Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Morning light bled through the tall, narrow arrow slits of the bedchamber, cutting long gray ribbons across the stone floor.
Fearchar stood by the heavy oak wardrobe, buckling his leather broadsword belt over his shoulder.
The exhaustion of the night still weighed heavily on his eyes, but his mind was sharp, hardened by the cold reality of what awaited them downstairs.
He turned toward the bed, intending to pull the heavy wool quilt higher around Nandag’s shoulders before stepping out to face the Council.
She was already on her feet.
Nandag stood near the hearth, dressed not in a soft gown of state, but in her dark, close-fitted wool, her hair drawn back into a tight, severe braid. Her shoulder was heavily bandaged beneath her linen shift, her movements guarded and stiff, but her jaw was set in an unyielding line.
Fearchar stopped, his hand resting on the basket hilt at his hip. "Ye are nae going down tae the hall, Nandag."
"I am," she replied quietly, her dark eyes meeting his in the dim light. She reached for her tartan plaid, draping it over her uninjured shoulder.
"The Council is a hornet's nest this morning," Fearchar said, taking two swift strides across the room to stand before her.
He reached out, his broad hands resting gently on her arms, his thumbs brushing against the soft fabric.
"The elders are frightened, angry, and looking fer someone tae blame.
Duncan has the inner ward locked down, but the air in that hall is thick with tension.
Stay here. Stay where I ken the door is barred, and the guard is absolute. "
Nandag looked up at him, her chest rising in a slow, deliberate breath. "If I hide in this chamber today, Fearchar, Robert Cameron wins without drawing another blade."
"Nandag."
"He sent a man into me bedroom tae slaughter me like a spring lamb," she interrupted, her voice dropping into a low, fierce murmur.
"If I sit behind barred oak while the elders debate me safety, I tell every man in Strathglass that Robert has made me afraid.
I tell them I am fragile. I am the daughter of the house, and I will nae be locked away in me own home. "
Fearchar stared down at her. He saw the faint violet shadows beneath her eyes, the subtle tremor in her left hand, and the raw, lingering trauma of the previous night’s violence.
But beneath all of it, he saw the fierce, unbroken spirit that had drawn him to her from the start.
He knew that forcing her to stay would break something far more vital than a council's protocol.
Without another word, Fearchar offered her his arm. Nandag looked at it for a fraction of a second, then slid her slender hand into the crook of his elbow.
Together, they stepped past the four heavy-set Chisholm guards in the corridor and descended the winding stone staircase into the Great Hall.
The hall was an arena of low, rumbling voices and acrid smoke.
Dozens of clan elders, sept leaders, and sub-chiefs packed the space around the long oak tables.
Pitch-pine torches sputtered in the iron sconces, casting harsh, jumping shadows over weathered faces.
Old MacRae stood near the high dais, gesturing wildly with a calloused hand, while Malcolm sat across from him, his face pale, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he argued with the captain of the watch.
The moment the heavy iron latch clicked and Fearchar stepped through the archway with Nandag at his side, the roar of voices cut off.
Every eye in the room fixed on them. They saw the pale, tight-set of Nandag’s mouth, the crisp linen bandage peeking just above the collar of her dark tartan, and the dark, lethal presence of Fearchar walking half a step beside her, his grey eyes sweeping the room like a hawk looking for prey.
Subtle murmurs broke out among the lower tables. Old men shifted uncomfortably on their benches; young warriors straightened their shoulders, their hands instinctively dropping to their dirks.
Fearchar led Nandag to the center of the room, taking his place at the head of the High Table. He didn't sit. He stood, resting his hands flat on the scarred oak, letting his silence weigh on the room until the remaining whispers died completely.
"Robert Cameron’s reach has touched our inner ward," Fearchar began, his voice flat, heavy, and carrying to every stone corner of the hall. "The assassin is dead. The gates are sealed. But the threat remains outside our walls."
"Outside?" Old MacRae spat, stepping forward, his white beard trembling with agitation.
"Me laird, the threat walked through our main gate with a wounded arm and a forged pass!
The blood of the valley was spilled last night, and now our own homes are nae secure!
How long dae we sit here behind stone while Cameron burns our outlying crofts one by one? "
"He came fer the lass!" another elder shouted from the side, pointing a gnarled finger toward Nandag. "It is her marriage that brought Cameron's wrath down upon Strathglass! He wants the Chisholm bloodline severed!"
"Aye!" a voice echoed from Malcolm’s quarter. "This is a private feud between the Chisholms and the Camerons! Why should Farquharson grain and Farquharson blood be spent tae shelter a private war?"
A chorus of angry agreements erupted. Men leaned over the tables, shouting over one another, arguments clashing.
Fearchar’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the wood so hard his knuckles turned white.
He opened his mouth to roar them down, to assert his authority as laird, but before he could draw breath, Nandag stood up.
She stepped forward, leaving the shadow of Fearchar’s shoulder, and stood alone at the edge of the dais.
The elders paused, caught off guard by her sudden movement. Nandag did not raise her voice. She looked directly at Old MacRae, then let her gaze sweep across the entire room, holding the eyes of every man who had just shouted.
"A private dispute?" Nandag asked, her voice clear, cold, and carrying the crisp authority of her bloodline.
Silence fell over the hall.
"Ye sit here and call it a private dispute over marriage and inheritance," she continued, taking one slow, deliberate step toward the floor.
"Naethin’ at Strathglass is private. We are here fer ye and ye are all Strathglass.
We protect ye, we support ye, and ye support us.
Ye tell yerselves that if ye sacrifice enough, if ye look away long enough, Robert Cameron will satisfy himself with me blood and leave the rest of ye in peace. "
She stopped, her dark eyes flashing in the torchlight.
"Look at the soot on yer boots, MacRae," she said, pointing a steady finger toward the old man's hem.
"That soot came from the burned crofts at the lower ford. Were those crofts mine? Was the blacksmith’s forge mine?
Was the child I held in me arms last night—terrified and shivering beneath a borrowed plaid—a Chisholm? "
The smith, sitting near the back wall, bowed his head, his hand tightening around his bandaged arm.
"Robert Cameron did nae strike at the lower village because he wanted a bride," Nandag said, her voice rising, filling the high timber rafters.
"He struck because he wanted tae see if Clan Farquharson had grown soft.
He struck tae see if ye would tear yerselves apart the moment a shadow fell across yer threshold! We are all Clan Farquharson taegether."
Malcolm shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, opening his mouth to speak, but Nandag turned her fiery look on him before he could utter a word.
"Hiding behind these stone walls will nae save ye or us!
" She declared, her chest heaving as she held the room in absolute thrall.
"If we sit here waiting fer Robert tae choose the time and place of his next attack, he will pick ye off croft by croft, sept by sept, until there is nothing left of Strathglass tae defend.
He wants ye afraid. He wants ye divided! "
She took a breath, drawing herself up to her full height, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain from her wounded shoulder.
"I am a daughter of this glen," she said, her voice dropping into a deep, steady cadence that resonated with ancient authority.
"And as long as I draw breath, I will nae stand by while Robert Cameron treats me people like cattle fer the slaughter.
We dae nae hide. We dae nae bargain with wolves.
I demand that this Council stop debating me safety and start preparing this clan fer war! "
A profound, breathless stillness settled over the Great Hall.
Fearchar watched her from the dais, a surge of fierce, unyielding pride swelling in his chest until he could barely breathe. The frightened, wounded woman he had held in his arms as she wept in the dark was gone, replaced by a leader whose words had just struck the elders like a thunderbolt.
Old MacRae stared at her, his mouth slightly open, his hand hovering over his beard. Beside him, several young warriors slowly reached down, their hands resting on their sword hilts, their eyes shining with a sudden, fierce resolve.
Fearchar stepped down from the dais, taking his place beside Nandag once more. He laid his heavy hand over his sword hilt, his grey eyes fixing on the ow silent Council.
"Ye have heard the lady of Strathglass," Fearchar growled softly, the sound carrying a lethal promise. "Now... who among ye stands with us?"
The heavy oak gates of Castle Strathglass creaked under the weight of thick, fresh pine beams as the men hauled them into place. Cold morning mist clung to the cobbles of the outer courtyard, mixing with the sharp scent of sawdust, wet wool, and charcoal.