Page 32 of The Forest Bride
Several years ago, while he had still been in Ireland, the English had ridden north and had attacked the small garrison his brother had assigned to Brechlinn, setting it on fire and bringing part of it to rubble. Since his return, Duncan had done what he could to repair it, but there was work to do yet.
“The outer wall is still broken just there,” he told the dog, “and the ivy is higher than ever. The smithy is in disuse, even with the new anvil we put in. We do not have a smith. Still, it is a good fortress, if sparse and broken in places. We can make something of it someday. What do you think, hey?”
The leggy hound gave a soft woof, and Duncan huffed agreement. “Not much of a home, but I do not need much just now. A place to rest and somewhere for hounds and hawks. And friends. That is enough, hey.” He rubbed the dog’s head.
Along the curtain wall, ivy climbed the stone like dark fingers, and on the battlement just two guards strolled. Theyard was nearly empty but for a cart—the brewer, Bran’s good friend, must be here again, he realized—along with some barrels and stacks of hay, a broken wheel and other remnants in stone and wood of the place it had once been and could be again. Everywhere, inside and out, needed attention. Brechlinn Castle needed new life. Its laird did too.
Later for that. Always later, he told himself sourly, but for the birds. His priorities were the birds and other secrets he kept.
Mungo woofed, and Duncan saw Bran MacArthur lumbering through the shadowed yard. He hailed his seneschal and stopped to wait.
“How did things go?” he asked.
“Good. We brought food to the lad and set up a bath. Effie is up there. She is happy to mother anyone. The bairn says his injury is naught and a hot soak will do.”
“When Effie leaves, ask Hector to sit outside the door until midnight, and set Artan there the rest of the night. Give them blankets but tell them to be alert to movement. And I want a man watching the tower, and two more watching the gate.”
“That slip of a lad will not go out the window. It is a far drop and he has no rope.”
“Still, we will watch the door and the window. Where is Lennox?”
“In the library looking at the dusty books you keep chained there. As if we would steal them.” Bran rolled his eyes. “You off to see Greta and the rest?”
“I am. Howare they?” Duncan strolled again, Bran and the dog with him.
“Fine and good. Artan and I take them out regularly. The youngest has the devil of a temper. Watch her. Duncan, we need more men here,” he added low. “Only a few of us are left, with most riding south weeks ago.”
“Constantine Murray is looking into it. If word gets to the English that this garrison is short of men, De Valence at Stirling may send soldiers in Edward’s name.”
“Tcha,” Bran said and spit on the ground.
“I must tread that line, as you know. What of the priests?” he asked quietly.
“There were three here when you left for the ayre court. Gone now, off to the west and the Isles, as Bruce requested.”
“Good. Menteith may be keeping an eye on us. So we must be careful.”
“Will there be more priests and renegades, sir? With Lennox here, I wondered.”
“Possibly. We need to be ready. Put the word out that we seek more men, quietly if you will—crofters and shepherds still in the glens, sons willing to be soldiers and someday knights. Any available for the Scottish cause are welcome here.”
“We will train them if needed.”
“You will make good work of it, as a fine seneschal and a good companion in arms these years.” He clapped Bran on the shoulder.
They reached the mews, a two-story wooden structure with a thatched roof and tall windows covered in lattice. As Duncan opened the door, Bran set off again, whistling Mungo to him. The dog hesitated, then followed the seneschal.
Duncan stepped into the dark and quiet.
She perched on a stand made of birch, her pale beauty a soft light in a shadowy corner. He took a thick leather glove from a wall hook and slid it on, then moved with soft steps over straw and woodchips toward her.
Cocking her head, the gyrfalcon waited, expectant. A delicate silver bell chimed on the jesses around her ankle. She cheeped, shifted.
“Hey, Greta,” he murmured. He lifted his hand and she stepped to the glove, golden talons gripping his wrist snugly. Her power surged, then waned as she settled there, familiar, accepting.
He wanted to bring Margaret here to show her that their bird was safe and well. He imagined her smile at the discovery. Soon he would do that. For now, he needed a little distance to think, and guessed she needed that too. Yet there were matters that needed settling between them.
“I am home, Greta,” he murmured, untying her jesses with one hand, twisting them around his fingers. “Aurelia, hey you,” he said then, hearing another cheep.
