The Warrior's Bride

by Amanda Scott

  Easily keeping his temper, since he knew she was blameless, Rob said, “I must have forgotten to tell you, lass. We’ll bury him Wednesday at dawn, so that as many clansmen as possible can be here. Because he was chief of our clan, it would be unwise to bury him with what some might deem to be unseemly haste.”

  Having sensed Rob’s flash of anger, the one emotion of his that she could always sense, she wondered now at his calmness. Realizing that Lady Euphemia had neglected to mention Lord MacAulay’s burial when she expressed her concerns about the laird’s court, and strongly doubting that Rob had forgotten to tell her that both would take place on Wednesday, Murie deduced wryly that Lady Euphemia had not yet fully accepted her.

  Although tempted to share these thoughts with Rob, she suspected that doing so would be like raising a din on one of her sisters at home. His flash of temper was over, so she knew he was not angry with her. However, if he was already angry with his mother, Murie doubted that he would thank her for telling him what he had likely deduced for himself. Even so, she had to say something.

  At last she said quietly, “I hope I have not vexed you again, Rob. I am happier when we are having fun than when you are displeased with me.”

  Putting an arm around her shoulders, he drew her close, then stopped and turned her to face him. “I’m not angry with you, lass,” he said, kissing the top of her head. Then with a little smile, he added, “In troth, I was thinking that I should tell you how much I appreciate the time you spend with my mother. I had feared that you would not get on with her, since I find it hard to do so myself at times.”

  Aware that she was blushing, and recalling that he seemed able to read her every expression, she said, “Then I should admit to you, sir, that I can easily tell when I have irked her and can tell as easily if what I say pleases her. I just talk more about topics that please her and avoid those that don’t. People tend to like others who share an interest in things that interest them, do they not?”

  “They do, aye,” he agreed, albeit with an unnervingly thoughtful look. “I must say, though, that I have known her all my life and still cannot sense her feelings as easily as that.”

  “Well, I can,” she said. “However, I will tell you that I also sense some…” She hesitated, seeking an acceptable word, then added, “Frankly, sir, ‘mendacity’ is the most suitable word. I ken fine that it is a dreadfully tactless thing to—”

  “Never mind tact,” he said. “If you thought she was being deceitful, why did you let her persuade you to urge me to put off my laird’s court?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” she said. “The sense of her that I just mentioned was something I felt the first time I talked with her, as if she were saying one thing but thinking another. Today, I believed she was telling me what she thinks is true.”

  “Then you have more faith than wisdom when it comes to your instincts, lass. I won’t urge you to distrust all that she says, just to know her better before you make judgments about her truthfulness.”

  “Good sakes, sir, do you think your mother lies to you?”

  Rob hesitated before he said, “I think she likes to get her own way. I know she sometimes refuses to hear what anyone else says, if it contradicts her belief about how things are. I respect her opinions in that I believe she has every right to express them. But I also know that she will go to great lengths in her efforts to control other people and make them dance to her piping.”

  Murie wished she could explain her ability to him, but he urged her ahead of him on the path. The sun was below the hill and the Loch Lomond area behind them already in deep shadow, so she walked silently until an echo of what he had said earlier returned to her. Then she looked back and said, “I know I do not always show wisdom, sir. You are not the first person to say that, as doubtless you know.”

  “You are young yet,” he said.

  “Aye, but young or not, I do trust what I sense about people. I don’t pretend to be as gifted in that way as Dree is, though. Animals like me, but I cannot tell how one of them is feeling unless Lina’s cat growls at me or a squirrel chatters angrily.”

  “Sakes, lass, no one can tell what animals feel or if they even have feelings, other than pain.”

  Stopping, she turned and stared at him. “How can you think that?” she demanded. “One need only look at Scáthach to know if she is unhappy or excited. She watches you, sir. She knows your every move and mood. She can tell by your clothing if you are going outside or staying in and reacts with excitement to the one and resignation to the other. Your slightest gesture tells her what you want of her.”

  “Aye, because I have trained her well.”

  She shook her head at him but offered no further argument. She had seen an arrested look in his eyes while she described Scáthach’s behavior, which told her that she had given him reason to think about all that she had said.

  Rob could not decide whether he was more annoyed or intrigued by Murie’s argument. She was right about Scáthach’s ability to read his moods and intentions, though. Also, he could read Scáthach nearly as well, and in ways he had not taught her. Her demeanor when danger threatened differed from her demeanor when it did not.

  The way she had growled to warn him of the ambush awaiting him in the pass the day he’d followed Dougal and Muriella there had told him that he needed his weapon ready even as he whirled to face the swordsmen.

  But he did not want to dwell on that now or argue any more. Instead, he took his wife to bed and taught her a few more things about pleasuring him and obeying his commands. She was, to his increasing delight, an apt and inventive pupil.

  When he awoke before dawn Wednesday, she was still asleep, so he got up, dressed quietly, and gave orders for his man to let her sleep until after the burial.

  Finding Lady Euphemia downstairs breaking her fast, he bade her good morning and took his rightful place at the high table. It still felt strange, even disrespectful, to sit in the laird’s chair, but he was sure the feeling would pass.

  “It will be a fine day, I think,” his mother said, daintily spooning a bite of her boiled egg from its shell. “Your Muriella told me when she arrived that she will need a maidservant. I have given the matter much thought, and I believe my Tressa’s Mairi will suit her needs.”

  Knowing that Mairi would repeat to her mother anything that Muriella said and that Tressa would repeat it to Lady Euphemia, Rob said, “I think MacGurk’s Fiona would suit her better, Mam. She is closer in age to Muriella.”

  “Oh, but my dear Robert, your Muriella is so young that she would surely do better to have someone older who can show her how to go on here.”

  “She can ask you or me if she needs help,” Rob replied mildly, nodding to the gillie who approached with his customary breakfast on a tray. The lad set down a mug of ale, a large bowl of barley porridge, and a platter of cold sliced beef. Another lad brought a basket with oven-warm manchet loaves in it.

  Waiting only until the two had turned away, her ladyship said, “Muriella does not seem at all shy. I will say that for her.”

  “I think she likes you, too, Mam.”

  “Are ye sure that Tressa’s Mairi won’t do. I do think—”

  “I will talk to MacGurk,” Rob said. “If he thinks his Fiona is not ready for such responsibility, he will say so. Forbye, it will be up to Muriella in the end.” Lady Euphemia was still frowning, so he changed the subject. “Do you ken what sort of grievances Father expected to hear at this laird’s court?”

  She shrugged. “He told me naught, so I warrant there was naught of import. I do recall some sort of grievance over a death that he thought was odd.”

  “Odd?” Rob’s eyebrows shot upward. “The grievance or the death itself?”

  “He just said ‘odd.’ ”

  “Could it have aught to do with his own death? Might someone summoned to the court have thought that killing Father might somehow benefit him?”

  “I don’t know how,” Lady Euphemia said. “The only thing that
fretted him of late was that business of the fees that Campbell of Lorne and Pharlain of Arrochar were urging him to collect. Were ye at least able to set that to rest?”

  “Greed is not something that one puts to rest,” Rob said. He knew he would likely have to tell her all that had happened at Arrochar, but he did not want to discuss it over his breakfast or in the great hall where others might hear.

  She said curtly, “Did ye even see Pharlain?”

  Disliking her tone but knowing of old that he would gain nowt by saying so, he said, “I saw him. He made his feelings plain. But you need not fret, Mam. I will see that Ardincaple keeps safe and that the lochs hereabouts remain free to all vessels unless the King himself decides to set fees for passage.”

  “Ye sound gey sure of yourself,” she replied. “Ye ken fine that your father did not approve of meeting force with force.”

  “And you ken fine that I am not my father,” Rob said in the same calm way, despite a stronger urge to snap at her. That urge was as familiar as it had been when he was thirteen, but the knowledge that his word was now law at Ardincaple and that Murie might suffer if he annoyed his mother, made it easier to be civil.

  Evidently, Lady Euphemia was wise enough to know that she had gone her length, because she excused herself minutes later to prepare for her late husband’s burial. Realizing that she meant to attend it and might take offense at Murie’s absence, Rob went upstairs to wake her.

  Lord MacAulay’s burial took place efficiently and with dignity, after which, the gathered crowd being deemed too large for the great hall but small enough to accommodate in the courtyard, Rob convened his laird’s court there.

  As usual at such events, a wooden dais bearing a table and chairs for the laird and whoever would keep the record stood at the foot of the wooden steps leading to the main entrance. At Ardincaple, the accuser, the accused, and the witnesses would stand on the dais to declare their grievances, defend themselves, or give evidence.

  Gillies carried a bench out and set it at the front of the gathering, near the table where Rob would sit. The lads kept the bench clear for Lady Euphemia and Murie, who soon took their places there. Other benches were available for those who wanted to sit. Most of the men remained standing, and everyone stood when Rob took his place at the table and declared the laird’s court open.

  Murie had never observed such a proceeding other than at Arrochar, although she had witnessed bits of one or two of her father’s courts, unbeknownst to him, from a window overlooking the tower’s yard. Such occasions there were always solemn, because men’s hides or their lives often hung in the balance.

  At first, she thought that the grievances Rob heard were petty, even boring. Each seemed to be a matter of someone taking a lamb, firewood, or another object that was not his—often by mistake. The accuser would state his view of what had happened. Then the other man would give his version or apologize and promise Rob that he would pay for or return the property. Rob would make his decision one way or the other, and that would be that. Rob seemed to be utterly fair and just.

  Then a middle-aged woman stepped to the dais and declared that one Donnie’s Ferg had murdered her husband. “He should hang for it, laird,” she added grimly.

  “If your accusation proves true, Mistress Cowen, he will,” Rob said. “Step forward onto the dais, Fergus, and be heard.”

  A tall, gangly lad of some two score years, with corn-yellow hair and eyes so light blue they looked colorless, walked forward and stood warily at the edge of the dais on Murie’s right. She could see his ashen, freckled face clearly. So terrified was he that she could sense his terror in other ways, too, as he warily eyed Rob.

  “You may speak, lad,” Rob said when silence fell.

  “It… it were an accident,” Fergus blurted. “I didna mean tae kill ’im!”

  “But you did kill Gib Cowen, aye?”

  “Aye, laird, but I couldna help it!”

  Rob said, “Have you a witness to Gib’s death, Mistress Cowen?”

  “Aye, sure, laird, and Ferg kens it fine,” the woman said. “Me son Jocky were there and saw the whole thing. He stands yonder. Ask him yourself.”

  Rob motioned for Jocky Cowen to step onto the dais. “Tell us how your father’s death happened, Jock.”

  “Sakes, laird, Ferg there were a-climbing up one o’ them cliffs yonder, seeking tae find eagles’ eggs. Me da stood below ’im, ’cause Ferg told him to, so he could lower his basket tae him after he filled it with eggs. T’ clumsy oaf fell on Da instead and squashed ’im flat! Had Ferg no been so clumsy, me da would still be alive. Ferg did kill him, though, so he should hang for murder.”

  Growls of agreement sounded from some of the men in the gathering, as well as mutterings of shocked protest.

  Rob said evenly, “It does sound as if it might have been an acci—”

  “Sakes, laird!” Jocky exclaimed. “Had Ferg no been up there at all, he’d no ha’ fallen. He told Da tae stand there, so he kent fine that Da was there. Ferg could ha’ kept from falling on ’im, had he tried, but he didna try. He just smashed intae him. It be murder, same as if he’d taken a club and beat Da tae death!”

  More sounds of agreement and disagreement followed his words.

  Murie watched Rob, but her thoughts had flitted elsewhere, to a tale she recalled that bore a slight resemblance to the incident described.

  The resolution of that tale stirred a near smile. Knowing that Rob would not appreciate humor at such a grave time, she stifled the bubble of merriment and saw with relief that he had shifted his attention back to Donnie’s Ferg.

  Chapter 16

  What defense can you offer to Jocky’s accusation, Fergus?” Rob asked.

  “Sakes, laird, nae one could ha’ done what he says I should ha’. I lost me footing and me handhold all at once and plunged tae the ground. It ain’t as if I could spread wings and look doon first. Auld Gib were there and I fell on him, sure enow, and the blessed man were like a fat cushion. I bruised m’self summat fierce, but he saved me life. I’m that sorry I squashed him, but God kens I couldna help it!”

  Moments before, Rob had noted a near grin on Murie’s face. She had quickly suppressed it but there it was again, trying to break free.

  Her gaze collided with his sterner one, and she looked hastily down, then looked up again and met his gaze more solemnly. Then she continued to stare intently at him, as if with a purpose. He glanced up at the sky, noted that the sun was almost directly overhead, and made a decision.

  “I have heard your grievance, Mistress Cowen, and your defense, Fergus. But this is not an issue to decide in a trice.” Summoning a nearby gillie, he said, “How long before our people will be ready to serve the midday meal?”

  “We can begin straightaway, laird. Lady Euphemia and your own lady did see tae that. We ha’ trestle tables set up inside, and if need be, we’ll set more up out here. Folks can come in tae fetch their food and bring it outside if they want.”

  “Good.” Rob stood and said, “We will adjourn and continue this court after our midday meal.” Leaving his scribe and the gillie to explain where everyone should eat, he left the dais and went directly to his wife and his mother.

  Lady Euphemia said, “We should go in and take our places before everyone else surges into the hall, my dear Robert.”

  “Here is your Tressa, Mam. You and she should go on in and see that all is in train there. I want a word with Muriella, so I will take her in with me.”

  For once, Lady Euphemia did not argue. She and her woman went inside.

  Rob offered his forearm to Murie and led her toward the postern door. Everyone else was moving steadily toward the main entrance.

  “We’ll go in this way,” he said. “From the way you were looking at me just then, I think you have something you want to say to me.”

  “I do, aye,” she said. “You have told me that you are willing for anyone to offer an opinion or express a belief. Did you mean that, even for today?”


  “I did, aye, or I would not have said it,” he said. “Before you begin to speak on someone’s behalf, though, you should know that I will not heed what you say unless you are willing to stand on the dais and say it before everyone.”

  “I don’t want to do that,” she said. “Nor do I want to speak on anyone’s behalf. I just want to tell you a story.”

  “I could use some entertainment,” he said with a smile.

  When the laird’s court reconvened in the courtyard after the midday meal, Murie and Lady Euphemia were in their places before Rob summoned Donnie’s Fergus and his accuser, Mistress Cowen, to the dais.

  “By my troth,” Lady Euphemia murmured to Muriella, “I cannot imagine what my lord husband would have done with such a strange grievance. Forbye, this must have been the odd one he mentioned to me.”

  Murie did not have to reply, because Rob had gestured for silence and was about to speak. She held her breath.

  “I have made my decision,” he announced in a tone that carried throughout the courtyard. Looking at Mistress Cowen, he said, “I have listened carefully, mistress, and it is a fact that Fergus killed your husband, Gib.” Turning to Fergus, he said, “Jocky Cowen’s testimony does nowt to contradict yours, Ferg, so I will accept your version of events as the truth as you see it. Nevertheless, due to your own actions and for kindly aiding you at your request, Gib Cowen did die.”

  “Aye, laird, but—”

  Waving him and a few mutterers to silence, Rob turned his attention to the witness. “Your version of events also appears to be correct, Jock. One does wonder why Auld Gib did not move out of the way, and simple logic suggests that he failed to pay attention as he should have and must bear at least some of the responsibility. We all want fairness, though,” Rob added. “So I hereby order that when we finish here today, you, Fergus MacAulay, will stand under that same cliff exactly where Gib stood. Then you, Jock, will climb to the place from which Fergus fell, jump down, and thereby put Fergus to death in the same way that he killed your father.”