Alastair’s gaze followed Cameron’s, sighing knowingly before turning back to his plate.
“Aye. And many of them are nae pleasant.”
Cameron scoffed.
“That is an understatement.”
When he stopped to think about all that the castle walls had seen and heard, Cameron’s stomach started to turn. And for nearly all of it, his father was to blame.
While rumors and legends swirled around about the former Laird Knox, they paled in comparison to the true horrors he had committed. Those who were unlucky enough to know the cruel Laird knew him to be a proud and jealous man who was often suspicious of everyone around him. He had been so sure that one of the men from his family would plot a coup to overthrow him that he had trusted no one. For decades, he ruled the clan without so much as a council of elders. They had all been killed or exiled for treasonous claims, though none of them held any merit. And things only grew worse as Laird Knox had grown older.
With a long history of violence against other clans, it was little wonder that he suspected he was being hunted or spied upon. There were less than half a dozen clans in the highlands who did not have a blood feud with the Knox clan, and most of those were simply because they were too far out of Laird Knox’s reach. His greed and desperation for more—more power, more money, more land—had turned the Knox clan into a destitute and vicious place. Only those strong enough to withstand the near constant state of war survive, leaving the very worst of men. Their lands were scarred and barren, as were most of the people.
His father’s reputation only grew more notorious throughout the years and with it, a sense of paranoia that was fed by his ruthlessness. One by one he hunted down and killed the men in the Knox family line. The thought of an heir coming to take his place one day stalked after Laird Knox and in return, his lineage was slashed to pieces. He left only a handful of children, several of those remaining unknown to the man, having been hidden out of fear by their mothers.
As Cameron had grown up in the village hearing the sordid tales of his father’s actions, he was often grateful that his father thought him dead. Though, that was another strike against the man. Cameron had never been able to forgive his father for the brutal way he had murdered his mother. The image of her neck being sliced, blood gushing from her mouth, had haunted Cameron all his life. Not to mention the hatred that brewed from having watched his siblings ripped from his arms, literally. The only solace Cameron could find was that his siblings had been saved from the fire. Despite their father’s best attempts, they had all three survived, even if they didn’t know each other. It was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless.
There had been a time, when Cameron was a young boy, where he had almost wished his father knew him. The winters had been cold and unforgiving and Cameron had longed for a home, for parents who loved him. It was a fleeting feeling that was quickly doused by the reality of just how barbarous his father was. Throughout the years, Cameron only grew more and more glad that his father was estranged from him. He shuddered to imagine all the horrible things Cameron might have seen and heard and experienced had he been raised by his father, if the power-hungry Laird would have even allowed Cameron to live.
A lifetime of gaining only enemies had made Cameron so sure that one day Laird Knox would have to pay for his crimes. He couldn’t believe that they lived in a world that would allow such evil to prevail unpunished. Decades had gone by and Cameron was only more certain that another Laird would rise up against Laird Knox and defeat him, ensuring that he suffered for all the harm he had caused.
War after war, battle after battle had ensued. Everytime Cameron clung to hope that word of his father’s death would come. And every time his father rode home victorious, the blood of his innocent victims still coating his sword.
When Cameron became a man, he would often lie awake and contemplate how he might kill his own father. He considered an outright attack or poison or slitting his throat the same way his mother’s had been mutilated. But every time, Cameron was reminded of two things; the first was that he was not a trained warrior whereas his father was a seasoned fighter; he had little chance of winning in combat against the man. The second was that he was not a murderer. It was his character, his moral compass that separated Cameron from the likes of his father and he was unwilling to do anything to bring that chasm closer together.
In the end, it was not some traitorous clansmen nor a rival clan who had caused Laird Knox’s demise. For all of his scheming and plotting against invaders or an assassin, it was his own body that had done him in. The man had died in the comfort of his own bed, his heart and mind too frail to endure another moment. It was more than he deserved.
As if he could hear his thoughts, Alastair looked to Cameron and sighed.
“It is nae secret that the remnants of yer father’s reign still infect this clan. The Knox people have long since suffered at his hands and it will take time to heal what has been hurt. Nae to mention, our relations with our neighboring clans could nae be worse than what they are.”
“Ye dinnae have to remind me,” Cameron grumbled, his mood dark.
“Aye, I do. For those are the verra reasons why we are doing what we are doing. It is why I sought ye out months ago.”
“I ken, I ken.”
“It bears repeating,” Alastair pressed on. “I watched yer father destroy this clan from the inside out. As the only sane man left in the castle, I knew his mind was deteriorating. It was his thoughts, his fear, his greed that cost him everything. When he died, this clan was in such a state of disrepair that I worried we would be overtaken and killed merely for being born into the wrong clan and having nay means of escaping it. It was only a matter of time before word of his death spread throughout the highlands and we could nae be without a Laird to guide us.”
Cameron scoffed a laugh.
“And ye thought I was the best option? I doubt ye think that now.”
Alastair shook his head in frustration.
“Ye still dinnae understand me. It was nae that ye were thebestoption, Cameron. Ye are theonlyoption. As the Laird’s firstborn and one of the few surviving men of his lineage, only ye could have assumed the role.”
“Ye and I both ken that I am nae the Laird’s only son. Why did ye nae go off in search of my brother? Surely he must be better than an illiterate orphan.”
Cameron spat the words, his foul mood tainting everything. Though he gave his last sentence pause. After his time with Charlotte in the library yesterday, he wasn’t sure that he would call himself illiterate anymore. He might not be crafting lines of poetry any time soon, but neither was he ignorant to the rules of reading and writing.
He wanted to tell Alastair of his progress, wanted to assure the advisor that he wasn’t the utter failure they both thought him to be anymore. But telling Alastair that he had learned to read and write would undoubtedly lead to more questions that he wasn’t ready to answer. The tale of his day with Charlotte would only serve as further proof that he was a colossal failure.
Regardless, Alastair didn’t seem interested in the news as he stood from the table, his chair screeching across the floor.
“I did nae go after him because I dinnae ken him,” Alastair explained as he paced. “When yer father ordered for ye bairns to be taken to that shack and burned, I almost killed him myself. In a moment of sheer providence, I thought better of it and rode with the men who went to do his bidding. I watched them shove ye all inside and light the fires. And then I waited. I waited for the others to leave as I hid in the trees. I saw those clansmen try to snuff out the flames and when they couldn’t, I held my breath as they ran inside to pull ye three out. Only two men who had been willing to take such a risk.”
Cameron held back a shudder as he listened to Alastair recall the worst day of his life.
