Wonderful, Jack thought drolly. I choose the southern road to avoid the Pierce holding and I still manage to have Rab stumble upon me.
“I’ve never seen you before,” Rab said. “Where do you live?”
“On a small croft not far from here.”
“Hmm.” Rab didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t press Jack for further answers. “You often enjoy nightly walks?”
Jack nodded, but sweat was beginning to seep through his tunic. The man with the narrow, beady eyes and a chain of tattoos around his neck began to hand him a bannock, and that’s when it happened: one moment Jack’s hand was outstretched in acceptance, and the next it was twisted behind his back and he was harshly thrown facedown in the grass. He resisted the desperate urge to flail, to fight.
He lay quietly and breathed through his teeth as one of the riders took the dirk sheathed at his belt. Jack’s only weapon.
“Bind his wrists and ankles,” said Rab.
“Why are you binding me?” Jack raised his head from the loam. “I’m no threat to you.” He felt Narrow Eyes begin to fasten his wrists together, painfully tight, and then his ankles. Eventually, Jack was set back up like a puppet, and he watched as Rab sifted through his provision pack, dividing the meager spoils among his men. And then came the harp.
Jack could hear Elspeth’s warnings echo through him—you should leave your harp behind, bury it somewhere deep or give it to the river, and tell no one that you are a bard. He watched as Rab yanked the harp from its sheath. The instrument gleamed in the firelight, the simple carvings in its frame seeming to move and breathe.
“Why are you carrying a harp?” Rab asked, meeting Jack’s gaze.
“It was given to me.”
“And who gave it to you, John Breccan?”
Jack didn’t answer. He could scarcely breathe, feeling the wind tousle his hair like cold fingers.
“Do you recognize this, Malcolm?” Rab asked Narrow Eyes.
“Aye. Looks like one of Iagan’s harps.”
“As I thought.” Rab’s smile was a sharp crescent. “You stole this from Loch Ivorra.”
Jack frowned. “I’ve never been to Loch Ivorra. And I didn’t steal this harp.”
Rab carefully slid the instrument back into its sheath, but he kept it beside him on the grass. “I know what you are, John.”
“If that is so,” Jack said, his cadence rising, betraying his agitation, “then you would understand why I carry a harp that was given to me.”
Rab leaned forward. “You are a liar and a thief. I don’t believe anything you’ve told me, and you aren’t going anywhere until you give us the truth. All of it.”
Jack held Rab’s stare. His heart was drumming against his ribs, and his hands were going numb. This was not how he had envisioned his time in the west unfolding. This was not how his journey was to progress, and his hope began to wane.
“I’m a messenger of peace,” he said, which provoked a chorus of chuckles from the Pierce men.
“Of course you are,” Rab said with a chuckle.
“I carry a truth blade, which you’ve taken, and wear no plaid,” Jack continued. “I’m a bard, and this harp was given to me by Laird Torin Tamerlaine, who wrote that letter that rests by your foot, supporting my claims. Read it for yourself.”
The bold statements killed the men’s amusement. The camp fell deathly quiet. There was only the crackle and pop of the fire and the distant howl of the wind as it passed over the glen.
“You carry no weapons but a truth blade,” Rab finally echoed, ignoring the taunt of Torin’s letter. “But that also is a lie. Your harp is perhaps more dangerous than any enchanted steel.”
“It holds no danger unless I play it,” Jack said. “And you should let me go before my wife hears of this.”
“I take it your wife is Lady Cora?” Rab teased, and his comrades laughed.
“Yes,” Jack said.
The men froze.
“My wife is Lady Cora,” Jack repeated, calmly. “Her name was Adaira when she was in the east, when we were married. I’m traveling to her now, and I would appreciate it if you let me go without any more trouble—”
Rab was fast. He delivered a sharp blow to Jack’s face to silence him. Jack was momentarily dazed by the impact. He tasted blood in his mouth and spat it in the grass, his eyes watering as he looked at Rab and his barely contained fury.
“You are not a bard,” Rab said. “You only pretend to be.”