by Amy Tolnitch
Loki stumbled, nearly pitching Aimili off his neck.
Loki, are you all right?
Beneath her, she felt Loki tremble, actually tremble. What is it, boy?
He shied sideways and started to bolt, but Aimili held him back. Easy, boy.
It is him.
Aimili gazed out over the training field. The two men still fought, and a score of others watched. Him?
Hang on. This time when Loki took off, she let him, clinging to the saddle and giving him his head. He thundered into the stable, and Aimili slid from his back.
Danger, Loki said. That man is danger. He is the one we have felt.
Who? Which one is it?
Loki pushed past her and rushed into his stall. The other horses neighed and stamped their feet, feeling Loki’s agitation.
He is the one called Huwe.
Hours later, when dusk was fast approaching, Padruig led his men through Castle MacCoinneach’s gatehouse. He was tired, dusty, and starving, not necessarily in that order.
He also wanted to see his wife, wanted to try to explain, well, he wasn’t sure what exactly, but he felt he needed to try to make peace with her. It seemed as if all he did was hurt her.
Surprisingly, the MacVegan lass hadn’t made a sound during their journey, though he could feel the intensity of her gaze upon him nearly the whole way. It felt like much more than the usual enmity of a Mac Vegan. From time to time, he was tempted to turn and demand she tell him why, but he’d decided to wait to confront her until they had her within the confines of Castle MacCoinneach.
He halted Thor near the stable and whistled before dismounting. Oscar ran out, a hunk of cheese still in his grasp. When he saw Padruig and the men, his face brightened. “Did ye hunt down those murderin’ MacVegan bastards?”
Before Padruig could answer, D’Ary moved forward. Padruig could tell the moment Oscar spotted the MacVegan wench by the lad’s look of astonishment. He pointed at her. “Who is that?”
“A MacVegan, though beyond that I dinnae ken.” Padruig glanced back at her. “Yet.”
Oscar’s eyes widened even farther. He grabbed Thor’s reins, moving his hand just in time to save his cheese. “I’ll take care of your horse, Laird.”
“My thanks.” Padruig walked over to D’Ary and the woman. “Come,” he told her.
“So that you can throw me in a pit somewhere?”
“I am no like your clansmen.”
D’Ary lifted her down and she landed on her feet with a wince.
“Are you hurt?”
“Nay. A bit stiff, ’tis all.” She looked at him as if he were some kind of apparition, her gaze slowly traveling over the scars on his face, though to her credit, she did not so much as flinch.
He took her arm in a firm grip and pulled her toward the great hall.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice remarkably calm.
“Who are you?” he asked instead.
She pressed her lips together.
By the saints, he had no time for this, Padruig thought as he drew her into the hall. Would that he could deposit the lass somewhere until he’d dealt with other more pressing troubles.
But she was a mystery, and that fact, combined with her guards being responsible for today’s savage attack, was more than enough to warrant a close look at the woman.
The hum of voices quieted at the sight of Padruig leading a strange woman through the hall. He grimaced, wishing he’d had the woman stop to rinse the blood from her bliaut, then decided to ignore the suspicious stares from some of his people. If he had meant the woman harm, she would surely not be walking along, head high.
One by one, those seated on the dais turned toward them. Freya and Efrika’s eyes bulged with patent curiosity. Alasdair simply crossed his arms and stared. Gifford, of course, was off his seat in an instant, ever the noble champion of the fair sex.
And finally, Aimili, who gazed at them in utter shock, her face leached of color, her eyes deep and dark.
He realized the woman with him had stopped when he kept moving forward and encountered resistance. Thinking she was nervous at the prospect of sitting with members of the hated MacCoinneach family, he turned and scowled at her, tightening his grasp.
It was then he saw she was paying him no heed whatsoever, but was staring at his wife.
“Madeleine?” Aimili said. “What..?” She turned to Padruig.
For a moment, he knew such fury he felt as if it ripped asunder his very soul. Aimili knew this woman? This MacVegan? “I had no idea you were acquainted with my wife,” he growled at the woman in his grasp.
Madeleine MacVegan bit her lip, but did not look at him. In fact, she said nothing. Gradually, it dawned on him that she was waiting for Aimili to speak.
“You know this woman?” he asked Aimili, fighting but failing to keep accusation from his tone.
She visibly hesitated, then slowly nodded.
“My solar.” He turned and started towing his “guest” back out of the hall when he felt a hand on his arm.
“Padruig, is the lass injured?” Gifford asked, his expression unusually somber.
“Not at my hand. She says nay.”
“I shall escort the lady. You will no doubt wish to see to your wife.”
Afore Padruig could mouth a protest, Gifford smoothly transferred the woman’s hand to his arm and sailed down the hall.
“Gifford,” Padruig called.
Gifford paused and looked back. “Aye, Laird?”
“Do not venture far ahead of me. She is no friend of the MacCoinneachs.” He stalked to the high table, grabbed up an ewer of wine, and motioned to one of the servers. “Ask Cook to please see that food and drink are delivered to my solar.”
“Aye, Laird.” The young man scurried off.
“Padruig, who is that woman?” Freya whispered.
He fixed his gaze upon Aimili. “Apparently, she is called Madeleine.”
“I have not heard of a woman with that name.”
He kept his gaze on his wife. “Madeleine MacVegan.”
Freya sucked in a breath.
Aimili simply stood and followed him out of the hall.
Padruig couldn’t bring himself to speak to her at all until they were closed within his solar. “Explain this to me.” He drank straight from the ewer.
“Padruig, at least let me seek out food and drink,” Gifford said, clutching his own jug of ale. “The poor girl looks to dropping.”
“I am fine,” she said.
Gifford patted her on the shoulder.
“I have already requested the same, Gifford,” Padruig told him. “’Tis not my intention to mistreat the lass.”
“Madeleine, you must tell him,” Aimili said.
“Clearly, you have not told him. If you did not think he would believe you, why should I even bother?”
“I have told others.” Aimili gave Padruig a wary glance.
“One of you shall tell me what is going on,” Padruig said. “Now.”
Madeleine MacVegan drew herself up straight, though Padruig could see her face was drawn with fatigue. “You have no learned patience in your time away from the Highlands,” she said. “Nor learned to stop and think.”
“You know nothing of me. I have neither time nor tolerance for secrets.”
“I am Symund’s sister,” she announced.
Had they searched the wench for weapons? Padruig wondered. Surely D’Ary had checked. He drew his sword. “Gifford, back away from her.”
Gifford looked between them. “Why?”
“Do it. Now,” Padruig barked.
Gifford retreated to a window seat and settled down with a huff of annoyance. “Really, Padruig, ye cannot think the girl a threat.”
“’Tis in the blood. Her own brother was a murderer.” Now he knew why the woman seemed so familiar. She looked exactly like a female version of Symund MacVegan.
“Nay.” Madeleine shouted, standing and walking toward Padruig. She stopped with his
blade at her throat. “He did not murder your sister.”
“Padruig, please listen to her,” Aimili urged.
“Sit down,” he told Madeleine.
She did. He sheathed his sword and stared at Aimili. “How do you know this woman?”
“We met in Morisaig, at the market.”
“’Twas the first time?”
“Aye. The only time afore today.”
Padruig’s rigid shoulders relaxed, and it struck Aimili that he had actually suspected her of complicity with the MacVegans.
Aimili looked at Madeleine and saw the woman had picked up on it, too. “Now you understand,” Aimili told her.
“I am sorry, Aimili. I did not realize, well, I did not mean to put you into this kind of difficulty.”
“What are you talking about?” Padruig demanded.
“’Tis obvious you do not trust your wife,” Gifford commented before swilling back some ale. “Simpkin,” he added, with a pointed look toward Aimili.
Bolstered by Gifford’s support, Aimili resisted the temptation to give her husband a good smack across the face. Somehow, she’d gone from foolish child to scheming plotter in one huge leap.
“I … I am sorry, Aimili,” Padruig said. “You must understand, I—”
“Should be quiet and listen,” Aimili snapped. “Madeleine?”
A banging on the door preceded a trio of servants bearing ewers of ale and wine and platters of food. Gifford’s eyes lit up at the sight and he bounded from his seat. After seeing that Aimili and Madeleine had cups of wine, he splashed ale into a cup and sat next to Madeleine. “Please explain, my lady,” he said to her. “I am guessing there is far more to this story than we know.”
“As I told Aimili, I know that Symund did not kill Brona.”
Padruig shook his head. “We all saw—”
“What someone wanted you to see,” Aimili interrupted. “What better way to spawn a killing feud between the clans?”
“Symund wanted Brona. I know that.” Padruig paced across the floor. “By the saints, I approved of him for the match.”
“He loved her,” Madeleine told him.
“Of course he did.” Padruig threw up his hands. “That changes nothing. When he found her with Malcolm, he went wild with jealousy. He killed them both. And then, well, I killed him for the deed.”
Tears ran down Madeleine’s cheeks and she just shook her head.
“Padruig,” Gifford began, then cast a look about the solar. “Do you not remember what she said?”
“She?” Aimili asked.
“Aye.” Gifford tossed back more ale. “Brona’s ghost. Quite a pleasant spirit, but damned cryptic as they all seem to be. Said her death wasn’t Padruig’s fault. Stands to reason she meant it wasn’t this Symund’s fault, either.”
Madeleine rocked back and forth, gripping her cup in one hand and her skirt in the other. “I would have known if he’d killed her. I was his twin. We shared thoughts, feelings. I would have known, I swear it.”
Padruig frowned.
“Do not dismiss this, Padruig,” Aimili told him, ignoring Gifford’s amazing comment. Ghosts? Most likely a product of too much ale. “You must look more closely at what happened.”
“I was there.” He did not sound as convinced as before.
“Alasdair and Magnus agree with me. They have been looking into the events of that day. We believe someone else was behind everything.”
“But who? Who would …” Padruig’s words trailed off and he met Aimili’s gaze, clearly beginning to think what Aimili had already accepted as truth.
“One of the villagers saw a rider heading for the MacVegan holdings that day.”
“I remember that,” Madeleine said. “A rider came to warn the laird that Symund was in trouble. I was not privy to the conversation. The laird believed the messenger because he said he’d been sent by a friend of Symund’s.”
“What?” A MacCoinneach?” Padruig asked.
“Aye. His name was …”
“Huwe,” Madeleine and Aimili said together.
“No,” Padruig said, his voice breaking.
“Aye,” Aimili said, her gaze telling Padruig what she could not say in front of Madeleine and Gifford.
“That whoreson is dead.” Padruig turned to march out, but Aimili caught his arm.
“No, Padruig. Not yet.”
“You are saying he killed my sister!”
“And more.”
Padruig’s eyes were wild.
“Ye must wait,” she told him, her voice low. “You know this.”
Padruig visibly fought for control. Finally he nodded. “I will, but I will also tell Sebilla that the time has come to end this.”
“We will tell her together.”
Padruig looked back at Madeleine. “I believe you. Would that I could live that day over, but I cannot.”
“We were all fooled, weren’t we?”
“Aye.”
“But, why?”
Aimili realized she would have to come up with an explanation without mentioning Paroseea. “We think that Huwe, whoever he really is, bears a powerful hatred for the MacCoinneach clan, particularly Padruig. All of what happened was to cause trouble for Padruig and the clan.”
“Why does he hate you?” Madeleine asked Padruig.
“I am no sure,” he answered slowly. “The best I can guess is that he hates me because I am the laird, not because of anything I have done.”
“Poor Symund was just a sacrifice.”
“And Brona and Malcolm and many others,” Aimili added.
“Of course. ’Tis just that Symund…” Madeleine paused and took a sip of wine. “He was very dear to me.” She looked up at Padruig. “What will you do?”
“Kill him.”
Padruig gazed upon the man who called himself Huwe. Though Padruig knew he must conceal his true thoughts, it was quite possibly the hardest thing he’d ever done. How could he have missed this? How could none of them have seen the traitorous serpent in their midst? Even Freya liked the man.
“I need a man I can trust,” Padruig said, marveling that he didn’t choke over the words, but knowing they would appeal to Vardon’s arrogant nature. “Normally, I would press Magnus into service, but after that foolish business by the loch he is still recovering.” Padruig grunted, as if he considered Magnus weak to be still healing from such a paltry wound.
“I am pleased to assist you, Laird.”
Assist me to my death, Padruig wanted to say, but he forced himself to nod. “I found something in the vaults that intrigues me. It appears to be a doorway of sorts, but I cannot open the stone by myself.”
“A hidden doorway?”
“Aye,” Padruig said, wondering how the bastard could appear so nonchalant when he knew Vardon had to be both surprised and very interested. Padruig leaned over his worktable and dropped his voice as if to share a confidence. “You know we lack enough stores to see us through even with what Gifford brought. I am hoping there is something of value beyond this door.”
“Ah. A treasure perhaps?”
“’Twould be most welcome.”
“Aye. A terrible thing what has happened to us, between the animals dying and the crops being destroyed.”
Vardon shook his head. “Bad luck, to be sure.”
“In the form of Grigor’s poor leadership.”
“Of course.” This time Vardon did not meet Padruig’s gaze, which was just as well. Padruig was finding it more and more difficult to hide his rage.
“Come, Huwe. Let us find this treasure, if one is to be had.” He must have done a passable job of hiding his true feelings because Vardon followed him easily. When they reached the final passage, Padruig pointed up at the dolphin symbol carved into the stone overhead. “What think you of that, Huwe?”
If he had not been watching the man closely, he would have missed the instant of shock on Vardon’s face. “An odd symbol,” he answered.
“My thought, as well. Help me
push this open.”
They bent to the task, and the doorway swung open. Padruig walked in and lit a candle mounted on the wall. “I do not see anything in here. Huwe, check the other side. Or,” Padruig continued in a mild tone, “should I call you Vardon?”
Vardon whirled around. “Who?”
“Please. You may drop the pretense.”
“How did you know?”
Padruig smiled. “You are not as clever as you think.”
Behind them, the water in the pool began to froth and splash. Vardon whirled around at the noise and drew his sword.
Queen Sebilla rose up out of the water and hovered on the surface. “’Tis time for you to return to where you belong, Vardon.”
“Never.” He stepped toward the pool.
She stretched out her arms, and the silver flecks in the stone walls began to glow. As two worlds join together, a power arises that is invincible, Sebilla chanted. “One woman, of us but no longer with us. One fallen laird, descended of Aelfric’s honor and strength.”
Vardon laughed. “One of the things that has always annoyed me most about you exalted ones is your devotion to gibberish that means nothing. ’Tis a mark of how truly pathetic and weak you are.”
Sebilla’s blue gaze narrowed. “You have always resented your birth.”
“No,” he sneered. “I resent being treated as a lesser being because of it.”
“Your father—”
“Was obviously of your ilk. No doubt took advantage of my mother. After all, she was little more than a servant, not worth any showing of respect, but only valued for her use to her betters. A whore would have received more.”
Padruig glanced back and saw that Aimili had crept into the chamber. Not surprisingly, Gifford snuck in behind her, his eyes bulging with curiosity.
Sebilla glared at Vardon. “You know nothing. Your father was Llyr, one of the greatest scholars Paroseea has ever known.”
Vardon stumbled back a step. “You lie!” he shouted.
“No. ’Tis hard to believe,” she said with a contemptuous look. “I discovered your parentage only recently. ’Twas in a lost cache of Llyr’s papers.”
“It does not matter now.”
“Does it not? surely you have long wondered. Now you know. You know the lineage you honer.”
