Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (7 page)

The answer was most certainly
nay
.

The price he’d paid was far too steep.

His gut turned at the thought of his friends dangling from that noose: Lang Gil had a wife who needed his strong arms in the fields. His boy Wee Glen—hardly a boy any longer and bigger than most—was younger still than Cameron. Father and son were both now dead, and it was every father’s nightmare to watch his son die before him.

Dare he consider Cameron’s fate?

If Broc had one prayer of thanks it was that the Butcher stopped the proceedings before it came Lael’s turn to hang—not that it seemed he would ever face her brother to answer for his failure to keep her safe. But mayhap they would ransom her? He did not believe Aidan dún Scoti would forsake his kin, no matter how angry he might have been.

God’s bones… he’d lost the sword.

The significance of that was only now worming its way into his weary brain. And in losing his father’s sword—a sword wielded by the first Ailpín king—he had forsaken his family’s honor.

Sola Virtus Nobilitat.

Virtue alone ennobles.

It was his clan’s maxim. How many times had his father told him that might was never the rightful hand that ruled? What in God’s name had made him believe he could be a leader of men? Had he never learned a lesson from the Mackinnon or his Da? Neither of these great men had ever sought to fight.

“Look now. He’s going tae weep like a wee bairn,” one of the guards taunted and pushed himself off the wall where he stood leaning. As though the odor of piss was not strong enough in this musty cavern, the guard sauntered over to Broc’s cell, lifted up his breacan and took his Old Chap out into his hands, then began to urinate on the ground in front of Broc.

Defeated he might be, but Broc would never give up his pride nor his fight. He found a smirk despite the pain in his face. “I’ve seen bigger cocks on suckling bairns,” he taunted the man.

Grinning with a missing front half tooth, the guard shook his shaft vigorously. “Aye? Well, let’s see if ye’ll
ever
do
that
again,” he crowed. “I warrant ye’ll be pissing down your legs for a long while to come.” And without stopping to think better of it, he wiped the sprinkled urine from his hands onto his MacLaren breacan.

Broc curled his lip with disdain.
Dirty bugger.
The
eegit
might be a fellow Highlander, but he was aiding and abetting the enemy. Damn, him, and damn David mac Maíl Chaluim! With a growl, Broc yanked at the chains that bound him, wincing over the self-inflicted pain. By God, the walls wept here so much his shackles were rusty and rough at the edges. Alas, but they were far too solid to undermine, for the chains were thick as his arms. They cut into his flesh.

With little to fear of a man who was bound in chains and locked in a cell, both guards snorted and guffawed.

Broc refused to give them any satisfaction. He kept his mouth shut, but he longed to know… what of his cousin? How did Cameron fare? Had he survived the night? The lad might be old enough to fight, but he was far too young to die. Next he thought of his sweet wife, Elizabet, his bonny daughters and son… and fought back tears that no true mon should ever shed.

Elizabet carried a babe he would never know… a boy? Another lassie?

Feeling defeated, he slumped against the wall, allowing the rusted metal to cut into his wrists with the full brunt of his weight. Even as tall as he was, the shackles were placed far too high upon the wall, making it impossible to relax. He loathed to think how it might feel to any man—or woman—of lesser height, and he said a quiet prayer of thanks that Lael had been sent to the tower instead. She was not so tiny as his wife, but she could never have endured the chains.

One of the guards farted then laughed, but his rude laughter was suddenly curtailed by the sound of a heavy door clattering open. Four new guards spilled into the tunnel. “Ye may go,” one of the new arrivals announced.

Broc’s gaze snapped up, hoping the dismissal was meant for him, but his hopes were quickly dashed.

“Nay!” MacLaren’s guard protested. “Maddog said—”

“I dinna give a damn what Maddog said! Ye no longer take commands from Rogan’s steward. Ye’ll take them from Keppenach’s new laird.”

“
The Butcher
?” MacLaren’s guardsman spat as though it were an epithet.

“Call him what ye will, he’s your new laird now, and by the by, if ye’ve a complaint, take to your king. But for now take your leave.”

Grumbling beneath their breaths, both MacLaren guardsmen departed as two more of the Butcher’s men spilled into the tunnels and marched down the dark passage toward the woodland entrance. After a moment, two more men came sauntering by, both grumbling as well, and then both disappeared through the chapel door. And then Broc was once again left alone with two new guardsmen who neither taunted him, nor bothered to acknowledge his existence.

Half expecting someone to come bursting into the room, Lael rushed through her ministrations. Under the circumstances, lingering in a tub—no matter how wonderful it might feel—seemed ill advised.

Her garments were filthy, so once she was properly bathed she went searching again through Aveline’s coffers to see what she might find to wear.

Most of the girl’s gowns seemed far too…
delicate
.

Raising a brow at the diaphanous material, she set the first two garments aside without bothering to unfold them, and settled on a violet gown of modest design that was made of soft, thick wool. She was taller than Aveline as she recalled, and it was evidenced by the simple fact that her dress settled well above Lael’s ankles. Wiggling her cold toes, she frowned at her bare feet.

By Cailleach’s good eye, if she were vain enough to care, she might be tempted to let out the hem. But what should she care how her dress appeared to others so long as it covered all her bits?

On the other hand, loathe as she might be to confess it, her hair was another matter entirely. Retrieving Aveline’s comb from the chest, she set about untangling her thick tangle of black hair—her “crowning glory,” her Da used to say. The memory of his husky voice filled her now with sorrow. She could scarce recall his face, nor in fact her mothers. After all, she was nine when her father died, and ten when her mother followed him to the grave. For all practical purposes, her brother Aidan had raised her, and she had raised her sisters and her brother. Together they were strong. Divided she was coming to realize she was weak.

What would Aidan do now?

She didn’t know. She only knew for certain that he would never have fought in her place, for he would have chosen forgiveness over revenge.

Did it make her a horrid, bitter person
,
she wondered?

She lived with a black mass of hatred in her heart that she could hardly bear. But she was torn now, for although she could still not find it in her heart to forgive the cold-hearted betrayal of her father, neither did revenge appear to soothe her soul.

In fact, it left her feeling bereft and full of regret.

And yet… her Da had been a good man, but what had that gotten him in the end? He’d invited his Scoti allies to celebrate at Dubhtolargg. And then just as Kenneth Mac Ailpín had once done to the sons of seven Pecht nations, the Scoti bastards had murdered her kinfolk whilst they were in their cups. Under their own roof, no less! Lael recalled laughter. She recalled the revelry. And then she recalled those blood-curdling screams—some had been her own.

Blinking away tears, she hardened her heart, remembering David mac Maíl Chaluim. Following the examples of his Ailpín ancestors, he too had slept beneath their roof, only instead of cutting their throats, he’d stolen her sister Catrìona directly from her bed, ferreting her south with every intention of handing her over to the English as a ward of their odious court. By those means he’d meant to force Aidan into accepting an alliance he could otherwise not give. And if that were not enough, it was also David who’d condoned the plan to wed Aidan to Lìleas MacLaren, with the sole intent of forcing Lìli to murder her betrothed, thereby removing Aidan as a threat to Scotland’s crown.

Aye, she loathed David mac Maíl Chaluim… and if she ever set eyes upon him again
she
would be the one to shed
his
blood. She didn’t need knives to take the man’s life. Her hatred alone was as sharp and finely honed as any blade. Though if she could, she would carve out his heart.

Finished braiding her hair, she sat a moment, wondering how the burning rage in her heart did not heat the tower room. Forsooth! Without a brazier, it was frigid.

Getting up to retrieve her boots, she slipped the muddied shoes over her clean feet. Then she returned to the bed, wondering how much longer it would be before the Butcher made his appearance. She’d expected him long before now.

Did he intend to ransom her?

Mayhap so; it certainly made sense, although she had to wonder if her brother would pay for her return when he had warned her very clearly not to intercede. She wanted to believe he would, but Lael had never seen him so angry. His green eyes, so like her own, had speared her straight through the heart. The merest possibility that he might never forgive her now weighed heavily upon her soul—more now because she had utterly failed in this endeavor. Their attempt to take Keppenach had been an effort in futility.

Outside, shouts sounded from the ramparts and Lael shot off the bed, realizing someone must have arrived. She prayed to the gods it was Aidan.

Half rain and half ice, the afternoon’s drizzle penetrated straight to the bone. Seated atop armored mounts, one of five riders shouted up at the guard to open the gates.

“Who goes there?” Keppenach’s gatekeeper replied.

“Are ye blind, lad? ’Tis your King’s standard I bear!”

Adjusting the visor upon his helm to keep the freezing mist from his eyes, the gatekeeper eyed the lion rampant with a wary eye. Although in truth it might be the King, the Butcher would have their heads if they allowed anyone to enter now that Keppenach was secure. Any man could steal a banner and claim to be someone else. In the end, fear of the Butcher far outweighed any trepidation over allowing the sovereign of Scotland to wait, soaking to the bone in the rain whilst the new laird was summoned. And while the riders anticipated the Butcher’s arrival, the King’s gold standard danced with a fitful wind, its lion rampant bleeding red.

Having heard the commotion, Jaime was already on his way to the walls, only to find David mac Maíl Chaluim in his saddle, carrying his own standard.

The king had arrived with but four riders, scarcely dressed as befitted his station, but there was no mistaking the man’s bearing, nor his long dark hair and sharp countenance—not even from this height.

If there was one thing Jaime could say about David, it was that he was not inclined toward pomposity. Henry himself would have ridden with a full entourage, but David preferred to keep his retinue small. The fact that he carried his own standard might simply be a ruse to deflect suspicion, though it might equally be David’s way of flouting his own authority.

Jaime eyed the gatekeeper with a raised brow and ordered the portcullis raised and the gates opened at once. Shaking his head, he descended the steps and hurried to greet Scotland’s king, anticipating a long-overdue reunion.

The gates were scarce open by the time Jaime arrived, but David, forever impatient, was already edging his way in, his horse sidestepping through the moving barrier like a snorting bull. Jaime heaved a sigh. If the man were blessed with but a titch more patience along with his distaste for shedding blood, his political machinations may not have gained him so much discontent amidst the Highland tribes. As it was, his eagerness to have matters settled sometimes led to rash plans that took them two steps backwards for every one they took forward. Fortunately, taking his queues from Henry, David at least listened to reason, and those who knew him best would be loyal to him unto their deaths. For his part, Jaime would be the first to rally to his King’s defense, and if it came down to it, he would die for him as well.