Page 36 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Peyton stood in the highest tower in Fellscarp and stared over the grey water stretching to the Solway Firth. He had to find an occupation, or he would go mad. When would it end - the grieving over lost friends and broken trust, the abject dishonour which gnawed at him? His body had almost healed from its savage beating, but his heart and soul had not.

When his feelings overwhelmed him, Peyton would often take refuge in the tower. He had to hide his distress from Cecily, who was still frightened over Lowri’s kidnapping. As for his sister, she was chastened by the ordeal and stuck close to Fellscarp. That would change soon enough, for Lowri would not be cowed for long. Her restless spirit would crave diversion and adventure. She was a hard one to hold.

The West March had slipped back into its old ways since the Warden’s departure, and the clans were back to their usual bickering and reiving, but in a less murderous way. His defeat of Black Eaden had sealed his leadership of Clan Strachan, and now, everyone looked to him as Laird. There were no more challenges to his authority, which made life a little easier.

He had done his duty by Cecily and taken her home to Fallstairs to see her father and announce their marriage. It had been a miserable visit. The place was rank and crumbling. Most of the servants and MacCreadie men had absconded. There was an air of desolation about Cecily’s home, and the moment Peyton laid eyes on it, any thoughts he had of being unworthy were banished. He had done Cecily a kindness by taking her away from Fallstairs.

He pitied the poor lass her father, for Rufus MacCreadie was a broken-down wreck of a man, hollow-eyed, stinking of drink, sunk by his own vices and greed. When Cecily told him she was wed, he had slurred, ‘Ungrateful wretch. You had Wymon Carruthers on the hook, and instead, you come here, fresh from your whore’s bed, with some lout in tow. I should thump you into next week, you filthy slattern.’

‘Cecily is my wife. Hold your tongue,’ Peyton had snarled.

‘She is no one’s wife until I say so. I gave her no leave to marry you. She shirks her duty to me. You, cur, have dishonoured my house and my name, taking my daughter in marriage when she was not free.’

Peyton had gone up to the man and said, ‘Your daughter is free, and she is happy, and she will never come here again. Go back to your bottle and drink yourself to death, for all I care.’ He had rushed Cecily out of that miserable hovel, and she had not protested.

The door creaked open, and Cecily was there. Peyton forced a smile onto his face. ‘I was just thinking of you, and you appear. I think you read my mind.’ He turned back to the water.

Cecily came up behind him and put her arms about his waist, her head on his back. ‘Hiding from me again?’ she said softly.

‘No. I just wanted a little peace. That is all.’

‘From me?’ she said quietly.

Peyton grasped her hand and kissed it. ‘Never from you, my love.’

She turned him around, went on tip-toe, and kissed him on the mouth. Just then, Bertha came rushing in, wheezing. ‘Damn those stairs.’

‘What’s the rush?’

‘You must come down to the hall, Laird. You have a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘Tis a ghost,’ she said and rushed off.

When they reached the hall, a familiar figure was holding his buttocks to the fire. Cecily gave a little shriek of surprise. ‘Father Luggan!’

‘I thought you were dead,’ gasped Peyton.

The priest frowned. ‘No, I am very much alive.’

Peyton rushed to the priest and drew him into a bear hug. ‘God’s teeth! Thank Christ.’

‘Do not blaspheme, Peyton.’

Peyton pulled back and kissed the man on his bald pate, over and over, until Cecily elbowed him aside and did the same on Father Luggan’s cheeks.

‘Well, I have had some welcomes in my time, but never like this,’ said the priest. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

‘You died,’ said Cecily.

Peyton took his arm. ‘Come, Father. Let us walk and talk. There is much to tell. Cecily can put out some food and ale for when we get back.’

Cecily nodded and bid a hasty retreat. She would know he wanted to talk to Father Luggan, man to man. There were things he had to say which were not for her ears.

***

They walked along the water’s edge as the gulls screeched overhead. Peyton recounted what had happened with Eaden and Elene. Father Luggan said not one word of interruption. Was he appalled and disappointed in his friend?

‘So, Father, that is why we thought we had seen a ghost today,’ said Peyton.

‘That is a horrible tale, my son. How you have suffered these last weeks. I wish I had been here to offer counsel and ease your burden.’ He tutted. ‘A bad business, indeed.’

‘I have mourned you. I searched for your body all over Crichton Moor.’

‘My body is alive and extremely well-fed.’ The priest patted his stomach. ‘I have been staying with friends in Edinburgh, and they keep a hearty table. I am sorry to hear of all your troubles but gratified that I was missed.’

‘I don’t understand why Elene said that she killed you when she had not. It only inflamed my anger.’

‘Elene Strachan always thought of herself as invincible. She would have thought she could prevail right up to the end. Or perhaps she could not resist the urge to hurt you, Peyton. Her cruelty knew no bounds.’

‘Nor does mine. I have done a terrible thing, Father.’

‘You have done a necessary thing, my son, and saved many lives by doing it. It is a burden you have to bear for the sake of others. You cannot let it eat you alive. Do your penance, offer prayers to God and turn your mind to your family and your clan. They rely on your strength.’

‘But that sin will never wash away,’ said Peyton.

‘Elene put the poison in the whisky. She drank it. You did not force it down her throat.’

Peyton hung his head. ‘I watched her die.’

‘By her own hand and by her own actions. Better that way than a noose. You gave her the dignity of choice, a choice she withheld from others. And you were the only one to do it. No other man could have withstood Elene Strachan’s arsenal of seduction. Our Warden, Sir Henry Harclaw, certainly did not, and she led him to his doom.’

Peyton frowned. ‘Tell me.’

‘The Warden is in the tower. It seems he is on the King’s bad side.’

‘How?’

‘It is rumoured in Edinburgh that Sir Henry had an appetite for whores – hurting them, that is. He would visit brothels and take them for his dark designs. Some were never seen or heard of again. God rest their souls.’ Father Luggan crossed himself. ‘It seems he took the wrong whore - a favourite of a particularly influential baron in the King’s court. Rumours reached his ears, and as the Warden was not doing a very good job of quelling unrest in the Marches, he pressed the King to have Sir Henry stripped of his office and taken to the tower.’

‘Most of the lawlessness in the West March was Sir Henry’s doing.’

‘Aye. He was lining his own pockets through his villainy and not giving his share to the King.’

‘Ah, I see it now. The King would not care about a lost whore.’

‘He would not, but it gave him an excuse to correct his mistake in appointing the Warden without having to lose face. But I do wonder who turned on Sir Henry at court and whispered in that baron’s ear.’

Peyton frowned.

‘What is it?’ said Father Luggan.

‘Do you think Elene told him? She was privy to all Sir Henry’s secrets, even his darkest ones.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past her. Perhaps she wanted to replace Sir Henry with a new and wealthier lover.’

‘She was like a spider, sucking men dry and leaving their carcasses in her wake.’

Father Luggan put a hand on Peyton’s shoulder. ‘Then the world is a better place without such a creature, is it not?’

‘I will keep telling myself that, Father, and eventually, I might believe that the ends justified the means.’ They walked back to Fallstairs, and somehow, Peyton felt lighter than he had for weeks.