Chapter 25
Early the next morning, Isolde sat at the high table, her back against the elaborately carved seat of honor, the ancient laird’s chair that had last been her father’s.
The lift of her chin was her only concession to the emotions warring within her as she listened to her uncle Struan rage at Lorne for moving the MacLean from the sea dungeon to Sir Gavin’s more comfortable cell.
Interference Struan called a gross erring in judgment. Isolde held her peace, hard as it was to remain silent.
Her gut warned she would be best served by observing. Hearing the angry words her council tossed back and forth, paying even more attention to the unspoken nuances. Such had been the way of her father, and in keeping with the advice she’d received from her long line of learned tutors.
One of the worst ways to fail was by ignorance.
She wouldn’t allow the elders to bring ruination to her people.
Nor to her beloved Isle of Doon, her clan’s home for so many centuries.
Family legend recalled a wrecked Viking longboat washing ashore, the few survivors then staying on the isle and marrying the daughters of local fishermen, so wedding Nordic fierceness with the Gael’s deep love of the land, their appreciation of the old ways, and their regard for tradition.
Those souls built Dunmuir, carving the stronghold out of Doon’s cliffs, an undertaking said to have been approved by Devorgilla herself. Even if the crone only smiled when asked about the truth of the claim.
After all, admitting the like would reveal her great age, wouldn’t it?
Sometimes silence served a purpose.
Hers had this morn…
In addition to studying the elders, she now knew why she hadn’t received any further lessons in the fine and noble art of knightly kissing.
Lorne was apparently keeping a close eye on the MacFie’s cell. Quarters now shared by the MacLean.
That meant Rory and Niels couldn’t spirit him away as easily. But they could have informed her. No matter, there were other nights, the coming one included.
She would think of something.
Bodo’s cold nose nudged her ankle then, and she reached down to rub his floppy ears, grateful for the comfort he gave her. Glad, too, for an excuse to turn away from the table, a move that allowed her to hide the warmth rising on her cheeks.
A blush brought on by the thought of the MacLean’s kissing skills.
“Lorne, you test my patience.” Struan’s booming voice rose to the great hall’s smoke-blackened rafters and echoed off the weapon-hung walls.
Isolde sat up to find her uncle’s face dark with anger, his gaze pinned on Lorne. When rumbles came from the other elders, he smashed his fist on the table to silence them.
Then he again turned on Lorne. “I ordered the MacLean held in the sea dungeon. You took authority you dinnae have.”
“I say you overstep yours,” Lorne countered, his own voice every bit as commanding as the war leader’s. “We’ve broken the code of hospitality. Let us not further shame ourselves by disregarding the rights of-”
“By the powers!” Struan shot from his chair and leaned across the table. “Are you so high-minded you’d give the bastard rights?”
“He is a knight,” Elder Ailbert chimed in. “Laird of Baldoon.”
“So he wears mail and chinks when he walks. I dinnae care if he’s the devil’s arse wiper!
” Struan glared at the white-haired ancient before he lowered himself back onto his chair.
“He is a murderer who forfeited all rights and courtesies granted to his class the moment our Lileas drowned on the Lady Rock.”
Isolde stood, unable to remain quiet. “Uncle, my good elders,” she began, looking round at them all. “We cannot be certain the MacLeans killed my sister.” Her pronouncement rang strange in her own ears, the statement surprising her as much as it had her council. “We have no proof.”
“Are you mad, lassie?” Uncle Struan stared at her as if she’d grown a tail and horns.
“Nae, I wish to be fair.” She reclaimed her seat and took a slow sip of morning ale. “I do not believe we have been.”
“This is a matter for men.” Her uncle’s tone changed, some of the fury leaving his face. “That is why I am clan war leader, our ceann cath.”
“My father chose me as chieftain.” Isolde set down her cup. “My word is law, or is that not so?”
“Aye, so has it e’er been.” Struan speared a piece of a cold herring with his eating knife and brought it to his mouth, taking his time to chew and swallow before adding, “Highland law, our ancient tradition. Nae man here would break it.”
“Then all is well.”
Struan humphed, his attention on spearing more pickled herring.
The other graybeards gaped at her, round-eyed and slack-jawed.
All save Niels and Rory.
Standing near the roaring hearth fire at the far end of the dais, they’d clearly heard everything.
Niels looked embarrassed and averted his gaze.
Rory showed no such shame. He narrowed his eyes at her and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as if the MacLean and his warriors might rush into the hall any moment, blades drawn and tempers high.
A thrill of excitement shot through her at the thought of seeing the MacLean wield a sword. If his mastery with a blade was anything near his skill at kissing, it’d be a sight to behold.
At once, she forgot her annoyance with the council. Her heart began a slow, hard thumping. The image of the MacLean in full battle fury almost swept her into the soothing fog of a pleasant dream, or would have, did her uncle not call her name.
Blinking, she tore her gaze from Rory’s sword. “Aye?”
Struan was staring at her, his herring-laden eating knife in his hand. “Who do you think did?”
“Did what?” She blinked again, trying to remember what he’d said.
“Where is your head, lass?” Struan half-rose and leaned toward her, his hands spread flat on the table. “If not the MacLeans, who do you think killed Lileas? One of the selkie people?”
Before she could answer, a bark of laughter burst out at the other end of the high table.
“The selkies?” Another man hooted, slapping the table edge. “We’ll have to ask Gavin MacFie about that. His clan boasts they hail from a seal-woman!”
More chuckles followed, a few jests about the MacFies.
Struan silenced the men with a stern glance.
To Isolde, he said, “Who do you think responsible if not Iain MacLean?”
“I do not know. Certainly not the seal people.”
She held her uncle’s gaze, disturbed by her wish to believe the MacLean had nothing to do with Lileas’ death.
“I only know it couldn’t have been MacKinnons. We would have seen them pass through our waters.”
“But we didn’t, did we?” Struan straightened and folded his arms. “We have lookouts on the cliffs. They watch MacKinnons’ Isle every hour of the day and night. Yet nary a galley of theirs, no’ even a hide-covered coracle, has plied the sea in months.”
“The MacKinnons have been feuding with us and the MacLeans for years, so a motive is there.” Lorne pointed his eating knife toward Struan. “They could have used stealth to reach Doon.”
His argument drew snarls and angry looks from the others.
“Eh?” The graybeard to Lorne’s left scowled at him. “Are ye saying we have poor eyes? That we cannae spot a ship in our own waters?”
“Nae.” Lorne shook his head, then reached to grip the man’s shoulder. “You see fine, Finlay. So do the others.” He looked round, gave a nod to include them all. “All these isles are plagued by sea fog. When a thick mist rolls in, any man could miss a galley or coracle gliding through the night.
“We had such conditions when Lileas vanished,” he added. “The MacKinnons could’ve been here and away before anyone knew they’d set foot on Doon.”
Struan snorted. “So the MacKinnons snuck here to kill an innocent lass? And risked running aground on our skerries? Tearing the hull from one of their prized ships by sailing when they cannae see their hands before their ugly faces, much less our reefs?”
Lorne shrugged. “Men are no’ always cautious.”
“Aye.” Struan shook his head. “And you are the fool.”
Chuckles again rippled through the ranks of the elders. One or two jabbed their elbows into their sitting partners’ ribs, and amused looks flew the length of the table.
Lorne’s face hardened. “That the MacLean must do penance is without question. Grounds to suspect the MacKinnons exist but are slight. So long as no MacLean admits the act, their laird is honorbound to shoulder the blame.”
“So we agree on that.” Struan speared another herring.
“Aye.”
Lorne’s agreement chilled Isolde.
She’d hoped his lenience meant he’d speak out in favor of releasing Donall the Bold and his friend.
Taking an ale cup off the table, Lorne drained it. “Heedless of the MacLean bearing the guilt, as a fellow knight, I condemn the disregard we’ve shown his status.”
“Ho! You’re the only knight among us,” someone called from another dais table. “So the rest of us are safe from such an affliction – treating him with kindness?”
A chorus of hoots and guffaws rose in answer. Fists banged on tables and stamping feet followed, the graybeards’ mirth filling the hall.
“Lorne meant respect, nothing else,” Isolde lifted her voice, but her words were lost in the ruckus.
“Our lady has the rights of it.” Lorne leaned aside as a serving lass set a platter of fresh-baked bannocks on the table, then he turned back to Struan. “Any captured knight deserves as much, a laird even more so.”
“You speak like a woman.” Struan looked him up and down. “Have your danglers fallen off? Either way, you are alone. The council sees no need for mercy.” He raised a hand, then clutched his fingers into a fist. “They want a cruel and odious death. As do I.”
“I didnae say to spare him,” Lorne argued. “Only that he has shown great bravery. That, and his rank should be honored.”
“Pah!” One of the graybeards jeered. “I be long in years and ne’er heard such rot. I dinnae care if the ghost of the Good King Robert Bruce comes before us to speak for the bastard. I say haul him back to the sea tower.”