Page 18 of Echoes of a Forgotten Warrior (A Highland Ruse of Love #2)

17

C onnor had taken so much verbal and physical abuse in the last few hours that he had become numb. The Sutherland guards had not beaten him up, but they had pushed and shoved him in and out of the cage, causing him to land heavily on the ground and the metal floor, bruising and scratching himself.

Finian had tried to intervene, but the guards were enjoying their power and the Lovatts were in a very delicate situation. Anything they did could be misconstrued, either unwittingly or deliberately, as an act of provocation, so they were not in a position to make demands.

When they arrived at Rosskern Castle, Connor was hauled out of the cage and his hands were shackled together with metal handcuffs before he was shoved in front of Laird Cameron Sutherland, who looked at him with utter disdain.

Laird Sutherland was a tall, broad-shouldered man who had obviously seen some military service. The top two joints of his left little finger had been sliced off, and there was a deep scar on his right cheekbone. His green eyes were piercing, and they reminded Connor of someone, but he had no time to work out who, since he was shoved forward again from behind to land at the Laird’s feet. He remained there in what looked like an attitude of supplication until a guard hauled him upright.

Finian was about to spring forward to his brother’s defence, but Mitchell, his captain of the guard, pulled him back and Laird Lovatt grasped his arm tightly.

“Do you want to ruin everything?” he hissed. “Calm down!”

Finian’s heart was breaking. He hated to see Connor reduced to this sad and undignified state. Connor had known the fate that awaited him, Finian knew, but it did not make it any easier for him to watch. He looked at his father, whose face was so emotionless it might have been carved from marble. He felt a surge of hatred; did he really not care at all for his second son?

Laird Lovatt and Laird Sutherland stepped forward and bowed to each other. There was no love lost between the two men; they were observing the formalities and no more. Laird Sutherland said, “Thank you for coming, M’Laird.”

“I am glad to do my part in ending the hostility between us,” Laird Lovatt answered. He sounded pathetically obsequious, Finian thought, but he could say nothing, and was obliged to fume silently as he watched his brother being hauled before Laird Sutherland.

Connor was afraid, but determined not to show it, as Cameron Sutherland glared at him across the few feet that separated them.

“So you are my daughter’s killer,” he said grimly, and his voice was as grating as the noise of two stones rubbing together.

Connor opened his mouth to answer, but before he could do so, Finian stepped forward, having heard enough. He shook off his guard, and confronted Laird Sutherland, looking him squarely in the eye.

“With the greatest respect, M’Laird,” he said, “my brother has not yet been tried and found guilty.”

Laird Sutherland looked Finian up and down speculatively. “Your love for your brother does you great credit,” he remarked. “And what you say is true, but he will be given a fair trial, do not worry.”

Laird Lovatt felt it necessary to address Cameron Sutherland once more. “I apologise for my son, M’Laird,” he said apologetically, glaring at his son. Finian almost felt sorry for him for making such a fool of himself.

Laird Sutherland brushed the apology aside with a wave of his hand. “No matter.” his voice was indifferent.

The crowd of villagers from Rosskern who had been allowed to follow the prison wagon were yelling, hissing, booing and hurling insults through the massive gates of Rosskern Castle. Normally, they would not have been allowed anywhere near the gates of the massive building, but the normal rules had been suspended for the duration of the trial. As expected, the news about James’ identity had spread like wildfire in Rosskern, despite his efforts to keep his face covered at all times. The guards had allowed the crowd as far as the inner gates so that they could vent their rage on the criminal who had been hiding in plain sight among them.

The two brothers listened as the words, some foul and obscene, some merely insulting, were flying through the space between them and the villagers. Connor felt every one of them like the sting of a biting insect, since he knew that many of the villagers whom he had thought of as close friends were among those who were throwing the vilest of the abuse. It was torture.

Connor looked among the throng of people to see if he could spot Blaire, but he could not see her anywhere.

Perhaps she has given up on me, he thought sadly. I would not blame her.

In a way, he felt grateful that she had decided not to accompany him, however. Now she would not see his utter disgrace and humiliation. It would be better if he merely disappeared, and she never saw him again.

Connor looked at Finian, who was steadfastly standing beside him, and thanked the stars for such a wonderful, loyal brother. He turned and gazed at him for a moment, but the expression on his face troubled Connor. Finian looked as if he was embarrassed or guilty about something, but when he turned away, Connor told himself he had been imagining things. What on earth did Finian have to feel guilty about?

Connor had expected the trial to start inside the castle, but it seemed that Laird Sutherland had other plans; he really wanted to make Connor suffer. The guards dragged Connor to the dungeons and pushed him into a tiny cell with no source of light. It had a wooden door rather than bars, with only a small window at the top of it, where the soldiers could peek at their prisoner. Connor was strangely familiar with the place. He must have thrown many of his prisoners in a cell like that back when he was one of his father’s guards. He could tell with certainty that it was solitary confinement.

Then he was firmly shut behind him and left in total darkness. He cried out in complete terror. He had always been afraid of darkness and small, closed spaces. A sudden memory brutally came back to him then; his father had shut him in a storeroom as a punishment for some minor infraction, and he had not been allowed out for hours. Now he was transported back to that day when he was only six years old and scared to death, sure he would never see daylight again.

He tried banging on the door, knowing that it was a waste of effort, but he had to do something. The only result was a chorus of derisive laughter from the guards outside. “Shut your noise, ye big lassie!” one of them shouted. “You will get out when the Laird says ye can!”

A BOVE THE DUNGEON, Laird Sutherland had laid out a table of food for Laird Lovatt and Finian. He would never be able to eat. This was just another form of torture.

Finian had watched as Connor was marched away about an hour ago, and although he had no idea where they had taken his brother, he was sure that it was not a cosy and comfortable place.

Finian ate some food, although it almost choked him and sat in his stomach like a stone, then sat back and watched Cameron Sutherland speaking with his father. Why was Errol Lovatt chatting amiably with his enemy? Finian knew that his father was a cold and undemonstrative man, but he was also cunning. Could this be part of a strategy? It must be, he decided. Even a father like his could not be so evil as to throw away his own son’s life.

Finian suddenly heard the rattle of chains and looked around to see Connor being dragged along between two burly guards. He was white-faced and looked as though he had just been sick, but his gaze never left Laird Sutherland.

Finian had never felt such relief in his life, even though he had been reassured his brother was going to be released. He did not entirely trust the Sutherland men. He would not have put it past them to determine Connor’s fate without his even being there.

When he was placed in front of the long table where the clan elders were seated, Connor looked like he had lost all hope. He could tell by their grim faces that his fate was sealed; it would be useless to fight. He would give himself up and accept his fate like the guilty man he believed he was.

At last, when everyone was finished eating, the Lairds and clan elders walked outside in plain sight to determine Connor’s fate. There was a murmur of conversation between them, and Connor was being scrutinised from head to foot by a dozen pairs of hostile eyes. Even those members of his own clan did not look too friendly. He was nothing but an offering to appease the Sutherlands, who needed a scapegoat—someone to blame.

Only if they had found the right man , Finian thought.

He was puzzled. He was sure that the tribunal would have been held in the Great Hall, not the courtyard. This was deeply insulting. Again he approached Laird Sutherland.

“M’Laird,” he asked indignantly, “should we not be doing this indoors and not in front of this crowd? This is most undignified. Besides, the weather may change for the worse.”

The Laird looked up and pointed. They were seated underneath a great, broad arch which was thick enough to support one of the biggest towers of the castle’s fortifications. It was at least twenty feet long and protected them from the weather while being within sight and earshot of the crowds.

“The weather will not harm us,” he stated firmly. “And the trial will take place wherever I decide to hold it because I am in charge here. I want my villagers to be here to add their voices—I think it is only fair that we listen to their opinions.”

Finian gritted his teeth and sat down. He was seething with fury, and even more so when Laird Lovatt tugged at his sleeve and growled, “Stop making a fool of yourself! You are giving our family a bad reputation!”

“Do you think having a murderer in the family will give us a better one?” Finian hissed. “Connor is not guilty, and I intend to defend him, unlike his cold and uncaring father!”

The Laird glared at his son, and was just about to give a stinging retort when Cameron Sutherland made the announcement that the trial had begun.

“M’Laird Lovatt,” he nodded to Finian’s and Connor’s father. “Gentlemen, we are here to decide the guilt or innocence of Connor Lovatt in the matter of the murder of my daughter, Katrina Mairi Sutherland, and a charge of robbery of all the jewellery that she was wearing that day. The robbery charge is incidental, since I can replace baubles, but not my daughter’s life.” His voice was hoarse with emotion, and he had difficulty going on. “Katrina was found—” he paused for a moment and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. One of the clan elders went to his side and whispered something in his ear, but he shook his head and patted the other man on the shoulder, obviously thanking him for his concern.

For a fleeting moment Finian felt sorry for Laird Sutherland until he looked up at Connor with open and naked hatred in his eyes. Finian would cheerfully have challenged him to a duel right there and then had he not been completely outnumbered.

“She was found,” the Laird went on, “crushed under a carriage on her way to Strathburn Castle to be betrothed to Finian Lovatt, who is seated here today.”

He pointed to Finian, who suddenly found himself being scrutinised as well. He sat up straight and met every one of them with his own caustic gaze. Even though he was quaking inside, he was determined not to be intimidated.

“Katrina was accompanied that day by Connor Lovatt.” He pointed to Connor in such a way that it looked as though he wanted to stab him. “So what occurred is sadly obvious. From the amount of hoof prints around the carriage, we could deduce that a gang of bandits had attacked it.

The driver was obviously one of them, since he has not been seen to this. Connor Lovatt also disappeared without a trace, until he decided, for some reason best known to himself, to join my forces. He had, up till then, been hiding in plain sight in my village of Rosskern, carefully hiding his identity from my people, and making them believe he’s one of us. I do not blame anyone but him, as the people of this village had no way to recognise the second son of Lovatt’s Laird. He was a warrior, thrown into battle, wild and untamed, while his brother was trained to be the future Laird.

After the murder, Connor Lovatt cleverly devised a story that he had lost his memory so that no one knew his real name. He took on the surname of Smith, and worked in the blacksmith’s, so now he was a completely new person—or so he thought.

He lived in Rosskern for seven whole months before he threw himself into the hands of our clan, and here he is today to face justice.”

At the word “justice,” a great shout went up from the crowd and a shout of “hang him, hang him, hang him!”

Connor began to tremble. Up till now, he had been able to contain himself, but faced with such naked hostility he was terrified, knowing that the crowd outside would tear him to pieces if they got half a chance. He looked down at his shackled hands, and for the first time in his existence he wished he were dead.

Laird Sutherland instructed some of the guards to go and quieten the crowd before he started speaking again. “Tell them if they are not quiet I will have them sent away,” he said irritably.

The guards went to do the Laird’s bidding and the rabble gradually quietened down. There was a long silence, then Laird Sutherland asked, “Connor Lovatt, how do you plead to the charge of robbery?”

The company waited expectantly, but Connor said nothing, standing with slumped shoulders, his head bowed, looking at his chained hands.

Laird Sutherland wasted no more time waiting for an answer.

“How do you plead to the charge of murder?” he asked.

This time, the silence was so profound that a mouse’s footsteps on the stone flags of the courtyard would have sounded like thunder. Connor stayed silent, and Finian wanted to go and shake him, then shout at him to speak up in his own defence.

Connor continued to say nothing, simply because he felt that there was nothing to say. He was guilty—at least he felt like it—and he wanted the whole fiasco of a trial to be over so that he could die and be done with it. Without Blaire, there was no point in living anyway.

Laird Sutherland opened his mouth to speak again, but Finian jumped to his feet.

“M’Laird, this makes no sense,” he pointed out, trying to keep his anger under control. “If my brother had not lost his memory, why would he throw himself into mortal danger by joining your army?”

The Lovatts looked triumphant at that, but the Sutherlands went into a huddle to discuss the matter.

“So that he could spy for you,” one of the men said at last.

“And if that was true, how did your guards miss him?” Finian asked derisively.

“Many of my men had never seen him before. They would not suspect him,” the Sutherland man replied.

“And those who had?” Finian persisted. “You, Laird Sutherland, would definitely recognise him if you noticed him skulking around the castle. If Connor was indeed a convict, how is it possible that your guards were not aware of what he looked like? Did you not consider it important for your people to know the face of a criminal? If he was living a quiet life in the village—your village of Rosskern—it is certain that he had nothing of malice in his mind. He did not raise any suspicions.”

“Yes, I will grant you that, but he is cunning, very cunning,” the Laird answered. “He was able to worm his way into people’s favour and gain their trust, then learn information in such a way that those involved are not even aware of what has happened.”

The crowd outside was still yelling for blood. “Hang him!” they yelled.

“Anyway, the evidence is overwhelming.” Laird Sutherland’s tone was derisive. “The sooner Connor Lovatt is put to death, the better, then peace between Lovatt and Sutherland will be restored.”

“Really?” Finian’s tone was derisive. “The Lovatts will never accept your decision, and that will not heal anything, only make the resentment more bitter. It will make matters much, much worse. Violence never solves anything. It only begets more violence.” Finian turned to the crazed crowd outside the gates, hoping he would appeal to their feelings. They were plagued by this war more than anyone, anyway. “This whole war started because of an act of violence, did it not? Two wrongs do not make a right. We need an alliance; otherwise, we are truly doomed.”

This was true, and Laird Sutherland could find no words to refute it. He stood, irresolute, while the crowd outside screamed their rage and the Sutherlands and Lovatts glared at each other furiously. The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension.

“I have a proposal to make instead,” Finian told the assembly. “We should bring our families together, not tear them apart. Laird Sutherland, I will marry a member of your family; a sister, cousin, anyone to unite us. Allegiances are far better than feuds.”

“Sadly, I have no remaining daughters,” the laird replied, putting stress on the word remaining . “Or cousins, or granddaughters.”

Then everything changed.

“That is not quite true, is it, M’Laird?” A woman’s voice asked.

Everyone looked around to see who had spoken, and were astonished to see their young healer, Blaire, walking up to them. “You have another daughter.”

Blaire had been standing outside with the rest of the villagers, her heart beating fiercely as she watched the progress of the farce of a trial. She had been so determined to get to the front of the crowd that she was crushed against the railings, but as she saw Finian jump to defend Connor, she knew she had to act.

“Let me in, please,” she told one of the guards. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “You can’t enter, lady.”

“I’m the Laird’s daughter,” she replied haughtily.

The man glared at her for a moment, then went to speak to Laird Sutherland.

“Who is it who claims to share my family’s blood?” The Laird thumped the table in front of him with his fist. “Let this person come and say it to my face if she dares!”

His advisers were all muttering between themselves and casting suspicious glances at her.

The guard admitted Blaire, but she no longer looked like a villager, even though she was wearing the plain grey dress and coat of a working-class woman. She walked proudly with her chin up, spine straight and shoulders back, looking as if the world belonged to her. She was inwardly terrified, since every eye was trained on her, but her face betrayed nothing.

“I am Blaire Mackie—or so I am known,” she replied. “But my true name is Sutherland.”

Now, as she stood in front of the assembly, she focused her gaze on her father. This was the moment she had been waiting for all her life.