Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
H e’d thought the worst of his anger had cooled there on the battlefield, but as Alistair made his way from the chambers he shared with Niamh to the dungeon, he could feel his blood boiling once more.
Niamh had been hurt . Maybe not severely, but hurt nonetheless. What would have happened, if he hadn’t seen those tracks? What if he and Ewan had arrived later, or not at all? The thought of what might have been made his stomach clench and his vision turn red with rage.
He slammed his way into the interrogation room with enough violence that Ewan and the prisoner both flinched. “What has he said?”
“Naething.” Ewan’s expression was grim. “He says there’s naething tae say.”
“And?” He knew that expression.
“He’s lying.” Ewan pointed to the man’s clothing and gear. “His clothing’s meant tae look ragged, but ‘tis nae patched the way it would be if it were as worn as it appears. And his weapons are in good condition. Nay brigand or bandit carries such weapons, fer all we were meant tae think them poorly made. I took this off him too.”
Ewan handed over a coin, a copper stamped not with the King’s symbol, but with another. After a moment, Alistair recognized it. He whirled to look at the man, a renewed rush of fury surging through his veins. “Ye’re a sell-sword.”
The man looked at him through a half-swollen eye and sneered. “An’ if I am?”
“Why’d ye go after me wife?”
“Who?” The man had the gall to try and look as if he had no idea what Alistair might be referring to. Or who.
“Me wife!” With a snarl of rage, Alistair seized a leather strap off the nearest table and whipped it into the man’s exposed side. The man gave a choked cry as a long red welt appeared. “Why did ye hunt her?”
There was no answer, and Alistair lashed out again, then again, raising welts on the man’s frame, and choking cries with each blow. After half a dozen blows, he stopped, chest heaving, and tossed down the strap to stalk forward and seize the man’s chin. “Why did ye go after me wife, sell-sword?”
“Went… after…Niamh MacDuff nee Cameron. ‘Twas the target, the lass with hair the color o’ autumn leaves, eyes the color o’ spring grass, and a Lowland accent tae her words. ‘Twas… orders.”
“Whose?”
The man heaved in a rough breath, then shook his head, as much as he could in Alistair’s punishing grip. “Cannae… say…”
Alistair’s free hand lashed out, to seize one bound hand. “Ye will say.”
The mercenary remained silent. Alistair clenched his jaw and then, with ruthless efficiency, snapped two of the man’s fingers like deadwood.
The howl that ripped out of the mercenary’s throat was loud enough it could have echoed all the way to the Lowlands, but Alistair didn’t care. “Give me a name, or I break the other two.”
“I cannae…”
Snap!
Alistair shifted his grip to the man’s shoulder. “A name.”
The mercenary remained silent, save for the sobbing breaths that echoed around the room. Alistair clenched his jaw in grim determination. “So be it.”
Getting information from a man who had little to lose save his pride - and that only if he surrendered - was always a grim and thankless task. Alistair and Ewan took turns, varying the methods as well as who attempted to force the information from the man, but the sell-sword remained stubbornly silent. On that matter at least. He screamed, cried, cursed and fought as much as his bonds allowed, but he refused to give any name, not even his own.
It was tempting to give up. After all, the copper coin signified a low-ranked mercenary, one who was likely to know very little. It was equally tempting to suggest a name or two, to see how the man reacted, and see if he might be able to discover the truth that way. Alistair refrained from succumbing to either temptation.
Lower-ranked the man might be, but even the rawest and lowest of sell-swords knew who he served at any given time. It was necessary, especially in the Highlands, where knowing the tartan colors of your enemies and allies was required to avoid creating a breach of contract. Alistair knew that. He also knew that a man on the edge might agree that any name suggested was the correct one, even if it wasn’t true.
Alistair had no intention of being misled by false information. He had no time for pursuing the wrong man, and no desire to enter into any unnecessary feuds through some sort of misunderstanding. He had his suspicions about who had ordered the attack on his new wife, but until the mercenary gave him the name, he refused to voice them.
Candle-marks passed. Alistair and Ewan used every method they had at their disposal to try and break the sell-sword’s silence. By the time the third - or perhaps fourth - candle-mark had passed, the man’s body had been virtually destroyed. Bones had been broken, wounds enough inflicted that he’d never hold a weapon again, even if he survived. Burns, whip marks, bruises and cuts marked his skin, and the extent of his wounds was such that, even if he was taken to the healers within the next few minutes, he might not survive.
Not that Alistair had any intention of taking him to a healer. The sell-sword had forfeited his life by attacking Niamh, and all three of them knew it. Still, Alistair had to admit he was growing frustrated by the man’s lack of response.
He was considering another round with the hot irons, or perhaps breaking a few more bones, when Ewan laid a hand on his shoulder. “Give me a moment with him, braither.”
“Ye thin’ ye’ll ge’ more out o’ me? I’ve naethin’ tae say… tae ye…” The words were slurred, but the defiance in the mercenary’s bloodshot eyes and battered face was clear enough.
“Aye. So ye’ve said.” Ewan shook his head and crouched in front of the man. “But there’s somethin’ I want ye tae consider, sellsword. Ye’re nae going tae leave here alive. But how long ye exist here, in Laird MacDuff’s lands and suffer his displeasure - that’s up tae ye.”
For the first time, a glimmer of doubt flickered in the man’s face. “Wha’?”
“Ye’re hurt, but ye can last a fair long time. Me kinfolk and I ken enough medicine tae keep ye alive fer days, even without resortin’ tae a healer’s aid. ‘Tis a long time tae suffer. An’ if ye happen tae get infection or rot in yer wounds - which we’ll nae be tryin’ too hard tae prevent - then ‘twill be worse.”
The sellsword shuddered. However low-ranked he was, he’d clearly seen what could happen to a man whose wounds weren’t properly treated and cleaned. “Ye… ye wouldnae….”
“I would. An’ me braither’s more brutal-minded than I, tae be sure.” Ewan nodded. He put a hand none-too-gently on the mercenary’s shoulder. “So, this is what I’ll be offerin’ ye - give me the name o’ the man or clan who hired yer band, an’ I’ll see ye dead quick and painless. Ye can even have yer choice o’ a fast poison, a knife tae the heart, a slit throat, or a beheadin’. I’d tak’ the first or the last choice, but ‘tis me.” Ewan shrugged.
“Ye…”
Ewan smiled grimly and clapped the man on the arm with a blow that made the sellsword whimper. “Give us the name, lad, and ye have me word as the second-in-command o’ MacDuff clan that ye’ll have as easy a passing as ye could wish. Is that nae right, me laird?”
He was tempted to say no. However, if there was a chance that agreeing would get the name and allow him to go to his wife, then a painless death was little enough to promise. “Aye. A painless death fer a name.”
The mercenary shuddered at the cold tone of his voice, but Alistair could see the doubt and uncertainty in his face as his battered gaze flicked between himself and Ewan.
He was weighing his options - the first sign of possible surrender that Alistair had seen. He forced himself to look stern and determined, unyielding instead of impatient. If he showed interest or impatience, the man might decide to maintain his silence after all.
For several moments, there was no sound save the prisoner’s sobbing, rasping breaths. Then, a halting voice. “I’ll tak’ the dagger tae the heart. Better than beheadin’ – ‘tis a punishment fer betrayal, an’ I’m… loyal enou’.” He gulped in a ragged inhalation.
“Dagger tae the heart it is. And we’ll even bury ye after.” Ewan nodded. “Just give us the name, and ‘tis over.”
“We were hired… sent tae kill Niamh MacDuff… by Laird MacTavish.”
Fergus MacTavish. Even though he’d expected it, the name still flooded Alistair with rage. Before he could think, let alone stop himself, he lunged across the room and hammered a blow into the man’s face that audibly shattered his already broken nose.
The prisoner yowled. Alistair hammered another blow into the man’s battered rib cage. Then another, and another, and another. There was a strange sort of roaring in his ears, and his vision was hazed with red. Everything seemed to bleed and hammer at him with a single name.
Fergus MacTavish. His rival. His enemy. The man who had killed his Constance. The man who had tried to poison Niamh on their wedding night. Fergus MacTavish had hired killers to attack his wife, as he had done before.
The rage and the pain - the past and the present - merged together, demanding an outlet. Alistair hammered away in a haze of fury, blinded by emotion, until a hand caught his arm. “Alistair, stop!”
He whirled around with a snarl, his other fist already raised to his shoulder before he recognized the voice that had called his name. The red haze faltered, and the world seemed to tumble back into place with a feeling like ice water had been dumped over his head.
Ewan stood holding him tightly, his eyes wide and his expression stricken. “Stop, braither. That’s enough.”
Alistair shuddered. “Ewan…” His voice was raw and wrecked. Was I screaming?
A low whimper caught his attention, and Alistair turned to look at the sellsword. He flinched at the sight before him.
The man had been beaten to a bloody ruin. Worse, Alistair knew by the aching in his fists and the blood splattered across him that he’d been the one to do it. Certainly, there was plenty of damage from the interrogation proceedings, but the bruised, split wounds that rendered the man’s face unrecognizable and turned his torso black and blue and swollen - those were Alistair’s doing.
“’Tis enough. We have the name.” Ewan gripped his shoulder tight, voice low and urgent as if he feared Alistair was going to launch another attack on the man, or on Ewan himself. “Go on. Clean yerself up, spend some time remindin’ yerself that yer lass is well, safe and unharmed.”
“Nae unharmed… her ankle…”
“Ye ken as well as I that ‘tis naething compared tae the things yer thinkin’ o’. Go. She’s waitin’ fer ye, and ye need her more than ye need tae be here.”
Alistair blinked, but in the wake of his outburst, he could feel weariness flooding in, and his hands were beginning to shake with reaction. He felt sick at his loss of control, no matter how justified. “We need tae…”
“Dinnae fret. I’ll tak’ care o’ matters here. A knife tae the heart and a proper burial, as promised. An’ I’ll go tae the women fer a Samhain charm fer ye, if ‘twill ease yer burden. One more prayer willnae trouble anyone.”
For one very brief moment, he was tempted to argue that he was the laird and it was his responsibility to handle such matters. Then his common sense caught up with him, as did his weariness. Ewan was right. They had the information they needed, and his brother could handle cleaning up the mess.
He needed to see Niamh, to know she was all right, and reaffirm that the nightmare was not happening again - that she was alive and safe.
All at once, he needed her like he needed air to breathe. “Ye’re right.” He heaved out a sigh from the bottom of his soul and nodded to Ewan. “I’ll leave this in yer hands.”
Ewan offered him a tight, grim little smile, more like a knife slash than an expression of any kind of amusement or happiness and turned away. Alistair saw him draw his dagger and hurried from the room.
He’d seen men die. Killed men as well. But what he’d done - beating a man who had already surrendered and could not fight back - felt unclean. It didn’t seem right for him to take the man’s final breath from him as well.
The first servant - one of the young men in training to serve the laird - gasped when he saw him. Alistair winced, knowing he must look terrible, like one of Morrigan’s warriors come to life and roaming the halls. “Tell the maids tae have a bath brought up tae me quarters.”
The boy gulped, bowed, and darted away. Alistair grimaced at his red-drenched hands and made his way toward a little used staircase where he’d be unlikely to encounter anyone.
He needed to see Niamh, for his own peace of mind, but he shuddered to think of how she would respond when she saw him.
Niamh wasn’t sure which was worse - waiting for information or the faint screams she thought she sometimes heard echoing through the stone. More than once, she considered leaving to seek out answers, but there were guards at the door, and she knew they most likely had orders not to let her leave, or to accompany her wherever she might try to go.
And there were the screams - the implications of which chilled her to her bones.
Not to mention her ankle, which was well cared for, but still uncomfortable to stand on or walk on for very long.
Desperate as she was to learn what was happening, she almost jumped out of her skin when a quartet of servants arrived with a large bathing tub. “I didnae order a bath.”
“’Tis for Laird MacDuff.” The young serving boy in the lead bowed to her. “He’ll be here soon, and he commanded us tae have a bath made ready fer him.”
Niamh’s heart leaped. It was all she could do to wait patiently while the bath was filled and the servants laid out the towels and soap that Alistair seemed to favor.
Alistair arrived moments after the last of the servants left - almost as if he’d been waiting for them to leave. Niamh hurried to his side as fast as her aching ankle would allow. “Alistair? What did he say? Were they brigands, or…”
Niamh swallowed hard. She wanted to believe the men had been bandits, but… someone had tried to kill her on her wedding night. Alistair hadn’t said anything more on the matter, but after that night, and what she’d heard about his previous lover, she feared for her life.
Alistair was silent. Niamh reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Alistair, please. Tell me. What is goin’ on? Those men… the poison at the wedding feast… what is it ye’re nae tellin’ me?”
Alistair blinked, and she realized he’d been so lost in thought he might as well have not noticed her presence. Then he looked down and shuddered. “I need a bath. Then… mayhap we’ll talk.”
It was only then that Niamh noticed the red stains across his face, his hair, and his clothing. His hands were also crimson, and the smell of iron and smoke hung about him.
She’d been so focused on seeking answers, she hadn’t noticed. Now that she did, Niamh could feel her stomach churning slightly. And yet…
Whatever he’d done to leave him so blood-splattered and filthy, he’d done it for her. Just as before, when he’d killed the men attacking her, the gore that stained his clothing and skin was a sign of how far he’d gone to protect her.
It was terrifying, yes. But it was also… she wasn’t sure she had words for how it made her feel. The fact that he’d gone so far to protect her, to care for her, made her feel a sort of warmth, even in the midst of her turmoil and uncertainty.
Staring at his bloodstained clothing and skin, she was conscious of her burning need for answers, but even more aware of his need for some care and consideration. In the face of his obvious weariness and distress, her need for answers dimmed.
Answers could wait. What was important now was caring for her husband, in whatever capacity he needed. If he needed a bath, then she could help him with that.
Niamh stepped closer and slowly undid the belt that held his sword. Alistair twitched. “What are ye doin’?”
“Helpin’ ye undress fer yer bath. Ye’ll feel better when ye’re clean. Everything else can be dealt with later.” She set the belt aside, then began to undo his sash. When that was done, she bent to undo the fastenings of his boots.
“Why? Ye…”
“Because I wish tae.” The words came easily, astounding Niamh with how right they felt. And yet, there was no other reason for her actions. She wanted to assist her husband, in whatever manner would help him be less distressed.
Alistair braced himself as she removed the boots, then rose to begin unlacing his vest and shirt. Together, the two of them removed the rest of his clothing, and Alistair stumbled toward the bath, sinking into the warm water with a groan.
At any other time, she would have been nervous or embarrassed, to be around a naked man. Especially her husband. She would have been thinking of the things that undressing usually led to between a man and a woman. This time, however, it was clear that neither of them were interested in doing anything of the sort.
Instead, all she felt was tenderness, and a desire to soothe whatever had aggrieved her husband to the point of his withdrawn and melancholy state.
The water was tinted pink with the blood washed from his body, but his hands were trembling too much to do anything beyond cleaning the blood off his face and arms. Niamh took the soft cloth and soap, then carefully wiped away the splatters on the sides of his neck and shoulders. When that was done, she took a spare pitcher that had been left on the fireplace and tipped part of the contents over his head.
Alistair shuddered as the warm water cascaded over his shoulders. He stilled as she took the soap and began to lather it through his hair, working to ensure that each and every drop of blood was washed away.
She was nearly finished when Alistair finally spoke, his voice thick with emotion. “They werenae brigands. They were sellswords, sent by a man named Fergus MacTavish.”
“MacTavish? I think I’ve heard that name afore…” She was fairly certain she’d heard someone mention it, but she couldn’t recall when she’d heard it.
“He’s the worst rival our clan has. He’s a ruthless, cold-blooded man, who will stop at naething tae get what he wants. And all he wants is power and land - as much as he can tak’.” Alistair’s voice was heavy. “He’s plagued me clan fer years, harrying us at the borders, stealing crops, destroying farms just when we cannae afford the losses - I’ve heard he’s in league with the English, but I cannae prove it. All I ken is that, fer years, me clan has suffered losses tae him. Nae anything I can tak’ tae a Highland Gathering, o’ course. And with the fightin’ with the English, I cannae appeal tae king or crown. ‘Tis why he’s gotten so much bolder - bold enough tae attack me directly.”
“Was he behind what happened at the wedding feast?”
“Aye. I’d stake me honor as a laird on it.” Alistair’s hands clenched on the sides of the tub. “’Tis the sort o’ underhanded trick he’d try - one that cannae be traced back tae him, so it has nae consequences. ‘Tis like the ‘bandits’ that have killed so many o’ our folk. His raiders are careful nae tae get caught wearin’ anything tae link them tae the MacTavish clan.”
“But ye’re sure it was him?”
“Aye. We’ve scouts who have seen them reportin’ tae men wearing his colors. And tae his second-in-command. An’ there was one attack, where we… where he wanted us tae ken who was responsible. He wanted me tae ken who killed…” His words choked off.
Niamh had a feeling she knew who he was talking about. His first betrothed, the woman whose ring she now wore. She also knew that this was the wrong time to reveal that she knew, or to ask for more information.
There was a part of her that was terrified. She’d been frightened enough by the idea of being married, but now she was being dragged into a feud that had nothing to do with her. Twice she’d nearly died because of the vendetta between the MacDuff and MacTavish clans - nearly been killed in a power struggle that had nothing to do with her.
The larger part of her, however, wasn’t afraid so much as angry. It was clear that Fergus MacTavish had threatened her and tried to hurt her before she even knew who he was, or what his goals were. He’d attacked her without provocation, just because she happened to be with Alistair. And he was causing her husband pain.
The anger at being attacked, especially by a man who was cowardly enough to use children, drove her fear away like wind sweeping aside mist.
“If ye want tae leave, tae return tae the safety o’ yer clan…”
“Dinnae finish that sentence, or ye’ll wish ye’d never thought it.” Niamh shook her head sharply in negation. “I’m nae running away, Alistair. I dinnae care what sort o’ tricks this MacTavish tries tae use, or how many times he comes after me. I’ll face him by yer side, until he’s nae a problem fer either o’ us anymore.”
Alistair was silent for a long moment. “I dinnae want ye tae get hurt just fer bein’ with me.”
“Then I’ll just have tae be more careful.” Niamh leaned gently into his broad shoulder and wrapped her arm around his strong chest. “I’m nae goin anywhere, husband. Whatever MacTavish tries, and whatever the future holds, we’ll be facin’ it taegether, ye and I.”