Chapter 32

Years may have gone by since she last stood in the Great Hall—and it had to be said she was a guid bit aulder—yet she would never forget the place. The castle had a fierce majesty; a grandeur that all the falderals and carvings the Normans affected would never match.

For all Henry had commanded her to hurry, she couldn’t. The past came rushing back at her like a dream of how life might have been if not for yon witch’s curse. The auld bitch had taken not only Astrid’s life; she had all but taken Brodwyn’s, Erik the Bear’s, Harald’s and all the others that had died since Astrid. The curse had sent them all sliding down a slippery slope to disaster frae whence there had been nae climbing back. Ach, she knew her faults, and had been trying lately to reform, and nae one could say other. She had travelled to Cragenlaw, a castle where the McArthur clan would be in the right if they decided to hang her for her part in Kathryn’s abduction and Lhilidh’s death. Sending her to Ireland as a slave had been getting off lightly. That said, she had made it this distance even with a bairn in her belly; that must surely count in her favour when it came to talking her way back into Cragenlaw.

She grinned to herself, realising her reformation might still have a wee way to go.

Of course Kathryn might be amongst the congregation in the chapel. It seemed unlikely would she miss her half-brother’s wedding. After what she had put Kathryn through, her cousin’s reception of her wasnae likely to be cordial, and that left her only two choices—she swung her gaze towards the stairs that wound inside the Keep—nae three choices. She could do as Henry wished and steal the twins, throw herself on the mercy of Euan McArthur or climb to the top of the Keep and hide until the wedding was over and Henry was gone.

Afore she decided which choice to make, she heard a bairn’s laughter and looked down the hall to the high board. The McArthur had made some changes since her time at the castle. Behind the long board where the Chieftain and any important guests would sit hung a beautiful tapestry—Flemish mayhap. She had seen some of its ilk in the south afore she became Henry’s leman. She walked closer to take a better look as it billowed out frae the grey granite wall.

Two wee lads in gowns to their knees were running in and out of the tapestry, hiding then peeking out and giggling. Her breath caught as she recognised Ralf—a different wee lad than the dour one she remembered, the one who never looked at his mother without a scowl but whose eyes would light up when Brodwyn gave him the time of day and played with him.

She couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stop the words, “Ralf laddie, what are ye up to? Do ye remember Brodwyn?”

His head turned at the sound of her voice and he saw her. Eyes alight, he ran toward her, would have jumped off the platform that raised the Chieftain’s high board to a level befitting his stature. Brodwyn ran swiftly betwixt the benches where the guests were to sit and enjoy the wedding feast. Arms out, she caught him, pulled Ralf to her breast and held him tight just as Becky appeared. The wet-nurse took one look at Brodwyn, squealed, then hoisted Harry into her plump arms afore turning tail and running in the direction of the castle kitchens.

Brodwyn frowned. Certainly she was probably the last person Becky expected to see, but Brodwyn had never done the wet-nurse any harm. Why would she run frae her?

“Brodwyn.” The hair stood up on the back of her neck as she realised she wasnae the only intruder in the hall. Henry. Nae wonder Becky had scuttled off fast as a March hare. “The lad, do ye have him, then?”

She turned; arms clasped tight round Ralf, one hand behind his head holding his face close to the curve of her shoulder, hidden. Her heart pounded in her ears and she thought she might be sick. This was bad, but if she could give Becky time to take Harry away… She now realised frae the expression on the wet-nurse’s face she had been well aware that Henry was quietly approaching, and it didnae take a wise-woman to ken what he was after.

Suddenly, it dawned on her that she couldn’t give the lad up, couldn’t pass him over to the cauld, ambitious man for whom power was all, couldn’t release him into the hands of the grandfather who had really come to Cragenlaw looking for his heir—the lad’s brother.

Henry’s eyes burned in their sockets, like a torch had been lit behind them, a triumphal torch, burning like the ones either side of the huge, horned bull in the underground cavern—the god Henry worshiped by stripping naked to wrestle with other men as if in tribute to an ancient deity. She thought of Harald and his little perversions that had grown and grown until they swallowed him whole, until he had become lost—nae longer the lad she had kenned growing up—and aye, she had contributed to his downfall, manipulated him for her own advantage. Hmmph, and how well had that turned out, her dreams soon turning to nightmares?

Closer now, Henry stretched out his arms. “Give him to me.”

She wouldn’t, couldn’t—dared not. “Do ye think this is right? He looked so happy, happier than I’ve ever seen him. It would be a sin to take him away frae his mother and father.”

“What nonsense. What lad wouldn’t want to grow up to be a Baron. Do ye not see, his parents are married now, which means he is nae longer a bastard, nae longer carries the stigma that could hold him back. With me to guide him, he could rise through the aristocracy, become an earl, a leader.”

She held Ralf tighter, even though he mewled and wriggled against her, his wee legs flailing. “Look around ye Henry. Cragenlaw and the McArthur chieftains are among the highest families in Scotland, friends of the King.”

Henry laughed, “Not this King. Donald Bane will be more likely to take McArthur’s head and stick it on a pike. With all the disagreement and fighting amongst the clans, William Rufus will walk over the back of the Scottish princes that he’s going to pretend to help get back their throne, and Scotland will be his, the way his father took England.” He finished with a sneer, as if she was a fool who couldn’t add two and two and get the right answer. “Now give him to me.”

Her lips trembled; she could tell it was now or never. Time to turn this calamity around and save Ralf frae Henry, even if it meant sacrificing herself and her bairn. “Ye don’t need him, Henry,” she persuaded, “Ye have me and I’m carrying yer bairn. I’m four months gone and ye never even noticed, but it’s yer bairn Henry. I could be carrying yer heir.”

Brodwyn couldn’t lie. She had expected a reaction, but not quite the horrified expression that masked his features. He appeared to stop, and his face turned purple then a blue that matched the colour of his grand brocade tunic fit for a king. Then he gulped down a mouthful of air and began to laugh. “Ye jest, as if any son that I could get off ye would be good enough to be Baron Wolfsdale. Ye can’t pretend any longer. Yer a Scot just like my late wife, Ester, Melinda’s mother. I’m not liable to take on another one. As soon as ye hand over my grandson, yer usefulness to me is finished.”

Christ’s blood, her knees began to buckle as her life flashed afore her eyes, and she had a vision that it was never going to get any better; she was always going to be at the bottom of the mountain staring up at the heights, at the unobtainable.

Henry grabbed. She stumbled backward but couldn’t get away and his fingers curled around Ralf’s leg; he saw the mark frae his time inside the womb, and she screamed then fell as a roar of anguish and anger spewed frae his mouth. “Try to fool me would ye, that’s Ralf, not Harry. Liar! Where is my heir? Give me my heir ye Scottish harlot. The bairn yer carrying is probably not even mine.”

She rolled to her side, scrabbling to reach her knees, but her kirtle made it awkward and she dared not put Ralf down where Henry might harm him, harm her, harm her bairn. Her anger bloomed, caught fire, flames as red and as bright as her hair. He had not only put down her bairn, he had despised her heritage. She gritted her teeth and spoke through them., “The La Monts can never lay claim to heights of my Royal bloodlines. We Comlyns come in a direct line frae Thorfinn the Mighty,” she ground the name out, pushing Ralf below the bench, hopefully denying Henry access to Ralf long enough for Becky to run to fetch help.

Henry snorted his disgust—pig-like, she decided, wishing she had never given him access to her body let alone the facility to plant his seed inside her.

Eyes widening, she observed a movement in the entrance to the Great Hall. Henry didnae. He was too full of his chance to demean her and her heritage, “Then I definitely want naught to do with any brat of yours.” His hand gripped the hilt of his sword. “Ester, my wife,” he continued, “she laid claim to come frae Thorfinn the Mighty as well. When we met she was one of the ladies whose father attended the Scots prince. The one who died with his father at Alnwick. Our first bairn was the beautiful Melinda, and filled me with hope for the son she would produce.”

The sword slid out of its scabbard. She could hardly take her eyes frae it, though she was conscious of Ralf gurgling behind her and felt sure he had pulled himself to his feet by hanging onto the bench seat. She managed to swallow her fear at last, as beyond Henry’s shoulder the folk she had seen in the entrance segued into Nhaimeth and a lass nae bigger than him. Brodwyn’s curiosity was sharpened enough to wonder why the bride and groom were here when they were supposed to be in the chapel standing afore the priest.

She decided not to warn Henry, though what wee Nhaimeth could do was a question. Surely, Henry wouldn’t murder her in cauld blood in front of an audience, and anyway the oh-so-proud Baron La Mont appeared to be enjoying the story he was delivering, whether for her benefit or his own she was past caring as he continued to speak of his wife. “The second daughter she gave birth to was a monster.” He shuddered, “Disgusting. I couldn’t let it live—nor her mother either—so I suffocated Ester and got rid of the ugly little brat of a daughter she gave me. There was naught else to be done.” Frae his expression, he’d had nae conscience about murdering his wife and likely his bairn. In that case, what chance did she have?

She felt Ralf’s hand tug at her kirtle and a squeal of laughter as he peeked out frae her skirts, as if playing the game he had indulged in earlier with his brother.

The almost dreamy stare Henry had developed as he related his tale transformed him into a maleficent creature as dreadful as the bull he celebrated as his arm rose, sword at the peak of its arc, about to strike. Instinct sent her curving her body around Ralf’s, her back toward La Mont, protecting both bairns—Melinda’s and her own.

Cries, shouts reached her ears—too late. The sword sliced into her hip and thigh then clattered to the floor. The pain felt as if it belonged to someone else as she distanced her mind frae the dreadful consequence of the life she had led and gathered Ralf close where Henry couldn’t hurt him, and that was the last she remembered.

Shocked to see Nhaimeth and Rowena take to their heels and run away frae the altar as if the devil was on their heels, Rob, though stunned, took the only action open to him. He held out his hand to Melinda and they ran after them.

The sun outside the chapel was bright in comparison to the soft, dim greyness inside it with only the plaids and kirtles and bluebells adding colour to what was supposed to be a joyous occasion, not one to run away from. It was the difference of dark to light that turned the man who stepped out of Rowena’s way into a silhouette and made Rob take a few moments to recognise the man. “God’s teeth, St Clair, what are ye doing here?”

The slim Norman who, last time Rob had seen him, looked young enough to be La Mont’s son and seemed an unlikely friend merely turned his head to face the Keep and the back view of Nhaimeth and his new wife. Rob noticed a reluctant twist to St Clair’s mouth afore he spoke, “Henry’s in the Keep,” and Rob understood the young knight’s loyalties were divided.

With Melinda clinging to his hand, he descended the short flight of steps into the Bailey, and at the foot of them he turned to look over his shoulder and said, “Ye had better accompany us.”

Their wee friends were well ahead of them. He kenned that Nhaimeth had an unusual turn of speed for a wee man, but Rowena, well she surprised him. Even so, when they entered the Keep, the conversation, not to mention Brodwyn’s presence, seemed to paralyse the cords of his throat, so the yell gathering in his chest stayed locked inside where it wouldn’t harm his son.

Rowena had spoken of the need to protect the bairns, but that it should happen so soon was beyond imagining. Despite the urgent need to save Ralf, he gathered Melinda into his side because what they were hearing had to pierce her to the heart. The woman La Mont spoke of was her mother.

Melinda sobbed and turned her face into the muscles bunching at the top of Rob’s arm, desperate to grip the sword he had left in his chamber and kill his father-in-law. “The bairn—Ralf—don’t let my father hurt him,” she whispered.

Staring down the gap betwixt the seats and boards laid for the guests, Rob saw his younger son. He was giggling, a big practically toothless grin on his face—the one almost identical to his own. It was a smile that made his heart turn over in his chest, and he began to move forward as La Mont’s sword arm rose. Steel flashed, he had left his move o’er-late. He yelled as Brodwyn bent over Ralf, covered his precious wee body with her own. So much happened in that one moment, that tiny increment of time, not even a skerrick or the length of a heartbeat. Melinda screamed. St Clair shouted, drawing steel, and moved with Rob to where La Mont stood. Nhaimeth and Rowena could do naught since, like Rob, he had gone to the chapel unarmed.

Blood flowed. Brodwyn’s. And even with the huge measure of hatred he felt for the woman, he couldn’t wish this on her. His hand grasped La Mont’s wrist to twist the sword out of his ugly grip as Brodwyn fell atop Ralf, who began crying. Simultaneously, Melinda screamed, “Father” and St Clair shouted, “No, Henry. No!”

Brodwyn was past speaking. Dead? Alive? He wanted La Mont away frae her so he could reach his son. The sword clattered to the flagstones and a foot, St Clair’s, pressed the blade flat to the floor. Rob snaked a warning glance in his direction as he twisted La Mont’s arm up his back. “Are ye with us or agin’ us, St Clair?” he asked the Norman as Melinda’s father struggled in his hold. If St Clair was of a mind to thrust the sword he had drawn in Rob’s direction, he would have nae compunction about pushing La Mont betwixt him and the point of the well honed blade.

“I’m against murder, especially of women, who deserve to be honoured by a knight’s protection.” He reached out to grasp La Mont by the throat of his tunic. “Have ye gone mad, Henry? This is not what ye taught us to believe in; we are the Knights of the Minotaur. We use our strength only to further the Norman way of life in the name of King William Rufus.”

Rob bit the tip of his tongue to prevent it spewing out what he thought of such nonsense. This usurper who laid claim to the title Baron Wolfsdale had become a pathetic creature. Knights of the Minotaur indeed. How many young men had he drawn to his cause with such pathetic nonsense?

La Mont shook his head vigorously—not in denial but as if coming out of a trance. “I lost my head; she denied me my heir and tried to foist Ralf onto me, but Harry is perfect, without the mark Ralf bears on his leg. The trollop could never fool me.”

“Enough!” Rob bellowed, “Nae more drivel about claiming yer heir. These are my sons, my heirs, and ye can count yerself lucky yer their grandfather or I would have dropped ye where ye stand.” He glanced up to see that the McArthur and most of the guests frae the chapel had followed them into the Great Hall. “Father, I beg pardon for the disruption in yer home. I’m afraid Melinda’s...” he began as she slipped past him to where Nhaimeth was now holding a mightily upset Ralf, and even in the midst of heightened tempers, his jaw dropped to see her lift Ralf into her arms to cuddle him. “As I was saying, Melinda’s father is having a demented fit and needs to stay somewhere he can’t harm himself.”

Euan waved a hand and three men hurried forward to do his bidding: Graeme, Gavyn and Jamie. They escorted La Mont away, nae doubt to somewhere he could calm down and regain his senses, preferably under lock and key. The sigh that left Rob’s lips as he turned toward his wife and bairn seemed to curl upward frae the soles of his feet, taking away the tension that had held him locked in fear and anxiety for the life of his son.

He didnae want to feel a rush of gratitude, or in the least bit bothered over Brodwyn’s health, but the woman had just saved his son’s life and might have lost her own in the process. Still, his first priority was his own family. Rob wrapped both arms around the two of them closest to him and hugged his wife and son tight. He wanted to blurt out his love for them—a confession he had kept closed in his chest. And why? Because he had yet to gather up enough courage to forgive his wife’s blasphemy at first sight of him on that day down by the shores of Loch Leven. That he did love her he didnae doubt, never had. Whether she was deserving of his love had been the question. That she cared for their younger son was nae longer in doubt.

He tucked their son into her arms with a kiss on the lad’s brow and stepped away.

Nhaimeth and Rowena stood bent over Brodwyn. Rowena’s bonnie wedding kirtle was streaked with the blood that pooled onto the flagstones. As he turned to place one big hand on his wee brother-in-arms’ shoulder, Rob was filled with regret that this bright day, so filled with promise, had ended in murder and mayhem. Turning his gaze on Brodwyn, there seemed naught to ask but, “Is she dead?”

Rowena shook her head. “No, not yet, but she’s pretty bad. I don’t think she can last. However, she’s over-big for us to move.”

“I can do that.” He knelt beside Nhaimeth’s new wife, horrified at the amount of Brodwyn’s blood soaking into Rowena’s once bonnie kirtle. He had hated this woman with a passion that had left a scar on his soul in memory of Lhilidh. Every time his thoughts travelled to the past—to the day he had carried Lhilidh out of the stone circle, moments after she’d died in his arms—he had hated Brodwyn. All Lhilidh had ever asked him for was a kiss, and he had placed one on her lips, ignoring the burned flesh on her cheek. His love he had given her without being asked; it had been a sweet, pure emotion—fragile, untainted by the lust he had felt for Melinda at first sight of her.

Add that to all the bitterness behind him and he could nae longer force himself to hate a beaten woman. Fitting his arms under his wounded enemy, he lifted Brodwyn’s limp body away frae where she sprawled across both floor and wooden bench. He didnae care about the blood, his plaids had seen plenty of it over the years—though none of it his, and sometimes he had felt ashamed of that—and an echo of the Moor’s voice would come back to him, his hands on him, saying, “This is all bastards are fit for.” Not for him the honourable death. Nae, he had held out to be ransomed.

Hoisting Brodwyn higher, he tried to hold her in a position that wouldn’t hurt, wouldn’t put any pressure on the wound. Against his natural instincts, he looked down at the red-haired woman in his arms and hoped Jamie hadn’t seen her. Enough that one of them was haunted by that day. Jamie had a new life—a grand one—a wife and family as well. Even so, he was surprised to look down and see her eyelids flicker. She stared straight into his eyes, her lips releasing a sigh, a soft moan as she spoke, “My bairn. Did Henry kill it?” Then she swooned again.

Rob’s stomach rose up, reaching for a way out of his throat. La Mont had tried to kill not only Brodwyn but also his very own bairn lying in her womb. The man was a monster, and he would have done the world a favour if he had been able to kill him.

This wasnae quite the way he’d thought it was meant—‘we have to protect Harry and Ralf’ Nhaimeth had told him—but they werenae done. Their grandfather was a monster; betwixt them all they’d have to make sure the lads were brought up to be honourable and righteous as guid young future Chieftain should be.

“She’s carrying his bairn.”

He could see Melinda’s mind dealing with the knowledge that if it lived the bairn would be her brother or sister.

“What can I do to help?”

“Ye have enough on yer hands with Harry and Ralf to see to. I can see Becky across the other side of the Hall with Harry in her arms. Go with her and take care of Ralf. He’s had a narrow escape. Much as I hate to say it, the state of mind yer father was in, we could have lost one of our sons. For now, what we need is Kathryn.” He looked around but didn’t see her and turned to someone nearby. “Get someone to fetch Lady Kathryn. If anyone can help Brodwyn she can.”

Brodwyn’s head was swimming as she came to again in Rob McArthur’s arms. He was carrying her up the winding stone stairs. It felt odd, but simply watching the grey granite walls passing by was comforting. She remembered trailing her fingertips against the sparkle in the granite wall, wondering whether precious gems lived inside the stone. How wonderful if she could go back to that time and the hell she had turned her life into had never happened.

Rob laid her on her side and she heard another voice—a woman, but not Melinda. The guid feelings that had formed as she floated up the stairs dissolved in a moment and she wept a flood of tears she could nae more hold back than stop breathing. “Kathryn,” she sobbed, “cousin, please forgive me. I sinned against ye ,and Lhilidh died, but I never wanted it to end that way. I just couldn’t stop Harald’s rampage.”

Her chest heaved, felt tight as she struggled to confess at last. “He grew too strong for me, I could nae longer influence him.”

She felt someone lift the hem of her kirtle and felt it part as a knife cut through the linen—her best— ruined and nae longer fit to bury her in. Twisting her head, she looked up into Rob McArthur’s face, so like Ralf’s. “I’m glad ye killed Harald. Somebody had to, and I dinnae believe I could have managed to do the deed,” she sighed and closed her eyes, drifting into sleep.