The Ford of Annock #2
“Bring them back.” Alec’s order rang clear.
And as men sprang to obey, he cast a chilling glance over the Cunninghams kneeling on the cold, courtyard stones.
“I dinna know who among ye had a hand in this day’s evil deeds, but I swear to those of ye who did, there will be no mercy. I’ll see ye hang for your crimes—”
Again, the Montgomerys interrupted him with loud cheers.
He closed his eyes, upset. Wanting nothing more than this day to be done. Raising his hand once again for silence, he finished, “And I swear, Cunninghams, to those of ye who are innocent, I’ll see ye protected and safe from harm. Aye, with my own sword and to the very last drop of my own blood.”
The silence that greeted this statement was so profound, so complete, that he thought if it hadn’t been for the wind, he could have heard the scrabbling of the mice in the tower house rafters.
But he didn’t care what they thought. He only wanted this done.
Sweeping his arm out over the Cunninghams, he ordered his men, “Bring them to the hall. Every last one of them.” He didn’t look at Sorcha.
He couldn’t. In his mind’s eye, he saw her running towards him, screaming of treachery and pointing to Lady Margaret on the castle walls.
At that, Alec froze.
In the tumultuous flood of emotions overwhelming him in the past hour, he’d quite forgotten his bloodthirsty sister-in-law.
“Bring Margaret first,” he said, dropping his voice in a low, scathing hiss.
With Taran close by his side, he strode into the tower house, and taking the steps two at a time, entered Lainshaw’s great hall. He couldn’t look at Robert’s small antechamber to the side, with its dark, carved table and cushioned chair. Just the day before, they’d talked there—as brothers.
Cutting that line of thought, he made his way to the high-table and leaned against it, arm’s folded and feet splayed wide apart.
Margaret had already arrived, or perhaps she’d been there all along. She walked towards him, escorted by two Montgomerys, her head held high, and when she arrived, she spat at his feet.
One of the Montgomerys struck her across the face, hard, sending her to the floor.
“Enough!” Alec stayed him with a hand. Aye, the woman deserved that, and more, for the part he suspected she’d played in the death of his brothers, but he knew such actions could ignite the tensions in the room in dangerous ways. “Stand up, Margaret.”
Slowly, she rose to her feet, straightening her scarlet dress around her and raising her chin.
“I’ll lay the blame on your shoulders, Alec, should I lose your brother’s bairn,” she threatened with a cruel smile.
“You’re not the earl, ‘tis your brother’s son that will hold his lands.
” She gave her belly a pat, even as her hand trembled.
Alec tensed.
“Nay, ‘tis not true!” Sorcha’s voice cut through the gasps greeting this revelation.
Still numb, Alec glanced up to see Sorcha in the sea of Cunninghams before him. One of the Montgomerys caught her by the arm and brought her forward.
The lass limped badly. Her clothing reeked of urine. And in spite of all that had occurred—aye, even with his suspicion that she’d played some part in this day’s accursed events—his heart tugged at the sight of her disheveled state.
“’Tis not your brother’s bairn, Alec, ‘tis not your burden to bear,” she whispered, her face as white as a ghost. “’Twas fathered by a man named Gordan.”
“’Tis a wicked lie!” Margaret accused, her face contorting with anger.
The hairs on the back of Alec’s neck stood on end. How could Sorcha know such things? He searched her face, his heart breaking. Just how deeply had she been involved? True, she’d tried to warn him. But … how long had she been party to their plotting?
He couldn’t face her. Nay, not now. He turned to Margaret instead. “I saw ye on the walls myself, Margaret, signaling the Cunninghams. Ye’ll pay for that at the very least, and more if I discover your fingers dipped even deeper than that.” With a crisp nod, he ordered hoarsely, “Take her away.”
“Kill her now!” a Montgomery shouted.
“Silence!” he intercepted before the cry caught hold, his roar reverberating in the rafters of the hall.
“I, the Montgomery, will seek justice. True justice. The kind of justice that will stop the endless retribution of one clan upon another. This ends today. I’ll bring this matter to the king, and I’ll demand justice of the guilty Cunninghams myself.
I will see those who committed these foul, unjust murders hang or worse.
But remember this well,” he paused a moment to give the words full effect before adding, “Those Montgomerys who commit a foul deed upon an innocent Cunningham will answer to me and receive like punishment.”
No one spoke.
Turning back to the man holding Margaret, he repeated, “Take her away.”
“And this one?” the other guardsman asked, tilting his head at Sorcha.
He didn’t want to, but he looked upon the lass again. She was pale. Beneath her skirt, he could see that her foot was bleeding. She took one look at him and her face crumpled.
“Aye, send them both to Margaret’s chamber,” he said, keeping his voice level with difficulty. He felt sick. “Tend to their injuries.”
Time passed in a blur after that. He didn’t let himself think of Sorcha or his brothers.
He focused on the problems at hand, deciding which Cunninghams must stay as subjects of investigation, and which ones to send to Aiket immediately, for their own protection.
It was an arduous task, but at last, he was alone with Taran, standing in Robert’s small antechamber.
“Ach, how did I get here?” he whispered, staring at Robert’s cushioned chair, stricken.
“Come with me, cousin,” Taran urged softly. “They rest in the chapel.”
Alec shuddered.
He had yet to change his clothing. Aye, and Taran as well. Dried blood still stiffened their plaids. He couldn’t stand its smell, yet he couldn’t bring himself to wash it away. It seemed almost a betrayal, as if somehow he’d wash his brothers away with it, into oblivion.
“Come with me, cousin,” the highlander repeated, dropping a strong hand upon his shoulder. “A man should weep for those he loves,” he murmured. “If he does not, then he's no man.”
Alec didn’t reply. Nor did he resist when Taran guided him out of the small room and down the tower house steps. At the foot, he paused, hearing a woman’s screams.
“’Tis Margaret,” Taran answered his unspoken question. “She’s birthing the bairn. ‘Tis far too soon.”
Alec drew a deep breath and bowed his head. He’d never truly know if the bairn had been Robert’s. His heart ached at the thought that it just might have been. It hurt. Had the last link to his brother just died with him?
“Come,” his cousin said, beckoning him forward.
He allowed Taran to lead him to the chapel, but not before peering up at the dark, moonless night in surprise, shocked the day was truly done. Taran didn’t let him stay long. Taking him by the arm, the man lifted the latch and pulled him into the chapel.
Alec entered, but he’d scarcely gone three steps before he stood still.
The chapel was a sea of candles. The flickering light casting shadows over his brothers’ faces. Pale. Lifeless. Gray.
He wanted to feel something. Anything. But he felt nothing as he walked, Taran close at his heels, silently keeping pace. Strangely, he thought more of his cousin then. In some ways, he was a brother, always there, dark, silent and glowering, but a steady, guiding presence.
Ach, it was Andrew.
Aye, and David.
Aonghas. Eadan. And the two youngest, Niall and Sean.
Then he saw Robert.
He stood still.
And then with a low, strangled moan, he sank to his knees, unable to take a step closer to look upon his brother’s countenance.
They had parted with harsh words, aye, and a rift he’d thought might never be repaired.
But now, sorrow had melted the anger, leaving only the regret they’d never have the chance to heal their wounds.
‘Twas only his brother that lay there now, a man with whom he’d shared a lifetime of loyalty and memories.
Alec covered his face with his hands and giving a loud cry, wept, the tears flowing freely at last.
Taran withdrew then, leaving him alone, and he stayed there, at his brothers’ sides, long into the night.
At last, drawing an unsteady breath, he rose to his feet and, facing his brothers one last time, silently vowed to see justice done.
He didn’t know, or care, what time it was.
He saw Margaret first.
She lay in a bed, her face bloated and red from crying, but it was obvious to him that in the ensuing hours, her hatred of him had only grown. “How can ye live with yourself, knowing ye murdered your own nephew?” she spat.
Her words cut. Deeply. But he ignored them. “I dinna come for ye, Margaret,” he said, turning to Sorcha, he added, “I came for her.”