* * *
“Are you ready?” asked Deargh, looking inward.
“Aye, that I am,” Niall said, striding out from his quarters for what would be the last time.
“This is what you’ve lived your life for.”
“And it feels right,” he said, his heart tight in his chest.
He had dressed well, in his finest. As a highlander. He had received a small bundle this morning, delivered with his breakfast by a servant woman who he could only assume to be a Kincaid. Inside he had found his father’s dagger and a small brooch—his wolf brooch, which he now wore pinned on the linen shirt underneath his plaid, beside his father’s larger one. He pressed his hand against the badges and looked to the blue sky above, silently giving tribute to his family, and deceased clansmen, who because of the treachery of the man inside the castle had gone onto heaven before him. He hoped they watched over him now, and held his men safe from harm.
He crossed the bailey, proceeding toward the castle. A hundred of his men lined the path—some forty of their number being Kincaids, secretly blended among the mercenaries. As he passed the men, they fell in behind him, following him through the open doors—leaving behind a hundred of his warriors lining the parapets above—something the MacClaren had agreed to, as a safeguard show of force against a sudden retaliatory Alwyn attack in the midst of the wedding. More men crowded the bailey, and circled the walls outside.
In the great room, candles burned and fragrant herbs scented the air. The crowd grew silent at his appearance on the threshold. He passed through them, his mind filled with thoughts of the woman who he would marry. He had not only made love to her last night, but had spoken true words of love. He hoped she would remember them, in the difficult moments to come. Once married, he hoped that they could find some peaceful accord and have a meaningful life and children together. Yet now, in these moments, he hardened his heart, for he could not allow his concentration to be swayed by concern for her or fear of the shock she would suffer at learning the truth.
He stepped on the dais to stand beside the MacClaren and the priest. Deargh took his position just behind him. Looking outward, he looked into the familiar faces of Kincaids and mercenaries, mingled among the MacClaren people he had come to know. His heart beat strong and steady, even as the minstrels began to play.
Yet the moment Elspeth arrived … the world about him stopped.
She entered the room in the company of her sisters, who all wore bright ribbons in their hair, and carried a garland of greenery before her. Even Catrin wore a cream-colored kirtle, and looked like a girl today.
Beneath a circlet of silver, Elspeth’s dark hair gleamed, long and shining, over her shoulders and back. She wore a fine, blue-gray gown that shimmered with silver thread and tiny pearls. As she passed through the hall, all eyes turned to her, but her eyes remained focused on him. She shined like a queen. She was his queen, and for the briefest moment … he forgot all but her.
As she neared, he stepped down from the dais. Extending his hand, she accepted it, and together they returned to stand before the priest, hand in hand.
The import of the moment rippled through him, a powerful wave, yet he held himself steady, listening to the words of the priest, who raised his hands to those gathered behind them.
“Doth anyone know any reason this couple should not be married?”
“Nay,” answered many from the crowd—as did the MacClaren, clear and strong.
Looking at both of them, smiling, the priest then asked him and Elspeth the same question.
“Doth either of thee know of any reason why the two of you cannot or should not be joined in holy matrimony?”
His conscience balked, but his course was set. He would not turn back now.
“Nay, there is none,” he answered decisively. Elspeth answered the same, and squeezed his hand. Glancing up at him, she smiled, glowing with love.
“Niall, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife? Wilt thou love her … and honor her … keep and guard her … in health and in sickness … as a husband should a wife, forsaking all others on account of her, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“Aye,” he answered, listening carefully to the words, to be certain he made no false vows.
He would love and honor and keep and guard her through all the days and trials of their life. Even if she cursed and hated him, and withheld from him the pleasure of her love and her body. He would also forsake all others … except for his murdered family and kinsmen, for which he would exact revenge against her father, just moments from now—an exceptional circumstance he felt quite certain he had agreeably worked out with the Lord on a rainy hillside, many years ago.
“I will.”
More words were spoken, words he pondered and ruminated over, and accepted wholeheartedly, not the least of which when Elspeth looked up at him eyes shining and warm, and said, “And therefore I plight thee my troth.”
“The rings,” said the priest, presenting his open hand.
Niall removed them from a pouch secured at the belt of his tunic—two silver rings, one large and one small, which he himself had fashioned early that morning over a fire in the distant field, with his personal blacksmith assisting. Made from one of the daggers he had carried that night, seventeen winters ago, each ring bore designs that matched several that could also be found etched onto his skin, but most importantly, the wolf’s eye that identified him, and now Elspeth, as a Kincaid.
After blessing the rings, the priest returned them to their hands. He looked into Elspeth’s eyes as he slid the ring onto her finger, hoping one day she could look back on this moment and feel something less than hate for him.
Side by side, they knelt and received the church’s blessing.
He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself for the moment to come. Standing, turning they accepted a cheer from the crowd and the MacClaren, smiling proudly, stepped forward, holding a gleaming longsword in his hand.
His heartbeat slowed … the way it always did in the penultimate moment before battle. Every sensation clarified so that he heard every sound, smelled every scent, felt even the brush of the air against his skin.
“Niall, please kneel and accept the MacClaren oath of fealty.”
His muscles drew tight within his limbs, and he stood ready.
Beside him, Elspeth sighed. Of course she did. She loved him, and believed that by marrying him, she had given him a family, and a home. He took no joy in hurting her. A clash of emotions swept through his veins, painful and sweet.
“Nay, MacClaren…” he answered, looking straight into the man’s eyes. “I cannot.”
The room grew hushed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elspeth’s shoulders go rigid.
“I will never take the MacClaren vow of fealty.” He turned to the crowd, and heard Deargh’s boots as he stepped closer, the hiss of steel as his sword left its scabbard. “Because this is my home. Not yours. I am Niall Braewick, the eldest son of the betrayed and murdered Laird Kincaid and his lady wife. By my right, as his ceann-cath—
He heard Elspeth gasp, but turned his head and looked past her, to level a fierce glare at the MacClaren, whose face had gone stricken and pale. A number of Kincaid men pushed forward, seizing Conall and Ennis and the other members of the council. Elspeth’s sisters looked at him in bewilderment and fear, and rushed to stand with Bridget behind their father, where they too were circled by Kincaids swarming the dais. The crowed moved, in sudden tumult. Voices shouted.
He continued, his voice growing louder. “—I reclaim my birthright … this castle and the wrongfully stolen Kincaid lands … as my own.”
He turned back to the hall, and drew his sword—the Kincaid longsword—and held it high.
“Tha sinn Kincaids,” he shouted, feeling the power of the words thunder through him and the blood of his ancestors course through his veins. “Tha sinn braithrean.”
A chorus of voices joined his, powerful and clear,
coming not only from the Kincaids, men and women, young and old, but the fighting men who had sworn their loyalty to him. The air echoed with the hum of swords being drawn, as they moved through the crowd, pushing forward, spreading out, subduing any who appeared as if they might intercede.
“Tha sinn seo talamh.”
He turned toward the MacClaren—but Elspeth stepped into his path, her eyes agleam with tears, her expression somewhere between outrage and pain.
“Niall!” she said sharply, and for a brief moment his heart faltered.
She held out shaking hands, as if she would touch him—but she did not, fisting them instead.
He shielded his heart from her tears.
He looked into her eyes. “Do you remember when I told you that you should have chosen someone else?” he asked quietly, but not without feeling, for he did feel sympathy for her in this moment. He loved her truly, and knew full well that he broke her heart. “You should have listened.”
Conall shouted, “Priest, there is no marriage. It must be annulled.”
“This man misrepresented himself,” Ennis added to that petition. “And no consummation has taken place.”
Niall paused by the priest. “There has been no misrepresentation. I identified myself plainly from the start.” More quietly he said. “And the marriage was duly consummated, after we both pledged our troth.”
Elspeth let out a sound of outrage.
“Is this true?” asked the priest, his face florid with fear and excitement.
With a cry, Elspeth covered her face with her hands.
The priest, nodded, backing away. “The bride confirms … the marriage is valid in the eyes of God.”
Niall felt a moment’s fleeting regret for the shame he had just brought her, but set it aside, as regrets had no place in what he was about to do.
He proceeded toward her father, who stepped backward, stumbling, weakly raising his sword.
Behind the MacClaren, Bridget cried, “Please, no.”
She shielded his daughters.
Niall felt Elspeth’s hand seize his arm—but heard Deargh’s footsteps behind him, and a scuffle as he subdued Elspeth. She let out a strangled sob. The warrior muttered a few fierce, but calming words.
“What say you to this, MacClaren?” He extended his sword, pointing the tip at his enemy’s chest. “Know that your response will determine how the rest will go.”
Chapter 22
It seemed as if the MacClaren stood frozen for an eternity, but at last he spoke.
“I would ask for mercy for my family and my clan,” he said in a hollow voice. “And none for myself. Slay me now if you wish. I have confessed all to God and am prepared to forfeit my life as recompense for my sins.”
“What are you saying?” Conall shouted, his eyes wild. “We don’t even know who this man is. He has not proven that his claim is true.”
“He is son of the Kincaid,” shouted several of the Kincaid men.
“True and verified, by those who served his father.”
“I require no further proof,” the MacClaren answered, in a voice of tremulous certainty. “I see his father in his eyes, looking back at me. I do not know how I did not see it all along.”
He lowered the sword. “I … surrender to Niall Braewick, the true Kincaid, all that which is rightfully his—excepting my daughter’s tocher lands where I hope he will allow my family and my clanspeople to go, in peace, as they had no part in this. It was I, and I alone, who agreed to the treachery against his father and clan.”
Niall stared at him, almost too startled by the words to believe. The man all but confessed to the murder of his father. Triumph reverberated through his soul.
Conall surged forward, pushing against the arms of the warriors who held him back. “Not without the agreement of the council.”
“The MacClaren’s surrender is sufficient,” Niall said. Given the MacClaren’s outright surrender, he could not find it in himself to slay the man here on the dais, as his family watched. Niall nodded to his men. “Secure them for the night.”
With that, they were led to chambers upstairs and any MacClaren clanspeople present and every servant, herded to the bailey, where they would be watched over for the night.
With rapid efficiency, planned from the moment he had stepped foot across the threshold little more than two fortnights ago, the gates were closed and the castle secured under his command. All about them, as Niall had instructed, Kincaid warriors removed MacClaren shields and weapons, tapestries, and pennants from the wall.
Elspeth, her eyes aflame and her cheeks bright, glared at him accusingly before moving in the direction her family was being taken.
“No,” said Niall, his voice firm, and Elspeth froze. “She is my wife and does not go with the others. Secure the Lady Kincaid in my tower chambers. Any vacant chambers will do.”
“I want to go with my family,” she said, her angry eyes streaming tears.
“You will not.”
Her eyes flashed brighter than before, and yanking her arm free from Deargh’s grasp, she proceeded on her own to the tower stairs, with the warrior following.
The next few hours were spent in the lord’s council chamber, meeting with his chosen council, men he had selected from among the surviving Kincaid men and his own warriors. Plans for the holding of the castle and surrounding lands were further discussed. Documents were drawn, which would be sent to Edinburgh where the next Parliament and General Council would meet, asserting his rightful claim. If Niall had learned anything during his time at court, it was that the king appreciated formality, and saw documents presented for his approval as an acknowledgement of his sovereignty.
Though Niall could not guarantee his claim would be formalized, it was likely given the history of what had occurred at Inverhaven—and the growing influence of his allies, the king’s two oldest son’s—that the monarch would decline to interfere, at least for the time being and that was all Niall needed for now.
Every moment of his life, since leaving An Caisteal Niaul, seventeen years ago, had been in preparation for this. He had grown strong and cunning, living the life of a mercenary abroad, but in recent years he had returned to the court of Scotland for one purpose only. To watch and listen. To make allies of his own, that he might call upon to support him in a time of conflict, such as now. He had not curried favor with the king, who grew old and sick, and who of late kept mostly to his castle at Dundonald—but rather his sons. It was true—he had acted for some time as Buchan’s personal guard, but he had done so at the clandestine behest of the king’s eldest sons, the Earls of Carrick and Fife, so that he might report upon their younger brother’s activities, as they knew his behavior grew out of hand. The secret alliance had earned him their respect and friendship, and although he had never confessed his true identity to either, he hoped the bond he’d forged with them would serve him well now.
Everything had gone better than planned. He had no regrets … save for Elspeth.
* * *
Elspeth stood at the window, looking out into the night. Below, Kincaids and mercenaries celebrated, while the MacClarens remained secured in the bailey. She touched the cold stones, peering down, wondering what it would feel like to throw herself to earth below. Did she not deserve to die a terrible death for falling in love with Niall Braewick? For giving him the means to soundly and terribly defeat her father and her clan?
But she pulled back, sickened by her own cowardice. She did not want to die. She wanted more than everything, for this to be a terrible dream that she could awaken from.
It couldn’t be true. Her father, a murderer? And yet he had denied nothing. He who had prepared to battle the Alwyn to keep these lands, had surrendered them to the Kincaid without argument.
Where was her father? What was he thinking? Her sisters and Bridget … they must all be so afraid and as confused as she was over what had occurred. And the MacClaren people. Would they be forced from their homes? Would they die, attempting to
defend their families?
One thing she knew to be true … her heart was shattered. She trembled with anger and hurt. Niall had kissed her. Seduced her. Made her believe that he loved her. Worst of all, he had married her, all for this.
She collapsed into the chair, heartsick with grief over losing him. Not him, but the man she’d believed him to be. A man she now knew had never existed.
Hours later, as night and silence fell over the castle, she heard the sound of the door. Heart racing, and legs unsteady, she stood from the chair where she had waited all that time.
He stood in silence, looking at her, a tall shadow in the darkness, his face inscrutable.
“Do you want to catch your death?” he demanded, his voice low and tight.
She did not answer. All the angry words and accusations that had crowded her mind in the hours that she’d sat alone in silence seemed to have abandoned her.
He strode past her, so close she felt his warmth and continued on to close the shutter she’d left open. Only then did she realize how cold the room was and that she shivered, her skin numb from the chill. He knelt, his back to her, and built a fire.
For a long time, he remained there, looking into the flames. At last, standing, he turned to her, eclipsing the light. She stepped back.
His jaw twitched. “Do you truly think I would hurt you?”
“You already have,” she whispered.
And yet she hadn’t stepped away because she was frightened of him. Rather, she was frightened of herself with him. Because already, after just a moment in his presence, she found herself searching his face for the Niall she had known before.
He shook his head, looking down at the floor between them.
“Ask me anything,” he said, opening his palms to her. “Anything you wish.”
“How could you have done this to me?” she asked in a choked voice.
He closed his eyes for a moment, before lifting his gaze to stare at her unwaveringly. “I tried to send you away. I told you that you would come to despise me.”
“You were right.” She did despise him. He had taken everything from her. Her family. Her clan. Even her virtue.
The Beast of Clan Kincaid Page 23
