Chapter Sixteen
When William sank into the saggy cot in the chambers he shared with his father and cousins, he still had no sureties what the Morays’ position was, exactly. Malcolm was an expert at talking out of both sides of his mouth, as his father liked to say. The past two days had been exhausting.
After their encounter with the misguided guards, the lone guard who retained his wits led them into the keep and left to retrieve his chieftain.
Soon after, Malcolm had entered his main hall where they waited, interrupting William’s gaping at its sheer opulence.
The wealth and power of the Morays sprang from every corner of the keep.
And this was merely a tiny tower far from the Moray Mormaer’s stronghold in the northern Highlands.
Yet the rich tapestries and ornate sconces and candelabras that decorated the walls and tables bespoke an elegant standard of living for this chieftain.
Instead of rush rugs on the slab floor, the main table on the dais and the carved tables and chairs near it were surrounded by woven rugs, and a bear skin lay in front of the huge hearth, which was decorated with wrought-iron filigree and a wood-and-iron mantle.
Fat beeswax candles (no tallow candles for Malcolm!) and another florid candle holder had been situated on that mantle.
Above the decor proudly hung the Moray banner – three white stars on an indigo-blue field.
The entire great hall exuded grandeur.
Then again, what else was to be expected of a clan that had essentially ruled the Highlands before the unification of the clans under MacAlpin?
“The MacDougals,” Malcolm’s surprisingly deep voice boomed.
William had turned to see a slightly older man, well built for a man of graying hair and beard, but on the slender side. His hooked nose and wide forehead boasted the Moray legacy, but his eyes were as blue as William’s. Mayhap more Viking in his bloodline than the Moray chieftain cared to admit?
“’Tis a surprise to have ye in my hall,” Malcolm had continued.
Bernard strode to him and reached out an arm. After a moment’s hesitation, Malcolm grasped his forearm, and they all exhaled heavy, cautious breaths. William had not known what to expect from the Moray, but after their initial reception, William had prepared for the worst.
After Bernard had presented Malcolm with the king’s letter, which the Moray had read with a terse expression on his face, Malcolm welcomed them into the tower.
Though William had hoped they would converse with Malcolm, then depart straight away, upon seeing William limp across the hall, Malcolm had called for his healer and sent another man to prepare a room for the lot of them, boasting that they would feast on the morrow.
William had groaned inwardly.
So much for getting home to Ailith. Instead, he’d be sleeping alone on a cold cot for at least another day, perchance two. Not the most auspicious beginning to this visit.
Then the rest of the day had been naught more than a dance, a fecking dance of power and a game of words. William did not care for those games. Plain speech and a sword were all he required.
But his father had smiled and graciously accepted the invitation to the feast.
He did not have a pair of warm thighs waiting for him . . .
When they awoke this morn, Malcolm had offered a hunt. Though hesitant, as hunting accidents happened all the time, they left with the Morays and brought down a roe deer that Malcolm declared would be prepared for their evening meal.
Feck.
William dreaded another night after the feast. Another night away from Ailith, all for this guise of politicking. But too much uisge-beatha and mead would make for rough heads and the need to sleep it off before returning to Drumoak.
The feast Malcom prepared, while fine and bountiful, had done little to aid William’s appetite. That night, he had picked at his food as Malcolm spoke in round phrases about the concerns of the Highlands.
“The idea of one king has never sat well with the clans, ye know what as well as I, MacDougal,” Malcolm had claimed.
Bernard, his face unreadable, had nodded. “Aye, but many of the clans have united over the past century. The MacAlpins set us on a fine course, one that might assist us against foreign invaders. Separated, we are vulnerable. United, the clans hold more power.”
Malcolm had pressed his hands together and rested his chin on his fingertips, his face pensive. “Aye, and I will no’ deny the Morays have an interest in power.”
Of course, ye do, William had thought as he tore apart a piece of thick barley bread. Ye fancy yourselves kings in the Highlands, even while another sits on the throne.
“To that goal,” Bernard said, “King Causantín would like assurances that we are all alike in our thinking, that we will ally under his reign.”
Malcolm had narrowed his gaze at Bernard, and William’s body tensed as he shot a look to Robb and Iain. They, too, had appeared on edge during Malcolm’s feast.
“’Tis an odd sentiment. The Morays seemed to have been the only clan to support the previous king, if I recall correctly.”
The meal had taken a sudden turn. William clenched his eating knife, a tiny blade that would do little more than leave a scar if used as a weapon, but William was prepared to wield it nonetheless.
Bernard cleared his throat at Malcolm’s implication. “Aye, but we all know the discord that was being sown amongst the Highlands.”
William had given his father credit – he handled the uncomfortable situation with aplomb and dignity, and without rightly accusing the Morays of participation in that discord. His clenched hand had relaxed a wee bit.
“The king merely wants assurances that from this moment we will move forward,” Robb had added with a glance at Bernard, who nodded approvingly.
“Aye, King Causantín would seek true unity in the Highlands,” Bernard continued.
Something in his words must have appeased Malcolm, for his eyes had relaxed and he leaned back in his chair, gripping his sculpted chalice. He had spun the cup with his lean fingertips, then shared a tight smile with Bernard.
“It canna be said that the Morays dinna support the king. When it comes to the Highlands, the Morays will always do their duty.”
Malcolm had raised his cup to the MacDougals, and Bernard lifted his in return. Before taking a drink, however, he had flicked his gaze to William and his cousins, a hard gaze that came with instructions. Drink, fools.
William, Robb, and Iain all had lifted their chalices as well and drank deep of the heady mead.
While the meeting seemed to have gone as hoped, something still didn’t sit well with William now that he retired to the dim, cool guest chambers.
Had they accomplished anything as emissaries of the king?
Did they have new information about the position of Malcolm and the Morays? Not that William could see.
Nevertheless, he brushed these concerns from his thoughts. The last thing he wanted was to have something on his mind that kept him awake for hours.
Reclining on his cot in the Moray tower, he longed to forget this strained visit. For all its finery, Blair Keep carried a film of suspicion and malady about it, and William could not escape that grime quickly enough.
The sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he would awake and be on his way back to Drumoak and his wife.
Ailith awaited him, ready to help him shed the rottenness of this visit and lose himself in the joys of her body.
Her image, her round dancing hips and swirling crimson hair, ushered him into the nether.
Night drew nigh as Teagan rode the darkened path, the moonlight obscured by the clouds drizzling upon her.
Only the light pattering of rain on the leaves and grass accompanied the constant thudding of Bonnie Bride’s hooves.
She could barely see the pathway in the obscured moonlight.
Teagan’s damp curls stuck to her forehead and cheeks, but she was unwilling to release the reins and brush them away, lest she fall off Ailith’s patient beast.
Ailith had been correct about the white palfrey. The horse had been composed and even-tempered despite her awkward riding skills. Her body ached, and her mind burned as with fever over her slow travels and of what Ailith might be going through at this moment.
When Teagan was taken, she had not suffered much more than injury to her pride. From what she saw with the Grants earlier, Teagan knew in her heart that Ailith would not get off as easily.
Would she even survive the night?
The aches and burning in her body and brain fled as flickering lights appeared through the mist. Torchlight. She must be at the Moray Keep!
As the horse ambled up to the gate, Teagan realized what she should have been doing on her long ride – thinking of how to find William at Blair Tower. It was deep nighttime, and the gate rising up before her was securely bolted.
How could she get inside? What if they rejected her? Had her urgency been for naught?
Nearing the imposing stone wall, she noticed something that lifted her spirits. A guard. He tensed and placed his hand on his sword when she emerged from the mist, but his body appeared to relax when he saw the rider was merely a woman on a rain-sodden palfrey.
Fools. Why did men always think women so helpless?
But this time, those assumptions worked in her favor.
Putting on her most hapless expression, she rode up to the guard.
His face was hidden under a soggy leather hood, and his chain mail glinted under his cape in the torchlight.
He turned his bruised face her way, and the nurse in her went on full alert.
A fight? An accident? No broken nose or eye socket from what she could determine . . .
Everything in her longed to ask about the bruise, see if he needed it treated, but that was not why she was here. Ailith’s emergency surpassed this strange man’s injury.
“’Allo, mistress. What has ye riding in the rain at this time of night?”