“…havedone with him in every way I can think of,” one of Dunlaidir’s household knights snarled about the same time in the great hall. “The debased varlet doesn’t deserve to live,” he added, hammering the blunt end of his eating knife on the table in time with each angry word.
“Let him dangle till the wind whistles through his bones is what we should do!” someone shouted from a nearby long table, his fury almost palpable in the smoke-hazed air.
“Hanging’s too good for de la Hogue,” a third man vowed, winning loud agreement from the others.
Though bone-chilling damp pervaded the hall’s vastness, strong spirits and stronger words heated the blood of the men gathered at the bench-lined tables.
At the end of the one nearest the arched entry to the turnpike stairs, an aged black-frocked priest, Father Tomas, kept his calm, appearing more intent on smearing mashed sea-tangle on a buttered bannock half than paying heed to all the grumbles and curses.
His buttering efforts completed, he turned to the man at his right, the MacKenzie Highlander, Sir Gowan. “God be praised you are here,” he said. “With your help, perhaps Sir Hugh’s reign of terror will soon end. He has caused much damage.”
“Hah!” Farther down the table, Sir John snorted and waggled a finger at the old priest. “That dastard won’t be easily suppressed. He hasn’t earned his black reputation for naught. He glories in ruination and has enough metal-clad henchmen to see us all in our graves.”
“All the more reason we must be grateful to have the MacKenzie men at our sides,” Father Tomas said, turning his attention back to his bannocks.
An awkward silence fell, stretching uncomfortably until Sir Ross half-rose off the bench, his ale mug held high. “A toast!” his deep voice boomed. “To ridding this land of Sir Hugh and his ilk, and to Strongbow and his new lady.”
Cheers rang out, voices rising and falling with toasts of their own, all accompanied by the pounding of fists on the long tables and the echoing thunder of stamping feet.
“By God’s good graces, may this union be more propitious for him than the last!” Gowan shouted, waving his ale cup in the air.
“Sir Priest!” another voice rose above the ruckus. “When shall the happy twain be joined?”
The din wound down as all gazes sought the aged holy man. “In a sennight,” Father Tomas answered around a bite of bannock. “Seven days.”
The furor erupted anew with well-meant whoops, and a few bawdy jests.
But then the mood swung angry again…
“…let the crabs clean his bones!”
“…headsman with a blunt ax!”
“…his quarters suspended in chains!”
And when the shouting reached a fever pitch, all brows dark with scorn and tempers high, a lone figure rose and quit the hall.
At the door to the outer stairs, he turned to survey the chaos behind him. Then he smiled.
Thanks to the ranting poltroons and their babble, he finally had news to share.
Good,valuablenews.
Feeling much pleased, he swirled his cloak about his shoulders and stepped out into the cold, wet night.
Chapter 17
His bride.
In every sense of the word.
Tight bands of heat snaked around Caterine’s chest even as excitement stirred to life deep inside her.
“I cannot go with you,” she blurted, avoiding the most unsettling part of the Sassunach’s declaration. His comment about wanting her as a true bride.
Merciful heavens.
Her senses spinning, she grappled for excuses. “I am needed here. Dunlaidir is…”
