“I,” MacGilchrist said, “do no such thing.”
The murmuring that began at the accusation died just as quickly.
“I put forward to you the same name I put forward two times before. Fergus’s only remaining son, Fingal MacEgan.”
A tall, thin man stepped into the circle and commanded the attention of every eye. This young man wore no chain mail beneath his clan’s tartan, held secure by the MacEgan brooch. His thatch of dark hair was tousled as if he’d just woken from a long slumber, but there was no sleepiness in his gaze, or in the cut of his bristled jaw, or in the way he raised his hand to acknowledge every man as he swept the entire crowd with a look so penetrating that Lachlan dipped his head so that his cowl would hide his face.
Fingal.
A thousand memories flooded his mind. His half-brother as an infant, placed in his arms, a mewling, red-faced thing. The toddler who leapt for the jingling length of chain mail links that Lachlan hung just out of his reach. The long-legged nine-year-old whose arm strained with the weight of a wooden sword as Lachlan sparred with him in the muddy courtyard.
When Lachlan had first determined to take the rod of kingship, he hadn’t envisioned ripping it from the hands of his fledgling half-brother—or the full-grown man Fingal had become while fostering with the MacGilchrists.
“I have news,” Callum Ewing bellowed as he stepped into the circle with Angus at his heels. “News that will change everything.”
Lachlan froze at the sound of these words, but his heart shouted no.
NO.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Lachlan MacEgan is alive.”
When Callum spoke those fateful words, Lachlan’s cry lodged in his throat. A collective gasp swept through the crowd, but Lachlan could only stand there wishing he could claw the words out of everyone’s ears. This announcement had been his plan from the start—but that was before he’d laid eyes upon Fingal.
Was he to fight his own half-brother over a chieftaincy that only duty and birth order compelled him to take?
“It’s true,” Callum shouted, above the crowd’s jeers and doubts and accusations. “Lachlan MacEgan is alive and well.”
Lachlan knew he was supposed to be looking around the agitated gathering, marking enemies according to who dissented, but now he had a more urgent mission. He stood riveted, waiting for Angus’s gaze to find his.
It did not take long. As Angus swept the crowd with his gaze, he paused for a moment to lock eyes with him. Danger be damned, Lachlan shook his head once, with force, so that Angus could not doubt his meaning.
Angus’s brow rippled in confusion but his perusal continued past Lachlan, to encompass the entirety of the crowd. Moments later, Angus’s gaze returned in a slow sweep.
When their eyes locked a second time, Lachlan tempted fate by shaking his head once again. He would not—could not—do what he’d come here to do, now that he’d seen his half-brother stand like a giant among these men.
“Angus!”
Fingal’s voice startled Lachlan. It was octaves lower than he remembered.
“Is it true, Angus,” Fingal said, as he swooped like an eagle across the clearing to stand before his cousin. “Is my brother alive?”
Angus nodded his shaggy head. “As surely as I stand here before you.”
Fingal embraced his cousin with such force that Lachlan felt his own chest squeeze. Then his half-brother pulled away to search the crowd.
“Is he here, among you? Lachlan! Lachlan, show yourself!”
Lachlan, Lachlan, show yourself!
The words echoed in his head, a memory of a thousand games of hide-and-seek in the deep woods.
I can’t find you, Lachlan! Show yourself!
“Your half-brother is safe.” Angus placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder to draw his attention. “He’s recovering from his wounds in Ireland until such time as he can return. He sent me forth to bring you word.”
“Then we shall feast in his honor tonight.” Fingal swept up the white rod by his feet and waved it above his head. “This council will be deferred until my father’s firstborn returns—”
“Fingal,” MacGilchrist interrupted. “How do we know that this man speaks the truth and isn’t here to put off what must be done?”
“Because he is my Irish cousin and beyond reproach.” Fingal took MacGilchrist by the shoulders. “Be happy, my lord, that this matter will soon be settled as it should be.”
A shadow crossed MacGilchrist’s face, even as the old chieftain bowed his salt-and-pepper head.
“Now to the castle, all of us,” Fingal commanded. “It’s time to drink deep and eat our fill. My closest kinsman is alive!”
The crowd dispersed under the power of Fingal’s enthusiasm. The men headed to their horses, talking among themselves. Fingal led Angus down the slope toward Loch Fyfe, asking questions Lachlan couldn’t hear.
Lachlan kept his head bowed as he turned away and headed to where Cairenn waited at the base of the slope, every step a drumbeat of hope. His breath came fast, and his ideas came faster. His mind tumbled down a future he’d closed off to himself, a choice that, until now, honor compelled him never to consider.
He approached Cairenn, weaving where she stood, looking at him in pained, silent question.
“Cairenn, mo chridhe,” he said, cupping her pale, lovely face. “It’s time to take fate into our own hands.”
***
Around the bend, the spit of land that curled into the dark blue waters of Loch Fyfe came into view. At the end of that crescent rose the mighty, square, stone-walled keep in which Lachlan had been raised. It was a formidable defense, guarding the lake from any sea invaders who dared to come upriver into the heart of MacEgan lands.
He supposed he’d always known that his home was also a fortress, but seeing it with Cairenn beside him made him all too aware of how little her people needed such defenses, and of how damned often his did.
“Lachlan,” she said, as she faltered in her step. “I can feel them.”
His heart leapt, for she could only be speaking of the dolmen stones. “Can you hear anything?”
“That strange crackling sound has dimmed.” Her brow furrowed. “I feel less burdened by the noise, now that we’re farther away from the council height. But I can hear…something…”
Her words trailed off.
He said, “I’m sure it’ll come, lass.”
“Yes.” She filled the word with conviction. “Perhaps when I get closer.”
She dropped her gaze to the muddy ground. How he ached to draw her against him, but an embrace would draw the attention of the men on horseback who cantered by. Some were guards he knew, some were MacGilchrist and Ewing cousins, and others were squires and MacEgan servants. The long, winding path lay before them, crowded with people heading to the narrow causeway that led to the castle. If he made it that far unrecognized, he’d still have to stride under the iron portcullis into an interior courtyard full of stable boys who’d once saddled his horses, laundresses who’d once given him an eye, and long-time guards who used to tousle his hair.
Only then would he reach the mead-hall where the dolmens stood in the midst of his newly-alerted enemies.
“Talk to me, Lachlan.” Her face was pale with fatigue, which made her green eyes all the more striking. “Tell me why your father moved the portal stones into the castle.”
“He did it after changing the way we choose the chieftaincy.” How he longed to run his hand over her soft hair, tucked beneath the hood of her cloak. “My father did nothing without a big, symbolic gesture. This was his way of buttressing his plan that only MacEgans would be chosen as chieftains.”
He’d been barely twelve years old when his father had considered the idea of moving the stones. His father soon became convinced that the task would be impossible, but Lachlan’s own imagination wouldn’t let the idea go. So he stole a fresh lambskin from his father’s cleric and sketched how such a feat might be done with rope and
rolling logs. His father had been on the verge of beating him for the theft when he paused and examined the sketches. He ordered the work done according to Lachlan’s plans. When the project was finished, his father had written to his brother in Rome about Lachlan’s further education.
Lachlan liked to think it was his father’s pride that had sent him so far from Loch Fyfe—and not the hostility of his father’s Stuart bride.
“For both worlds,” Cairenn said, “moving those sacred stones was a dangerous thing to do.”
“So was his decision,” he said. “But my father wanted to make his decree as vivid and memorable as the portal he seized from the heights and erected within his hall.”
“Those stones do not belong under any man’s roof, Lachlan.”
“You are not the first to say so.” Back then, his father had had a hard time gathering men to move the stones, and it wasn’t just because the septs balked at the idea of dismantling the place where the central council had met for generations. As a boy, he saw the dolmens as fine pieces of building stone, but many of his father’s crofters looked upon them with fearful eyes. “It took months of hard labor because my father had so few workers.”
“And haven’t the years since been full of strife?”
He thought of his childhood before the movement of the stones, when every August the seals swam upriver to loll on the mud flats around the castle walls, and he, Fingal and Elspeth ran unfettered through the nearby woods. Then he thought about the reeving and the skirmishes of the last decade, of all the men who’d died.
“Discord arises from desecration.” She curled her hand in his tunic, leaning into him as they walked. “I’m afraid, Lachlan.”
Hidden by the folds of his tunic, he wound his hand around hers. “My blade will find bone if anyone seeks to hurt you.”
“It’s not me I’m afraid for. So uprooted from their rightful place, those portal stones may not help my gift. Then we’ll be right in the middle of the mead-hall in full view of those who murdered your father and tried to murder you.”
She didn’t speak her mother’s prophecy in so many words, but Lachlan heard Cairenn’s fear that this crazy attempt to take fate in their own hands just might make that deadly prediction come true.
He ran his hand over her hair, knocking her hood off so that her blond tresses shone in the growing sunlight. He’d meant to do it in comfort, but the sight of her bright, beautiful hair sparked an idea.
“Lachlan?”
“What would you think,” he said, as he trailed a tress through his fingers, “if I asked you to make use of another of your gifts?”
The sun was halfway to the west horizon when they finally approached the portcullis. Lachlan’s gut tightened as he saw guards swarming on the ramparts. Within, the courtyard teemed with boys taking the reins of the horses as mail-clad men dismounted. Through the gate, he recognized Tadgh the blacksmith hammering horseshoes while dogs, goats and chickens roamed freely. Bonnie and Coira came out of the shadows, laundry in baskets on their hips, while Peigi the cook, her apron dusty with oat flour and stained with cooking grease, argued with the fisherman Gilroy over a basket of eels.
When he ducked into the courtyard among Angus’s men, all heads turned toward them. Bile burned in his throat, but he kept walking, his cowl low but his eye on the path that led to the wooden doorway of the mead-hall, clear across the yard. The attention felt like a thousand torches thrust close. His skin prickled, anticipating discovery.
But halfway across the courtyard, when no man shouted his name and no hand grabbed his tunic, he realized that his plan was working. He and Angus’s men followed in the wake of a beautiful woman, striding without a cloak, her shimmering tresses bouncing upon her pale shoulders and sunlight gleaming on her skin above the scooped neckline of her tunic.
Not a single man turned his face from that vision to settle on the bowed-headed, lowly-dressed porters and clerics following in her wake.
A MacGilchrist warrior taking his ease by the mead-hall door broke into a smile at the sight of Cairenn. He interceded to open the heavy door for her. The man’s gaze wandered over her curves with avarice and lust as she passed through. Lachlan curled his hands into fists. He supposed this was the price he paid for arranging to hide behind Cairenn’s skirts. It took all his will not to throw the warrior a sharp, well-placed elbow before he himself passed into the dimness of the hall.
Once inside, his unease surged. Men and servants filled the room. Pewter tankards clanked as they hit wooden tables. The guests shouted to be heard over one another. Several lute players in the near corner battled to play above the din. Crossing to the tables, the wife of MacGilchrist strode by with a flagon of ale in her hand as if she were the lady of the castle, greeting them all as they entered.
That woman’s gaze passed over Cairenn without a flicker of interest before resting on the men, “More space in the middle, lads,” she said. “And mind you be patient about the ale.”
Lachlan dipped his head and stepped behind one of Angus’s men. He hoped his beard obscured the cut of his jaw, for MacGilchrist’s wife knew the slope of it too well. Whenever she’d visited in past years, she’d taken to searching it for scruff, with a gleaming promise in her eye.
The men in front of him moved forward, so he followed close behind. Beyond the bobbing shoulders, he saw Cairenn heading to the far end of the hall where the dolmens stood, lit by narrow beams of sunlight streaming through the arrow-slits. The crowds impeded the way. Soon he and Angus’s men were winnowed into single file.
The light that came through the arrow slits flashed upon Cairenn’s hair in intervals, like bursts of golden lightning. The effect had an impact, for as he wove his way through, he could see, even with his cowl pulled low, how heads turned and whispers rose. He took advantage of the distraction to glance quickly around. Against the east wall, he caught sight of Fingal standing and chatting with people at the lower tables. A young girl hovered by Fingal’s side, another MacGilchrist if the red hue of her hair was any indication. In the shadows behind Fingal, Lachlan saw his stepmother lurking like a spider.
Sensing attention upon him, he turned his head to face the west wall only to dodge another gaze by turning back east. There was Alan, a Stuart cousin his father had fostered. On the other side was buxom Murdina, hefting a tray of ham above the heads of the crowd. He felt like a man sparring, bobbing his head at every hint of a glance in his general direction. The gauntlet of danger seemed to stretch out forever, all the way to within yards of the standing stones. His back tightened with each step.
By habit, the most honored guests would be seated at the head of the main table. That fact was confirmed as they approached. Angus, catching sight of Cairenn, suddenly shot up off the bench so fast that half the ale sloshed out of his tankard.
“I prefer ale in my mouth, Angus,” shouted a clearly drunken Callum Ewing, receiving the full brunt of the spray. “But see how our Irishman straightens up at the sight of his leman!”
Lachlan didn’t slacken his pace as he continued on, choking down the urge to make Callum swallow his words.
“Angus, you old dog.” If the slurring of The MacGilchrist’s words were any indication, clearly the ale had been flowing. “If that’s the beauty you’re swiving, I’ll have a piece—”
“Shut your mouth, old man.”
Lachlan started at the sound of the woman’s voice behind him. Lady MacGilchrist shoved past, carrying a fresh pitcher of ale and an empty tankard in her pocket.
“Fill my cup, woman,” MacGilchrist said, thrusting out his tankard, “and keep to your place—”
“You’re a drunken fool who’s had enough,” she said, stopping short in the lane between tables as the man just ahead of Lachlan squeezed by. “I won’t waste the last of this ale on you.”
Then she swiveled on her heel, skirts swirling. Lachlan froze as he heard the clank of flagon against tankard and the gurgle of ale pouring to the point where a good portion of it splashed all o
ver the floor.
“This ale is for the cleric,” she said, blindly thrusting the tankard at him, “who has the wit to stay silent and bow his head. He could teach you something about the virtue of holding your tongue, husband.”
Lachlan took the tankard in his hand just as a hunting hound emerged from under the table to lick up the ale spill. Lachlan bobbed his head in silent thanks, but, mercifully, the Lady MacGilchrist didn’t linger to acknowledge it. She stepped over the dog and swept by him to stomp back in the direction she came. Aware of the attention he was drawing, he didn’t waste a moment to sweep past Callum and walk into the clearing in front of the portal stones.
For the lack of a place to sit, Angus’s men milled in that clearing. Cairenn stood with her back to the hall, staring up at the stones. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the rocks seemed to pulse in her presence. He moved close enough to speak in a whisper.
“How do you fare, lass?”
She took a shuddering breath. He watched the small muscles of her upper shoulders flex and straighten as if she were bracing herself.
“I fare well enough,” she said, “for a woman about to take fate in her hands.”
She stretched out her arm. He thought he heard a crackling sound as her fingers neared the glittering surface of one of the standing stones.
When she touched the dolmen, the room boomed like thunder.
***
A white-hot, sizzling sensation bolted through her. A cry rose up but the noise stuck in her throat. One moment she was staring at the vaulted ceiling of the mead-hall and in the next images flooded her mind, crashing over her in a cacophony of sound and color and sensation.
She glimpsed a grass-soft clearing in a circle of oaks. She heard the sound of fairy-music. She saw slim shapes idling among the flowering vines while tipping nectar into wooden tankards. Their laughter made the leaves rustle like the wind. She sensed curious glances upon her and saw a woman stretch out a hand.
Then suddenly she found herself on Inishmaan, racing up the hill to the lonely places. She watched a creature whirl up out of a crack in the ground to fall into step beside her, laughing. She saw herself as if from afar, brooding on a ledge as she gazed upon a ship passing by below. Small shapes sat behind her, mimicking her stance, their pointy chins in their slim hands. She saw her father grinding some herb with mortar and pestle while an older woman in gossamer white stood behind him, smiling a gentle smile. She saw seals upon the shore looking up at her with the faces of men.
Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3) Page 18