Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The great hall smelled of roasted venison, peat smoke and wet wool carried in from the evening rain.
MacIver and MacNicol leaders occupied the long tables beneath the mingled banners of both clans.
Conversation remained careful, each exchange measured beneath the knowledge that before the meal ended, the council intended to announce the formal completion of the marriage accord.
Roy was seated beside Donaldina at the high table. Her sleeve brushed his whenever she reached for her cup. Neither acknowledged it. Yet each accidental touch seemed to contain the memory of honey upon their hands and the startling word she had spoken in the garden.
Together.
Roy stood up as the conversation gradually died down, and all faces in the hall turned toward him. MacIver and MacNicol leaders watched from their banners, some showing approval while others hesitated, still contemplating the potential cost of the union.
Roy rested one hand upon the edge of the table. “Lady Donaldina and I have agreed that the marriage between our clans will proceed,” he announced. His gaze moved briefly to her before returning to the hall. “The ceremony will be held here at Dun Ard.”
A murmur stirred through the gathered clans. Donaldina lifted her chin, meeting the attention without retreat. Beneath the table, her fingers brushed Roy’s hand.
“The arrangements will begin at once,” Roy continued. “And when the vows are spoken, they will be spoken by choice, nae merely by royal command.”
This time, the silence that followed felt different.
The council elder had scarcely risen when the doors opened, and cold air swept through the hall.
A rider stood upon the threshold in the King’s colors, with rain streaming from his cloak.
A leather case hung against his side, sealed with dark wax.
“I bear a report from the Crown,” he announced. “Concerning the death of Laird Lachlan MacNicol.”
The hall fell silent. Roy felt Donaldina become still beside him. The messenger approached the high table and surrendered the document to Father Maol. Beneath the royal seal lay the testimony of a surviving officer from the final campaign.
The priest broke the royal seal and unfolded the report. His gaze moved slowly across the page before he began.
“During the final retreat, the Crown commander ordered the forces divided. Laird Lachlan MacNicol and his company were sent west, while Laird Roy MacIver’s men were directed toward the river crossing.”
The hall had grown so quiet that the soft crackle of the hearth seemed unnaturally loud.
“Laird MacIver wasnae present when Laird MacNicol fell,” Father Maol continued. “Upon learning that part of the force had been separated and lost, he attempted to regroup the scattered men and return for those left behind.”
The priest paused, his expression heavy as he read the final line.
“He didnae reach Laird MacNicol in time.”
The words entered the hall without mercy.
Roy kept his hands flat upon the table. For years, he carried the truth alone, knowing any defense spoken by the surviving man would sound like cowardice before the dead.
He watched suspicion grow in Donaldina’s eyes and accepted it because grief required somewhere to place its blade.
Now the Crown’s record spoke for him. He did not look toward the elders who once accused him. He looked only at Donaldina.
She sat without movement, her face pale beneath the firelight.
Her gaze remained fixed upon Father Maol as the final testimony was read.
Then her eyes closed. When they opened again, the last shadow of doubt was gone.
Roy felt its absence like the easing of a weight he had grown accustomed to carrying.
One of the elder MacNicols rose slowly.
“Laird MacIver,” he announced in a voice rough with discomfort, “the accusation made against ye was false.”
Others lowered their heads. Roy gave them no absolution and offered no rebuke.
“The truth is kent now,” he replied.
Nothing more was required. Donaldina’s hand moved beneath the table.
Her fingers found his. Roy’s breath caught, though no one beyond them could have seen the small joining of their hands beneath the linen.
She did not look at him. She merely held on while the council publicly acknowledged what grief and suspicion had refused to accept.
Roy closed his fingers around hers and felt that for once, truth had arrived before it was too late.
The dinner continued well into the night, when the council finally dispersed, and Roy found himself in the narrow chamber beside the western stair. The room held little beyond a table, two chairs and a single lamp whose flame bent whenever the wind found a crack in the stone.
“The report strengthens us,” Hamish informed him. “But it willnae end Cormac’s argument.”
Roy stood over a map of Dun Ard and the surrounding roads.
“Nae. He will claim the Crown protects its own.”
“And the marriage?”
“Proceed as planned.”
Hamish rested both hands upon the table. “Unity in that hall was fragile. One more challenge tae the accord may divide them again.”
Roy knew it. The elders had accepted his innocence because denial was no longer possible. That did not mean every resentment had vanished. Cormac required only a single fracture wide enough to force apart.
“Double the patrols,” Roy ordered. “Northern track, cliff road and the inland pass. Nae rider enters or leaves without being recorded.”
“Within the castle?”
“Every servant, guest and guard is accounted for.”
Hamish hesitated. “Lady Donaldina?”
Roy lifted his gaze. “She is tae remain protected.”
“I meant whether her movements should be limited until the wedding.”
“Nae.” The answer came too sharply.
Roy lowered his voice, though not his certainty.
“She is mistress of Dun Ard. Men will guard her without making her a prisoner within her own walls. She moves where she chooses.”
Hamish studied him, then inclined his head. “As ye command.”
Roy looked back at the map. Beyond the shutters, the sea struck the cliffs with slow, gathering force.
The Crown’s testimony had destroyed one lie, but Cormac was already building others from older fears: lost land, weakened names and the threat of two clans becoming stronger than their neighbors wished them to be.
The wedding would either prove the Highlands capable of peace or give every enemy of the accord a reason to draw steel.
“The next few days will decide it,” Roy said quietly.
“Decide what?”
Roy watched the lamp flame tremble above the map.
“Whether the Highlands hold together or begin bleeding again.”
Donaldina’s chamber had been overtaken by wool, ribbons and the opinions of women. Lengths of cloth covered the bed, while silver clasps lay arranged upon the table beside sprigs of winter heather, linen thread and three different veils Mairi declared unsuitable for entirely different reasons.
Donaldina found herself standing before the looking glass while Mairi held a dark green gown against her.
“This one,” Mairi decided.
“Ye said the blue one.”
“That was before I saw this one in the light.”
Donaldina looked at her reflection. The green wool was deep enough to appear almost black where the folds gathered, but when the morning sun touched it, threads of gold emerged through the fabric. Lachlan once said the color matched the hills after rain. Her throat tightened at the memory.
“The silver clasp,” she nodded. “The one that belonged tae me mother.”
Mairi’s expression softened. “Aye.”
“And Lachlan’s plaid should be placed near the altar.”
“Donaldina—”
“He signed the accord. Whatever came after, he meant tae secure Dun Ard’s future.” She kept her attention upon the gown. “He should be present in whatever manner remains tae us.”
Mairi carefully laid the fabric on the bed.
Donaldina moved to the writing table, covered with crowded lists.
The MacNicol elders would sit closest to the front, while the MacIver leaders would stand opposite them under their banner, not behind it, ensuring no clan seemed subordinate.
Father Maol would deliver the Gaelic blessing before the formal vows.
Following tradition, bread, salt, and honey would be placed on the table afterward. She dipped the quill into the ink.
“Old Iain must be given a place near the hearth,” she continued. “His knees willnae bear standing through the ceremony.”
Mairi leaned over her shoulder. “Already written.”
“And the fishermen from the lower village?”
“Represented by Fergus and his eldest daughter.”
“The women from the weaving house should be included as well. They kept half the castle clothed while Lachlan was away.”
Mairi gave her a sidelong look. “Ye have planned a council gathering, a memorial and a feast large enough tae feed half the coast.”
“It is a wedding.”
“Aye. Yer wedding.”
The quill stopped.
Mairi moved nearer, her amusement gentling. “Ye have become very skilled at speaking of banners, seating and ceremonial bread whenever anyone mentions the husband.”
Donaldina resumed writing. “The husband requires less preparation.”
“Does he?”
Heat crept beneath Donaldina’s collar.
Mairi smiled. “There. That is what I mean.”
“What?”
“That look.”
Donaldina frowned. “I have nae look.”
“Ye dae. Ye have worn it since the laird carried ye through the gates from the hunting lodge.”
Donaldina placed the quill down more firmly than necessary.
Mairi began folding a strip of embroidered linen. “When he first came tae Dun Ard, ye watched him as though deciding where best tae bury the body.”
“I had reason.”
“Now ye listen for his steps outside the door.”
Donaldina turned toward her. Mairi did not retreat. Years of friendship made her resistant to most forms of intimidation.
“Ye are different,” she continued softly. “Nae weaker. Nae less yourself. Only… less alone within yourself.”
The words struck too accurately. Donaldina looked toward the window. Somewhere beyond the western wall, Roy would be inspecting the watch or arguing with Hamish over some danger neither wished to name before the wedding.
He arrived beneath the authority of a King.
For weeks, Donaldina feared that marrying him would mean yielding to a bargain made without her consent.
She imagined the vows as another form of surrender, dressed in fine cloth and witnessed by men who called duty honor because they were not the ones required to submit.
Yet, she was no longer preparing for a stranger. She was preparing for the man who trusted her judgment in council, the man who carried her through fire, placed honey beside his reports, and refused to confine her even when danger gathered beyond the walls.
She was not being delivered into an alliance. She was choosing one. She was choosing him.
Donaldina drew a slow breath. The certainty settled through her, quieter than excitement and stronger than fear.
“The green gown,” she agreed.
Mairi glanced toward the bed. “I told ye.”
“With me mother’s clasp and Lachlan’s plaid near the altar. The MacNicol and MacIver banners at equal height.”
Mairi nodded.
“And honey from the oldest hive,” Donaldina continued. “Nae the new one.”
“Because Lachlan helped ye build it?”
“Aye.”
Mairi returned to the table and picked up the list. “What of the vows?”
Donaldina looked once more at her reflection. Her face remained her own. The room remained hers. Beyond the door waited a castle she protected, a clan she served and a future no royal document could now claim to have decided for her.
“The traditional words,” she urged. “But Father Maol is tae leave space for us tae speak our own.”
Mairi’s smile appeared slowly. “Roy kens this?”
“He will.”
Mairi chuckled. “That poor man.”
Donaldina took up the quill again. Her hand no longer trembled.
“Now,” she said, drawing the final line beneath the arrangements, “let us ensure he has a wedding worth surviving.”