Annoyed and tired, he returned to the inn just before sunrise. He had learned nothing, a fact that confused and frustrated the men.
While Findley took to his bed for some much needed sleep, Caelen, Rowan and Nial made their way to Phillip Lindsay’s home. A lovely young woman, heavy with child, answered the door. The three men assumed she was Phillip Lindsay’s housekeeper. After introducing themselves, she curtly dismissed the three of them. No matter how much they begged an audience, she refused them. “Come back after the noonin’ meal,” she told them firmly just before shutting the door in their faces.
Had they not worried that busting down the door and dragging Phillip Lindsay from his bed would only make matters worse, they would have been far more forceful in their request. But too much was at stake to risk angering one of only two men who could stop the hanging.
The three men returned to the inn, broke their fast, and tried waiting patiently. It was not an easy feat. The longer they sat, the angrier they became and the more their resentment toward Phillip Lindsay grew.
Caelen had grown more than just weary of waiting; he was nearly seething with anger. Calmly, he stood and declared enough was enough. They marched back to Phillip Lindsay’s home and this time, they did not ask for permission to see him. As soon as the young woman opened the door, Caelen spoke.
“Lass, we will see Phillip now. There are lives at stake,” Caelen told her.
The young woman had her feet firmly planted, one hand on the door and the other on her hip. “Whose lives?” she demanded to know.
“Phillip Lindsay’s if he refuses to see us.”
The young woman didn’t blink, didn’t look fearful or appalled at Caelen’s announcement. She rolled her eyes, shook her head and allowed them inside. “Ye wait here.” ’Twas an order, not a request.
A quarter hour passed before she returned to take them to Phillip Lindsay’s study.
The three men stood before the massive desk belonging to Phillip Lindsay. The rotund man sat hunched over a trencher overflowing with food. He devoured one leg of chicken after another. His fat fingers and lips were covered in grease and bits of chicken clung to both his chins.
They were unmoved by Phillip’s insistence that Angus and Duncan were guilty.
“Ye’ve ken Angus McKenna for twenty years or more,” Nial began through gritted teeth. “Ye canna believe the accusations.”
Phillip Lindsay sighed heavily and tossed a bare chicken bone onto the trencher. Frustration was etched in his face. His tone was sharp and unforgiving. “I am beginning to get sorely tired of people coming to me to exalt the virtues of Angus McKenna.” He cast a disgusted look at both men before continuing. “He’s an admitted traitor, as is Duncan. I canna help that ye do no’ care for the truth.”
Up to this point, Caelen had remained silent, quietly studying Phillip Lindsay. There was something about the man that Caelen did not like. It could have been his pompous attitude, the disgusting manner in which he ate or the fact that Caelen sensed the man was hiding something.
Caelen took some pride in knowing he could judge a man’s character simply by reading his countenance. He had discovered early on in his life that he had been blessed with something of a sixth sense. On more than one occasion, that gift had saved his thick, stubborn head as well as his neck.
“The truth,” Caelen said calmly, “is sometimes no’ what it seems.”
There were different facets of any truth. Or lie for that matter. Similar to the reflections made by a prism. What one saw oftentimes depended on the angle from which one looked. Change the angle and the colors of the prism changed. Sunlight would cast far different colors than the light of a candle.
There may be some truth to the accusations, but Caelen did not believe it to be the whole truth.
Phillip directed his heated glare at Caelen. “Contrary to what ye might believe, Caelen McDunnah, the charges were no’ just grabbed out of the air on a whim.”
Caelen’s composure remained the same, yet inwardly he was glad that Phillip finally touched on that particular subject. Caelen preferred a direct approach in most matters. He was done beating around the bush in an attempt to glean some insight as to why such charges were leveled against the man he had looked to as another father figure.
“What evidence do ye have?” Rowan asked, beating Caelen to the question.
Phillip eyed the three men speculatively for a moment. “On more than one occasion over the past three years, Angus has been seen in the company of no’ one, but two English spies,” he said before wiping his greasy face clean with the sleeve of his finely brocaded coat. “Ye see, lads, we’ve spies of our own. And were it no’ for Angus McKenna’s actions at the Battle of Neville’s Cross, our King David would no’ have been nearly killed and no’ now be a prisoner of the English.”
Caelen and Nial cast confused glances at each other. Rowan continued to glare at the man. All of them had fought at Neville’s Cross right alongside Angus and Duncan. Many lives had been lost in that battle and King David had nearly died. Their king had been captured that day and was now being held prisoner by the English. These were dark days for all of Scotland.
“I was there, fightin’ alongside Angus,” Nial seethed. “He fought as brave as any other Scot!”
Phillip leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “But ye were no’ with him every moment of that battle, were ye?”
Nial could not deny that fact. He had been leading his own troops during that fateful battle of last October. Nay, he could not in all honesty say that he could account for Angus’ every moment. Hope began to dwindle.
“So yer spies say they saw Angus with English spies. How do we no’ know that Angus was no’ workin’ for us an no’ against us? What evidence, besides what yer spies tell ye, do ye have that Angus was workin’ for the English?”
“I have Angus’ admission of guilt. That is all I need.”
Nial began to pace back and forth in front of the large hearth that sat on the opposite side of the room. He only heard half of the exchange between Caelen, Rowan and Phillip. Mulling the situation over in his mind while he paced, he knew spies could not be trusted.
“So yer takin’ the word of spies over the word of the most trusted and honorable man any of us in this room has ever known?” Caelen asked.
“Do no’ forget that Angus admitted to plottin’ against the king,” Phillip reminded him.
Caelen shook his head slightly. “What exactly did Angus admit to?”
Phillip let out a long, heavy sigh before he answered Caelen’s question. “To plottin’ against the king!” he said, exasperated.
Caelen spread his legs apart and folded his arms across his chest. “Aye, I got that part. Me question is, what exactly did he supposedly do to plot against the king?” He was beginning to believe Phillip Lindsay was as dumb as he was pompous. Those two traits could be quite dangerous.
“’Twas Angus who no’ only tried to kill the king, but when David fled and took refuge under a bridge on River Browney, Angus led the English straight to him!”
Nial stopped pacing and spun, his eyes filled with disgusted astonishment. “Nay! Angus would never do such a thing!”
Phillip had grown weary of the conversation. He slapped a palm down hard on the top of his desk. “I would never have believed it meself, ye daft eejits!” he shouted, his temper no longer held in check. He lashed out at the young men. “But Angus admitted to doin’ just that! And Duncan admits to helpin’ him! And we’ve witnesses that prove that Angus stabbed David, stabbed him with his own broadsword. Saw it with their own eyes!”
It was all too much for Nial. He took in deep breaths of air and tried to steady his shaking hands. He was sorely tempted to unsheathe his own broadsword and run it through Phillip Lindsay’s gut.
“And who be these witnesses?” Caelen asked, still unconvinced.
“Me own brother, Seamus Lindsay, and his son, Aric,” Phillip said, his voice steady and firm. Nial thought Philli
p looked pleased with that answer.
The three men glanced at each other. Nial had paled considerably, no doubt, Caelen assumed, worrying over how he would break this new revelation to Bree. Rowan looked fit to be tied. Seamus Lindsay’s reputation as chief of the Lindsay Clan was nearly as stellar as Angus’. If it had been any man other than Seamus, Caelen doubted anyone would have believed the accusations, let alone given them enough credence to bring charges.
This revelation put a decisive damper on the hope that something could be done to keep Angus and Duncan from hanging.
“Seamus?” Nial muttered. “Seamus Lindsay says he saw Angus attempt to kill the king? With his own eyes?”
Phillip gave a sideways nod of his head before leaning back in his chair again. “Aye,” he said as he rested a plump hand on the top of his desk. “And Aric, his eldest son. They both swear they saw Angus thrust his broadsword into David. Had the man not been so quick on his feet and moved when he did, Angus could have done far more than just pierce his side. He’d have gutted him.”
Caelen and Nial were baffled. Nial was trying desperately to cling to some shred of hope that it had all been a terrible mistake. Mayhap Seamus and Aric had only thought they saw Angus attempt to gut their king. “Is it possible,” Nial asked in a low voice, “that it could have been someone who looked like Angus?”
“Aye,” Phillip began, sounding as though he were giving some weight to Nial’s question. “’Tis possible. ’Tis also possible that the man who stood before my court two days past was no’ Angus McKenna but an evil faerie who only looked and sounded like Angus McKenna. And the young man with him was no’ Duncan McEwan, but a possessed brownie also capable of changin’ his appearance.” When he finished speaking, Philip shook his head, disgusted, and tired of the conversation.
Nial’s jaw clenched with Phillip’s insults. Had Caelen and Rowan not stopped him, Nial would have lunged over the desk and broken Phillip Lindsay’s neck.
Nial, Rowan and Caelen returned to the inn. Nial was angrier than he could ever remember feeling. Frustrated and annoyed, he paced about the small room, cursing Phillip Lindsay’s obstinacy and arrogance. It was growing more difficult to keep a lid on his boiling temper.
He worried over his wife and son and how all of this would hurt Bree. She didn’t deserve any of this. Silently he swore that if he could, he would find the truth of it all, and strangle the bastard at fault.
Nial’s ranting eventually woke Findley. Caelen suggested they go below stairs and get something to eat and drink.
“A few tankards of ale might make ye more tolerable,” Caelen told him. “At the very least, it may help me want to strangle ye less.” Reluctantly, Nial agreed and the four of them quit the room.
After eating Rowan, Nial and Caelen sat and listened to Findley recount what he had learned during his late night sojourn into the drinking establishments of Edinburgh. Or more importantly, what he hadn’t learned.
The fact that he learned nothing spoke volumes. The lack of wagging tongues could only mean one of two things. Either people sincerely did not care, or, they were too afraid to speak on the subject. Findley had to believe it was the latter.
Angus was well known in this part of Scotland, as was Duncan. The MacDougall clan might not be as big as some other clans, but what they lacked in numbers they more than made up for in tenacity, brashness, and bravery. That few people were speaking of the importance of Angus and Duncan being admitted traitors was perplexing.
Those few souls brave enough -- or drunk enough -- to speak on the matter, believed the two men to be guilty. The general vein being that innocent men do not admit to guilt. Hopefully that same line of thinking did not carry to Stirling.
As for Isobel and Aishlinn, their names were never mentioned.
Three sets of eyebrows raised in unison when Findley shared that bit of information with his friends. If in fact the women and children had been taken as a means to force Angus and Duncan into admitting to treason, wouldn’t someone somewhere have heard of it? It would take someone with a good deal of power to keep such a thing secret.
Kidnappings, while not an every day occurrence, were a common enough especially in the Highlands. But usually, one knew who took whom and what the ransom demands were before the ink on the ransom letter had dried.
So the four men sat huddled together in a quiet corner of the inn with more questions than answers.
“Someone wants Angus dead,” Rowan said as he sipped at his ale.
“But why?” Findley asked to no one in particular.
“Who kens?” Rowan answered. “Angus is no’ known fer makin’ enemies of anyone other than the English and men of ill repute.”
“’Tis true,” Nial said. “Most people think more highly of Angus than they do the king.”
“That was true, until the events of late, Nial,” Rowan said. “But now?” he shook his head as he took another drink.
Nial had no good answer as to why there was the sudden shift in public opinion of his father-in-law. Mayhap, had Angus denied the accusations, those opinions would be quite different. Hordes of people would have come to defend him.
“Why, might no’ be as important as who,” Caelen said. “If we knew who was behind this and who has Isobel and Aishlinn, we might be better able to help.”
Nial let out an exasperated sigh. “I fear there are no answers here,” he said as he ran a hand across his head. “I tell ye that I do no’ enjoy the thought of tellin’ me wife that I still dunnae why her da and brother did what they did or where her mum and sister be.” The thought of returning to his wife without answers or without her family made him ill. A knot the size of a boulder had settled in his stomach.
“Then I say we quit this place and find the answers ye seek,” Caelen told him. “And there be only one man I can think of at the moment, who has the answers.” Caelen drank down the last of his ale, slammed the empty tankard onto the table and stood. A devious smile formed on his lips before he turned and sauntered out of the inn.
His friends looked up at him with raised eyebrows and perplexed expressions. They looked at one another and shrugged their broad shoulders. Following Caelen was better than sitting around an inn drinking and commiserating over the fact they had no answers.
TEN
Phillip Lindsay knew that most people did not like him. That fact did not bother him in the least. Truthfully, he had never been fond of most people. He preferred solitude to being surrounded by fawning feckless fools.
Fate had put him in what many would consider a most undesirable position. Phillip considered it a blessing. Born the second son of Carlich Lindsay, he had been left to his own devices most of his life. Second sons were of no real importance, for it was the first son who inherited everything. Therefore, all attention was paid to the first-born son, in this case, Seamus Lindsay.
Phillip hadn’t been ignored so much as left alone. His mother -- mayhap in seeing how her husband fawned over Seamus, preparing him for his eventual succession as clan chief -- had tried to make up for her husband lack of interest in their younger son. And being kindred spirits, she spent more time with Phillip.
As a young boy, Phillip had possessed a vivid, creative imagination. He had learned early on however, that if he were to talk openly about the magical worlds he created, where men could fly and animals could speak, it not only earned him wary glances, but occasionally a swift smack to the back of his head. People thought him daft and fanciful, mayhap even a bit tetched.
His beautiful mum, however, had encouraged his creative pursuits, albeit with the caveat that such creative pursuits had to be done quietly and behind closed doors. It would not serve anyone well if people believed that Carlich Lindsay’s son was tetched. Most people would not appreciate his vivid and colorful imagination.
He could remember his mother telling him that “People do no’ understand those who are different.”
Labeled different since the age of four, Phillip Lindsay had also learned
to keep his thoughts and feelings hidden, deep down inside. His father taught him that boys and men do not cry, not even when someone they love dies. Even if that someone was your mother or your wife.
So when his dear mum passed away when he was eight years old, he did not cry. At least not openly, not in front of everyone. Nay, he stood bravely during her burial service, stoic and as quiet as a mouse in church, mimicking his father and his older brother.
But at the end of the day, he did cry. Hidden away in his room, his face buried in his pillow, he cried until he threw up.
As time went on, he withdrew even further into his own little world, where men flew, animals spoke, and little boys’ beautiful mums never died. He stayed out of sight and out of the way, happily content with the solitude.
Over the years, Phillip had also learned to listen. Not just to the words that people spoke, but how they spoke them. He became very good at reading people’s faces, their countenance, their little idiosyncrasies. Many times he would write down little things that he heard or witnessed so that he could refer to them later.
McKenna's Honor, a Novella, Book Four of the Clan MacDougall Series Page 6