Aidan nodded. He leaned his chin into his hand, pushing the glass toward Keane for another dram. His brother poured him yet another, then sat down beside him, whilst behind him, the fire crackled and spat.
Una ambled over. He watched her shadow approach, but didn’t turn. “I ha’e seen her face in my keek stane,” she reassured him. “She lives, Aidan. What’s more the question is whether ye’ll find it in your heart tae forgive your own blood?”
Aidan frowned. Of course he would forgive her! He already had. The instant he’d spied the MacKinnon boy covered in his own blood, lying with scarce any breath, he’d forgiven Lael that very instant… and mayhap even before. But he was admittedly stubborn and could not seem to say so even now.
Lìli watched him, her brow furrowed with concern. Kellen, thankfully was fast asleep, as was the babe Lìli cradled in her arms—a child of their blood. A child of two nations, he thought absently, and then pushed the idle thought aside. By the gods, he would lock Ria in her room—or seal her down in that grotto with the accursed stone—long before he’d allow her to sit upon Scotia’s throne, or marry into that viper’s nest. David mac Maíl Chaluim’s brother Edgar had plucked out the eyes of his own uncle to keep him from attempting to steal his throne. And David mac Maíl Chaluim was hardly any better, aligning himself with England and forcing his will upon men who would pluck out their own eyes rather than see themselves strapped under David’s yoke.
But of course, Aidan would never hold Ria back, for he, like all chieftains before him, believed that each man had a will to pursue his own purpose, and come what may, all consequences were his own to bear. Wherever she was, Lael was paying the consequences of her own choices.
The hall was silent now, and Aidan only realized he’d lost himself in thought when Una spoke again. “Cha d’dhùin doras nach d’fhosgail doras,” she said and clucked her tongue at him. No door ever closed, but another opened, she’d said.
Frowning, Aidan peered up at her. “Is there aught ye know ye havena revealed, auld woman?” He knew she had an inexplicable sense of things to come, but she kept that knowledge mostly to herself. All day long she sat peering into her bloody scrying stone and then she rarely shared a thing with anyone else.
The fire in the pit seemed to grow all at once and yet the brightness of the hall appeared to dim. Una’s shadow crept across the table and fell upon the distant wall. “What I ken, ye already know,” she said cryptically, “What I canna see, ye dinna allow.”
Aidan was tired, that much was true, but this was no time for Una’s tiresome riddles and he told her so. “Go on wi’ ye, auld woman!”
She shook her head at him. “Ye asked a question, Aidan. I simply spake ye the answer ye sought.”
“Ach, now! Go on,” Aidan commanded her again. “Go see to the MacKinnon lad. Ye’re doing naught here but bedeviling me now.”
She sighed portentously at his back, saying naught, but then she did as Aidan bade her and turned away. “An làmb a bheir, ‘s i a gheibh,” she grumbled as she struck the end of her staff against the floor. The hand that gives is the hand that gets, she said.
In the instant she quit the hall, the fire waned and Aidan had a terrible sense of impending doom. Reaching out, he placed a hand upon his brother’s shoulder and considered him a long moment.
Keane’s frame was slight, not yet that of a man’s, but neither was he a boy. Once the snows were cleared, one of them must stay and one must go to find Lael. But these were uncertain times, and Keane was not yet prepared to rule in Aidan’s stead. What if Aidan should fall? Then again, neither was his brother aged enough to go to war. Barely younger than Cameron, it might well be Keane lying so still just beyond those doors… a boy-man who’d barely lived and who might not get to see another sunrise.
His throat thick with emotion, Aidan shook his brother’s shoulder. “Go and check your sisters,” he said gently. “Be certain Cailin and Sorcha take turns sleeping, and dinna leave either alone with that boy.”
Keane nodded. “Ye’ll get some rest as well?” his brother asked, worry etching his young brow, and Aidan smiled. He returned a nod, then cast a weary glance at his loving wife who was smiling now as well.
Keane grinned and slid out of his seat. “Dinna worry, bhràthair,” he said quickly. “Ye may count on me.”
Aidan nodded, and hoped to the gods that it was true, for once the snows melted, whenever that should be… one of them must stay, and one must go.
Chapter Fourteen
Setting about the keep with renewed purpose—not quite those of a chatelaine—Lael acquired the keys to the demesne, much to Luc’s dismay.
The boy-man was hardly any match for Lael, and more’s the pity that his arrogant laird had placed his squire at her mercy.
“I am not certain my laird will approve,” Luc fretted, worrying at his bottom lip like a wee lass when she asked him for the keys. Having wrested them from the previous steward, he wore them on his person, dangling low from his belt in place of a sword. As far as she was concerned he was far too pretty to be a warrior anyway. She thrust out her hand, expecting him to comply.
“Your laird?” she asked sweetly. “Is he no’ my laird now as well, and more to the point, he is my husband too, and did he no’ gi’ me free rein of this keep?”
Luc considered that a long moment, nibbling at his bottom lip until Lael feared he might skewer it through with is eyeteeth. Her fingers itched to touch the cold metal of the keys, poor as the substitute might be for her trusty blades. “Of course, my lady,” he relented. “I suppose he did.” He fiddled with his belt, removing the keys in question and Lael seized them from him the instant she could.
“There you go, my lady,” he said.
Lael smiled, if only to herself. Inasmuch as she told herself she loathed the sound of the English title coming from his lips, it gave her a keen sense of satisfaction to know it afforded her some measure of authority now. In one day she’d gone from being prisoner in this keep to mistress over all, and she fully intended to take advantage of that fact and look for ways to free herself from this travesty of a marriage and Broc Ceannfhionn from his cell.
Her brother would be horrified—and so would she! A babe? she thought. A babe? By the sins of Sluag! She would no more bring a wee innocent bairn into this world with a demon for a father than she would forsake her own kin. This was not her home, nor would it ever be, but it would serve her well enough for her Butcher husband to believe she’d embraced her role.
In the meantime, there must be some way to better use her position in this keep, and she intended to discover how.
With that decision made, she made her way about, as pretty as you please, dangling the keys at her side and jingling them loudly for everyone to hear. All the while, the Butcher’s squire followed at her heels, making himself a nuisance.
“I do not think he would like that,” he said again, when she stopped to inspect the kitchen stores and then began to move things about. “He has not yet taken inventory,” the lad fretted.
That is his problem, Lael thought. All she was concerned with at the moment, after weeks of going without a hearty meal, was feeding herself and finding a way to send a good meal to Broc.
Taking stock of what there was to be had, she stuffed bits of bread into her mouth, hardly realizing how hungry she’d grown.
Luc merely watched her with a look of consternation that nearly made her laugh. Nearly. Were she not so enkindled with purpose.
There was not nearly enough grain to last a long winter, she noted. Nothing smoked. Little remained of their livestock, and no uisge at all. Cailleach have mercy, for they would not last the winter without it!
As for the scullery maids who’d remained, there were but three—mind you, merely three. All stood by the wayside, staring at Lael with expressions that were fraught with both worry and glee—an odd combination, she decided.
Mairi, Ailis and Kenna she learned were their names. All three had apparently remained only because
they had nowhere else to go. Mairi, the eldest, had been there as long as she could recall. Ailis too was older than Lael, but Kenna was younger, it appeared, although the girl didn’t precisely ken her age. Lael thought mayhap she could be her sister Catrìona’s age or thereabouts.
Her sister Catrìona had wed a Brodie near Chreagach Mhor—a grievous sin as far as Aidan was concerned, but not so grievous that he’d disowned her as he had with Lael.
She sighed, coming to terms with the truth. Her brother would not save her, so it was up to her to find a way herself. But that was quite all right. In the meantime, she endeavored to make herself a few allies.
During the course of the day she learned that many of Keppenach’s residents left once word arrived of the MacLaren’s death. Some stayed, hoping to profit in some way from a new laird’s rule, for Rogan MacLaren had been a terrible miser, giving little and taking much. Some believed a new laird could do little worse, but there were others who simply were not inclined to begin anew, and so they took their families to other parts, where they had distant kin. Another exodus took place once they learned of the Butcher’s approach, and by the time Lael and her band had arrived, few homes remained occupied beyond Keppenach’s curtain walls. Broc had secretly encouraged the last of the villagers to seek shelter elsewhere, at least until the matter of Keppenach could be settled. And now the village itself was razed—although not by them—and those who had no permanent place to sleep within the castle were going or already gone. In fact, quite a number who’d stood outside the hall when Lael arrived to take her vows, unbeknownst to her, were waiting to ask permission to leave now that the gates were closely guarded.
Were Lael mistress here in truth, she might have promised them all better circumstances if they remained, but she was not, and she planned to leave as soon as she was able. Although, when she thought about it a moment…
Mayhap she could help herself and these people as well? In the end she decided that with the help of Mairi, Ailis and Kenna, she would restore Keppenach to a measure of order—even if it meant working at cross-purposes with her husband. In fact, if that should be the case, it would give her all the more pleasure, she decided, so she spent the day repairing the kitchens and taking stock of the gardens.
Lael hadn’t nearly as much knowledge of herbs as Una or Lìli, but she did know a bit, and she’d managed her brother’s household from the day their mother died. She gave the women cleaning instructions and then made mental notes of all the things she planned to do before leaving: gather the remaining flock and be certain they were tended, enlarge and winterize the chicken coop, weed the garden, check the silos, clean the guarderobes and check the well water. That was one thing they’d learned the hard way at Dubhtolargg, and before they all realized half a dozen good men, women and children had perished from some mysterious illness. Only later did they discover it was because there was waste in one of their wells, and it was only thanks to her brother’s new wife.
And while she was at it, she planned the evening meal—a wedding celebration, she told herself, even though there was hardly any cause for a true celebration. However, these good folk deserved a good meal. Broc included. So let them try to keep her from delivering a meal to the gaols. She didn’t need her knives to put these Sassenach brothers in their places.
For that matter, she refused to leave Broc wallowing in mud. She couldn’t free him from his cell, but she could force them to clean it. She ordered the delivery of rushes to coat his dirty floor, and blankets to keep him from dying from the cold. It was far warmer in the tunnels than she might have expected, but if he kicked up his toes, this would all be for naught.
“I do not think my laird Jaime will like this,” Luc said when she handed over the massive fur coverlet they’d given her to use the night before.
So that was his name? Jaime? She preferred demon. Or Butcher.
“Nay?” she asked, and wished the boy would leave her be. “Why do you not go tell him?” she suggested.
The lad shook his head, pursing his lips and remained beside her like a sullen pup. She almost felt sorry for him, but not quite.
Broc arched a blond brow and shook his head. “Something tells me the Butcher’ll be regrettin’ his decision to wed w’ ye before sundown,” he predicted.
“Good,” Lael said as Luc quickly locked the door behind her when she exited Broc’s cell. There was far more that she would have said but there were too many ears about to hear—the guards and her little watchdog included. “I’ll be sending dinner down afore long,” she reassured him, screwing her nose over the dead pine marten that still littered one corner. “Dinna fill your belly with rats.”
“Mind yourself, Lael,” Broc warned. “Lest ye wind up here again, or worse.”
“Humph!” she replied. If he thought for an instant that he could frighten her into accepting this fate like some timid little lass, then Broc didn’t truly know her at all.
The Butcher’s first mistake was in letting her live. His second was underestimating her. His third—and likely his last—was to give her the run of his estate, for with it she would turn the tide of this battle after all, and mayhap singlehandedly find a way to hand the keys over to its rightful master in the end.
“Have faith,” she told Broc as she hurried away. Two guards opened the portal to the chapel and she stepped through, avoiding the myriad webs that had somehow survived the slew of trespassers since two days past.
“So are ye a Christian?” Luc inquired as they passed into the small vestibule from the dingy tunnels. Lael ignored his question, annoyed.
Faith was not merely a Christian tenet. In fact, it was not a pious trait at all. Indeed, faith came in many forms. For example, she had every faith in herself, and she would hardly find herself upon her knees praying to herself.
The lad followed closely at her heels through the nave. “David carries his priest where’er he goes. They say he has a special dispensation to carry out the work of God.”
At the mere mention of David’s name, Lael fantasized about shoving Luc’s face into the icy mud.
“’Tis a good thing we’ve a chapel,” he offered as he walked into a spider web himself. “Gawd, ’tis filthy as the gaols!” he exclaimed, flailing his hands to free himself of the silken web.
It would take quite some work to return this chapel to order, she thought. More’s the pity she was not a Christian, for then she could find a way to spend time closer to the tunnels… At some point, someone, somewhere, at some time was bound to make a mistake and then she would seize it and set Broc free. She blinked and halted suddenly, turning to peer at the lad.
The priest was gone now, along with David, and there was no one left at Keppenach who could possibly know how close she remained to the old ways—not even Broc. “Is the Butcher pious?” she inquired.
“Nay, and he does not like that name,” Luc enlightened her at once. “Although he does claim his soul is damned.”
“And so it may be,” she replied, more to herself. Lael had no concept of the Christian god or his rules, but anyone who could burn a keep full of people must surely be damned.
“My lady?”
She reached out to pat Luc’s shoulder as she would have Keane’s. “Never mind. Let’s clean up the chapel,” she proposed, and the lad furrowed his brows as he considered her another long moment.
“For you?” he asked. “I’m sorry, my lady, but ’tis unlikely my lord Jaime will ever use it save as a pass through to the gaols.”
Lael smiled. “God willing, mayhap he will change his mind,” she offered. “Shall we begin on the morrow?”
“Very well, then, aye,” he agreed, and Lael smiled, her mood brighter than it had been in weeks.
Two bodies pose a problem.
Maddog had performed his duties for MacLaren all too well, and for his efforts he’d earned merely a warm bed and the distrust of his kinsmen. Now he didn’t even have the bed, because the Butcher had ousted him from it, leaving him to seek another
like a common dolt. Unfortunately, he hadn’t even the opportunity to empty the laird’s chamber of a few special items he wished to keep. Now he had no money, no valuables and after nearly twenty-three years of service he was forced to take a pallet in the hall, along with the rest of the dirty buggers in this keep.
At least he had the sword.
He didn’t precisely ken why the ancient blade was so valuable. The metal was chipped in spots, and barely sharp enough to split his seams, but deep down he understood it must be precious. Afric had realized it as well and the blacksmith had been prepared to keep it for himself—that is, until his son went missing along with his precious sword, and then Maddog was fairly certain Afric intended to tell the new laird. He couldn’t allow it.
Pondering what to do with the blade, he tucked it away carefully, so that no one could spy its gleam, and then in the shadows of the storehouse, he hid the oiled cloth with some trepidation next to the oversized sack of meal that held the blacksmith’s son. The blacksmith himself… well, he went down the well. “An unfortunate accident,” most would say once they chanced to find the man’s body. To deflect suspicion Maddog had already spread the word that he’d last spied the blacksmith’s boy climbing down the well shaft, as the he was ever wont to do. And of course, Baird wasn’t there, but the blacksmith couldn’t have known that, and who was to say the lump on Afric’s head wasn’t made by the fall?
The comical sound Afric made on his way down the well still filled his ears and made him laugh. He sniggered to himself, holding the force of it in until he blew a snot wad onto his arm, and then frowned.
If the gods be good, it would be some time before anyone found the blacksmith’s body. The last anyone spied the man was in the hall, so just to be certain, he’d made certain people saw him go his own way after quitting the hall, but not before filling Afric’s head with worry o’er the boy and the well. And then, whilst everyone was pre-occupied with the goings-on at the hall, he’d come around behind while Afric stood peering down the shaft. And that was that. Afric would trouble him no more.
Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) Page 15
