With the very intention of discovering her identity, he left the king and sought out Rogan’s steward to speak with him directly. At the instant, it seemed Maddog was the man with all the answers, and Jaime intended to discover why it was that half the castle was being stockpiled in the laird’s chamber.
Chapter Five
Hearing voices in the courtyard Lael hurriedly unlocked and opened the shutters. Alas, to her dismay she could see naught below. The metal bars on the window were far too close together so she couldn’t get a proper look out.
She loathed feeling so helpless, and the wait was driving her mad.
With a little grunt of disgust, she shook the bars, finding them perfectly sound. Her chamber door was sturdy and bolted from without. The walls were poorly mortared but solid nonetheless. There was simply no way out of this bower prison.
Yet there must be!
She had the wits to outsmart these men and she wasn’t afraid to use them. If only she could somehow manage to work the bars free—one would do—she might attempt an escape by night, save that one missed step would see her with a cracked skull fifty feet below. She slammed the shutters against the bitter wind, wishing the Butcher to an early grave.
As Aidan sometimes did whenever he was trying to solve a problem, she paced the chamber, back and forth, desperate to be free.
After a time, voices carried down the hall, toward her door. Male voices, English by the sound. But what they might be discussing, precisely, she couldn’t know. She could hear their heavy footsteps padding along the wooden floor. Laughter. More talk, then she heard the door to the chamber next to hers open and shut. For a moment, the voices were muffled, but then she heard the next words far too clearly for the sound to be traveling through stone.
“I’ll have your bath prepared at once,” she heard the Butcher say to his newly arrived guest, and she peered over her shoulder at the tub, realizing they must come to fetch it. It wasn’t likely they would have another. She only wished there were a way to fill it with acid. What she wouldn’t give for Lìli’s knowledge of alchemy just now—or Una’s for that matter, even if their wily priestess would no doubt ply her with words of wisdom simply for asking.
Startled by the clarity of their speech, she examined the west wall by sight, and then, curious about the occupant next door, she went to inspect the west wall and found a number of small holes in the stone where it appeared there was once a brace. Standing on tip-toes, she fingered the defaced stone—too high up on the wall for her to examine any closer without placing something beneath her feet to lift her higher. She was standing there assessing the weight of the bed when the knock sounded at her door. Lael barely had time to step away from the wall before the door flew wide. She turned to face the same golden-haired lad who’d ushered her into this chamber to begin with. With a face too angelic to belong to an English lackey, he sauntered into the room, followed by two more guards. Lael was certain the youth was scarce older than her sister Cailin, and some part of her wanted to scold him and send him home for his supper.
How silly, she thought. He’s my enemy not my child.
“My lord wishes a word w’ ye,” the lad announced, lowering his lashes diffidently, in spite of the fact that Lael was fully dressed and her tresses were plaited and done. She didn’t fool herself into believing it was a matter of respect. If aught, he was simply a boy with too little confidence to face a woman grown, which Lael most assuredly was at three and twenty years of age, no matter what her brother claimed.
She lifted a brow. “Where, then, is your laird?” she asked him. “If he wishes to speak wi’ me, why then send a boy instead? Does he think I will take a gander at your bonny face and spare ye my wrath?”
The words fell out before she could stop them.
Her brother was right; someday her mouth would be the death of her.
In truth, she did not relish the notion of meeting the Butcher for the first time in the privacy of these quarters, where he might do with her as he willed. She was no weakling, but neither was she any match for the man she’d come face-to-face with while on the gallows.
The youth’s face flushed, and he lifted a finger halfway to his lips, apparently shushing her. “My lord asks we bring you to the hall.”
Lael narrowed her eyes suspiciously. In the room next door, she heard a sudden bawdy outbreak of song… a voice she thought she recognized, but it wasn’t the Butcher. She wouldn’t soon forget the Butcher’s voice, but she did know that lilting speech—yet from where she could not say.
Lael opened her mouth to speak and the lad’s finger shot up once again, trembling before his mouth. She had the immediate impression he wanted her to be quiet. Whoever it was they had placed next door, he was clearly someone they did not wish to disturb, and for that very reason, Lael wanted to disturb him all the more. If she were fortunate enough, it might be someone with the power to set her free. She opened her mouth to let out a shriek, and although the lad seemed to shrink away from her at that instant, the guards accompanying him did not. They moved toward her, more silently and quickly than she might have expected for men of their breadth and height. One surly beast slapped a hand over her mouth. The other took her arms and twisted them, yanking one so to cause her pain. Her scream was muffled by callused, salty flesh, and her wrists were quickly bound once more. She champed down on the man’s finger but he yanked it away and produced a blade, which he did not need to put to her neck to make her hush. She wasn’t stupid, after all.
The youth gave her a rueful smile. “Will ye come?” he asked.
Lael gave him a lift of her black brow, eyeing the finely honed blade in the guard’s hand with no small measure of respect. Knives she understood quite well, and she had no intention of discovering firsthand if the man knew how to cut with this one as well as he seemed to wield it. “Do I have a choice?” she asked.
The youth shook his head no.
Lael presented him a false smile, and then conceded, “Well, then of course, how gracious of you to ask.” And she gave them all a look as cutting as the guard’s blade.
In the room next door, the man belted out a rude refrain, completely unaware of his audience, and Lael racked her brain, trying to recall where it was she’d heard that voice before.
It was the sword of the Righ Art.
He’d recognized the claidheamh-mor the instant he spied it.
Tales of the finely honed, steel blade with the gilt inscription had been passed down though the ages. It was the king sword, lost for centuries amidst the Sìol Ailpín. Some claimed it was cast into the fires of hell after MacAilpín’s treason. But here it sat, upon his table, wrapped in oiled leather.
Greedily, the man swept a finger over the etched metal. Made of tempered Damascus steel, the ancient sword, forged by masters, was said to reap the devil’s own destruction through any man who wielded it. The leather wrapped about the great sword’s grip appeared to be original—blackened with age but well preserved. It was heavier than he might have expected—a two-handed great sword, christened by the sweating palm of Scotia’s first king, and consecrated by the blood of his enemies. This was the hallowed blade of Kenneth MacAilpín, the very one used to slay the kings of seven Pecht nations. With this blade, he’d sacrificed their sons in the name of unity, so that Scotia might rise a stronger nation.
His eyes swept the entire length of the sword, from pommel to point—nearly forty inches of blue-tinted metal, styled after the old Viking blades. It was a masterful weapon, with power far beyond the sharply smithed edge, for it was said that any chieftain with rightful blood who wielded this sword and who sat upon the Stone at Scone would rule undivided lands.
Cnuic `is uillt `is Ailpeinich.
He traced the awe-inspiring inscription with his forefinger, relishing the feel of the cool metal against his benumbed flesh, burned by too many flames. No finer artistry could be found amongst present-day sword-smiths. And now the blade was his… to do with as he wished.
A sudd
en grin softened the man’s hard face.
What should I do with it?
Perhaps he should gift it to David mac Maíl Chaluim? David might see fit to reward him handsomely. Or mayhap he could sell it to someone who wasn’t bound to tailards? After all, it was his sword to command now, his treasure to gift, his blade to keep if that’s what he chose to do.
Was it even remotely possible a man like him could use this sword to better his life? To sit himself upon the Stone at Scone himself? To rise above other men and rule a brand-new nation? One that was forged by Highlanders more like him?
No one liked David mac Maíl Chaluim. The man had spent far too many years with his English kin. His wife, too, was a dour-faced Englishwoman and David now swore fealty for lands and titles to the English king. How could any man bend the knee to one man and still serve his people free from duties to the other? Nay, it was not possible… not as far as he could tell. So David was naught more than Henry’s poppet and Scotia needed someone better who could deliver their troubled nation from the yoke of England.
Pondering the dilemma, he re-wrapped the blade carefully to conceal it from prying eyes.
The sword is precious.
For the time being he must find a place to hide it where no one else would happen upon it… until such time as he could decide its fate. In truth, he might be a common man, but oh, what a feeling it gave him to wield such power! Alas, for the glory of Scotland, for the love of his kinsmen, he would do what was best for his people, even if that meant giving the sword to David mac Maíl Chaluim.
Hills and streams and MacAilpín. Humph! He had a new maxim for the sword: Cha togar m' fhearg gun dìoladh. No one can harm me unpunished. Like the thistle; attempt to pluck one and it left a man with throbbing hands.
Cha togar m' fhearg gun dìoladh.
He rather liked the way it sounded.
A voice startled him from his reverie. “The laird bids us join him to sup.”
The blacksmith hurried to cover the blade. “I’m no’ hungry,” he told the squire who had appeared at the door of his half charred shop.
“You are expected,” the boy said firmly, and more arrogantly than a Sassenach had a right to. “We sup tonight in honor of the king. All are commanded to attend.”
David mac Maíl Chaluim had arrived.
Perhaps it was an omen, and his thoughts were merely fanciful dreams. “Verra well,” the blacksmith ceded. He removed his soot-smeared smock, tossing it quickly upon the worktable atop the sword.
The lad was too busy nosing about the ruined armory to realize Afric had aught to hide—not that he had much left of value, save his son. The walls were partly gone, the roof burnt away. “Ye took a blow to your leg?” the boy remarked, as Afric began to limp toward the door.
“’Tis an auld wound,” Afric replied gruffly.
“Ah, I thought perhaps it might be new.” The squire lingered in the doorway. After a moment, he smacked the threshold with his open palm. “Well, have no fear, good man. We’ll help ye rebuild at once,” he reassured, and then he left the blacksmith alone.
Lael’s feet faltered as she descended the stairs.
Looking every bit the king himself, the Butcher sat at the laird’s table, his chair framed by the faded tapestries at his back. She lifted her shoulders, raising her chin, ignoring the draft that swept cold air about her ankles.
Were they celebrating their victory? The new laird’s arrival? More’s the pity they were not merry-making over David’s funeral.
All eyes turned toward her.
Never in her life had she been surrounded by so many men—fat, balding, skinny, toothless, shaggy haired, short, tall—all with nary a handful of female servitors to feed the burping masses.
Mannerless brutes.
Not for the first time, she wished she had her knives—one at least. She felt naked without them, defenseless, vulnerable.
Nearly losing her nerve, she paused on the last step, hating the hapless way she felt and wholly unaccustomed to the open-mouthed gaping of these men. At home there was rarely a soul who came to sup that she had not known since the day of her birth—or theirs. If by chance one admired her it was never something conveyed so disrespectfully.
Then again, not all the looks she was forced to endure were born of appreciation. In fact, she sensed a malignant presence here that wasn’t entirely due to the fact that they’d nearly hanged her once this morn. She wondered bitterly how many of these men had watched from the ramparts, hoping to see her take her last breath. If any had thought it wrong that Rogan’s steward had intended to hang them without so much as a trial, they’d all clamped their mouths shut, unwilling to speak in their defense.
Only one man intervened.
Her eyes sought him now.
He lifted his gaze for an instant and then returned it to his plate, dismissing her with an affectation of boredom, despite that she’d been brought here at his behest. No doubt it was his way of letting Lael know how little consequence she bore.
One of the men at her back gave her an impatient little shove and Lael sucked in a breath and stumbled down the last step, with two guards falling at her sides and another three marching at her back.
The hall fell silent as she approached the dais.
She wished with all her might that her hands were no longer bound—so that she might slap the smirks off the faces of those she passed. How dare they parade her through this hall as though she were the Butcher’s trophy.
Then again, am I not?
Her gaze returned to the newly appointed master of this demesne: the Demon Butcher. It was said that although he was born of a Scot’s mother, he forsook his Scot’s blood, following his Sassenach father into service to the English crown, a mercenary for his one true liege—some claimed Henry of England, others claimed the devil himself, for ’twas said he’d sold his soul and wore the proof across his brow—a long, jagged scar received in battle on the day he burned his donjon to the ground. He should have died that day, for Lael was told they split his skull with an immense stone, hurling it from the ramparts. Sacked and bloodied, he rose up like a monster, his face broken, and set a torch to the motte, burning everyone within. Others claimed he took an arrow to his head, dealt by Donnal MacLaren himself.
The simple fact that he now served David mac Maíl Chaluim was of little consequence for David himself was no more than Henry’s pawn. And yet, by the looks of him, his liege should have a care, lest the Butcher rise up like a viper to strike when he least expected.
Studiously ignoring her approach, he sat in the lord’s chair as though he were born to it, his black mane long and flowing, his steel-gray eyes turned away, shielding all his secrets. But somehow, Lael felt his gaze even so.
Aye, she decided, if there was one thing she knew with certainty, merely by the sight of this man, it was that he was accustomed to getting what he pleased. Well, by the Gods, no matter what he wanted from her, Lael vowed to refuse.
Chapter Six
The dún Scoti lass took Jaime by surprise. He did not expect the dirty, green-eyed fury to clean up quite so… well.
Dressed in a gown that was far too short for her willowy height, it caressed her lithe figure like a greedy lover, swirling about her ankles and revealing long graceful limbs that never seemed to falter. She paused for an instant at the foot of the stairs, but there was no fear in her gaze. Nay, she simply took a moment to measure the room as any seasoned warrior might do.
Did she come to do battle?
The thought amused him.
Unbidden, his loins tightened, for he had a sudden vision of her tangled within his bedsheets. Frowning, he shoved the unwelcome thought aside, assuring himself that this girl was not meant for him.
She’s a prisoner of war, not a bartered bride.
Nevertheless, he allowed himself a moment of private admiration for the girl they called dún Scoti, for in truth, if he did not know better—know her brother’s fierce reputation—he might well believe her th
e dún Scoti queen herself, for she clearly bowed to no man.
Proud. Dangerous. Brave. Beautiful. These were all words that came to mind as she marched into the hall, and he had a fleeting regret that once she spied him up close she would no doubt avert her gaze in horror. Some women did, once they saw his parting gift from Donnal MacLaren, although he normally didn’t care. On the contrary, he was grateful for it, for it kept him focused. In truth, it kept him from craving those things he could not have.
A hush swept over the room as they led her before the laird’s table, and there she stopped, peering up at him, flashing him a look of utter defiance.
But she did not look away.
An unexpected warmth sidled through his veins as the rosy color in her cheeks heightened, though he did not mistake the cause. She was clearly furious. He recognized her ire in the square of her shoulders and in the sparkle of her clear green eyes. The violet shade of her gown set her sun-kissed skin aglow and her hair, black as a moonless night, was bound with a single braid, draped like silk over one delicate shoulder—delicate only in the sense that she had the grace and bearing of an angel. There was naught fragile about this woman. Her arms were sinewy, lean and strong. Her shoulders lifted with a haughtiness rivaling that of Henry’s Empress daughter, who at fourteen was crowned in St. Peter's Basilica and wed to the Holy Roman Emperor himself. Like Matilda, this woman standing before him was not a woman whose spirit had ever been broken.
Had she known a man?
Jaime didn’t think so. He didn’t know many men who could love such a fiery beauty without succumbing to the need to bend her to his will. In truth, he wasn’t certain he could be that man himself; he only knew that to see her as anything other than what she appeared to be was a greater sin than any he had ever committed.
Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) Page 6