Cullen mounted the stairs and headed upwards. The higher he went, the more the eerie feel of the place unsettled him. On the second floor, the quiet seemed thicker somehow, and it was clear that death had visited. The stench was unmistakable. Cullen entered his brother’s chamber.
Allard’s corpse lay on the floor beside his bed, arm outstretched, reaching for help that did not come. No doubt, the servants had fled in fear once the sickness took hold. Cullen stared down at his vicious half-brother. Allard’s cheeks weresunken, his once pudgy face now just grey skin hanging over bones. His mouth was open as if in a snarl, and where the skin had tightened in death, it exposed his teeth. The eyes were unsettling, seeming to stare at Cullen in reproach.
Cullen reached down and closed them. He was numb, taking no joy in Allard’s lonely death, nor pity for his end, only relief. The stench of death became unbearable, in his mouth, up his nose, and Cullen had to cover his face. A clatter came from above, making him flinch and then bound up the stairs two at a time. He burst into the East Tower and found his father abed, hand reaching out. A flagon lay on the floor, spilling a puddle of whisky. Its odour was pungent, but did not overcome the smell of the sick room. The chamber was shuttered, and only a weak light bled into it.
Griffin Macaulay sensed Cullen and raised himself up on his elbow, his whole body shaking with the effort. It was as if the very life force had been sucked out of his father – eyes sunk in his head, face chalk-pale and lips bearing a bluish tinge. His end was coming.
‘What’s this? My loving son back from the dead,’ gasped Griffin. The bitterness of his father’s words tainted the air more than the smell of impending death.
‘And why would I be dead?’ said Cullen, forcing himself to move towards his father.
‘Because you were always headed to a bad end. You have your mother’s blood, tainted with madness and spite.’
‘Aye, maybe I do. But I am sure, I don’t have any of yours.’
‘Any why is that?’
‘I could never slither so low as you.’
‘Aye, and that is your enduring weakness.’
‘Strange then, that I am the last one standing,’ said Cullen. ‘Allard is gone.’
‘I know. He succumbed quickly, the weakling. Both my sons have been a disappointment.’ Griffin’s every word was a gasp for air.
Had Griffin been privy to Allard’s plot to kill him? What did it matter now? Looking at his father’s shell of a body, it was clear he was dying. And even his last words would probably be a lie. Why flay himself with more of his father’s disdain?
‘So, your servants have run off, your loyal clansmen too,’ said Cullen. ‘They all left you to the sickness, and here you are, in your tower, like an old badger dragging itself into a burrow to die.’
‘I’ll outlive you, worthless bastard, that you are.’
In the old days, Cullen would have argued his virtues, but he was suddenly exhausted by his father’s cruelty. ‘You don’t have much time left.’
‘Come to claim Scarcross, have you? Well, you are in for disappointment. Clan Macaulay will not have you, and I’ll not die quickly to make it easy for you.’
‘A pillow over your face would hasten the end.’
Griffin’s eyes widened. ‘You would not.’
Cullen put his face in Griffin’s. ‘I have hardened since last we met, so you will listen to me.’ Cullen looked around him. ‘There’s hardly any clan left to choose me or not, and I see no other challenger for the lairdship. I no longer need the crumbs from your table. I will just take what is mine.’
‘Is that a bit of iron in your heart, Cullen? It was always soft as porridge before, and no use to anyone.’ Griffin collapsed back down on the bed, gulping for air. ‘What hardened you?’ he croaked. ‘Was it that wild little Macaulay bitch, I wed you to? Made you miserable, did she?’
‘My wife has given me the only joy I ever had. Lowri is the love of my life.’
Griffin rolled away from Cullen’s words. He made a retching groan and sank down onto the bed. ‘The Clan will never accept a bastard as Laird Macaulay,’ he wheezed.
‘My clansmen will do as they are told.’
Griffin spoke no more. Cullen weighed his choices as his father’s breathing became laboured, a rattle which sounded deafening in the quiet chamber. Eventually, even that fell silent, and his father slipped away to an undeservedly gentle death for such a brutal man.
Cullen drew a blanket over his father and stepped up to the window. He could leave now, take Lowri and head back to Ireland. All his past pain, failures, his father’s disdain and his brother’s cruelties would be behind him. There would be no reminders of his mother’s desperate unhappiness as she slid from madness to death. He could be free of Scarcross and all its ghosts.
He stared out of the tower window at the rolling fields and hills of the West March. He had skinned his knees slipping from the high stone wall at the end of the yard. He had taken his first lass, clumsily and mortifyingly briefly, in the hay of the stable. Even now, Cullen could feel the warm sun streaming in, the prickle of the hay, the slavish gratitude towards the lass letting him lose his virginity inside her. Beyond the wall, out in an island of woodland, lay his mother’s last resting place.
There were clansmen and tenants who needed protection. His half-sisters were out there somewhere, reliant on the dubious charity of Mabel’s family. The English Warden would smell blood and come running to break up the clan. Others would pillage and carry off the livestock. Clan Macaulay was on its knees with no champion.
His birthright settled on Cullen like a comfortable cloak. It emboldened and excited him. Clan Macaulay was in his blood, his bones, his heart. He could not abandon it now, in its hour of need. And Lowri was strong, with a stout heart, and brave and beautiful. With such a woman by his side, he could lead his clan to greatness, restore its name and standing in the West March.
