Chapter Eighteen
It was decided at the family dinner that evening that the delegation to go north to Lord Armytage’s stronghold would consist of Maxwell, James, Callum, Sinclair, and Cat.
She refused to be left behind and threatened to follow them if they tried.
Penelope wanted to go too, but she was still heavily with child, so Sinclair was very relieved when Callum refused to allow it.
“Why do the men have all the fun?” his wife wailed.
“I think you are a wee bit confused,” Callum said gently. “I would much rather be here with you, my love, but I need to sort out our future, so that the wee one has a home when he is born.”
“Oh, it’s a he is it?” she retorted.
“Aye, it is.”
Their bickering went on, but Sinclair knew it was half-hearted and ignored it.
He was not looking forward to going north either, but at least Cat would be there.
He was rather nervous still around her father, and although this brother wasn’t as angry as Rory, he still had a hard look in his eyes when they rested on him.
As if it wouldn’t take much to punch him in the nose.
Uncle James was clever and intelligent and a man he liked, and not inclined to use violence. At least he hoped not.
It was a long time since he had been to his grandfather’s home, and the memories of his stay there were not pleasant.
He had lost his mother, and instead of feeling welcome and loved, Lord Armytage had thrown him into a rigid regime of tutors and learning to be the Master.
After that, he had been sent to a school in Edinburgh that was more like a prison.
He had done all that was asked of him without complaint, but those days were over.
He was a grown man now, with a mind of his own. He would stand up to Lord Armytage or die trying. Cat was depending upon him, and his own happiness depended upon her. The days when he would bow his head to anything his grandfather wished of him were gone. He was strong, and he would not be denied.
They traveled through marshes and beside mountains, sticking to roads which were sometimes more like tracks.
Sheep resided where once there were people, as the landlords counted their pennies and ignored the pleas of their tenants.
Vast numbers of crofters had already left these shores, never to return, seeking better lives over the sea.
When they were almost at their destination, the weather turned.
Rain began to fall in heavy showers, some of it with the addition of hail, striking painfully against their faces.
Ahead were the wild waters and northernmost islands, where once Vikings had roamed.
Sinclair rather suspected those Norsemen would feel right at home in this weather.
He couldn’t help but notice that his grandfather’s land looked extremely poor and badly maintained.
As they drew closer to the stone walls that surrounded the fortified manor house, everything was worse.
Why was it so neglected? He didn’t remember it being so bad.
It occurred to him that for a wealthy man, Lord Armytage had spent little on this place. Where had the money gone?
They reached the house. Cold gray stone and tiny windows gazed out at them with no sign of life.
The others seemed unwilling to ask for entry, looking to Sinclair.
It was he who went forward and pounded on the tall wooden doors that led into the yard.
“Open up! The Master of Armytage demands entry!”
After a moment, the gates opened, creaking and shuddering with effort. The man standing there staring at them was familiar, but for a moment Sinclair couldn’t remember his name. And then he did. Bremner.
“Bremner, I am glad to see you,” he said, although he wasn’t sure he was. He would rather not be here at all.
“Master!” Bremner said, shocked, his eyes wide. “We did not expect you so soon!”
Sinclair wondered what he meant but dismissed it for now. “I’ve come to see my grandfather,” he announced. “Is Lord Armytage here?”
“Aye, well of course,” Bremner said, shuffling back to let him in. He looked past Sinclair at the group of horsemen. “Come in, come in. ’Tis raw out here.”
The others pushed forward and entered behind Sinclair, dismounting in the muddy yard. A couple of servants came to take the horses. They looked thin and under-dressed for the weather, and Sinclair wondered that they stayed. Perhaps they had nowhere else to go.
“This way.” Bremner led them up some stone stairs and inside the building. It was colder and darker than he remembered from his boyhood. But when he looked about, he could see signs that once this had been an important place where people gathered to feast and enjoy themselves among friends.
He wondered if it could be again.
Sinclair and his companions followed Bremner up a twisting circular stairway in the thick wall until they reached a narrow landing. “Your grandsire is in here,” he said quietly. Then, seeing them all preparing to enter, “Should you not go alone, Master?”
“These are my friends,” Sinclair said firmly. “We have come to petition my grandfather.”
“But, Master,” he whispered anxiously, “your grandfather is dying. I wrote for you to come. I did not expect you so soon. Did you no’ get my letter?”
Sinclair shook his head. “I did not.”
He felt suddenly cold and shaken. Dying? Lord Armytage was dying? It seemed impossible that such a force of nature, that a man who had been such an influence on his life, was dying.
He felt Cat press to his side. She took his arm and squeezed. “I can go in with you,” she said quietly, “if that is what you want, Sinclair?”
“Aye,” Maxwell agreed somberly. “The rest of us will wait out here, lad.”
To be called “lad” seemed like a step forward, but Sinclair did not have time to savor it. He entered the room with Cat at his side.
The bed was the first thing he saw. It was an imposing tester bed with a canopy and curtains, although they were currently drawn back. There were feathers and a lion’s head embroidered into the cloth, the crest of his family, but it looked very faded and worn.
Sinclair did not remember being in his grandfather’s bedchamber before, but he knew he must have been.
Probably the only time he had been called in was to be scolded for some misdemeanor.
He saw now that there was a man lying there with a nightcap on his head and his hands resting on top of the covers.
Is he dead already? he wondered with a jolt.
But as they drew nearer, he could see that his grandfather’s eyes were open and he was watching them approach.
“Sinclair?” the old man rasped. “Lad, is it you?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“Ah, you look grand,” he wheezed. “A fine gentleman.”
Lord Armytage looked so old, Cat felt conflicted. Was this the man she had been so furious with, their hated enemy? Instead she felt pity and sorrow for Sinclair, who had moved forward and, leaning close, reached out a hand to clasp that of his grandfather.
“I am dying,” the old man said. “I am glad you are here, Sinclair. I wanted to see you before the end.”
He stopped, gasping, as if he had run out of breath.
Cat, finding some water by the bed, poured a glass.
Sinclair helped his grandfather to rise slightly, so that he could drink.
He did so, greedily, but the man’s watchful eyes went to her, taking her in.
When he had finished with the water, he fell back with a sigh.
“Who is this?” he asked weakly. “Who have you brought me, Sinclair?”
“This is the duke’s daughter you wanted me to marry.” Sinclair shot a sideways glance at Cat. “Her name is Lady Catriona MacKenzie.”
Lord Armytage’s brow furrowed in a frown, as if he were trying to place the name, before giving up. “Good lad.”
“I am glad you are pleased,” Sinclair said quietly.
Lord Armytage didn’t seem to hear him. “Everything is yours,” he went on quickly, as if needing to get the words out while he still could.
“I have arranged my affairs. Sell this place if you wish. Get what you can for it. I have squeezed every drop from it already to pay for your way in society. I want you to return to London and live as the gentleman I always wanted you to be. The gentleman I had hoped to be myself. Live my life for me, lad.”
Sinclair looked shocked, and Cat almost expected him to berate the old man for behaving so ridiculously.
But Sinclair was kinder than that. “Can I do anything for you, sir?” he said gently, and Cat admired his generosity and his ability to forgive this man who had been so unforgiving to him.
“Is there someone I can call? Some medicine you require that will help you?”
But he shook his head. “The doctor has been and washed his hands of me,” he said scathingly. “They all have. Except you, lad. Even my own daughter ran away from me.”
“But she wrote to you,” Sinclair reminded him. “At the end.”
Lord Armytage pondered this. “I wish,” he began, and then shook his head as if such regrets were useless and not to be considered. “I would sleep now,” he said suddenly. “Now that I know you have come. You and your duke’s daughter.”
He was still smiling as he closed his eyes. It was only when Sinclair placed his hand carefully against the old man’s lips and shook his head that Cat realized he was dead.
She put her arms about Sinclair and he turned into her, holding her tight. His voice was shaking. “I hated him,” he said. “But he was my kin. My only kin. I thought . . . I hoped . . .” He could not seem to say more, but Cat understood.
“I will be your kin from now on,” she said. “I promise you are not alone, Sinclair.”