“I am trying, dearling, ye know I am. ’Tis nay easy burden to lose so much in the blink of an eye.” He waved his hand over the expanse of the keep. “All this should have been mine.”
She did not readily agree, and Maddog hid his annoyance. “Ye ken what ’tis like to be ignored by your blood. Neither Dougal, Stuart nor Rogan e’er gave either of us a care. Yet I am their kin, and ye are no’. Even so, I watched o’er ye, when no one else gave a damn. For that ye owe me something, Kenna.”
As poor as their relationship might be, he was the only family who had ever recognized her. Still she hesitated.
“If the boy leaves with Bowyn they’ll simply say he ran away. But if they find him dead, they’ll hang me as surely as they hung Broc’s men.” Recalling suddenly that he was the one who ordered the hangings, he quickly added, “If I die there will be no one to speak for Keppenach, and no one left who knows the truth about your birth. It was an accident, Kenna!” he persisted. “I dinna mean to do it.” He was glad now that she had not peered into the sack to see that the boy’s throat was nearly severed.
She sighed and gave him the same lovely pout that had been winning the hearts of Keppenach’s denizens since her wee days. Truth be told while neither Rogan nor Stuart ever paid her any mind, Kenna had wanted for naught, for she was well loved by the rest of the clan. Maddog simply took credit for her many boons when he could.
On the other hand, he had worked hard every day of his life for every morsel of food he’d ever put in his mouth and she owed him something for not killing her when he could. He should have, in truth, because she was bound to be one more contender for what should be his.
“If I help ye… ye’ll tell me the name of my father?”
Maddog nodded emphatically. “I will. Ye know I will.”
“Very well,” she relented. “I’ll ask Bowyn to take the sack, with one condition: I will tell him ’twas me who done the boy in.” She nibbled her bottom lip, as though trying hard to justify what must be done. She eyed Maddog uncertainly. “’Twas an accident, was it not?”
Maddog nodded quickly.
“I’ll beg him to bury poor Baird up on a hill beneath a lovely tree.”
Maddog nodded again and made a despairing face. He peered down at his feet, more to hide the smile that threatened rather than to pretend he was aggrieved for the dead child. “Aye, Baird would have liked that.”
“And what shall we tell his poor da?”
Maddog shrugged, for the boy’s da would never hear aught again—not of his son, or anything else. His days were already done. With a little luck, his bones would rot at the bottom of the well. “Just the same, I suppose. Were it my own son, I’d like to think he were somewhere safer than beneath the Butcher’s murderous thumb.”
Something about the look in Kenna’s eyes told him that she did not quite agree, but she relented. “Very well, but ne’er again, Maddog. ’Tis the verra last time. And after, if ye dinna tell me the truth of my birth, I will go myself and tell the Butcher what ye ha’ done.”
Maddog nodded. “Fair enough, sweet lass. Fair enough.”
With his agreement, she spun on her heels and marched away and Maddog watched her leave, wondering whether he would be forced to take her life as well.
No one but Maddog knew precisely who she was… and as far as he was concerned it didn’t serve his purpose to tell.
Much to Lael’s relief—or mayhap her dismay—her husband rose early, leaving her to sleep. By the time she opened her eyes it was full light outside.
She rose from the bed far more confused than she’d climbed into it, for how quickly he’d agreed to set her free! Clearly, he didn’t care to have a wife anymore than she wished to be one.
In the morning light, the room was all the more astonishing.
Whilst the rest of the keep was dingy and lacking, this room revealed all the glittering treasures of a petty king. Rogan MacLaren had clearly wanted for naught, and truth be told half of what he possessed Lael had no inkling what it was for. A lovely little green intricately adorned pot sat on the floor near the bed. She lifted it up to examine it and found it reeked of urine. “Phew,” she whispered, and set it down once more, brushing her fingers against her lovely wrinkled gown. She could well imagine what that was for.
Piggish fool.
A large tapestry depicting the coronation of Kenneth MacAilpín adorned half one wall. Imbued with details that were hardly apparent in the evening light, it was fully revealed now in the light of day. The colors were rich and bold—reds and golds. The stitches were sewn by knowing hands. She brushed her fingers over the depiction of the Stone from Scone. It appeared precisely the same as the one they had hidden in their ben—at least so they’d said, and so it appeared. In MacAilpín’s hand, he brandished a great sword, but unfortunately here the details were not so fine. From the depiction alone it was not possible to determine whether it was the same sword Broc Ceannfhionn had brought into their hall. However, the tapestry put to shame anything they had hanging on the walls of Dubhtolargg. They were far more practical there, lining their walls with furs to keep the rooms warm. In fact everything here was bigger, bolder, shinier and bejeweled.
Noting the size of the bed, she now realized where the fur cover had come from—the one that had appeared in her prison bower—the one she gave to Broc. She suspected she also knew who had brought it for her: The one man who had a right to. Little by little his good deeds were beginning to outnumber his sins.
It was not I who stormed Keppenach,” he’d told her last night. And that much was true. It was Lael who’d done that, alongside Broc Ceannfhionn. And from what she could tell, these people seemed to have no issue with their new laird. So it seemed she was more the villain than he, for in truth Rogan MacLaren was sworn to David as his king, and so was the Butcher.
Broc also called himself a Scot, and simply by virtue of that fact, he was in fact a traitor to his crown.
Lael was his accomplice, who’d acted in fear.
Her brother was right; the more she thought about it, the more she knew it was true. Mayhap Keppenach was owed to Broc Ceannfhionn, but this war was not Lael’s to fight. And now her penance—perchance for life—was to live as the Butcher’s wife—a simple truth that she wasn’t entirely certain how she was supposed perceive.
“Jaime,” she said with a frown, testing the name upon her lips. It sounded for all-the world a kindly name—if not kind, precisely, at least it lacked any cruel sense. At every turn he treated her with respect.
I have never met a more beautiful lass.
Even now she could feel the blush rise to her cheeks at the memory of his words.
He was not hideous either, she was forced to confess. Not even his scar detracted from his good looks, and she wondered how many women he’d loved. Perhaps there was someone even now, and Lael was not the wife he craved? That thought strangely aggrieved her. And more… it left her feeling oddly envious, although that was ridiculous because she hardly knew the man.
A small stepped stool was butted against the east wall. She wandered over, thinking it odd, because it appeared as though the steps meant to go somewhere, but there was no door set above it, nor even a window to peer from. However, she did spy those same strange holes she’d noticed in the adjoining room so she climbed the small ladder and put her eye to the largest opening. It was entirely obscured, but because it was somewhat larger on this side, she shoved a finger inside and pushed something out the other end. Then she peered through it once more, startled to find the aperture trained upon the bed in the room next door. The sight of it gave her pause.
That was where she’d slept last eve—and, ach! She’d bathed in that room as well—not once but twice. Not that she hadn’t swam nude with her kinsmen a hundred times or more, but there was something disturbing about the thought that someone unbeknownst to her might have spied her.
She cast a glance over her shoulder at the opulent room, and screwed her face with sudden comprehensio
n. Someone intended to use it to spy on the room next door. She leapt down from the stool, shuddering over the depravity of the man who’d dwelt here before—mayhap all the MacLarens as far as she could tell. Although Lìli had never spoken an ill word about her first husband, his father, Dougal MacLaren had been one of those who’d joined Padruig mac Caimbeul in the raid against their vale, the one that claimed her father’s life.
She dragged the stool away from the east wall, thinking that, fortunately, it didn’t appear as though the peeping hole had been used recently. Mayhap someone—Lìli perhaps—had filled it to block the view? She longed to hug her sister-by-law and to tell her how sorry she was that she’d had to endure a man like Rogan MacLaren. It was just desserts that Aidan smote him as he had.
As for Lael’s own husband … ’Twas unlikely he had known about the peephole and even if he had, he hadn’t cared to see her unclothed when he had a right to last night. Forsooth, he’d gone to sleep without so much as an attempt to kiss her. Perchance he was lying, and he did favor men?
Feeling surly, Lael found her own garments. They were cleaned and folded at the foot of the bed and she quickly shed the silly wedding gown and discarded it. What had made her think to wear such a silly garment anyway?
This is all a mockery!
She donned her trews, her leather vest, and aye, even her empty scabbards. And then she washed her face with the frigid water that remained in the tub before braiding her hair as tightly as she dared. If she’d had a bit of woad to use, she would have adorned herself for war, but alas, she went unpainted out the door.
She found Luc waiting outside her door, seated quietly in a chair. “Good morn, my lady,” he said with a singsong greeting as he leapt up and sprang after her.
Lael scowled at the lad. Clearly unaccustomed to a woman like Lael, the squire lifted a pale brow as he examined her garb, but to his credit he said naught and Lael simply ignored him and started down the stairs.
He came after her. “What are we doing today?” he inquired with a note of excitement that made her grit her teeth.
She had said she might clean the chapel, but that should wait until she could somehow find a way to leave Luc behind. Lael took the steps a little faster. “I am going to the kitchen to see that my belly is fed, and then I intend to rally the maids and finish what I began—not that tis any o’ your concern.”
“I am hungry too,” he said quickly, his pace increasing behind her.
Lael clenched her jaw a little tighter.
Diabhul! The lad was going to plague her til she itched to strangle him—that much seemed clear.
Well, if he was going to follow her about all day long like some nagging pup, she intended to put him to work. And since she was stuck here for the foreseeable future, she meant to be certain they had enough supplies to last the winter. She didn’t intend to perish simply because these people didn’t know how to use every last morsel and scrap to their advantage. Living in the Mounth, her kinsfolk were forced to find a use for every square of cloth, every bite of food and every last twig. She knew how to stretch their household goods, simply because traders seldom mounted the hills when her kinsmen had little in the way of gold and silver to trade. In Dubhtolargg, their treasures were far simpler to be sure.
Helping them learn how to ration their goods was the least she could do for the innocents who remained here at Keppenach—three in particular she was coming to know.
She heaved a sigh over her growing sense of guilt, for if she met the rest of this castle’s denizens, she was fairly certain she’d discover a few more.
More than she cared to confess, and as much as she liked Broc Ceannfhionn and wished to see him flourish, she certainly had no business in this petty war.
The procession was nearly at an end.
In total seven more were gone as of this morning’s sunrise with three wagons left to depart. As a matter of prudence, each man was allowed to take enough supplies to see him to hi destination, but no more.
Already this morn Jaime had dispatched men to acquire some of what they still needed. He had amassed a small fortune to spend here. But until the new supplies arrived they must make do with what they had. Lamentably, it wasn’t much. But now he was all the more impressed with his wife’s management of the kitchens after discovering how intricately she’d arranged the dishes to share ingredients in order to utilize every last morsel of food.
However, at the instant, he was hard-pressed to give a bloody damn what was being carried out through the gates now that Lael had emerged from the keep. Poor Luc ran behind her, struggling to keep pace. She swept across the bailey like a tempest, waving her hand at those who stood idle.
This morning the wind was mild but the cold was deep and his fingers were half numb. Nevertheless, his wife appeared half-bare as far as he could tell. She wore men’s trews of tight-fitted leather. Her sleeveless bodice was made the same, with laces that cinched her breast and waist. A cloak of fur was clasped about her neck and she wore an empty scabbard about her waist, along with a bracer about her arm, in which, it appeared, there was yet another sheathe for yet another of her wicked blades. It was now empty, of course, but he could well imagine the sight she must have presented fully armed. She brought to mind the image of Diana the huntress—the Roman goddess, whose visage was as lovely and radiant as the moon. It was little wonder these men had thought to hang her, for the sight of her alone could bring a weak man to his knees.
The last of the wagons passed by. “You there! What have you in the sack?” Kieran asked at Jaime’s side.
Without any horse to lead the cart, the man carried the hitch upon his back. “Oats, my lord. Naught but oats. I traded one sack for two pigs and seven hens. Since I ha’na any way to keep ’em any longer, seemed only fitting to leave ’em all behind.” His voice trembled. “’Tis more than fair, I believe.”
“Did your laird approve the trade?” Kieran barked.
“Nay,” the old man replied, his voice withering even as he spoke. He was nearly as old and as rickety as his cart and Jaime wondered over the wisdom in allowing him to leave with the snows certain to return sometime this eve, and yet he had no desire to keep anyone against their will.
“Pull it down!” Kieran demanded at once.
Jaime waved a hand, dismissing the cart and its owner. “Let him go. ’Tis naught but a measly sack of oats.” He looked to the terrified man. “Good man, is there anyone here who might vouch for your trade?”
The man nodded jerkily, his head tottering as though with palsy. He pointed with his chin at something or someone behind him and Jaime turned to spy the lovely copper-haired lass he’d first spied cleaning the hall racing across the bailey.
“I can vouch for him, laird,” the girl said breathlessly.
“Thank ye,” the old man said, nodding at the girl. “Thank ye,” he said again, and without lingering to hear more, he returned the hitch over his shoulder and once more began to tug the cart through the icy muck.
Under the bright November sun, last night’s snowfall had already melted, leaving only a spattering of white, though it wouldn’t be long before the snow stuck to the ground and there remained. Jaime hoped to hell the man had a decent place to stay not so far away. He would have pressed him to reconsider, but the man was already on his way, in as much of a hurry as an old man dragging a cart three times his size could possibly be.
Wondering where the devil his wife had gone, Jaime turned to the girl at his side. “What’s your name, lass?”
“Kenna,” she answered shyly.
Jaime gave a little shake of his head, startled by her answer, although it was hardly an uncommon name. “Thank you,” he said. “Kenna…”
She bowed her head and gave him a nod, and then hied away before Jaime could rally his thoughts, or even recover his tongue.
Bemused for the second time this morning, he watched the lass go, remembering the last time he’d set eyes upon his little sister. Even as a child of three, Kenna’s b
eauty was admired, with those tiny dimples appearing only when she smiled. She’d had hair much the same color as this girl’s, but there again, those copper ringlets were hardly rare in these parts. As best as he could recall, his sister’s eyes were gray, though with more of a hint of blue than Jaime’s, but he hadn’t thought quickly enough to notice the color of this girl’s eyes…
In his mind’s eye, he saw the burnt carcass of a small child upon the ground, and as he remembered, he could nearly smell the stench of charred flesh. They’d tossed her body over the wall without any regard for her humanity. She’d ended in a barely recognizable heap at Jaime’s feet and he could still recall the terrible fury that mounted in his breast—the rage that blinded him to aught but vengeance. He’d mounted his horse—a black steed with eyes nearly as black as its mane—and he’d grasped a pitch-laden torch. First, he set the outbuildings afire, ordering his men to take cover as arrows were loosed from the ramparts. One landed in his sister’s blackened body. Another shaved his brow. With blood rushing over his eyes, obscuring his vision, he’d barreled through the onslaught of missiles to set his blazing torch to the palisade walls, and then when he was done, he’d sat his mount and watched the fortress burn to the very ground, his torched raised against the lowering night.
It was not a pleasant memory.
The screams of those who’d writhed atop a living funeral pyre had filled the night like the wail of a thousand banshees.
He blinked, watching the girl disappear into the storehouse, wondering over the doings of his termagant wife.
Chapter Twenty One
“I dinna recall,” Cameron said, much to Aidan’s regret.
He wished to hear that his sister lived, that she’d only lent Cameron her horse to carry a message to the vale. He wished to hear that perhaps Cameron was set upon by brigands along the way, but that was not the case. As Aidan feared, there had been a battle and it came as little surprise to learn his sister volunteered with a small band of men to breach Keppenach’s walls.
Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) Page 20