Oath-breaker
Hugh Cunningham. Aye, Hugh Cunningham of Aiket—the only man left to face justice.
Alec stretched his tired neck muscles in the cold, dismal room above an alehouse in some nameless hamlet they’d sought shelter in late the night before.
The passing weeks had been dreadful ones, galloping madly for leagues over the moors in the rain, mud, and darkness—aye, and finding little cheer, less warmth, and more than enough death and bloodshed to last a lifetime.
After seeing his brothers’ bodies interred into the Eglinton crypt, he’d chosen the Montgomerys he could trust and they, along with Taran, had ridden under the king’s seal, to exact a just revenge.
For the most part, they had been successful.
Justice had found John Cunningham of Corsehill at the gate of his own house.
It had also met John Cunningham of Clonbeith as he cowered, hiding at the castle in Hamilton.
Justice took longer to find David Cunningham of Robertland.
The man evaded them for weeks, but finally, he, too, swung on the end of a rope.
But the Cunninghams of Aiket had all but vanished. In the last week, Alec had heard rumors of Lady Margaret’s escape to Ireland, but there was still no word of her brother, Hugh.
Alec closed his eyes and ran both hands through his hair.
The weight of his position, as the Montgomery, weighed heavily upon his shoulders.
‘Twas never an easy thing to order the death of another, deserved or no. And there were those in his clan, in spite of his efforts, who had taken vengeance into their own hands, resulting in the spilling of innocent Cunningham blood. He’d stood aside—as the elderly Cunningham of Gleincarn had stood aside for him.
As the Montgomery, he’d allowed the Cunninghams to seek justice of their own.
It was the only way to keep the fragile peace between the clans and the only way to prevent a bloodbath of horrific proportions.
He pressed his fingers against his temples and then rubbed his rough, whiskered chin. How he ached for a warm bath, a soft bed, and a decent meal.
Aye, and peace. True peace.
Sinking tiredly into a chair, he allowed himself to think of her.
Sorcha. He missed the lass, sorely. Closing his eyes, he summoned an image of her slight, slender form and the rippling fall of her auburn curls.
He stirred. With the scent of Hugh’s trail all but gone, mayhap ‘twas time to ride to North Berwick.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs of the cold, stark alehouse, and the door flew open.
Taran strode into the room.
Alec took one look at the uncharacteristic rage storming in his blue eyes and rose to his feet, alarmed. “What is it?” he demanded, his hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of his sword.
“Tidings,” the highlander growled. He let the words hang in the air as he stalked to the table and, seizing a bottle of whiskey, rolled it across the surface towards Alec. “Drink first. Pour.”
Charily, Alec poured as his cousin seethed.
When he sat the bottle back down on the table, the highlander announced, “The king has returned from Denmark with the queen.”
Alec lifted a brow. “And?”
“They brought Hugh Cunningham with them,” the highlander informed him, his gaze dark and his manner intense.
Alec’s anticipation changed to a cold hard anger at his cousin’s next words.
“As Master of the Queen’s Stables,” Taran growled. “He’s been pardoned of all crimes, Alec.”
Alec gripped the edge of the table.
We swear a great oath to ye, Alec. Never shall we pardon any who committed these crimes against ye. Justice shall be served.
He drained the whiskey in one shot, feeling it burn its way down his throat before grating, “The king swore justice.”
“Ach, he’s a man of timid disposition,” Taran replied in a scathing tone, his blue eyes roiling with rage. “His Majesty detests the sight of weaponry and is a jolly lover of peace—as long as ‘tis paid with the blood of other men.”
Furious, Alec dashed his glass to the floor. “We ride to Edinburgh, and at once, cousin,” he said, his tone soft, however, rife with cold anger. “I’ll speak to the king myself.”
“Aye,” Taran agreed.
Grabbing their fur-lined cloaks dangling from the pegs, they took the steps two at a time, and within minutes, had thundered out of the hamlet at a furious gallop.
They rode the entire day over the brown moorlands and long into the night before stopping at an abandoned croft.
And rising early the next morning, they set off again, riding through the faint patches of mist which hugged the ground in eerie silence.
By late afternoon, they reached Edinburgh, and after a quick exchange with a guard at the castle gate, rode back down the Royal Mile to where the king had retired that day at the gray-stoned Holyrood House.
“The king will be pleased to see ye,” a foppish-looking man greeted Alec with an elaborate courtly bow. “He’s been eager to settle this matter atween your clans, once and for all.”
Alec drew his brows into a scowling line. ‘Twas fair insulting the king discussed such weighty concerns with his apparent lovers.
“A chamber awaits ye,” the man continued, bowing again and indicating a servant with a slow wave of his arm. “Please ready yourselves to join the king in his private chambers within the hour.”
Alec strode after the man, scowling. An hour. Ach, ‘twas not soon enough. It was all he could do to refrain from barging in on the king and throttling the man.
In less than an hour, they’d bathed and changed, and they must have paced before the fireplace a thousand times before another man finally arrived to escort them to the king’s private antechamber.
To Alec’s surprise, the antechamber wasn’t empty.
‘Twas not a private audience with the king.
Scarcely noticed his surroundings, he received only the dimmest impression of a vaulted ceiling, a roaring fire, and a table ringed with faceless men before his gaze locked upon a familiar one: the elderly Cunningham of Glencairn.
The white-haired man rose on his thin legs and approached Alec at once, offering a curt, yet respectful dip of the chin in greeting. “I fear this day ‘twill open old wounds, Montgomery,” he said.
“Only if ye dinna uphold your word,” Alec replied, letting his annoyance color his tone.
“’Tis not my handiwork at play here, lad,” the old man replied harshly. “I left my kinsmen to the full weight of the law, as ye have with yours.”
Alec acknowledged the truth with a brief nod of his own.
“Aye, then,” the Cunningham approved, drawing his aged lips into a thin line. “We’ll talk, you and I, when this is done, aye?”
Alec didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Not if what he’d heard of Hugh proved to be true.
His lack of response didn’t matter, as the servants rushed to open the door and the king appeared wearing a gold-braided doublet with puffed sleeves and a splash of lace at his throat in the fashion of the French.
A long silver chain adorned his neck. Shuffling in his uneven gait toward Alec, he held his arms wide in greeting.
“Alec, Earl of Eglinton, we are pleased to see ye here at Holyrood,” his majesty gushed.
It was all Alec could do to keep from punching the royal as the king enveloped him in a long, perfumed embrace.
“Your majesty,” he muttered through clenched jaws, bowing once the king let him go.
“The crown shares your interest in ending this matter, Alec,” the king stated solemnly before scanning the faces surrounding him.
“And we’re pleased to settle the issue with coin, titles, and oaths that will uphold peace atween the clans of Montgomery and Cunningham.
” He pompously expanded his thin chest and nodded at the scattered applause of his minions around the table.
Alec cursed inwardly. Aloud, he grit his teeth, unable to prevent from repeating, “Oaths.”
The king wasn’t a fool. He obviously had read the seething sarcasm in that single word, but choosing to ignore it, he limped his way to sit at the head of the table.
“Hugh Cunningham of Aiket shall forfeit his lands and titles to the Montgomery as a vow of peace,” he continued with broad sweeping gestures of his hands.
“And in return, the Montgomery will lay this grievance aside, allowing Hugh Cunningham to serve the queen unhindered, as Master of the Queen’s Stables. ”
Alec crossed his arms. The king was a na?ve fool to believe he could simply order injustice away.
A tall, gaunt man with a thin nose swaggered into the chamber, wearing a resplendent Cunningham plaid. His finely crafted Spanish leather boots rang loudly on the flagstone floor.
Hugh Cunningham.
Aye, he’d seen the man once before in passing, at Robert’s wedding.
But then, a memory triggered and Alec swallowed with belated horror.
The wedding hadn’t been the only time he’d seen the man.
Nay, he’d spied him only just recently, as the priest on the white mule, waiting to cross the bridge over the Clyde.
Alec closed his eyes, forcing a deep, steadying breath.
If only he’d stopped longer then … if only he’d followed through with his own suspicions of the man … if only.
“Ye’ll pay the Montgomery with lands …” the king’s voice intoned in the background, publicly rendering Hugh’s Aiket properties to Alec, but Alec was too furious to listen.
The entire event was a hideous farce. Aye, the king bequeathed the Aiket lands to Alec with one hand, while giving Hugh new—and likely more prosperous—ones, befitting his position as Master of the Queen’s Stables.
Clearly, Hugh possessed the guileful tongue of a viper.
“My sovereign lord,” Hugh’s nasal tones snaked through the air.
Alec lifted his eyes to see the man kneeling at the king’s feet, kissing his ring in an overt display of reverence. Aye, the man was nothing more than a mangy cur of malicious intent.
Rage blazed through Alec’s soul, deep and forceful, but he remained silent, knowing full well he could not unleash it now. He turned his head away, straight into the gaze of the elderly Cunnigham of Glencairn standing by his side.