He was, in short, a selfish, jealous child. Beathan knew this, and while he disliked it, his complaints fell on deaf ears.
“The lad’s had a hard time of it, Beathan. Love him as he deserves and he will come round,” had been his father’s sage advice.
“Be kind to him, Beathan. His heart is hurting,” had been his mother’s.
So Beathan had done his best to be kind to his cousin, including him in any and all activities, always ensuring that Andrew felt loved and included. But it was no use. No matter how much was given to the lad, he always wanted more.
Andrew also began, as they grew older, to become obsessed with besting Beathan. During their tutoring sessions in adolescence, Andrew would throw fits if Beathan got a better mark than him on the exams the tutor gave every fortnight. The whole classroom could be destroyed in his rages; books ripped apart, pencils cracked in half.
Once, he even broke one of the chairs, smashing it against the wall and frightening the tutor so badly the man had to be persuaded with ample coin to ever come back.
Beathan’s parents grew worried about the lad, but there was nothing to be done. No matter the punishments or talking to Andrew was given, his temper did not abate. He blamed Beathan for his outbursts, saying that if his cousin just “played fair” that he wouldn’t grow cross.
“But Andrew,” Beathan had overheard his father saying to his cousin one night. “Getting’ a better mark or knowin’ more Latin verbs than ye doesnae mean Beathan’s not playin’ fair. Can’t ye see that, lad?”
“No. I can’t. He’s not bein’ fair, and that’s it. I’ll not stand for bein’ treated differently.”
The problems did not cease with time. When they grew older and began to learn the arts of war: sword fighting, archery and the like, Andrew had thrown fits whenever Beathan beat him.
He had asked for countless rematches, making Beathan shoot arrows well into the night so that Andrew could win, which he hardly ever did.
Beathan had a natural talent with a sword and bow, this he knew. It was to his advantage, really, what with being the future laird. His father had had to go into countless battles during his time, even help the guards once or twice when raids had been attempted on the castle. It had not happened in quite some time, but it was always good to be prepared and able to protect your people. However, when he’d tried to explain this to his cousin, Andrew had shown a kind of anger that Beathan had never seen before.
“My father was a warrior, too! So I should be good at this!” he had said, throwing his bow forcefully to the ground. “It’s not fair!”
Beathan had watched with speechless fascination as his cousin fled the field and stormed into the castle. Andrew had locked himself in his room for five days, refusing to talk to anyone. He had refused food, accepting only ale, and his stomping and cursing could be heard all over the castle.
When he had finally come out, he had seemed back to his normal self. Sullen, jealous Andrew, but no more so than before. They had never discussed Beathan’s inheritance again, as agreed by laird and lady.
“It is clear it upsets him. We just have to hope that time will heal the lad” had been Beathan’s father’s words.
Privately, Beathan wondered whether his cousin would ever get over the knowledge that this, above all else, could not be maid “fair.” Beathan would be laird, and Andrew wouldn’t. There was nothing anyone could do to make that an easier thing to swallow. It was clear now that Andrew had not in fact ever truly accepted the truth of the primogeniture that ruled the Scottish and English nobility.
Beathan wasn’t sure what exactly had happened to finally make his cousin go truly mad, but it was clear the man had done so. There was no other explanation for Andrew trying to kill him twice, with his own arrows. No, it was thrice! Beathan realized as his gaze floated towards the middle of the room, where he and Andrew had duelled only days before.
The duel had seemed so sudden, so out of place, but now it all made sense. Andrew had tried to kill him that night, as well. It was why he had used that old sword. He had done something to it, something that would harm Beathan if the blade touched his skin.
With these realizations came the sick feeling of resignation, for Beathan could not let the night end without these truths being made clear. He could not let his cousin go unpunished. He loved Andrew, pitied him, sympathized with him, all in equal measure.
But those feelings would not stop him from confronting the man who had so terrified himself and Kirsteen this last week. And so Beathan stood up, and called for silence in the hall. It was his turn to speak.
He would say the truth, no matter how much it might pain him and his family. People deserved to know how Andrew Dune really was.
16
Kirsteen winced at the roar that erupted from Beathan’s mouth.
“Quiet!” he shouted, and the whole room suddenly fell into silence.
Beathan’s face was twisted in anger, and though his features were still handsome, they were fearsome as well. His eyes were cutting as they scanned the table before him, and she could practically feel the fury radiating off his tense body.
What is going on? she wondered. She had never seen Beathan so irate.
“Andrew Dune,” he shouted, glaring at his cousin. “Stand up.”
A tall, lean man with dark blonde hair stood up. Kirsteen had seen him in passing and knew his face, but she had not known who he was before now. But Beathan had mentioned a cousin one night during their chats. This must be the man. He was staring straight ahead now, his eyes fixed on some far-off point on the wall opposite. His posture was straight-backed, his face stoic, as though he was being led to the executioner.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Beathan said, now addressing the rapt crowd of people sitting before him. “The man standin’ to my left is me cousin, Andrew Dune. He has been with me family since he was but a wee one, a six-year-old bairn. For seventeen years I have loved him like a brother. My parents had treated him like a son, givin’ him everythin’ he could have ever wanted. He has been loved and cherished by this family in equal measure to myself.”
Kirsteen saw Andrew wince, looking as though he disagreed with this statement. Her eyes then wandered over to Beathan’s parents, who were seated to his right. They were both looking from each other back to their son with expressions of confusion on their face.
She shared their feeling of confusion. What exactly was Beathan trying to say? Why was he detailing his cousin’s childhood in front of all these people? What did this have to do with anything? Those answers became clear a moment later, however.
“Despite this, however, Andrew has never been content. He wanted everythin’ in his life to be equal to mine, and though me parents and I did our best, nothin’ was ever quite good enough for Andrew here. He felt slighted, ye see, because I was the heir to the lairdship.
“Of course, there’s nothing that could be done about that. It was a life I was born into, nay more me choice than me name or the color of me eyes. But that dinnae matter to Andrew. Andrew has never been one for reason. All he cares about is himself. Isnae that right, Andrew?” Beathan asked, turning toward his cousin with a raised eyebrow.
Andrew said nothing. His face remained impassive, his eyes looking straight ahead. If Kirsteen didn’t know better, she would have thought he wasn’t even paying attention to Beathan’s speech. But his earlier flash of emotion told her the opposite was true.
Beathan continued, “And when I returned home and had this brilliant entertainment and celebration thrown in my honor, I’m sure Andrew was positively seethin’. There wasnae celebration for him. How unfair! And nay doubt he has been enjoyin’ these past few years without me presence.
“Mayhaps he might have even started to hope I never came back. That perhaps I was killed abroad somehow, and he could take me place. But when that did not come to pass, he decided instead to get rid of me, once and for all. He decided to kill me, ye see.”
At this, there was a loud gasp from the crowd. People
began to murmur, looking from each other to Andrew and back again. Andrew continued looking forward, but he began to look visibly uncomfortable. Kirsteen saw his jaw clench, and he began to squirm where he stood. He looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but the hall at that very moment.
Beathan can’t really be accusing his cousin of trying to kill him, she thought. Such a thing only happened in Shakespeare’s plays! Surely familial jealousy was not so violent in real life as it was in Hamlet.
“There has been two attempts on me life in the past weeks,” Beathan said, and more surprised gasps and murmurings could be heard from the crowd. “They have endangered not only meself, but a lass whom I have been spendin’ me time with,” Beathan said, and here his eyes looked straight at her.
Kirsteen could feel herself flush, but thankfully, though Beathan was obviously staring at her, no one else noticed, not even Blanche.
“There has been a manhunt goin’ on to find the person behind these attacks. Me faither and his men have been searchin’ all over the land lookin’ for this man who so wants to end me life. But what a waste the hunt has been, when all the time, the scoundrel was right under our noses.”
As the murmuring continued, so did Beathan’s speech. “Ye might well be askin’ yerselves what evidence I have to accuse the man before me. After the second attempt on me life, I found an arrow. An arrow with blue and green fletchins that I realized today looked rather similar to the arrows sitting in the quiver in me cousin’s room.
“If one of the servants could go to my room, take that arrow, and compare it with the ones in Andrew’s quiver, I’m sure they would come to the same conclusion as me. That the arrow that was shot directly at me heart, was in fact an arrow belonging to and shot by Andrew Dune himself.”
Beathan paused, waiting for the fervor of whispers travelling about the room to die down before he turned to look straight at his cousin and asked, “Andrew. What have ye to say for yerself?”
“Fine!” Andrew shouted, his face twisted in a cruel smile. “I did it! I admit to it! The first shot was off-center, since as I’m sure ye well ken, I’m not nearly as good a shot as ye. But the second was dead on. It would have hit ye right in the heart.
“Ye would be dead, and I would be next in line for the lairdship. I would have gotten finally what was owed to me. But ye couldnae even give me that, Beathan. Ye couldnae let me finally have what has been mine all along.”
“Yers all along?!” Beathan exclaimed, and suddenly it felt like Kirsteen was sneaking a peek at a private conversation between Beathan and cousin that neither she nor the rest of the crowd ought to be privy to.
“Aye, it was mine all along. I’ve suffered me entire life thanks to ye. I have never been good enough. Ye always had more, no matter how I tried to balance the scales. It’s only right I got the lairdship in the end. Ye have had yer good life. It’s time for mine.”
Kirsteen saw the laird and lady go paler than the moon at the realization that Andrew, the man they had treated like a son, had betrayed them so horribly. Beathan too looked pained at his cousin’s confession.
Kirsteen was sure a part of him had hoped he was wrong, that he was mistaken in thinking his cousin capable of betraying him so terribly. She couldn’t imagine the pain of knowing that someone you loved was so willing to destroy you for their own gains.
“I’m afeared there’s no good life ahead for ye, Andrew,” Beathan said, and Kirsteen could see him starting to slump, the tension going out of him. He looked suddenly exhausted, haggard, like he’d aged five years in the span of ten minutes. Clearly, he wanted to be done with this. He’d confirmed his cousin’s guilt, and now he no doubt wanted to be done with the matter.
Unfortunately, Andrew was not so willing to accept the punishment he was no doubt due.
“Aye, there is indeed, cousin! For I will not go quietly. No indeed. I challenge ye to a duel, Beathan Dunn. A duel to the death. I tried to kill ye once with me sword, but I made a mistake. I chose an old sword, worried that the poison I laced the blade with would tarnish one of my better weapons. I will not make the same mistake again. This time, I will kill ye purely with me own force and skill.”
Kirsteen was shocked. So there had been three attempts on Beathan’s life, starting the very first night of the celebrations. He’s been trying to kill Beathan all week, Kirsteen realized. And despite three failed attempts, he still would not give up. This, if nothing else, showed what true madness had infected Andrew Dune’s mind.
Kirsteen feared for Beathan’s life. He might be the stronger of the two, but Andrew had in him a ferocity, a hatred, that could not be quelled. It made her blood run cold knowing that such a man even existed, let alone had been residing in such close proximity with her love all these years.
It’s a wonder this is the first time Andrew has tried to kill him, she thought. Beathan might have been in danger for years without the slightest suspicion!
“May the best man win, and get the lairdship in the takin’,” Andrew shouted, a feral look in his eyes.
The crowd quieted at this, waiting anxiously for Beathan’s answer.
“I accept,” was what he eventually said, after what looked like a war of emotions and thoughts going on inside of him.
Kirsteen felt her heart drop out of her chest with fear. One of those men in front of her was going to die tonight, and she was powerless to sway the odds. She only hoped Beathan was as good a swordsman as he claimed.
Beathan saw the look of horror on his mother and father’s faces a moment after Andrew spoke. He could practically hear their minds running rampant, worrying that Andrew really would kill him this time. He, however, had no such anxieties. He had always been the better swordsman of the two of them. Years of sparring and fencing practice had made that abundantly clear.
Add to that Andrew’s heightened emotions, and his cousin was sure to lose. Beathan was suffering none of the anger that was coloring Andrew’s face a bright red now. Instead, a strange calmness had settled over him. He had heard of the sensation from his father.
It happened to some men right before a battle. Their heartbeats slowed, their minds stopped churning. Time seemed to slow down as they took their positions, their focus only on their bodies and the position of their enemies.
As servants scattered to retrieve weapons and make room for the duel in the middle of the room, Beathan watched with his attention focused inward. He forgot about his parents, about Kirsteen, about the rest of the people sitting in the room, watching with fear as he and Andrew took their places.
All he knew was the sword in his hand, his feet on the stone floor, and Andrew just opposite him. The echo of their swords clanging together the first time was enough to briefly wake him from this trance, and Beathan looked up to find his cousin smirking at him with a confidence he did not deserve.
“I will beat ye, Beathan. I will beat ye, and I will kill ye,” Andrew whispered, his words harsh and cutting.
They did not scare him. They saddened him, seeing his cousin for who he truly was, a ruthless, selfish man who had no regard for anyone but himself. But they did not make him fearful. Beathan refocused his attention on the fight, dodging a powerful thrust that, had he not moved out of the way, would have sliced right through his stomach.
His eyes followed Andrew’s every movement, tracking his cousin as he moved with quick, light steps about the space that had been carved out for them. As Beathan avoided Andrew’s jabs, getting in a few of his own, his cousin began to look increasingly agitated.
When one of Beathan’s jabs scraped Andrew on the arm, the fight took a turn. Andrew was suddenly ferocious in his pursuit of Beathan, thrusting his sword again and again, barely giving Beathan time to react before the next hit was coming. And yet still, he avoided harm, not getting so much as a scratch.
As the minutes wore on and Andrew’s movements became more erratic, Beathan began to hope that perhaps his cousin might call for a tie. He would be glad of it; he was tired, and losing his
concentration. It had been an emotionally taxing evening, and the physicality of the duel was becoming too much.
Andrew lunged at Beathan again, this time aiming directly for his heart. Beathan reacted with a swipe of his sword, which sent his cousin’s flying out of his hand and onto the stone floor.
Thank god, it’s over, was his first thought. His cousin had been disarmed. Surely that signalled the end of their fight? It would in any other swordfight, but then, Andrew did not seem to be following the normal rules of gentlemanly swordplay.
“Andrew,” he said, nodding toward the weapon now lying at his cousin’s feet. “Please, let’s be done with this. I will not kill ye. Even after what ye did, I cannae. Yer me cousin, me family.”
“Then ye‘re nothin’ but a coward!” Andrew roared, bending to pick up his sword.
Beathan stepped forward, pointing his sword at Andrew’s heart, until the blade was just cutting through the fabric of Andrew’s waistcoat.
“Nay, cousin. What I am is merciful,” Beathan said, shaking his head sadly.
“Ye‘re despicable, Beathan. Ye daenae deserve to be laird. Ye‘re a weak coward. Ye daenae deserve nothin’ of what ye have been given. It should all be mine, and so it will,” Andrew said.
Beathan saw his cousin step on his sword, flipping the blade up and into his waiting hands. Beathan reacted without thinking, lowering his hand and sliding it into his cousin’s heart before he even realized what he was doing. But he did not hesitate once the truth of the act became clear; he did not stop pushing the blade into Andrew’s heart, dulling out his life force with one slice of his sword.
It was self-defence, but it was also what had to be done. Beathan did not want to kill his cousin, but he had to. There was no other way to ensure the safety of his family’s lineage, to ensure that the lairdship passed on to the man most capable of taking it over.
Yet for all that his actions were reasonable, they did nothing to dull the emotions that were now bubbling up inside him. His eyes pooled with tears as he watched Andrew stagger back, his eyes open with shock. He opened his mouth, struggling for words, but before he could speak, he fell.
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