Page 100 of Highlander’s Burning Touch

“So, what about MacLean?” asked Rory as the last of the men emerged from the castle. Finally, the foot soldiers had managed to bring out the bodies of the dead.

Niven caught his uncle’s eyes. It hadn’t occurred to him he didn’t know about MacLean. Slowly, he smiled.

“He’s here, waiting for ye,” he said, as the men bringing the fallen laird filed past.

Rory looked momentarily stunned but recovered himself fast. “Well,” he said, strolling with the two of them into the front of the castle.

Niven looked out to the vista beyond. The first light was just beginning to dawn over the sleepy valley. However, on the castle drawbridge, he saw a posse coming forward.

Unable to see properly in the grayness, Niven tensed immediately, indicating to Rory to be on guard. Tensed, their party reassembled, the last of the soldiers from the tunnel coming through to confront the incomers.

But as soon as his men had reached the gate, Rory gave a shout. “Nae fash,” he said to the head sentry of his guards, “Let ‘em in…”

Niven watched closely as the men – a raggle-taggle assortment of guards, laborers, farmers, and shepherds came marching over. And then behind them, the few remaining nobles from the neighboring clans.

“McInnery,” welcomed Rory with a friendly gesture. Unsurely, Niven looked to his uncle for guidance. Although Rory was smiling, he could not be sure what was going to happen.

The laird of McInnery pressed forwards, dismounting his gray-brown horse and presenting himself to his uncle.

“Macaulay,” the man spoke plainly, “We must ken, what on earth is going on…we hear tale that ye’ve killed MacLean?”

The men behind the laird of McInnery tensed as if waiting for their response.

“Aye,” said Rory, thoughtfully. “Aye, we did, but it was nae something I wished for,” he continued.

Coming over to the other lairds, Niven stood before them. He surveyed them all, the main leaders of their nearest neighbors.

“Gentlemen. What has happened is unfortunate,” he paused. There was an uncomfortable silence, where Niven realized he could have been referring to both MacLean’s passing and his love for Deva.

“What happened was nae planned… but ye must ken, that the laird o’ MacLean, was not the man ye think ye ken…” here, he shot a glance to Rory.

Beside him, Fingal eyed him closely. He seemed to be staring at the fallen laird, who was being paraded about by the guardsmen, for all the lairds to see.

“The thing is, I dinnae ken what MacLean promised for yer support of him… but I do ken one thing…” Here, Niven glanced at Fingal pointedly, “That it wasnae the English!”

At the mention of the word English, a ripple ran around the crowd. For the first time, Niven found himself feeling cold, and tired, and melancholy. A sudden desire to be inside and warm again came over him.

He was drenched to the bone, soaking in his own sweat, as well as the cold winter rain, falling unnoticed onto him. He had been choleretic for so long that his body had forgotten how to relax.

But the crowds around him did little to soothe his nerves. And the sight of Fingal, slowly oozing blood only made him tense more. He needed to get him to help.

“The Sassenachs?” scorned McInnery. He looked around to a couple of the other lairds for support. “What have they got to do with this?”

Everyone was staring into Niven’s face. Beside him, his uncle pressed up close.

“So, what has MacLean got wi’ the enemy?” he asked, concerned.

Niven was about to speak when Fingal came forward. “It’s worse than ye think, sir,” he said, turning to his uncle, “An’ I am ashamed now, for even slightly trusting him… but I did discover his allegiances with one English commander – that was when I ran from MacLean, an’ tried to come back an’ warn ye…”

Niven’s heart stirred as Fingal’s green eyes beseeched both the laird’s and all the surrounding nobles.

Rory just nodded as if he understood. Niven could see from the look in his uncle’s eyes that more explanations would be needed later, but for now, he was satisfied.

However, any hopes that the other lairds would be so easily pleased were quashed when McInnery, the laird of the third-largest clan in the region, pressed himself forward.

Niven had already had some dealings with him before. He was usually a friendly if somewhat officious chap. However, right now, he was tense and suspicious. Putting his best face on, Niven smiled pleasantly at the laird.

“Well, that is all very well to tell us,” said McInnery, his steely gray eyebrows engaged in mortal combat together, “But how do we ken it’s true?”