Page 89 of Luthias

“Aye, and corded with twine to keep their infernal shape. As ’twas the damned thing at the back.” The war master ducked his head and entered the cave, taking hold of something in the shadows and dragging it into view.

The sight of the cage, which had been built entirely of blackened, sharpened antlers, sickened Luthias. All of the points had been turned inward so that whatever had been placed in the cage would be pierced at every turn, but the shape of the construct resembled something even more gruesome. Criminals sentenced to die in iron cages of the same design would be stuffed inside and left hung at crossroads.

A momentary flash of a pale, thin hand reaching out through a gap in the antlers made Luthias feel even sicker.

“’Tis a gibbeting cage.” He eyed the smooth, knotted strips of leather holding the antlers together and wondered what murderous insanity had guided the builder. “Here, on our land?”

“Aye, and ’twas likely used to hold something large.” Taveon used his dagger to scrape the blackness from one of the antler points, revealing the horn underneath. “Every inch, ’twas soaked in blood I reckon. Mayhap ’tis from the time of the Romans. They hunted the druids in the highlands for half a century.”

“Blood doesnae last so long, no’ even sheltered in a cave. ’Twould have been long ago scoured away by weather and insects. ’Twas recently done.” Luthias drew back from the cave and looked around the site. “Search the slopes around this place for tracks. I want this madman found and brought to me.”

Had the hand he’d seen belonged to Mery? Would she be taken by this fack? Try as he might, he could not summon the image again.

“’Tis that I wonder. The bones, they’re from beasts, but ’tis no’ all we found.” The war master reached into a belt pouch and produced a length of ragged, stained linen that looked as if it had been partly gnawed through in the middle. “’Twas caught inside the cage.”

Luthias frowned. “Binding for the legs?”

“I reckon no’, my lord.” Taveon extended each end and brought it up to his face. “I reckon ’twas used as a gag.”

Chapter Eight

Although Emery had almost nothing to do, the same could not be said of the MacRoss and their vassals. It depressed her a little to discover how quickly the great hall emptied after the morning meal as everyone went off to do their work. She’d only caught a glimpse of the laird as he and Taveon rode off yesterday, and this morning Luthias had left before she’d come down.

The sages were still busy cleaning up the mess caused by Elder Sgur’s hair growth elixir disaster, and Duine had asked her not to visit their hall for a few days to keep the old sage from being tempted to experiment on her. Camdyn had left to obtain some special tools he’d ordered from a craftsman in a neighboring valley, and due to the day-long ride had spent the night there, so the forge stood empty. Darach devoted his mornings lately drilling the men out in the lists, but when she’d suggested she might watch them practice he’d just chuckled.

“Taveon claimed you couldnae bear to watch the laird beat Camdyn with his fists,” the chieftain told her. “The sparring matches, they’re far bloodier.”

“Fine, I’ll stay out of the lists,” she grumbled. “But I need something to do. I can’t sit around all day watching everyone else work.” As he looked out toward the gardens she shook her head. “Can’t. I accidentally pulled up a bunch of feverfew yesterday, so I’ve been banned from working in the gardens.” She sighed. “It just looked like a bunch of weeds. Who knew it was medieval aspirin?”

“Go and ask Cook if she’s some work for you.” As Emery scowled Darach wagged a finger at her. “Take a vow of silence first. Your tongue needs rest.”

Squaring her shoulders and putting on the most cheerful expression she could muster, Emery went into the kitchens, where everyone seemed to be mixing dough, covering bowls or carrying big rounds of dough out on huge wooden paddles to the stone ovens outdoors.

“Fair morning, Mistress,” she said as she sidled up to the cook and peered for a moment at the multi-grain dough she was kneading. “May I help out in the kitchens today? I won’t talk to anyone, I promise. I’ll just mix or bake something. Anything you want. Put me to work.”

“If you’ve naught to do, my lady, then you may grind,” the older woman said as she turned from the work table and handed off a platter of unbaked bannocks to a waiting scullery. “We’re in need of more flour and the miller shallnae send ours until the morrow. You may pick out grit to your heart’s delight.”

“Right.” She eyed the quern and the huge, heavy rolling-pin shaped stone used to reduce dried grain to powder. Just looking at it made her arms feel tired. “You know, oat flour always makes me sneeze. It’s worse than pollen. Have I mentioned that I have very weak wrists?”

“I imagine they’re puny compared to your tongue.” Cook tried to look haughty and disapproving, but her lips twitched. “You’re as fidgety as a cricket, lass. Why dinnae you go to your chamber and embroider with silks like a fine lady? ’Twill calm you.”

“I’m terrible at sewing.” Emery leaned close to whisper, “Also, fine ladies’ work is really boring.” As Cook chuckled she batted her eyelashes. “Give me something fun to do, Mistress, please, please?”

“Aye, well, then, you may go and help the maids take food out to the woodcutter’s camp.” She gestured toward some bulging cloth sacks lined up on the work table. “Dinnae dally there asking questions of the men, either, for they’ve much work to do.”

“Aw, see, you do love me.” She stood on her toes to give Cook a kiss on the cheek, dodged a half-hearted swat, and went to grab two of the sacks.

Two of the kitchen maids went with her, as well as an older scullery boy who tugged along a small cart laden with root vegetables, crocks of jams and piled of fresh-baked bread. From the stronghold they walked through the woods for ten minutes, during which time the maids gossiped about which guy from their village would make the best husband and sire the prettiest babies, which was pretty much all that interested the maids. That left Emery to talk to Tom, the scullery, who knew quite a bit about the lowlanders who had trekked from the lowlands to chop wood for the MacRoss.

“’Tis the way the laird clears the forest every year, my lady,” Tom told her. “The men cut up fallen wood, and fell any trees that have died since winter and yet still stand. We’ll get all the firewood we need before the first snow falls.”

Emery had wondered how the MacRoss kept their mostly-wooded lands looking so healthy. “It’s funny, but I haven’t seen any stumps around here.”

“The farmers bring oxen down before the ground freezes to pull them out, and plant new saplings in the space to hold the soil firm. My Da’s one of the tillers, so he helps them.” The scullery nodded at the path ahead. “There’s the camp.”

The cluster of stone and clay-walled thatched cottages looked as if they had been kept in good repair, and each boasted a chimney indicating the woodcutters had their own hearths to keep them warm during the chilly highland nights. Oil cloth coverings nailed over the small windows kept out the wind and rain, and the thatching looked as if it had been recently replaced. Emery saw a large fire pit in the center clearing that was probably used for cooking meals, and some stumps arranged around it as seating.

“Cook said to put the food in the headman’s cottage,” one of the maids said, heading for the largest structure. “He portions it out to the others for their meals. Tom, put the cart over there and come help me and Magda take down the shutters. My lady, can you sweep away the cob webs from the shelves and bedsteads?”