Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Great Hall and Courtyard of Castle Strathglass
The parchment sat between them on the oak table, its thick red wax seal glinting under the flickering torchlight like fresh blood.
Malcolm was the first to move. He took a heavy step toward the high table, his sleeve brushing a silver goblet, sending it clattering across the floor. Ale splashed over the floorboards, but no one reached to pick it up.
"A piece of paper signed seven years ago by a boy who disappeared into the Isles!
" Malcolm roared, pointing a thick, scarred finger at Fearchar’s chest. "Me nephew stands here as Mòrag’s lawful husband, consecrated before God and this entire clan.
Ye bring mud and ancient decrees into Strathglass and expect us tae bow? "
Fearchar didn't flinch. He didn't even look at Malcolm. His amber eyes remained locked on the aging laird sitting in the High Chair.
"The Accord was signed by the King's own hand," Fearchar said, his voice cutting through the rising murmur of the hall with cold, measured precision.
"It daes nae expire because a war lasted longer than yer patience.
I never broke the contract. I never renounced me claim.
The marriage performed ten minutes ago is void under royal law. "
"Void?" Robert Cameron took two fast steps down the dais, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Ye dare step into me laird's hall and say the marriage is void? I have bled fer this clan while ye were hiding in the western bogs!"
Behind Fearchar, four Chisholm warriors stepped forward in unison, their boots thudding against the floorboards, their hands resting on the hilts of their claymores.
On the outer perimeter, twenty Farquharson guards drew their blades, the sharp shhh-t of steel against leather echoing through the vaulted ceiling.
"Silence!" Laird Alasdair pushed himself upright, his ancient knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table.
A harsh, rattling cough tore through his chest, doubling him over until Nandag rushed to catch his elbow.
He shoved her hands away with weak, trembling fury, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
"I will have... order in this hall! Councilors, take yer seats! "
"There is nay order tae be had!" Robert shouted over the old man's wheezing. He didn't look back at the chief. He whirled, grabbing Mòrag’s wrist in a grip that made her wince. "The Chisholms think they can walk in and steal Strathglass with a royal signature! I am taking me wife!"
"Yer wife," Fearchar said, "or yer claim tae that chair yer faither-in-law is dying in?"
Robert's grip on Mòrag's wrist didn't loosen. "Careful, Chisholm. Ye came here tae marry a Farquharson daughter. That's all this ever was fer ye too."
"Aye. It is." Fearchar didn't deny it, didn't so much as blink. "But I'll nae stand here and let ye drag one out the door like a sack of grain tae keep yer hold on it."
"Robert, wait…" Mòrag stumbled as he yanked her down the steps of the dais.
"Ye take nay one!" Fearchar’s voice dropped an octave, rough and lethal. He surged forward, reaching out to intercept them, but Malcolm barked a sudden command.
"Block him!"
Three Farquharson swordsmen threw themselves into Fearchar’s path with drawn steel.
Fearchar didn't bother drawing his broadsword. He caught the first guard’s wrist, twisted it until the bone popped, and slammed his heavy leather bracer directly into the second man’s nose.
Blood sprayed across the rushes as the guard collapsed, but the third man lunged, shoving a heavy wooden bench into Fearchar’s knees, slowing his momentum.
Chaos tore the room apart.
Tables were shoved aside, spilling platters of mutton and heavy iron candlesticks onto the floor. Shouts, the clash of steel, and the screaming of women filled the hall as Chisholm warriors collided with Farquharson guards.
Nandag's eyes caught on Fearchar for half a second, gold hair dark with sweat, blade flashing as he drove a guard back into the hearth stones, and something in her chest snagged on the sight of him before she made herself look away. This was not the time. She didn't have time.
Her eyes fixed on her sister instead.
Robert was half-dragging Mòrag toward the heavy oak side-doors that led to the outer servants' passage. Mòrag was pulling back, her face pale, her free hand clutching her ripped velvet sleeves as she tried to plant her slippered feet against the stone floor.
"Robert, stop! Let me talk tae Faither!" Mòrag cried out, her head snapping back as he yanked her forward.
"Yer faither is a dying old man who would hand our home tae a Chisholm beast!" Robert spat, shoving past a panicked servant. "Ye are me wife, Mòrag. Yer blood seals me right tae this seat, and I am nae leaving ye behind!"
Nandag didn't think. She gathered the heavy folds of her saffron skirts in both hands, ducked beneath a swing of a guard's elbow, and sprinted down the side aisle after them.
A blade cut the air a hand's width from her shoulder, some Chisholm warrior's wild swing meant for someone else entirely, and she felt the wind of it pass before she registered what it was.
She didn't stop.
A servant went down hard in front of her, knocked flat by a fleeing councilman, and she leapt over the man's legs without breaking stride, her slipper catching the hem of her own skirt and nearly putting her on the floor beside him.
"Mòrag!" Nandag called out, her voice cutting through the din of breaking pottery and shouting men.
She shoved through the heavy tapestry covering the archway, bursting into the narrow, cold stone corridor. Ten yards ahead, Robert was hauling Mòrag toward the outer iron door, flanked by two of his personal retinue, broad-shouldered men with drawn daggers.
One of the men—a dark-bearded warrior named Torcall—glanced back over his shoulder at the sound of Nandag’s rushing footsteps. His dark eyes flicked from her face to her crimson silk sash, recognizing the laird’s youngest daughter instantly.
"Robert!" Torcall called out, halting near the doorway. "The younger sister is right behind us!"
Robert paused, his hand on the iron latch of the courtyard door. He turned, his nostrils flaring as his eyes landed on Nandag. A sharp, calculating shift cleared the fury from his face, replaced by a cold, opportunistic light.
"Take her," Robert ordered flatly.
"Robert, nay!" Mòrag gasped, lunging to grab his arm. "Leave Nandag out of this!"
Robert shoved Mòrag behind him, stepping out into the rain-slicked courtyard. "If Chisholm challenges Mòrag’s contract using the King's words, the younger daughter is next in line fer the bloodline claim. I’ll nae leave another one fer him tae marry. Grab her!"
Torcall whirled, reaching out with a leather-clad hand to seize Nandag’s arm.
Nandag didn't wait for his fingers to close around her skin. She pulled a heavy brass wall sconce free from its stone socket and swung it with all the strength in her upper body.
The brass edge struck Torcall full across his jaw with a sickening crack. He stumbled back, cursing blood into his beard, his hand flying to his broken face.
Nandag turned on her heel and ran.
Her leather slippers skidded on the slick floorboards as she sprinted back toward the castle interior, her heart slamming violently against her ribs. The sound of heavy iron-shod boots echoed behind her. Torcall was recovering fast, his angry, ragged breath closing the gap down the corridor.
She couldn't go back into the Great Hall; the narrow passageway was choked with smoke and retreating servants. She turned right, darting down the narrow archway leading to the outer stables and the horse-block.
The cold autumn wind struck her as she burst through the side postern door into the rain-drenched courtyard. The cobblestones were slick with water and mud. To her left, the high stone walls of the stable block offered no exit, the massive wooden gates locked shut for the night.
She was trapped.
Nandag whirled, backing up against the rough wooden timber of a water trough. She held the brass sconce out in front of her with both hands, her chest heaving, rain plastering dark, curling strands of her brown hair to her forehead and cheeks.
Torcall lunged through the postern door, blood streaming down his neck from his shattered jaw. His eyes were wild, red-rimmed with rage.
"Little cat," he snarled, spitting a mouthful of red onto the cobblestones. He didn't draw his sword; he dropped his weight low and dived for her legs.
Nandag swung the sconce again, but Torcall caught her wrist in mid-air, twisting her arm until her fingers went numb and the brass weapon clattered onto the stones.
He slammed her back against the wooden trough, knocking the breath from her lungs in a sharp, gasping wheeze.
His heavy leather coat smelled of wet dog, stale ale, and iron as he wrapped a thick arm around her waist, lifting her feet clean off the ground.
"Get off me!" Nandag slammed her elbows down into his ribs, kicking her feet wildly against his shins.
"Shut yer mouth!" Torcall dragged her toward a horse tied near the mounting block, where two more of Robert’s men were already mounted, waiting with swords drawn. "Robert wants ye at the eastern tower before the Chisholms clear the hall!"
"Put her down."
The command was not screamed. It was uttered with a quiet, icy clarity that seemed to freeze the rain mid-air.
Torcall paused, turning half-around with Nandag still pinned against his chest.
Fearchar Chisholm stood at the entrance of the courtyard archway.