Page 18 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I t took an effort, but Tòrr managed to appear outwardly calm as he made his way to the courtyard accompanied by Edmund.

The plan he had formulated to put before the Council would be persuasive Yet, he was well aware that most of the elders – those who had spent much of their youth in battle – would do all in their power to dissuade the others from acquiescing to any plan that would lead them into war with a powerful clan.

While Willie MacKinnon was the first of the Council members to arrive, the others were not far behind. Tòrr and Edmund spent the rest of the day greeting their Council and members of their entourage and seeing to it that the typical island hospitality was available to all.

Whisky and wine flowed, old friends reconnected and the atmosphere was one of conviviality and celebration. The reason why they had been summoned hung unspoken in the air between them, with Tòrr brushing aside questions with the word “Later.” The details would be revealed when the time was right.

Both he and Edmund strived to keep the mood mellow, knowing that tomorrow’s meeting was likely to be stormy, bringing a clash of wills that Tòrr dreaded but accepted as inevitable.

When word came that the Lady Lyra was ready, Tòrr went to her chamber to escort her to the hall.

He lost his breath at the sight of her in the blue velvet gown, her hair streaming down her back, while tiny braids surrounded her face.

“Ye’re a bonny lass,” he whispered as they walked down the stairs, and was rewarded by the flush of pink on her alabaster face. That evening her eyes sparkled with a new light causing him to wonder if their kissing had enlivened her in the way it had him.

Since he’d held her close, he was more determined than ever that Laird MacDougall would never have her and he was ready to fight. He cared not a jot for whatever the Council would decide. He would defy them to the end of his days if that was what it took.

He kept Lyra by his side. As the council members brought their wives to greet him, he was proud to introduce Lyra. At the same time, he was cautious to say very little about why it was that the Lady Lyra MacInnes was staying at Dùn Ara.

She smiled and was charming to each of them, although, by the end of the evening he could sense she was tired. Nevertheless, her smiles did not falter. She was well aware that earning the Council’s good will was a matter of survival. It was clear that all those present were quite dazzled by her.

Exactly as he’d planned.

Eventually, all the council members, their ladies, knights and even in some cases, weans, were seated in the refectory for the feasting.

Bethia and her kitchen lasses and lads did them proud. For all the short notice they had provided a worthy feast. A pig roasted on the spit, a haunch of venison, and a pair of roasted wild ducks were served, alongside assorted tasty broths, honeyed carrots and neaps, followed by sweet cakes in rosewater syrup, and custards in the French style.

“They’re smiling,” Edmund said as an aside.

Tòrr laughed. “Mayhap the smiles will soon disappear.”

After the feasting was over and the ladies had excused themselves to take a cup of mead in the solar with Lyra, Tòrr gathered the Council around his high table.

“Tomorrow is our meeting and we will be determining on matters of great seriousness.”

He glanced around. Only one of the older members was frowning, the rest paid attention with pleasantly bland expressions on their faces. No doubt they were keen to take to their beds. For most, it had been a long, tiring day of travel.

“What we must decide on involves the possibility of a clash between the MacKinnons and our allies, and Clan MacDougall.”

Then the rumbling started among them.

Tòrr held up a hand. “I leave ye with this to think on before we meet on the morrow. Laird Alexander MacDougall wishes to take the Lady Lyra against her will and force her intae marriage.”

The rumbling grew louder, more frowns appeared and questions were flung at Tòrr and Edmund.

Tòrr put up his hand in a gesture of restraint.

“Save yer questions fer the meeting, when there will be time enough tae answer all.”

The night had worn on by the time the last of the Council took to their beds and Tòrr and Edmund retreated to Tòrr’s study for a quiet dram.

They were discussing what they’d gleaned about who might be supportive of allowing the Lady Lyra to continue under the protection of Dùn Ara and who would be against, when there was a loud and urgent-sounding banging on the door.

Edmund got to his feet and strode over to open it and ushered in the captain of the castle guard.

“’Tis Colin Broyard, me Laird Tòrr.”

The man was out of breath, his features drawn and anxious.

Tòrr rose to his feet in alarm. “What is it lad?”

The man hauled in a breath and puffed it out before he could speak.

“I am afeared the enemy is here.” He took another moment to gather himself. “Now that all the guests and their men are abed, it seems there are four lads here at the castle who shouldnae be here.”

“The devil there are?” Tòrr scrabbled a hand through his hair. “How could this happen. Bayard, ‘twas yer job to guard who entered!”

The man hung his head. “I dinnae ken how they snuck in, me laird. We watched with care who entered. I can only deduce they came in wi’ one of the men. There were horses and men milling in the courtyard and mayhap me men didnae ken they were nae meant. They swore all the lads wore MacKinnon plaid.

“’Twas only when all were abed and we tallied our numbers wi’ Claray that we kent four more had entered than our logs showed.”

Tòrr was on his feet and running, his claymore already in his hands.

“Get the guard tae the Lady Lyra’s bedchamber. I’ll wager these are MacDougall’s men, here fer the purpose of capturing the lass.”

Edmund joined him as Bayard rushed off to get his men.

All was quiet when they reached the dimly lit passage where both Tòrr’s and Lyra’s bedchambers were located.

“I think we’re in time. But we must let the Lady Lyra ken there may be danger.” Tòrr’s voice was thin and anxious as he whispered.

They paused, but there was no sound, no movement.

He tapped lightly on Lyra’s door. It took some time for her to open, during which he tapped his foot impatiently while Edmund kept watch on the passageway.

“Lass, it’s me, Tòrr. Please open the door.”

A sleepy face appeared.

Seeing Lyra was already clad in her robe, Tòrr seized her arm. “Hasten, ye must stay in me chamber. There may be danger here.”

She hurried behind him to his chamber where he opened the door and she slipped inside.

“Hush lass, nae time fer questions. Stay safe. Dinnae open the door unless ye hear me voice.”

He waited a few seconds after she’d disappeared inside his chamber until he heard the inside latch descend.

Edmund was beside him. “Ye take that end of the passage, I’ll take the one by the stairs,” Tòrr directed. “We wait, out of sight tae welcome them wi’ an unpleasant surprise.”

Concealed in the shadows, and with Lyra locked in his bedchamber, there was a slight lessening of the tight knot around his shoulders.

It was not long before four of the Bayard’s guard arrived, stout men in their hauberks and chainmail shirt, eager to confront the enemies. He sent two of them to keep company with Edmund and the remaining pair by his side.

They kept their vigil into the small hours of the morning when the castle had grown silent and all, save for their six, slept quietly.

Then it came, the faintest hint of sound on the stairs, a light footfall, a rustling, an indrawn breath.

As the sounds grew closer, the ice-cold mantle of impending battle fell over Tòrr. His breathing steadied, his heartbeat slowed, his already alert senses sharpened.

A finger to his lips he gently nudged the men at his side, indicating with his head that there was someone approaching. He felt the men stiffen, their hands on their claymores tightening.

No doubt, at the other end of the corridor, three lads were already preparing themselves for what was to come. Surely enough, in a matter of minutes, four dark shapes appeared at the top of the stairs. One by one they darted past the shadowed alcove where Tòrr and his men stood, silent as statues.

At the door of Lyra’s bedchamber, the four men paused and tried the door. It swung open with a loud creak. They hesitated again at the entrance and then filed quickly inside.

It was then that Tòrr and his men made their move.

The skirmish was short, sharp, and deadly. The intruders were taken by surprise and outnumbered. Two of them turned, their swords at the ready, and made a foolish dash toward Tòrr ’s guards.

It took only seconds before they succumbed to the well-trained and determined warriors. One of the gallowglasses swung his axe, giving a blood-curdling cry as he did so, raising his weapon aloft, ready to bring it down with the full force of his brute strength. But his yell caught in his throat as Tòrr’s guard pierced his heart with his mighty claymore.

The second of the men was equally foolhardy, but despite his great size, his blows were too slow for the speed of the guards and he was cut down before he could land a blow. The remaining two flung themselves onto their knees, begging for mercy.

Tòrr held up his hand to restrain his men. “Hold, lads. I wish tae interrogate these two.”

One of them was holding up a letter. “’Tis our orders,” he cried out. “We have nay malice toward ye. Spare us.”

Tòrr gave a bitter laugh. It was clear these men had no loyalty to MacDougall. If they’d been men of Clan MacDougall and not paid mercenaries, they’d have fought to the death for their laird.

“Take them down, I’ll attend tae them later.” He reached for the parchment the man was clutching. “Before ye take them, strip them of their kilts. They’ve nay right tae our plaid. They dishonor it by wrapping it around themselves in an effort tae trick us and dae us harm.”

With that, the guards stripped the men naked before dragging them down the stairs where they would languish in the dungeon beneath the castle until Tòrr found a suitable time to visit them.

The shouting and general ruckus had brought Bayard and two more of his men at a run.

He proffered a grim smile and a bow from his waist. “I see ye dinnae need me now, me laird.”

Tòrr nodded. “Thank ye lad fer yer prompt warning, and for these stalwart guards of yers.” Tòrr turned to the two bloodied forms lying near the door. “I trust ye will dispose of these two, before the chambermaids are shocked out of their wits by the sight.”

Bayard raised his hand in salute. “Thank ye, me laird.” He shoved one of the bodies with his foot. “These two will be feeding the fish before ye’ve so much as broken yer fast.”

As the men disbursed with Edmund and Bayard, Tòrr knocked tentatively on the door of his chamber. She may not have heard everything, yet she would have been aware of the clash of swords, the death screams, the sound of men’s raised voices.

“Is that ye, Tòrr?”

“Aye lass. ‘Tis me. ‘Tis safe fer ye tae open the door.”

The fire was alite in the grate and he followed Lyra across to stand by its warmth.

She turned to him and in the light from the fire her eyes glittered green and gold. She smiled. “MacDougall’s men?”

He nodded. There was no point in attempting to hide the truth from her. If nothing else, tonight’s events proved to be a cautionary tale. Lyra could now see the danger she would be in if she left the castle.

The boldness and audacity of the attempt to capture her was breathtaking. He had no doubt the gallowglasses were daring adversaries. If not for the guard’s zeal in uncovering the ruse, they could well have succeeded in abducting Lyra from under their noses.

She shook her head as he related the outline of what had occurred and the way MacDougall’s men had succeeded in entering the castle.

“Surely taenight’s incursion will sway the Council’s opinion against me remaining here. Will they nae wish tae rid themselves the lass who is the cause of this testing of the peace that has existed between the MacKinnons and Laird Alexander?”

Tòrr shook his head. “This is a matter of a different color, lass. MacDougall has showed his hand. Sending his men into our castle, disguised in our plaid, is an act of war. The Council will view it as such. While me faither maintained a friendship with Alexander, since his death things have been fraught between us. He supports the English, while we are pledged to the true Scottish king, Robert the Bruce. We were already on opposite sides before any of this occurred.”

“And what of yer allies?”

“The MacNeils, the MacLeods and the MacKinnons of Pabay are wi’ us, although their numbers may nae be as great as MacDougall’s.”

“And ye can rely on them?”

“Aye. The MacNeils are strong, their laird is married to me half-sister, Davina and…”

Before he could go on, he heard a loud gasp from Lyra.

“Davina… in the Priory I kent a lass by that name… she was me dearest friend…”

“Of course.” Tòrr smacked himself on the forehead. “Ye’d have been together at the Priory.”

“Can it be that me Davina is yer sister? I kent little of her past and didnae make a connection.”

As he nodded, tears sprang into Lyra’s eyes. Smiling, she wiped them away. “Happy tears.” She clutched his arm, her smile lighting her face like a ray of sunshine shining through a cloudy sky. “This is truly wondrous. Why did I nae ken this before?”

“I didnae think. ‘Twas foolish, I admit. But it is a true blessing that ye are the friend of me sister.”

Lyra clapped her hands, all thoughts of MacDougall pushed momentarily from her head with the excitement of this wondrous discovery.

She was breathless with the delight and amazement of it as she lifted her head, gazing into his storm-cloud eyes. “I helped her escape, ye ken. I had nay idea of what would befall her after she left the Priory.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Davina sent me a letter reassuring me she had succeeded in escaping, but all she wrote was that she was waiting fer me and once I was free, she would tell me everything. She was happy at last.”

Tòrr’s heart swelled at the sight of Lyra’s happiness. Yet, there was still great danger, and because of that night’s incursion, the following day’s meeting with the Council promised to be even more difficult than he had already anticipated.

He folded her into his arms and layered soft kisses in her hair, inhaling the delicate scent of lavender, remembering their kisses in the solar and wishing he could return to such a carefree moment again.

“When all this is done with, we’ll send a letter to Davina and her husband, the Laird Everard, and they will visit wi’ us here at Dùn Ara.”

Lyra gave a delighted laugh, holding his arms tight around her. “I look forward tae that.”

He leaned in and gently brushed her lips.

“I only wish I could stay in yer company, but I must prepare fer tomorrow’s meeting and be ready to face the Council’s questions and arguments. Let me walk ye tae yer chamber.”

She nodded and then dipped her head issuing with what he hoped was a reluctant sigh. “I wish ye good night, and I thank ye fer yer protection.”

After she had entered and locked her door, Tòrr returned to his study, sending up a prayer of thanks to the heavens that Lyra was unscathed, the letter the gallowglass had given him burning a hole in his sporran.

He took out the folded parchment and placed it on the table in front of him, gazing with loathing at the MacDougall crest embedded in the red sealing wax.

He had no trouble guessing what the letter would demand.