He’s