However, sleep eluded her and solitude was a stranger.
At home she rarely had a moment to herself. She oft hid herself behind the waterfall at Caoineag’s Pool, where no one else could find her. She would sit there for hours, sharpening her knives. There was something about settling there with a whetstone, and sliding it down the length of her perfectly honed blades that always brought her peace of mind.
She wondered if she would ever see that pool again, ever hear Caoineag’s weeping. Some claimed that when she wailed, death came to visit the clan. Was The Weeper weeping even now? Or mayhap there would be no weeping for Lael now that Aidan had disowned her?
It doesn’t matter.
The Weeper didn’t exist anyway. The winds were fickle this time of year and Lael had never actually spied her in all her years in the vale.
Nor was Una truly the Mother of Winter. Inasmuch as she had seemed one hundred years old when Lael was but a child and she certainly looked that old now, the old priestess was merely flesh and blood—with all the troubles of a body born. As such, she was someday bound to die.
Everybody died.
Some were certain to do it before their time.
Mayhap the Butcher changed his mind and tomorrow he’d put her back on the gallows? With that morbid thought, Lael pulled the blanket over her head, and it brought an unexpected wave of sorrow.
“What shall I do?” she asked Una from afar, and wished with all her might that the rumors could be true—that Una was in fact the Cailleach Bheur, guardian of her people. Mayhap then the wily old priestess could wield whatever powers she possessed and endeavor to set Lael free. Alas, but she couldn’t seem to accomplish the task alone. Shivering beneath the blanket, she listened for a moment to the sound of her own breath… and then, at last, she fell asleep.
Chapter Twelve
The king sat in Jaime’s chair at the laird’s table, fiddling with the dirty cloth that so recently lay entangled about Aveline of Teviotdale’s wretched form. The bloodstained woolen cloak lay folded neatly upon the table, the white unicorn displaying dingily against the deep green wool.
“I met her father this summer past,” David disclosed. “He attended one of my councils. Struck me odd even then that he would send his only daughter unwed to share MacLaren’s bed, like some filthy whore.”
Jaime listened. He’d determined long ago that he gleaned far more in David’s company when he simply held his tongue, and since David enjoyed talking and Jaime didn’t, the arrangement suited him well.
“Poor dumb lass,” David lamented. “Her father’s a bluidy fool—now he’s a fool without heirs since his son enjoys the favor of men.” He sighed portentously. “How long has the girl been dead?”
Jaime shrugged. “A year, mayhap more.”
They’d washed the cloak, but the bloodstains remained. Nevertheless, David intended to return the cloak to Aveline’s sire. As unfortunate as the turn of events might seem, if Teviotdale harbored some hope of finding his daughter alive… At least this would put the matter to rest.
As for who put the poor lass in the box… there was simply no way to know. Even from the grave, Rogan MacLaren cast a long shadow over his garrison. In all his life, Jaime had never met such recalcitrant men. Despite that they might have curried favor with Jaime and the king as well, they kept their mouths closed, revealing naught. It was as though they harbored some belief MacLaren wasn’t dead, or perchance that he might rise up from the grave and cut out their wagging tongues. Jaime reasoned it was because no one had actually set eyes upon MacLaren’s body.
David, on the other hand, was quite certain of the old laird’s demise. He might be at odds with the dún Scoti chieftain, though he seemed to trust Aidan’s word without fail.
For Jaime’s part, he had to wonder about a man who allowed his sister to embroil herself in a battle that could not be won—no matter how well versed she was with her arms. Given the chance, he would have done everything in his power to protect Kenna. Broc’s men were fated to lose and even if their small band of rebels had managed to wrest the keep from Maddog, there would have been no way for them to hold it. Apparently Broc did not even have the MacKinnon’s support, whilst David had the backing of England, and he held the lands and fealties south of the River Forth, with pockets of supporters in the north. Little by little, Scotland was falling beneath his rule, reluctantly or nay.
Unbidden, Jaime thought of his bride-to-be, locked away in his tower, and wondered if she too would come to heel… or whether she would fight until her dying breath.
Arms crossed, he peered into the crowd that was now gathering beyond the hall’s great doors. Most of the plaintives were probably hoping Jaime would hear their grievances whilst King David was still in residence. Unfortunately for them, David seemed to have little interest in aught but the Teviotdale lass and the vows yet to be spoken between Jaime and his dún Scoti queen. To that end, they seemed to be idling away the morn waiting for David’s sluggardly priest. Eager now to be away, all that was keeping the king in residence was the simple fact that he meant to be certain Jaime followed through with his edict. Apparently, he trusted Jaime with half of Scotland, though not enough to leave Keppenach without seeing the vows were spoken.
“Her child was an innocent,” David lamented. “Both should have been laid to rest in consecrated ground. My priest will have much to say about that, I fear.” He wagged a finger at Jaime.
Jaime was unwilling to concern himself with David’s gossiping prelate. “This far north, the ground is nearly frozen,” he said, offering David a ready excuse. It was not quite true, of course, but it would be soon, and it was bad enough Jaime would be forced to take a wife of David’s choosing; he wasn’t in the mood to endure his sermonizing priest. “At any rate, Your Grace, he has more pressing matters to attend, does he not?”
A tiny smile turned the corner of David’s lips—the first sign of good humor since Jaime woke him to inform him of the discovery in the gaols. “If I dinna ken better,” he said, “I would suspect ye were anxious to see the matter done?”
Jaime frowned. The assertion annoyed him mostly because it was true. “’Tis been a long road north,” he proffered. “Aye, I would be done with this matter so that I may better focus on rebuilding this demesne.” If he felt any thrill at all, he told himself, it was only because he would not have to wipe the girl’s blood from his good sword.
David considered him another long moment, then crooked another finger at him. “Dinna underestimate the lass,” he warned. “I made that mistake with her sister Catrìona. It soured my position with Iain MacKinnon and the Brodies as well. Ye can well imagine, and she was no less cunning than this one.”
“Your Grace, you may be certain I will no—”
A scuffle turned their attentions toward the door. There, two of Jaime’s guards stood holding a heavy-set man from entering the hall. Jaime recognized the blacksmith at once. He’d taken a moment yestereve to speak with the man after inspecting the gates in order to commission new bolts. The gates were his primary concern at the moment. Should the MacKinnon come after all, there was no way those gates in their present condition would keep him out. But Jaime didn’t recall the blacksmith so full of temper. Clearly, something happened between then and now.
“Wait your turn!” his guards bellowed into the man’s face.
“Nay!” the blacksmith shouted back. “I must see him.” He tried once more to force entry into hall, and as hefty as he was, he nearly succeeded.
Jaime took his responsibility to these people seriously. The sooner he resolved their issues, the sooner he would return Keppenach to order. He peered down at David to be certain he was up to the trial. Pre-occupied with the cloak and the priest and the vows yet to be spoken, David merely shrugged, so Jaime waved the man inside. “Let him be,” he commanded his guards. “Come in,” he charged the man.
The blacksmith gave the guard who’d held him a beleaguered glance, and shrugged away, slipping past him into the
hall. He came straight toward the dais, his stride full of purpose, but Jaime saw only worry writ upon the man’s face. “’Tis my son,” he declared. “Baird is gone!”
David leaned over the table, scowling suddenly. “For this you interrupt your laird and king?”
Recalling himself at the sight of David’s scowl, the man slid Jaime a pleading look.
“Might your boy simply have gone to the gaols?” the king inquired. “Little lads love intrigue.”
The worried father shook his head. “Nay,” he said, neglecting to address David properly and David’s fury only deepened. It was writ there upon his face but the blacksmith seemed not to notice. “I told my boy to stay—the thing is, I know my son,” he said more frantically as the king rose from his seat.
“Bedamned!” David exploded. He smacked his palm atop the wooden table. The sound reverberated throughout the hall. Inasmuch as David insisted Jaime never use formalities while they were alone, he knew the king took offense to the lack of respect from these brutish Highlanders. He had spent his early life incurring a lack of respect from Henry’s brother William Rufus, and watched his brother Edgar endure even more whilst he was king as Rufus often failed to accord the Scots any due respect.
“If ’tisna one thing ’tis another,” the king proclaimed, and began to cough. “Steorling, please!” he entreated.
Jaime slid off the table, realizing David was barely rested and far too irritable to deal with aught. He started toward the errant blacksmith, hoping to turn the man out of the hall before David could assign him to the gallows.
“My laird, the king’s priest has arrived.”
“At last!” David declared, “Bring him in. Bring him in.” Looking entirely relieved, the king sat again.
Jaime pulled the worried father aside. “Come,” he directed the man. “Tell me where it is you last spied your errant boy.”
Appearing even more distraught, the father shuffled his feet. He opened his mouth to speak, and seemed to struggle with words. He hung his head, staring at the ground. “Ye see… I… er… well, I found… something,” he said, and then he met Jaime’s gaze, and seemed reluctant to continue.
Jaime waited patiently to hear what more the man had to say, but at that very instant the priest sauntered in, full of pomp and all his divine glory. The blacksmith was suddenly forgotten as Jaime’s thoughts returned to Lael.
To his relief, Rogan’s steward approached, his manner hardly so gruff as before. “Dinna worry, laird, he said. “I’ll help Afric find his son.” Grateful for Maddog’s willingness to help, Jaime stepped aside. “Thank you,” he said, and released the blacksmith into Maddog’s charge.
“Come,” the guard demanded, waving Lael out of the room.
It was quite fortunate that she’d slept in her clothes. Stone-faced, with gazes that peered beyond her, they led her out into the corridor, down the stairs and then more stairs, ignoring her no matter how many times she asked.
“Where are you taking me?”
Only the sound of their footfalls along the empty corridors breached the silence. “Ach!” she exclaimed. “May your tongues rot in your mouths.”
Keppenach was a very grim place, she was coming to realize.
Despite that the tower was little like the donjon tunnels, it was nevertheless mean. Along the corridors there were no tapestries, no furs. The floors had no rushes, neither dirty nor clean. The furnishings were sparse and there were few windows affording little light. She eyed her surroundings with distaste, wondering how her dear sister-by-law had ever lived this way.
To some Dubhtolargg might seem crude in comparison, with its ancient wooden hall and surrounding huts, but at home, there wasn’t a room or a cottage that wasn’t suffused with warmth and love. Here, there was little to engender any.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked again.
Once again, stubborn silence met her question, and she shrugged away as one of the guards pressed her shoulder in an attempt to guide her down the stairs.
“Dumb Sassenachs,” she muttered.
The keep was entirely too quiet, prickling at her nerves. At the instant she would settle for even David’s haughty voice.
It was only once they arrived in the great hall that she realized why the castle seemed so bloody quiet: The entirety of Keppenach’s population was waiting outside the door—likely to witness her sentencing.
Nevertheless, Lael lifted her head and held her tongue as they led her into the great hall, noting that Scotia’s dubious king had already seated himself in the laird’s chair whilst the Butcher stood before the laird’s table beside
David’s prelate—the same bumbling priest he’d sent summer past to see Lìli and her brother duly wed. She recognized the balding simpleton. In his hands, he held his holy cross and a strip of ribbon.
The hairs on the back of her nape prickled.
Jaime’s heart leapt at the sight of his unknowing bride.
He felt David’s gaze upon him but studiously ignored the king. For that matter, he refused to acknowledge the tiny thrill that quickened inside him. No matter that he told himself he was merely doing his duty, somewhere deep down he realized that was not entirely the case. All he needed to do was say, “no.” David would not force him. The king was wise enough to realize that he must appease his barons—particularly those he was counting on to tame the tempestuous north.
He watched her walk proudly into his hall and in that instant he experienced an overwhelming desire to gentle her wild heart. Merely the thought of holding her in his arms made his blood sing through his veins.
Dressed in a soft-green woolen gown that fell high above her ankles, she nevertheless wore it like a pagan queen. Her long, ebony tresses lay loose at her back, although she’d bound it at her temples with tiny braids that helped to tame the lustrous black locks. Her brilliant green eyes were deep set in a finely sculpted face that could have been an effigy to the gods. She was lovelier than any woman he had ever beheld… even when her green eyes met his and speared him with spite
The king addressed her first. “I trust you ken why I dinna rise to greet you, dearest Lael.”
She tore her gaze away from Jaime to face David of Scotia, and it was only then that Jaime realized how greatly she affected him, for the release of her gaze was oddly physical.
She smiled serenely at the king—a gesture that belied the vicious gleam in her jewel-like eyes—and then she glanced down at her hands once more bound before her as though in prayer. “I trust ye ken why I dinna cut out your Sassenach heart,” she countered with grace.
Jaime tried not to smile at her mettle, but his lips betrayed him and he turned away, clearing his throat to conceal an unanticipated chuckle. She was lovely as a rose and twice as prickly, he could tell. God’s teeth, but a near hanging and two days in his gaol had hardly softened her in the least. Even more than Keppenach, she was a challenge he would rise to with immense pleasure.
At her answer, David’s face mottled with anger, but to his credit he remained seated, pushing away Aveline’s cloak with a look of disgust. “Enough with the niceties,” he exclaimed. “You are here for one reason and one reason alone.” He pierced her with an angry glare, and said pointedly, “In fact, you are alive for one reason, and one reason only—because of my good graces.”
Simply for effect Lael rocked backward upon her heels.
“Yours?” she asked, then dared a glance at the Butcher.
Inconceivably, the demon was smiling, though not with his lips. His eyes glinted with amusement.
“I think not,” she said, returning her gaze to David. “Lest my eyes deceived me, it was not ye who rode like a demon angel through those gates. ’Twas your Butcher.” She refused to look at him again, unnerved by that smile in his smoky eyes. Let him be amused if he so pleased. Lael refused to commune with him. He was not her friend, nor was he her ally. And she didn’t want to share his smiles.
David’s jaw visibly tightened. “Nevertheless. As you say
, he is my demon butcher—my champion—and so he rides in my name,” he argued ridiculously. “Thus, it was I, in truth, who spared you from those gallows, make no mistake, Lael dún Scoti.” His look was smug and he cocked his head at her in that officious manner that always managed to irk her so much. Then he tapped a finger upon the table. “Were I to ask him to hang ye here and now, what do ye suppose he would do?”
Despite that the possibility sent a frisson of fear down her spine, Lael shrugged and tilted him that very look she knew her brother hated for he thought it belligerent. “I dinna ken,” she replied sweetly. “Why do we not ask him?” And then she looked straight at the Butcher to see what he would say.
To her utter annoyance, the man simply stood there, looking at her with a new glint in those steely eyes.
When she glanced back at David, he too was smirking. “Clearly ye’ve no love for me as I’ve no love for ye,” he suggested, “so let us get to the point. Ye’re a smart lass,” he said. “So this is what I propose: Wed your demon angeland for that I’ll set Broc Ceannfhionn free.”
For an instant, Lael wasn’t certain she’d heard the man correctly. However, one look at the Butcher assured her that she had. He stood there looking at her, smirking behind those sinfully beautiful lips.
“You want me to wed the Butcher?” she asked, to be sure.
The king shrugged. “There are some who call him by that name, aye.”
Lael’s mouth opened to speak.She peered suddenly at the priest with entirely new comprehension. The priest’s look was smug as well. He stood rocking back and forth on his heels as though he were restraining himself from a victory dance. And now that prickling sense of foreboding she’d felt upon entering the hall became all too clear. They’d brought her in shackles to her own wedding!
“I will not!” she declared.
“Aye, ye will,” David said evenly, and then he waved a hand at someone standing behind her. Lael turned to find four well-armed men marching Broc Ceannfhionn into the hall. Filthy and bound in chains, they forced him to his knees just inside the door and then surrounded him, hands ready upon their hilts. Broc’s mouth was bound, but he shook his head adamantly, telling her without words not to comply. Mercy, but he couldn’t know what it was they’d asked of her, or he would realize that she could never live with herself if she allowed him die to save her pride. Alas, but that was all that was at stake here since she needn’t remain wedded to the Butcher even after the vows were spoken. By law, she had a right to leave him whenever she pleased.
Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) Page 13
