Page 71 of Blood of the Thistle

“Ye dinna speak like anyone I’ve ever met,” Etta continued, cutting her off. “And we’ve welcomed Welsh and Irish and even a Spaniard once.”

“Yes, I can hear that now,” Anastasia said self-consciously. “That I don’t sound like everyone else.”

“Nae anyone else,” Etta reminded her. “And what does Bram mean, a dangerous circumstance?”

“Have ye nae home?” his mother pressed.

“Well, I’m not sure, exactly—I don’t have a home in Scotland, or any family.”

“Nae home, nae kin,” Etta concluded. “Ye are both luckless and destitute?”

Bram shot his sister a look sharp enough to quash further questions while his mother seemed finally to recover herself from the considerable puzzle that was Anastasia Ellis.

“Ye poor child,” Mairead said, and for the first time since turning her attention upon Anastasia, her voice softened noticeably. “Come along, then. Straight inside, and we’ll see ye properly welcomed and made...” She paused, casting another critical eye over Anastasia’s garb. “Er, comfortable.”

Anastasia offered a small smile in response. If she felt overwhelmed, she hid it well enough for his mother’s benefit, but Bram had spent too much time beside her to miss the tension she carried. She glanced briefly toward him as Mairead took charge and began steering her toward the keep.

Bram watched until Anastasia disappeared through the doors of the keep between his mother and Etta, still carrying herself with that rigid composure he had come to recognize as evidence that she was anything but comfortable. For one fleeting moment, he considered following, if only to make certain his mother and sister did not overwhelm her before she had even crossed the threshold, but the thought was scarcely formed before Harsain moved into his path and the men who had crowded around Bram since his arrival closed in again.

“How in God’s name did ye come away from them?” Harsain asked, his voice lowered now that women, children, and half the village still milled about the courtyard. “We heard nothing after they took ye. Naught but rumor.”

Bram glanced once toward the keep before turning his attention fully to the men. “They held me first near Durham, moved me twice after that, and finally took me to Richmond House. Three months, near enough.” He saw Harsain’s jaw tighten but continued before the man could interrupt. “They meant to transport me to York for hanging. The prisoner to whom I’d been chained perished as we marched, and before they might bind me to another, I took the only chance I was like to have. Went into the river still wearing his cuff and mine and managed to get clear before the English could organize a proper search.”

“Still shackled?” Fearchar asked, his gaze dropping again to Bram’s damaged wrist.

“Aye. For days after.” Bram looked toward the doors through which Anastasia had vanished. “The lass was responsible for ending that particular misery.”

Niall muttered something in Gaelic about MacCailin never having possessed the sense to escape by any ordinary means, and Tòmas laughed beneath his breath. A few of the other men joined him, but the questions began to subside as well. There were wives and children waiting, duties neglected in the excitement of Bram’s arrival, horses still to be seen to. One by one they drifted away until only Harsain, Tòmas and Niall remained with him. Fearchar, likewise, had made no move to leave.

Bram waited until the nearest men were beyond easy hearing before looking at the four of them.

“There is something else,” he said, lowering his voice. “And what I tell ye now goes nae farther than those standing here.”

Harsain’s expression hardened immediately. Niall straightened, while Tòmas glanced toward the people still crossing the courtyard before stepping nearer. Fearchar merely waited.

“The ambush was nae happenstance,” Bram told them. “The English knew where we would be, how many rode with us, and the road we meant to take. I suspected betrayal while I was held, but at Richmond I learned whose it was.” Bram’s mouth hardened around the name. “Raghnall Hay.”

Tòmas swore beneath his breath. Niall stared at Bram in open disbelief, while Fearchar’s brows drew slowly together. Harsain said nothing at all for several seconds.

“Raghnall?” he asked finally. “Ye are certain?”

“Aye. He told me himself when he came to Richmond —nae as a prisoner. He walked about Richmond as freely as any English lord and carried his sword at his hip.” Even now, Bram could remember the satisfaction upon the bastard’s face, how comfortably Raghnall had stood beyond his reach while Bram was bruised, shackled and scarcely able to rise. “He wanted me to ken what he’d done. Said Scotland would lose, that Edward had strength enough to crush whatever resistance remained, and only fools continued bleeding for a cause already lost.” His jaw tightened. “He said he had chosen the winning side.”

“Son of a whore,” Niall muttered.

Tòmas shook his head slowly. “He supped with us not a fortnight before we rode last winter.”

“Aye,” Bram said.

“Sat at the same bloody table.”

Bram nodded. “He knew I wouldnae leave Richmond alive,” he continued. “Dinna trouble to hide what he was. Dead men carry nae tales home.”

Harsain had gone very still, his attention no longer entirely upon Bram. He was plainly revisiting those last days before the ambush, fitting old details around what he knew now.

“He knew our road,” he said.

“Aye.”