Chapter 13
VOICES AT HIS TABLE
They were an odd mixture of people, varying in all different shapes and sizes, ages and occupations.
In his council, Oliver had his mother, the Captain of the Guard, and some of the longest standing soldiers in his army.
But that was the extent of the people Sorcha expected.
There was also a stonemason and blacksmith, a woman who looked older than the earth itself, and another woman, younger than Sorcha, who Oliver had introduced as their local schoolmaster.
The last member to join the party was a reverend in a stiff white collar and robes that dusted the floor as he went.
“Apologies,” the priest said by way of greeting. “I had a confession that went rather long. I thank you for your patience.”
Helping himself to a heaping plate of food and a steaming cup of tea, the clergyman settled in as Oliver started this unorthodox meeting.
They were gathered around the family breakfast table, a room off the side of the Great Hall, much more intimate and warm with a burning fire and fresh flowers in the center of the table.
Every seat was filled, and every face had an expression of ease and curiosity; every one except for Sorcha’s.
“I want to begin by thanking you all for answering my summons so quickly and without complaint,” Oliver said kindly. “You know I do not like to call these meetings without notice, but I am afraid in this case, it could not be helped.”
“I’ll say,” the old woman chimed in. “Ye went off for a dinner and came back with a fresh battle scar and a bonny lass. Suffice it to say that somethin’ interestin’ happened to ye while ye were gone.”
Sorcha’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Not even Lachlan’s clan members, with all they had been through together, spoke to him so casually. She half expected for Oliver to rage against the old woman. The half chuckle he gave was nearly as shocking as the woman’s informal manner of speaking.
“Aye,” Oliver nodded with a warm smile that made the corners of his golden eyes crinkle. “Well, this here is Sorcha. She was brought to Dudley’s feast as the evening’s entertainment after having the misfortune of being caught by his men.”
Every pair of eyes that sat around the table flashed in her direction. She forced her hands to stay in her lap, her chin held high, and her back straight as she met each of their gazes.
“After he did a nice number on her, Dudley made it more than clear that he was not going to let her get away from him unscathed. So I stepped in.”
He didn’t mention that he bartered his alliance for her life. From the way each of the members of his council nodded at him, Sorcha wondered if he needed to bother mentioning the specifics. He clearly had the trust of his people.
“It was on our way home that we were attacked by a group of Dudley’s men. Guards sent after us with the intention of killing me and bringing her back to him.”
“That is awful!”
“How cruel.”
A few other members uttered descriptions of Dudley’s behavior much less kind, sending a faint blush to Sorcha’s cheeks.
“If it hadn’t been for Sorcha’s skill with a blade and her quick thinking, I have no doubt that I would never have made it home,” Oliver confessed, a grateful look on his face as he stared at her.
“And this is the man ye have allied us with?” his mother demanded to know. “This is the man ye have thrown our lot in with?”
“I did not see that I had any other choice at the time. There was only so much I could watch of Sorcha’s face being bashed with fists and men kicking her in the back, all while her hands were bound. Had I had more time to stop and think, I would have.”
Mairi hummed thoughtfully. Sorcha knew the healer was thinking back to the bruises Sorcha had unveiled to her in the hours following the tending of Oliver’s wounds.
She hadn’t been brave enough to examine the marks for herself, but they hurt well enough for her to know her back would not be a pretty sight anytime soon.
“It does not matter now,” he informed them all. “What’s done is done. We must set our focus on the battle that lies ahead. Dudley is planning an all out war on the Scots. He has gathered as many allies as he can muster. They will not wait for long.”
“Will he come here first? Will he attack us?”
“He will nae like that ye got away.”
“He thinks you have taken something that belongs to him.”
The room devolved into chaos. Fear was etched into each of the faces that sat around the table.
Sorcha understood it perfectly. She had seen firsthand the lasting damage that Dudley’s armies could bring.
It had been years and the Kincaid Clan had only barely begun to recover.
Oliver’s actions in Dudley’s Great Hall had shocked her then, but it was only now that she was beginning to appreciate just how much he had risked by speaking up for her.
Not only had he made himself a target for Dudley’s wrath, he had put his people in danger too.
It was a sobering realization, one that filled her with immense guilt she didn’t know what to do with.
“That is quite enough,” Oliver called over the fray, sending a hand into the air to silence them all.
“I ken that the man is fearsome. I ken what he is capable of. And I ken that I might have made a deal with the devil. But I will be damned if anyone of ye thinks that I should have sat there for a single second longer to watch him beat a woman senseless and defenseless. That is nae the man my father raised me to be. Had it been any of yer daughters or wives or sisters in Sorcha’s place, ye would be praising me for my swift thinking, whatever the consequences might be. ”
When no one offered a retort, Oliver pressed on. Sorcha was impressed by how easily he slipped into the role of Marquess. He was every bit a lord, from the set of his wide shoulders to the angle he held his neck. And when he spoke, they all listened.
“Now, there were too many others in the room to hear me pledge my allegiance to Dudley’s schemes in return for Sorcha’s freedom.
Should I turn up dead and her back in his control, it would be an easy assumption to make that Dudley was behind it.
Even the other fools who agreed to his plan would have a hard time getting around that. ”
“That only solves one of our problems, son,” Mairi reminded gently.
“Aye. As for the battle, we will make our preparations. I will send out guards the minute our council adjourns to prepare the defenses. We will send riders out across the borders to make sure each of the villagers kens what is coming. Mother, have the servants prepare as many rooms as possible. Should anyone feel safer in the estate with us, I want to be ready to host them. We will take the elderly and the children first. The men can sleep in the guard towers if need be.”
He called out orders one by one, assigning tasks so clearly fit for the person’s skills and knowledge that Sorcha couldn’t help but be amazed with how well he knew his people.
But despite his ability to lead his people well, there was one nagging question that Sorcha couldn’t keep silent any longer.
“What happens when the battle is over?” she asked softly, cutting into Oliver’s order giving.
The room fell silent once again as they all turned to look at her. Brows furrowed from some while Mairi offered an understanding look. It was Oliver who answered her.
“We will go back to life as normal, I suspect. Of course, if there is any damage, I will see to the repairs. But I truly do not believe that Dudley will attack us. At most, I assume he will merely use the land as a bridge to get into Scotland.”
“And what about yer neighbors? The ones who are nae fortunate enough to live on the right side of the border to avoid raiding. What are they do to?”
It came out sharper than she intended, an accusation rather than a thought-provoking idea. But Sorcha couldn’t bring herself to regret the words.
“Excuse me? I am afraid I don’t understand.”
Oliver’s brogue had slipped into his words the more comfortable he became, the more settled in his role as Marquess he got.
And again she would catch glimpses of the Scottish lilt whenever he was too angry to control it.
Now, however, he spoke with the English of a perfect nobleman, born and bred to rule.
It put an odd kind of distance between her and him, one where she was very much on the outside, and he was comfortably surrounded by friends and family who would defend him to the ends of the earth.
“I mean, ye have made ample considerations for yer own people, but ye care not a bit for those just across the glen. Ye said it yerself, ye are going to sit back and allow Dudley to use yer lands as a bridge so he can infiltrate Scotland with ease. We are nae talking about some child’s toy caught in a spat between selfish children.
We are talking about people’s homes, their lives—my home, the land yer own mother comes from.
How can ye so casually turn yer back on their suffering? ”
She watched as his jaw clenched and worked around his frustration. Her own frustration grew as she spoke. He had invited her here under the pretenses that she would be allowed to speak freely, yet now that she was doing so, it was abundantly clear that her insight was less than welcome.
“This is the way the Blackwood lands have always been managed,” he explained as though he was speaking to a petulant child. “We have survived this long without choosing sides, and we will continue to do so now.”
“Survival,” she scoffed. “That is all ye can think about. Ye say whatever ye think the person ye are talking to wants most to hear, ye align yerself with men ye admit are blackguards, and ye ready the defenses, all in an effort to survive. Ye hide yer accent, yer heritage, and the truth about who ye truly are so that ye might survive. But survival is nae living.”