Page 9 of The Chieftain’s Feud (Chieftain #3)

Nhaimeth was breaking his fast in the great hall. Rob had already eaten and was standing at the McArthur’s shoulder, nae doubt discussing the celebration of Yule and the feast they had planned for after the sun went down. Not that it had peeped out at all that day, naught being visible behind the heavy snow clouds.

Graeme McArthur was part of the group around his cousin, though his wife Iseabel had yet to make an appearance, which was unusual, since her bairns were seated but a couple of arms-lengths frae his seat at the board. Little de’ils. There was as much porridge on the lad’s face as in his bowl, and his sister was giggling and doing her best to make it worse. Nhaimeth kenned fine their mother wouldnae see the humour in their nonsense, and he was minded to join the group at the high board as soon as his bowl was empty. Midwinter’s crippling cauld wasnae the time of year for going without meals. Which minded him that Jamie had yet to make an appearance at the board, and Iseabel had been tight-lipped o’er where he had disappeared to last night after Nhaimeth saw them talking.

Ach, there was Iseabel now, and his seat close by her bairns was the perfect position to ask her about the lass Rob had carried home on his saddlebow. Folk—women mainly—with an eye to romance might see it as the stuff minstrels wrote songs about, but then few of them had seen the wee icicle of a lassie they had carried into the Keep.

Iseabel Ruthven’s countenance was hardly that of a bearer of bad tidings, but Nhaimeth bided his time until she sent her bairns off in the charge of a maid who guided them out of the hall by the scruff of their necks with Iseabel simply shaking her head, as if there was nae kenning what they would be up to next. Looking up at her, Nhaimeth asked “What word of the lass we found? Did she survive the night?”

“That she did. I’m certain she will be fit enough to join the Yule celebrations,” Iseabel informed him, but apart frae that, didnae give out much cuttings.

So Nhaimeth simply nodded, leaving her to break her fast while he joined the group at the high board. If there were any more to be learned of the lassie, and Jamie as well, he would be well situated to hear it. Meanwhile, he was a dab hand at planning celebrations, since once upon a time he had played a big part in them, both at Dun Bhuird and Cragenlaw.

As the great hall gradually filled with aromas to make the mouth water—venison and wild boar—Nhaimeth could hardly wait. He sat with Rob near the fire and away frae lasses and kissing boughs. At first he could see Rob enjoying the attention, but since Jamie had yet to arrive, his young friend had become the target and began warily watching any of the maids moving in his direction.

Nhaimeth laughed. Rob was too handsome for his own good. “Now,” he chuckled behind his hand, since he could see Rob’s eyes begin to smoulder, “you have a guid notion how a deer feels.”

Rob glared in his direction, but it was half-hearted, for one side of his mouth tilted—half a smile. Yet before he could give Nhaimeth the rude answer dancing at the back of his eyes, a cruel draught blew through the hall, bringing with it a slight commotion as the Constable and one of his housecarls marched into hall with snow dripping off their plaids and coating their boots white.

They strode directly up to the McArthur’s place at the high board, the Constable leaning a forearm on the board while the housecarl waited. Rob pushed his stool behind him, letting it crash to the floor as he hurried towards his father and the other Chieftains who had but recently begun to relax o’er a mug of ale. Nhaimeth followed more slowly, amazed at the sudden tension in air that had been joyful and festive.

As he made his way to join the group around the Constable, he noticed the women—Morag, Isabel and Kathryn—summon their bairns and hold them close to their skirts with hands smoothing soft curls, both black and red. Few blond bairns came out of the highlands unless they were Norsemen’s spawn.

By the time he reached them, Ruthven was on his feet, a choleric colour in his cheeks and a dribble of ale on his chin frae the bluster spitting frae his lips. “Buchan, here! What kind of foul plot is this? The man isnae to be trusted, some spy must have told him I was here. Let him stay outside and freeze.”

The McArthur looked up at his friend, as usual the voice of reason. “We don’t ken that—not yet; but we soon will. How many are they?” he asked the Constable.

“Nae more than six.”

“D’ye hear that, Ruthven, not enough to be in a fret about, but if it eases yer mind I’ll go down to the gate and speak to him myself.”

“Nae, not without me!”

The conversation swung back and forth with Nhaimeth’s eyes following them.

“Whatever suits ye. Just keep in mind that the rules of hospitality say I must welcome any traveller in distress, and the weather is wild enough to kill anyone without a roof o’er their heads.” Words that caused Nhaimeth to look in the direction they had carried the lass the day afore, and by the time Nhaimeth turned around, they had all decided to go. Well why not, he decided, for Rob wouldnae want to miss any excitement.

Wrapped up in bonnets and plaids, they trouped through the upper and lower Baileys, putting Nhaimeth in mind of the night Harald Comlyn had sneaked into the guard house and stolen a sword to murder the McArthur with. If not for Rob, he might have succeeded. That time he took him down with a shovel frae the stables. The next time they came against each other, Rob had taken his worthless life.

He wondered if the same thoughts were going around his mind as they neared the gatehouse, their eyelashes coated in white flakes. More to the point, he hoped the McArthur remembered and, if he dared let them inside, would confiscate their weapons, locking them away nice and tidy-like to prevent another such occurrence.

The gatekeeper opened a wee door high up on the gate, but not so high the McArthur couldnae see through. Words were exchanged, but the key that opened the door was the whereabouts of a missing daughter.

Only four of the Buchans were allowed into the Keep, and only after the McArthur made sure they dismounted before entering, and a pretty sorry-looking lot of horses they were, with their riders not much bonnier. A swarm of brawny housecarls removed the visitors’ weapons, a condition they didnae question. Who would, when the weather itself was killing—sharp enough to cut like a knife?

The great hall smelled every bit as delicious as it had when they’d left, yet somehow the hunger the scents wrought were acuter, fiercer, and he wondered if the women had disappeared to the kitchens with the bairns to eat their fill, suspecting the talks would be long and drawn out. Far better if they stayed hidden upstairs and gave the Buchans’ nae notion of their number.

As the Buchan men unwrapped and shook off snow that hissed on the hearth, Nhaimeth, listening, felt anxious enough to do a wee bit of hissing himself … but, as usual, the McArthur had it all in hand.

Ruthven sat shoulder to shoulder with the McArthur at the high board, as did his cousin Graeme and Gavyn Farquhar, taking the heights where Buchan would have to stand below them pleading his cause. To Nhaimeth’s mind, the only one of the four who stood out was Ruthven. The way he stroked his beard, his mien grim, didnae seem to bode well.

If there was aught that took Nhaimeth aback, it was the arrival of the women. Morag first, as Lady of the Keep, followed by the other wives, who ranged themselves beside their men. A rare show of feminine force, nae doubt unheard of in Buchan’s Keep.

Then the talking began, hindered by the staging of the scene—Buchan with nae sword and naught to hammer his fist upon.

“My daughter has run away, and her maid said she was coming here,” he ground out, making nae attempt to be conciliatory.

The McArthur spoke softly, velvet smoothing the hard edges of the iron underneath, “It would take a brave lass, or mayhap a foolish one, to run away into a snowstorm. Why would that be?”

Finger shaking, Buchan pointed at Jamie’s father. “The blame is his,” he blasted Ruthven with his temper and sent Jamie’s father leaping to his feet, sword hilt clasped. “Him,” Buchan persisted, and his bluidy son! And he cannae deny it. I have witnesses.” Iseabel shifted closer to her father and pushed her arm through his, tethering his sword arm. “Where is the lad? Too much of a coward to face a father with right on his side?”

“I am here.”

Jamie’s voice resonated with a timbre none had ever heard him use afore that day, forceful enough to send those at the high board spinning around, mouths agape, including Nhaimeth. It was nae laughing matter, yet he felt a chuckle building in his throat at the nerve of Jamie.

On the second stair up frae the hall Jamie stood—tall, broad of shoulder and chest, a Ruthven plaid draped o’er a chainmail shirt. He looked every part the warrior the McArthur had trained as he stood one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other holding a lass to his side. Slim and beautiful with red hair curling around her bonnie face, she held her head high, as if the folk in the great hall couldnae see the obvious signs of a bairn in her belly because of her plaid.

Nhaimeth looked at Buchan. Either the man was already aware of her condition or he was a fool.