“But, my lord, yer wedding?”
“The wedding has been called off,” Fingal Stewart said. “The lady’s lawful husband has returned to claim her, and to claim the keep. Will ye argue the point with me? Or will ye do as ye have been bid?”
Bhaltair looked at the tall man standing behind the high board. He recognized him as a hardened soldier, a man not to be trifled with, and Ewan Hay wasn’t worth getting killed over. It had been a different thing when the pickings had seemed easy and simple, but not now. Completely ignoring Ewan Hay, Bhaltair bowed to Fingal Stewart, giving him a sardonic smile as he did so. “I will gather the men immediately, my lord,” he said.
Lord Stewart nodded. “My men will help ye,” he said. “Clennon Kerr, take those ye need and see the Hay men-at-arms are escorted from the keep. The Hay will join them as soon as they are all mounted.” Fin knew as long as he held Ewan Hay in his custody, Bhaltair and his men would cause no difficulty. If anything happened to Lord Hay’s youngest brother, they would have to answer for it, and Lord Stewart’s word would be taken long before theirs would.
Ewan Hay continued standing. No one invited him to sit. Finally he asked the question he had been dying to ask since he had entered the hall and found Lord Stewart and his men. “How the hell did ye get in here?”
“That shall remain my secret,” Fin told him. “Possibly ’twas magic, or possibly God so disapproved of what ye were doing, he aided me.”
“The drawbridge is up,” Ewan Hay said. “I’ve always kept it up.”
Fin laughed. “Afraid of yer neighbors? Or to keep me out?”
Ewan Hay flushed. “Ye were dead,” he muttered.
“Nay, I was not,” he said.
“Then why didn’t ye return?” Ewan Hay wanted to know.
“That is a story ye’ll not be here to hear when I tell it tonight,” Lord Stewart said.
“If ye’ve come back without a ransom, then yer siding with the English, as many of the lords captured at Solway Moss are. King Henry sent them back with gold in their pockets, and instructions to influence French Mary to give our little queen to him for his son to marry one day. Yer a traitor!”
Fingal Stewart’s stern face grew dark with his anger. “Do ye truly wish to die, Ewan Hay?” he asked the man. “I am no traitor. I have no English gold in my pocket. I am a Stewart, kin to our late King James.”
“Ye think being the king’s kinsman exempts ye from disloyalty? What of Angus and Arran and the others who have more often than not betrayed the royal Stewarts?”
“But my branch has never betrayed any Stewart king,” Fin replied quietly. “Ever faithfulis the motto of the Stewarts of Torra. And we have been.And I am!Should ye ever suggest again that I am not, I will kill ye where ye stand. Today I have returned home to Brae Aisir and retaken the keep without casualties. I am of a mind to be merciful, Ewan Hay, to ye and to yer men. But disparage my honor and my name again, and it is my sword that will pierce yer cowardly black heart!”
At that moment one of the Kerr men-at-arms returned to the hall. He bowed to Fingal Stewart. “The Hay men-at-arms and their captain are outside on the other side of the drawbridge, my lord. They but await the Hay to join them.”
“Take him, and put him on his horse. Have Clennon Kerr bring him to the Hay captain.” He turned to Ewan Hay. “Do not come back. My mercy is now at an end.”
Ewan Hay said nothing further. He turned and followed the Kerr man-at-arms from the keep’s hall. It was some time before Clennon Kerr returned to report that he and his men had escorted the Hays several miles beyond the village, putting them on the road that would take them back to Haydoun. He also reported that the rains had stopped and the sun was reappearing.
Dugald Kerr chortled. “God is smiling on Brae Aisir now that Fin is safe home. We must spread the word about this day. I’ll dispatch messengers to our near neighbors. And ye must fetch my great-grandsons home. And wee Annabelle. Ye’ve not seen yer daughter yet, Fin. She is a bright and bonnie bairn, born the last day of March. She looks like Maggie looked when she was that age, but she has yer coloring.”
“We’ll fetch the bairns in a day or two,” Fin said, looking at his wife. “I would like a few days with Maggie, Dugald.”
The laird’s eyes lit up, and then he chuckled. “Aye,” he agreed. “I’ll not argue ye on this, my son.”
Maggie blushed at the look in her husband’s eyes.
“Yer dressed in black,” he said.
“Ye didn’t expect me to celebrate a marriage to that coward, did ye?” she replied sharply. “I intended burning the garment afterwards.”
“Would ye really have killed him?” Fin wanted to know.
“Aye, I would,” Maggie said, her gaze steady. “I would harm my immortal soul by doing so, but rather that than have him touch me, or give me a child I should have had to tear from my womb. Ye are my husband, Fingal Stewart, and had ye indeed been killed at Solway Moss, it would have made no difference to me. I am yer wife. I would have never taken another again to wed.”
He stood close to her, his hand caressing her face. How could he have ever forgotten her for even a moment? “I love ye, Maggie mine,” he said, “and I promised ye I would be back.” Their lips met again in a sweet kiss.
“And I knew ye would not break that promise to me. Not once did I believe, or even sense ye were no longer among the living, Fin. But it grew so difficult, and then no one would listen to me. Then the Hay arrived and took over the keep. The neighboring lairds began demanding that Grandsire marry me off to him. Father David refused, for he knew I was unwilling. So another priest, not so scrupulous, was found. It was so difficult, Fin, and I was beginning to grow weary, but never would I have given in to Ewan Hay.”
“I know,” he reassured her. “Yer Mad Maggie Kerr; not some frail creature all sighs and swoons.”
