Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gair Balloch rode unmolested into Gowry Keep. Funeral pyres burned unattended at the bottom of the hill. Thankfully, the wind blew south.
His armor was uncomfortable despite the padding, but he could dispense with it soon, since the fighting was over and done. To deal with his enemies, he much preferred a bit of treachery to sword wielding anyway. His sword may not be so sharp lately, but his tongue and his wits could draw blood.
Howard looked even less knight-like with his brightly colored clothes peeking out beneath his hauberk. The man clearly belonged in court.
“MacPherson’s made quick work of the place,” Howard noted aloud as the two of them dismounted in front of the Hall doors.
“And long gone, the bastard!”
Balloch knew he’d be too late. When he’d left Carlisle keep, he held out no hope of getting to the wench before Gowry married her. His only consolation was that Tearloch MacPherson wouldn’t have been able to reach her in time either.
So…why lay siege to the place? It was more like something Balloch himself would do out of spite.
But he expected MacPherson to be more reasonable, more measured.
Still, he would like to see the young woman again.
Perhaps with their history together, she would prefer him over Gowry.
No woman in her right mind would want that Viking monster for a husband.
With a few drops of poison in the man’s drink, she’d be a widow easily enough...
All his questions, all the possibilities, would be answered on the other side of the doors he was left to open himself. Inside the entrance, he bellowed, “I’ve come to offer congratulations to Struan Gowry!” Only servants seemed to be about. Not a soldier in sight.
An old man, bent in half from years of cowering came forward. “I beg yer pardon, yer Lairdship, but alas, The Gowry is no longer among the livin’. And wed neither.”
“Not wed? Not Wed?” He grabbed the man and tried to pull him erect to look him in the eye, but the bowed back would not straighten. “Where is the woman?”
The old one winced from the shout near his ear. “Her lady and her man are outside buryin’ her remains beneath the heather outside the north wall.”
“Her remains? Her remains? You mean to say she is dead?” He thought for a moment, not noticing the old man quietly edging away. At least the woman was not in MacPherson’s hands, he consoled himself. “How did she die?” he asked to no one in particular.
“Her throat was cut when she resisted the enemy,” a small voice said from behind him. He turned to see a maid in the doorway. A man stood at her side, supporting her by the elbow.
Balloch was shocked. How could MacPherson’s men strike down the king’s own sister? Or had it been another laying siege here? If they hadn’t known her identity, it was reasonable, especially if she’d been foolish enough to fight at Gowry’s side. She’d been a fighter ten years ago…
In any case, if MacPherson were responsible for killing Kenna Canmore, his life was worthless. His friendship with the king would no longer matter. The space at King Malcolm’s left hand would be empty and available. Someone able to make the right impression…
“Show me this grave.”
Fia and Peter were from Agatha’s household and a nervous lot.
While Gair Balloch and Howard stood over the fresh grave for nearly an hour, Fia answered his odd questions, though reluctantly.
Every now and again the man, Peter, would give her hand a squeeze.
They were close, possibly married—information that might be useful later.
He had not uttered a word to Howard about what he was contemplating, but the idiot kept his mouth shut.
Balloch turned to Peter. “How deep is she buried?”
“Near five feet down, yer Lairdship,” the man answered, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets.
Fia began to wail when Balloch reached down to fling away a small bundle of flowers recently placed on the mound and began to dig at the pile of dirt with his bare hands. After a minute it was clear that he had no earnest intention of digging up her lady and the maid stopped her noise.
“Now,” he said, straightening and brushing dirt from his hands.
He looked around to see that they had no audience.
“We dug her up. You are witnesses.” He pointed to Fia and Peter and then to Howard.
“We dug her up, and I have proven that she was an imposter. I know Kenna Carlisle and this was not her. This,” he pointed to the not–so-neat grave, “was a decoy.”
“A decoy?” Howard struggled to understand, then gave up and simply agreed. “Yes. A decoy.”
“Now you two are coming with us, just after you reveal our discovery to the servants in the hall.”