Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (37 page)

She sympathized with Broc Ceannfhionn, with his inherent need to return to his roots, to seek answers and rebuild what was lost. And even if the Butcher didn’t share their familial longings, she must confess that, despite all that was said about the man, she had eagerly anticipated his arrival. Forsooth, she rued the instant she went to tell Maddog about the noises coming from the chapel. Fear alone had compelled her to it. It was because of her the MacKinnon’s men hanged and Lael and the blond giant nearly did as well.

But it doesn’t matter.

This is the way it is now.

Lael was unlike any other woman Kenna had ever known. She was strong, but she was kind and good. The Butcher too was naught like she’d imagined and she hoped and prayed his rule would prove as great as the MacEanraig’s before him. And once she found the nerve, she would broach the subject to Lael, and perhaps even Lael would forge the way for a discourse with the new laird?

In the meantime, she had more than enough blankets to weather the cold, though it wouldn’t be long before she would be forced to find a warmer place to sleep.

Maddog stepped in front of her as she made her way around the garden she had once tended with Lìli MacLaren.

“You!”

“Sweet lass, I came to see how ye fared.”

Kenna let the pendant fall from her fingers and flattened her palm against her breast. “Far better than poor Broc Ceannfhionn.” And Afric and Baird as well, though she didn’t dare to goad him further as Maddog was as changeable as the weather. Still, try as she might she couldn’t quite contain her ire. “I dinna realize ye killed poor Afric, too, Maddog! If I had an inkling, I would ne’er have agreed to help ye.”

The gleam in his eye was one she recognized, and it made her take a wary step backward. “I did nay such thing,” he swore, with one hand hidden beneath his cloak.

Kenna took another step backward, prepared to run.

“Afric was merely pissed. He fell down that well. How many times ha’ ye seen the mon stumbling aboot half out of his face? And how many times has he climbed into your bed, and ye had to boot him away?”

Adjusting her cloak to hide her shivers, Kenna glared at him. “Only once. He thought I was Ailis.”

Maddog leered at her rudely. “Ach, now did he?”

“Only once,” Kenna persisted, “Before I moved my pallet.”

He shook his head. “Ach, now lass, what makes ye believe that because ye hide that flea-stack in an empty chapel no one will find ye there? The reason everyone leaves ye be is solely because of me. Ye must know that?”

Kenna bristled. There he went again, making her feel as though she owed him something for aught she had in life—which wasn’t much. In truth, she’d had a far better home in the village, but that was then and this was now. All she had at the moment was a mean pallet in a cold chapel, a brand new dress and a pendant once given to her by a mother she didn’t remember.

Soon, she would need to find a man to provide for her, but until the very end she hoped to God for something more. She didn’t wish to live the way Ailis and Mairi lived, hopping from one pallet to another. Poor Ailis went about swallowing juniper bark and berries to keep from bearing babes, and Mairi was simply to old to conceive anymore. But it was no life to live. Kenna would have left Keppenach with all the others if she’d had anywhere at all to go. She’d stayed because… well, she’d hoped against hope that she might learn something about her mother—or at the least, find some connection to her past. Now she wished she had entreated upon Bowyn to ask his kin to take her in. The sweet old man was the one male here at Keppenach who had never even once tried to get beneath her skirts. The thought of him opening that terrible sack made her heartsick.

Maddog eyed her pallet, half hidden in one corner of the south transept. “I know ’tis been difficult, lass. If ye’ll but gi’ me time, I’ll help ye better your lot.”

“How can you possibly? You have naught to your name, Maddog—just the same as me!”

“Aye, but I have something of value… to sell… and now I have a plan.”

She turned to face him, adjusting her cloak, curious despite herself. “Even if that were so, why would I help ye?”

He shrugged.

As tempting as it might be to think of a warmer bed, anything that came from Maddog would bear the stink of dishonor. She turned to go, fully intending to tell the laird—or at least her new mistress as she sensed in her heart that Lael would defend her. This was truly no way to live!

Maddog seized her by the cloak, like the cruel hand of a grim reaper. “I hope ye dinna think to tattle now. Ye swore for Bowyn, ye’d best recall.”

For a moment, she thought to scream, but two new guards appeared in the nave. Kenna shrugged away as the two guards passed them by. She held her tongue, watching as Maddog shared a pointed glance with one. She realized then that no matter how much he poormouthed, he still had a hold upon many who remained. They would do his bidding, if for naught else than because they feared him.

If she were smarter, she would fear him too.

“If ye go and tell, I will say ye were the one who kilt the poor boy.”

“But that’s not true!”

Maddog shrugged. “Ye swore for Bowyn,” he said again, and it gave her pause. She
had
sworn for Bowyn, right to the Butcher’s face. If Maddog answered for that crime, so, too, would she.

Afraid of the consequences, she turned back to seek her bed. “Go on then and leave me be,” she begged. “I dinna need or want your help!”

“Ye’re naught but an ungrateful witch,” Maddog spat, but he turned to leave her anyway. “Ye’re on your own,” he warned.

For once in Kenna’s life it didn’t feel entirely true. She sensed a change on the horizon—a change that included her somehow. It charged the air about her even now in the cold, dark recesses of the old forgotten chapel.

Maddog grumbled as he went away, and she waited until he was gone, then sought her bed, concealed in the corner by a pile of debris, praying now for the light of day.

The donjon gaol was by far the most unlikely place for a summit, but here they were nevertheless. Broc was seated in a chair beside a small table. A carpet lay beneath his feet and a well-lit brazier warmed the cell. A heap of blankets lay atop his pallet and the Butcher sat facing him from his stool on the other side of the bars. Little by little the cell had transformed into a well-appointed bower, if one might overlook the stone walls and roughhewn floor, though Broc had endured far worse.

“Enjoying the
uisgee
?”

“
Uisge beatha
,” Broc corrected him. “Dinna say it like the bluidy
Èireannach
. Aye, ’tis a good nip
.”
He set his tankard down upon the table.

The Butcher shook his head. “Ye must know I cannot return Keppenach to you, though I can lobby the king for Dunloppe?”

“A ruined keep for what should have been mine?”

“The land is good, but nevertheless, you have no choice. David will
never
give you Keppenach. As far as he is concerned, you remain a traitor to the crown. He would no more reward your efforts—no matter how just you believe your actions to be—than he would renounce his crown.”

Broc lifted his cup, taking a sip of his
uisge
, grateful for the warmth that sidled down his throat. He listened patiently, uncertain what to say or do. These visits had continued, and he had come to know and trust the man seated before him.

The wood in the brazier crackled, spitting cinders.

“As for me, I have no true affinity for Keppenach, nor to Dunloppe, but I do know a desire to rebuild my legacy, much the same as you.”

Broc nodded. A good woman could do that for a man. His wife Elizabet and his children were the reasons he cared to better his own circumstances. “Lael?” he asked, assessing the man with keen blue eyes.

It took the Butcher a measured moment to respond, but then he finally nodded.

Broc smiled. “She’s a pawky one,” he assured. “She’ll gi’ ye heartburn far sooner than she’ll warm the cockles of your heart.”

The Butcher chuckled low. “This I know.”

“And yet ye would keep her as your bride?”

“I would.”

“You’re a lucky mon,” Broc said. “’Tis God’s own truth, were my own heart free, I’d have loved her as do ye.”

“But it’s not?”

Broc instinctively understood why he asked. “Nay. I’ve a bonny lass at home,” he confessed to the man. “A bonny Sassenach at that… which only goes to show that there’s hope even for a gruesome lad like ye.”

The Butcher laughed outright.

So did Broc.

“Your a good fellow,” his captor said.

“So are ye—give or take a few heads ye’ve removed. Fortunately none were mine, so I’d see fit to bury the hatchet now.”

“So long as ’tis not in my back,” the Butcher countered.

Broc chuckled. “Aye well… did I see fit to gi’ ye my blade, it wadna be between your shoulders, Sassenach.”

There was an unexpected twinkle in the Butcher’s eye. “We share that in common,” he revealed.

With that matter settled, Broc continued. “As for Keppenach, I ken what ye say and if ye believe that David mac Maíl Chaluim will consider your behest, I will accept Dunloppe in Keppenach’s stead. ’Tis far more than I have now—a cottage by the MacKinnon’s good graces.”

“If it gives you any comfort, Keppenach is only barely less in ruins.”

Broc nodded agreement. “So it is.” He peered into his cup, and then his gaze traveled the length and breadth of the tunnels.

“
This
cannot be helped,” the Butcher added, seeming to read his thoughts. “David will expect you to remain imprisoned until the terms of our agreement have been met. If I set you free before then—I know him well—he will
not
feel you have paid your dues and he will
not
consider our settlement request. He will not be seen to reward his enemies, but I tell you now… the man has not been given his due. Given the opportunity, he is a worthy leader and a man of honor. If you serve your time here, Broc, he will be more than willing to agree to my bequeathal of Dunloppe to you.”

Broc realized the man spoke true. From the instant they’d met he had not once treated Broc with disdain, even whilst he hung at the end of a noose.

In fact, were it not for the Butcher, he would be dead right now, and for but a single breath, he would have been set upon a burning pyre, along with the rest of his crew. “What of the sword?” he dared to ask.

The Butcher gave a shake of his head. “I have seen hide nor hair of it, but I will continue to search. If what you say is true, ’tis my duty to return it to my king.” He paused. “And yet… if you should find a way to retrieve it on your own… I can assure you it would be added incentive for David to hear your claim… if you should think to gift it on your own”

Incredulous, Broc stood up from his chair and approached the bars, putting his hand to one and gripping it tightly. “You would be willing to look the other way?”

The Butcher leaned forward, linking his fingers together into a fist, and then he peered down at the ground between his knees. Broc could tell he was measuring his words. He peered up again, casting a glance at the guards he had posted some ten feet away, then once again met Broc’s gaze. “David claims he chose me for this assignment because I was a Scot. He said it was time I learned to be one. I must confess I did not ken what that meant when he first spoke the words. I spent the entirety of my life eschewing my mother’s legacy and clove to a father I did not know, but who others spoke of with utmost respect. In truth, I can claim no love for any of my kin, but I was born a Scot and lived a Scot until David chose to embrace me. But I did not know how much I needed a home until I wed Lael, and now I ken. Until now there is one thing I have never understood about David’s rule, though now I do. Betimes you must make a choice for the good of the people, not so much for the good of a king. That is what it means to be a Scot. That is what David has so oft done. He has done much to bring enmity to himself but to further the gain of his chosen people.”

Broc swallowed at hearing the Butcher’s heartfelt words, and despite that they were not meant to do so, they made him feel humiliated to have placed pride over beneficence. Men had died to return his birthright, when all along he had a place amidst kinfolk who loved him as their own. Mayhap David did not deserve the reputation he’d received? Mayhap his unwillingness to raise his sword was less a testament to his fear and more a testament to his strength?

“Very well,” Broc ceded. “I will do my time and I will gratefully receive Dunloppe instead of Keppenach.”

To illustrate his commitment, Broc slid his hand between the bars and the Butcher rose to embrace it.

“I was not blessed with a brother,” the Butcher said, “though I will henceforth call you mine.” They shook hands. “You’re a good man Broc Ceannfhionn.”

Broc gave him a lopsided grin whilst their hands were still joined. “Brother Jaime,” he entreated. “Can ye spare aught more of that blancmanger? I find my appetite has returned.”

Jaime barked with laughter. “God’s teeth, mon! Ye’ll eat my entire pantry afore the winter has gone!”