Authors: Highland Princess
Sighing, he told the helmsman to oversee the unloading of their baggage, holding on to Mairi’s arm as he did, as if he feared she would go without him.
“His grace should have taught you obedience,” he muttered a moment later as he hurried her along the jetty toward the steps leading up to the village. “I’m thinking he did you no service by encouraging you to speak your mind to men, but I warrant your royal husband will deal firmly with you after you are safely married.”
Grinning impudently, she said, “I am not married yet, sir, or even betrothed. Nor do I think any perhaps-someday-king Alasdair will prove a trial to me.”
Ranald chuckled. “Every one of the Steward’s sons has the Bruce’s blood in his veins, Mairi, and such men know their worth. Moreover, Alasdair is older than you, as large and strong as his father, and as likely as anyone to join his grace’s court here or at Ardtornish. We’ll see then how tolerant he is of female backchat.”
Mairi lifted her chin, determined to show no concern about Alasdair Stewart. She would deal with him later. Right now, she had a hanging to prevent.
Their horses were quickly saddled and the three miles from Askaig to Loch Finlaggan were soon behind them.
Finlaggan served as the administrative hub for the Lordship of the Isles. From the top of the rise overlooking the loch, through the still-heavy curtain of fog, the riders could barely discern the tiny village of cottages on its western shore or the sprawling, low-walled palace complex on Eilean Mòr, the larger of two islets just offshore. A stone causeway connected the islet to the village.
Council Isle, the much smaller of the two, still lay hidden in mist. Connected by a second stone causeway to Eilean Mòr at the latter’s southeastern tip, it served as a meeting place for the annual Council of the Isles, the gathering of chiefs, chieftains, lairds, and other councilors loyal to the Lord of the Isles. Only fourteen to sixteen of them served as official councilors at any time, but deliberations were open to all. No business of the Lord of the Isles was conducted in secret.
Isla’s trials, as well as appeals of decisions made elsewhere by Brehons, the hereditary judges who served throughout the Lordship, also took place on Council Isle or at Judgment Knoll, a hillside overlooking Loch Indaal on the southern end of Isla. Generally, men condemned to death in either place were hanged on the Knoll.
At the annual gathering, the councilors and his grace customarily sat around a great stone table so ancient that men said Somerled himself had held his councils there. The lad was right though, Mairi decided. If they sat around that table today, they’d be soaked through in minutes. Indeed, in so thick a fog, someone might even tumble off the causeway or stumble into the water along the shore.
From her position on the rise, she heard a rat-tat-tat of hammers that told her men had already begun their day’s work on the chapel’s new slate roof, but she could discern no activity within the complex, let alone see any on the tiny, fog-shrouded islet. Nevertheless, the sense of urgency that had driven her since learning of Ian’s trial continued to plague her. She spurred her pony forward.
No sooner had she and her companions crossed the causeway from the village to Eilean Mòr and dismounted in the grassy enclosure there than a lad of ten or eleven summers came running to help Ned with the horses.
“Has his grace already gone to Council Isle?” Mairi asked him.
“Nay, my lady, for wi’ this fog, he ha’ decided t’ hold council in the hall.”
“But can that be legal, Ranald?” she asked as Ned led the ponies away and the younger lad fell into step beside them.
“Legal enough, I warrant,” Ranald said as they passed from the grassy stable enclosure to the next one, which housed the chapel, guardhouses, and cottages. “’Tis his grace who interprets the laws, after all, and he is ever a fair man.”
“Aye, that he be,” their informer said earnestly, trotting beside Meg to keep up with them. “The laird did say the great hall will hold all who come, my lady, and he did set men like me t’ direct them there. I’m thinking his grace will begin Ian Burk’s trial first, since it be the local one, and new. That’d be within the hour.”
“I’ll just have time to change my dress then,” Mairi said, relieved that she would not have to appear before the company in her present soggy attire.
Commanding Ranald to make her excuses to her mother, and taking care to avoid anyone else who might try to delay her, she and Meg hastened across the roofed and stone-paved forecourt and up the steep stairway within the ten-foot-thick wall of the family’s private quarters, to the bedchamber she shared with her younger sister Elizabeth. There, with Meg’s help, she quickly donned an ermine-trimmed tunic and kirtle of the rich scarlet wool known as tiretain, because it had come all the way from Tyre.
Meg plaited Mairi’s glossy black hair into twin coils, pinning one over each ear, and concealed the whole beneath a delicately embroidered gold-mesh caul. Atop the caul, she set a narrow gold circlet to denote Mairi’s rank.
“Your gloves, mistress,” she said sharply when Mairi stood and turned toward the door. “And, too, you should carry a lace handkerchief.”
“Don’t be daft, Meg, I’ve tarried long enough.” But she took the gloves, knowing her mother would scold if she appeared barehanded before such a company. Then, without further comment, she hurried out and down the steep stairway, holding her long skirts away from her feet with her left hand. Her right hovered near the stone wall, but so great was her hurry that she barely touched it.
From the top of the stairs, she heard male voices below in the forecourt, but by the time she reached the doorway, silence reigned outside. Even the hammering on the chapel roof had stopped, doubtless so the workers could attend Ian’s trial.
Emerging into the empty forecourt, she bundled her skirts awkwardly over her left arm to keep them out of her way and pulled on her gloves as she hurried across the pavement and through the arched gateway into the courtyard of the vast rectangular great hall. Hurrying up the wooden steps at the hall’s southeast corner, she entered the antechamber to hear male voices again from the great hall beyond.
The door into the hall stood open to allow two tall men to pass through, one behind the other and gentlemen both if their short, brightly colored velvet cloaks and tight-fitting silk hose were any indication. As she crossed the chamber, the second man, a bit shorter and slighter than the first, reached to pull the heavy door closed behind him. The voices inside the hall were fading, telling her that her father had already mounted the dais to begin the proceedings.
“Hold there,” she commanded in a low but urgent tone as she held her skirts higher and increased her pace, fearing the man might attempt to bar the door.
It continued to close, but she caught its edge before it did.
“Wait,” she said more loudly, struggling against the strong grip that threatened to pull the door from her grasp. “I want to come in.”
The door stopped, but as she sighed her relief and moved to pass through the narrow opening, she found herself facing a broad, immobile male chest clad in sky-blue velvet, and instantly realized that she had misjudged the size of the gentleman she had thought was the smaller. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder.
At Finlaggan and elsewhere in the Isles, most men wore the skins, saffron-colored shirts, and blanketlike garments that barelegged Highlanders belted around themselves, but many of the galley-owning Islesmen, who treated the seas as their highroads, wore richer, more courtly garments that they had seen and purchased in their travels.
Thanks to her older brothers’ interest in similar garments, she recognized his short tunic as being of French design, and recalled her mother’s oft-expressed dislike of the blatant display of male backsides and sexual organs encased in thin hosiery that the fashion for such short tunics so often provided. Resisting temptation to let her gaze drift downward, she said, “Pray, sir, stand aside. Surely you know that you must leave this door open.”
“His grace, the Lord of the Isles, is about to try a man for his life, lass. Open or not, this hall is no place for a maiden today, however beautiful she may be.”
His voice was low-pitched but touched with humor.
Fighting to control her irritation, she looked up to tell the impertinent, self-appointed doorkeeper how irrelevant his opinion was to her, but she swallowed the words when her indignant gaze met his twinkling blue eyes.
The sensations that held her in thrall then she would later find difficult to recall clearly, let alone to describe. Warmth swept through her, doubtless stirred by that impudent twinkle, but the warmth included a sense of surprise. She would try to persuade herself that the latter was due only to having never before seen eyes of so clear and pure a blue, like calm water in the Firth of Lorn when the tide was on the turn and the sun high and shining from a clear sky. She felt a strange tingling, too, in places where she had never felt anything similar before.
“Let me pass,” she said, but her mouth was suddenly dry and the words emerged in a harsh whisper.
He shook his head.
Dampening her dry lips, she tried to swallow, to look away from that spellbinding gaze, but she seemed to have lost control over such actions.
“What the devil’s amiss here?”
The obstacle in front of her turned, shifting aside slightly as he did, but before Mairi could sufficiently gather her senses to take advantage of the opening and slip past him into the hall, the second, even larger man blocked the gap and stared at her in astonishment.
“By heaven,” he said impatiently to the first, “I’ll remember this when you next take me to task for lingering over a pair of bonnie eyes. Send her away, Lachlan, and close this door. His grace is glowering at us, and I warrant he’ll not begin until it is shut.”
Irritation returned. Mairi stiffened and squared her shoulders, saying sharply, “This door must remain open. Our law requires it.”
“What do girls know about our laws?” the second man demanded.
“Perhaps nothing,” the first said equably, adding before Mairi could contradict him, “Nonetheless, I believe she is right. This being the first time we’ve attended such a proceeding indoors, I’d forgotten that the usual openness is due to law and not merely to circumstance. Thank you, mistress, for the reminder. We would not want to displease his grace.”
“If you think my father is displeased now, sir,” she said, “just wait until he hears that the pair of you tried to keep me from entering. It is as much my right to do so as it is yours.”
Both men’s eyes widened in astonishment, revealing those of the second to be nearly as pure a blue as those of the first.
In unison, they exclaimed, “Your father!”
“Aye, for I am Mairi of Isla. Now, stand aside and let me pass.”
Instead of being properly abashed, the one called Lachlan caught her gaze again and held it, the twinkle in his eyes deepening as he continued to block her way. This time, however, the only emotion the twinkle inspired was fury.
Her hand shot up, but even as it did, his flashed up quicker and caught it.
His eyes still twinkled, and his leather-gloved grip was light, but she could not pull away.
L
achlan Lubanach Maclean of Bellachuan on Seil, and Knapdale, fought to keep from grinning at the lass’s dismay. He should, he knew, have guessed who she was at once, because not only was she richly dressed but she also lived up to her legendary reputation for being the most beautiful woman in the Isles. Doubtless, that incredible beauty had bewitched him and caused his wits to desert him.
Looking at her, he felt something stir within that he had not felt for a long time. Her eyes had a bewitching, message-sending clarity, her voice a rich musical resonance that was deeply sensual. Her temper was legendary too, however, and by the way her ivory cheeks reddened and her dark blue eyes flashed, he was certain that had she wielded her father’s power of the pit and gallows, he would soon be hanging from a good strong rope. Nonetheless, he felt drawn to her.
Beside him, his brother Hector made a warning sound in his throat, but Lachlan ignored him. Hector cared more for the ancient Clan Gillean battle-axe he wielded so dexterously than he did for anything else, but he also had a finely honed eye for the fair sex. Lachlan’s skills extended to many things other than battle, too, and he welcomed any challenge or puzzle. The comely lass offered both.
“What goes on here?” a gravelly voice growled behind them as a strong hand grabbed Lachlan’s shoulder, startling him. He still held the lass’s wrist, but in that instant he realized that whoever had grabbed him had also put a hand on Hector’s shoulder, doubtless meaning to pry them apart to see what was going on.
Quicker than thought, he released the lass and caught Hector’s other shoulder as he wheeled to deal with the intrusion. By the look in his eyes, Lachlan was barely in time, undoubtedly saving the intruder from a stunning blow if not instant death.
“Steady,” he muttered, but Hector had already recalled their surroundings, and the light of battle quickly faded from his eyes.
The two turned as one to face the interloper, and Lachlan stifled a sigh when he recognized Niall MacGillebride Mackinnon, Chief of the Mackinnons and High Steward of the Household to the Lord of the Isles.
Behind Lachlan, the lass pressed both small hands against his left side, trying to shift him out of her way. Hoping to protect her from Niall’s displeasure, he stood his ground until she said, “Niall, make them move. I want to come in.”
When Mackinnon glared at him, Lachlan obligingly stepped aside.
“This be no time or place to stand chatting,” Mackinnon said curtly. Then, softening his tone, he smiled at the lass and added, “Welcome home, Lady Mairi. ’Tis relieved we are that you’ve enjoyed a safe journey despite this wretched fog.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But pray, sir, will you show me where I should sit? I want to speak for Ian Burk, you see, but the hall is exceptionally crowded.”
Mackinnon frowned and glanced over his shoulder.