Iarainn waited until both men were inside before closing the door behind them. Going to the far wall, she crouched low, and began to pull on one of the wide wooden boards that made up the wall.
“Right before the attack, Aymer had ordered the armaments removed from the armory,” Reginald explained. “He had a few of those men loyal to him, take them to a place of safekeepin’.”
Iarainn grunted her disproval. “An eejit if ever there be one,” she said with a good deal of disgust. “Whoever heard of keepin’ weapons in a ‘safe place’ away from one’s keep?”
Brogan stood in profound confusion and amazement. He’d been wondering the very same thing.
With the board now removed, Iarainn set it against the wall and stood. Purposefully, she blocked Brogan’s view of what lay behind the space. “I be no’ one to go against my laird’s orders. But fer the good of our people, I felt compelled to do just that.”
Brogan crossed his arms over his chest. “If ye be referrin’ to Aymer, he is no’ yer laird. Mairghread is.”
Relief washed over her, causing her shoulders to relax. “I be right glad to hear another voice what I have believed fer three long years now.”
“The safety of this clan, as well as me wife, is my main concern, Iarainn,” Brogan told her.
“And when Aymer returns?” she asked with a raised brow.
“With Mairghread as chief, it matters no’ what Aymer wants or believes,” he told her.
She cast another glance at Reginald before turning back to Brogan. “Be she willin’ now, to take on the role?”
Reginald replied before Brogan had a chance. “She will be willin’, now that she has a husband who will support her.”
“If word gets out to Aymer, ‘twould mean me neck in a hangman’s noose,” she told him.
“If word gets out about what?” Brogan asked, drawing her attention back to himself.
Warily, she looked to Reginald once more. He gave a quick nod of his head and a moment later, she stepped aside. “Of that.”
Brogan eyed each of them suspiciously for a short moment before curiosity got the best of him. Crouching low, and with his hand cautiously on the hilt of his dirk, he peered inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. But when they did?
“Jesu!” he exclaimed.
Dozens upon dozens of finely crafted swords lay within. Carefully placed on soft blankets, they took up most of the space. On the wall hung finely made bows. Next to them hung quivers filled with arrows.
“Were these the weapons taken away fer safekeeping?” he asked.
“Nay,” Iarainn replied. “Only Aymer and his men ken what happened to those.”
Brogan studied the weapons for a long moment before giving a shake of his head and pulling himself back up.
“I have to be verra careful in the makin’ of these,” Iarainn explained. “Fer if Aymer found out, I have no doubt he would take them. Then order me hanged.”
“Hanged?” Brogan asked incredulously. “Certainly ye jest?”
Iarainn and Reginald exchanged glances with one another. “After the removal of the wall and weapons, we put nothin’ past the man,” Iarainn said. While Reginald might not be willing to speak ill of his lady or her uncle, Iarainn was not thusly inclined.
“We must be careful, m’laird, fer Aymer has spies everywhere,” she told him as she replaced the wooden plank.
“I can assure ye, that yer secret is safe with me,” Brogan told her.
Chapter Six
Brogan sent word to Mairghread that he hoped she was feeling better and he looked forward to seeing her at the evening meal. Then he and Reginald went in search of his men. Together, they would scout out the best place from which to quarry the stone for a new wall.
Although he would have preferred something much closer to the actual keep, in the end, they had to settle for a spot a mile away. “With enough wagons and strong backs, we could begin buildin’ on the morrow,” Reginald declared with far more hope than Brogan in truth felt.
This was not the first wall Brogan had ever built. He knew it would take months of backbreaking work, mayhap more than a year. But it was necessary. He could not think of a keep in all of Scotia that did not have at the minimum a wall made of wood.
In addition to finding a place to quarry, plans were also set in motion to guard the keep. “We need to erect towers,” Brogan told Reginald and the men. “We can harvest the necessary lumber from the forest.” He nodded toward a deep, dense forest that lay not far from the keep.
“What about patrolling the borders?” Henry asked.
Brogan looked to Reginald for advice.
“Aye, we do patrol the borders,” he replied. “But only at night.”
The more Brogan learned, the angrier he became. No wall, no towers, and men who only patrolled at night. ’Twas appalling.
To Henry and Comnall he said, “I will leave the two of ye in charge of patrolling the borders. I am certain Reginald can help ye to choose good men to help. When we get back to the keep, we will send word that we want all able-bodied men to assemble in the yard first thing tomorrow morning.”
“How often do yer men train?” Henry asked Reginald.
Ashamedly, he replied, “We do no’.”
Brogan made a decision, then and there, not to ask any further questions as it pertained to the safety of the keep. The answers made his head throb. “I believe, fer now, it be more important to begin first with the wall. Once we have that started, we will begin trainin’ the Mactavish men.”
Brogan and his men bathed in the loch before returning to the keep. Brogan needed the cold water to help cool his burning temper, more than he needed to be clean.
“Have ye ever kent a man to order the tearin’ down of a wall?” Comnall asked to no one in particular.
“Or one whose borders be patrolled at only night?” Henry offered.
Their questions were answered with resounding ‘nay’s’ from the rest of the men.
Nay, Brogan had never known such a man. If his suspicions were correct, the last thing Aymer Mactavish wanted was for his clan to be safe. ’Twas the only plausible explanation. No man could be so foolish, could he?
Thankfully, it would be months before he would meet the man in person to find out for himself. Taking in a lungful of air, he plunged under the cold water. He counted to thirty before coming back up for air.
It dawned on him then, that in a few short months Aymer would be returning with Claude Courtemanche. That was not a meeting he was going to enjoy. Courtemanche was as cruel as the day was long. ’Twas a meeting he would not relish, but he would stand firm and resolute in any decisions he might make before their return.
“I be starved,” Henry said as he began making his way out of the loch. “Do ye suppose this evenin’s meal will be as good as the feast we had last night?”
Brogan smiled. He was not as interested in the meal as much as he was looking forward to spending time with his new bride. Tonight, he told himself, would not be wasted on excessive consumption of wine. Tonight, we shall finally consummate this marriage.
Thinking of Mairghread put a smile on his face and a near skip in his step. In truth, he was looking forward to the consummation. But he was also looking forward to getting to know her better and telling her about the plans for the new wall, and how the people — most of them anyway — were looking forward to her taking over as chief.
By the time they returned to the keep, the evening meal had already begun. Brogan raced up the stairs and to the chamber he shared with Mairghread. The room was empty. He donned a clean tunic, ran his fingers through his still damp hair, and bounded down the stairs. He was quite eager to see his new bride, to have a quick meal, and return to their rooms. Tonight, he promised himself, would be a night of exploration. An exploration of body as well as mind.
The gathering room was crowded, filled with almost as many people as the night before. The same men who had played at the wedding feast were once again in
the corner playing.
He heard her laugher before he saw her. ’Twas mayhap one of the sweetest sounds. Lilting and alive, and filled with so much happiness.
Then he saw her, at the table on the dais. Her hair was plaited elegantly around her head. A veil made of a soft, wispy material hung down her back from plait. What he could see of her burgundy gown made his desire for her surge.
As he eagerly approached the dais, he saw her pour herself a glass of wine. No’ this night, he told himself.
The sweet laughter and bright smile faded rapidly when she saw him step onto the dais. So quick was the change, he paused on the stairs for a brief moment. Mayhap she was embarrassed over the events of last eve.
Before taking his seat next to her, he took her hand in his, bowed over it and placed a sweet kiss on the soft skin. “Good eve, me lady wife,” he said with an affectionate smile.
A light blush crept up her neck, to the roots of her hair. “Good eve,” she said.
But there was no warmth in her tone, nor could he find any in her eyes. Instead, all he saw was the same sorrowful resignation as yesterday, when she stood at the altar.
“How fare ye this night?” he asked as he took his seat.
“I am well,” she replied without looking at him. She sipped on her wine as she looked out at the people below. They were alone on the dais this night, for his brother and friends had left that morn.
A maid offered him wine, which he politely refused. “I would like cider, please,” he told her.
The young woman looked perplexed. “Aye m’laird, as ye wish.”
As soon as she left, Brogan turned his attention back to Mairghread. “What did ye do this day?” he asked, hoping to break the silence and the coolness between them.
She took another drink of wine before answering. “No’ much.”
Why did he get the sense she was angry with him? “Mairghread, are ye well?”
Another drink emptied her cup. “I am well, as I said before.”
“Then why do I get the sense ye’re upset with me?” he asked as he took a good portion of meat from the platter in front of him.
“Why did I find myself undressed in my bed this morn?” she asked. Aye, her tone was as cold as ice on the loch in winter time.
Brogan resisted the urge to laugh. “If ye mean to ask me did I take advantage of yer state of inebriation last eve, the answer is nay. Gertie and Tilda helped me get ye into bed.”
His answer did not seem to appease her. “And after?”
He chewed and swallowed the savory meat, set his eating knife down, and leaned in to whisper into her ear. “Lass, when it comes to lovin’, I would prefer each of us be sober.”
Mairghread’s eyes grew wide as her skin burned, almost as deep as the color of her dress. He took a good deal of satisfaction knowing ’twas he who made her blush so deeply.
The maid returned with his cider, poured a mug of it, and dipped a curtsey. Without thinking, he took a drink. One taste and he was carefully spitting it back into his mug. He looked around for the maid, found her in the corner, and called her forward. He’d gone through the same thing the night before, but with a different serving maid. “Lass, could I please have some soft cider?”
He’d seen the confused look in her eyes before. Seen it countless times in bar wenches and serving maids. “M’laird?” she said, looking confused. “Do ye mean the kind we give the bairns?”
Brogan smiled warmly at her. “Aye, I mean the kind ye give the bairns.”
She bobbed another curtsy before leaving to fetch the soft cider.
“Why soft cider?” Mairghread asked as she drank more of her wine. “Did ye have too much whisky last eve?”
He tore off a hunk of bread and reached for the bowl of butter. “Nay,” he replied. “I touched no’ a drop of hard drink last eve.”
She looked aghast. “What do ye mean ye touched no hard drink last eve?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” he asked.
“’Twas our weddin’ feast. Did ye no’ wish to celebrate the momentous occasion?” Was that disdain he was detecting in her voice?
Brogan chuckled softly at her inquiry. “I did celebrate. Quite happily as a matter of fact.”
She gave him and ‘oh, I see’ look. But of course, she didn’t really understand.
“I never partake of strong drink,” he told her as he cut off a hunk of venison.
“Never?” she asked suspiciously.
He gave a slow shake of his head. “Never.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Finally, she drank down the rest of her wine and immediately set out to pour another cup. “I’ve married a bloody monk,” she said under her breath.
Brogan leaned in once again to whisper in her ear. “Nay, lass I am no’ a monk. And if ye come to our marital bed sober this night, I shall prove it to ye.”
Anger burned behind her bright eyes. Intentionally, she drank down the entire cup of wine before slamming it down onto the table. She began to pour another cup, when Brogan halted her by placing his hand on hers. He was about to tell her he thought she’d had enough wine last night to last a grown man a week, but Henry appeared before them.
“Brogan,” he said. Out of breath and looking flustered. “We need ye in the courtyard.”
“What be the matter?” Brogan asked, still keeping his wife from pouring more wine.
“There be a bit of a problem betwixt Comnall and a Mactavish man.”
Brogan rolled his eyes. “Let me guess,” he began. “There be a lass involved.”
“Aye, there be.”
He turned to face Mairghread. “Please, lass,” he whispered. “Do no’ over drink this night. There is much I wish to discuss with ye.” He dared not add, and much I wish to do with ye.
The courtyard was filled with men and women of varying ages. They were surrounding Comnall and a young Mactavish man Brogan did not know. The two were face to face, toe to toe, staring one another down. Though Comnall was a good three inches taller, wider in the shoulders, and more muscled, the angry young man glowering at him did not cower.
“Ye will stay away from me sister,” the young man growled.
Comnall smirked. “Yer sister be auld enough to make up her own mind.”
Brogan groaned inwardly. “Comnall, stand down,” he ordered as he approached.
Comnall continued to smirk at the younger man, shrugged his shoulders once before taking a step back.
Just what he whispered under his breath before stepping away, Brogan couldn’t hear. But the young man did. In a flash, he lunged at Comnall, wrapping one arm around his neck, and pulled him to the ground.
A cheer broke out among the Mactavishes. “Get him, Neyll!” someone from the crowd called out.
Brogan stood over the two men for a brief moment. He’d never seen Comnall taken down so quickly before. Especially not by someone who was shorter and seemingly less strong. Neyll had one arm wrapped around Comnall’s neck, with his free hand pressed on top of his head. His wiry legs were wrapped around Comnall’s torso, summarily keeping the bigger, strong Mackintosh man exactly where he wanted him. Comnall’s eyes were beginning to bulge, his face purple — either from sheer rage or lack of air.
“That is enough!” Brogan barked out. “Let him go!”
“No’ until he apologizes,” Neyll ground out.
Brogan let out a quick, frustrated breath. “Well, he can no’ apologize if he be dead, now can he?”
The young man thought on it for a brief moment before finally giving up and letting loose. Comnall rolled onto his hands and knees, and took in great, deep breaths.
Brogan extended his arm to Neyll. The lad looked at it as though it were covered in cow dung. Declining his offer, he got to his feet and stared murderously at Comnall.
“What did he say?” Brogan asked.
Neyll raked a hand through his dark blonde hair. “He said he did no’ want anythin’ to do with a Mactavish whore. He called me sister a whore!”
Brogan watched as Comnall struggled to his feet. “Be that true?”
“He was the one who started it!” Comnall thundered. “I was merely introducin’ meself to Briggid, when he came out of nowhere, tellin’ me he did no’ want a Mackintosh anywhere near his sister.”
Brogan sighed inwardly. “Comnall, mind yer tongue and yer tone.”
Duly chastised, Comnall pursed his lips together and continued to glare at Neyll.
“Briggid is far too young and innocent fer the likes of him,” Neyll said through gritted teeth. “Ye make yer man apologize, m’laird, or I will.”
Comnall spat on the ground. “No’ bloody likely!”
Before they could come to blows once again, Brogan stepped in between them. He pressed a hand on each of their chests. “That is enough!”
Neyll looked mad enough to take on one hundred men. Comnall looked as though he was planning the young man’s death.
“Comnall, did ye in fact call he sister a whore?”
When Comnall looked at his feet instead of directly in his eye, Brogan had his answer. Turning to Neyll, he said, “I will apologize on behalf of Comnall, because apparently, he does no’ have the honor nor the ballocks to do it himself.”
Comnall began to protest, but Brogan halted him with a stern glare of reproach. “On the morrow, and until further notice, ye will no’ be patrolling the borders at night. Ye will be working in the quarry with me and the others.”
“The bloody quarry?” Comnall asked incredulously.
“Aye, the bloody quarry. Unless ye’d like to pack yer things and go back to Ian and explain to him why ye’ve been sent back.”
Comnall’s face burned deep red. ’Twas quite apparent he wished not to be sent back to Ian.
“As fer ye,” Brogan said as he turned his focus back to the younger man. “Neyll, is it?”
He replied with a curt nod.
“Ye seem to ken how to take care of yerself. I have never seen anyone take Comnall down the way ye did.”
Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 9
