Chapter 4 #3
He hadn’t yet eaten, Fifer realized, but he wouldn’t make them share what little food they carried with them.
“My thanks, lad, but I dined earlier.” Because the men of the village often knew much more than he did about their unfriendly neighbors, he asked, “Have you and your men had reason to work near the loch these last weeks?”
The woodcutter stared down at his boots. “We gathered some rushes there near the water’s edge some days past, my lord.”
The man was shaking now, but trying very hard to hide that from him. The others silently gathered behind him, their faces stiff with fear and dread.
“You’ve done naught wrong, lad.” Fifer put a gentle hand on the woodcutter’s thin shoulder. To the others he said, “’Tis your right to gather what you need. I but wish ken if you saw anything that yet troubles you.”
The woodcutter then told him everything that the clan’s watchers had witnessed, but with a curious addition to the disturbing tale: the outlandish arrival of the golden-haired woman.
“’Twas some moments before the demoness appeared that the lass fell from the clouds,” the man said, gesturing toward the sky.
“We all saw another tear in the clouds, but ’twasnae black like that which spilled the monsters onto the island.
’Twas made of tiny sparks like polished copper and bell heather, all glittering and bright.
She dropped down into the MacRune’s arms, as if the Gods bestowed her on him. ”
Fack, another Fae. Keeping his expression kind and understanding took all of Fifer’s will. “Did you see anything more?”
The woodcutter exchanged a quick look with the others before he said, “She came wrapped in a shroud of the costliest silk, my lord. ’Twas dyed every color the eye sees, and some I cannae name.”
Fifer thanked the men, shaking their hands and inviting them to join the clan for their evening meal after work.
He managed to keep his smile in place until he walked out of their sight.
From there he crossed several leagues of woods and meadows that separated his stronghold from the loch.
The remains of the morning mist still hovered over the dark waters, creating a ghostly wall around the base of the towering dark gray monstrosity the MacRune called home.
From the beginning the king had been very clear about the MacAlen Clan’s duties: assure the people of the highlands remained at peace and obeyed the laws—all the people.
If the dark Fae queen had commanded the MacRune to perform some wrongdoing on her behalf, it would likely involve the golden-haired female and her strange cloak.
Perhaps she had come to aid them with their crimes.
If they carried out such orders, that would leave him with no choice but to follow the king’s command and stop them.
If so, then it would be time for the MacAlen to cease being wardens of the dark and become warriors of the light.
A s Lucy walked from the kitchen through a wide hallway the noise of several hundred voices steered her toward a large open arch.
Through it she saw the gigantic, badly-lit room the cook had called the great hall.
As long as a cricket field, with soaring ceilings and walls lined with blazing stone fireplaces, it had been decorated with weapons, dusty tapestries depicting naked women being hunted by beasts, and crudely-made picnic-type wooden tables and chairs, around which the slovenly maids circled with jugs and platters of food.
It made a convincing medieval version of a biker bar.
Why would Tair want to live like this?
Around the tables sat a hundred or so men, each dressed in dark garments and wearing the clan’s black and gray tartan.
They all had shaggy black hair and heavy, muscular builds; many looked like sets of twins and triplets.
Some had different eyes and features, and a few were shorter or taller than the others.
She saw no sign of the blindfolded Lochran or anyone who looked friendly.
“Right, then, here we go, Gods,” Lucy said under her breath before she walked through the arch.
The sight of her sent a sea of dark scowls racing across the face of every man present.
Instead of staring most of them stood and came toward her, forming a gauntlet on either side of her that closed behind her as she moved forward.
Those in the back shoved aside others to get a better look at her, and all of them were muttering to each other or under their breath.
What they said wasn’t in English, but she was fairly sure it wasn’t variations of “Hi, how are you?” They’d pass as a pack of murderous, semi-rabid wolves waiting to converge on her after the pack leader took the first lunge, Lucy thought.
“Do you need a man, wench?” one of the bigger ones asked, openly leering at her. “We’re happy to take turns.”
“I wouldn’t want your food to get cold,” Lucy said, smiling back at him.
Another one who looked like a red-haired tank pushed the first aside. “I’m done eating.” He smirked at her thighs. “Give us a peek at your quim, aye? We wish ken if you’re golden there, too. ”
“A jug of the finest says she’s bare as a bairn,” a third called out, making all the men utter gloating laughs.
You’re well in it this time, Lucia, Sir Anthony would have said. Chin up and carry on, then.
“If you lot can’t be courteous to a visitor, then be quiet,” Lucy said, making all the men fall silent. She ignored the angry expressions around her and gazed around the hall. Where was Tair?
“You dare command the MacRune, wench?” one of the tallest men present demanded as he stomped over to her.
He had dressed in crudely-sewn furs like some caveman, and had a huge battle axe strapped to his left shoulder. The black scar that slashed across his face from temple to jaw looked frightening but also a bit odd, as if it had been drawn on his skin with an indelible marker.
“Actually I’m looking for someone.” Lucy said, and then smiled. “What’s your name, chum?”
“Beinn MacRune.” He leaned down, giving her a ferocious scowl that rippled his scar. “We dinnae welcome visitors in our stronghold.” He pointed toward the arch. “Leave.”
She watched as a dribble of sweat ran down the side of his broad face, as if he were very hot—which she imagined he was, swaddled in all that fur. When he wiped it away on his sleeve, the end of his scar smeared.
Oh, you great plonker.
“If you dinnae go, I shall drag you back to the dungeons,” Beinn promised.
“You needn’t bother. Have your brekkie. Lovely to meet all of you.” She reached out and patted his shoulder, making some of the men around them utter incredulous sounds before she walked around him and kept looking for the laird.
That’s the way to deal with this lot. Treat them like ill-tempered sprogs.
Despite the mob and their lack of good manners, the atmosphere in the great hall was surprisingly comfortable, as if it were the medieval Scottish version of an all-you-can-eat buffet.
On the trestle tables the women from the kitchen had put out dozens of platters and bowls of steaming food that smelled just as good as what the cook had given her.
The men also appeared as if they’d washed and changed before this gathering.
They wouldn’t have bothered to tidy up if they’d been ordered to hack her to pieces—or so she hoped.
Beinn was still glaring her way as if he wanted a rematch.
“Make room, you mangy bastarts,” a melodic tenor voice called out.
Lucy turned around as the clansmen shuffled back, sniping and swearing as they jostled and collided with each other.
A tall, well-built dark man strode toward her through the gap they made.
For a moment she thought it was the very scary guy who had tossed her in the dungeons.
She relaxed when she saw this version had shorter black hair, blue eyes and a cleft chin.
A brother, maybe. The men all looked a little afraid of him but were trying to hide it.
The newcomer also seemed expert at hiding his emotions, judging by the mask-like set of his pleasant expression.
Absolutely do not trust this one , she thought, remembering how Justin used almost the exact same fake look.
“Fair morning, Mistress.” He stopped a few feet from her and bowed as if she were an honored guest instead of a prisoner. “I’m Sgathan, the clan’s seneschal. I trust you slept well.”
Handsome, polite and concerned for her welfare. She hated him already. “I’m Lucy Brooke. You’ve misplaced your trust.”
He didn’t seem half as scary as the other guy who looked like him, so why had everyone in the hall cleared a path for him? There had to be more to this man than she was seeing. If he tried to mess with her, Lucy decided, she’d kick him up to a falsetto .
“Where’s your gaffer? The laird?” she added when he frowned.
Sgathan gestured toward a short series of steps leading up to a curtained partition at the other end of the big room.
“Ta.” Lucy ignored the stares and snickers as she crossed the hall, climbed the stairs and stopped in front of what looked like a thin black curtain pulled in front of a huge throne.
She needed to establish more authority with the laird, she decided. “You having a kip in there, MacRune?”
A huge hand jerked aside the drape, and Tair suddenly towered over her.
Today he wore a swath of black and gray wool plaid over his shoulders and a wide leather strap sheathing an impressive array of knives slanted across his massive bare chest. More hung in sheaths from his wide belt, and he’d even strapped one to his left forearm.
The big brute had also bathed, judging by his still-dripping black mop and the clean scent of soap coming from his body.
When she glanced up at his face she saw something gold flash in his dark eyes, which seemed to be a sign of his anger, if that were possible.
Then again, everything about this situation was clearly impossible.