Chapter 19
Mathe looked out over the Dundonnell and lost himself in the movement of the water.
The rain had stopped overnight, but the sky was steel grey above, and the river flowed high from runoff in the surrounding hills. The sound of the water was like a balm to his pounding head, and Mathe asked himself what he was doing. His mouth was as dry as sawdust, and even the slightest movement brought a stab of pain in between his eyes. He’d barely drunk any ale since he’d returned to Dun Lagaidh, and indeed in the last six years, so why did he think it a good idea to partake last night with such enthusiasm?
The answer, of course, was to set people at ease, and to establish that he was one of them. And despite that, he was still no closer to being brought into their confidence than he was before he’d stepped foot into that horrible place.
Footsteps echoed along the jetty, and he lifted his head slightly, waiting for Fergus. The old man groaned as he knelt down and sat next to him, and they both looked into the water for long moments.
“Good news?” the steward asked at last.
Mathe shook his head. “Nay.”
Fergus frowned. “Anything at all?”
“I could give ye the names of everyone in the place, but nobody opened themselves up to me. They might be coy, or they might be innocent. I felt… something, though. Like there were words unsaid, things around me I couldnae grasp. There’s something there, I know it. But they willnae let me in yet.”
Fergus swore softly. “We’re running out of time.”
“Aye,” Mathe replied. “If I had more of it, I could do this slowly. Start small, form closer bonds, establish myself as someone they can trust.”
“I’m doubtful that Blaine will grant ye more time. Scouts report a massive movement of MacDonald troops. Things are happening around us, and if these secret supporters of the auld laird are going to move, it will be now.”
Mathe nodded. “Even if that wasnae the case, I need this to end. I’m lying to Lilidh and Fynn.”
“For their good, though,” Fergus pointed out.
“Perhaps.”
“Ye have doubts?”
“I cannae help but ask myself if a house is worth what I would put her through, were she to find out.”
“Blaine doesnae want ye to do anything ye’re no” comfortable with,” Fergus reminded him. “Aye, he wants those names, but he’s also a good man. If ye want to walk away, tell me.”
Mathe frowned. A part of him wanted to walk away; to leave this behind and go back to Lilidh and Fynn and do the things he swore he would do. And yet one of those things was to make amends, and to give them what they deserved. They certainly didn’t deserve the tenement house on the western wall.
“I’ll try once more,” he said. “Tonight. If I cannae get anything, then it’s over. Nay names, and nay house.”
Fergus nodded. “What makes ye think tonight will be different?”
“I need to force their hand, somehow. To make them accept me.”
“Without raising suspicion,” the old man pointed out.
“Oh, aye,” Mathe said and gave a humourless smile. “Easy, right? After all, we’re only dealing with traitors and possibly even murderers.”
“Dinnae risk yerself, Mathe. Blaine made that clear.”
“He did, and I willnae,” Mathe said. “I cannae leave Lilidh and Fynn alone again. Dinnae worry; I have an idea or two.”
The old man rose and patted him on the shoulder. “I’d be surprised if ye didnae. This time tomorrow?”
“As ye wish.”
Fergus nodded and left him, and Mathe turned back to the water and heard the old man’s footsteps recede into the distance. He had some ideas, all right, although none of them were appealing to him. But then again, the whole situation he’d found himself in wasn’t appealing, so perhaps the best thing was just to get it done and over with as quickly as he could. One more night, one more attempt, and he could put his hand on his heart and say he tried his best.
But first, Mathe needed to borrow a shaving blade and a shovel.
* * *
In the ruinsof the old farmhouse, the closest thing to a home that he’d ever known, Mathe balanced Mèirleach na Beatha in his hand.
It was heavier than he remembered. The blade was wider than most swords, and shorter, being made for thrusting and close quarters combat rather than battlefield heroics. Even after all this time, the blade was still sharp. The steel was bright despite the overcast morning, and he could see the distinct wave pattern when the light hit it just right. The ruby buried in the hilt was as large as a quail’s egg and as red as blood.
Mathe bounced the sword in his palm and frowned at the strange conflict of emotion. It was both the finest gift he’d ever received, and the most terrible thing to ever happen to him. The sword became an extension of his arm and of who he was, part of the legend, and to see it again in the light of day sent a shiver of fear through him.
As he sat in silence, Mathe again asked himself if he was making the right decision. There was nobody he could speak to though, no counsel he could be offered, so all he had was himself and his own thoughts. He wanted what was best for Lilidh and Fynn, and after so many years, they deserved more. And Mathe knew that this was the only way to get them something more. So in a sense, the decision had been made for him. The moment Blaine walked into his room, things were out of his control. He was like water; flowing, reacting, trying to do the right thing but knowing that he really didn’t have a choice at all.
Mathe stood and reached down into the box to pull out his leather kirtle. It was a heavy coat that trailed halfway down his thighs and was also a part of the myth he had built for himself. The sword and the kirtle, his two instruments of fear. He slid one arm in and worked the stiffness out, then pulled it on. It was reinforced with strips of cured leather on the inside, acting as a light armour, and the heavy shoulders returned to him some of the girth of the MacBrennan of old. As a young man he’d been blessed with a physique that was both tall and sturdy, and he recalled how tight the kirtle was around his arms and chest. Now, though, he breathed easily, and felt it slide up and down his arms as he moved.
He pulled the kirtle closed and buckled it, then tightened his belt and thrust his sword into its sheathe. The transformation was complete, and Mathe shivered at the feeling of a cold wind upon his naked face. After he’d shaved and cropped his hair, he’d frowned for a long time at the man who stared back in the mirror. It was a man he never wanted to see again.
Mathe looked down the valley towards Dun Lagaidh and breathed deeply to quench the nervous fear that gripped him. It had been many years since MacBrennan walked the streets of the town. How would it react?
He pulled the sword and kirtle off and dumped them into a heavy burlap bag with a sigh of relief, like a weight had been lifted from him. How could simple possessions conjure up such strong emotion? Mathe craned his neck up to look at the position of the sun. It was still mid-morning. He decided that if he was going to put all his cards down on one hand, he might as well do it right. He’d go back to the stables, change into the old clothes of MacBrennan, and have lunch at the Dog Ear. That would get enough people talking that maybe a decision could be made by the time he returned that night.
At least Lilidh was working today, he thought to himself. There was absolutely no chance she’d see him in those accursed clothes. And once he left the Dog Ear that night, he’d take the kirtle home and burn it.
Mathe squared his shoulders and began the walk down into town, practicing his old gait; head up, barrel chest tight, always looking people in the eye, never blinking or looking away when someone met his gaze. It was all slightly ridiculous. He was no longer the man he was, either in body or in spirit, and he just felt foolish. He tried to roll his shoulders forward to increase his bulk, but it made his arms hang oddly, and he gave up with a snort.
Once inside the town, he let himself into the rear door of the stables. There, alone, he once again donned the instruments of MacBrennan and practiced his walk again. The padded kirtle helped somewhat, but the heavy sword against his thigh kept throwing him off balance. Up and back he walked, over and over, until it felt more natural, and from the depths of his memory something stirred. The last vestige of MacBrennan, rising from the depths of his consciousness, imbuing his walk and his gaze and his cold, cruel smile.
It was almost enough to nod in satisfaction, mastering the persona once more, until Mathe reminded himself what it meant.
But it was just an act, he reminded himself. A game, and nothing more.
And it would be over soon.