The Nutcracker Reimagined: A Collection of Christmas Tales Page 6

  “I do not understand.”

  “He sought an opportunity to prove himself, especially once it was clear that Reinhard doubted his intentions.” The Hawk closed the shutters against the night, refusing to think of Quentin’s night in the forest. Would he find the MacLarens? Or would they find him? The man had no lack of courage, to be sure. He frowned, knowing his former Captain of the Guard had not changed in that respect. “He fairly challenged me to cast him into the night, and when I bade him leave in the morning instead, he provoked me.”

  “How?”

  The Hawk spared his wife a smile. “Surely you can guess.” She caught her breath. “It was no more than a kiss, because I did cast him out.”

  “Mhairi must be vexed with you.”

  “She is.” The Hawk sighed.

  “He might die in the forest this night,” Aileen noted, watching him with care. “Or be killed by the MacLarens. He might be further maimed, for they are cruel.”

  “He might, yet I sensed it was the choice he desired of me.”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps he thinks his life has no merit.” The Hawk removed his tabard. “Or perhaps he has a plan to see the MacLarens routed.”

  “Alone?”

  The Hawk smiled a little. “The Quentin I recall had no lack of audacity. He was a clever foe and a bold planner. I would be glad indeed if that talent had not been sacrificed.” He nodded, knowing Aileen watched him closely. “You know I must ride to the priory before Sunday.”

  “We can survive without meat…”

  “Game is not what I will hunt,” he said, interrupting his wife with resolve. Her eyes widened slightly, but he knew she was not surprised. “You and Nigel will remain here.”

  “You cannot ride out alone!”

  “I will risk no other in this quest. If I am lost, Nigel will become laird, and have your good counsel. Inverfyre will endure. If we three are lost, Inverfyre might fall. I will not surrender easily to that prospect, Aileen. Do not ask me to do as much.”

  “I hate that they have risen in rebellion again,” she said with a savagery he understood.

  “As do I, but it must be resolved.”

  “And you have decided upon your course.” Aileen smiled and shook her head, then offered her hand to him. “I know better than to challenge you when your decision is made,” she said. “Though you must know that I will offer any alternatives that occur to me.”

  The Hawk smiled and kissed her fingertips. “I would expect no less.”

  “Then come to bed, my lord, and let us savor what is ours this night.”

  The Hawk gathered his wife into his embrace, intent upon doing exactly that.

  Chapter Four

  They fell upon Quentin like starving dogs.

  He was barely out of sight of the gates, a little too far for an archer to strike down a foe, when he heard the rustle of the dead undergrowth on either side. He had that instant of warning before they surrounded him, jumped him, and pummeled him.

  Quentin let them take him down easily. He cried out, ensuring his voice was weak, like that of an old man, and dropped immediately to the ground. They beat on him and kicked him and he groaned pitifully, all the while keeping a firm grip upon his walking stick.

  Zounds but he was glad of his boiled leather jerkin. He wore the armor hidden beneath his ragged garments and it shielded his body from the worst of the blows. Still, he knew he would be bruised.

  If they came close to killing him, they would learn that he was not so meek as he appeared to be, nor so old.

  There were five of them by his reckoning, young and strong.

  “It is that old cripple,” declared one man, perhaps the same who kicked him in the ribs, as if to punctuate the words. “The one who saved the witch.”

  Someone spat upon him. Quentin was pushed to his back and a fistful of his hair was seized to pull his features into view. He blinked then flinched as a candle was shoved toward his face. He tried to look confused, though his heart skipped at the sight of his opponent.

  On the other side of the flame was the ginger-haired man who had fired at Lady Aileen.

  Caillen MacLaren.

  “Kill him slowly,” that man said with a curl of his lip. “Give him time to regret his loyalty to the Hawk.”

  Quentin cackled like an old woman. He intended to startle them and succeeded. Several stepped back, perhaps fearing he was mad. “Aye, there would be the clever choice. Perhaps there is a good reason the MacLarens are condemned to live in the forest like brute beasts.”

  “And what reason is that?” Caillen demanded. He was clearly a brash youth, filled with anger and too impetuous to achieve anything of merit. Even if Quentin had to share some information to gain their trust, this man would not be able to capitalize upon it. The advantages of this rabble were their numbers and their viciousness.

  “Your own folly,” Quentin said with glee.

  Another of the men scowled and punched Quentin in the gut. He curled around the blow as if it had hurt more than it had and coughed weakly. He bit his tongue deliberately while he was hunched over and managed to cough some blood into his spittle.

  “So, you think us fools?” Caillen demanded.

  “I think it a less than wise choice to kill the one man in your company who knows all about Inverfyre, but then, I am old and some say mad.”

  That gave them pause.

  Caillen leaned down to squint into Quentin’s face. Quentin could see that the wound in his shoulder had not been tended well. It was still oozing blood and the blood was cloudy. He could not rely upon the injury to kill the wretch, though. Living in the forest would have made him resilient. “You saved the witch.”

  “Aye. I hoped to regain the Hawk’s favor, but I failed.” Quentin let bitterness fill his voice. “He threw me to the wolves years ago. I lost an eye and part of my hand thanks to his justice—” he sneered over that word “—but when I came to seek his mercy, when I saved his wife from harm, he hurled me from the gates again. I despise him! Even she did not argue my side!” He spat into the dirt and felt the outrage of his audience.

  “Bitch,” said one.

  “They’re no better than vermin,” said another.

  “Where were you all the day?” Caillen demanded.

  “In his prison,” Quentin lied and tried to look as if he had endured much. “They wanted to know all I knew before flinging me into the night to die.”

  “And what do you know?” asked a man with a lower voice.

  “Nothing!” Quentin wailed. “I saw. I jumped. I risked my own welfare and for this, for this, he would let me die.” He dropped his brow to his hand and sobbed.

  A wolf howled in the distance and the men glanced over their shoulders, not nearly so brave as they would have him believe.

  “I do not believe you,” Caillen said and pulled his knife. “We will kill you now and end your misery.”

  One of the men stayed Caillen with a touch. That he had the power to do as much intrigued Quentin. “Why should we trust you?” he asked quietly and Quentin realized he was the one with the low voice.

  “Why should you not?” Quentin whined. “I am injured by the Hawk’s choices and left by him to die this night. You have a grievance against him, too, so we have this in common.” He raised his hand, letting it shake and ensuring they saw his missing finger. Three of them recoiled. It was the one with the steady gaze, who had the wits amongst them, who did not. His hair was a deep auburn, not unlike Quentin’s own. “And I have seen the inside of the keep of Inverfyre. Surely that is of use to you?”

  “I have an ally inside the walls already,” Caillen said.

  “Do you? Has he told you how the Hawk will respond to your attack? Because I know, I know him well, and I have heard enough of his plan to guess the rest.” Quentin felt the flicker of their interest. He made a struggle of getting to his feet, relying heavily upon his walking stick. He took a step as if to hobble away and the other men moved to let him pass.


  The quiet one, though, stepped into his path. He drew his blade and touched it to Quentin’s throat, even as the others closed around him, blocking any escape. “What will he do?”

  Quentin shook his head, keeping his voice high and plaintive. “What advantage is there to me in aiding you? I have no guarantee that you will not kill me as soon as I confess what I know.”

  “You can live until the Hawk rides out, if you share what you know.”

  Quentin braced his hands upon his walking stick, wavering slightly on his feet. “And after that?”

  “It will depend if you are truly loyal to us, or if you prove to be the Hawk’s spy.”

  “If so, you will die slowly!” Caillen said with gusto.

  Quentin had no interest in Caillen’s threats. He was a violent fool who would come to a violent end.

  His advisor, though, was another matter. That one had cunning.

  Quentin would use it against him.

  He nodded once. “He will leave the matter a day or maybe two to lull you into believing that he has let the insult pass. Not much more than that, though, for he has an errand to perform.”

  “An errand?”

  “Sunday is the first Sunday of Advent,” Quentin reminded them but was rewarded only with blank stares. “He must fetch the Titulus Croce from the priory,” he said. “He must show it at the Mass, to prove his right to be laird.”

  The quiet one nodded and smiled. “And he will ride out with an army to fetch it.”

  Quentin shook his head. “Neither his lady nor his heir will leave Inverfyre. He will not put them at risk.”

  “He will ride alone?” Caillen laughed. “We shall take him easily.”

  Quentin spared that one a glance, a glance that the advisor noted.

  “What would you counsel?” that man asked, his blade still cold against Quentin’s throat.

  “I would let him ride as far and as wide as he chooses, and remain out of his path. Let him mark the entire perimeter of Inverfyre and find naught at all. Let him be reassured that all is well, for then he will retrieve his prize.”

  “Who will ride with him?” asked the quiet one.

  “At least one of his most loyal warriors will ride with him, to see to his own safety. Perhaps several archers.”

  That man nodded and turned to survey the road. “And there is a length of road between keep and priory that is out of range of the archers. I like the notion of them watching from the walls as their laird is robbed and killed, yet unable to come to his aid in time.”

  “An eye for an eye,” Quentin said, touching his own eye patch.

  “Dubhglas MacLaren lost an eye, thanks to the kin of the Hawk,” Caillen said with gusto, at least having the wits to understand the reference. “I will claim the Hawk’s eye in my cousin’s memory!”

  The advisor smiled. “And when we capture the holy relic, the Titulus Croce, we will hold the mark of legitimacy of every Laird of Inverfyre, brought to this holding by Magnus Armstrong.”

  Quentin nodded. “Take the Titulus and it could be argued before the king that you are the rightful Laird of Inverfyre.”

  “But I care naught for the king!” Caillen protested.

  Quentin hid his impatience with this notion. How could any man aspire to be a laird yet think he could then ignore the king? He kept silent, though, aware that the quiet rebel watched him closely.

  Caillen gestured to the keep that the Hawk had built, with its high walls and enclosed village. “The king, if he had a measure of sense, would have declared this entire structure to be an intrusion upon our ancestral land. I have no respect for the law, for it can be bought with coin.” Caillen’s eyes shone with malice as he leaned closer to Quentin. “But I will exact my own justice. I will kill every soul who swears fealty to the Hawk, cutting them down with my own blade.”

  “Aye,” murmured his violent allies, the bloodlust thrumming in their voices.

  Quentin felt that he was in the presence of wickedness but he did not protest. “Might can oft make right,” he contented himself with saying.

  Caillen continued with enthusiasm. “Aye! Inverfyre will be stained red with the blood of the traitors who pledge to the Hawk when I make it mine own.”

  “Aye,” said the quiet one. “And when the keep is claimed, you should marry his pretty daughter Evangeline, with force, if need be.”

  Caillen responded to the suggestion merrily. “Aye, Faolan! There is a fine notion. She will welcome me to her bed to stop the carnage, and I will ride her so often that the hall will be filled with our sons. We shall live in triumph at Inverfyre!” The rabble cheered this notion with gusto.

  “And who is your trusted advisor?” Quentin asked when the din quieted.

  “My own brother, the sole one I can trust,” Caillen said.

  Once it was said, Quentin saw the resemblance between them.

  “For the other, Ramsay, is as like to ally with the Hawk as with us,” said Faolan and spat at the ground.

  Three brothers then, and only two rebelling against the Hawk.

  Quentin wagered that Caillen was oldest, which was why he had claimed leadership. He seemed also to have a measure of charisma, which compensated for his lack of wit. Perhaps it was his violence that drew the others to him, but Quentin saw their loyalty shining in their eyes.

  Caillen gave Quentin a shove. “Give me your pledge, old man, that you will aid us to defeat the Hawk. Otherwise, you will be the first of his allies to taste my blade.”

  It was a ridiculous proposition, for there was only one thing he could say.

  “I told you already that I would be of aid to you,” he whined. “I told you already what the Hawk would do. If you are so faithless as to slaughter me now in return for my goodwill, then you are no better than he.” He fumbled at the neck of his chemise, baring the skin of his throat to view, ensuring that his hand trembled. He addressed Faolan, who yet held the knife, for he guessed that man would make the choice. “Strike here and kill me though I am unarmed, and see the deed done quickly.”

  Their gazes locked and held, but Quentin heard the murmur of dissent amongst Caillen’s followers. They were not inclined to mercy, to be sure, but his comment about faithlessness troubled them.

  “I say we let the old man live,” Faolan said with quiet force, sheathing his blade before Caillen replied. “He might yet be useful to us.”

  Caillen nodded reluctant assent, proving again that it was Faolan who held the power. “You can live, old man, thanks to my brother’s plea. I suggest you prove your measure, for when the Hawk rides out, your fate will be decided.”

  “I would beg for shelter and food.”

  “And you will be disappointed,” Caillen scoffed. “You will not sleep with us.”

  “Then where?”

  “Wherever you like.” Faolan gestured to the forest. He then leaned closer and lowered his voice. His gaze was hard, his manner chilling. “But do not try to run, old man. We will find you. If you try to flee or betray us, we will bind you and ensure you suffer so that death is welcome. I know these woods. There is no corner in which you can hide.”

  Quentin dropped his gaze as if frightened and let himself tremble. “You know this forest?” he echoed. “But it is so vast!”

  Faolan smiled. “We were aware of you as soon as you stepped over the borders of Inverfyre,” he said softly. “We let you hear our plan, in order to learn your intention.”

  Quentin looked up, not needing to feign surprise, and Faolan’ gaze was unswerving.

  “We do not care about the Lady of Inverfyre. We wanted to draw out the Hawk from his fortress. That you saved her means that he will ride out in search of vengeance. He will not return to his lady’s bed alive.” His smile broadened. “So, you proved your usefulness in that, which is why I say you can live another night.”

  Quentin was chilled. He had been used and not realized as much.

  Truly, he had lost his skills as surely as he had lost his finger.

&nb
sp; The revelation only buttressed his desire to see Inverfyre rid of these brothers and their followers.

  The young rebels smiled, so smug in their surety that all would proceed their way that another man might have been tempted to injure them immediately. Quentin shivered and groveled as if afraid, begging for their tolerance. He even fell to the ground and kissed Caillen’s rough boot, as if desperate to ingratiate himself, until Caillen shook him off with a laugh.

  “Go then, old man. Know that you will be watched until the Hawk is dead.”

  Caillen strode away then, his cohorts snickering before they followed him. Only Faolan glanced back, giving Quentin a level look that was a warning.

  Quentin did not imagine that he was unobserved, even when he could no longer see Caillen’s party. He kept his figure bent and shuffled deeper into the forest, thinking furiously. This Faolan was the brother with the wits and doubtless the ambition. If Caillen were killed, Faolan would assume the leadership of the rebels.

  It was clear to Quentin that Caillen had been used as well. He would be blamed for the assault on Lady Aileen and the Hawk would seek retribution from him, believing Caillen to be the leader. It was Faolan who must die, for it was Faolan who schemed for the MacLarens. He ceded to Caillen for the moment, but Quentin did not doubt that he meant to let the Hawk remove Caillen and be blamed for the death of another of the men in the forest. If both brothers died, Quentin would wager that the other rebels would scatter for lack of leadership.

  Did the Hawk know about Faolan? Perhaps not, though that brother was the greater foe.

  Quentin would see him dead, if it was his own last living deed. Mhairi could never be safe so long as Faolan drew breath.

  Indeed, he looked forward to completing that task.

  Mhairi dreamed.

  She was in the forest beyond Inverfyre’s walls, in the shelter that had been built by the old wise woman, Adaira, though it did not look precisely as she recalled. The walls were more solid than she knew them to be, for the silver trees that formed the walls had grown so tightly together that there was scarcely a chink between them. They glowed against the darkness of the night, like pounded silver, and the fire on the hearth seemed to pulse red light.