Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Morning came far too soon, and Halvard ran a hand down his tired face. He had slept little, as usual. When he entered the council chamber, the fire was already crackling in the stone hearth. Sten stood by the window, speaking with an older man Halvard hadn’t seen in months.
Osric.
White-haired and sharp-eyed, wrapped in a thick wool cloak that looked older than Halvard himself. The man had served three lairds before retiring to a small croft on the south slope.
Yet there he stood, studying Halvard with a gaze that could cleave through granite.
“Osric,” Halvard clasped the man’s forearm. “I didnae expect ye.”
“So, I hear,” the elder grunted, giving him a once over. “But word reaches even old ears. A marriage, eh? And a surprise one at that, to a Sassenach? Thought I’d best see if ye’d lost yer mind entirely or only halfway.”
Sten choked on a laugh. Halvard did not bother hiding his eye roll. But before he could answer Redfern entered, pale but looking better. The envoy bowed slightly.
“Me apologies at arriving late, Laird MacLeod.”
“Ye should be abed,” Halvard said.
Redfern lifted a brow. “You’ve enough trouble without rumors of mistreating an envoy by insisting he rest. Also, I am on the mend I believe, thanks to your healer.”
Halvard exhaled and smiled. He’d rather not have the king’s envoy die in his castle.
The rest of the Council filed in, seven men, most older than he, and none shy in their judgement. They took their seats at the long oak table, grumbling like a flock of crows settling on a branch in a wind.
Once everyone had gathered, Halvard lowered himself into the laird’s place.
“Let’s us begin.”
Osric spoke first. “We’ll speak plainly, lad. Yer sudden marriage, without proper banns, without warning, has set tongues waggin’ from Rasaay tae Skye.”
“And angered an Englishman who was promised somethin’ else,” another clansman added. “Nae tae mention a king nay one wants tae provoke.”
Halvard’s jaw tightened. Elsie was not a bargaining chip, nor a piece of property. “I ken th’ risks,” he warned.
“Aye, and we ken the consequences,” the oldest of the Council added. “We need th’ king’s goodwill. Winter’s breathin’ down our necks. Our crops were half their usual yield. We’ll need trade an’ peace if we’re tae get through winter unscathed.”
“And takin’ an English lass without proper negotiations? Harcourt will nae forgive that,” another voice chimed in.
“Harcourt’s forgiveness is nae my concern, nor me priority.” Halvard’s patience thinned.
“It should be,” the first clansmen snapped. “A good laird thinks of his clan afore himself.”
Redfern observed quietly, though his gaze sharpened.
Osric leaned forward. “Are ye sure this wife is nae… a distraction? An attempt tae avoid th’ marriage th’ king set fer ye?”
Halvard ground his teeth. “I dinnae owe Harcourt th’ continuation of me line by marriage tae his daughter, nor dae I owe th’ English king a weddin’.”
“That’s nay what we heard,” muttered Luthias, one of the younger council members. His lip curled. “And forgive me, m’laird, but ye dinnae seem th’ type tae settle wi’ a meek bride, nae after…” he hesitated.
Halvard felt the shift before the name left the man’s mouth.
“Nae after Bonnie,” he finished.
The room froze. Sten and Osric both shot to their feet. “Luthais…” Sten warned.
Halvard raised a hand to slow the moment, before slowly, very slowly, turning his gaze on the man who dared to bring that ghost into the room.
“Choose yer next words wi’ care,” Halvard warned quietly. His voice did not need volume to be heard. Luthais swallowed, color draining from his face. To bring up his brother’s duplicitous wife, the woman who used his own pain against him so callously. It was dangerous ground.
“Me apologies, m’ laird,” Luthais begged. “I only meant that…”
“Enough,” Halvard leaned forward, steel in every syllable. “I am laird of Rasaay. Me decisions are nae up fer debate, like gossip at th’ hearth. Th’ lass is me wife, and that’s th’ end of it.”
Silence fell heavy and absolute in the room. Even Redfern shifted in his seat, studying Halvard with renewed interest.
Osric, after a long moment, nodded. “A laird who daesnae yield is a laird worth followin’. We accept th’ marriage.”
Halvard’s muscles eased a fraction. Sten let out a slow breath.
The meeting moved on, crop shortages, travel routes, the first storms already forming to the east and north, but the edge of the room never fully softened.
And through it all, Halvard’s thoughts drifted, stubbornly and unhelpfully back to the previous night in the corridor.
Elsie was at the forefront of his mind. Her breath.
Her nearness. The way she had looked at him and his lips right before…
He shut it down.
There was work that needed doing. A clan to lead, a long, cold winter to prepare for.
And a wife he had no business wanting, yet he could not seem to push away. He finished the meeting only half interested in the musings of his Council before sending them away. Sten and Osric attempted to linger, but Halvard made sure they understood he needed to take some time alone.
As the council chamber emptied at last, tension still clung to Halvard’s shoulders. He pushed through the heavy doors into the great hall, intent on getting a breath of air before the rest of the day tried to drown him in responsibility. But he froze.
Elsie’s laugh drifted across the room. Soft. Bright. Uncontrolled.
It struck the center of his chest.
She stood near the entryway, speaking with a young lad, one of the newest guards on rotation.
Halvard could not think of the lad’s name.
Was it Ruairidh or Roderick? The lad was animated, hands moving in wide arcs as he recounted something to the lass.
Most likely the recent training mishap Sten had informed him of during the council meeting.
However, the mishap itself did not seem as humorous as Elsie found the retelling. The lad’s cheek’s were flushed, starstruck and eager, and he leaned in just a breath too close to Elsie as he continued his tale.
Elsie stepped back, politely smiling as the boy spoke. But Halvard saw red. The laughter freely given to the young guard and yet not to him was enough, but also the way the lad fought far too hard to earn it sat like sour ale in Halvard’s gut.
His jaw tightened.
His fists curled.
Jealousy, unwelcome and sharp, flared beneath his ribs.
The lad looked up, noticing his laird before Elsie.
“L-Laird!” the boy stammered, nearly tripping over his own boots as he straightened.
Elsie turned. Her smile faltering just a touch as she met Halvard’s gaze.
“I was asking young Ruairidh here about the northern forest paths,” she gave in way of explanation, though Halvard noted no guilt in her tone, he saw that she was softening to keep him in check.
“He has been explaining a folly, how the guards read the map on their patrols.”
The guard swallowed hard. “Aye, m’laird.”
Halvard didn’t trust himself to speak directly to the lad, and he knew Elsie spoke the truth, but he was unable to let go of the sight of her ease with another man, when it should have been with him.
Before the awkwardness could stretch further, the great hall doors burst open. A small boy stumbled inside, cheeks smudged with soot, eyes wide with terror.
“Laird! M’Laird!” he cried. “Please come, there’s a fire in Braemore! So many houses are burnin’,”
Any moment of personal jealousy Halvard was feeling evaporated. He felt Elsie place a hand on his arm in alarm as she let out a gasp.
The young guard took off at a run as Halvard looked down at the boy. “How long, lad?”
“Maybe less than a quarter hour, laird,” he said, breathless. “I ran fast as I could.”