Valan also noted the man kept smoothing down the hair on one side of his head with the regularity of a nervous twitch. He leaned toward Elspet. “Which ear did ye take?”
“The right,” she said, confirming his suspicions. She pulled in a deep breath and eased it out. “I suppose we should properly greet him.”
Valan stopped her. “Nay. Make him come to ye.”
Elspet steadied herself at her post. “So be it, fine sir. Let our game begin.”
Chapter Six
When Euban’s gloatingsmirk slid her way, it brought a surge of nauseating revulsion with it. Elspet forced herself not to shudder. She would not give the worm that satisfaction.
“Lady Elspet.” He made a grand bow, then graced her with a victorious sneer. “It does my heart good to find Caerlaverock’s portcullis raised and welcoming to us. Forgiveness is a grand thing for the soul, is it not?”
She stood taller and proudly lifted her chin, thankful for Valan’s strength beside her. “Why have ye come, Master Euban?”
The man lifted both hands as if shocked she would ask. “Why, Lady Elspet—I have come to save my clan from the vile English. Sixty loyal men answer to my call. Hie yerself to the battlements and look to the south. They make camp now at the edge of the wood.” Feigning a loud, despairing huff, he slowly shook his head. “We saw what was left of the village.” His tone dripped with malicious taunting. “Was there naught ye could do against the English and their fiery brands?”
“The English have paid with their lives.” She settled a proud gaze on Valan. “The Lord of Argyll was good enough to send his mightyGallóglaighto protect us.” Determined to show him he would never rattle her, she cast a proud look across the village folk gathered in the courtyard. “Our clan will rebuild, and until then, they shall be safe and happy within Caerlaverock’s walls. There is room enough for all.”
Euban ignored her. Instead, his leering focus slid to Beitris. He wet his lips, then made another courtly bow. “Lady Beitris, how can it be possible ye have grown even more lovely?”
“I have not,” Beitris snapped. Her curled lip revealed how little she thought of him. “I hear as ye age, yer memory goes as well as yer eyes. Mayhap, that is yer problem.”
Euban’s toothy smile split his greasy beard. “Still a wee hellcat in need of taming, I see.” He scrubbed his hands together and licked his lips again. “I look forward to the task.”
“Then ye look forward to death.” Valan stepped forward. “These women are under my protection.” He drew the short sword he carried sheathed beneath his arm. The blade caught the sunlight and reflected it in Euban’s face. “Challenge me. I beg ye.”
A low rumble rippled through the crowd. Whether because they were awestruck, dismayed, or rooting for the fight, Elspet couldn’t tell.
“I am well within my rights here, mercenary dog.” Euban swaggered forward, then made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the surroundings. “My brother left no son to follow him as laird. That honored title now falls to me. Even under the old law of Tanistry, I have been chosen as my brother’s successor. Caerlaverock and Clan Maxwell are mine.”
“Make way! Make way!” someone shouted from the opening of the gatehouse tunnel.
The crowd shifted, allowing an unremarkable man to pass. He carried a leather pouch strapped across his shoulder. A small mud-colored horse, as unmemorable as the man, plodded along behind him.
Elspet didn’t recognize the messenger, but Valan had assured her that was why they had chosen Roland. She readied herself for the trickery about to play out. She could do this. Too many lives depended on the success of their ploy. As she leaned over the railing and peered closer at the man, Valan hissed something under his breath, but she didn’t quite catch it. It didn’t matter. She would act this out to convince Euban of the messenger’s authenticity. Ready to be done with it, she hurried down the stair.
“Lady Elspet!”
She paused and looked back at him. Valan seemed more frustrated than she had ever seen him. “What is it?”
He shot a glare at the messenger, then looked back at her. Teeth clenched, he gave a subtle, jerking shake of his head.
Whatever troubled him had to wait. A private word was impossible now. She pushed onward.
The dusty traveler pulled a folded parchment from his pouch and held it high. “From His Royal Highness, King Alexander. Where be the laird of Clan Maxwell?”
“I am,” Elspet and Euban replied in unison. Before Euban made it to the lad, Elspet shoved her way in front of him, wishing she had worn her armor instead of the infernal gown tangling around her ankles. Thank the saints they were in front of so many witnesses. Valan’s messenger had timed this entrance well. “Here. Give it to me. I am Laird Herbert Maxwell’s widow. The new laird is yet to be named.”
The messenger held the sealed notice against his chest and backed up a step. “My king bade me give this to none other than the Maxwell himself.”
“Laird Herbert Maxwell died months ago. In Wales. Fighting for King Alexander.” She thrust out her hand and marched closer, ready to rip the thing from the man’s clutches. Enough was enough. Time for the reveal. “Give it to me, and I shall read it for all to hear.”
Before the man handed it over, Valan appeared at her side and caught hold of her arm. Something dark and frightening filled his eyes. His expression was dire. “M’lady,” he said soft and low, then shook his head again in an adamantno.
“Let her be,Gallóglaigh,” Euban growled as he shoved closer. A stench akin to rotting onions and stale piss accompanied him, wafting across everyone he neared.
Elspet turned aside to keep from gagging. The man always had stunk worse than a ripe chamberpot. How could she have forgotten? She cast another worried glance at Valan. Something was wrong, and he was trying to warn her. But what could they do now? In front of the entire clan? And Euban? She held out her hand to the messenger again. “Give me the message. Now!”
