Chapter Twenty-Five
“Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end.”
Laria stood in the shadowed alcove off the stairwell, tucked back so that the mass of warriors in Dun Haakon’s Great Hall couldn’t see her.
Cyrus sat in a simple chair on a slightly raised platform, his father’s sword across his lap.
Back straight, his massive shoulders showed his earned strength, and his level chin showed his confidence.
He was majestic but quietly humble as the men came forward, one by one, to swear their loyalty to the new chief of Clan Mackinnon.
Rory MacLeod stood on one side of him, and Kenan Macdonald stood on the other, showing their alliance and support.
“I pledge my loyalty and life in guarding Clan Mackinnon and following the leadership of Chief Cyrus Mackinnon of Dun Haakon. I offer my sword, and my wife offers this fine cloth she has woven.” The middle-aged man bowed before Cyrus, rising with his fist against his heart as a lad, probably his son, brought forward the cloth.
Since there was no other lady of Dun Haakon, Lady Olive took the cloth, adding it to the table of offerings behind the dais.
“I accept yer support, Master Cain Weaver, and yer wife, Fiona’s, generous gift.
Ye have earned the gratitude and protection of Clan Mackinnon.
” Cyrus knew every warrior, tenant, and woman in his clan, whereas Iain called all the servant women at Tuath Tower “Penny.” The difference between the two chiefs was vast.
The day would be long with pledges, and a clan feast was planned for the evening to celebrate the life of Hamish Mackinnon and the continuation of the clan under Cyrus’s chieftainship.
Not a single rumble or whisper of a challenge had come since the pronouncement of his father’s death had been made two days before.
The body had been prepared immediately and interred in the ground that morning, on a hill by the stone chapel where Father Bright had led a mass for the chief’s soul.
Apparently, the man had had many sins the congregation had been asked to pray away.
Sophie and Laria had attended to show their respect for the clan, even though Laria’s grandmother hadn’t cared for the old chief at all, having met him in her youth.
Sophie’s presence protected Laria from harsh speculation.
She was merely escorting her aging grandmother on a progress across the isle and had returned with Cyrus from Grace’s wedding.
Olive had stood in the chapel as still and cold as the surrounding stones making up the walls.
She looked appropriately mournful in her somber, black ensemble, even though it was known she hadn’t cared for her husband.
“We can enter,” Sophie said, coming down the last steps to reach Laria.
Laria shook her head as she watched the next member, a balding, scarred man who looked the same age Hamish had been, swearing to support Cyrus as the new chief. “I don’t want anyone to use me as a reason not to pledge their loyalty.”
Sophie stood next to her, looking out. “You’ve barely been seen near him since you’ve arrived, and Olive knows better than to spew rumors that would make someone want to challenge her son.
Even though,” she threaded her arm through her granddaughter’s, “I’m not convinced Cyrus wedding a cousin of Chief Macqueen would cause anyone to challenge his ability to lead his clan. ”
“Lady Olive—”
“Wants to rule her son,” Sophie cut her off. “And she’s bright enough to know that you are too strong to allow that.” Sophie gave her a smile. “A biddable bride would suit her after dealing with her headstrong daughter and obstinate husband most of her life.”
Laria narrowed her eyes at her grandmother. “You really were playing the woman who’d lost her mind back at Tuath Tower.” She shook her head. “And you knew I wouldn’t leave you with Iain, even if I felt at risk.”
Love softened the steely glint in Sophie’s eyes. “I would risk everything for your safety, Laria. Iain knew about your meetings with Erskine. I had to act quickly to get you out of the tower, and I knew that you would protect me before you’d protect yourself.”
Laria couldn’t wait to tell Erskine that their grandmother wasn’t losing her mind. They’d talked extensively about how to help her and what to do if she declined further.
“I pledge my sword arm, my blood, and my loyalty to ye, Chief Cyrus Mackinnon,” a young warrior was saying, with his head bowed and his fist against his heart. “And my mother sends these jars of strawberry preserves for yer table.”
Once again Cyrus thanked him and his mother by name.
Knowing someone’s name and using it showed respect, and Laria could see it reciprocated in the young warrior’s eyes as he lifted his face to Cyrus.
Would they respect him as much if she were beside him?
A woman who had nothing to offer, not even strawberry preserves?
She pulled her arm carefully from her grandmother’s. “I’m going down to the loch where the cook takes fresh water from the falls. ’Tis not more than half a mile from here.”
Sophie shook her head. “Be careful. Your little otter isn’t here to warn you of intruders.”
Laria kissed her soft cheek. “I will.”
Sophie walked into the Great Hall, where a chair was quickly found for her. Cyrus’s gaze fell on Sophie, and then he looked over her shoulder toward the alcove, as if he felt Laria’s eyes on him. She pulled back into the shadows, her heart tapping hard as though it wished to escape her chest.
Even now he was searching for her. He had been for two days, but she’d taken to finding tucked-away rooms. If he refuted what she’d said in the ship’s rigging or showed her kindness, she might crumble and agree to be his mistress.
At least until he wed someone with armies.
The thought of him taking another woman as wife made nausea rise in her stomach like waves lapping at the shore.
Laria turned away and hurried through the corridors away from Cyrus, one hand holding her petticoat and the other skimming the plastered stone wall beside her.
In the kitchens, maids bustled about, making tarts and meat pies for the feast. Normally the smells would have made her mouth water, but thoughts of Cyrus with another woman dispelled her appetite.
Nodding to the maids and cook, she took a bathing sheet from a stack near the hearth and strode out the door through the fall-fading kitchen garden beyond.
Most of the herbs had been plucked to dry for the upcoming winter, and only a few sprigs and stalks remained for the hares to take their portion.
Laria walked through the throng of people in the bailey waiting to enter the Great Hall to swear their allegiance to Cyrus. She draped the sheet over her head like a shawl, and no one noticed her weaving her way toward the gates.
She walked more quickly once she strode under the raised portcullis with its pointed teeth.
The women and older children of the clan were setting tables and stringing garlands about, almost as if they were decorating for a wedding feast. Laria wove through the village paths past the last cottage without anyone stopping her.
Grabbing her skirts in both hands, she broke into a run.
I’m not running away. I’m running toward something.
The sound of the waterfall caught her ear, flooding her with relief, and she pulled off her gloves to tuck into a tied pocket. The water would calm her stomach and fortify her against any weakness that might lead to her agreeing to be Cyrus’s mistress.
Reaching the edge of the loch, Laria moved around to the far side where the trees grew right up to the water’s edge. Tall reeds swayed with the breeze, and she tipped her head down to twist up her hair and secure it with a leather tie.
Her fingers separated the laces of her bodice, plucking it apart as she shucked off her boots. The sun was high, but the mist hovered over the surface of the loch. She suddenly missed Loch Sheanta so much that she felt her eyes ache. Did Cleas wonder where she was and if she’d come back?
It was time to go back to Macqueen territory, even if it meant supporting Erskine and fighting Iain from caves. The thought made her tears swell until they slid down her cheeks. She’d best dive into the water. It was the only place she could cry without admitting her weakness, even to herself.
She grabbed the hem of her smock, but before she could pull it up, an arm snaked around her waist while a palm clamped over her mouth.
…
“Ye just have about a thousand more to go,” Kenan said near Cyrus’s ear as the last of his father’s old guard turned and walked back among the throng.
Cyrus wanted to groan against the damn ceremony of the whole thing, but it was important.
Looking into the eyes of each man and woman told him where he really stood with them, how they judged him against the shadow of his father and even maybe against their expectations of Patrick being the next chief.
So far, though, he’d seen only loyalty and confidence.
Perhaps that was because Rory and Kenan stood stalwart beside him.
The lashes on his back told the story of his torture in England’s Carlisle Dungeon.
But the fact that these men, once enemies, were standing beside him in support because of their time together in hell made the experience worth the pain.
At least in his mind. Then there was Asher MacNicol, the one Captain Wharton really wanted to tear apart.
They needed to find him to warn him that Wharton had received permission from King Henry to give chase.
Asher would have their support whether he wanted it or not.
Even though the swearing of fealty was important, Cyrus yearned to follow the shadow he’d seen standing in the alcove. Laria had been avoiding him since they’d arrived. He’d only seen her at a distance at the funeral.