Chapter 14
Challenge. It was a challenge running her hand over her face to pull back the auburn curls determined to see otherwise after they walked in from the drizzle, because her wrists were re-bound.
Sir Brayden had kept his word; his plump cheeks appeared to be suppressing a grin at his feat.
They were currently crossing the threshold not to the Lord Constable’s chambers but the throne room itself to be presented before King Alexander!
Oh my, it seemed they weren’t the only ones.
“Step aside!” Sir Brayden barked. “Make way for a lassie.” Aye, thank you, fate-seer heading on through for a super-secret mission.
Aonghus, bound also, took a half step before putting his shoulder into a few spines, who grunted and shuffled aside. She leaned up on her toes to get a glimpse at the surroundings beyond. Nope. Only clansmen, furs, and beards. Ugh!
Looking up, she discovered soaring ceilings alongside some wayward winged creatures who had flown in the double doors to chirp upon the beams above.
Huh, just like H?konsson’s great hall in Bj?rgvin.
The structure also had similar stone walls.
It made sense; the King of Norway had commissioned one from near here to build in that style.
For a second, her mind traveled back to the first step she took before H?konsson with a very different warrior at her side than the raven-haired Scot, who bumped another from her path.
A bile rose in her throat at the fear in that moment past and the words Kollungr had threatened: “You shine bright before my lord king or face my wrath; I’ll take you limb from limb for each disappointment till your screams echo Bj?rgvin for all time.
” She took a steep breath, and the fresh, sweet rushes under her feet brought her back to the present.
That was then, this was now, and she would speak with her king!
Sir Brayden situated them beside Alec and Callum, who she guessed stood before the MacCade clan. There was no way to determine which region they all hailed from given earth-toned tunics and chausses abounded. Huh, look at that – they were clustered together; aye, so was the group over there.
The drizzle outside the arrow slits became a pounding downpour. She narrowed her eyes. Oh, good, here come some more pages with torches for the empty sconces.
Sir Brayden took his place beside his two prisoners, while voices already boomed the distance near the colossal lit hearth.
She heard an oath given. “We pledge the MacKinnon clan’s loyalties to you, our lord king!”
“How many in your charge?” Aonghus murmured low at Alec, earnestly.
“Another thousand beyond those gathered here,” Callum interjected, giving the answer proudly.
A chief who smelled of fish groused, “Shut your mouths while in our king’s presence.” There was a rude one.
All three MacCades gave dark looks at the owner of the order. She took a tiny step back from the formidable brothers. Yep, they thought so too.
“Ignore Chief MacLyant,” Sir Brayden said in his own ominous command toward the three appearing ready to raise fists. At least all weapons had been seized before entering.
The scuffle quieting, she tried to see over the towering warriors.
Only fur-clad shoulders – dammit, the curse of being too short.
Shuffling a few more steps toward the front, where the center aisleway had a bridged gap for those to approach His Highness, she finally took an angle.
There! She could see the proceedings. Sir James stood at his post as headguard, fully armed, to the throne’s left beside a gray-bearded warrior who looked hard as tack – this must be Lord Constable Sir Roger De Quincy, one of the supreme voices in King Alexander’s forces.
Centered, seated like the king he was on the regal dais with dramatic draping hanging over the throne – by all the saints above, there he was.
Alexander! Here she was…what, maybe half the hall’s distance from him?
Well, maybe almost the whole hall, but still she was in the same hall as the king!
She clapped her hands together before her.
Her eyes narrowed. Wow, what a vast contrast in age: a score and two years for Alexander, versus H?konsson who was almost triple this, nearing three scores old.
This Scot must be a warrior king, the same as the Norwegian.
Alexander had a broad build and a thick dark beard that matched those deep-set eyes.
Interesting, his hands – look at those rough callouses, almost visible with a slight trace from dirt beneath the nails.
He had no objections at getting his hands soiled; aye, he was as formidable as her glances, both shadow and night, had shown.
Would she have seen any of this if not for having her own Scotsman champion her? When she turned, Aonghus was…wait, was he admiring her? A smile quirked her lips upward. An excited bubble rose within her; she dashed forward, brushing her lips over his bristled cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered, ardently.
***
Aonghus clenched his hands at his waist; he couldn’t grab her and claim her lips thoroughly in these surroundings…
or any, lest he taint her if he lost a grip on the desire weighing his soul the more time he spent with her.
Her expression appeared that of an entranced lassie at reaching her goal, even if they were bound prisoners, to speak before King Alexander.
“You’d best refrain from fornicating directly in our lord king’s presence,” MacLyant said, cynically.
To Aonghus’s shock, Callum’s back stiffened.
“You do not need to provide manner training for my wee brother,” Callum hissed, “after I caught your married hide cheatin’ with a tavern lass middle of your clansmen half fortnight past on all our journeys here and keepin’ us from rest with your squealing all night. ”
The MacLyant chief appeared ready to step forward before Sir Brayden cut him off. “Stand down, MacLyant.”
Aonghus noticed Keirah’s eyes were taken from their conflict back toward the proceedings when the next clan announced an alliance in grand overture tones. Her view had been blocked again, he noted; trying to capture a glimpse, she shuffled farther forward.
“Never have I seen a traitor so eager to be presented,” MacLyant stated in a vindictive huff.
They all observed the dirty lass clutching her bound hands in an earnest way before her tummy. Given Fiona had been shorter, the dress came to her ankles, showing that Keirah stood on her highest tiptoes trying to see. How adorable. Same as an innocent sweet lass waiting for a gift to be unwrapped.
Alec thought so too. “I do not agree; seems rather endearing.”
“Daft,” MacLyant grumbled, decisively.
“You are mistaken, MacLyant,” Aonghus challenged. “Sharp as a thistle, that lass – you shall bear witness.”
So taken with all the fanfare, the auburn topic in discussion didn’t turn fully toward them, but Aonghus observed her eyes began to pinch closed. Ah, shite.
“Ha.” MacLyant chuckled the words under his breath, dismissively. “So keen and observant the lass is now dozing upon her feet.”
Aonghus looked toward King Alexander; with his height, he could easily see over all the scalps.
Cough, cough. The king tried to clear his throat; a server raced to fetch a fresh goblet.
Aonghus looked back toward Keirah, finding her eyes remained squinted closed.
His pulse picked up speed, his wrists tightened under the ropes, and his hands formed fists when an eerie sensation took his bones the same as a fog descending over a battlefield.
No other way about it, she was having a shadow-glance.
He murmured gravely at his two brothers flanking him. “Prepare yourself.”
“Prepare?” Callum questioned right before the chaos crashed down.
He saw her gaze pop open. “NAE! MY LORD KING!” Keirah’s scream rang through the hall before she bolted directly into the wide-open center toward the monarch.
Shite!
Aonghus charged past Sir Brayden, whose hand whooshed by his shoulder.
Sir James was reaching for his sword after spying her charge!
His feet pounded the granite the same as his heart when Sir Sean appeared with a sword’s hilt snapped into his palm at the ready and pain promised in his gaze if Keirah continued charging at them.
A few hands shot out to grab the racing lass, who suddenly appeared to be part sparrow in flight as her feet almost flew over the aisleway’s terrain, which had been cleared for each clan to be presented.
“Catch her!” Aonghus heard a panicked voice on his left from one clansmen’s cluster.
Another thundered, “Seize the traitor!”
“DO NOT touch the goblet, Lord King!” She screamed again as Aonghus closed in on her after another warrior who stepped from line trying to capture her missed and fell onto the ground at the force he had lunged.
She cried, frightfully: “DO NOT let your lips touch the goblet – ’tis tainted with poison!”
Aonghus’s eyes widened at the sight of Sir James advancing up the column toward her, sword drawn. No!
The clans closest to the king closed ranks behind Sir James, protecting the king, while Sir James bolted right at her.
“NAE!” he yelled at the knight.
She tripped on a pile of rushes bunched up on the floor, which paused her run.
He leapt forward. His bound wrists raised, looped over her skull, and grasped her about the waist. In swift move he ripped her close to him and spun her about so the knight’s blade would impale his back and not her if Sir James made good on the threat etched upon his face.
He heard her breath puff from her lungs at the impact of the violent halt.
Her skirts slapped his legs, and she began to drag a heavy inhale while trying to say. “Do not allow your lips to grace the goblet, my lord king!” but her tone was more a croak than voice to the throne hall gone dead silent with exception of the pigeons cooing in the rafters.
“Sir James,” King Alexander bellowed, sounding enraged. “HALT!”