Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (16 page)

“Aye, my lady. More than a dozen.”

“Good.” Ceana started to walk back toward the castle then turned around. “I want a dozen to begin keeping an eye on all the council members. I want to know where they are at all times. What they eat and drink. When they sleep. Who they sleep with and where.”

Kendrew inclined his head. “Aye, my lady. I will see it done.”

Ceana glanced up at the guards on the wall. Every once in a while one of them would glance down. When they saw her looking, they bowed slightly. Who among them could be trusted? And who was their enemy? “Take the other dozen trusted warriors with you when you escort Victor and his savage man off the land,” she said, returning her gaze to Kendrew. “Take them all the way to the edge of the holding—and send them off with our good wishes.”

“Good wishes?”

Ceana smiled, though it didn’t reach her lips. She’d felt much guilt about pushing the order for Gowp’s execution, but with Victor… a sound beating was exactly what he needed. She was only sorry she wouldn’t be the one to give it to him. “Aye, a gift, if you would, of blood to remember us by. Be sure to cover your faces so he cannot identify you.”

“You have my word, my lady. I will not fail you.”

Ceana drew in a shaky breath. “Thank you, Kendrew.”

“No thanks required, my lady. I have great faith that you and his lordship will bring Sìtheil back to greatness.”

She gave a tremulous smile. “We shall certainly try.”

“And we will help you.”

Ceana inclined her head and then returned inside with Kendrew following. Cook and Mary were feeding Bonnie’s children another helping of honeybuns. Their faces and fingers looked sticky, but they smiled, and that was all Ceana could hope for. Mary was a natural with children. When the great battle was over, Ceana had to remember to see if Mary was interested in marriage. She’d be a great mother. If after her ordeal with Gowp she had no interest in a husband, perhaps Ceana could find a way for her to tend the children within the clan while their parents completed their duties.

“My lady,” Cook said with a smile.

“Thank you for giving these children a fine treat, and allowing them to disrupt the order of your kitchen,” Ceana said. “I know the interruption will put you off for today’s meal plans.”

“’Tis no bother at all.” Tears came into Cook’s eyes. “I’m sorry about the goose, my lady.”

Ah, the ill-fated goose. The one that could have killed her and Macrath. So Cook did know. An icy chill gripped Ceana, but she couldn’t rub it away without exposing herself.

“Goose?” Ceana said, acting as though she couldn’t remember.

Cook scurried forward, wringing her apron in her hands. Her eyes shifted nervously about. The thickness of her cheeks jiggled as she hopped from one foot to the other. “I must confess, my lady, begging your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it. They threatened my children should I not allow them to serve the goose to you. But I did not have any goose on the menu.
None
. And I like to stick to my menu, but they didn’t listen. They insisted. They demanded I serve it,” she prattled. “I couldn’t risk my children’s lives. But I suppose you’d think I should at the risk for your own neck.”

Ceana waved away her incoherent rambling. “Let me be clear about one thing and I bid you listen. I would never put my life before a child’s. Now, who brought you the goose?”

The cook’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though she continued to shift from foot to foot. “His lordship’s brother’s man. You’ll know the one, Lord Victor’s groom.”

Cook nodded, as if waiting for Ceana to agree, so she nodded, too.

“Go on.”

“Said it was a gift from their household and I’d be rude not to serve it. Then he threatened my children. I was scared for their lives. He wielded a blade, nearly sliced my head off. I thought it so odd—why was this man willing to kill me over some silly bird?” She moved the collar of her gown aside to show a tiny cut on her skin. “Told me his master would be prince soon and if I didn’t do as he commanded, I and my children would be the first to go. Traitorous words, my lady, I know, and I rightly deserve a lashing for not coming to you sooner, but I was so frightened. I still am.”

Ceana regarded the cook, looking her right in the eyes. “He’ll not ever rule here. If ever anyone comes to you like this, and threatens you, even if you are afraid for your life, you must come to me. Can I trust you in that?”

Cook nodded slowly, her eyes meeting Ceana’s.

“Tell me, how did you prepare the goose?” Ceana asked.

Cook’s hands were in danger of being wrung right off. Ceana reached out and touched her whitened knuckles to calm her.

Cook blew out a breath she’d obviously been holding. “The man handed me a sachet of herbs he said were from his land—Argyll herbs. Said his lordship was insistent about being served the Argyll goose with the Argyll herbs. But it turns out his lordship doesn’t even like goose. One of the kitchen servers ran down here to tell me his lordship was most displeased. I’m so sorry, my lady. I’ll never serve him goose again.”

“Never you mind about the prince’s pleasure for goose.” Ceana patted the jumpy cook on her shoulder. “’Twas nothing more than the herbs—and the man who gave them to you. They were not Argyll herbs.”

“Oh, no! Was his lairdship most displeased?” Her eyes darted from Ceana’s back to the little children who laughed in the corner, bopping each other on the noses with the honeyed treats.

Ceana leaned forward and whispered, “The man who gave you the goose and the herbs is very dangerous. He is an enemy of ours.”

Cook’s mouth fell open with understanding. “I see,” she said, quietly. Her hands came to her throat, cheeks going nearly purple with her flush. “I see. Oh, dear gods. I could have—”

Ceana continued to comfort the woman with a hand on her shoulder. “Hush, now. No harm done. Next time, come to us and ask beforehand. Even if you are afraid.”

Cook nodded so hard the wobbly skin around her jaw jiggled and the hair in her bun fell loose. “I will, for certain. But even better, I’d best not accept any food from anyone.”

Ceana cocked her head and pursed her lips. “With his knife at your throat and the threat of your children’s lives? If anyone should ever threaten you again, agree to do as they bid, then seek us out immediately—without them know you did not obey their commands.”

“Aye, my lady, as you say.” Cook looked terrified.

“Do not fash yourself over it anymore,” Ceana said, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “We will take care of the man.”

“All right, my lady,” she agreed, though she looked skeptical.

“Go back to Bonnie’s children. Make them happy, for I fear they will lose their father today.”

Cook’s lip trembled. “He was my cousin.”

Ceana leaned in to give Cook a comforting hug. “He
is
your cousin still. Go to him.”

Cook nodded. “I will, just as soon as I finish up here.”

“Do not wait too long, Cook.”

The woman hurried over to the children, offering them cups of fresh milk.

Ceana let out a deep breath and trekked slowly in the direction of the warrior’s chamber where the wounded man lay dying. But before she could reach it, Macrath burst into the great hall.

“Ceana,” he said, hastening closer.

“I have found out about the goose,” she whispered, grabbing his outstretched hands.

At that moment, angry shouts sounded from above.

“Victor?” Macrath asked.

“Kendrew is escorting Victor and his groom from the land. He is responsible for the goose.”

“
Mo chreach
,” Macrath breathed out. “I knew he hated me. Wanted me removed. And I suspected he might try to kill me but… The council was in on it, they had to be, for they did not eat the goose either.”

Ceana told him what Kendrew and Cook had relayed.

With each uttered word, her husband’s face grew darker and darker with rage.

“I will kill him,” he growled, and started for the stairs, his intent clear.

Ceana sprinted after him, stretched out and seized onto his hand, staying his progress. “Nay, you cannot. If you were to do that, your father would bring the full force of his army and his allies upon Sìtheil. We are not ready for such a battle.” And they were lucky that none of the neighboring lands knew that yet.

“I do not care!” Macrath rumbled.

“Think of your people. We are their saviors. We cannot allow a battle to happen. Not yet. War is already coming—the council has its own army we’ll be fighting against soon enough. We cannot combat more than one.” She leaned closer. “But fear not, for Victor will be punished, I promise you. I gave the order for Kendrew and his men to give your brother and his man a gift to remember us by.”

“I want to give him the
gift
,” Macrath said, a fierce frown marring his brow.

“I know you do, but you cannot. We cannot risk that he would take back to your father that you beat him. Let it be that one of our men did it, that will not hurt you as much.”

“Nay, wife. Do not make me deny you. I will not allow one of my men to take the fall.”

Ceana hastily explained. “There will be no fall. Each of the men wears a mask so Victor cannot identify them. We will not identify the men should we be asked. All will be well. But there is something you must do.”

“Aye?” He was flustered, staring up at the door, hands on his hips. He started to pace.

“You have to prepare your army. You must fortify this castle. War is coming. We must be ready.”

Mary burst through the door leading down into the guardroom. Her steps were hurried, her face flushed.

“My lady, my laird, we need you.”

Macrath and Ceana did not hesitate in following her down the stairs. The sounds of sobbing echoed in the staircase from below.

When they entered the guardroom, a crowd of people stood around the makeshift cot with their heads hanging. The somber atmosphere slammed into Ceana’s chest nearly crippling her.

“He has asked that we give him mercy,” Mary said. “The chief is the only one who can grant it.”

Chapter Seventeen

MERCY.

Macrath stood stock-still, assessing the minds of his clansmen. The wounded man had asked for mercy. He asked to be given death.

His pain must have been great. His breaths were rattling. He’d not long left in this world as it was.

He asked for mercy… Laise of Clan Morrison could no longer stand the pain of his injuries.

But for Laise to take his own life would be a great sin, which was why he’d asked for another to seize his breath. This, Macrath struggled with for many reasons. Killing a man in battle, or self-defense, was a sin for which forgiveness could be sought. Murdering a man condemned your soul for eternity. Taking a life because the person begged for mercy…

That was a double-edged sword.

A swift flick of his dagger and the man would be thrust into the arms of the gods, no longer in pain. But what if the gods were now working hard to restore his health? He couldn’t go against what the gods wanted.

Macrath looked up to the rafters, praying they’d give him an answer. He’d have shouted out his question if it wouldn’t disturb those in mourning around him.

Ceana stood stiffly beside him. He would much rather run from the room with her in his arms than take another life.

Macrath examined the man. His body was motionless, begging the question if he’d not already passed. His face, arms, chest, legs—all were covered in seeping bandages. Macrath could see nothing of his skin. The healer had left a space for his mouth and nose, but that was it. Even his eyes had been bound.

This man would not live. The healers had done all they could. The gods would not be able to help him. He was simply burned too badly.

If Macrath were to grant him mercy, it would be the best thing he could do for him. The most humane. They simply did not have the means to keep him alive—no one in all of Scotland would. When a horse went lame, broke a leg and could no longer walk—a certain sign of his impending death—they put it out of its misery. On the battlefield, when a dying comrade begged for a quick death, they granted mercy. Was this not the same? This man begged for mercy. This man would not live as it was.

“My laird, will you give him mercy?” a teary-eyed woman said. She must have been the brave man’s wife, for she clutched his hand to her chest.

Macrath cleared his throat. “What is his name?”

“Laise, my laird,” she answered.

Macrath raised a brow at that. Laise—
flame
. Were the gods playing a trick on him? “And you are?”

“His wife, Bonnie.” She kissed his hand as though reinforcing that fact—she was still his wife. He still lived.

“He has expressed his wish for mercy?” Macrath asked Bonnie.

Her lip quivered and she met his gaze with courage shining in the depths of her eyes. “Aye.”

“Would you forgive me for granting his wish?” Macrath asked. He’d not be able to go through with it without her forgiveness. He could not simply take the life of her husband, even if the man asked for it.

Bonnie’s gaze flicked to her husband. A myriad of emotions slipped over her countenance as she regarded his shrouded figure. When she turned back to Macrath, her jaw was tight, eyes glistened, but no tears spilled. She’d set her mind to the task.

“Will you?” he prompted.

Slowly, she nodded.

“I need to hear you say it, Bonnie.”

“Aye, my laird, I will forgive you, and I will thank you for it.”

“Mercy…” Laise managed to say, though it was barely annunciated, and his tone filled with pain.

“I will grant him mercy.” Macrath stepped forward, bent down and whispered to Laise, “I will grant you mercy, for you have earned it. Your wife and children shall be cared for. You have nothing more to fear. Go now with the gods.”

Laise let out a long sigh—one that sounded relieved. His wife shuddered, half a sob breaking free of her throat before she was able to rein it in.

Macrath scanned the crowd that had gathered, locking eyes with most. “This man is a hero. He has suffered much in his quest to help his clan. He will die a hero and be remembered a hero.” Macrath pulled his dagger from inside his sleeve. “Kiss him, Bonnie.”

While she bent forward to kiss her husband for the last time, Macrath slid his dagger beneath the man’s neck and sliced deep between the vertebrae, severing the cord that gave life.

“Forgive me,” he said.

Beside him Ceana began to whisper the Sìtheil prayer for the dead. The clan followed until it was deafening in its unity.

“
Blessings to those who have preceded us in passing;

Released from pain and dread;

Sleep now, and know we are not weeping;

For tears are best not wept for the dead;

Peace be forever now your everlasting;

And the gods protect you on this journey next led;

Through blessed moors and a castle for keeping
.”

Laise’s death was on the council. They would not get away with what they’d done.

Three days later…

WHILE Ceana took stock of their supplies and worked with the women on battle preparations—linens, wooden slats for binding broken limbs, herbs, ointments and tinctures—Macrath went to his library to pen a letter to the king.

The last few days had been relatively quiet. Too quiet. The council kept to themselves, but he knew they were plotting something. Mischievous minds seldom ceased their scheming. They’d eaten in silence in the great hall, everyone armed to the teeth. The tension vibrated the very walls.

They’d been busy.

Macrath sat down with parchment, inkwell and feather, and dated the top.

A knock sounded at his door. But he would not bid anyone to enter, lest it be Beatrice or her henchmen or possibly both. Macrath shoved away from his desk to see who it was. Tobin stood in the corridor, looking frazzled.

“My laird, I beg a word with you.” His eyes shifted down the corridor as if he expected a ghoul to leap from the stones.

“Come in,” Macrath said, stepping aside.

Tobin walked through the door and Macrath closed it behind him. The man looked almost as nervous as he had when fighting the fire. Whatever he was about to say, Macrath was certain he’d need a drink for it. He poured them each a dram of whisky.

“I followed the three councilmen again.” Tobin tossed back the heady malt and held out his cup for another. “I believe they are packing, my laird.”

“Packing?” Macrath swallowed his dram and then poured another for them both. If the bastards were packing—running away—then something terrible was soon to be upon Sìtheil.

The clansmen were fortifying the walls, and the smithy had a new makeshift hut built already where he and his apprentices were busily forging arrowheads, axes, swords and daggers. Women and children gathered wood for the fletchers who were carving ax handles, arrow staves and bows. Their entire clan was in full battle-preparation mode. He’d even commissioned the smithy to fashion a sword for Ceana. One that would be easy and light to wield, but deadly to her enemies.

Tobin took the jug and poured himself another dram as well as one for his laird. Macrath happily drank it, if only to drown out the pain he still felt from the mercy killing he’d done half a sennight ago.

“Aye, my laird, seemed as though they expected to be gone for some time.” He raised a brow and shook his head. “They are running. Cannot figure out if it is toward something or away.”

“We know Leonard is at odds with Beatrice.” And that had been further fortified with their silence toward each other through the last few days. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the three were also at odds with Leonard and Beatrice.”

“Three possible factions from the council of five?” Tobin asked. “I’d have another dram, but I fear I’ll be useless.”

“Aye, me too.” Macrath set the whisky jug and cups on the table. He’d needed the drink. His mind was already starting to settle, the panic that should be welling subdued. He could maintain control. Keep his people safe from the raving madness that had consumed the five council members and all who had ruled Sìtheil before him. “Did they say anything about where they were going?” he asked.

Tobin shook his head. “They spoke mostly in whispers. They were hushed and hurried. I could pick up a few words, but they made no sense. Something about an army and a battle. And tonight. Though I got the feeling it was because they will make their exit when darkness falls, not that the battle will rage then.”

“
Mo chreach
…” Macrath swiped his hand over his face, feeling all the blood drain. Stubble covered his cheeks. It’d been days since he’d shaved. No time for that now. He was lucky to have wiped the soot off his face after the great fire. “I think I know what they are doing. If I were to think like one of them—like a fool coward who believes himself mightier than man and even the gods.”

“You’re right about that,” Tobin muttered.

“They are going to meet their army upon the road and lead them back to the castle.”

Tobin remained silent, though his expression became troubled.

“They will know every way in which to bring an army in.” Macrath paced the room. “How far away is the border to Sìtheil?”

“Two days’ hard ride there and back.”

“Kendrew and the dozen warriors riding with him should return tomorrow then.”

“Aye. And the council will ride slower than Kendrew. Our warriors know that we are vulnerable. They will not tarry. I daresay Kendrew will ride them hard. They could even return today. If they are slower, and if need be, we can hold off an army until our men return; we’ve enough supplies.”

“Aye, I suppose we could, if they are not challenged upon the road. You’ve all been trained well. I pray I can trust Kendrew to ride carefully through the wood.”

“We’ve trained under many different leaders, each with their own talents and preferences, but, until you, my laird, Marrec has always been our true captain, and we all practice what he’s taught us. Kendrew will not be found by any armies or scouts upon the road, of that I’m certain.”

“How will he get around an army at our gates, if it comes to pass?”

“He’ll ride around to the back of the castle and through the tunnels. Even swim if they have to.”

“Tunnels?”

“Aye.”

“The council will know of the tunnels,” Macrath pointed out.

“Aye, ’tis true. But I would bet a year’s coin that they will come to the gate.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, my laird, forgive me for saying this, they think this castle and this land is theirs. They’ve been able to maintain it as such for years. Every new victor enters as their puppets and leaves just the same. Until you. They are confused by you. They will not think to strike at your back, but will want you to see them crush you. They want you to know who bends you over the rails.”

Macrath grunted. “I’ll not be bending.”

Tobin grinned. “I would never have doubted.”

“We need to fortify all the entrances. Make sure the pitch stores are stocked on the wall and that the braziers are filled with peat and have flints for lighting. We’ll work on the obvious entries now then the secret ones when the three traitorous bastards leave. We’d not want them to know we are aware of their plans. If only we could lock them up. But I fear the king’s anger.”

“Aye, my laird.”

“Include the secret entrances in the guards’ rounds. But be discreet. We don’t want to spook the council members that we are suspicious.”

“Aye, my laird.”

“Keep them in your sights, and please send Marrec to me.”

Tobin nodded and left the room.

Macrath stared down at the parchment, blank all except a date. Writing a letter to the king now would be pointless. A messenger would not arrive in time before the battle broke out. Then again, at least the king would be aware of Macrath’s suspicions and the horrors he’d witnessed.

He settled in his chair to pen the missive.

Your Majesty, King Giric,

I am writing to you as your most humble servant. My wife and I give you many thanks for bestowing us with the titles Prince and Princess of Sìtheil, and we swear on our lives to uphold the honor and perform our duties as dictated by Your most gracious Majesty.

It is with great apprehension, I must inform you that the chiefs past and the royal council sent here on your behalf have not acted with honor, nor performed their duties in a manner befitting Your Majesty’s will. The people are abused, the land destroyed, the gifts with which the gods have blessed us scorned.

I feel there is an imminent battle to be waged. The council has already made threats to the lives of my wife and myself for the help we have given our people, for shaming their abuse. They scorn our attempts to bring the land back to greatness. They have raised an army. A war will be waged between honor and sedition. We will not let the traitors win.