The Warrior's Bride

by Amanda Scott

  Rob forced his clenched fists to relax, knowing that he’d do better to pretend he cared not a whit about what happened on the dais. Pharlain could not legally expel him for simply watching, but if the Brehon was a close cousin, the two of them and Dougal had likely contrived some nefarious plan of which Muriella knew nowt.

  “If that be a judge and this be a trial, why do they force her ladyship tae sit there in front of this scaff and raff?” Pluff asked in quiet, albeit grim, disapproval.

  Rob looked at him. The boy was a distraction, but he had remembered to keep his voice down. “I don’t know exactly what they hope to achieve, lad,” he replied honestly. “Your Lady Murie has told them truthfully what happened, but they seem to expect Dougal’s version of the events to make things clearer.”

  “Dougal’s wicked clean through,” Pluff said flatly. “He willna tell the truth.”

  “Well, we’re about to hear what he says,” Rob said. “There he comes now.”

  Muriella watched Dougal stride across the open space in front of the dais and step onto it as if he owned it. Come to that, she reminded herself as he faced his father and the Brehon, he did expect to inherit Arrochar and even Tùr Meiloach if he could persuade her father to cede their estate to him.

  Andrew would never agree to that, though.

  “Do you swear before all of us gathered here to speak the truth and only the truth, Dougal MacPharlain?” the Brehon asked him plainly enough for all to hear.

  “I do, aye,” Dougal replied firmly, nodding. He did not look at Muriella.

  Murie watched him, forcing herself to forget her concerns and focus on what he said and how he acted. From where he stood, he looked northward, and the way he stared straight ahead of him as he spoke drew her attention. He was lying, of course. No wonder he did not want to look at her or at the judge, but…

  Just then, she saw his eyes flick toward his father.

  The Brehon said, “You and your father claim that you are the injured party, Dougal MacPharlain. Explain why you both believe that to be so when her ladyship so firmly denies it.”

  “I can tell you only that she begged me to take her with me,” Dougal said glibly. “I feared that someone had mistreated her, because she was crying when I found her. She cried out in despair several times afterward, too.”

  “Do you mean to say that she cozened you into escorting her?”

  “I believed I was right to bring her to the safety of Arrochar, aye.”

  Murie heard a note of reservation in his tone and immediately fixed on it. Could that be a twinge of guilt? Could Dougal possibly feel guilty about lying?

  The Brehon said mildly, “Her ladyship mentioned a horse, I believe.”

  “Aye, my lord justice,” Dougal said, nodding again.

  “Do you recall who rode in front?”

  “Why… why, she did.”

  The note was there again, and he swallowed visibly, and hard. Then he looked at the judge. Guilt! Still just a twinge, but there it was. She sensed it, however briefly, as clearly as if his guilt had colored him bright orange.

  If, as Lina had suggested, she could do aught to increase that guilt…

  The Brehon exchanged a look with Pharlain, and a silent message seemed to pass between the two. When Pharlain nodded, the justice leaned back in his chair and regarded Muriella sternly enough to make her tremble.

  “I need ask you only one question, your ladyship, and you must answer it truthfully. The answer is either aye or nay, nothing more than that. Did you ride in front of Dougal MacPharlain on that horse?”

  “I did, aye, but—”

  “No buts, my lady. You have affirmed his testimony, and you have agreed that an abduction took place. By Celtic law, you, not he, are the abductor… or, in this case,” he added with a wry little smile, “the abductress.”

  “But that’s daft!” Murie cried. “I did no such—”

  “You will be silent,” the Brehon ordered. When she reluctantly obeyed but sat stiffly glowering at him, he added, “It is my judgment that, according to our ancient laws, you did abduct Dougal MacPharlain. However, the sentence I pass may be tempered by what the current Chief of Clan Farlan deems to be fair.”

  A familiar, deep voice called out, “Is it not a matter of fairness under ancient Celtic law for a Brehon to ask if anyone present witnessed the crime or has other personal knowledge of it? And should he not do so before rendering judgment?”

  With profound relief, Murie saw that MacAulay had moved much closer. His redheaded and gray-furred shadows stood right behind him. Crossing his muscular arms over his broad chest, he eyed the Brehon and Pharlain with equal disdain.

  Pluff struck a similar pose. Scáthach, too, seemed to await the ruling.

  Pharlain glanced at the Brehon, who nodded without looking at him.

  “Step forward, sir, and declare your name,” the justice said. “If you witnessed this abduction, we must certainly hear your testimony. We will do so before rendering final judgment and passing sentence on her ladyship.”

  Heart pounding, Murie watched as people in front of MacAulay parted to let him through. Scáthach took a few steps to follow, but when her master put out a hand, fingers spread, she sat back on her haunches and glanced at Pluff.

  The two of them watched as MacAulay strode to the dais.

  Rob stopped at the foot of the dais, stated his name, and then drew a deep breath. He had had no trouble interpreting the Brehon’s words to mean that he had already made his decision and did not expect to change it.

  He remained silent, eyeing Rob solemnly.

  Dougal now stood beside his father. Both of them were watching Rob, and neither displayed any concern about what he might say.

  While everyone waited for the Brehon to speak, Rob wondered at himself.

  But the lass had the right of it. The law was daft if it declared her the abductress when the facts as she had described them should have proven otherwise—or at least led to further questions. There might be good reason for the law’s having survived as it had, but any fool could see—

  “Robert MacAulay,” the Brehon said at last, “do you swear by your honor and before God that you did witness this abduction?”

  “Aye, a significant portion of it. I heard things, too, before I saw them.”

  “Describe what you saw and heard.”

  “I was in the woods and heard her ladyship scream at MacPharlain to let her go,” Rob said. “I followed them over the pass. Then I saw that he had put her on his horse and they were riding down the Lomondside slope.”

  “Stop there, and tell me this,” the Brehon said. “Who rode in front?”

  “He had put her ladyship up before him so that he could hold her there.”

  “She rode in front then, with MacPharlain holding on behind.”

  “Not holding on,” Rob retorted, reminding himself at the same time to keep his suddenly unstable temper under rigid control. “It was perfectly plain to me,” he added, “that Dougal, not her ladyship, controlled that horse.”

  “The law does not speak of control but is a gey simple law, withal,” the Brehon said. “The person riding in front is ruled the abductor, the one clinging on behind, the abducted. Our judgment is therefore also simple. Under the law, Lady Muriella abducted Dougal MacPharlain and must face the consequences of her act. The consequences may be dire if she expected to gain by her crime.”

  He paused then, as if expecting someone to declare that she had. No one did.

  “However,” he added, “Pharlain tells me that to unify the two factions of Clan Farlan and protect the reputations of the parties involved in this abduction, his son is willing to marry her ladyship. I urge her to agree, because if she refuses that generous offer, I will allow Pharlain to order her penalty. How say you, Lady Muriella? Will you agree to marry Dougal MacPharlain?”

  Muriella’s whirling thoughts refused to compose themselves. Surely she was having a horrible nightmare. The law was senseless if a man could abduct
a woman, swear to tell the truth, lie through his teeth, and have a notable Brehon justice decide that she had abducted the man.

  She was about to shout her thoughts at them all when her sister Lina’s voice echoed through her head, reminding her that recriminations rarely succeed, that one is wiser simply to act on the facts as they stand. Memories of bards’ tales that Murie knew swiftly coupled with a related memory from Lina’s wedding day.

  All of these thoughts sped through her mind in less than a blink.

  Drawing a breath and avoiding MacAulay’s fierce scowl, she said with careful dignity, “I fear that I cannot consent to such a marriage. Dougal was gey mistaken if he thought I wanted him to snatch me from my home. But you have rendered that fact insignificant now. As to Robert MacAulay’s testimony, I believe that, by law, this court ought not to have let him speak against me.”

  Tilting his head slightly, the Brehon said, “I do not know why you should say such a thing, my lady. MacAulay testified only to what he saw and heard. He did not even contradict aught that you or Dougal MacPharlain said.”

  “What he heard was me screaming at that villain to put me down and leave me be. For Dougal to carry me off my father’s land by force was a crime under anyone’s law, sir. But I do understand that you have declared that fact irrelevant, too. Even so, I doubt that anyone here believes that I abducted Dougal. He is not only a foot taller than I am but twice my weight. Nor can anyone possibly believe that I abducted him on his own horse. But I will say no more about that, either.”

  She paused, knowing by the familiar, expectant silence that had fallen on her audience that everyone was listening intently now to her every word. Clinging to the sense that she was merely telling a tale at a ceilidh, she said casually, “What must be relevant, though, is that by all the laws of Scotland and those of the Holy Kirk, I cannot, for any reason whatsoever, marry Dougal MacPharlain.”

  “You are mistaken,” the Brehon said sternly. “If you mean to suggest that your father will disapprove, I fear that his disapproval is also irrelevant.”

  “Is it irrelevant that I already have a husband, my lord justice?” Murie asked with demure dignity.

  “That is a lie,” Pharlain snapped.

  Dougal remained silent, looking from one speaker to the next.

  “If true, that would certainly be relevant,” the Brehon said, frowning. “But if you are married, my lady, where… or, more pertinently, who is your husband?”

  “Why, he is right there,” she said, pointing. “My lord father offered me to him a year ago. My husband is Master Robert MacAulay of Ardincaple.”

  Chapter 11

  The crowd gasped in near unison, and some wag cried out, “I warrant MacAulay will ha’ more tae say tae his lady and tae our Dougal then, aye?”

  Muriella, Rob noted, wisely kept her gaze fixed on the Brehon.

  Rob wanted to throttle her, not only for her declaration but for daring to fling an outright lie in the face of a Brehon justice. That was surely a hanging offense if anyone should gainsay her, as others besides Dougal likely would.

  “What say you to that declaration, sir?” the Brehon demanded.

  Realizing that the man addressed him, Rob returned his steady look. “Honor forbids me to contradict her ladyship, my lord justice.”

  “Nevertheless, Master Robert MacAulay, you must tell the truth.”

  “Her ladyship spoke the truth from the outset,” Rob said. “That you and these others chose to play lairds-of-all with Celtic law does not alter that fact.”

  “Then why did you not object to the charge of abduction immediately instead of supporting what Dougal MacPharlain had said?”

  “Pray, forgive my ignorance, sir. I assumed that justice would prevail, giving me no cause to mortify her ladyship further than these proceedings already have.”

  “You would mock the ancient laws of this land?”

  “I had no such intent,” Rob replied, fighting for calm. “I saw what happened, though. And, to my mind, for a man of justice to declare the truth irrelevant and decide that her ladyship abducted MacPharlain when that is plainly absurd… Sithee, my lord, I expected the truth and my honest testimony to be sufficient.”

  “You should show more respect for Highland law, sir. Good reason lies behind even this one.” Rob noted that the Brehon did not reveal that reason. Instead, he added hastily, “We do not cast aside our laws for seeming strange. Forbye, I think you must agree that, however your lady came to be riding foremost on that horse, the event itself came about due to her own careless actions.”

  “I do agree with that,” Rob said grimly, shooting Muriella a look that ought to have frozen the marrow in her bones.

  “I should hang them both,” Pharlain snapped. “If MacAulay is indeed her husband, then by God, he is as guilty as she is. His wife is his responsibility.”

  “He is indeed responsible for her actions,” the Brehon said mildly. “But only if he knew that she intended to abduct your son, sir.” Looking at Dougal, he asked sternly, “Do you believe that MacAulay did know and was a party to the act?”

  Rob saw Muriella stiffen and gaze fiercely at Dougal. Her demeanor, every fiber of her body, seemed to be straining to speak to him.

  Don’t you dare say it, you villain! Heed your guilt. Murie concentrated hard. She had no idea if her thoughts were having any effect, but at least Dougal had not immediately declared that Rob was party to this outrageous, wickedly made-up crime.

  Dougal hesitated until people in the audience began to grumble, but at last, he shook his head. Then, without inflection, he said, “One might more accurately call it all an unhappy misunderstanding.”

  “Aye, then, you leave me nae choice.” Turning to Pharlain, the Brehon said clearly enough to reach most ears, “We can proceed with the case against her ladyship if you insist, my lord. However, you should be aware that Robert MacAulay would then be within his legal rights to charge your son with wife-stealing. You should also be aware that the ancient laws make it impossible to blame a wife for allowing herself to be stolen. Moreover, the penalties for wife-stealing are far more severe than any common penalty for simple abduction.”

  Pharlain’s expression gave nothing away. When he eyed MacAulay for a long moment, perhaps measuring his steel, Murie’s fears flooded back.

  Surely Pharlain would not try to pursue such a self-defeating course. She wanted the business finished before it occurred to anyone to ask more probing questions of MacAulay or of her.

  At last, with a dismissive gesture, Pharlain said, “Release her to his custody. We can only hope that she has learned a lesson from this.”

  The Brehon said gravely, “I hereby order her ladyship released to your custody, Robert MacAulay. I will add this, though, sir. Your wife deserves stern chastisement for the carelessness that resulted in taking up the time of this laird’s court—and my time, as well. What say you to that?”

  “I can only agree, my lord.”

  “Then we can trust you to see to that matter?”

  “I give you my word,” MacAulay said flatly.

  Muriella, meeting his flintlike gaze, shuddered and wondered if, possibly, she might have been safer with Dougal.

  Rob’s words echoed in his ears, and he wondered what sort of chastisement, exactly, the justice expected him to mete out to her ladyship.

  He would not, however, ask him that question.

  Recalling that he was supposed to discuss potential fees at Ardincaple with Pharlain, he gave him an appraising look and decided that no words, however diplomatic, would gain the assurances his father desired. Not, he told himself sagely, that Pharlain had ever been likely to agree to aught that did not accord with his own wish, and the Campbell’s, to impose control over Ardincaple. Rob’s own opinion was that forthright confrontation would accomplish more than any parlay.

  Shifting his gaze back to the Brehon, he moved closer to Muriella and said, “Do I understand that I may now take her ladyship home?”

 
“You may.” Raising his voice, the Brehon added, “And all here should know that you must both be allowed to depart in safety. Have you transport nearby?”

  “It lies at Arrochar’s wharf on the Loch of the Long Boats,” Rob replied.

  “Then I advise you to take your lady and go. I shall stay, since Pharlain has other grievances to hear. But the truce ends with my departure, as you know.”

  That took care of that, Rob thought. Muriella still had not looked at him, so he touched her nearer shoulder and said, “Come, lass.”

  Obeying silently, she waited only until they had passed beyond the crowd before she said lightly, “Do you not think it was clever of me to recall how Lina and Ian married and other tales I had heard about declarations of marriage?”

  Knowing that she would dislike his answer to that question, Rob kept silent. He would not let her linger much longer in her fantasy, though.

  Disturbed by Rob’s silence but undaunted, Murie went on blithely, “I confess that it was horrid being locked up in that dark shed. Faith, I would have done almost anything to escape, so I am gey relieved to be safe at last.”

  “Safe from all but the chastisement I promised the Brehon I would deliver,” MacAulay muttered in a near growl.

  Dismayed, she exclaimed, “But you cannot mean to punish me! Sakes, you cannot, for you have no righ—”

  The last word ended in a hastily stifled screech when he gripped her arm hard enough to leave bruises and spun her to face him.

  “As to my rights or lack of them, my lady, you would do well to hold your tongue until we are well away from here,” he muttered. “Not only would you liefer no one else overhear such a denial after your declaration—under oath, I might remind you—that I am your husband. But the fact is that now I have every right to put you across my knee, right here where everyone can still see us, and flail you with my hand or any implement I choose until you scream to heaven for mercy.”