Page 29 of Fallen
Carr nodded. He wouldn’t be joining MacKinnon and the others on the hunt. Not that he cared. With half of Dunan ill at the present, he found it difficult to relax and enjoy such pursuits. Tyra, Lady Drew’s hand-maid, had died two days earlier, and the situation was so bad in the village now that folk were starting to panic.
MacKinnon continued to watch him, his gaze narrowing, as if he had somehow read his right-hand’s thoughts. “Have any of the other servants within the broch sickened?” he asked.
Carr’s spine stiffened. He hadn’t been looking forward to this question—although he’d known MacKinnon would ask it eventually. There was only so long the clan-chief could ignore the worsening situation. “Aye,” he admitted softly. “Two of the scullery maids and a stable hand.”
MacKinnon broke eye contact then, his gaze swinging around the yard, at where two lads were cleaning tack in the misty morning light. “Get all of them out of the broch,” he said, his voice tight. “And if anyone else falls ill, ye are to tell me immediately. Is that clear?”
Carr nodded, heaviness settling in his gut. Lady Drew wouldn’t be pleased—she’d told Carr not to bring up the sickness with her brother. She’d known about the three servants who’d fallen ill over the last day, and she’d called Dunan’s healer to tend to them.
However, Carr had just let her secret slip.
The clan-chief’s gaze settled upon one of the stable lads. “Brice … saddle me another horse.”
“Aye, MacKinnon.” The youth dropped the stirrup he’d been polishing and darted back into the stables.
MacKinnon swung around to Carr, a deep frown marring his brow now, his lips parting. Drawing in a deep breath, Carr readied himself for the sharp edge of his master’s tongue once more.
However, the arrival of a man on horseback, clattering into the bailey under the stone arch that led down into the village and the North Gate, forestalled the clan-chief.
Both men watched the newcomer approach. He was a heavyset man of around forty winters, clad in a sweat-stained, dusty léine and braies. Red faced, the man rode upon a swaybacked beast that was lathered from the journey, its thin sides heaving.
“MacKinnon?” The stranger greeted them, his gaze settling upon the clan-chief.
“Aye, who are ye?” MacKinnon barked.
“My name is Gowan,” the man replied, his voice rough with fatigue. “I’m a smithy from Torrin.” He paused there, his throat bobbing. “Ye have sent out word that anyone with news of Craeg the Bastard will be paid ten silver pennies?”
“Aye,” MacKinnon growled, “and any man delivering him to me will be paid out his weight in silver.”
Gowan’s rugged face tensed. “I don’t have the outlaw … but I have news of him. Yesterday afternoon, I spied the Bastard and a group of his men in the woods east of Kilbride.”
Silence settled upon the yard.
“How many of them?” MacKinnon asked, his voice sharp now.
“It was hard to tell … their numbers were many though.”
Something dark and feral moved in Duncan MacKinnon’s eyes. Slowly, he turned to Carr, his face taut, eager. “Ready the guard … we ride out within the hour.”
Carr nodded and stepped back, preparing himself to do the clan-chief’s bidding. However, MacKinnon hadn’t finished yet. “Ye will remain here, as steward of Dunan, until my return.”
Carr halted, tensing. “Why?”
“My sister’s been meddling in my affairs too much of late,” MacKinnon growled. “I don’t want her in charge of the broch while I’m gone.”
Carr’s breathing slowed. “MacKinnon,” he began, making sure to keep his tone low and respectful. “I’m captain of yer guard … ye will need me if ye are to face yer brother.”
“Mybastardbrother,” MacKinnon snarled. “How many times must I correct ye, man?” He paused there, his mouth thinning into a hard line. “I can captain my own warriors, Broderick. Ye are more use to me here. Get the sick out of my broch and keep an eye on my sister. I expect a full report on her behavior when I get back … ye had better not keep anything else from me.”
A dog’s soft whine behind them drew the clan-chief’s attention then. Bran stood, tail wagging, impatient to ride out.
Favoring his hound with a tight smile, MacKinnon shook his head. “Not this time, lad,” he murmured, his tone gentling. “Best ye remain here too. Keep my seat warm while I’m gone.”
“Mother Shona … may I speak with ye for a few moments?” Coira halted before the abbess and lowered herself onto one knee. She’d found Mother Shona in the tiny herb garden behind the kitchens, a rambling space filled with profusions of rosemary, sage, mint, and parsley—as well as a number of healing herbs that Coira used in her poultices and salves.
“Of course, Sister Coira,” the abbess replied with a smile. The tension in Mother Shona’s expression betrayed her. She made the sign of the cross above Coira and waited while she rose to her feet.
“Lavender?” Coira asked, peering into the basket.
