by Amanda Scott
True to his word, he returned an hour later, but he was not alone. Two muscular guards accompanied him.
Murie was standing by Mae when he entered, wearing the pink kirtle she had worn the day he had captured her. She held her cloak draped over one arm.
“Give me that cloak, lass,” Dougal said. “They’ll bind your wrists behind ye, for that be my father’s rule. I came with them to reassure ye that their sole task be to keep ye safe until sentence be passed on ye.”
“Sentence? What sentence?” Murie demanded angrily. “I am not the one who committed a crime, Dougal MacPharlain. You are!”
“Aye, but ye did, lass. Ye’ll see.”
Moments later, her wrists firmly bound behind her, she stood rigid while Dougal draped her cloak over her shoulders. He went ahead, striding quickly. The two guards flanked her and followed him, taking her to meet her fate.
Chapter 10
When Rob’s borrowed galley landed that morning at Arrochar’s wharf, near the head of the Loch of the Long Boats, he identified himself to the man who seemed to act as wharf master there.
“I’ve come a few days early,” he added. “But Pharlain is expecting me.”
“Aye, well, the laird be gey busy t’day, sir,” the wharf master said, gesturing toward a line of people moving eastward on the Tarbet. “Dunamany more than usual ha’ come for his laird’s court and tae see his cousin, the Brehon, for theirselves.”
“A Brehon justice? Why would Pharlain want such a man here?”
The other man shrugged. “Likely, he just invited his cousin tae watch. The man be a kinsman on his mam’s Morrison side.”
The reply failed to answer Rob’s question. Cousin or none, it seemed odd that Pharlain would want someone as well-versed in Celtic law as any Brehon would be to witness his corrupt view of justice.
However, the MacAulays also had Morrison cousins, so perhaps the news would prove less ominous than it seemed.
Despite the “many” the wharf master said had come, Rob could see only those few ahead of him, following the wide dirt track up a slight rise.
Boats had beached nearby, and more had anchored offshore. But the wharf master said naught to Rob’s captain about moving his galley away from the wharf.
Most of the audience, of course, would be Clan Farlan men from Pharlain’s lands who would not need boats to reach the Tarbet. Moreover, if the court was starting, Rob knew he should not delay.
He thanked the wharf master politely and assured him that he didn’t expect Pharlain to extend him any ceremony. “I’ll leave my crew here, though,” he added.
“Aye, sir, as ye like.”
Having seen that Colquhoun’s captain knew his business, Rob headed out at once on the track toward Loch Lomond. The rise ahead, although low enough not to impede boats dragged along the track, blocked his view of what lay beyond it.
A gurgling burn flowed down toward him on its way to join the Loch of the Long Boats. The track was wide enough to accommodate boats, large and small, that men had, for years if not centuries, dragged from one loch to the other.
It occurred to him that Andrew Dubh likely missed the fees he had charged such men to access the Tarbet and for aid they might need to drag their boats across it. That was surely a lucrative business, because no other way existed for boats carrying goods or men to access Loch Lomond from the sea.
Steep slopes north and south of the Tarbet flanked it and the burn, creating the Tarbet’s deep, vee-shaped, nearly flat-bottomed vale. Reaching the top of the rise, Rob saw the laird’s court spread before him. The steep slopes eased away from each other there, creating an arena suitable for any such event.
Runoff from surrounding slopes fed another burn hurrying to Loch Lomond, a bit of which he could see now in the distance ahead, where sunlight sparkled on its water.
Below him, on the north side of a clearing around which the crowd had gathered, was a makeshift dais with a rectangular table sitting on it. A pair of two-elbow chairs occupied one side of the table, a single stool the other. Two men stood beside the chairs. One wore a faded red-and-blue great plaid and a red cap with eagle feathers sprouting from it, the other a black robe and cap.
Men, women, and children lined the slopes. A number of people had paused on the path ahead of Rob to seek out any places that remained to sit and watch.
Rob did not see Lady Muriella anywhere.
The glare of the midmorning sun was so strong after days in darkness that it hurt Murie’s eyes. So, keeping her head down, she watched where she put her feet as Dougal’s two burly minions urged her along the path from the shed and up a hill.
“Where are we going?” she asked gruffly.
“Master Dougal tellt ye,” one said. “Tae the laird’s court on yon Tarbet.”
“Does Pharlain not hold his court at Arrochar Hall?”
“Not today,” the spokesman said. “Master Dougal said the laird wants folks tae see how kind he’s been tae ye. So, he’s asked a Brehon justice tae sit in, tae be sure ye be treated fairly.”
“A Brehon! Good sakes, I thought they held sway only in the Isles.”
“They sit wherever Celtic laws prevail, throughout the Isles, the Highlands, and elsewhere, even Galloway.” The voice was Dougal’s.
Startled to hear him speak, just as his minions drew her to a halt, Murie looked up, wincing at the brightness. Dougal stood right in front of her, so she shifted position slightly to put him between her and the sun.
“Brehon power is strong everywhere,” he added, looking smug. “Moreover, a Brehon’s word is law, lass. Not even the King can overrule a Brehon’s decision.”
Slightly cheered to learn that neither Pharlain nor Dougal was likely to have it all his own way in whatever happened, Murie nearly said so. Before she could, Dougal added, “Justice Morrison is the cousin I told you about. He comes from my maternal grandmother’s family. Come now,” he added. “We’ll go this way.”
Muriella grimaced. So much for fairness.
When they topped the rise, a din of voices greeted them.
Dougal stepped aside, and Muriella gasped at the sight of what seemed to be hundreds of people in the clearing before them and along the slopes that flanked it.
Rob saw two burly clansmen on the northeast slope forcing a pathway through the crowd to the dais. Two others followed, flanking a young woman.
Easily recognizing the lass as Lady Muriella, Rob watched stoically while her two guards urged her onto the dais. She looked pale, even stunned, as they held her, standing, beside the stool of judgment, facing the crowd.
Her awe was understandable. The throng spread before her was immense, especially if she had never witnessed a Brehon court before. Such courts, like other public events in the Highlands or Isles, were open to anyone who wanted to witness them. That hard and fast rule was what had given Rob the opportunity to attend despite Pharlain’s instructions to wait until it was more convenient for him.
Doubtless, Muriella’s study of clan lore and Scottish history must have taught her a few facts about the Brehons and the trials over which they presided. The ancient Celtic laws were, after all, the oldest codified laws known.
The only clear space now was a path about fifteen feet wide that guards kept open around the dais. Elsewhere, the slopes and flats teemed with humanity.
Rob found a place with a good view for himself. Although members of Clan Farlan took precedence, seated or standing, no one tried to oust him from his place. Nor would any man who tried succeed in doing so. He and Scáthach were guests of Clan Farlan’s so-called chief, albeit unbeknownst to the man himself.
Scáthach sat beside him, alert and attentive. She would remain so unless Rob commanded her to do otherwise, or until something or someone threatened him.
It occurred to him that at Jamie’s Parliament in Inverness, Andrew’s charters or none, Pharlain might still lose his place as chief of Clan Farlan. He had, after all, done nowt to endear himself to the King and much to infuriate him
. For the nonce, though, Pharlain’s word would be law unless the Brehon overruled him.
That last thought gave Rob pause. Pharlain had to have good reason to summon a Brehon, because he could legally have rendered any judgment himself. Heaven knew he had done so many times since usurping Clan Farlan’s chiefdom.
Recalling that Dougal had initiated the most recent villainy, Rob wondered if Pharlain feared that if he ruled in favor of Dougal, their own people might deem the trial unfair. It was also possible, since the Brehon was a kinsman, that Pharlain had corrupted him. He might, without dirtying his own hands, simply expect the Brehon to render the judgment that Pharlain desired.
To be sure, the Brehons were supposedly incorruptible. But men were men and some of them more easily corrupted than others.
Rob could see that the justice and Pharlain were of like height and age, but their similarity seemed to end there. The Brehon’s demeanor seemed more youthful than his cousin’s and calmer. His skin was whisky-dark. The hair bristling below his cap’s rim was a shoulder-length mass of tight, snow-white curls. His shoulders were narrower than Pharlain’s and his body so reed-slender that it barely stirred his robe when he moved. Had Rob believed in wee folk, he’d have said that the Brehon resembled a querulous elf, albeit much taller.
Pharlain’s men-at-arms continued to keep the crowd back from the dais. Despite their swords and dirks, none would touch a weapon in the Brehon’s presence unless he ordered it. Failure to obey that rule could mean hanging.
“What be they a-doing now?” muttered a youthful voice right behind Rob.
That voice was only too familiar. Looking back to find Pluff eyeing him warily, Rob said, “What the devil are you doing here?”
“This be summat that anyone can watch, aye?” Pluff replied innocently.
“It is. Nevertheless, you should still be smarting from your last visit and certainly have no business here now.”
“I do so,” Pluff replied stoutly. “That be our Lady Murie yonder, and these villains mean tae do her a mischief or summat worse, so I—”
“You will be silent if you want to stay,” Rob told him sternly.
“Aye, sure, but they be a-going tae begin straightaway now, aye?”
Since it was clear that the word “silent” was foreign to the lad, Rob said, “Even so, I’ll have time enough before they do to teach you to mind what I say. Do you want to test that likelihood?”
Pluff shook his head.
Frowning now, Rob held the boy’s gaze.
“Nae, sir,” Pluff said then. “But dinna send me away. I want tae see.”
“Then keep your tongue firmly behind your teeth no matter what happens. What if Pharlain should hear you? What if he sees you? How would you like that?”
The boy opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Do you want to say something?” Rob asked softly.
Pluff nodded.
“Very well, but keep your voice down. What is it?”
“Pharlain has seen me now and now,” Pluff confided in a near whisper. “He pays me nae mind.”
Rob frowned, recalling young Ulf’s report that Monday had been the first time he had seen Pluff at the pass in months. “How often of late?” he asked the boy.
“Only t’other day, but I was used tae come here last year tae visit Euan MacNur’s Mae and her Annabel now and now, just tae see how they was a-getting on. Like I said t’other day afore the laird skelped me.”
“Did MacNur send you to visit them?”
Shrugging, Pluff said, “Nay, I were just curious about Arrochar, ’cause the laird said Pharlain might ha’ set some’un tae spy on us at Tùr Meiloach. I thought folks might talk tae me. They did, too, but I didna hear nowt about any spies. Sithee, they think I be an orphan a-looking after m’self. One o’ the women tellt me who Mae and Annabel belonged tae. MacNur were that gruff without ’em, too, I tell ye!”
“Then Andrew Dubh found out, aye?”
“Aye, ’cause MacNur caught me and were a-going tae leather me even after I tellt him that Pharlain were a-goin’ tae attack Tùr Meiloach. MacNur didna believe me, so he took me tae the laird. When I told the laird and Sir Mag what I’d heard, the laird said he’d save his judgment till he learned the truth. Then, if I’d lied, he’d take leather tae me hisself. But I hadna lied, so he didna—not then.”
“What will he think of your being here today?” Rob asked.
Sending Rob a guileless look from under his carroty eyebrows, Pluff said, “I’ll tell ’im I were with ye at a Brehon court. Lady Murie did say that anyone can watch the Brehons without fear. That be the law, she said.”
“So it is,” Rob said. “But you listen to me now, my lad. You will keep quiet throughout, or I will make you smart. Do you understand me?”
“Aye, sure,” Pluff said, nodding vigorously. “I just want tae see how she’ll get herself home again is all.”
Rob wished that he could share Pluff’s confidence in her ladyship. To say that she had flung herself into the briars with a vengeance was to understate the matter gravely. Pharlain looked far too confident for anyone to think otherwise.
Muriella, too, had seen Pharlain, for she was sure that the bearded man on the dais, wearing chief’s feathers, must be he. Surely, no one else would stand in the central place on an Arrochar dais. Having heard his name often since her birth, she had been curious to see him. Now that she had, she found him unimpressive.
He had been the villain all her life. Now, she realized that she had envisioned him as the devil, horns and all. Sadly, he was just a much lesser form of her father. Admittedly, Pharlain had tied his hair back more neatly than Andrew ever did, perhaps in honor of the occasion. But he did not look chiefly, and Andrew did.
Dougal and his father both boasted Andrew’s broad MacFarlan shoulders. Doubtless they were both skilled swordsmen, too.
Her bound wrists were making her hands numb.
Trying to clear her mind of such extraneous thoughts so that it might be more useful to her, she felt disoriented, as if she had been in that dark shed for weeks. Time had crawled there, to be sure. Even so, her own reliable awareness of its passing told her she had been at Arrochar for just three days and four nights.
The sun still seemed overly bright, but her eyes were adjusting.
She scanned the sea of onlookers, seeking a familiar face. Despite the multitude—or, more likely, because of it—she saw no one she knew.
“The accused will face her judges.”
She had no idea who had spoken, but she was sure “the accused” was herself.
The two men who had escorted her to the dais turned her to face the two still standing behind the table, and then stepped away.
The Brehon stood at Pharlain’s right. She noticed that another minion stood near the dais edge at his left.
The justice and Pharlain glanced at each other and then sat in their chairs.
Shifting her attention back to the justice, Murie tried to get some sense of him. He seemed calm and relaxed. She could discern no more than that.
Then the same voice, now obviously coming from the minion at Pharlain’s left, declared in stentorian tones, “The accused will state her name, her clan, and the chief of her clan.”
Addressing a point between Pharlain and the Brehon, Muriella said with forced calm, “I am Muriella MacFarlan, third daughter of Andrew Dubh MacFarlan and the lady Aubrey Comyn. The rightful chief of my clan is my father, who does not bind people’s hands in his court until they have been found guilty.”
“Nor do I,” the Brehon said evenly. “Untie her hands at once.”
The guard at her right hurriedly obeyed.
“Do you know why you are here, Lady Muriella?” the Brehon went on.
Looking directly at him as she rubbed feeling back into her hands, she replied, “Because Dougal MacPharlain captured me on my father’s land and carried me here on his horse, wholly against my will.”
The blue eyes under the bristly white eyebrow
s never wavered from her.
“You stand accused of abduction,” he said gravely.
“I did no such thing, however. I was seeking shelter from the storm when Dougal MacPharlain snatched me up and brought me here by force.”
“You may answer the charge against you in due time,” the Brehon said. “We will hear both sides of that tale before I render judgment. But do you understand that my judgment will be the final word in this matter, your ladyship?”
“I know what happened to me,” she retorted, feeling as if he had ignored all she had said. With a sweeping gesture that encompassed half the crowd and forced one guard beside her to step hastily back, she added vehemently, “I do not even understand why all of this is necessary.”
Grimly, before the Brehon could reply, Pharlain said, “You will understand soon enough, lass. For now, you will hold your tongue and let this trial proceed.”
The Brehon said, “You must sit on the stool so that we and all the onlookers can see you, Lady Muriella. We will first hear your accuser, Dougal MacPharlain.”
She nearly protested, but the Brehon’s utter serenity stopped her. Then, as she turned, frantic movement drew her attention to a familiar-looking redheaded lad on the west hillside, waving his hands high. As she digested the fact that Pluff had managed to insinuate himself into the crowd, she saw that he was not alone.
MacAulay stood beside him with Scáthach. Despite the distance between them and the dais, MacAulay’s scowl was as recognizable as Pluff’s excited grin.
Her lips parted. Aware that she was gaping, she pressed them together and obediently took her place on the stool of judgment.
Doubtless, Master Robert MacAulay thought her predicament well-earned, a consequence of her own actions. However, she would not let him see her fear, any more than she would reveal it to the villainous Pharlain or his lying son.
It was bad enough that the Brehon who would judge her wanted to hear Dougal’s lies first. Her declaration that Dougal had abducted her did not seem to have penetrated the Brehon’s skull to stir a single sensible thought inside.