Chapter 11

11

B raden had not expected his uncle's return for some days.

"She'll nae get ye to talk, Braden. I daenae know why Kenna insisted on bringin' her here. An English lady in a Scottish castle – tis' nonsense," Donald said, as he sat down at the table, in the place where Roselyn had been sitting just a few moments previously.

I'm glad she did. Braden thought to himself, for he was not about to dismiss Roselyn as idle company.

He had enjoyed the lesson that morning, and how Roselyn had glowed when she realized his ability to read and write. It was his mother who had taught him, though Braden rarely set foot in the library. And it had been years since he had written anything before he returned. It was nice to see he hadn't forgotten most of it, though. And that he could use it to communicate with Roselyn more easily.

Will she ask me about the kiss, though? What does she really think about it?

Roselyn had seemed oblivious to the memory of the kiss, and Braden had been unable to tell whether she was embarrassed or merely attempting to behave with the detachment of a tutor. Kenna had told him of Roselyn's formality, but behind her fa?ade, there was a very different woman. She had proved herself humorous and fun. She often smiled, and Braden had noticed the way she looked at him – was there something there?

I wonder… but nay, there cannae be. Donald's right, an English woman in a Scottish castle, far from home. She'll do her job and leave. Though I will nae speak, Braden said to himself.

He had not spoken since that fateful night, the night of his father's murder, and it would take more than the gentle persuasions of a pretty English woman to make him do so. His uncle cleared his throat.

"Braden? I have news for ye," he said, and Braden looked up from his musings in surprise.

He signed to his uncle, questioning him, and his uncle's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head.

"I returned at first light this mornin' with a person ye'll want to meet," he said.

Braden looked at his uncle curiously. He really knew very little about Donald. Braden had grown up away from the castle, and whilst he knew his uncle had been diligent in his duties as laird, there were some who said he had acted with impunity when it came to power. Braden knew his uncle had relished the responsibility of being laird and relinquishing that honor had been a wrench, but still, Donald had taken care of Braden's mother and sister, as well as keeping the peace – for that, he owed him a debt of gratitude.

And who might I want to meet? Nae a friend of yers, Braden thought to himself.

"Tis' the man who killed yer father," his uncle said.

Braden's eyes grew wide with astonishment. His uncle spoke in such a way as to make the matter sound ordinary, almost mundane, but Braden could hardly believe what he was hearing. He shook his head, signing to his uncle in disbelief.

It cannae be. After all these years. Nay one knows who killed my father. Tis' a mystery. I… nay… I… he stammered to himself, confused by his uncle's words, even as Donald now smiled.

"Aye, I didnae tell ye where I was going. But I've been followin' all manner of different leads. Tis' certain, though. The man who murdered yer father resides in the dungeons. Will ye see him? I know we've a long way to go if we want to trust each other, we don't really know each other after all, but I wanted to do this for you, for my brother...for our family" he said, as Braden continued to stare at him in astonishment.

Braden did not know what to do. He was astonished, his hands trembling, as he rose to his feet, staring at his uncle, who continued to smile. Braden shook his head, raising his hands, and banging his fist down on the table in anger.

"Aye, a wicked man, Braden – a bandit and a robber. Didnae I always say it was a robber – someone broke into the castle that night, found yer father and mother asleep in bed and killed yer father for his gold? I found the wretch in the far north, hidin' in a cave. He's a wanted man – he's killed dozens of men, in just the same way as yer father. But come and see him, Braden, see the face of the man who murdered yer father," Donald said.

Braden thought immediately of his dream – the hidden face, now to be revealed. He had thought so long about the face of the man, his back turned, leaning over his father's body. What would his mother say? He looked at his uncle, signing to him, but Donald shook his head.

"She doesnae know. I've told ye, and ye alone. Yer sister knows nothin' of it, either. I told the guards on the gate the man was a sheep rustler and of nay consequence. But ye and I know the truth. Come now – come and see the man. I can see the desire for revenge in yer eyes. Daenae hold back, Braden," his uncle said.

Braden's anger was rising. He clenched his fists, breathing heavily. He thought about what he would do. Would he kill the man on sight? He rose to his feet, and his uncle walked to the door.

"Come now. He's in the dungeons. I'll show him to ye," he said, and Donald led Braden from his chambers.

The castle was quiet, the clansmen busy about their duties, and Braden and his uncle made their way down a narrow flight of steps to the dungeons. The way was lit by burning torches in brackets on the wall, and as they reached the cells, the jailer came to meet them, his keys jangling in the gloom.

"A sheep rustler, laird, there's nay need to trouble ye with him. He can go in the stocks in the courtyard. Let the women throw rotten eggs at him," he said, but Braden shook his head.

"The laird wants to see the man himself. I'll take the keys. Ye're dismissed," Braden's uncle said, and the jailer looked at them both in surprise.

"But… tis' my responsibility…" he said, even as Donald snatched the keys from his hand and pushed the jailer towards the steps.

"Come back later. Leave us," Donald snarled.

But Braden was not listening. He pushed past the jailer, making his way along the dimly lit passageway, where the smell of damp hung heavily in the air. Several of the cells were occupied, their pitiful occupants cowering in corners, but at the far end, Braden could hear footsteps pacing up and down. He paused, hardly daring to step forward.

This was it, the moment he had waited for ever since that fateful night. There would be no more dream, no more hidden face, no more mystery as to the identity of the murderer. Taking one of the flaming torches from its bracket, Braden held it aloft, stepping forward, as his uncle pointed towards the cell.

"He's in there. Look at him: see the face of evil," he whispered, pushing Braden forward.

I can hardly bear the thought of it… what that man did to us, Braden thought to himself.

He stepped forward, holding the flaming torch above his head. Shadows flickered on the wall, and the image of the man came into view. Braden did not know what he had imagined the man to be like, even as he had thought the matter over a thousand times, willing the figure in his dream to turn and reveal himself. The man standing before him was tall with a long, straggling beard, and his eyes were wide and bloodshot. He was dressed as a simple peasant, well-built and muscular, his sleeves rolled up to reveal cuts and scars across his arms. Braden stared at him.

"This is him, Braden – Mulden MacCulloch – the man who murdered yer father," Donald said.

The bars of the cell separated Braden from the murderer, and it was all Braden could do to stop himself from rushing forward and grabbing the man through the bars. But he held back, looking at the face, connecting it to his dream. In his nightmare, the murderer remained with his back to him, leaning over the bloodied body of Braden's father. But there was something not quite right about Mulden's appearance, as though he should have been taller, his shoulders broader…

Is it really him? The man in my dream? This one seems bigger, but then I was smaller then, and I was lookin' up – perhaps I'm nae remeberin' any of it properly. If only I could see clearly, Braden said to himself, even as his uncle laughed.

"How does it feel to see him, Braden? Will ye kill him? Will ye have him hanged? Tis' yer choice. Ye could run him through," Donald whispered, but Braden shook his head.

He was angry, but he would not kill a man in cold blood, not without evidence. He did not know what to believe, or who to believe. Surely his uncle had followed some lead or the other, but could he really be so sure that this man had killed Braden's father? It had happened so long ago. The man had an evil look about him, and the way he looked at Braden made it seem as though he had something to hide – but to punish him on rumor and speculation? Braden shook his head, turning away, but his uncle caught his arm.

"Tis' the man, Braden. Can ye nae see?" he said.

I cannae see. I dinnae know the truth. My dream… tis' nae the man I thought it was. Tis' a lie, Braden said to himself, pulling away from his uncle, who let out an angry cry.

"Tis' the man who killed yer father, Braden. Does that mean nothin' to ye?" he demanded.

Braden was angry. He had thought his uncle's extraordinary revelation would reveal the truth. But it had only made him more confused. This man, Mulden MacCulloch, was not the man who appeared in his dreams. He had not revealed himself as such, and Braden was certain he was not the man who had killed his father, even as it might have been a relief to think so.

He could have taken his anger out on the man, punished him for his father's death and have him killed to satisfy his need for revenge. But Braden would not see an innocent man punished, however wicked he might appear.

Tis' nae the man who killed my father, Braden told himself, and pushing past his uncle, he marched back along the passageway and up the stone steps, emerging into the courtyard, where he blinked in the brightness of the sunshine.

Cursing under his breath, he made his way to the stables, where he found Zeus being brushed down. "Ye wish to ride him, my laird?" the stable hand asked, and Braden nodded, wanting only to ride out along the loch and be alone with his thoughts.

The horse was soon saddled, and Braden mounted, riding out of the stables and across the courtyard at a gallop, sending a group of clansmen scattering as he charged past and out of the gates. He was very angry. Angry at what had happened in the past, and what could still not be resolved in the present. He would never know the truth about his father, whatever his uncle might believe about the man in the dungeons. The identity of the murderer – the back of whom remained turned – would forever be a mystery.

One I cannae solve. One I'll never know the answer to. Tis' useless trying' to find what nay one can ever know, he told himself, as now he slowed the horse by the side of the loch, looking out over the waters to the mountains beyond.

The fair weather had continued, and Braden watched as swallows swooped across the surface of the loch, and a salmon leaped from the water, its silvery scales catching the sunlight. He sighed, slipping down from the saddle, and sitting with his back against a large stone. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, mulling over everything his uncle had said and done. Perhaps he should ask his mother to take a look at the man who was supposed to be his father's murderer.

She'd know the truth – she must have seen the man's face, he said to himself, even as he feared his mother could not bear to look on the countenance of the man who had brought such suffering to her life.

He pondered the matter for a while, still wondering if he dared ask his mother to identify the man in the dungeons, but it was just as he had made up his mind to do so that he heard footsteps approaching, and turning, he found a familiar figure standing amidst the trees.