‘I see Selby and Bertha too. Why has half of Fellscarp come out for that bastard?’ continued MacDougall.
‘There is only one way to find out,’ said Peyton, kicking his horse forward.
‘Stop. It is a trap!’ cried MacDougall.
Peyton galloped down the slope and straight into the crowd. Folk parted to let him through lest they get trampled. He threw himself off his horse and marched up to Eaden. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.
Eaden gave him a smug, lazy smile and shouted, ‘It is a new beginning for Clan Strachan.’ He spoke to the crowd more than Peyton.
‘Get off my land.’
‘Your land? Not for much longer.’
‘Not this again, Eaden. Go while you still have your head,’ snarled Peyton.
Eaden ignored him. ‘I have summoned you here today to bear witness.’ He held out his arms like Christ on the cross. ‘Clan Strachan, have you not suffered enough privation with Peyton Strachan as your laird? Have your homes not been raided, your women menaced and abused?’
‘Bye you, most likely,’ shouted one stout fellow in the crowd.
‘Not by me, I swear,’ said Eaden, hand on heart, a picture of mock sincerity. ‘By this man’s weakness.’ He pointed at Peyton, and muttering rippled through the crowd. What had Eaden promised to lure them out for this spectacle?
‘You are a liar and a thief,’ shouted MacDougall.
Berth pushed forward and shouted, ‘Do you think you can do better, Eaden Strachan? You are nought but a drunk, a criminal and a fondler of women.’
‘Nought wrong with fondling women unless you are a monk,’ he cried, drawing a ripple of laughter from the onlookers. ‘But good folk of Fellscarp, let me show you that I am the man to lead Clan Strachan. You need a strong leader, not a weakling who cowers behind his walls while your lives fall to ruins. And Peyton Strachan is the fondler of women here, not I. He keeps a whore for his pleasure and beds her every night while your farms burn.’
‘I keep no whore. She is my wife,’ shouted Peyton in a fury.
A gasp rippled through the onlookers, and Bertha rushed up to Peyton. ‘She’s gone, Laird,’ she said, but not quietly enough.
‘See, he cannot even control his own woman,’ shouted Eaden. ‘Soon, she will be a widow. I challenge you, Peyton Ruari Strachan, to fight for the leadership of Clan Strachan.’
His world spun. He took hold of Bertha. ‘Cecily gone? Where?’
‘She rode out yesterday in a fury. She took Selby’s horse right off him.’
Had Cecily run away? Had she left him? Peyton’s heart clenched tight in his chest. He had to find her, but first, he would have to deal with Eaden.
‘Leave now, Eaden,’ snarled Peyton, drawing his sword.
‘I think not. I challenge you to a fight to the death, the old way – fists, not swords. Whichever of us is still standing is the winner. The loser will be put in the ground this day. Do you accept my challenge, or are you a coward?’
‘You’d best hope I end you, Eaden, for if you still live at the end of this fight, I will bury you alive.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Eaden. He took hold of Peyton’s hand, thrust a pendant into it and hissed, ‘Think of Lowri.’
Peyton stared at the pendant, a simple trinket of silver with a thistle at its centre. His mother had pressed it into Lowri’s hands on her deathbed. It was all they had left of her, and his sister never took it off.
MacDougall rushed up to them, trying to tear them apart. ‘Let us put an end to this madness now. Talk it out.’
Eaden smiled. ‘Aye, let us talk.’
***
Cecily’s limbs were so stiff from crouching against the wall that she could barely move them. The wind had risen, rustling the treetops, and it was getting lighter on the horizon. The two men had huddled before the fire and stayed awake all night. Poor Lowri had to make do with a blanket thrown about her shoulders, and scant comfort that would have been.
Cecily had curled into a ball and tucked in her skirts, but it had been a torturous night. The damp had seeped up her clothes, and the smell of mildew from the wall clung to her hair. Her stomach gave a low rumble, and she held her breath, sure that the men would hear. But the wind covered the noise.
