Chapter 18
What A Touching Reunion
Freya threw her whole weight against the ropes binding her wrists, but it did no good.
“Stop that!” chastised the matron assigned to watch her. “Ye’ll scrape yer wrists.”
Freya didn’t bother to point out that her wrists were already chafed raw, and her arms littered with bruises from her rough journey here.
She didn’t recognize the matron, a sullen, hulking woman of middle-age, and nor did she recognize the room they’d put her in. It was not her original room, of course. To her horror, the room was decorated like a bridal chamber.
A huge, square bed dominated the space, laden with silks and expensive satins, with gauzy material hanging in wafting strips around the bedposts.
There was no fire in the hearth, so the room was chilly and silent.
She had been deposited unceremoniously on the bed, and her wrists tied to the newel of the bedpost. She could slide off the bed, if she wanted, but could go no further.
Trapped, she thought, for the hundredth time. I’m trapped.
There’d been no sign of Laird Grahame’s squat figure, for which Freya was grateful, but she’d be a fool to think that it would last.
This is it. All my plans have come to nothing. I know that there’s no way out of this.
There was a tap on the door, and the matron huffed impatiently.
“Come in, lass! What took ye so long?”
The door creaked open, and a maid with a slopping bucket of water staggered in. Freya’s chest tightened.
Maggie.
Maggie didn’t risk looking at her, not under the sharp eye of the matron. She hobbled across the room, putting down the bucket. When the matron crossed the room, picking up a bowl and a clean cloth, Maggie leaned forward, whispering urgently.
“They’re setting up the wedding ceremony for ye,” she hissed. “But there’s some commotion going on down in the courtyard. I don’t know what.”
Freya swallowed hard. “I need to get out of here, Maggie.”
“I know,” the maid kept her eyes aimed downward. “They never found out that I was involved, but only because I’m so unimportant that nobody thought of me. I’m sorry, m’lady. I cannot help ye now.”
Freya closed her eyes. “It’s all right, Maggie. Ye have done more than enough for me.”
Then the matron turned back, and their opportunity for conversation was over. Advancing, the matron dunked the cloth in the water.
“We’d best get ye clean for yer wedding,” she remarked, grinning nastily. “It’s a rough cloth and the water is cold, but that’ll only make ye skin look better, eh?”
Freya’s eyes widened, and she backed away as far as the ropes would allow her. Scowling, the matron wrapped a meaty hand around Freya’s ankle, hauling her unceremoniously back.
“Ye want to do this the hard way? Very well, then…”
The door swung open with a bang, making all three of them jump. The matron straightened, scowling at the man who stood there.
“Ye! Out!” she bellowed.
He flushed, holding his ground. “I was sent to fetch Lady Freya. She’s to come down to the courtyard. Laird Grahame has summoned her.”
The matron blanched. “The wedding? Already? I was told I’d have more time to get her ready.”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know. Doesn’t look like a wedding. Shall I go back and tell him ye won’t bring her?”
The woman shuddered, and shook her head. “No, no. I’ll bring her now.”
She glanced at Freya out of the corner of her eye, and scowled. “Well, lassie, looks like we’re going now. I hope ye are ready for whatever awaits ye down there.”
Almost certainly not, Freya thought, fear building up inside her. I don’t think I’ve ever been ready.
The crowds in the halls were so thick that the soldiers and the matron had to force people aside to get Freya through. She caught snatches of conversation as she pushed by.
“Is it really him?”
“Aye, looks to be so.”
“This isn’t what I hoped for. What any of us hoped for.”
“What happens now?”
“No one knows. Nothing good, I’m sure.”
Then, quite abruptly, they were out into the open air and weak sunshine, a light breeze stirring Freya’s hair around her face.
The courtyard was full of people, soldiers and common men and women alike.
She spotted a few familiar faces, mostly advisors and nobles she’d met when she was first here.
The advisors, the ones who made up the Laird’s council, gathered in a corner, huddled together as if for protection, whispering urgently.
There was a great space in the middle of the courtyard, where Laird Grahame himself paced like a hungry, mad lion.
He was not a tall man, and although he was stocky in his later years, strength was clearly visible in the lines of his body.
There had been rumors about his health declining, rumors which he set out to viciously combat.
His hair was gray, sticking out around his head, making him look even more like a caged beast. There was the same glassy, unfocused expression in his face that Freya had noticed before, when she decided beyond doubt that she had to escape.
His gaze flitted over her, barely seeming to land, barely seeming to register that she was there at all.
Why would he consider me at all? she thought, with a burst of anger. He’s won. I’m caught. His pretty bird is returned to its cage. He never wanted it that badly, but nor did he want it to escape.
Her hands had been retied behind her back, a fur cloak draped around her shoulders to hide the fact that she was bound at all. The matron kept a tight grip on her upper arm, hard enough to bruise, and forced her forward. Maggie had disappeared somewhere, and Freya couldn’t blame her.
She was pushed forward a few more feet, and she saw at last what all the commotion was about. Her knees buckled, and she was almost glad of the matron’s unyielding grip, keeping her upright.
Brendan knelt in the middle of the courtyard, water from a puddle soaking into his trousers at the knees.
He was not bound, but there was a cluster of soldiers around him, each with a blade aimed at his neck.
Behind him was Noah, the man who’d come to see Brendan before, also kneeling, with his head hanging between his shoulders in defeat.
As she watched, unable to believe what she was seeing, Freya saw one of the blades wobble, just a little, as if the man holding it was not sure, not happy to be in this position. The man glanced over at one of his companions, who shot back a stern, meaningful stare.
Then the moment was gone. Abruptly, Laird Grahame began speaking, and absolute, terrifying silence spread over the courtyard.
“My son thinks to come back and challenge me. Me!” His voice was hard and unwavering, but there was an edge of hysteria behind his words.
Something unpredictable. Something dangerous.
“After spending years running away from his duty and his people, he comes back and thinks to take the seat from me. Ha!” He spread out his arms, turning in a circle. “Will we allow this?”
Perhaps he’d expected a roar, a resounding no, but all Laird Grahame got in return was a taut silence. He looked around, but everybody pinned their gazes to the ground as his eyes swept across them. Freya kept her head up, meeting his eye squarely when he looked at her.
Laird Grahame scowled. “He is no son of mine. Not anymore.”
“That’s not true, Father,” Brendan spoke up. He had seen Freya, he must have seen her, but never once glanced her way.
He’s trying to protect me, Freya realized with a sickening jolt. If his father suspects there is anything at all between us, he’ll use us against each other.
Brendan slowly rose, the soldiers eyeing him anxiously. They made no move to push him back to his knees, and Laird Grahame’s face turned red with anger.
“I am yer only son, yer only child,” Brendan continued, his voice calm and even, carrying easily across the silent courtyard.
“Ye must have an heir, and so ye cannot put me aside. I have come back because I heard of the way our people are suffering. Och, aye, Father, I’ve heard it all.
I know about the taxes ye have levied on the common people, who can scarcely afford to live as it is.
I know how the people of the Keep live in fear.
I know about the murdered advisors and countless servants who have gone missing.
I know how the soldiers of yer personal guard roam the countryside, doing as they please.
I know that ye brought this woman, yer bride, here by force.
I know she fled from ye, and ye dragged her back.
I know that ye care nothing for others. I know that ye’ve failed yer clan, Father. ”
There was a brief, stunned silence after this. Freya glanced around the crowd, and saw that everybody had their eyes fixed on Brendan, mesmerized. She saw something else spark in their eyes that almost certainly hadn’t been there for a long time.
Hope.
Laird Grahame bit out a curse.
“How dare ye?” he hissed, coming within inches of his son’s face. “I gave ye life. I raised ye.”
“Aye, and I tried my best to love ye for it,” Brendan responded, never blinking. “I can’t ignore this anymore, Father.”
“Ye are a coward. Ye ran when the people needed ye most.”
This sparked a ripple of murmuring in the crowd, people glancing at each other and shrugging. This was true, it seemed, and could not be argued with.
Brendan clenched his jaw, lifting his chin.
“Aye. It’s true. I’ll not argue with it, and nor will I deny my faults. I fled because I was afraid. Afraid of ye, like everybody else here. But I’m back now, and this won’t go on. I won’t let it.”
Laird Grahame let out a sharp, mirthless laugh. “Won’t let it? Och, lad, things have changed. Ye see her?”
Abruptly, he rushed across the courtyard, coming towards Freya like some sort of rabid animal. She tried to pull back, but the matron kept her in place. Laird Grahame seized her face in a painful grip, sharp fingernails digging into her cheeks.
“Ye see this woman?” Laird Grahame repeated, forcing Freya to look at Brendan.
“I’ll wed her, and get a child in her even if it kills her.
I’ll have another boy. Maybe several, and then I’ll have heirs a-plenty.
And that means that ye, my son, are no longer as important as ye think ye are.
I’ll spit yer head on a spike, if I so desire, and it will make no difference at all. What do ye say to that, boy?”
Brendan met Freya’s eyes, and she saw fear there.
What does he see in my eyes?
“I can’t let ye do that, Father,” Brendan said, his voice quiet. The crowd all leaned forward to hear better.
Laird Grahame sneered. “Och, aye? And why not? Because ye are afraid of being replaced?”
Brendan gave a small, wry smile. “Because I love her.”
A shivering gasp rolled through the crowd. Laird Grahame’s face went slack with shock, his hand dropping from Freya’s face as if he had been burned.
The matron’s hand tightened even more on Freya’s arm.
“Ye wee whore,” she hissed, only loud enough for Freya to hear. She ignored it.
Laird Grahame shot Freya one disgusted look, then strode away from her, towards his son.
“That’s a pity, lad,” he ground out, “because she is to be my bride, and that means that yer love is treason. I’ll keep her—for now, at least—but ye must be punished, my son. This will be easier than I thought.”
He drew his sword, the grating metal setting Freya’s teeth on edge. Panic clawed up from her chest, bile stinging her chest.
He’s going to cut him down where he stands, she thought, fear tightening around her. I’m going to lose him.
I can’t lose him.
Laird Grahame advanced on the unarmed Brendan, the sword glittering silver in the weak sunlight.
Freya found her voice.
“Och, no, ye must not fight a duel over me!”
She wasn’t sure where the words had come from, only that they made Laird Grahame hesitate. Only for an instant, then he continued advancing. But Noah’s head had come snapping up.
“She’s right,” he said, voice echoing in the silence. “It’s the law. As a member of the Laird’s family, Brendan has a right to trial by combat if he chooses. He has the right to a duel.”
Freya met Brendan’s eye, silently pleading.
Please, please choose the duel. That way, ye may have a chance.
Even if it does mean that they’re fighting over me like dogs over a bone.
It’s a chance.
Brendan turned his stare to his father, and lifted his eyebrow.
“I choose trial by combat, then, Father,” he spoke, voice quiet. “Choose a champion.”
Laird Grahame gave a bark of laughter, and held out his arms to either side.
“The champion is right here. Find a weapon, son. One of us dies here, and I do not intend for it to be me.”