Chapter 6 #2
“Nay, sire. But something is definitely amiss with her aunt. The woman has a great distrust of men, I would guess. In fact, there was even a rumor spread, most likely by the aunt herself, that her niece was so homely she had to be hidden away. But the opposite is true. The girl was beautiful, more likely hidden away to guard her virtue.”
“How intriguing,” admitted the king. He grinned at Tearloch, who dared to glare back. “What is her name?”
“Kenna. Kenna Carlisle, Your Majesty.”
“Kenna Car…” Malcolm’s face blanched, making him look ancient though he was closer to thirty than forty. He clutched the arms of his throne, his knuckles white. His chest rose and froze for a long moment. “Where? Where did you meet this lass?” he managed to ask.
“A Carlisle stronghold. It is the most unusual keep just south of Perth.” Good sense kept Balloch from showing notice of the king’s emotions.
“Her aunt is…Agatha Carlisle? Wife of Angus?”
“She was a widow, Sire. I know not the man’s name.”
Malcolm could no longer speak. Tearloch MacPherson reverted to his role of King’s Champion and stepped forward.
“How old is she?” he demanded.
Balloch looked curiously from MacPherson to the king and back again before he answered. “She was a little more sixteen when we met ten years ago.”
Tearloch cleared his throat and, acting as if the king were not present, ordered more of the Norman wine to be served to the celebratory courtiers. The clinking of cups must have brought the king back to his senses. He shook himself and emptied his studded chalice in one long pull.
“Toss yer list into the fire, John,” Malcolm said. “We have our winner. Sir Balloch, you have your ring. I know of this maid, Kenna Carlisle, but did not think she yet lived. I judge her to be the bonniest lass in Scotland, or second in consideration of my betrothed.”
“If ye did not mean this lady to be yer wife,” shouted the colorful Fitzalan, “will ye tell us, Yer Majesty what ye have planned fer this Kenna Carlisle?” The flush on the man’s face nearly dulled his carrot-red hair, and Balloch noticed Tearloch was nearly the same shade.
“You are a nosey man, Fitzalan. ‘Tis why you are so dear to us. Very well. When Tearloch MacPherson and I were a mite younger, we pledged to never wed ‘til the other did so. In order for Scotland to have her heirs, MacPherson must wed as well.”
The reactions around the room spanned the spectrum. Women were immediately disheartened. The men appeared to be the exact opposite. Cups clanked all around the room. The cheers came only from the men.
“From this day forward, Kenna Carlisle,” Malcolm paused, swallowed hard, then took a deep breath, “my own sister, whom I was told was dead, is now betrothed to Tearloch MacPherson. I so declare.”
Balloch stood tensely under the clouts of congratulations hammering his shoulders.
Staring down at the priceless ring on his own finger, he couldn’t help but feel cheated.
The bigger prize had just been awarded to MacPherson.
And if he wanted to remain in the game, he would need to stay close on the heels of the king’s favorite.
When MacPherson went to collect his bride, Balloch intended to have reached her first—not to win her heart, but to stop it from beating!
If the girl’s memory was good, he would be hung for trying to rape the king’s own sister ten years past. How stupid of him for even speaking of her to the king.
But he had wanted that ring. And more, he’d wanted to curry favor here in the Scottish court.
After being banished from England, he was lucky to have been accepted here.
Now it seemed that acceptance would also be taken from him…
unless Kenna Carlisle could be silenced.
“Howard!” Balloch called his second to him as soon as he was outside the barely constructed inner walls. “We need men. A dozen. Six half-reputable, and six cutthroats. I’ll give you three hours, that’s all. They’ll need their own horses…”
The story told, Balloch returned his attention to Agatha, now seated in the chair opposite him.
His arm had tired, the ring lowered, the colorful reflections gone from the walls.
It was difficult to sit and smile at this stupid crone after she had moved his prize even further away.
He almost hoped MacPherson had gotten the girl away from Gowry so he wouldn’t have to deal with the legendary Norseman himself.
But then he would have to get her from MacPherson. Either way, Agatha Carlisle might know something of value. He couldn’t stomach her for long, but he’d learn everything he could before he wrung that wrinkled neck.
“You raped her? I thought you barely saw her,” Agatha queried.
Balloch chuckled, “Awfully calm aren’t you, for being the loving aunt? But no, I don’t suppose you would have been upset back then. Would you?”
Agatha ignored the comment, as he expected her to do. Then she grimaced. “I’ll have to tell you sometime how my husband ensured I would not harm the girl, even after he died.”
“Then perhaps I should stop berating myself for not trying to buy her from you the first time I was here.”
“Rest assured, my lord, giving her to you would have delighted me had it not meant my death. I could have only given her in marriage to a Scottish laird.”
“That is why you kept her hidden? To keep away the unworthy?”
“Nay, my lord. You know by now why I kept her close to my…heart. Nearly twenty years ago, when the MacPhersons came to get King Duncan’s spawn, I realized who they were, that I had been fooled by my own husband. So I insisted that the girl remain behind.”
“But why? If you hated them so badly why not be finished with them?”
Agatha’s face transformed into something he had seen but in his own reflection.
Her eyes lit with an energy that belied her age, her smile more than pleased.
“It was the only way to hurt them all. Malcolm, Kenna, Angus and the MacPhersons. Then, when I could no longer stand her keening for her brother to return, nor Angus resenting having to stay behind—to keep a watch over me, I assume—I found a way to make them all bleed again.”
“You let the MacPhersons believe—"
“I sent word that the sister was dead. But not just that. I had a missive delivered back here announcing that Sander had died of a fever. It was beautiful, my revenge.”
“Sander?”
“Malcolm Alexander…Canmore now. She always called him Sander. Until the MacPhersons came, I doubt he had remembered his full name. They had been so young when they arrived here. Angus never told them, or reminded them. That would have been too dangerous. What if they had been overheard? By me?”
Agatha sunk further into her seat as if her loathing were a weight too heavy for her aging shoulders, as if her husband’s deceit had eaten up her middle and there was no support left for her bones.
“If that boy ever told Kenna of their parents, she never remembered it. I doubt he remembered much himself.”
The light in Agatha’s eyes had faded once more. She frowned a bit as older people do when trying to remember something. But in spite of that, Balloch was sure she could provide all the information he would need.
In the next instant, that light was back, as was her posture. “Rape,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“We were speaking of rape. Did you rape her?”
“No. No doubt she will remember my attempt if she had such limited experience with men. I will have to think of a way to keep her silent.”
“We can think of something,” she said, making her implication clear. “I am one of the few who could identify Kenna Carlisle. I believe you will need me, whatever you are plotting.”
“Agatha, my dear,” he smiled, “How likeminded we are.”