The Chieftain's Feud (8 page)

By the time he reached them, Ruthven was on his feet, a choleric colour in his cheeks and a dribble of ale on his chin frae the bluster spitting frae his lips. “Buchan, here! What kind of foul plot is this? The man isnae to be trusted, some spy must have told him I was here. Let him stay outside and freeze.”

The McArthur looked up at his friend, as usual the voice of reason. “We don’t ken that—not yet; but we soon will. How many are they?” he asked the Constable.

“Nae more than six.”

“D’ye hear that, Ruthven, not enough to be in a fret about, but if it eases yer mind I’ll go down to the gate and speak to him myself.”

“Nae, not without me!”

The conversation swung back and forth with Nhaimeth’s eyes following them.

“Whatever suits ye. Just keep in mind that the rules of hospitality say I must welcome any traveller in distress, and the weather is wild enough to kill anyone without a roof o’er their heads.” Words that caused Nhaimeth to look in the direction they had carried the lass the day afore, and by the time Nhaimeth turned around, they had all decided to go. Well why not, he decided, for Rob wouldnae want to miss any excitement.

Wrapped up in bonnets and plaids, they trouped through the upper and lower Baileys, putting Nhaimeth in mind of the night Harald Comlyn had sneaked into the guard house and stolen a sword to murder the McArthur with. If not for Rob, he might have succeeded. That time he took him down with a shovel frae the stables. The next time they came against each other, Rob had taken his worthless life.

He wondered if the same thoughts were going around his mind as they neared the gatehouse, their eyelashes coated in white flakes. More to the point, he hoped the McArthur remembered and, if he dared let them inside, would confiscate their weapons, locking them away nice and tidy-like to prevent another such occurrence.

The gatekeeper opened a wee door high up on the gate, but not so high the McArthur couldnae see through. Words were exchanged, but the key that opened the door was the whereabouts of a missing daughter.

Only four of the Buchans were allowed into the Keep, and only after the McArthur made sure they dismounted before entering, and a pretty sorry-looking lot of horses they were, with their riders not much bonnier. A swarm of brawny housecarls removed the visitors’ weapons, a condition they didnae question. Who would, when the weather itself was killing—sharp enough to cut like a knife?

The great hall smelled every bit as delicious as it had when they’d left, yet somehow the hunger the scents wrought were acuter, fiercer, and he wondered if the women had disappeared to the kitchens with the bairns to eat their fill, suspecting the talks would be long and drawn out. Far better if they stayed hidden upstairs and gave the Buchans’ nae notion of their number.

As the Buchan men unwrapped and shook off snow that hissed on the hearth, Nhaimeth, listening, felt anxious enough to do a wee bit of hissing himself … but, as usual, the McArthur had it all in hand.

Ruthven sat shoulder to shoulder with the McArthur at the high board, as did his cousin Graeme and Gavyn Farquhar, taking the heights where Buchan would have to stand below them pleading his cause. To Nhaimeth’s mind, the only one of the four who stood out was Ruthven. The way he stroked his beard, his mien grim, didnae seem to bode well.

If there was aught that took Nhaimeth aback, it was the arrival of the women. Morag first, as Lady of the Keep, followed by the other wives, who ranged themselves beside their men. A rare show of feminine force, nae doubt unheard of in Buchan’s Keep.

Then the talking began, hindered by the staging of the scene—Buchan with nae sword and naught to hammer his fist upon.

“My daughter has run away, and her maid said she was coming here,” he ground out, making nae attempt to be conciliatory.

The McArthur spoke softly, velvet smoothing the hard edges of the iron underneath, “It would take a brave lass, or mayhap a foolish one, to run away into a snowstorm. Why would that be?”

Finger shaking, Buchan pointed at Jamie’s father. “The blame is his,” he blasted Ruthven with his temper and sent Jamie’s father leaping to his feet, sword hilt clasped. “Him,” Buchan persisted, and his bluidy son! And he cannae deny it. I have witnesses.” Iseabel shifted closer to her father and pushed her arm through his, tethering his sword arm. “Where is the lad? Too much of a coward to face a father with right on his side?”

“I am here.”

Jamie’s voice resonated with a timbre none had ever heard him use afore that day, forceful enough to send those at the high board spinning around, mouths agape, including Nhaimeth. It was nae laughing matter, yet he felt a chuckle building in his throat at the nerve of Jamie.

On the second stair up frae the hall Jamie stood—tall, broad of shoulder and chest, a Ruthven plaid draped o’er a chainmail shirt. He looked every part the warrior the McArthur had trained as he stood one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other holding a lass to his side. Slim and beautiful with red hair curling around her bonnie face, she held her head high, as if the folk in the great hall couldnae see the obvious signs of a bairn in her belly because of her plaid.

Nhaimeth looked at Buchan. Either the man was already aware of her condition or he was a fool.

Jamie’s announcement had every head in the hall turning in his direction. Pleasing though it was to see Buchan dumbfounded, he tucked Eve in close to his side, feeling her quiver through the thickness of his mail shirt. A muscle in Jamie’s cheek lifted, pulling his lips in a sneer as he snorted in derision.

Some would say that the scowl on Buchan’s face made Eve tremble; they would be wrong. The lass who battled a storm to reach her man’s side wouldnae be intimidated by an expression she was bound to have witnessed often and often. However, for Eve’s sake, Jamie was glad to see the McArthur had confiscated the four Buchan men’s weapons, their scabbards hung empty by their sides.

His sneer segued into a smile as he looked down on Eve, on his wife. A fact he preferred to keep to himself for the moment.

“Come lass,” he said, “let’s go beard the lions in their den.”

Still smiling down at her, he found it hard to imagine how he had resisted her for so long. In truth, Eve was naught like Brodwyn, lovelier by far, and better natured. The fates must have been saving her innocent soul until they could get them both in the same place at the same time.

“Come o’er here,” Buchan roared at the top of his lungs, “I’ll wipe that smile off the side o’ yer face, as would any father whose daughter has been abducted by a whore-monger.”

Without missing a step, Jamie’s hand clenched around his sword’s hilt, the only sign of his anger. Yonder stood a man who, although he bellowed out accusations like a bull, had nae true consideration for his daughter, except as a piece of property. A piece that
he
might have stolen, but didnae abduct.

McArthur was the one who answered Buchan. Without raising his voice, he said, “Mind yer language, there are lasses present, and mine for one isnae impressed.”

Jamie discovered Buchan had nae sense of self-preservation when he countered the McArthur’s warning with, “Why would you care? I dinnae mind o’ you marrying yours. Is that why you let that—” As he turned round to point, Eve’s blue plaid slid off her shoulder, and the only noise was the McArthur leaping to his feet and the other men following suit. Afore Jamie could retrieve her worsted wrap, the surprise they had been saving for everyone but his sister Iseabel was revealed to the whole hall.

For once, Buchan couldnae find words. A miracle, as Jamie could tell he was searching for them by watching the movement of his jaw, up down, up down, but nary a skerrick came out. He wanted to laugh but had taken his life in his hands appearing afore them. The slip of her plaid, revealing the obvious bulge of her belly, had lit another flame in the fire Buchan had burning behind his eyes.

Buchan’s chest seemed to heave itself up out of his belt as if still desperately trying to make his voice heard but was prevented by lack of breath. His sword arm hung limp by his side, fist clenched as if missing the weapon Jamie was certain the McArthur would have confiscated. That was his way. Trouble might come to Cragenlaw’s gate, but he always did what he could to defuse aggression inside his hall.

“Nae more,” commanded the McArthur, a note of intransigence in his words. “I willnae stand for this breach of the hospitality I’ve shown ye by bringing ye inside out of the cauld. Unless ye have a liking for the stables, I’ll thank ye for a little civility toward my guests, of which yer one. Yule is the season of celebration, a time to reflect on the past year and make plans for the next. As far as yer daughter is concerned, it would seem the horse has bolted. I suggest ye join us at the high board and, after the meal, mayhap we can work on a solution.”

It was nae surprise to Jamie that his father voiced his disapproval before Buchan had a chance. Not that he said anything of moment, simply let out a growl.

The McArthur’s nostrils flared, a signal Jamie recognised, and he could tell by the tightening of Eve’s fingers on his arm that she wasn’t unaware. His friend Rob nudged Nhaimeth’s shoulder and they both smiled, listening to their mentor say, “That includes
all
my guests.”

Eve waited at Jamie’s side as the hall filled with a variety of manservants and maids extending the width of the high board and placing more stools and benches around it. At first she thought everyone, including her father, intended ignoring her, then Iseabel came over, her eyes smiling and spoke to her. “Dinnae worry, the McArthur will sort all this curfuffle out. He’s a dab hand at calming people down.”

“It isnae just because of the bairn. Yer father and mine have been feuding for years and years. I cannae see the McArthur ending it by gi’en them a talking to.” Huffing out a breath, she looked Iseabel in the eye. Was it only because they were so like Jamie’s that she felt she could trust her? “All yon years and I still dinnae ken what the feud is about.”

“Well, I can tell … ye…” her words dragged out as Jamie leant closer to them. “Not the now. They want us to sit up at the board. Besides, Eve, ye’ve hardly had a bite to eat all day, it cannae be guid for ye. Think of the bairn,” he said, all concern.

“I’ve thought of naught but since I discovered I was carrying. The only one I had to rely on was Gillian…” Her breath stuttered in her throat and the two accompanying stopped walking.

Jamie’s face paled, “What’s wrong?”

And she didn’t wonder at it, for small beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip. “My maid, Gillian, was the only one I told where I was going, she wouldnae have given me away willingly. What will they have they done to make her tell?” Surely her father wouldnae hurt the lass … but Hadron, he was a man with nae conscience or compassion. She remembered his ferocious scowl. Her father had been shocked, but Hadron had been incensed as if she had slighted him more than anyone.

Jamie’s arm came around her shoulder. She recognised his touch, his tenderness and still hoped for love … love for her and the bairn. “Just wait,” his answer a soft murmur in her ear. “Once we’re seated, I’ll ask after her. They cannae ignore the question in front of everyone. If they do, at least we’ll get a reaction.”

“I’m sure my brothers wouldnae hurt her. The trick to get me home wasnae of their making. They thought it a great jest, but I wouldnae put anything past Hadron. He doesnae like me. I doubt he likes anyone but my father, and sometimes not even him.” Eve lifted an eyebrow and looked up at Jamie frae under her lashes. What would her new husband think of her family? If he hadnae a skunner of them before, he would now; but, like the explanation naebody appeared willing to give her, that was a question best left until later.

Everyone sat where the McArthur directed. Though Jamie didn’t say a word, she could tell frae the looks he gave her that he was as amazed as she was when they were seated in the middle, their backs to the hall, but opposite their host and Morag Farquhar, Rob’s mother.

Eve’s youngest brother took the place at her side and then the rest of her family, finishing with her father and Hadron at the very end. It was a relief when her brother squinted down at her belly and grinned. He might be young and foolish, but he had little malice in him. She smiled back, but afore she could ask him aught, Jamie demanded her attention, “These lads next to me are my best friends, Rob and Nhaimeth, the ones who carried ye in frae the cauld yesterday, and for that I am profoundly thankful. I’m afraid I only rescued yer palfrey.”

“Ye have a name for loving horses, but then ye also had a name for being fond of the lassies. But we proved that wrong; now ye have a liking for only one.”

“I cannae argue with the truth,” he said. And that was the trouble.

She could hardly expect him to confess his love afore everyone at the table. The pity of it was she was sure the thought ne’er crossed his mind.

The food served was magnificent, the atmosphere uneasy, as if the multitude of different coloured plaids clashed with one another and the only thing staying the clansmen’s sword hands was the wind and weather outside the castle walls. There was only one way in or out—the narrow causeway linking Cragenlaw to the mainland, and it didnae encourage too many armed men at a time to walk abreast. To attempt scaling the cliffs almost certainly meant death by suicide, even on a fine sunny day.

Nhaimeth had celebrated many a Yule feast at Cragenlaw, although tonight’s would be the first when he wondered whether the folk seated around the high board might take a bite out of their nearest neighbour. With that notion in mind, he glanced at those either side of him, feeling fortunate that his closest companions were Rob on his left, and Jamie’s sister Iseabel on his right.

The wolfhounds were under the board chewing on bones the bairns had tossed to them, giggling when the animals growled over the juiciest leftovers, but the bairns were enjoying themselves as, for this one night, they were allowed to stay up betimes. Sooner than late, once their mothers made note of the uisge beatha making an appearance, replacing the tankards of ale in the men’s hands, the bairns were sent to bed. Quaich of silver and horn made an appearance frae inside the pouches they all carried—even Nhaimeth, for what self respecting Scot wouldnae have one. It was the habit of the wives to indulge in a glass of wine and sweetmeats of spiced nuts and dried fruits while the men finished the meal with the ‘water of life’.