Medieval Highlands 01 - Highland Vengeance (8 page)

“Nay, lad,” Fergus rushed to say, “‘tis not as you believe. My son was tender and kind to her. They were handfasted. Your mother was content to be with him.”

Daniel relaxed a bit, as this was essentially the same account he’d received from Angus in the hours after the massacre.

Fergus turned to Laird Donald and explained further, “The handfast and the childing took place during the time you were off at your in-laws’ holding, helping them rebuild their tower after their war with the MacDougals.”

Laird Donald nodded.

“What happened to break them apart?” Daniel asked.

Fergus sighed once more, scrubbing his fingers across his jaw. “As time went by, my son’s cruelty resurfaced. Deirdre and I were appalled at the way he treated the shy, lovely lass, but were at a loss as to how to stop his behavior. Whenever we tried to intervene on her part, Jamison repaid our interference with more violence towards the lass. Finally, after he had beaten her almost to death in a violent rage and then tossed her out, telling her he had no more use for her, she pleaded with me to help her get home to her father and her clan.”

“And so you did,” Daniel guessed. It made sense, now that he’d met the man. And it would explain how his mother had gotten away from her violent husband and safely back under her father’s protection.

Fergus nodded. “Aye, that I did. We left with a full contingent of warriors as protection, both from our enemies, and from my son’s fickle and violent temper—I feared he would change his mind and try to come after his young wife.”

Laird Donald motioned to his steward to have the trenchers cleared away as more ale was poured to quench the men’s palates.

“You saved my mother’s life,” Daniel said, “and mine as well, it seems, by bringing her back to my grandfather.” Laird Maclean had gone against an unwritten code of conduct when he had intervened in his son’s dealings with his handfasted wife by stealing her back to her family. Suddenly, something elemental changed within Daniel at this new discovery and the remainder of his ambivalence toward the Maclean laird fell away. “I had no idea to what lengths you had gone to aid my mother. I offer you my deepest gratitude.” Daniel said.

“Nay, lad, ‘tis not gratitude I want, but forgiveness. ‘Twas
my
son that caused all
your
family’s grief.”

Studying his clasped hands, Daniel shrugged.

Impatient to hear the rest of the tale, Laird Donald said, “When did you know of the babe?”

Laird Maclean kept his eyes on his grandson as he replied, “On our journey to the MacLaurin holding I discovered that the lass was already carrying.”

Daniel looked up, directly into the green eyes so like his own.

“She had tried to keep her condition a secret,” the old man continued, “but the travel was not easy and her stomach revolted. After she had been sick the third time in one day, I became suspicious of the cause and confronted her with my hunch. After a bit of prodding, she at last confirmed it.”

“And you never told Jamison that he had a son?” Laird Donald asked.

Daniel shook his head, knowing the answer before the other man spoke.

Stroking his bearded chin, Fergus answered, “Nay, we agreed that Jamison should never be told of the bairn’s existence.” His eyes misted and he looked away, blinking rapidly.

Laird Donald reached out and grasped his friend’s forearm in silent support.

Clearing his throat, Fergus said roughly, “‘Twas a miracle the babe survived the beating my son had given his wife.” Turning his gaze on his grandson once more, he said fervently, “I made her swear that she would allow me to meet you, either when you reached the age of fourteen summers or upon my son’s death, whichever came first.”

Daniel nodded, forcing air into his lungs as the old man continued to speak, revealing that over the years Daniel’s mother had sent missives through the clans’ mutual allies, the MacGregors, under a false name, giving them tidings of their grandson.

He also learned that his maternal grandfather had decided to take on the task of training him in the art of war instead of fostering him to an allied clan. This, they concluded, would keep word from reaching Jamison of a MacLaurin grandson.

“This, then, is the reason I was not fostered out,” Daniel interjected. “I was being hidden from my father. I had wondered at the reason but, I confess, I had been too content to stay with my clan, with my grandfather, to press for an answer.”

Laird Maclean nodded. “Aye, ‘tis glad I am that you were happy, lad. Your mother confirmed as much in every communication she sent to us. And that summer, your grandmother and I were at last to meet you.”

Daniel sat forward. “Because that was my fourteenth summer,” he said in some amazement, the older man’s earlier words finally registering. He had been given no warning by his mother or his grandfather that he was to meet his paternal grandparents that year.

Fergus took in a deep breath and slowly released it. “Aye, lad,” he said before continuing his tale. “A fortnight prior to the massacre, I received a missive from Laird MacLaurin requesting a continuance of our agreement to meet you that year. Laird MacLaurin wanted to wait until you were further along in your training and he felt you could hold your own in hand-to-hand combat before he would allow your paternity to be openly acknowledged. I sent word back through our allies that the request for continuance would be honored.”

Daniel looked away, feeling betrayed by the people who had raised him. Why had they kept this from him? He understood why they had kept the knowledge of his existence from his father—but why had they continued to lie to their own flesh and blood? Surely, he had deserved to know his own history, even then. Somehow, the excuse that he had not yet been old enough to learn the truth did not ring true to him now, the way it had over two years past. “They told me naught of this,” he said, his voice dull. “In fact, they implied, with what I know now was much artifice and cunning, that my father was a good man, a righteous man, who fought the good fight against the infidels in the Holy Lands. But, in fact, the man was just the opposite.” He turned back to his paternal grandfather. “Why did they lie to me?” he asked harshly. Had they thought him too weak to deal with the truth?

“Lad, I know these tidings have disturbed you. Fret not over the falsehoods your mother and grandfather told you. They were given only in order to protect you. They were never meant to betray your trust, I swear this to you. They fully intended to give you the whole story that coming summer as you began in earnest to train as a warrior.”

Daniel did not attempt to hide the bitterness he felt as he said, “I see the reasons behind their deceit, and I
am
grateful to all of you for your apparent devotion to keeping me safe from harm. But I feel as if I were merely a piece on a chess board whose destiny has been decided by others’ covert moves and secret stratagems.”

Laird Maclean bowed his head.

The air was heavy with the grim silence that followed.

Laird Donald cleared his throat. “Let us now move on to Daniel’s reason for coming here.” When both men looked toward him, he nodded to Daniel to begin.

Tho’ Daniel’s feelings for the old man had changed these past minutes, his convictions regarding leading the Maclean clan had not. Taking in a deep breath to calm his ire, Daniel let it out slowly and looked directly into the craggy face of his aged kin. “Laird Maclean—Grandfather,” he began, forcing himself to temper his tone as he spoke.

The old man’s eyes brightened with pleasure at the appellation, and Daniel fought back the need to squirm. Doggedly, he continued on, “I refuse your bid for me to become laird and chieftain of the Maclean clan upon your passing.”

Fergus’s brows slammed together. “Now, lad—”

“And I want all missives from you to cease as I am concerned that the Maclean messenger will be killed by one of my MacLaurin clansmen, should he request entry again.”

Disbelief, then anger, followed by heartbreak marched across the old man’s countenance. “So, not only must I relinquish my dearest wish for you to be my heir,” Fergus said finally, “but I must also relinquish all contact with you as well? ‘Tis a dark day, indeed, and one my old, tired heart may not have the strength to bear.”

Daniel leaned forward and grasped the older man’s wrist. “The MacLaurins are still violently angry with the Macleans,” he explained, hoping to ease the hurt he’d caused the old man. “Even tho’ ‘tis clear to me that your son acted on his own, with no knowledge or agreement on the part of you or your clan, clan MacLaurin refuses to mark the difference between the two. At least not at this time, so I beg you, cease sending your missives.”

With a sad nod of his head, Laird Maclean said tiredly, “I will hound you no more. You will not be named as my heir.”

“Daniel and his clan want you to sign a contract to that effect, Fergus,” Laird Donald said softly.

Fergus sighed. “Aye, I’ll sign. ‘Tis the least I can do after the horror and destruction my son wreaked upon your family.” Feeling his grandson visibly relax, he turned his gnarled hand up and grasped Daniel’s large and calloused one. “I must be content that I have at least had this time with you.”

“My thanks,” Daniel said.

Fergus drilled his grandson with a keen look. “Now, I would request a small boon from you. My wife, your grandmother, still lives and is eager to meet you. She is a kind and good-hearted woman and I would give her the world if she asked it of me.” He squeezed Daniel’s hand. “She craves a meeting with you and is set to arrive at this holding on the morrow for that purpose. Will you meet her lad?”

Daniel gave the old man a solemn nod. “Aye. I confess, I am eager to meet the lady as well.”

A high-pitched shriek sliced the air just then, coming from the entrance to the great hall. Benches tumbled backwards and dirks were drawn as all three warriors prepared for battle.

“Give me back my satchel you wee she-devil!”
Angus surged into the hall chasing down the whirlwind with the pilfered booty.

Maryn stopped short when she realized she’d stumbled into no-no land.

Angus barreled into her before he could stop his feet from churning.

Daniel rushed forward and caught her before she fell. Looking down at the bairn in his arms, and seeing that she was clutching the stolen bag in her fists with the determination of a hound with a bone, he was unable to keep himself from smiling. The wee mite had evidently found Angus’s hidden store of apples—his most prized possession after his sword, armor and steed. And she had eaten a good portion of them, judging by the amount of soily, sticky juice covering her face and chin.

Maryn scrambled from the giant’s arms and gave her red-faced father a bug-eyed look. She was very
very
sorry she’d run this way.

From the doomed look on her face, Daniel realized the lass knew she had riled her father’s ire once more. And his smile broadened even further when he realized the devilkin’s remorse was not for stealing the apples—but for going the wrong direction and
getting caught by her father!
Daniel shook his head. Lord, she was a handful. He figured she raised someone’s ire at least ten times a day with her mischief-making. And her father, the poor man, likely had a time of it keeping the peace in his own home.

“Maryn, turn around right this instant and give that satchel back to Angus,” Laird Donald growled. “You have been taught better than to treat an honored guest in such a manner. Confess your remorse immediately and then”—he jabbed his finger in the direction of the upper level—
“go up to your bedchamber to reflect on your offenses!”

Maryn bowed her head and sniffled piteously as tears of humiliation and hurt trickled from her eyes and trailed down her hot, dirty, sticky cheeks. Why should
she
be the one to confess her remorse? She’d
found
the bag of apples, not stolen them. Holding the satchel a bit tighter to her chest, her thoughts turned even more belligerent. It should be
him
, the mean man, that confessed his remorse to her for being so stingy. So, she’d found the apples after long minutes of delving into the crusty old warrior’s belongings—and mayhap she
did
feel a bit bad that she had not at least
asked
him if she could have one. But she
loved
apples—really,
really
, loved them. And he had so
many
. Thousands. Of course, she’d only heard the number before. But she knew ‘twas a lot by the way people’s eyes got so big when they said it. Aye, there were surely at least that many in his satchel. And she had truly thought he would not miss one or two.
Or three
, her guilty conscience reminded.

When his daughter remained stubbornly mute with a sorrowful look upon her countenance, Laird Donald told her, “I am going to talk to cook and have her prepare the two things you hate the most, turnips and kale, for your supper as a punishment for your rude behavior.”

Maryn’s face crumpled up as if she’d just swallowed soured milk. “
Nay, Papa!
”

She bawled in earnest now, knowing she’d no doubt be sick for days after eating the slimy muck.

Laird Donald would not be swayed. “Return that satchel to our guest and tell him you are sorry, or you shall have the same on the morrow,” he warned. “You shall not be allowed out of your bedchamber until you’ve given your confession to Father Kincaid as well. I shall send him up directly.” Laird Donald imperiously pointed toward the entrance to the hall. “
Go!
”