Pride of the Clan

by Anna Markland

  “However, she’s given leave for you to see Graham this verra day,” Garth declared.

  “Then we must go,” Margaret said.

  Rheade took her hand. “Not we. The cells of Stirling Castle are no place for a woman. I’ll go.”

  Margaret seemed ready to protest but Garth proffered his arm. “Yer husband is right, Lady Margaret. I’ll see ye safely to yon cupboard while Rheade visits Graham.”

  ~~~

  Rheade descended into the bowels of Stirling Castle, grateful for the sullen jailer who lit his way.

  He clamped his plaid over his mouth and nose in an effort to control the bile rising in his throat. The stench of excrement and burning flesh was intolerable.

  The guard opened the door to one of the cells, then abruptly left.

  When Rheade’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out Graham lying in a corner of the cell, his eyes closed.

  Rheade hesitated in the opening, uncertain if he should step inside. There was no one to help him fend off Graham if the assassin attempted an escape.

  He gradually became aware that the naked prisoner’s body bore evidence of torture, the deep gashes of the whip and numerous burns. Graham already looked like a dead man, and certainly nothing like the fierce fighter they’d captured at Loch Bhac. Rheade wasn’t sure if the murderer was aware he was there. There was no danger he would try to escape.

  Rheade lowered the plaid from his face. “I have come on behalf of Robert Stewart’s betrothed,” he said in a hoarse voice he didn’t recognized.

  Graham stirred slightly. “Betrothed?” he rasped.

  It was a relief the wretch had at least heard him. “Aye. Margaret Ogilvie.”

  Graham chuckled. “I didna ken Robert was engaged. Lucky bugger. When is the wedding?”

  Sweat broke out on Rheade’s forehead, though the tiny cell was frigid. “There will be no wedding. Stewart has been executed. I need ye to swear Margaret Ogilvie had naught to do with the conspiracy, else she too will be condemned.”

  Graham shrugged. “I doubt Stewart would have told her of our plans.”

  “She hasn’t seen him in eight years.”

  The assassin frowned, seemingly trying to grasp what Rheade had said. “There’s yer answer. Leave me be.”

  Rheade clenched his jaw, recalling what he’d heard of this man before the assassination. “’Tis said ye were a gentleman, Robert. A man of great wit and eloquence. Will ye sign a document swearing Margaret Ogilvie had naught to do with yer scheme?”

  Graham opened his eyes and held out a bloodied hand, staring at the mangled mess as if noticing for the first time he no longer had fingernails. “I dinna understand. I had already confessed.” He slowly raised his head, squinting at Rheade. “Do I know ye?”

  If the murderer recognized him as one of his captors, he might not sign. “Mayhap from the University of Paris,” he lied.

  Graham smiled weakly. “Aye. That’s it. The Collegium Scoticum.” He winced as a cough racked him and it was several minutes before he continued. “Happy days spent with other learned Scotsmen in the world’s most beautiful city.”

  Rheade came close to retching as his throat constricted. If Graham signed the hastily prepared document, some might claim he wasn’t in his right mind. Nevertheless he dipped the quill in the small container of encaustum and offered it, hoping his fingers didn’t come into contact with the ragged flesh.

  Graham painstakingly positioned the quill between two fingers like an imbecilic child and laboriously penned his signature on the parchment Rheade held in trembling hands.

  “Thank ye,” Rheade whispered, blowing on the ink and blood smears, desperate to be gone from the fetid place.

  For the first time, Graham turned his gaze on Rheade, and smiled. “Ye will see the day ye shall pray for my soul,” he said, his voice strangely loud, “for the great good I have done to this realm of Scotland, that I hae slain and delivered ye of so cruel a tyrant.”

  Rheade was tempted to point out that the conspirators’ plan to crown Robert Stewart was poorly thought out, but he didn’t wish to spend another second in the hellish place. He rolled up the parchment, tucked it into his plaid and hastened up the slippery steps as fast as his feet would carry him, relieved to be away from the madness. Once outdoors, shaking violently, he leaned one hand against the stone wall of the keep and vomited into the dirt.

  EXECUTION

  In the bailey of Stirling Castle Rheade stood on the temporary dais hastily constructed for guests of honor. His fingers were full of splinters from gripping the rough wood of the front rail. But he was grateful for it because he doubted his trembling knees would support him much longer.

  Below him hundreds of peasants, townsfolk, and soldiers pushed and shoved their way out of the crowded bailey; men, women, children and babes in arms. Despite the large numbers it was eerily quiet.

  Directly across from his location and slightly higher, stood the platform with the throne on which perched Queen Joan, her spine rigid as she watched the exodus. Erskine stood behind her, grim faced.

  If Rheade had stayed away from Tannoch’s sickbed, he’d have avoided witnessing the horror that had slowly unfolded on the scaffold.

  “Ye have to attend the execution,” Tannoch told him.

  “Nay.”

  “The Queen has invited me, and I’d dearly love to go, but I canna. Ye must take my place.”

  “Nay.”

  “’Tis my dying wish.”

  Those words had sealed his fate, but he feared he couldn’t remain on the dais much longer lest he retch on his neighbor. The Queen had opened the proceedings with a welcome and dire warnings of what happened to traitors and assassins. This execution would be one day as opposed to the three day affair in Edinburgh. Rheade surmised Joan had found the spectacle of the Stewarts’ executions tedious.

  As the torture of Graham and his son progressed from horrific to utterly barbaric, the high spirits, cheers and laughter of the crowd gradually ceased. The stink of vomit mingled with the stench of blood. The bile rising in his throat made him ashamed to be a Scot for the first time in his life.

  He remembered happier days of Dunalastair, of Margaret’s lovely face and bright smile. He conjured a vision of her belly growing round with his child.

  Joan never took her eyes off Graham. She nodded when the executioner at long last raised his axe to end the torment. As the assassin’s head rolled from his body, Rheade resolved to burn the clothes he wore. His léine was drenched with sweat, though the air was chilly, and he never again wanted to be reminded he’d borne witness to the terrible event.

  Yet he was strangely glad he was there at the end. It was over. Joan had her revenge. She smiled at him as she left the platform. Mayhap it meant Margaret was free of Robert Stewart and the threat hanging over her. He joined the long line of dignitaries and guests shuffling off the dais, praying for Logan’s speedy return.

  ~~~

  Forbidden contact with Rheade, Margaret fretted. He was as essential to her as breathing. The knot in her belly tightened each time she considered what he must accomplish to clear her name. She gave thanks to the Almighty he was her champion. Without him she’d likely already be dead.

  During the lonely hours of boredom and uncertainty she resorted to praying Braden might reappear with reassurances.

  She knew the pain of grief and sympathized with the Queen’s sorrow, but she and Rheade were being kept apart for no good reason. Mayhap the shock of the murder had robbed Joan of her wits. It didn’t bode well. Madness in the monarchy wasn’t unknown. The lunacy of the Earl of Atholl’s father, King Robert the Second, had led ultimately to the catastrophic events in which they were now embroiled.

  Hannah’s unflagging cheerfulness brought the only relief. It was she confirmed Rheade had indeed seen Graham, who had vouched for her innocence. “But he didna wish to say more of the meeting,” she told Margaret. “I dinna think it was verra pleasant. Yer braw husband looked ready to puke just mentionin
g it.”

  When Hannah failed to appear for a whole day and night, her fears intensified. Another maidservant brought sustenance, but she had no appetite. She paced the tiny space throughout the night and threw her arms around the maid when she resurfaced. “I was frantic, Hannah,” she sobbed. “Where were ye?”

  Hannah pulled away and Margaret noticed her pallor. “Are you ill?” she asked worriedly.

  Hannah averted her eyes. “Nay. At least—”

  Margaret took her hands. “Tell me.”

  “Da made me go to the execution.”

  Margaret was aware who had been executed, but she asked anyway. “Graham?”

  “Aye. And his son.”

  Margaret shivered, despite the claustrophobic heat of the confined space. Once again family members had been trapped in Joan’s vengeful net.

  “He was captured with Graham,” Hannah explained. “I didna want to go. I screamed and yelled and told Da I refused to go, but he dragged me by the arm and forced me.”

  Margaret tried and failed to imagine Duncan Ogilvie subjecting his daughter to witnessing such horror.

  “He said ‘twould be a good lesson.”

  Margaret shook her head, unable to summon any response.

  Hannah braced her hands on her hips. “I willna tell ye the gory details, because I ken ye dinna want to hear, and ’twould make ye as sick as it made me. I retched over me Da’s best boots.”

  Which was more ludicrous? That Hannah’s father had got his comeuppance by having his footwear vomited on, or that he had deemed it important to wear his best boots to an execution?

  Hannah squeezed her hands. “I’ll bring ye some food. Mayhap now Graham is dead, our Queen will be more civilized.”

  She flounced out of the chamber before Margaret had a chance to ask where she’d learned such a word. Was it something she’d heard from Rheade?

  LOGAN'S RETURN

  Rheade’s feet often took him to the passageway where Margaret’s chamber was located. He gazed longingly at the closed door, his heart heavy when he turned away.

  He spoke to Hannah at every opportunity. The news, delivered with a smile, was always the same. “She’s well. She misses ye.”

  His reply. “Tell her I love her and miss her too.”

  He patrolled the bailey, looking for any sign of Logan’s return, running out to meet his brother when he and his comrades finally trotted through the gates.

  He was elated to see the men who’d helped capture the Stewarts, but worried none of them seemed to be carrying Stewart’s sword. Nor was there any sign of Joss. It took him a moment to recognise the weary-looking rider being assisted from a horse by Keegan. It was Glenna. Crivvens, Tannoch would be furious if his wife saw him in the state he was in. He hurried to her side. “Glenna. “Tis good to see ye.”

  “Aye,” she replied, gathering her dusty cloak around her hunched shoulders. “Well, we both ken that’s not true, but I had to come when Logan brought word. Ye didna think to send let me know my husband lay grievously wounded? How goes his recovery?”

  Rheade rubbed his beard, feeling guilty he’d spent more time wandering the hall outside Margaret’s chamber than in the Infirmary. And Glenna was right. He hadn’t given her a thought. “Not well.”

  “Take me to him,” she said.

  He had to comply but the question burned in his brain. “Where’s the sword?” he asked Logan as his brother handed the reins of his lathered horse to an ostler.

  “And greetings to you too, Rheade,” Logan replied, holding his arms wide.

  Rheade shook his head and went into his brother’s embrace. “Forgive me,” he rasped. “’Tis only—”

  Logan slapped him heartily on the back. “I know.”

  Rheade returned the gesture, choking on the dust from Logan’s plaid. “Ye stink o’ the road,” he coughed.

  “’Twas a long journey,” Logan replied.

  He strode over to clasp the hands of his brother’s friends. “Alasdair, Keegan, Fergus, ’tis grateful I am ye’ve come. I’m pleased to see ye all hale and hearty.”

  “’Tis our duty to be here,” Alasdair replied.

  Glenna tapped her foot impatiently, arms folded across her breasts.

  Logan clenched his jaw. “I swear to ye we searched the hayloft from top to bottom. There was no sword.”

  Rheade’s gut clenched. “And Joss?”

  Logan shook his head. “Gone.”

  Rheade pinched the bridge of his nose as they escorted Glenna to the Infirmary. “The sword wouldna be necessary if Tannoch would swallow his pride and tell the Queen he didna capture the Stewarts,” he whispered.

  Logan shrugged. “Our chieftain doesna admit mistakes.”

  “He’ll not be held in high regard when people learn he lied,” Rheade muttered as they neared Tannoch’s pallet.

  Glenna paused for a moment, eyeing Logan. Had she overheard?

  Their brother’s pallor alarmed them. “Jesu! He looks worse than the last time I saw him,” Rheade said.

  Glenna stroked Tannoch’s forehead. It was the first loving touch Rheade had seen pass between them in many a year. She cooed words of love and kissed his swollen lips. It awed him that this battered woman who had reason aplenty to despise Tannoch seemed to see only a sick man whom she loved. “What have ye done to yer hair?” she whispered, her face wet with tears.

  Logan wrinkled his nose. “Stinks of putrefaction,” he rasped, laying the back of his hand against Tannoch’s cheek. “He’s on fire.”

  A bustle of activity near the door to the Infirmirian’s office caught their attention. The monk hurried towards them, a surgeon’s saw in hand. A memory of the execution flashed behind Rheade’s eyes. “What the fyke do ye plan to do with that?” he asked belligerently, blocking the monk’s path.

  Two more clerics seem to appear from nowhere and stood one on each side of Tannoch’s pallet. The Infirmirian looked down his nose. “If we dinna remove his arm, he’ll die for certain.”

  “His arm?” Rheade shouted. “He has a belly wound.”

  “Aye,” the monk replied, rolling up his copious sleeves. “The belly wound is healing, but the slash on his arm has festered.”

  Rheade vaguely recalled splashing water from Loch Bhac on the wound on Tannoch’s forearm. “But ’twas only a scratch,” he protested.

  The monks peeled down the linens. Tannoch moaned. Rheade stared in disbelief at the black, oozing mess that had been his brother’s arm. Logan ran out, his hand clamped over his mouth.

  Glenna swooned and collapsed to the stone floor.

  A profound sadness overwhelmed Rheade. If Tannoch survived, he’d be without his sword arm.

  The stricken man stirred and peeled open one eye, frowning when he caught sight of the monk with the saw. He licked his lips. “Nay, Rheade, let me die.”

  Rheade gripped his brother’s good hand. “Yer my brother and I love ye. For our Da’s sake, I’ll not let ye die. Besides, yer our chieftain. I’ll nay explain to the clan why I didna do everything in my power to save yer life.”

  The Infirmirian helped Tannoch raise his head and poured a few drops of foul-smelling liquid between his lips. “Dwale,” the monk whispered. “Drink. ’Twill help with the pain.”

  Tannoch tried to resist, but it was evident he was too weak. “I’m no afraid o’ pain,” he insisted, his jaw clenched, but his eyes betrayed the truth. His brother accepted the next offer of dwale and downed several gulps, grimacing at the taste.

  “Fetch the other young man,” the monk mumbled, stoppering the flagon. “He’ll hafta hold on to any remaining contents of his belly. We’ll need him.”

  Rheade was halfway to the door when an ashen-faced Logan re-entered, with his comrades. “Help me hold him down,” he whispered sadly.

  “Aye,” Logan murmured.

  As Tannoch drifted into oblivion, they each placed their hands on his body. The monk brandished the saw and looked at Rheade. “Ready?”

  “Aye,” he growled, gr
ateful Tannoch was unaware of Glenna lying in a stupor at his feet. He felt like his brother’s executioner.

  ~~~

  Hannah burst into the chamber like a whirlwind. “They’ve cut off his arm,” she shouted breathlessly, her eyes wide.

  Margaret sat bolt upright in the bed. She had only been awake for a few minutes after a restless night, her thoughts alternately filled with images of her beloved and nightmarish scenes of torture. “Rheade?” she croaked.

  “Nay,” Hannah said. “His brother.”

  She gaped like an imbecile. “But he has a belly wound.”

  Hannah put the food tray down on the wee table. “Seems he had a cut on his arm and it festered. It went deeper than anyone thought. Come and eat.”

  As she climbed down from the bed, Margaret had to smile at her maid’s indomitable spirit, but her heart went out to Tannoch Robertson. A one armed highlander? And what would this mean for Rheade? For her?

  She chafed inwardly for the selfish worry but Tannoch had seemingly been determined to get rid of her. Was he jealous of Rheade? Given what she had learned of his doubtful parentage and Glenna’s barren womb, perhaps Tannoch feared Rheade’s son might become chieftain. But wherein lay the harm in that if he was childless? What was the alternative?

  Sometimes people were difficult to fathom.

  The truth suddenly struck like a blow to the belly, robbing her of breath. Tannoch wanted Logan’s son to be chieftain.

  Hannah was at her side instantly. “What ails ye, mistress?”

  She had staggered under the weight of the truth. “Naught,” she said hoarsely, gripping her maid’s arm. “Only a wee bit tired.”

  “Come, sitheedoon. Eat. Ye’ll need yer strength when I pass on a message from yer husband. I dinna ken what it means but it doesna sound good. He said to tell ye they didna find the sword and—” She tapped her fingers on her chin, gazing up into the cobwebbed rafters, her brow wrinkled. “—Jo has gone missing.”