Chapter 25 #2
The graybeards cheered.
“Aye! Let him rot in thon watery hole!” Their shouts almost shook the walls. The castle dogs joined in, barking and howling, adding to the din.
“He deserves no better.” One of the elders pointed a honey-smeared bannock at Lorne. “You speak of men of steel and Highland chieftains. You err. We have vermin in our midst.”
“Enough!” Lorne slammed his fist on the table.
The grumblings ceased.
When the silence held, he gave a satisfied nod. “We are MacInnesses, ne’er forget that. Let us not besmirch our good name by denying the man a dry pallet to sleep on between now and his execution. I ask nothing else.”
“Soil our name?” Struan stared at him. “Have you no backbone? I vow you speak like a woman.”
Isolde’s gasp was swallowed by Lorne’s roar.
He surged to his feet so quickly, his chair toppled over. His right hand, balled to a white-knuckled fist, hovered near his dirk.
“Say the like again, and I will kill you,” he snarled. “Kinsman or nae.”
“Do so, and you’d sully yourself with a worse stain than taints the MacLean.” Struan leveled a cold look at him. “What would such a grievous sin do to your fabled honor?”
Lorne glared at him. “My honor is my own.”
“That must be why it’s so tarnished.” Struan leaned forward. “Dirk me and you’ll lose what little of it remains.”
Lorne’s face darkened, but he lifted his hand from his dirk. “I shall keep my honor until I breathe my last,” he said. “You would be wise to acquire some.”
Struan laughed. “The gods will swoop down from the sky before I need you to advise me.” He waved a hand at the others. “Nor are we a company of bards, here to sing praises for Donall MacLean.”
“No one here would do that.” Isolde spoke as levelly as she could, but in her heart, she was prepared for battle.
Indeed, she welcomed it.
So she lifted her chin. “Highland hospitality daren’t be broken, ever.”
Her uncle didn’t even look at her. “We are here,” he declared, “to take vengeance on a man Lorne would have us admire. He does so because, like him, the MacLean wears the spurs and belt of knighthood.
“Because” – now he did glance at Isolde – “his father chose him to lead their clan after his passing. Nothing else commends him to the greatness Lorne sees.”
“I ne’er said he was great.” Lorne half-rose, anger rolling off him. “I dinnae even like him.”
“But you respect him.” Struan didn’t make it a question.
“I do.” Lorne was equally curt. “I respect any warrior who stands tall when captured, is unafraid of threats.”
“We shall see.” Struan spoke lightly. “Some men cry for their mothers when threats are made real.”
Beside her, Isolde could sense Lorne’s anger churning inside him so she touched his arm. Blessedly, his tensed muscles relaxed a bit beneath her fingers.
“Knighthood does not make a man,” Struan thundered on. “Nor does a lairdship. Blood stains the links of the MacLean’s mail and that blood was shed by one of our own.”
Nods and grunts of approval rippled around the table, a few mumbles about Archibald as well.
Struan sent a dark look at the men who’d mentioned the late laird. “My brother is not here. Were he yet alive, he would not condone mercy for the perpetrator of his daughter’s death.”
Isolde’s breath caught, her heart squeezing.
For a moment, the faint scent of rose slipped past her nose and the hall seemed filled with a light, slightly luminous haze.
At the same time, Lileas’ face appeared in Isolde’s mind, clear and lovely as in life.
But her soft blue eyes looked troubled and her lips moved in wordless distress.
Sadly, whatever message she hoped to convey was lost. The fleeting image vanished almost as quickly as it’d come, overpowered by Struan’s booming voice.
Even the strange ‘shimmery blurriness’ was no more, the only haze remaining, the trace of peat smoke that always drifted about the great hall.
But Isolde’s heart thumped harder and the skin on her entire body prickled.
For a beat, she’d have sworn her sister stood before her. Had Lileas come to her? If so, she hadn’t looked pleased.
Feeling cold, Isolde rubbed her arms, then reached for her ale cup and emptied it, gulping down the remains of the watered-down morning ale.
Struan was standing now, his face fierce. “Archibald would want us to protect his remaining daughter and we shall. To the death, if the gods so will it.”
“You mean our lairdess?” came Ailbert’s thin voice.
“Do we have any other?” Struan scowled at him. “My brother only had two girls.”
“That I ken.” Ailbert’s scraggly brows drew together. “But how shall we protect her if the MacLeans attack?”
“Not by the bite of your blade.” Struan shook back his mane of rust-colored hair. “Nor will they be attacking us. They’ll no’ seek vengeance for a death they’ll think befell their laird at sea.
“If you’ve forgotten, the MacLeans believe their laird and the MacFie sailed with us to Glasgow.” Struan kept his gaze on Ailbert, spoke slowly and louder than necessary. “We’ll wait a respectable amount of time and then send word that both men were swept overboard in a storm.”
“But they weren’t,” Ailbert pressed, still looking puzzled.
“I ken that, ye addlespit!” Struan’s patience snapped. “We will tell them that was so.”
“What if they’re suspicious?” Ailbert’s chin jutted forward. “Your sword arm cannae be of much better use than mine.”
Muted laughter erupted from the other graybeards.
Struan clapped a hand to his head. “Am I surrounded by fools? 'How shall we protect her?’” he railed. “Why do you think we’re wedding her to MacArthur?”
You will not be marrying me to him, or anyone. A truth Isolde didn’t dare yet speak aloud.
Not yet anyway.
But her chill worsened, turning to an iciness that froze her bones. She sought calm, drew on all her strength, the teachings of her father. Outwardly, at least, she kept her dignity. She had to. It was imperative for her to know what was happening, what planned, before she took decisive action.
Winning the last battle is what matters, not the skirmishes along the way. Her father’s words, and wise ones. Advice she heeded often. But just now…
She was so tempted to yank her lady’s dagger from beneath her skirts, ram it into the tabletop and yell at the clutch of elders to come to their senses.
But something deep inside her held her back.
Ailbert pursed his lips, showing less restraint. “I dinnae like Balloch MacArthur,” he said, belligerence oozing out of every line in his wizened face. “He’s a windbag.”
“And do you doubt the might of his sword?” Struan set his hands on his hips. “He has reason to brag. The man has never been defeated.”
“His sword arm will have to stretch a fair distance to defend these walls.” Ailbert spread his hands in emphasis.
Isolde glanced at Lorne. He’d leaned forward and was watching the exchange with seeming interest.
“What twaddle is that?” someone called. “’Tis daft ye are, Ailbert. Balloch has sworn to bring a whole company of warriors to man Dunmuir’s walls.”
Isolde bit her tongue, her hand clenching on her empty ale cup.
“And so he will,” Struan said, reclaiming his seat. He lifted his ale cup to his lips but paused in mid-sip when Ailbert rapped his walking crook against the table edge.
“I am no’ done,” the ancient persisted. “I would-”
“By the devil!” Struan roared, spewing ale foam onto the table. “What is it now, Ailbert?”
“I would know how we are to defend our lady,” Ailbert piped, looking Struan in the eye. “MacArthur will bring neither his own nor his men’s might to defend us.”
Struan slammed down his ale cup. “What prattle-monger filled your head with such nonsense?”
“More than one,” Ailbert said. “’Tis claimed Balloch would be wise to keep his strength at home. His father will be wanting all his men to guard their own holdings.”
“Why?” Struan’s brows lifted. “Their isle is so remote, there’s hardly any would care to claim it.”
Ailbert drew back his shoulders. “The Sassunachs would.”
“The English?” Struan snorted. “’Tis bleating like an old goat, you are - full of stuff and nonsense. Edward of England signed a treaty two years ago. He will no’ be harrying our waters.”
Ailbert shook his head. “The Treaty of Northampton was agreed to before Robert Bruce died. Times are perilous now.”
“Perilous for you if you dinnae cease spouting such foolery,” Struan snarled.
Ailbert thrust his walking crook in the air. “Nae foolery. My sword skills may no’ be what they once were, but I’ve still got my wits.” He lowered his stick. “All of them.”
“Say you,” Struan muttered.
Lorne expelled a long breath. “Ailbert speaks the truth. Edward Balliol, elder son of old King John still seeks revenge against the Bruce, dead or nae. He wants the Scottish crown and is said to be seeking English aid to wrest the throne from wee David.”
“Aye, and Edward the Third is granting Balliol that support, and much of it,” someone else tossed out. “The young English king is said to have his grandfather’s success at arms. He’ll prove a greater threat than his weakling sire should he turn his attentions northward.”
“Some say he already has,” another put in. “The MacArthurs’ island has a deep and sheltered bay, a perfect place to hide enemy ships.”
Struan snorted.
Ailbert puffed out his chest. “The MacArthur will want his men atop his own walls. Each last one of them, most especially his son.”
Lorne placed his hand on Isolde’s shoulder. “Balloch has agreed to live here and reinforce Dunmuir.”
“So he has…” Struan let his words tail off as he pulled on his beard. “But if Ballilol and England’s Edward are banding together, should we no’ accommodate our lady’s future husband and his people in these troubled times?”
Lorne tightened his grip on Isolde’s shoulder. “What are you suggesting?”
“Only that, a suggestion,” Struan said, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps our lady should reside at Balloch’s stronghold after they’ve wed? He can better defend his father’s walls, she is removed from marauding MacLeans, and we gain prestige by impressing on the MacArthurs what congenial allies we are.”
“What if the Sassunachs come to Doon?” a frowning graybeard questioned from the end of the high table. “Who will protect us? The MacLeans?”
“Who, indeed?” Struan tipped back his head and peered up at the black-raftered ceiling. “No’ the bluidy MacLeans, I promise you,” he said, looking back at the graybeard. “Who has called this isle her own since stones were old?”
“Devorgilla?” Ailbert chimed in. “She cannae swing a sword.”
“Is that so?” Struan frowned at him. “She might send a slew of them flying through the air, though. At the least, she can raise a mist so that Sassunach ships cannae see our bonnie isle.
“But it willnae come to that,” he added, his eyes narrowing. “Her name alone will keep the English at bay.”
Listening to him, Isolde puzzled. Her uncle didn’t believe in the crone’s magic. He was, she decided, trying to soothe the graybeard’s fears.
A gesture that would have warmed her any other time.
Just now…
They would have to remain at odds until her waist thickened and the MacLean was back on the other side of Doon, the isle’s peace restored.
“What about our lady?” Ailbert again.
Isolde started, turned her attention back to her uncle and the eldest graybeard.
Struan heaved a great breath. “She will be safely wed to MacArthur. Once the Sassunach threat has passed, the pair can return to Dunmuir.”
“What if MacArthur chooses to keep her at his own Drumbagen?” Ailbert glanced at her. “She willnae like it there. I heard Drumbagen is so cold and windblown even the seabirds won’t nest there.”
“Drumbagen can be hell itself, it doesnae matter.” Lorne slapped the table. “Our lady willnae leave Doon. MacArthur can dwell here, as he’s promised to do. Lady Isolde belongs with us.”
As one, the elders sided with Lorne.
“Aye, well…” Struan shrugged. “As the council deems,” he said, waving a hand. “It was only a consideration.”
“And so I wish it to remain.” Isolde laced her voice with enough steel to silence any objections. “I also wish the MacLean to remain in Gavin MacFie’s cell.
“I do not care if he is questioned about my sister’s murder,” she added, holding Struan’s gaze. “Take hours to get the truth if you must, it matters not to me. But he shall be granted the respect a Highland chieftain deserves.”
Her defense of him took her by surprise. Yet she also knew that if she looked deep enough into her heart, she’d find the reason. That was the truth of it.
She just couldn’t explain why.
Nae, you know why. You are just unwilling to accept it.
“He doesnae deserve respect,” one of the men at a nearby table muttered into the silence that had descended. “At his own Baldoon, aye. But no’ here at Dunmuir.”
“I disagree.” Isolde stood and turned to the man. “He is laird of his clan and holds half of Doon. That accords certain courtesies, captive or nae. Such is the way of our Isles, how my father would have ruled, and” - she lifted her chin – “how I rule.”
Her authority asserted, she inclined her head to Struan and then looked once to each of the other elders. Some gaped, some grinned. Ailbert tittered. Many had a spark of admiration in their eyes.
Their loyalty touched her for she knew most were stunned when, before his passing, her father declared her to follow him, rather than Struan, his brother. And as so often, thinking of her father swelled her throat and burned her eyes.
But now wasn’t a time for sentiment. She daren’t show a shimmer of emotion, for sure not misted eyes.
Yet misted they were, tears threatening to spill.
Before her council could notice, she excused herself and left the hall, Bodo scampering after her.
Bodo, and the truth lodged so firmly in the darkest, back corners of her heart.
She did care what happened to the MacLean. She also didn’t want him kept in Sir Gavin’s cell.
She wanted him with her.