“Ah, sweet, ye must nay let the avid appreciation of others silence that fine voice.” Gillyanne grimaced. “ ’Tis embarrassing, but that isnae why I asked ye to sing. ’Tis nay easy to teach a dance and sing the tune one dances to at the same time. If ye sing the tune I need, I can lead the dance. Once the steps are learned, I can sing as we practice.” “Diarmot and I will walk the ground,” Knobby said. “Try to nay squawk too loudly.” He laughed and easily avoided James’ half-hearted attempt to swat him. “We shouldnae be long.” As the still chuckling Diarmot and Knobby walked away, Gillyanne looked at her grinning cousin and realized James had made some good friends at Deilcladach. It did not surprise her for James was a very likable young man. She just hoped her decision about Connor, if it resulted in the end of her marriage, would not also end his friendships. Soon to be a laird himself, he could use all the friends and allies he could gather. After discussing what she wanted to teach Fiona, Gillyanne and James agreed on the songs he would sing. He began to sing the first song and Gillyanne started to instruct her small group in the steps of the dance. It went a lot more smoothly. James had a lovely, clear voice, but it did not have the same effect upon the dancers as hers had. After a brief moment of silent appreciation, the women finally paid full attention to her, and Gillyanne was pleased to see a natural grace in all three women. It would make teaching them the dances easier, even a pleasure. Amidst a great deal of laughter, Gillyanne pulled Diarmot and Knobby into the lessons after they returned. Gillyanne subtlety made certain Knobby and Mairi were paired and shared a conspiratorial wink with Joan as the two blushing young people stumbled their way through the dance. She hoped this short time of forced proximity would allow the shy Mairi to convey her interest in Knobby, and the uncertain Knobby to see it and act upon it. “I dinnae think I am verra good at this,” Knobby said as he stumbled to a halt, then sent a friendly scowl toward a chuckling James. “No one is at the beginning,” Gillyanne assured him. “When James learned to dance we offered to tie a pillow to his backside because he fell on it so often.” “Cruel woman,” James protested, but he laughed along with the others. “What finally saved me from continued humiliation, Knobby, was that I made myself think of it as sword fighting. I told myself I wasnae trying to learn some prancing steps to impress a lass; I was learning a new, deadly way to fight.” Gillyanne was about to say that was the most foolish thing she had ever heard when she saw the looks on Diarmot’s and Knobby’s faces. It obviously made perfect sense to the men. If it helped them learn to dance, then she supposed it was useful. Gillyanne just wished their expressions had not altered to suit their thoughts, becoming hard and intense. They certainly did not look like men given a perfect chance
to flirt with a lass. As the dance began again, Gillyanne faced a highly amused Joan and knew the woman was fighting laughter as hard as she was. * * * “What is Diarmot doing?” asked Angus as he joined Connor on the walls and followed his gaze toward the group in the field. “I believe he is learning how to dance,” replied Connor. “Why would he want to do that?” “My wife says ’tis something expected of the highborn. It seems ’tis done at some keeps and at court.” “I have ne’er seen dancing at the earl of Dinnock’s keep.” “Nay, but we have only been there twice and neither time was a festive occasion. Gillyanne and James have both been to court, and, I suspect, have been at much grander entertainments than we have.” “Oh.” Angus frowned at the scene in the field. “Do ye think we all ought to learn?” Connor shrugged. “Perhaps. I was standing here thinking that, some day, ye lads will marry. I now have something to offer Diarmot as a living, as my mon at Ald-dabhach, but I have naught for the rest of you.” “We dinnae need anything, Connor.” “I ken it and ’tis good ye could be content with living here or at Ald-dabhach, but then I saw that ye, Drew, and Nanty might be able to gain land through marriage as I did. To find the lasses with coin or land, ye will have to go to keeps like the earl’s or e’en the king’s court. Ye will also have to show weel against lads who have more to offer than a bonny face and good blood.” Angus nodded. “A wee bit of refinement, a few courtly skills.” “Exactly. Ye have all been blessed with strong bodies and looks the lasses seem to like. Add a wee touch of the courtier, which the lasses also seem to like, and ye could make a good marriage.” “Is that what ye plan for Fiona? Have ye a mon already in mind for the lass?” “I fear I didnae realize how near she was to being a woman, so, nay, I havenae chosen anyone,” replied Connor. “As I stood here watching her, I recalled many a thing my wee wife told me and I think I will let Fiona choose for herself.”
“Nay. Truly?” “Aye, truly. I will keep a watch on who courts her and hold the right to try to stop what I might see as a bad marriage, but who she weds will be her choice. I want her happiness more than I want gain from her marriage. If she gains these skills, the ways most weelbred ladies learn from birth, it will give her a wider choice. Instinct tells me that, when Fiona is of an age to wed, Gillyanne’s family will help see that the lass gets to the places that will give her good choices and a lot of them.” Angus grinned and winked at his older brother. “I was thinking your wee wife’s family would offer we unwed lads a wider choice of bonny lasses to woo.” Connor chuckled. “By the time the lass gets through listing all the names of her kin by blood or by marriage, it does seem as if she is related to half of Scotland. When I sought this bride, my eye was set on Ald-dabhach. Now I realize there was e’en more to gain than the land. We have many a new ally, Angus. Aye, they may not be large powerful clans like the Campbells or the Douglases, but we are nay longer alone. I may need to soothe a few angry feelings, but the bond is now there, strengthening us .” “Sweet Mary, of course. I ne’er thought of it. And, aye, recalling how angry her father looked, ye will have to do some soothing. After all, if James spoke true, this marriage of yours could be ended.” “Gillyanne wouldnae end our marriage,” Connor said with far more confidence than he really felt. “Ye tell me how it would be a good idea to learn a courtier’s ways to woo a dowered lass, yet ye dinnae follow your own advice.” “What do ye mean?” “I mean, ye might try wooing your wife a wee bit, more than making her bellow with pleasure. Ye are a hard, solemn fellow, Connor, and,” he looked at the dancers in the field, “your wee wife is full of the joy of life. She has had the freedom to enjoy all the things we ne’er have, from dancing to simple jests amongst kin. She needs warmth, Connor. I think she has been fair surrounded by it for her whole life.” “Do ye expect me to become some simpering flatterer?” “Och, nay. I dinnae think ye could be that nay matter how hard ye tried. All I say is that ye ken she has a way to escape you, so ye should look close at what ye need to do to make her wish to stay. I dinnae think Gillyanne would want ye to be something ye arenae and dinnae want to be. But, would it really be so hard to say a kind word now and then, to talk to her outside the bedchamber, or tell her she looks bonny? Isnae she worth a little effort?” Connor stared at the dancers in the field and considered Angus’ words. It would appear that the threat to
his marriage was well known to his family, that James’ words had been heard and considered. Gillyanne had a bolthole and his family was obviously worried that he would push her to take it. The problem was, he was not sure he knew how to woo Gillyanne or even if he should. According to his uncle, he was doing all a man should do for his wife — housing her, clothing her, feeding her, and breeding her. Although it felt disloyal, Connor had to admit that he was beginning to see that his uncle was not really the worldly expert he claimed to be. In truth, the last time his uncle had pontificated on what a wife was due and how to treat her, Connor had found himself thinking that the man might as well have been advising him on the care of a horse. His biggest concern about trying to woo Gillyanne, about showing her some softness or care, was that a little could too easily become a lot. If he opened the door to his heart even a little, she could slip right inside. Connor feared she may have already done so, but, by keeping some distance between them, he could shore up his defenses during the day. However, the threat that his marriage could be ended was a real one. Angus was just one of several who had felt compelled to advise him, had noticed that he needed to do something more if he wished to keep his wife. If he was cautious, he suspected he could do a few things without exposing himself too much. He had noticed how much cleaner and more comfortable his keep was now, and it would cost him little to compliment or thank her for that. He complimented and praised his men on jobs well done; it would not appear weak of him to do the same for his wife. As he considered the matter, he was able to think of other compliments that could be given without making him look soft or like some lovesick fool. Just as he opened his mouth to tell Angus of his decision, his full attention was caught by the people in the field. They had all stopped and were staring at Gillyanne. A heartbeat later, she slowly collapsed. Connor heard himself bellow out a strange agonized cry even as he raced down from the walls.
Sixteen The arrow came out of nowhere. Gillyanne felt something slam into her back, pushing her toward Diarmot who now faced her in the dance. She steadied herself and watched all the color fade from his face. James had ceased to sing. The others had all stopped as if turned to stone and stared at her in shock. Just as the pain struck, she saw everyone start to move. Knobby hurled Mairi to the ground, shielding her with his body. Joan did the same with Fiona. Diarmot reached for her and Gillyanne heard a strange noise come from the keep, like some animal in pain, as she felt all the strength seep out of her legs. She had almost completely collapsed upon the ground when Diarmot pushed her flat onto her stomach and shielded her with his body. Gillyanne looked to her side and met James’ worried gaze. “I have something in my back, dinnae I?” she said to James. “Aye, an arrow,” he replied even as he searched the surrounding wood for some sign of their enemy. “Where is it?” “High on your left shoulder.” “Shouldnae be mortal then. What was that noise?” “What noise?” “A roar of some kind. Sounded like a wounded bull.” “I think it may have been your husband.” James looked toward the keep. “He is racing this way with near half the keep at his heels.” “Oh, dear, this will make him cross,” she whispered and gave into the blackness that had been creeping up on her. Connor fell to his knees beside Gillyanne as his men spread out to search the surrounding wood. Even as he had raced to her side, he had seen enough to know his men would find no army. He would try to
decide what that meant later. For now, the sight of that arrow sticking out of Gillyanne’s slim back held all his attention. He reached to pull it out. “Nay,” cried Fiona and she scrambled out from beneath Joan just in time to grab Connor’s wrist and halt his move. “The arrow must be removed,” Connor said. “Aye, but nay that way. We must push it through, cut off the head, then yank it out.” “That will be an agony!” “Aye, but if ye pull it out as ye were about to, most times ye can do far more damage.” Fiona touched Gillyanne’s cheek with trembling fingers. “She explained it all to me. We must get her back to the keep where the herbs, water, and clean linens are.” Despite the sorrow and fear that made Fiona’s voice tremble, Connor heard enough confidence in what she said to accept her word. He also heard no protest from James. As gently and carefully as he was able, he lifted Gillyanne into his arms and stood up. “Connor,” protested Diarmot even as, he too, stood up — ”Is it safe?” “Aye,” replied Connor as he strode toward the keep as fast as he dared, not wishing to add to Gillyanne’s pain with the bouncing a hard run would cause. “There is no army or raiding party in the wood.” “Jesu. ’Twas murder.” “An attempt. Only an attempt,” Connor snapped, refusing to consider any possibility other than Gillyanne’s swift recovery. Nothing more was said as they all retreated to the keep. Connor took Gillyanne to their bedchamber. Fiona was pale as the cleanest linen, but her hands and voice were steady as she snapped out orders. He held Gillyanne as the arrow was removed, feeling his belly clench as she screamed despite her unconsciousness. “Save the arrow,” he ordered and stepped out of the room to speak to one of the men who had already returned from searching the wood. Connor was not surprised to hear that the only signs found were of one man and they had been impossible to follow. He stared at the crossbow the man gave him and had to fight the urge to
immediately throw it in the fire. It might help them find the one who had tried to murder his wife. It was a weapon not many would own. After dismissing the man, Connor stepped back inside the bedchamber and set the crossbow down next to the arrow. He watched in something close to amazement as his sister worked. Joan, Mairi, and even James responded to Fiona’s commands without question or hesitation. It was apparent that Fiona had not only learned her lessons about healing, but had a true skill. Despite the cold fear he felt for Gillyanne, Connor experienced a sense of pride over the woman Fiona was becoming. When Fiona had done all she could, she dismissed Joan and Mairi. She washed up and sank into a chair James set by the bed. After one long look at Gillyanne, Fiona covered her face with her hands. Connor moved to her side and stroked her hair. “Ye did weel, lass,” he said. “I am proud of ye.” “This I ken,” she said as she lifted her head and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I but pray she doesnae get an infection for we had only just begun the lessons on how to treat that.” “Ne’er fear, lass,” James said. “We can always send for my aunt Maldie or cousin Elspeth. And, Gillyanne is stronger than she looks. A verra fast healer is our Gilly.” Fiona nodded, clearly taking heart from James’ words. “Oh, Connor, who would try to kill our Gilly?” “That is something I would dearly like to ken,” muttered James. “As would I,” said Connor. “We have the weapons. They can help us find the bastard.” “Do ye think it was a Goudie or a Dalglish?” asked Fiona. “Nay, but I will search amongst them.” “Weel, Robert did kidnap her, try to steal her from ye.” “True, but he didnae hurt her. I ken that Gillyanne lashed him hard with the sharp side of her tongue, but he didnae touch her. He also returned her without a fight. Robert had been led to believe he could alter the choice she had made. That is all he sought. He also assured me that I didnae need to worry about Sir David causing me any trouble. Nay, this wasnae ordered by either of them, but that doesnae mean there isnae some rogue in their midst who took Gillyanne’s choice as a personal insult.” “I think it was someone closer,” said James. “Someone near enough to watch and wait for a perfect chance to strike.”
“Which would make the killer one of my own,” Connor said quietly, unable to dispute the logic of James’ reasoning. “Aye, for a stranger lurking about would soon be noticed. That would include any enemies ye might have as weel as any who might seek to hurt the Murrays. E’en if the Goudie and Dalglish clansmen are nay your enemies, I would think one of them lingering in the area would also be noticed.” “I ken it.” “But, why?” Fiona asked. “Why try to kill Gillyanne?” “A good question, lass.” Connor brushed his fingers over Fiona’s pale cheek, finally seeing that his young sister had grown very close to his wife. “If I can find an answer to it, I think I can find the bastard who tried to kill Gillyanne. The why would point to the who, ye see. Sadly, I cannae think of any reason at all for someone to want to hurt Gillyanne. It cannae stop me from having an heir. I already have four and no one has tried to kill our brothers. No one can gain her lands. They would come to me or be returned to her own kinsmen. She hasnae spurned any lover.” Connor glanced at James who shook his head. “So, it cannae be jealousy. Every reason I can think of just doesnae make sense when applied to her.” “Ye have spurned a lover,” Fiona said quietly. “One who has already tried to make trouble between ye and Gilly.” “Meg? She was angry, but angry enough to lurk about, weapon in hand? Where would she get a crossbow and what could she have thought to gain e’en had she succeeded?” “Your bed would be empty again,” James said, but he sounded uncertain. “Aye, but I wouldnae fill it with a whore who had betrayed me as Meg did,” replied Connor. “And she kens it.” “Hate and anger,” said Fiona, nodding when both men looked at her. “Meg had a verra good life here. She did no work and was the laird’s woman. She had power o’er the other women, too. ’Tis all gone now. She ne’er liked Gillyanne and I wouldnae be surprised if the woman hates her now. May hate ye as weel, Connor. Why do ye look so uncertain?” she demanded when both men just frowned at her. “Ye dinnae think a woman can hate strongly enough to want to kill someone? Or, do ye find it hard to think any woman could kill another? Mayhap she didnae do it herself, but I suspect she has the skills to seduce some fool into doing it for her.” “I willnae ignore the chance that it is her,” Connor assured Fiona. “I ignored her before and she betrayed me. I am nay fool enough to ignore her again. Howbeit, first I will talk to Sir Robert and Sir David. Sir
Robert warned me that there was another I should watch for, aside from Meg, but wouldnae tell me who. Mayhap now he will. ’Tis also proof that, sometimes, one’s friends and allies ken more than ye do.” “Go then,” Fiona said. “I can watch Gillyanne and Joan and Mairi will help. Ye can do naught here but wait.” “I will stay,” said James. “If anything happens that Fiona cannae deal with, I can hie to my kinsmen and get help.” Connor did not want to leave, yet he knew he should. It could be a long wait before they knew whether Gillyanne would worsen or improve. In that time, her attacker could easily flee beyond their reach. Unless word of what had happened and what he sought was quickly spread, people would forget what they had seen or heard, things that could prove important. There were dozens of reasons to set out on the trail of Gillyanne’s attacker right now, but he ached to stay at her side. “Find me if anything goes wrong,” he commanded and forced himself to leave after shoving the crossbow and the arrow into a sack. “How fares Gillyanne?” demanded Diarmot as he and Knobby met Connor at the bottom of the stairs. “Resting,” replied Connor. “The arrow has been removed, the wound cleaned, stitched, and bound. Fiona watches o’er her.” “Fiona?” Diarmot frowned up the stairs, his expression one of uncertainty. “If ye could have seen her making e’en Sir James leap to her command, seen the calm yet swift way she worked, ye would realize our wee sister shows promise of being a most excellent healer. All we must fear is infection, for Fiona freely adnmits she kens little about that yet, having only just begun her lessons in it. Sir James comes from a clan with reknowned healing women and he showed no doubt in our Fiona. Joan and Mairi will also help.” “But ye willnae stay at your wife’s bedside?” There was no condemnation in Diarmot’s tone, only curiosity, so Connor replied calmly, “If I wait too long to hunt down the coward who did this, he could slip my grasp forever. So, nay, I go ahunting. First, we speak with our allies.” He strode out of the keep and headed for the stables, Diarmot and Knobby close behind. “I cannae believe it was one of them,” said Knobby. “They would gain naught but a renewal of the feud we have all worked long and hard to bury — verra deeply.” “Aye, I ken it, but they ken things. Leastwise, Robert does. When I rescued him from Gillyanne,” he
exchanged a brief grin with his two companions, “he said things meant to warn me. He wouldnae be precise for he said he couldnae accuse anyone when all he had was little more than rumor. If naught else, he can tell me those cursed rumors and suspicions now.” * * * “Nay, I willnae give ye a name,” protested Robert, warily watching a coldly furious Connor pace near his chair in the great hall. “Ye want someone dead, Connor, and I willnae give ye a victim when I have nay proof of his guilt.” “Curse it, Robbie,” Connor slammed his fist down on the table, “if I dinnae catch the bastard who did this, he could try again, and next time he might succeed.” “Ye dinnae think he has this time?” Robert asked quietly. “Nay. The wound was high and quickly tended to. If there is no fever or putrefaction, Gillyanne will be fine. Her cousin claims she is stronger than she looks.” “Humph. That wee lass is finely honed steel and her tongue is sharper than any sword. God’s bones, that makes ye smile? I dinnae think I have e’er seen ye do so, nay for longer than I can recall. Weel, mayhap some men like a spirited wife.” “Irritating as it can be at times, ’tis a mettle I wish bred into my bairns.” He almost smiled again at the arrested look that briefly touched Robert’s face then quickly grew serious again. “I would like the lass to live long enough to give me some.” “As do I,” Robert assured him. “I have learned something of her kinsmen and it can only benefit me if one of my allies has close blood ties to them. It may gall me at times to ride your tail to gain, but I am nay such a fool as to let pride stop me.” “I havenae given her kinsmen’s influence much thought.” “Nay, ye wouldnae.” “Robbie, I want a name!” Robert shook his head. “Nay. I will tell ye this, however. Look to your whore.” “I dinnae have a whore,” snapped Connor. “I have nay need of one. I have a wife now.” Connor felt as surprised as Robert looked at his fierce declaration for he realized he meant it; he wanted no other woman.
“Meg betrayed ye once,” Robert said. “Did ye think her anger would end because ye kicked her out of Deilcladach?” Connor tossed the sack with the weapons onto the table. “ ’Twas a crossbow, Robbie. A mon’s weapon. I ken Meg weel enough to feel sure she wouldnae have the strength to use it nor the knowledge. And, ’tis nay a weapon easily found.” He was keenly disappointed when Robert looked at the weapons and clearly did not recognize them. “I didnae say she did it. Connor, ’tis said your wee wife can see into a person’s soul, that she can read a mon like a book. ’Tis said she can look at a person and ken all of his secrets.” Robert shrugged. “At first I ignored the whispers. She is a stranger, an outsider, despite having married you. Such people always have others whispering about them. Then, when she was here . . . ” “What?” demanded Connor when Robert fell silent. “What happened?” “She saw something in me that I ken weel could neither be seen upon my face nor heard in my words.” He shook his head. “The lass stared at me for a moment then told me exactly what lay in my heart. And then I kenned the whispers were true.” “What did she see?” “Ye dinnae deny her skill, do ye.” “Her cousin told me she has a skill at, weel, sensing things and that I should heed any warning she gives me about a person.” Connor frowned. “I cannae believe he told many people this. How could such whispers begin?” “From the ones ye have angered. And, one who has many a secret to hide, the sorts of secrets one would kill to keep hidden. Aye, if one kens she senses the secrets are there, ’tis but a short leap to believing she can see what they are. She kenned mine. I was at my most charming.” He smiled when Connor scowled. “Your wife kenned it was all false, that beneath my flattery and wooing was an ugly truth — I couldnae stomach the thought of bedding a lass ye had bedded. Och, dinnae look offended. ’Tisnae like I fear ye are diseased or the like. Nay, ’tis just pride, mayhap vanity. Mayhap I dinnae wish to hear any comparisons made. Although, I havenae heard it said that ye are any great lover.” Connor placed a hand upon his chest and smiled faintly. “I can make my wife bellow.” “Aye, he can,” agreed a grinning Knobby. “Bellow fit to shake the walls.” “How indiscreet.” Robert laughed softly and shook his head, but quickly grew serious again. “Someone fears your wee wife’s skills, fears she will expose truths he prefers to keep buried. That someone is the
one ye want. And, I say, look to Meg, for those who share a grievance, and an enemy, real or nay, ofttimes stick together.” “I will speak to Sir David then go to Meg,” Connor said, infuriated that Robert still refused to utter any names, but knowing nothing would get the man to change his mind. “David didnae have anything to do with this.” “I ken it. Howbeit, if ye have seen and heard things I havenae, mayhap he has, too.” “True, yet dinnae get too angry if he doesnae ken that he can help ye. David isnae verra keen-witted. If he has heard or seen something, he may simply nay realize that it is important.” Connor nodded, knowing Robert was right. David was a strong fighter, a warrior of unquestionable strength and courage. He could also choke on his own pride and be dimwitted enough at times to make one ache to kick him. Nevertheless, he would talk to the man. Gillyanne’s life was threatened. He could not ignore any chance of discovering who threatened her. Connor also knew that, if David had a name or two to put forth, the man would not hesitate to do so. David would not concern himself with the consequences for doing so, either; would probably not even consider the possibility that he might give out the wrong name. With Robert’s good wishes for Gillyanne still ringing in his ears, Connor headed toward Sir David’s keep. He rode hard, eager to talk to those he needed to as swiftly as possible so that he could return to Deilcladach. The danger of Gillyanne’s wound, the threat of fever or infection, was something he could not push from his thoughts. He had to keep up a vigorous search for the one who had attacked her, but he also knew he had to keep as close a watch on her as he was able. She had become important to him, Connor realized. Very important. When the threat to her was banished, he knew he would have to look closely at what he felt and what he would do about it. Somehow he was going to have to find a way to give Gillyane enough to make her want to stay with him, yet not let the feelings she stirred within him weaken him in any way. The strength and survival of his clan had to be the most important thing to him and for that he had to keep himself strong. Even more important, he had to appear strong, in complete control, and with no weaknesses, physically or emotionally. At the moment, however, such deep thinking and careful strategy were beyond him. He was afraid for Gillyanne and filled with rage at the one who had hurt her. * * * Sir David had to be knocked down twice before he realized Connor did not appreciate hearing any comment that even hinted at an insult to Gillyanne. The man was clearly still angry over the defeat he had suffered at Gillyanne’s small hands. It was far past time the man ceased to sulk about it.
“Enough, Connor,” grumbled David as he sat down at the laird’s table in his great hall and poured himself an ale. “Sit. Drink.” He nodded when Connor sat down and helped himself to an ale. “I will hold my tongue, though ’tis cursed hard. The lass embarrassed me.” “She embarrassed all of us and ’tis mostly our own fault,” Connor said. “And how did ye come to that conclusion?” “We were arrogant, thought defeating a wee lass would be something we could do with our eyes closed.” “Mayhap,” David grudgingly agreed. “Cannae blame a mon for being annoyed. I wouldnae try to kill the lass because of it, though.” “I ken it. Ye wouldnae creep through the shadows to kill anyone, let alone a wee lass. Nay, what I seek now is information. Robbie has heard things, has suspicions, but willnae give me names.” David nodded. “He has talked to me of it a wee bit, but wouldnae tell me any names, either. Robbie is a cautious mon, ye ken. Needs more proof, always more proof. Will ne’er accept rumor as enough e’en if it fair deafens a person. I am nay so precise which is why he wouldnae tell me. Kenned I would see naught wrong with telling you, e’en if he had advised against it.” David shrugged. “ ’Tis nay such a bad thing. Rumor isnae always set in truth. After all, I have heard a few about your wee wife.” “Such as what? The same as what Robbie has heard?” “Dinnae ken. The whispers I have heard say your wee wife can see into a mon’s soul. She can tell what secrets a mon hides in his heart. Men dinnae like that sort of thing. Tisnae a good thing to have whispered about one. It can make people start to think on the devil and witches. Ye might want to silence that nonsense. Unless, of course, ’tis true.” Connor inwardly cursed, but replied calmly, “Gillyanne has no magic, just a keen eye, mayhap a more, weel, sensitive nature. She may e’en have a keener ear. A mon cannae hide everything. He gives away things in how he acts, looks, or speaks. Most of us dinnae see it unless ’tis clear and strong. My wife just needs a whisper of it. As I said, no magic, no devil, just a useful skill. If she kenned what the secrets were, that would be magic. Just kenning a mon is hiding something isnae.” “Aye, ye are right. Sounds a verra fine skill to have.” David frowned and rubbed his chin, wincing faintly as his hand passed over one of the bruises Connor had given him. “Still, the rumors started somewhere. Ye have to wonder where and why.” “Robbie told me to talk to my leman Meg.”
“Why do ye have a leman? Ye have a wife now.” It was hard, but Connor hid his surprise over David’s shock and the distinct condemnation in his voice. Connor forced himself not to look at Diarmot or Knobby, knowing their expressions might cause him to actually laugh. The very last man he would have expected such an attitude from was David. The man had bedded most of the lasses on his lands and had bred a horde of bastards. “Nay, I dinnae have a leman now. Howbeit, e’en though I put Meg out of my bed when I married, it was a while ere I was forced by Meg’s betrayal to put her out of Deilcladach. She was angry and could think to avenge herself by causing trouble for Gillyanne. Meg would have needed some mon as an ally, however, to try and kill my wife, for Meg couldnae shoot a crossbow, nor would she have such a weapon, nor would she have kenned where to get one.” “Weel, this Meg may not have shot the arrow, but ’tis clear to me she sought to see your wife dead. Accusing a lass of being a witch, e’en gently through rumors, could mean that lass’s death, couldnae it?” * * * David’s unusually astute observation kept Connor silent and deep in thought all the way back to his lands. Robert had called the rumors about Gillyanne common of the things said about strangers, but David was right. They were dangerous whispers, the sort that got people killed. That concerned him, but what concerned him even more was that, yet again, something private, something not known by everyone at Deilcladach, had been spread about outside its walls. What tied his insides into aching knots was the certainty that Meg had not known of Gillyanne’s skills before she had been ordered out of Deilcladach. Someone had told her after she had left and, out of those people who knew, only one had been to see Meg in her cottage. “I will go alone to speak to Meg,” he told Diarmot and Knobby. “But, if she is a part of this . . . ” began Diarmot. “Then she will pay. I can defend myself against her, not that I think e’en she is fool enough to strike out at me when all the village will have seen me go to her cottage.” Connor stared at the village. “I willnae be long.” “Good. Be quick. And careful.” As he rode to Meg’s cottage, Connor fought the conclusions that kept forming in his mind. They were traitorous, ungrateful, even painful. Unfortunately, they also answered far too many questions. Once at the cottage, Connor wanted to turn his mount back toward Deilcladach and hie for home. Inside could lie a truth that could tear him apart. He stiffened his spine as he dismounted. Telling himself a painful truth was better than more lies and a continued threat to Gillyanne, he stepped into the cottage.
The smell of blood weighted the air. Cautiously, drawing his sword as quietly as he could, Connor began to search the cottage. He stopped abruptly, and cursed over the sight that met him in the bedchamber at the top of the narrow stairs. His uncle was sprawled across the tangled sheets of a bed, a tankard still clutched in his hand as he stared sightlessly at the thick beams in the roof. The man’s body was covered in blood. Someone had stabbed Neil many times, the final, and probably the truly mortal wound, was a direct blow to the heart. And Connor saw that that death blow had been struck with his own dagger. Connor tossed his sword onto the bed next to his uncle. There would be no answers now, he mused as he closed the man’s eyes, at least not the ones he now craved. He pulled his dagger from the man’s chest, straightened up, and stilled as he felt three sword tips touch his back. “I really didnae think ye would be fool enough to come back for your knife,” said a deep voice Connor recognized as belonging to Peter MacDonal, the earl of Dinnock’s sergeant of arms. “I didnae kill the mon,” Connor said, not really surprised when his claim of innocence did not stop the earl’s men from disarming him and tying his hands behind his back. “Ye can tell your tale to the earl.” As he was led out of the cottage, Connor caught sight of Knobby’s sister and mother. He curtly told them what was happening and ordered them to tell his brothers and Knobby. Then he calmly allowed the earl’s men to lead him away, knowing he had no other reasonable choice.
Seventeen There was a chill in the air of the great hall of Dinnock. Connor suspected a lot of it came from the coldeyed man he now faced. It was the earl’s duty to deal out justice in his lands, but it was well known that the man did not appreciate being bothered by such troubles. Worse, the man took great pride in his cleanliness and appearance. After having spent much of the day in the saddle, riding hard after the truth, Connor would not be surprised if his muddied appearance, even the smell of sweat and horse that clung to him, offended his liege lord. Neither offense would help his cause, no matter what excuse was offered for unwillingly disturbing the earl’s peace and probably his nose. “Did ye get like that trying to flee my men?” asked the earl. “Nay, m’laird. I didnae fight your men at all,” replied Connor. “I fear my sad state was caused by riding near all the day long as I sought the villain who tried to kill my wife.” “Is she dead?” Lord Dunstan MacDonal frowned, looking honestly worried. “Nay, not when I left to begin my search.” “Good. We dinnae need the cursed Murrays or any of her other kinsmen coming round seeking retribution. So, ye killed Sir Neil because he tried to murder your new wife.” “I didnae kill my uncle.” Although the insinuation that he would kill an aging, unarmed, quite possibly drunken, man was an insult, Connor fought the anger rising inside him. “If naught else, I needed him alive. I had questions only he could answer.” “Your dagger was found stuck into the mon’s heart.” The earl looked at the dagger that had been set upon the table in front of him and lightly drew his long finger over the ornate Celtic designs drawn into the handle. “E’en I recall this weapon from one of your rare visits here. ’Tis verra fine work and verra old.” “It has been passed down from father to son, laird to laird, since the first MacEnroy claimed the lands of Deilcladach.”
“A piece ye wouldst take great care of.” “Aye. I kept it in my chambers, bringing it out only for important occasions, such as when I came here. ’Tis too valuable, one of the few pieces of my history to have survived the destruction wrought in the feuding, to be used as a common dagger. The fact that I bring it out so rarely is, undoubtedly, why I didnae ken it had been stolen.” Lord Dunstan studied him carefully, still lightly stroking the dagger handle. “Ye would have us believe it was stolen?” “Aye.” Connor knew that, question by question, the earl was going to try hard to lead him into a confession. He could only pray that the truth would be enough to keep him out of any trap the earl might set. “And ye just happened to be at the cottage at that precise moment.” “Aye. I had already been to talk to Sir Robert Dalglish and Sir David Goudie. What they told me sent me to speak with the woman who lives there. I had also planned to speak with my uncle, but I hadnae thought to find him there.” “Nay at the cottage of your leman, certainly.” Connor decided he would advise his sons to be more restrained, more discreet, in the venting of their fleshly hungers. His past was proving to be far more of a complication to his present than those moments of fleeting pleasure had been worth. It began to look as if one particular piece of the past could easily get him hanged. “Meg was my leman, m’laird,” Connor replied. “I put her aside when I married the Lady Gillyanne Murray.” The earl nodded. “Your wife objected to your leman being so close at hand so ye set the woman up in that cottage.” “Aye, my wife objected to me bedding another, but she gave me sound reasons for that objection. She also showed me that I had no need for Meg’s rough skills. I chose to set the woman aside. The moment the woman was nay longer my lover other problems came to my attention. Meg did no work, caused dissension and unhappiness amongst the rest of the women, was openly contemptuous of and disrespectful to my lady wife, and, finally, betrayed me.” “We were told that ye blamed the woman for Sir Robert’s rash actions toward your wife.” He frowned at Connor. “Ye told us nothing, yet kidnapping a laird’s wife is a serious crime.”
“Ye have probably heard the tale of how I came to be married.” The earl nodded and Connor was pleased he would not be pressed to relate that complicated and somewhat embarrassing story. “Meg told Sir Robert the private doings of my keep and kin to make him believe my wife’s choice could be altered. There is a way my wife and her kin could end the marriage. Robbie thought to woo my wife into discarding me and marrying him. He didnae hurt my wife and he didnae fight me when I came to take her back. I felt it was but an error of judgment that could be kept between us.” “ ’Twould be a fine thing if other lairds could solve their problems with such calm reason,” murmured the earl. “We ken all too weel the high cost of doing otherwise, m’laird.” “Of course. Yet the woman relayed but a wee piece of gossip. Nay such a great betrayal.” “She purposely went to Sir Robert and told him exactly what was needed to cause trouble for my wife. Aye, Sir Robert is an ally and the trouble proved to be a wee one. That doesnae lessen the crime. Meg told someone outside of Deilcladach our private business simply to gain something for herself or for revenge. I saw no reason to give her a second chance, to risk her telling some enemy e’en more important secrets. I was going to cast her out into some hovel, but decided an empty cottage in the village was better for I could send her two cohorts with her. After all, they had kenned what game Meg was playing, but kept silent, giving their loyalty to her rather than to their laird.” “I would have been harsher in my punishment, if what ye say is true. Peter, give Sir Connor some wine,” the earl ordered his second in command. “I have more to ask him. We would nay wish his voice to dry up, would we.” Connor accepted the drink of wine despite having to be fed it sip by sip by Peter, as his hands remained bound. The greatest problem with being accused of something, Connor decided, was the need to prove he was the one speaking the truth. It angered him to have his every word doubted, yet he had to suppress that fury. The earl had two tales he had to weigh the truth of, one against the other, and he did not know Connor well enough to know he would not lie. He did wonder, however, when and how the earl would decide which tale was the truth. It was hard to believe the earl would accept the word of a common whore over that of any laird, yet the man was obviously giving Meg’s tale some serious consideration. Connor wished Gillyanne was at his side for he was suddenly certain there was something the older man knew that he did not, something that made the man give Meg’s tale far more consideration than it warranted. Gillyanne might sniff it out, while he simply began to feel more and more uneasy, as if he was trapped in some game he did not know all the rules of. “So, Sir Connor,” Lord Dunstan said as soon as Connor finished the wine, “your explanations have the ring of truth, yet I have three women who tell the tale in a verra different way.”
“Three whores,” Connor said calmly, although he inwardly cursed the fact that he was fighting the word of three women instead of just one as he knew it made his fight more difficult. “Three lasses I tossed out of Deilcladach where they were verra comfortable. Three lasses who now have to work for the verra food they need to eat which they ne’er had to do before.” “Something to consider,” the earl said and nodded as he thought it over. “Might I ken exactly what tale was told? ’Tis evident the women blame me for the murder of my uncle, but did they tell ye why I did it?” “Because ye finally learned the truth about the mon.” “The truth?” Connor tensed, his unease becoming a taut fear, yet he was not sure why he felt that way. “The women claim ye were angry to discover your uncle was bedding your leman.” “He had had her before I did.” Connor managed a casual shrug. “I was done with her. He was welcome to take her back.” “They claim ye became angry and there was a vicious argument. Since your uncle was drunk, he didnae watch his words verra carefully. He expressed his dislike of your wife, but it was his revelation about the past which made ye strike out at him. When the women told me what the mon was guilty of, I confess I felt he weel deserved his fate. Yet, it was my place to judge his guilt, nay yours. Neither can I allow the murder of peers. ’Twould have been best if ye had challenged him instead. An honorable mon-to-mon battle to settle old wrongs. This was murder.” “I didnae murder my uncle,” Connor repeated, but knew his declarations of innocence were not going to be heeded. “Come, lad, I do understand what made ye do it. The mon was a base traitor. He kept that deadly feud alive, poisoned every attempt to settle it. I kenned he had courted your mother, but she was given to the laird, your father. Truth is, I always felt it was her own choice, though your uncle spoke of it as having been forced upon her by her parents. I kenned he remained bitter, but I ne’er guessed it had deepened so, had become such a murderous hatred. “The feud was clearly taking too long to do what he wanted. ’Tis the only explanation for such a gross betrayal of one’s own blood. To stir up his own brother’s enemies with such lies and then to help them get round the defenses of Deilcladach? He had to have kenned that his treachery could easily kill many more than his brother. He put his entire family under the sword. Mayhap he had grown to hate your mother as weel.” The earl shrugged. “ ’Tis said some scorned love can verra easily become a deep hate. I doubt he gave ye and the other children much thought ’til he found ye had survived. Mayhap he thought ye would leave or die off in the hard times that followed for he certainly gave ye no help. He
obviously didnae care if he was laird or ye wouldnae be standing here. It must have seemed such a Godgiven boon to him to have all who kenned what he had done slaughtered on that bloody day.” Lord Dunstan fixed his sharp dark gaze on Connor. “ ’Twas justice, but it may be difficult to mark it so. Tell me the truth, lad, and I will work hard to free you. I would do it now save that the king himself has been demanding the end to such bloodletting, to taking justice into one’s own hands. I cannae be seen to condone such murder and I willnae fight on your behalf if ye refuse to tell me the truth.” Connor was amazed he was still standing. Every word the earl had spoken had felt like a hard blow to the stomach. He wanted to bellow out a denial, but the words would not come. Since Gillyanne had arrived at Deilcladach, Connor knew he had wavered in his complete, blind trust of his uncle, had begun to see the man more clearly, and not liked what he saw. This horrifying tale explained so much Connor knew it was the truth, and it cut him so deeply he was surprised he was not bleeding. Beneath that pain was a deep, burgeoning shame. He had been a complete fool, had clung too tightly to the blindness of youth, the sort youth often had concerning an elder kinsman. He had allowed the killer of his parents into his home, into his life, into the lives of the others Neil’s treachery had left orphaned or widowed. All the time Connor had worked to be a strong laird, to rebuild his homes and lands, he had embraced the very man who had brought Deilcladach to ruin. If that final, devastating attack had not sated the man’s need for revenge, Connor knew he could easily have been welcoming death into his clan. He had given his uncle vast opportunity to kill them all. Although that had not happened, Connor knew it was still a failure, one of such huge proportions he did not believe he had any right to call himself a laird. Now was the time to defend himself, to explain that he had known none of this, but how could he explain his ignorance? What few scattered words did stumble through his mind sounded too much like the pathetic lies and excuses of a guilty man. Neither could he find the wit to speak clearly and he doubted the earl would sit patiently while he struggled to overcome all the emotions tearing through. “I didnae kill my uncle,” was all he could say and Connor knew he sounded cold, distant, revealing none of his shock or pain. “Ah, lad, I had hoped ye could trust me,” said the earl. “I do, m’laird.” “Not enough. I shall give ye time to think o’er what ye wish to tell me. Peter will secure ye in a small tower room from which there is no escape. After a few days, we will speak again.” Connor knew he should heartily thank this man for the reprieve, but was only able to make himself bow before Peter led him away. The tower room he was placed in was small, but not harsh. Before his bonds were cut, a tray of food and wine was placed in the room, water for washing was left, and the fire was
lit, extra wood stacked beside it. He stood, unable to move or speak, as his hands were freed and the men left the room. Left alone to think, Connor mused with a curse, as he sprawled on his back on the surprisingly comfortable bed. He did not want to think. He did not want to contemplate the gross betrayal of a man he had trusted, cared for, and respected for years. Even in death, he thought, his uncle’s twisted sense of revenge reached out to ruin his life. He could hang for the death of a man who deserved to die, a man whose hands had been soaked in the blood of his own brother and many of his own clan. Even if he escaped or had his name cleared, how could he return to Deilcladach as its laird? His failure was too great. Connor placed his hands over his eyes, not surprised to feel tears. It was, perhaps, a good time to grieve, to weep for those who had died because of one man’s jealousies, and for his own blind failure to see that truth. Weak though he thought it, Connor hoped allowing that weakness free rein for a little while would clear his head. When next he stood before the earl, he would need all his wits and a plan. * * * “Laird,” Peter said when he returned to stand before the earl, “I am nay sure Sir Connor is guilty.” “Nay?” The earl tested the weight of Sir Connor’s dagger in his hand. “Would ye nay kill the mon who nearly brought about the complete destruction of your clan, your family, and your lands?” “Aye, and probably as slowly and painfully as I could. But, weel, I dinnae think he kenned it all until ye told him.” Peter shook his head. “He said naught. He repeated his claim of innocence much as a child repeats a lesson. When we took him to the tower room, I got the feeling he was stunned, mindlessly so. He acted like a mon who had been knocked o’er the head by a rock yet lacked the wit to fall down. ’Tis difficult to explain.” “Ye didnae do so badly. I believe I shall send a message to the king.” “Because ye think Sir Connor is guilty?” “He had cause, ’twas his weapon, and three women, whores though they be, claim he did it. It should be simple, yet ’tis not. I cannae believe Sir Connor would kill a mon like that. From all I have heard, I dinnae think he would act so foolishly nor allow himself to be so consumed by rage. Something isnae right here, and so I shall tell the king. He must be informed that one of his knights is dead, but I willnae accuse anyone of the crime yet.” “Ah, of course. Shall I take it for you?”
The earl nodded and stood up. “Aye, and ’twill be ready to go as soon as I can write the wretched thing. And, I want the king’s response to be brought to me by a Murray. There is usually one of them lurking about in the king’s court.” “Why do ye wish to bring a Murray here?” “Sir Connor has married one of their women. There is a chance that marriage can be set aside, but, for now, Sir Connor is one of them. They will want to ken what is happening. And, if this Murray woman is anything like the others, she may weel show up here demanding her husband. ’Twould be a help if one of her kinsmen is here, too.” “Nay, surely no lass would come here demanding anything of ye?” “Ye obviously havenae met a Murray lass.” * * * Diarmot wiped his sweaty palms on his jupon as he waited for the guard to unlock the door of Connor’s prison. He could not believe what was happening. One moment he was watching Connor leave to speak to Meg, the next he had the nearly incoherent mother of Knobby telling him his uncle was dead and that the earl’s men had dragged Connor to Dinnock to answer to the charge of murder. He had not slept at all, pacing his room, his mind crowded with questions, waiting for daybreak so that he could ride to Dinnock. The earl himself had not been much more informative, but at least he was allowing him to see Connor. Even as Diarmot had expressed his gratitude for that kindness, he had been stripped of all his weapons and led away. The moment Diarmot stepped into the room the door was shut and barred behind him. It took him a minute to be able to see clearly, the room being only faintly lit by a small fire. When he finally saw Connor sprawled in a chair near the fire, Diarmot felt his uneasiness grow. There was nary a bruise on his brother yet Connor looked as if he had been beaten into a stupor. “What in sweet Mary’s name is going on?” Diarmot demanded, unsettled by the dead look in his brother’s eyes. “I have been accused of the murder of Sir Neil MacEnroy,” Connor replied. “Ye would ne’er kill our uncle.” “After what I have learned, aye, I would have gutted the swine without hesitation.” Connor finished his drink, refilled his tankard, and asked, “Wine?”
Diarmot pulled up a stool to sit in front of Connor and helped himself to some of the wine in a large jug Connor held out. There had been a cold rage behind Connor’s words. It was as if all affection for their uncle had been abruptly, brutally killed. He just hoped he could get Connor to tell him everything despite the very odd mood he was in. It was not going to be easy to get Connor free of this tangle. It would be impossible without every piece of information Connor might have. “Your dagger was found buried in Uncle Neil’s heart,” Diarmot said. “Aye, and it hasnae been put to such good use in many a generation. I wish I had been the one to put it there.” “Why, Connor? Why would ye wish to kill a mon ye have always revered, and why say he deserved to die?” Connor rested his head against the back of his chair, took a long drink, and then closed his eyes. In a flat, emotionless voice, he told Diarmot the ugly truth about Sir Neil MacEnroy. When he was done, the silence was so heavy, Connor could almost feel it pressing in on him. He looked at Diarmot, not surprised to see his brother was pale and shaken. “Jesu, and we let that bastard into Deilcladach again and again, welcomed him, were grateful at least one of our elders had survived,” Diarmot finally said, then took a deep drink to ease the hoarseness of rage from his voice. “How did the earl ken it?” “Meg and the other women told him,” Connor replied. “They told the earl Meg and I were still lovers, said I got in an argument with Neil, and, as the argument raged, the drunken Neil spilled the truth he had held tight to for years. So, enraged, I butchered him. Then, I plunged my dagger into his heart and left. After enough time had passed for Meg and her cohorts to go tell this tale to the earl and for the earl to send his men to capture me, I suddenly recalled leaving my dagger behind and rushed back to retrieve it.” “So, Meg nay only tries to get ye hanged for a crime ye didnae commit, but makes ye look a complete fool as weel,” Diarmot muttered. “Why should our uncle tell Meg such a dangerous secret? Our uncle didnae trust women at all.” “Nay, but he loved his drink. I think he and Meg wanted Gillyanne gone, then they wanted her dead when she showed no sign of leaving. Mayhap they argued when the latest attempt to be rid of Gillyanne appeared to have failed. Neil may have let some of the truth slip out and Meg had the skill to pull the rest out of him.” “Meg didnae lose anyone in the killings. Why should she care who was responsible?” “I dinnae think she killed Neil for that crime. I wouldnae be surprised if Meg thought to use that secret against the fool and to fatten her purse with it. Then Neil said or did something to stir her rage. I also
wouldnae be surprised to learn Meg stole my dagger when I banished her, thinking to sell it later. She thought of blaming me after she had done the killing. Only she can tell us why she killed Neil. I am nay sure I will e’er understand why he suddenly told her so much, e’en if he was stumbling down drunk.” Diarmot stared into his wine. “Mayhap ’twas your wee wife who loosened his tongue. Uncle disliked her from the start, was a miserable bastard to her. Weel, there is the chance he kenned her skill at sensing what a mon thinks or feels. That would make him afraid and that fear kept the memories of his heinous murder at the fore of his mind, far too close to his tongue. Then it became only a matter of time before he stumbled and let it out.” “Ye think he feared Gillyanne? I did hear talk of her skill time and time again yesterday. Word of it has spread far and wide. And made to sound far greater than it is. ’Tis said she can read the secrets held deep in a mon’s heart. Aye, she has a keen sense, feelings that cannae be ignored, but the rest is all lies meant to stir up fear and hatred for my wife. I now think Neil, with Meg’s aid, and mayhap Jenny and Peg as weel, spread those tales hoping that others would rid them of Gilly.” Connor laughed, but it was a cold, bitter sound. “Twas David who revealed the threat such talk represented, ye recall. E’en David saw more clearly than I did.” He shook his head then abruptly asked, “How fares Gillyanne?” “Weel. Still resting, which is for the best. Fiona begins to calm, nay longer fearing fever or infection, and James agrees. Soon, James plans to go to Dubhlinn to tell the tale to his family. He fears some dark rumor may wend its way to their ears and he wants to be sure they ken the truth.” “Ah, aye, the truth being that I nearly got their daughter killed.” “Ye?” Diarmot shook his head. “What foolishness is that? Ye had naught to do with all this.” “Exactly. I did naught but give succor to a murderer. I embraced our deadliest enemy, brought him close to the wife I had vowed to protect. As I have sat here Thinking.” “Brooding,” Diarmot muttered, but Connor ignored him. “I can now see so many places where doubts should have arisen, where questions should have been asked.” Connor swept his fingers through his hair. “I suddenly realized Neil ne’er really helped us and he could have, many times and in many ways. I should have questioned that.” “Ye didnae because ye probably thought the mon offered no help because he had none to give. Ye also felt it your duty to lead us, to pull us all back from the brink of destruction.” “Foolish pride. Jesu, at some time I should have at least wondered why we couldnae all huddle in his stables, behind thick walls, instead of little hovels out in the open. In my blindness, I failed everyone.” “Curse it, ye havenae failed anyone! Connor, I ne’er liked our uncle. I thought him a useless mon who
did nay more than come watch us struggle from time to time, eat too much and drink far more — e’en when we had so little to spare — bed our lasses, and ne’er lift a finger to do any of the work. He felt free to tell us what to do, though, didnae he? And there were times I wanted to cuff ye for listening to the pompous drunkard. The way he acted as if poor Fiona ne’er existed enraged me at times.” “Ye saw him far more clearly than I did.” “Since I wasnae the one burdened with the care of all of us, I had the time and wit left to think of other things. Yet, in all those years, e’en on the days when I near loathed the fool, ne’er did I e’er think he was the one responsible for it all. I thought him ill-humored, selfish, useless, vain, and lazy, but I am still as shocked as ye are to hear these ugly truths. God’s toes, Connor, the mon was our uncle! Of course ye, nor any of us, would wonder if he had anything to do with the death of his own brother, of his sister by marriage, or of much of his clan.” “But I was the laird! I should have seen it. Somewhen in the twelve long years, I should have at least looked.” Connor rubbed a hand over his face. “I am nay fit to be the laird. ’Tis ye who . . . ” Connor’s words were interrupted by the entrance of the guard. “The earl feels ye have visited long enough,” said the man. “Aye, I have,” agreed Diarmot, glaring at Connor as he stood up and started for the door. “Diarmot,” Connor began. “Nay, I cannae tarry. Ye sit here and brood o’er your failure to have the all-seeing eye of God Himself. I intend to find the real murderer and get ye out of here. Just dinnae brood so deep ye fail to notice they are trying to put a noose about your neck for a murder ye didnae commit. I would like ye to still be alive when I return so ye can see what a clever wee bastard I am. Then, when ye are free again, I shall pound some sense into you. I suspect your wee wife will help me.” He slammed the door shut behind him.
Eighteen “Ye have to tell her.” Diarmot sighed and briefly ignored his sister as he tried to eat his meal. He had returned from the earl’s keep, washed, eaten something, crawled into his bed, and slept until morning. He still felt tired, but he knew it was caused more by concern and a heaviness of spirit than a lack of sleep. Connor was sunk into a dangerous gloom and accused of murder. It left him with the sorts of responsibilities he really did not want. The hardest part, he knew, was going to be telling the rest of the family the horrifying truth about their uncle. Whether they had cared for the man or not, it was going to be hard news to accept. The man had kept three clans at each other’s throats, was responsible for more deaths than Diarmot cared to think about. Harder still would be understanding that this ugly truth about their uncle gave the earl a very sound reason for believing Connor guilty of killing the man. If they could not bring the earl the real killer, the best they could hope for was that their uncle’s crimes were dire enough to get Connor pardoned for his death. “She has been asking for him, has she?” Diarmot asked Fiona as she sat down next to him at the laird’s table in the empty hall. “Nay as much as I think she would like to,” replied Fiona. “How does she fare?” “Verra weel indeed. A verra quick healer and far stronger than I e’er would have believed her to be. Just as James said she was. I caught her up on her feet this morning and, though she was pale, she was verra steady. She needs to ken what is happening with Connor. ’Twill help.” “Ye think such ill news will actually help her recover?” Diarmot asked in mild astonishment. “ ’Tis better for her to ken the truth. At least then she willnae be left thinking Connor has been hurt or killed or just doesnae care to see her.”
“Ah, of course.” Diarmot stood up. “Fetch the lads, Fiona, and bring them to the laird’s bedchamber. Knobby, too. And, where is James?” “He left not long after Gilly woke. James said he could see she would be weel and wanted to take the news to his kinsmen. Oh, and the news about Connor, as weel. I thought he might believe Connor killed our uncle and defended our brother to him, but James said nay, he kenned Connor had been falsely accused. It was more trouble that his family might hear whispers about, however, and he wanted them to ken the truth. He also said the Murrays had had some experience with false charges of murder and that he might gain some hint or two about how to free Connor. If he isnae free already when he returns.” Fiona smiled faintly. “I shall have to remember that and press for the tale when he returns.” “Only if I am with ye when ye do, for ’tis certain to be a good one. Go, lass, let us gather together the family.” “ ’Tis that bad?” “Bad enough.” * * * Gillyanne felt tense and almost afraid as the MacEnroy siblings and Knobby gathered in the bedchamber. She took some comfort in the fact that she felt no grief in any of them so she felt sure Connor was still alive. There was a brief moment of lightness for her when Mairi brought in a jug of wine and tankards for all of them, exchanging a shy smile and blush with Knobby. It was evident that Mairi had finally shown Knobby she was interested in him and he was responding with an equal interest. The moment Mairi slipped away, however, the tension in the room, the unease each person there felt, rushed back upon Gillyanne. “First, I must tell ye about our uncle,” began Diarmot. “We ken the mon was murdered,” Nanty said. “Patience. What I need to tell ye is all that was discovered ere he died. Our uncle wasnae what he appeared to be. There were things about him we ne’er kenned, ne’er could have guessed.” When Diarmot looked at her Gillyanne felt a chill. “Oh, hell’s fire, all those dark secrets came out, didnae they?” “Aye, and they were verra dark indeed.” Taking a deep breath, Diarmot repeated all he had learned from Connor about Sir Neil. “E’en sadder is that I truly believe now that he ne’er helped us because he simply didnae care if we survived. He didnae have the courage to kill us all himself and the feud was o’er so he
couldnae use that against us, but he was probably verra disappointed that we survived that final slaughter.” When he saw how pale everyone was, he sighed. “Mayhap it wasnae right to tell you this.” “Nay,” protested Fiona, rubbing tears from her eyes. “ ’Twas right.” The others murmured their agreement. “Those vile truths have been hidden too long. Now that they are free, they will spread verra quickly. Better to hear it now, from ye, than whispered into our ears later by some stranger. ’Twill only grow darker as the tale passes from one ear to the next, though I cannae see how much darker it can be,” she muttered as she sat down on the bed next to Gillyanne. Gillyanne reached out to take Fiona’s hand in hers, silently offering comfort. “And this is why the earl believes Connor murdered his uncle.” “Aye,” replied Diarmot. “He was told the tale spilled out whilst our uncle and Connor argued and, in a rage, Connor stabbed him. ’Twas Connor’s dagger in his heart.” “Meg stole it when she left.” “Most likely. Connor feels Meg and Neil were working together to be rid of you. Tales of your skill at sensing what people feel or think have been spread far and wide. And heartily exaggerated. I do wonder if Neil believed most of it, if that fear of ye seeing the truth he hid, helped loosen his tongue. Ere ye arrived, the mon probably didnae think much on what he had done. Then, suddenly, ’twas all in the fore of his mind all the time and fear of others finding out, or that ye would expose him, kept the past alive in his mind.” “They thought that they could get terrified people to get rid of me for them or cause me to run away from the dangerous whispers.” “There is no proof, no confession of this, yet few people at Deilcladach kenned about your skills. It had to have been our uncle who started the whispers.” “And was quickly aided by Meg, Jenny, and Peg. It matters not. And, once the truth is learned about the ones who started those rumors, they will lose their power. Where is Meg?” she asked abruptly. “The earl said she and the other women were ordered to return to their cottage and stay there, but, when I stopped there as I rode back from Dinnock, I saw no sign of them,” Diarmot replied. “That is no surprise. I doubt they have gone verra far away,” Gillyanne added, seeking to reassure Diarmot. “They really have no place to go, no coin, and no kin. Meg would also wish to stay close to hand so that she might see the results of her plots and crimes.” “Do ye have a plan, Gilly?” Fiona asked as she helped Gillyanne sit up straighter and gave her a tankard of wine.
“I am certain Diarmot has one or two, Fiona,” Gillyanne said. “One or two,” Diarmot replied, “but I havenae had time, yet, to sort it all out. Weel, nay past the need to find the real murderer.” “ ’Tis Meg, is it not?” Gillyanne felt certain it was, but feared jealousy and dislike might cloud her reasoning. Diarmot nodded as he sat at the foot of the bed, resting his back against one of the thick, heavily carved posts. “Aye, I think so. As does Connor. Nay for the reasons we would have killed the bastard though.” Angus nodded. “Meg and the others didnae lose anyone. Ne’er seemed to care about what had happened here.” “Mayhap your uncle spit out some of his poison concerning women once too often, or enraged Meg by heaping scorn upon some idea she had.” Gillyanne shook her head. “She is capable of a rage, especially if she feels insulted, and your uncle could be most insulting. Howbeit, we can find out all of that when we find Meg and the other two. That is the verra first thing we must do.” “Agreed,” said Diarmot and nodded toward the other four men. “We can start the search for her today.” “How is Connor taking all of this? Is he angry?” she asked, almost hopefully. “Ah, nay. He is brooding.” “Oh, dear. Angry would have been much better.” “Quite. Nay, he feels he has failed us all, isnae worthy to be our laird.” Diarmot held up his hand to silence the vociferous protests of his family and Knobby. “I did my best to make him see that no one could have guessed what secrets our uncle hid deep in his black heart. I e’en confessed my long dislike of the mon so that I could tell Connor that, if anyone should have questioned the mere fact that the mon survived the killings, it would have been I, yet I didnae. ’Tisnae a crime one can e’en conceive of. The mon caused so many deaths, nay just those of the MacEnroys.” “But, ye didnae change his mind, did ye.” “Nay, Gilly. The betrayal cuts deep, I think, for Connor saw the mon almost as a father. The longer he thought o’er the past twelve years, the more he saw just how little the mon had done, saw where and when he should have asked a few pointed questions, and now he feels an utter fool. Connor feels he failed in not seeing that he allowed a murderer to walk amongst us, e’en when we were at our most
vulnerable. ’Tis far too easy to see how often Neil could have finished the killings done that day. As I have said, I think, in a most cowardly way, Neil tried to finish his ill work by not helping us. He didnae e’en take wee Fiona in out of the cold. And, Connor thinks on how he let the mon get near ye, Gilly. How he didnae see the threat the mon was to you. Aye, and so much more. He has been secured in a windowless tower room and is provided every comfort, but he is alone in the near dark for hours.” “And so can brood and brood and brood. Weel, that settles it. I must go see him.” “Nay. ’Tis several hours ride and ye were seriously wounded but two days ago.” “Painfully, nay seriously.” She held up her hand when Diarmot began to argue some more. “The arrow went through high on my shoulder, through what little fleshy area I have on this wee, too thin body. The muscle is fine, the bone fine, and I didnae bleed all that much. Aye, it hurts. Nay as much as it did when the arrow went in or came out and nay as much as it did yesterday. As long as I am careful and dinnae reopen the wound, I shall be fine. E’en then, ’twill mostly just hurt some more.” “But, the ride . . . ” “I shall go in a cart which I shall have properly prepared to soften the journey.” Diarmot frowned. “That will add time to the journey. I am nay sure ye can go and return in but a day.” “Then I shall stay at Dinnock. Diarmot, ye cannae leave the mon sitting alone in a shadowed room brooding on what he thinks is the verra worst of failures. Since the day your parents were murdered, Connor’s sole purpose in life was the protection and survival of what remained of his family and clan. He cannae be allowed to convince himself that he failed in that. We all ken that he didnae, but he obviously needs someone to slap some sense into him.” “Ye are right, but, mayhap, it would be best if I did it.” Gillyanne shook her head. “Nay. He is your laird. He is the mon who raised ye, kept ye alive, and all of that. I am sure ye can speak your mind as ye will, but, at some point, ye will stop and go no further. That is, if ye last that long ere ye get angry and walk away.” She exchanged a brief grin with Fiona. “Gilly, ye are his wife,” Diarmot said, amusement weighting his voice. “That makes Connor your laird, too, and much more.” “Aye, many would think that. Fortunate, isnae it, that we Murray lasses dinnae. And, consider this. As his wife, I have a few ways of, er, improving his mood that ye cannae use.” Gillyanne winked at Diarmot who grinned as the others chuckled. “He cannae just knock me down when I say something he doesnae wish to hear, either.”
