Page 24 of The Highlander’s Fallen Angel (Brotherhood of Solway Moss #2)

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”

William Shakespeare – English playwright, 1564–1616

“The crone says she’s a soothsayer, and the stars tonight give warning, milord.”

Kenan glanced toward the archway where a cloaked figure stood. Tierney or Morag? Be neither. But Tierney’s poetic note left no doubt that she had another plan in mind. Daingead .

If the soothsayer was Morag, her identity wouldn’t remain hidden with Gilbert there.

“Let her enter,” Murdoc said. “I would hear this warning.”

“Gilbert Macdonald,” Kenan called with a voice that would reach her, “I did not know ye searched the stars for predictions.” The soothsayer continued to step slowly over the rug-strewn floor toward them, nearly gliding, silent even, when she traversed the floorboards. She showed no hesitation walking between two guards.

Gilbert frowned at him over the gold-rimmed goblet in his thick hand. They sat at a long table better suited for a thirty-person banquet rather than the four chiefs, Henry, and the troublesome brothers. Murdoc sat at the head, Ranulf to his right and Gilbert to his left like a kingly trio.

“I do not,” Gilbert said. “I make my own fortune.” But he eyed the woman gliding across the hall as if he were just as frightened of witches as in his youth.

The cloaked figure walked right up to the end of the table. The guards had stopped near the entrance where Jok, Tomas, and Bartholomew stood watching the stiff exchanges. The soothsayer wore a crimson cloak with the hood covering her head, hiding her face. Daingead! Tierney had been wearing a crimson cloak when they came over on the Brinell.

The woman stepped onto the chair and then onto the top of the table as if she were climbing the steps to her throne, as if standing on tables was a natural occurrence for queens of darkness.

Murdoc stood so abruptly that his chair tumbled backward, clunking on the floor. “What is this?” His voice carried throughout the hall, and his men ran closer to the table. The maids carrying pitchers of ale and bottles of wine stopped to witness the show.

The crone raised her arm, her cloak tightly fastened with silken loops and knots down the front. A wafting of wings breezed into the hall, making maids scream and swords slide free. The currents of an unnatural wind blew through the hall, flickering the torches. By then, everyone at the table was standing as the giant crow flew across the room under the rafters to land on the table before the crone. On stick legs, it turned to stare out at everyone.

The figure raised her hands. One was covered with a glove and the other bare. The bare one was knobby with age. Morag.

“Beware, Murdoc of Eilean Donan,” she said, her voice ringing out with proclamation. “I have seen your end.”

“Who are ye?” Murdoc yelled.

“Do not be fooled by those closest to you.”

Murdoc instantly looked at Ranulf and then Gilbert.

“Why?” Murdoc yelled.

“Traitors seek to take your seat.” The crone walked along the table with small, gliding steps, the crow hopping out of her way.

Gilbert’s eyes were wide, and he half bent when the crow flew overhead.

“Remove yer hood,” Ranulf said. “I would see the face of a lying witch.”

The woman lowered her hood. Morag stared out with stony eyes.

“Aunt Morag?” Gilbert said and looked at Kenan. Kenan just shrugged his shoulders.

People had gathered to see the spectacle at the entrances to the hall. Was Morag a distraction for Tierney?

“She is yer kin?” Murdoc asked, anger tightening his face. “She warns me of yer betrayal.”

“She is Kenan’s kin, too,” Gilbert said, flapping his hand at Kenan.

“I’m no hidden traitor, though,” Kenan said. “I openly dislike ye.”

“Enough of this,” Murdoc said. “Woman, be gone.”

Morag didn’t look like she planned to step down anytime soon. Her crow grabbed a bun from the platter at the center of the table, flapping its wings to gain altitude. Morag ignored the bird and walked toward Murdoc. The only noise she made was when her cloak hit the goblets, knocking them over and sending the wine and ale running in rivulets over the table.

“Bloody hell, ye old witch!” Ranulf yelled.

Morag turned her gaze on him. “Help me down.” She extended her gloved hand.

“If it will get ye the fok out of here.” Ranulf grabbed her hand.

“Nay,” Gilbert said, but it was too late.

Ranulf yanked his hand back where a white substance covered his palm. “It burns!”

“Grab her,” Murdoc ordered, and his men ran forward.

Morag spun around and unclasped the top of her cloak, letting it fall.

White hair in a braid down her back, she held onto the cloak with her bare hand as she walked back down the table. The other hand was still gloved and coated in poison. The rest of her was completely naked.

…

As soon as Tierney heard a commotion inside, followed by the patter of slippers and then silence, she worked the latch on the door, the key in her other hand. Unlocked. Thank you, Saint Joan.

She slipped inside, her gaze sweeping the warm kitchen. A cauldron steamed over a fire in the hearth, sending the aroma of thyme and garlic into the air. Lumps of bread dough lay abandoned, deflated on floured tables. But unless Morag was burning down the Great Hall, stabbing Ranulf’s eyes, or creating some other catastrophic havoc, the cook and maids would return quickly.

“Stairs? Where are you?” she whispered, stepping between tables toward the back corner that sat in shadows. Reid said he’d been taken to the kitchen for broth and saw a door that opened when a maid was bringing down a tray, steps behind her.

“She’s what?” a voice came from the hallway beyond. “Is she mad? Poisoned glove and a crow.” Morag was certainly causing a stir in the great hall. Was Kenan heeding the warning and making his reasons to leave?

Tierney spotted the door toward the back corner and hurried to it, pulling the latch and sliding inside. She stood for a moment at the bottom of the narrow stone staircase, the stones rough without plaster since it was for the servants to use. They were also steep. Tierney stepped up them on the balls of her booted feet, quickly but without a sound. One complete turn brought her to another door, which would be the second floor. She continued around another turn and a half before reaching a door that must lead to the third-floor corridor.

Tierney listened, her ear against the wooden planks, her hand on the latch. Heavy footfalls came her way. Holy Joan! She looked around wildly. Even if she tumbled down the stairs, she wouldn’t make it in time before—

The door swung toward her, missing her by inches as she leaped down two steps. The middle-aged woman at the top, wearing an apron, gasped.

Tierney held a finger to her lips, but the woman opened her mouth to scream. Tierney waved her hands before the woman’s face. “I am Chief Murdoc’s…paramour, concubine.” What other words were there for a hired woman of ill repute?

“What?” The maid looked confused.

“His whore.”

“He already has two lasses in his bedchamber.” The woman’s lips pinched in a scolding, judgmental twist.

“I…suppose I’m number three.”

The woman looked down Tierney’s front where her cloak had opened. “Ye don’t look like a lady the master would want. Ye’re wearing a tunic and trousers.”

“Chief Murdoc requested it,” Tierney said. “A special…type…of…performance. I’m to kiss one of the other lasses, only to reveal I’m a woman.”

The elderly maid stared at her, blinking rapidly.

Tierney nodded. “I’ll tie my hair up to help my disguise. ’Tis why I keep it shorter than most.”

“I had no idea his lordship was so…imaginative,” the woman said.

“Oh, yes. Sometimes, we dress as wild animals and chase him around.”

“Oh my.” The woman flattened a hand over her chest.

“I best get there before he comes above.”

The woman flattened herself against the wall so Tierney could move past. Tierney looked back at her. “Which is his room?”

“Last one on the right…uh…miss.”

Tierney nodded, striding down the corridor. The woman kept watching her, so she went to Murdoc’s room and pushed inside. Two ladies sat at a small table playing cards, wineglasses in hand. Tierney leaned back against the door, breathing hard.

“Who are you?” a blonde with pouty lips asked. Her large breasts teetered on the edge of her bodice.

The other one had loose brown hair that was seemingly given to curl. She stared at Tierney with wide eyes.

Tierney dug around in Morag’s pocket and pulled out some coins. They plinked on the table when she dropped them. “Someone who hopes you’re able to leave Eilean Donan if you wish. Find Morag Gunn on the Isle of Skye if you need refuge.”

She turned away, hoping they wouldn’t sound an alarm and hoping the coins would give them freedom. Tierney cracked the door and looked over her shoulder. “Do you know which room is occupied, maybe locked, maybe with prisoners in it?”

The blonde was dividing up the coins with the brunette, using her finger to separate the coins evenly. “Near the servants’ stairs down on the left.”

“Thank you.” Tierney slipped out the door and hurried back the way she’d come. Reaching the last door before the stairway, she pressed the door handle. Of course it was locked. Would there be a guard inside?

Rap. Rap. “I have your evening meal,” she called through the door.

Movement inside, and then someone spoke with terse, measured words. “Well, use yer bloody key. We don’t have one.”

Tierney’s heart clenched, and it took her a moment to draw in a breath. ’Twas her father’s voice. She yanked the key from the tied pocket in Morag’s black cloak and shoved it into the lock under the door lever. A sprinkling of something shiny came out with it, falling on the floor. Mica dust.

She jiggled the key in the lock. “Please, please, please,” she whispered. The sound of the scraping tumbler sent relief pulsing through her. She turned it completely and pushed into the room, being careful to tuck the key away.

“Bloody hell,” her father said, grabbing a pillow from the bed to hold before his genitals. He was completely naked.

“Da?” she asked, not sure of what to ask, the shock of catching a glimpse of her father without a shred of clothing too disturbing for words. Her eyes glanced around the spartan room. “Where’s Mother?”

“I’m here,” she called, coming out from behind the privacy screen in the corner. She had a blanket draped around her. Fannie MacNicol’s hair was down in loose curls that hung to the backs of her knees, and the skin exposed in the V made by the clasped quilt showed she was naked, too. Even her toes were bare.

She ran awkwardly over to Tierney to hug her while holding the blanket, her hand squashed between them.

“What are ye doing here?” her father asked, his voice quieter as he hurried to shut the door. “Did ye give in to Ranulf and Murdoc’s demands?” From his tone, she couldn’t tell his preferred answer, so she didn’t give one.

Tierney looked between them, one holding a pillow before his jack, his gray hair curling over his chest. The other wrapped like a woman caught naked with a lover. “Why are you naked?” Tierney asked. “Both of you? Completely…naked.”