“Aye, neither do I,” Ciaran said, and ambled toward the gates.
“Who are his parents?” asked Gybbon.
“Ewan MacFingal and Fiona MacEnroy, who is also affectionately kenned as Fiona of the eleven knives. She is very good with knives.”
“Ah, nay. It would be difficult to explain their son’s wounding to them and still be breathing afterward.”
“Aye, and ye probably wouldnae be able to find your horse to run away.”
Gybbon laughed and returned to watching the men they had brought with them make their way into the keep. Finally, it was time for them to ride up. The others had gotten in so easily he was rather surprised when they were halted.
“I thought ye said they were your cousins,” he muttered to Sigimor.
“They are, but I can see two of the brothers standing back by the door so they have to play the good guards now.” He frowned down at his cousins. “Has it begun?”
“She is just being brought in for judgment, but everyone kens what it will be.”
“All to protect a son who isnae worth the spit in my mouth.”
“Aye, I fear so, though I ken ye have the final part of this nonsense covered.”
“As weel as I can. Ah, the brothers have gone back in.”
“Then go ahead. Just try to nay kill the old fool. We all have the feeling that once that boil named Robert is properly lanced the old mon will go back to what he was. If ye kill the old mon it will just be worse, nay better.”
“Because Robert would be your laird then.”
“Aye, and doesnae that just terrify the whole lot of us. Good luck!”
“Scares me,” murmured Harcourt as they rode through the gates. “Be the end of our peaceful time.”
“Doubt the last shovel of dirt will be put in the old mon’s grave before Robert stirs up at least one of the clans round here. He has been trying for a while already by stealing things.”
Two young men came to take their horses, and Sigimor, Mora’s brothers, Gybbon, then Harcourt dismounted. Another man opened the doors for them and they walked in. Gybbon started to the door to the great hall. Then he glanced down the hall and stopped, Sigimor walking into the back of him.
“Mora?” He started to step forward, headed toward Mora, when Sigimor grabbed him by the arm and held him still.
There was a tall, stern man in the door to the great hall. He nodded at Sigimor and then looked at Gybbon and Harcourt. Gybbon thought he looked like a stiff-necked elder fellow but just smiled as Sigimor introduced him and Harcourt.
“The prisoner will be brought in in a moment if ye will come and take a seat.” The man spoke very politely and waved them inside. “The boy said ye came to speak for the accused?”
“Aye,” replied Sigimor. “Is there a special space for such ones to sit?”
“Nay, for none were expected. Simply find some place to sit. This shouldnae take much of your time.” He walked toward the table at the far end of the hall and faced the door.
“Weel, that tells us the verdict is all planned nay matter what anyone says,” said Sigimor, and he walked forward to an empty bench.
“Then how can they call this a judgment? They are not making one; they have one. She is being brought in just to hear their opinion.”
“Aye, doesnae mean we cannae argue it.”
“I am nay sure anything would help her.”
“Nay, but that is why we are here, isnae it.”
Gybbon sat down next to Harcourt, who was staring at Robert. He looked at the brothers and sighed. Robert looked smug and satisfied and the other three looked miserable, especially Murdoch. He glanced at Mora’s brothers and saw that their hands were clenched tight into fists, revealing they were not as calm as they wanted people to believe. He heard the doors to the great hall open and looked back.
Mora was brought in by a man and a woman. Her hair was piled up on her head and he wondered why someone had bothered with that. He felt a little sick when he thought of one reason it might have been forced into that style, and it had to do with the placement of the noose. The gown she wore was stained but clean. He saw no bruises or cuts. She did look tired and sad. She was marched down to stand in front of the table where the laird sat.
