“Tell that to the dead,” Murdoch seethed.
Shaking his head, Lachlan took another step closer. “Galen MacCullough was a good and honorable man. He would never order such a thing. What proof do ye have?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, “There,” he said with a nod toward the hearth behind Lachlan. “On the mantle is a box. Inside that box is a letter from Galen MacCullough. Written in his own hand.”
Fergus retrieved the box from the mantle and placed it on the table next to Lachlan.
“Maitland kept that letter as a reminder to all of us why we should hate and despise every one of ye. There is yer proof.”
Lachlan lifted the lid with his index finger. Inside the box was a rolled parchment. Carefully, he removed it, unrolled it, and began to read quietly.
Maitland,
I write this to ye in my own hand so there is no mistake as to the meaning or contents.
Consider this attack a warning to ye and yers. Ye have betrayed the MacCulloughs in the worst possible way. I will never forgive ye for what ye have done.
Therefore, I officially declare war upon ye and yers.
I will nae rest until every last Chisolm is obliterated from this earth. I will see to it yer name and every memory of ye is erased from history.
Ye have been warned.
Galen MacCullough
Lachlan read the missive twice. He knew his uncle’s handwriting well enough to know it was not written in his own hand.
“Galen MacCullough did nae write this.”
Murdoch’s expression said enough; he didn’t believe him. “Ye lie.”
Fergus and Jamie stepped forward, swords drawn, ready to gut the man for the insult.
“Stand down,” Lachlan ordered in a low, even tone.
Both men continued to glower at Murdoch and only took one step away.
“Galen MacCullough was my uncle,” Lachlan began. “I could pick his hand out from a hundred others. This is nae his.”
“But it says—”
“I ken what it says,” Lachlan interrupted. “But I swear to ye, ’twas nae written by Galen MacCullough. It does nae even sound like him.”
Murdoch eyed him suspiciously for a long while. “Do ye sincerely expect me to believe ye?”
“I dunnae care what ye believe, Murdoch. I speak the truth. Galen did nae write this.”
“Then who did?”
For the life of him, Lachlan didn’t know. But he had a sneaking suspicion. “Mayhap someone who wanted us at war with one another.”
Reluctantly, Murdoch gave it a measure of thought. “I ken no one who would do such a thing. No one.”
“Think of who benefited most from a war betwixt our clans,” Lachlan said. He leaned back against the edge of the table and crossed his arms over his chest and allowed the man time to consider what he’d said.
After a long while, Murdoch shook his head again and raised his empty palms in defeat. “Ye will have to explain it to me, MacCullough. I can think of no one.”
“How long did it take for the MacRay to come to ye after the attack?”
Murdoch scratched his jaw as he thought on it. “I dunnae ken. ’Twas nae long I reckon. Walter would ken better than I.”
“Yer steward, Walter Chisolm?”
“Aye, him.”
The two men sized each other up for a spell before Murdoch finally broke the silence. “Do ye honestly wish me to believe the MacRay is behind this?”
Lachlan shrugged his shoulders again. “As I said before, I dunnae care what ye believe. I for one would like to ken the truth of it.”
“Mayhap ’twas another MacCullough.”
The thought had entered his mind, but he immediately dismissed it. “I ken of nae MacCulloughs who would stoop to such treachery. Nay,” he said shaking his head in disbelief. “Nay, ’twas nae MacCullough. But I am determined to get to the bottom of it.”
There was still a good amount of skepticism to be found in Murdoch’s eyes.
“Do ye still wish to challenge me?” Lachlan asked.
“Damned right I do.”
A dare is a dare is a dare. At least in the mind of any good Scots lad. One couldn’t back down on a dare, or so nine-year-old Gylbeart Chisolm believed. He was just as strong as his da and older brothers; his mother had told him so only that very morning.
So when ten-year-old Inan Chisolm accused Gylbeart of being too afraid to go climb the tallest and oldest oak tree, well, ’twas a challenge he could not let go unfulfilled.
The group of three lads and one lass made their way across the open field behind their homes and into a very small forest. Just near the edge, sat the infamous tree. “It must be as old as God,” little Maldouen Chisolm said in awe. He tried to whistle, but he was only seven and his two front teeth were missing.
Mariam Chisolm was the oldest of the group at eleven years. A bright, sweet lass with golden blonde locks and bright blue eyes. “Ye will fall and break yer neck,” she warned the lads. “Yer mum would skelp yer hide if she kent ye’re even thinkin’ of doin’ this.”
The boys, as most young boys do, ignored her warnings.
Gylbeart brushed his curly brown hair from his forehead, spat into the palms of his hands and rubbed them together. A moment later, he began his attempt to climb the auld tree. But try as he might, he couldn’t quite reach the first low hanging limb.
“See?” Mariam said as she placed her hands on her hips. “Ye be too short.”
Undeterred, Maldouen came up with the next brilliant idea. “Here,” he said as he got down on all fours directly under the large limb. “Stand on my back and reach.”
“This is a bad idea,” Mariam warned.
“If ye dunnae want to watch, then go home,” Maldouen told her.
Gylbeart crawled onto Maldouen’s back and carefully stood up. “Dunnae move so much,” he scolded his friend.
“’Tis nay me, ye daft badger. Ye be the one wigglin’ like a worm.”
Uncertainty filled young Inan’s eyes as he came to stand nearer to Mariam. “He is verra brave,” he muttered under his breath as Gylbeart grabbed the low tree limb. ’Twas far too fat to wrap his hands around it entirely. “Stand up, Maldouen,” he said. “Boost me up a bit farther.”
With a good deal of caution, Maldouen moved backward a bit so that his shoulders were directly under Gylbeart’s feet. With a grunt and a groan, he stood upright, pushing his friend higher and higher in the process.
With a sigh of relief, Gylbeart was able to pull himself up and onto the fat, rough limb.
“I kenned he could do it,” Inan declared with a smile.
“See?” Gylbeart said, puffing with pride. “I told ye I am nay scared.”
“Bah!” Maldouen said. “That is nae verra far.”
Taking the comment as another challenge, Gylbeart studied the tree closely before grabbing the nearest limb. Not quite as fat as the one he stood on, he was able to grab hold and pull himself up.
Before anyone realized it, the boy was a good ten to twelve feet off the ground.
Mariam shook her head. Inan cheered and threw his fist into the air. Maldouen pretended not to be impressed. “Och! Anyone could climb that high,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Excited that he’d come this far, Gylbeart decided to climb higher. Higher and higher until the branches had grown far too small to offer any support. In his nine-year-old mind, he was at least three hundred feet off the ground. In truth, ’twas closer to fifty. Still, ’twas awfully high for such a young and small lad.
“Come down now,” Mariam called up to him. Turning to scowl at Maldouen, she yelled, “Ye have proven ye can do it.”
Even Maldouen had to admit he was impressed.
Gylbeart gave a loud hoot of victory before he began his descent back to the safety of the ground. Admittedly, ’twas easier climbing up than down, but he was feeling far too proud of himself to confess to any worries.
He’d just reached the fat limb where
his journey began. His foot slipped, his legs went out, and he landed on the limb hard on his bum. A frantic heartbeat later, he was falling backwards off the limb. He turned midair and tried to brace himself for the fall.
Mariam screamed.
Maldouen gasped.
Inan almost wet himself.
He heard the crack of a bone breaking in his right hand right before his world went black.
Two warriors stood facing one another on the snow-covered ground. Each man just as determined as the other to claim victory.
Snow crunched under their deerskin boots. Sunlight glistened off bare skin, swords, and maces.
They were surrounded by at least one hundred onlookers - most, of course, hoping for Murdoch to come out victorious. The Chisolms were clearly of the belief the battle wouldn’t last long and soon, they’d be able to rid their keep and lands of the MacCulloughs. Their smiles and whispers said as much.
’Twas Murdoch who moved first, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Lachlan knew ’twas naught more than a test, to see how he’d respond. Lachlan didn’t move. He kept his feet firmly planted on the ground.
Murdoch was surprised by Lachlan’s inaction; he had expected some sort of retaliation or response. He took a few steps sideways and swung again. And again, Lachlan didn’t move.
Frustrated, he took two steps forward. This time, he decided to lunge forward, aiming for Lachlan’s gut.
Anticipating this move, Lachlan stepped out of the way before the tip of his opponent’s sword could land on its mark. As Murdoch moved forward, Lachlan stepped sideways and landed a hard blow to the back of the man’s skull, sending him to the ground.
A loud gasp came up from the crowd.
Murdoch landed face first in the snow, rolled over quickly, and scurried to his feet. Furious, he swiped the wet snow from his face with the back of his hand and glowered.
Lachlan’s expression didn’t change. He continued to study the man closely. He could see his pulse throbbing in his neck, the sweat just beginning to form on his brow.
Murdoch might be the leader of the Chisolm resistance, but he was not the well-trained warrior Lachlan had been led to believe. However, an untrained warrior could be even more dangerous than one who had been well trained. Either by accident or sheer luck.
A moment passed, then two. Murdoch lunged forward again with the same move. Lachlan responded just as he had moments ago.
After Murdoch’s third failed attempt at lunging, Lachlan rolled his eyes. He stood over Murdoch who was lying on his back in the cold snow. “Mayhap ye would like to train a few months with my men?”
Fuming, Murdoch rolled to his feet. “I would rather die.”
“As ye wish,” Lachlan said right before he swiped the tip of his blade across Murdoch’s chest. ’Twasn’t a deep cut or grievous wound, but it did bleed.
Stunned, Murdoch was frozen in place and was unable to respond to the next swing of Lachlan’s sword. It sliced through the tender flesh of Murdoch’s arm. Blood began to trickle down instantly. The pain caused him to let loose his grip on his sword. It fell to the ground, crunching into the snow.
Before Lachlan could ask the man if he was done with this foolish attempt to challenge him, a most horrific sounding scream broke through the air. ’Twas an agonizing, guttural lamentation. The sound only a mother could make when she’d just lost a child.
Chapter Seven
Every man, woman, and child rushed toward the sound of anguish. Through the courtyard, out of the gates, and across a well-worn path they ran.
A crowd had gathered near the cottages. Lachlan, Jamie, and Fergus made their way through the throng of people. On the ground near one of the tidy little cottages, a woman held her young son: nine-year-old Gylbeart.
Lachlan breathed a heavy sigh of relief. From the wailing, he’d been certain someone had died. But the little boy was quite alive, if not a bit terrified and covered with scrapes and scratches.
“What be the matter?” Lachlan asked as he knelt next to the woman and child.
The woman couldn’t stop crying long enough to explain. The more she cried, the more upset the boy became. “Please, dunnae cry, mum. Please, dunnae cry.”
’Twas Mariam who stepped forward to explain what had transpired. “He fell from an oak tree.”
Lachlan let out a chuckle while Fergus and Jamie smiled and shook their heads. “Och! That be nae reason to carry on so.”
Mariam looked at him as though he were as intelligent as a rock. “But he broke his arm.”
The seriousness of her tone made him smile a bit broader. “Well, I am certain the healer can fix it. He will be as right as rain in no time.” He patted her head before turning his attention to the weeping mother.
“What be yer name?”
Too bereft and consumed with grief, she couldn’t speak.
“Joan,” Mariam informed him. “And that be Gylbeart.”
Lachlan thanked the lass before turning back to the mother and son. “’Tis pleased I am to meet ye,” he said with a warm smile. “Now, let me help ye get her son into yer cottage.”
He scooped the little boy into his arms and stood. Gylbeart’s eyes grew as wide as trenchers, awash in uncertainty.
“Now, which cottage is yers?” he asked the boy.
Stunned into muteness, ’twas Mariam who came to the rescue once again. “That one,” she said as she pointed to one of the small cottages. “I will show ye.”
Soon, she was opening the door and leading Lachlan inside.
’Twas a neat and tidy space and very much resembled most cottages. In the corner, ahead and on the left, was a nice sized bed Lachlan assumed belonged to the lad’s parents. Carefully, he made his way past a large table, and the brazier, and gently laid the lad down.
When he turned around, Jamie and Fergus were standing on either side of the doorway. Two older women were helping to bring Joan inside. ’Twas all the poor woman could do not to fall to her knees. They sat her down at the table while one woman rushed to grab her a mug of cider. They sat on either side of her, patting her hands and offering what comfort they could.
Lachlan rolled his eyes in dismay. “Joan, yer son will be hale and hearty verra soon.”
She glowered at him. She actually glowered at him. Lord above, when will these people realize I am nae their enemy.
“He has a broken arm and hand,” she seethed.
“But ’tis nae a broken neck,” Lachlan replied firmly. “Ye should be glad of that.”
“‘Twould have been better for all of us!” she cried angrily.
As appalled as he was confused, Lachlan stepped toward her. “How can ye say such a thing? He is just a little boy. How could ye wish death upon a poor child?”
Mariam made her way into the cottage and stood next to Lachlan. “Because death would be better than goin’ away, ye ken?”
He most assuredly did not ken. Baffled, he stared down at the little girl. “Nay, lass, I dunnae ken what ye mean.”
“Gylbeart will have to go away now,” she said as if it made all the sense in the world.
It suddenly dawned on him then, what she meant. Horrified by the realization as to why there were no infirm, or elderly, or anyone with so much as a limp here.
“Ye cannae be serious,” he muttered aghast.
“She is!” Joan shouted. “I will have to send me sweet boy away. Had he died, I could have a nice funeral. But I cannae do that now.”
His stomach churned as disgust blended with anger. “Let me get this straight,” he began with clenched teeth. “Anyone - including a little boy - who is infirm or aged or otherwise incapacitated, is sent away?”
Mariam and the women nodded, looking relieved that he finally understood.
Jamie and Fergus came to stand beside him. Onlookers stood just outside the cottage, trying to get a glimpse of what was taking place within.
“Are ye all mad?” Lachlan shouted.
Murmurs broke out among those standing outside Joan and
Andrew Chisolm’s cottage.
Inside, three women and a little girl looked at Lachlan with a blend of fear and confusion.
“Ye actually send people away? Even children?” ’Twas a rhetorical question, his tone filled with revulsion.
One of the women sitting next to Joan decided it might be best to explain the way of things to their addlepated new leader. “’Tis the way of things here,” she said. “’Tis nae fair to put a burden on the healthy. If ye cannae help or contribute the rest of the clan, ye go away. ’Tis the most righteous thing a person can do for the betterment of the clan.”
Aghast, Lachlan, Jamie, and Fergus could only listen incredulously.
“Aye,” said the shorter woman. “Every last one of us would do the same. ’Tis a noble sacrifice.”
“Noble sacrifice?” Fergus was just as repulsed as his laird and friend were. “Ye call sendin’ a little boy away a noble sacrifice?”
Indignantly, Joan sat a little taller in her seat. “Aye, I do!”
“He may never gain use of his arm again,” said the other woman. “Ye can see how that could be a burden to the rest of us. Havin’ to do his work as well as our own.”
“Would it surprise ye to learn that I suffered a similar injury as a lad?” Fergus said, taking a step toward her.
“Ye did?” Mariam said in wide-eyed amazement.
“Aye, I did. I got kicked by a verra angry horse when I was ten. Broke my arm just below my elbow,” he said, pointing to his right arm. “I healed and it has never bothered me since.”
They all looked at him in awe.
Wanting to put an end to this, Lachlan raised his voice. He wanted to make certain those gathered out of doors heard him as well. “From this day forward, no one, and I do mean no one will be sent away for any reason. Nae for a broken bone or an illness or for their age.” He shook his head once again. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
There were a few who nodded with understanding. The vast majority appeared as though they thought him completely mad. Including the little lad’s mum.
Lachlan's Heart: Book Two of The MacCulloughs Page 6
