“Why, it’s bonny,” Lilidh exclaimed, putting her hands to her face. “Where did ye find all these stones?”
“In the mud,” the boy explained. “I lay down on my tummy outside the door and picked them out.”
“And ye didnae leave the porch?”
“Nay, mama, I stayed where ye told me to.”
“Good lad.”
“How did ye get on?”
Lilidh smiled even as she felt her eyes fill with tears. “I start tomorrow, bhobain.”
Fynn smiled back at her, his face lighting up, and put his little arms in the air. “Hooray!” he cried. “I’m so happy for ye, mama.”
She laughed and pulled him close. Fynn didn’t know what the job meant, not really, only that it was something that his mama wanted very badly, and to see him so happy made her heart full. She crouched in the centre of the room for long minutes, holding Fynn close, and felt herself give in to long sobs. Her son patted her shoulder.
“There, there, mama. Why are ye crying?”
“Because I’m happy,” Lilidh said as she wiped her eyes. She looked at Fynn and smiled. He looked back, his green eyes sparkling brightly; his father’s eyes.
Lilidh pushed the thought away. This wasn’t a time to remember Mathe, but rather to forget him. Mathe MacBrennan was the past, and she held the future in her arms; her beautiful, innocent boy.
And she wasn’t about to risk that for anything.
Prologue
Mathe MacBrennan
MacBrennan put on a cold smile as he pressed the blade of his infamous sword, Mèirleach na Beatha, into Lamont’s neck.
The man whimpered at its touch, his teeth chattering in the darkness, trying to pull himself away but unable to move so much as an inch.
“Please,” he begged. “Mathe -“
“MacBrennan.”
“But I knew ye when ye were a lad, Mathe,” Lamont whispered.
MacBrennan shook his head. “Ye knew a different lad. He was tender and weak. And I knew a different Lamont, for that matter. I knew a Lamont who worked the fields, and kept his head down, and provided for his family.”
“I’m still that man,” Lamont said.
“Nay, ye're no'. The Lamont before me speaks to other farmers in secret, complaining of their laird, and encouraging each other into small acts of defiance. That’s no' at all like the Lamont I once knew.”
“It’s harmless, I swear.”
“Harmless acts may be seen by others, and spur acts that arenae so harmless. The laird cannae let it continue.”
“He bleeds us dry!” Lamont cried, his face twisting in anguish. “This accursed war with the McPhees is taking everything, and we get naught back but heartache. Can ye blame us for the small ways that we stand up?”
“I’m no' here to pass judgement.”
“Only to act as the executioner,” Lamont said bitterly.
“Oh, nay,” MacBrennan said softly, in the menacing voice he’d rehearsed so many times. “Ye arenae a martyr, Lamont, and killing ye would only bring further defiance.” He lifted the sword away from the man’s neck and gestured to the wooden block before him. “Put yer hand on the block.”
“What?” the man breathed.
“Ye may no' be a martyr, but ye will make a fine messenger. And the laird has a message that he needs to send to yer friends. Now, put yer hand on the block.”
“Nay,” Lamont cried, twisting this way and that in a futile effort to escape his bonds. Mathe watched in silence as the man struggled for long minutes before slumping forward in defeat.
“The block.”
Lamont nodded in weary resignation. His face was streaked with tears. Slowly, he reached his hand forward and placed it on the block, spreading his fingers wide. Then he turned his face away.
“Do it, monster,” he hissed.
MacBrennan looked down at the man and pushed away the faint remnants of disgust. Even after so many years, it seemed he still held some measure of weakness inside, despite his ruthless attempts to find and crush it. The lieutenant of the laird had no room for weakness, or pity, or hesitation.
He was a vessel for the laird’s will, nothing more.
MacBrennan tightened his grip on the sword and lifted it high, surprising himself with a sudden surge of anger. Was it for the man before him, whom he’d known for most of his life, and who’s actions had put them both into this position? Or was it for the laird, and the ruthless way he enacted his rule, leaving no room for more reasonable measures?
Or perhaps that anger was directed at himself, and the man that he’d become. Not Mathe anymore, the young lad who was so full of hope, but only MacBrennan; the feared left hand of the laird.
But anger, like disgust, had no place in his heart, and so MacBrennan’s face twisted into a snarl and he brought the sword down heavily.
A clanging sound pulled Mathe from sleep.
He sat upright in the darkness and frowned. Had he imagined it? The remnants of his nightmare slowly faded as the world around him fell back into familiar sounds once more; the slow drip of water, the clink of chains, the occasional whimper or cry.
Another clang echoed down through the long corridors, louder this time, and the Sassenach cursed from the other side of the room. To Mathe’s eyes, a faint glow of torchlight appeared and grew brighter as heavy footsteps approached.
“What is it?” the Terie asked in a confused voice, still thick with sleep.
“Someone’s coming,” Mathe said. He waited patiently as the light approached, squinting his eyes.
“What’s the bloody time?” the Sassenach grumbled. The torchlight was now bright enough that Mathe could look across the cell and see the man sitting upright with an arm shielding his face.
“Approaching,” a rough voice called out. “To the back of the room, all of you.”
Mathe slowly stood and did as the voice asked, leaving his blanket on the cold stone floor. The other two men in the cell did likewise.
“You right, Teuchter?” the Sassenach asked as they huddled against the back wall. The air around them was frigid, and their breaths steamed in the glow of the torchlight.
“Aye,” Mathe answered.
Names didn’t exist in that place, nor did the past. It was where things went to die; names and hopes, pasts and futures. He was the Teuchter. His fellow countryman was the Terie, and the third man was the Sassenach; the Englishman. That name was given as more of a joke than anything, considering they were in London, but since the Sassenach shared a cell with two Scotsmen, the nickname stuck.
The blinding light of an open flame came around the corner and they all turned away. Mathe’s eyes stung from the sudden brightness and he couldn’t even look forward to the man on the other side of the bars. He heard the rattle of keys, and then a click as the door was unlocked, and then silence.
Mathe wondered at the sight they must have presented to the guards; three men, gaunt and malnourished, dressed in little more than rags. Their frail arms wrapped around themselves for warmth and protection, shying away from the light, backed into the corner of their cell.
They would look like animals.
The guard cleared his throat. “The King of Scotland has agreed to an exchange of prisoners,” he said with disgust. “Certain Englishmen held in Tolbuith prison in Edinburgh are to be set free, and in return, a number of Scotsmen are to be released and sent on their way.”
Mathe frowned even as he felt his heart beat suddenly faster. Hope, long since buried, bubbled its way to the surface.
“What does that have to do with us?” the Terie asked in a shaking voice.
“It’s your lucky day,” the guard answered. “Scotsmen from across London prisons were randomly selected, including the both of you.”
“We… we’re free?” Mathe asked in a sudden daze. After six years of prison, of living in a cell in the darkness with only the two men beside him, they were free?
“Yes,” the man said, and again Mathe heard the disgust in his
voice. “You’re free. To me, please, and no funny business. There’s three other guards behind me.”
“What about me?” the Sassenach demanded.
The guard shrugged. “You’re not a Scotsman, last I checked. Stay there.”
“No,” he said, his voice rising. “I’ve lived with these men for years. They’re my family. I can’t stay while they leave.”
“This is a prisoner exchange with Scotsmen,” the guard repeated with a hint of impatience. “Now, stay at the back. The others, come forward.”
Mathe stepped towards the light and felt a rough grip on his arm.
“Don’t leave me, Teuchter,” the Sassenach begged.
“I’m sorry,” Mathe said.
“Please,” he cried, pulling him back harder.
“Release him,” the guard barked.
“No!” the Sassenach screamed. In the light, Mathe could see tears running down the man’s face.
With a curse, the guard passed his torch back and entered the cell. He lifted his wooden baton and brought it down heavily on the Sassenach, who screamed and twisted, finally letting go of Mathe and falling onto the floor. He crouched into a huddled ball as the guard stood over him, dealing savage blows, until his cries stopped and his body grew limp. The guard straightened and looked at the two men grimly, his face spattered with dark blood.
“Any other objections?” he asked, breathing heavily.
“Nay,” Mathe answered.
The man nodded. “I would think not. Off you go.”
The two of them shuffled out, and Mathe turned to look down at the Sassenach one last time. The man was still curled in a ball, and he moaned weakly. Underneath him, a long trickle of blood flowed to the single drain in the centre of the room. He opened his eyes slowly and looked up. Mathe wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. Nothing would change things.
The guard pushed him from behind, and he stumbled out of the cell. They walked through a maze of corridors, passing other rooms, enduring the stares and curses of their fellow inmates, then stopped at a guard station. They were each given a rough burlap bag. Mathe looked inside to see plain linen clothing and a blanket. The guard then passed over a small pouch that clinked as it dropped into his hand.
“That’s it?” the Terie asked, looking inside with a frown. “Willnae go far.”
The guard laughed sourly. “Yes, that’s it. And it’s more than you deserve, if you ask me. So get going. I hope I see you again soon.”
The guard station exited to a single wooden door, which opened slowly for them. Mathe’s legs slowed as they approached and he felt the Terie push up against him from behind. He knew what was behind that door. He’d spent long years dreaming about this very moment; of walking out of the darkness and back into the world once more.
And now that he was here, Mathe was crippled by fear.
One part of him wanted to turn around and run back into the familiar darkness. To crawl into his bed and blether with his friends, in a world where the rules were harsh but known. Instead, Mathe kept walking, past the threshold, and to a most unexpected freedom.
The door slammed shut behind them and the Terie suddenly whooped. It was still dark, with only a faint band of light at the horizon that spoke of the coming dawn. The air was cool and Mathe pulled a threadbare jacket from his sack. The looming mass of the prison wall stood behind them, and he could hear the sound of flowing water in front. He walked towards it without thinking. It had been many years since he’d heard such a sound, and it was like music to his ears, drawing him onwards.
They crossed a cobbled road and onto the banks of a river, and Mathe trailed his hands over the leaves of bushes that were foreign and strange to him. He felt the ground change from stone to grass under the thin soles of his boots and turned to follow the riverbank. The Terie followed him without a word and they approached a large stone and sat upon it, watching the slowly lightening sky.
“Where will ye go?” Mathe asked the man beside him.
The Terie shrugged. “Home,” he said. “Hawick. Although it depends who holds it, I suppose. Could be in the hands of the English, these days.”
Mathe nodded. A lot of things had likely changed while they sat in the darkness.
“If so,” the man continued, “I’ll try Jedburgh, or maybe further north to Peebleshire. I doubt the English would be knocking on the door to Edinburgh, although who knows, really.”
“Do ye have anyone to go back to?”
“Aye,” the Terie nodded. “A brother out in the Ettrick, and I’m sure my auld friends are still around. We’re tough to kill, us reivers.”
“In that case, I wish ye luck,” Mathe said.
“Aye, thanks. And what about ye?”
“Home, like ye,” Mathe answered. “Though much further north.”
“Ye have family?”
Mathe hesitated. Although he’d known the man beside him for six years, they’d never spoken about themselves. Mathe didn’t even know the man’s name, and the idea of opening up to him felt queer. He looked out to the east, and it was becoming bright enough to see the spire of St Pauls Cathedral as a shadow against the sky.
“I have a wife,” he said finally.
“Good for ye,” The Terie said. “She’ll be well pleased to have ye home.”
“I doubt that,” Mathe replied. “I wasnae a good person.”
“To her?”
“To everyone, I suppose.”
“Plenty of time to change things now, though, right?”
“Aye.” Mathe looked down at his hands. “I thought I was going to die in that cell, Terie. I’ve spent years thinking about what I need to say to my wife, if I was given the chance. I didnae actually think it would come to pass.”
The man beside him grew silent for a moment, and Mathe wondered if he was contemplating his own promises made in the darkness. It had a way of stripping the soul bare, that darkness. It flayed away pride and left behind nothing but painful truth.
“But now we have the chance,” the Terie finally said. “So what would ye say to her?”
Mathe stroked his unkempt beard. “I’d tell her I was sorry, and that I’ve come home to make things right. To be more like the man I used to be when we first met, and less like the man that I… became. At the end.”
“I dinnae know what kind of man ye were back then, Teuchter, but ye were always a good man in here.”
“I was a different person,” Mathe said. “I wanted verra badly to be someone that I wasnae, and so I pretended. I thought that was the man I needed to be.”
“Ye should always be careful what ye wish for, eh?”
“Aye. I wrapped myself in that life for so long, that I ended up being somebody else entirely. And in the end it was all for naught, and the only person to suffer was my wife.”
“Ye’ve been given the chance at redemption, Teuchter. Ye’re a lucky man.”
“Aye. We both are.”
They fell silent and watched the sunrise together, listening to the wakening of life around them. Birds calling from their nests. Sharp footsteps on the cobbled streets. The curses of labourers, the shouting of the markets. The sounds of the strangely mundane.
The Terie rose and placed his hand on Mathe’s shoulder. “Good luck, Teuchter. I wish ye well. Dinnae squander what we’ve been given.” The man withdrew his hand and departed, leaving Mathe on his own for the first time in six years.
He thought on his words to the Terie, and the truth of them. He’d spent more time than he could remember thinking of what he would say to Lilidh, if he was given the opportunity. Looking back on his life from the inside of a prison cell had brought everything into sharp focus, and he’d had many long years to think on his actions and their consequences, rippling outwards to affect everything around him.
Long years to consider all the ways he’d failed the woman who was guilty of nothing more than loving him.
Long years to remember how the old laird had taken Mathe, the young man with a rea
dy smile and bright future, and shaped him into the mythical MacBrennan; the fist of the laird, whose power was fear.
And long years to accept the bitter truth; that Mathe had allowed himself to be shaped. No, not only allowed; he had encouraged it. And somewhere along the way, he’d lost both himself and his wife. Lilidh didn’t marry MacBrennan, and yet she ended up with him all the same.
It was up to Mathe to set things right. He wasn’t sure if she would accept it, or cast it back into his teeth, but he knew one thing for certain.
He needed to make amends.
One Month Later
1
Lilidh MacBrennan
With a grunt, Lilidh wrapped her arms around the cauldron and lifted with all her might.
It was filled to the top and incredibly heavy, and the water sloshed and spilled as she straightened her legs. Her knees wobbled as she walked towards the sink in shuffling steps and tried desperately to keep her balance. The short distance felt like an epic journey as the cauldron slipped lower in her arms to send water running over the sides. It mixed with her sweat to make the iron slick and slimy, and her steps became more urgent as she raced against her own body’s capacity to keep a grip on it.
With a heave, she arched her back to lift the cauldron onto the wooden bench, pushing it forward with her stomach. Spots danced before her eyes and Lilidh turned around to lean back heavily on the tabletop, sucking in deep breaths. Her arms ached from the effort and her legs felt strangely supple. After a few minutes her heartbeat slowed, her vision cleared, and Lilidh pushed herself off to stand on her own two feet once more. One pot down.
And only nine more to go.
“Hurry it up, widow,” Cora snapped, “before the water’s cold and we cannae use it for anything.”
Lilidh bit back an angry reply. Even after a few weeks, she was still only the widow to them. Not a name, not even a person, just the widow. She sighed and rubbed her lower back and wondered if it would ever change.
A Price to Be Paid: A Scottish Highlander Romance (Legacy of the Laird Book 2) Page 2