Chapter 36
“Kinsmen, honored guests,” Isolde greeted the gathered men. She stood at the top of the hall’s dais steps and took care to look calm, sure of herself. “My regrets that I have kept you waiting.”
“You should be regretting your treachery,” someone yelled from the back of the dais.
“Fornicator!” Another man shook his fist at her, his angry words joining the swell of curses and slurs. “And with the cheek to be proud of your wicked ways.”
As others hurled similar taunts at her, Struan stepped away from a knot of MacArthur warriors to stride over to her, his chest thrust forward, his expression fierce.
“Well, lass. What have you to say for yourself?” He fixed her with a cold stare. “How could you shame us with such whorish behavior? And with him? Laird of the MacLeans?”
“He is a fine man.” Isolde kept her head high, a powerful sense of peace sweeping her. “I am ashamed of nothing. Indeed, I am glad, however much I regret his capture and treatment here.”
“Have a care, lassie.” Struan waved a hand at the MacArthur warriors. “These men have grievances against you. As do our own people.”
“I have hurt no one.”
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
“Oh, but I do.”
She did. Especially when she looked about the hall, seeing not just the gathered men, but the tapestries and weapons on the walls, the roaring hearth fires, the age-blackened beams of the smoke-stained ceiling, and so much more.
She saw a haven built and loved by her family for centuries.
A place where every stone was steeped in years of MacInnes blood, tears, triumph, and heartache.
She now carried that legacy on her shoulders, her father having deemed her worthy of the burden.
The privilege.
So she raised her chin even higher, and narrowed her gaze on her uncle. “My good people have been more hurt by wrongly judging Laird MacLean,” she said, lifting her voice to reach every ear. “I no longer believe he or his clan had anything to do with my sister’s death.”
Throughout the hall, men roared disapproval. The glare of the nearby hearth fire cast a reddish glow over their angry faces, giving them the look of the devil’s own. Hell’s minions come to punish her for loving the MacLean, defending his clan.
“Lady, you overstep yourself.” Struan raised his arm, pointing at her. “You have turned your back on your own people, and broken your promise to Laird MacArthur.”
“I never agreed to marry him.”
“You agreed to always act in the good of our clan.” Struan’s face darkened, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. “You will suffer for your sins.”
“Sins?” A thin voice rose from somewhere in the crowd.
“Be it a sin when a lass loses her heart to a braw laddie?” The voice strengthened.
“If that is so, I shall be in sore trouble when I meet my Maker, for many were the lassies whose heads I turned in younger days. And I partook of more than their bonnie smiles, I’m telling ye! ”
Ailbert.
Despite her anger, Isolde smiled inside. She found the ancient in the crowd, spotting him easily for though bent and grizzled, he’d used his walking stick to climb onto a bench. And even across the hall, past so many glaring faces, she could see that his shone with love.
“Ailbert,” she called to him, ignoring the others. “We have all heard the stories of the many hearts you conquered. You have mine, as well!”
The old man beamed, standing straighter as his chest puffed with pride.
“’Tis true! Our lady cannae be faulted,” came another MacInnes voice. “Had we no’ hauled the blackguard beneath our roof, this would ne’er have happened.”
“Aye!” a third agreed. “’Tis our own fault. The MacLean is a known skirt-chaser.”
“He is a known murderer!” Struan bellowed. “Our sworn enemy, and tainted by his birthright to bear the guilt for his clan’s treachery.”
Shouts of approval erupted again. Growls and curses against the MacLeans spread through the hall as men began stamping their feet and banging fists on the tables. The din swelled, blocking out the few voices raised in Isolde’s defense.
“And you” – Struan again pointed at her – “you have broken all honor as chieftain. Loyalty to this house and promises sworn to the MacArthurs.”
A thunderous roar rent the hall. The foot stomping and fist hammering worsened, now a deafening clash that echoed off the walls and hurt Isolde’s ears.
“A grievous state!” Her uncle raised his arms, shook his balled fists at the heavens. “She must plead for herself and beg forgiveness of Balloch’s men. Now before it is too late.”
“I will not.” Isolde wouldn’t bend, drew strength by willing herself to see not a hall filled with anger and accusations, but warm brown eyes and a slow-spreading smile.
A knight’s smile.
She inhaled deeply, holding onto the image until her eyes stung with the effort.
Her uncle leaned toward her. “You refuse?”
“I do,” she said, the denial drawing gasps from the men.
“If I had done anything wrong, if I had harmed my people, my home, I would drop to my knees and beseech all of you to forgive me.” She looked about, meeting every eye she could.
“What I did, was to seek peace. An alliance to bring an end to strife.”
“An alliance?” Struan’s brows arced, his voice ringing.
“I followed my heart.”
“To the man taken to serve justice for your sister’s murder? That is where your heart led you?”
“Nae, no’ her heart.” A MacArthur warrior pushed forward, his face livid, his shoulders thrust back. “She was following the heated flesh between her thighs!”
“Whore!” another stranger shouted, and this time so close that the accuser’s breath fanned her nape.
Whipping about, Isolde narrowed her eyes at the angry MacArthur clansman.
“I am a woman, nothing more – or less,” she said, letting her tone challenge him. “Hear me well, all of you…” She turned back to face her uncle and the others. “Without honor there can be no heroes, but without love, we are deprived of life. Speak now, any of you who disagree.”
The rumbles around her spiked, then gradually stilled.
But not for long.
“Our felicitations, then, fair lady of the heart,” a sarcasm-ridden voice rose behind her. She turned again, this time to find Balloch MacArthur’s captain striding into the small space within the circle of onlookers.
“Lady Isolde.” He inclined his head. “You speak noble words for a wench who cannae be trusted the width of her spread thighs.”
The zing of drawn steel sounded as Niels and Rory shoved forward to flank her. Swords in hand, but aimed at the floor, they swept warning gazes over the gathered men, MacInnesses and MacArthurs alike.
“Our lady did what she deemed best for her people, this isle, and, aye, for herself,” Niels called out, his words sending a wash of gratitude through Isolde.
Drawing himself to his full, formidable height, he fixed a hard look on Balloch’s man.
“She never wanted the betrothal to your liege. Nor does she owe loyalty to any isle but her own. It is our shame that we failed her. She cannae be blamed for refusing to honor a union she ne’er meant to acknowledge. ”
The captain’s eyes bulged. Struan’s face almost purpled, and the other men just stared. Some muttered agreement, many snarled disapproval, while a few looked nervous.
Fingering the hilt of his blade, Niels lifted his voice, “Any who think otherwise can test my sword arm.”
“And mine,” Rory added, and gripped the hilt of his own blade. “Our lady’s honor has nothing to do with the MacLean whoreson,” he added, jutting his jaw. “He has a penance to pay, no’ our lady chieftain.”
Isolde stared at him, the hope that had been building in her chest replaced by shock and horror. Especially when the entire hall filled with shouts for Donall’s immediate execution.
“No-o-o!” She hurled her heart, her very soul into the cry. “I will not allow it!”
“You have nothing to say.” Struan was on her in a beat, grabbing her arm. “’Tis a blessing your sainted mother sleeps abovestairs. Witnessing your disgrace would push her deeper into the darkness she whiles in,” he snarled for her ears alone.
Holding fast to her, he turned to the crowd. “Donall MacLean dies at cockcrow,” he declared, his voice commanding. “His death will avenge the loss of our beloved Lady Lileas, and purge the stain our lady chieftain has brought upon us by lying with him.”
“Let me go!” Isolde seethed. “You will not touch him! I am still lairdess. I order you to release me!”
Ignoring her, Struan glanced to Balloch’s captain. “Send your liege our apologies for her behavior and tell him the man who dishonored her has drawn his last.”
“You…” He whirled on Niels and Rory. “The two of you bear equal shame for assisting her. You may purge yourselves by accompanying me to the bastard’s cell. I want him to spend his last hours weeping and howling. If you can make him beg for mercy, you may reclaim your honor.”
“No-o-o!” Isolde yelled again, straining against Struan’s iron grip. “Stop this now. This is madness.”
“Show your backbone,” he hissed, glancing sharply at her. “Do not shame us further.”
“I will see you killed.” Isolde struggled.
“Be still.” He whipped a dirk from beneath his belt, thrust it against her side. “Dinnae make me use this,” he warned, looking at the crowd as he spoke. “Kinsmen, men of the great house of MacArthur,” he rallied them, his tone almost jovial. “Food and drink are served!”
He made a sweeping gesture with his free hand, indicating the far side of the hall where kitchen lads were just entering the hall with platters of roasted meats and baskets of bread. Others brought jugs of ale and wine.
“Enjoy yourselves,” Struan finished. “I will see our lady to her quarters, where she may dwell upon her sins.”
No one argued.
Isolde watched the servants spread through the hall, carrying out preparations for a celebration, a feast to mark the death of Donall MacLean.
Her insides clenched and she weighed the wisdom of struggling or crying out again, her blood icing as she realized all eyes were on the feast goods being set on the long tables.
No one saw the dirk at her side, well hidden by the folds of Struan’s plaid.
Only she noticed when her uncle pressed the blade closer, its razor-sharp tip almost piercing her skin.
She froze, prayed for courage.
Then her uncle hustled her off the dais and through the throng, the dirk a silent threat at her side.
So she did the only thing she could and went along, not showing her fear, and with her heart clinging to her one hope…
Niels and Rory walked with them.