Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

P eace reigned for a week after that, but Col should have guessed some mischief was brewing because the boys were so quiet and well-behaved. It was well after midnight when a thunderous knock on the door woke him.

Aihan sat up. “What is it?”

He got out of bed, scrambling for his robe in the half light from the fire. “I dinnae ken, but it’s generally not good to be roused out of bed at this time of night.” Tying his robe round his waist, he headed for the door. “Stay here, lass, best if ye’re not seen in yer robe by half the neighbourhood!”

He ran down the stairs just as Fergus emerged from his quarters at the back of the house.

Col unbolted the front door and met the startling sight of Henderson and McBride, two of Earl Kirkcaldy’s retainers on his doorstep, with lanterns and stern expressions.

“Mac Sceacháin,” said Henderson, a tall, thin man with dour features and grey at his temples. “The Chief summons ye.” McBride, who was as tall but bulkier, with a dark, swarthy complexion, nodded.

“What the bluidy hell, it’s three in the morning, man!”

“Ye’ve a case to answer.”

“What—”

“Yer boys were caught attempting to steal the Chief’s cattle. Five head of his best cows from the pasture on the headland.”

Col blinked at him while his head reeled. Rory’s words came back to him: It’s nae stealing if it’s reiving.

“Fook!” he swore under his breath. “Aye, I’ll come, just give me ten minutes to dress. Where are the lads?”

“The chief has them detained.”

“Is my Willy with them?” asked Fergus over Col’s shoulder.

“He is.”

Col nodded. “Ye want to wait in the kitchen? I won’t be long.”

The men followed Fergus to the kitchen and Col ran up the stairs. Sticking his head into Aihan’s chamber, he found her dressed in shirt and breeches and swathed in a plain brown plaid, pulling on her boots.

“The boys?—”

“Aye, I heard. I’ll meet ye downstairs,” she said calmly.

“I don’t think it’s necessarily a good idea fer ye to come, Hana.”

“I’m coming. Ye’ll nae face this alone,” she said firmly. “Go get dressed.”

He hesitated a moment, kissed her, and went to his room to scramble into shirt, breeches, and jacket. He was tempted to wear a kilt as this was a clan matter, but it was too difficult to get the pleating right, he didn’t have time for that. But he did swing a plaid over his shoulder and belt it round his waist, as Aihan had done. It was cold out. He must get her a Thornton plaid made up. She’d look bonnie in the green and blue.

He met her downstairs moments later. Fergus joined them with the Chief’s men, and they left the house to collect two horses from the stable. He took Aihan up with him and Fergus rode Cat’s mare. He noticed grimly that the boys’ horses were missing.

The men’s reaction to Aihan was to look at her sideways and say nothing. Col decided against introducing them. Let them think what they liked, he’d not apologise for bringing her.

It took them half an hour to get to Ravenscraig Castle on the headland. As the two towers linked by battlements hove into view, black shadows against the sky, Col’s stomach muscles tightened with worry. The castle dated to the 1460’s. It was built by James II for his Queen, as a functioning defensive stronghold, in troubled times, and bequeathed to the Kirkcaldy’s, along with the title, by James III for services rendered to the crown. The landward side was blind, no windows—to make attack more difficult— which gave it a brooding, almost sinister air. Col shuddered in his plaid to think of his boys locked up inside its dungeons. The windows, Col knew, were all on the seaward side to take advantage of the ocean breeze.

Douglas Kirkcaldy was Chief of the Kirkcaldy Clan, of which Mac Sceacháin was a sept—a family, part of a clan with a different name. An attempt to steal his cattle was an egregious insult, and Col was sweating inside his plaid, despite the cold night air. He could only hope the chief would take a lenient view in light of the boys’ youth. But he doubted it. This was far more than a child’s prank. And if he’d raised them right, they would never have even thought of doing it. It was nothing short of outrageous. So, it was on him. This was his fault.

They left their horses in the stable on the landward side and made their way across the bridge to enter the castle via the postern gate to the west tower, and around to the entrance to the tower on the seaward side, where a narrow circular staircase gave access to the upper levels.

Henderson and McBride led them up to the hall on the first floor. The room was large and rectangular, with stone walls and timber floor and ceiling. The huge room had six large wooden posts, carved in the shape of pillars to hold up the ceiling. A huge hearth was set into the western wall, with large chunks of wood burning brightly and casting out significant and welcoming heat. This counteracted the cooling effect of the stone walls and wind that still managed to penetrate the room through the series of narrow slit windows in the southern wall, despite the fact that they had been filled with glass in the last century.

Shutting the big heavy wooden door against the cold air that swept up from the staircase, McBride took his place by the door and Henderson went forward to address the clan chief.

Douglas Kirkcaldy sat in a large chair on the dais against the northern wall, upon which hung a medieval style tapestry depicting a deer hunt. He was a big man, of a size with Col and at least five years Col’s senior, with thick, luxuriant brown hair and a curly brown beard with red highlights and flecks of grey.

Seated beside him, on a smaller chair, was his daughter, Isa. Col hadn’t seen her for a while, and she had gone from awkward teen to beautiful young woman in the interim. Her long red hair was loose round her shoulders, and she, like her father, wore the clan plaid, but over a white gown. She looked every inch the proud Scots lass, and he wondered at her presence. Of his boys and young Willy, there was no sign.

“Chief, may I present Laird Mac Sceacháin, his woman, and Fergus McLeod.”

Col winced internally at Henderson’s description of Aihan, but supposed it was true, and they would have to acknowledge it soon if she were to stay.

He stepped forward, bowed, and said, “Chief. Where are my sons? I was given to understand they are here?”

“Aye, the miscreants are in the cellar. And there they’ll stay until I pass judgement.”

Col clamped his teeth together. It wouldn’t do to alienate the chief more than he was already. He nodded and waited. He was conscious of Fergus vibrating with fury beside him. But the old man had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and let Col do the talking.

“Are ye hard up, Mac Sceacháin?” asked the Chief.

Col stiffened, but recognising the jibe for what it was, he said as calmly as he could, “Nae, my lord.”

“Then what possessed ye to send yer boys to seize my cattle?”

“I dinnae do any such thing.”

“So, the plan was all their own?”

“Can I explain, my lord?”

“Aye, I’m all ears.”

“The root of the problem lies with my Athair. Ye knew him, Douglas. He was always romanticising the reivers. He filled the boys’ heids with stories. This would be an attempt to recreate those romantic dreams. I’m nae excusing them, my lord. They should never have done it, but I ask ye to consider clemency. They’re only lads.”

The chief stared at him under beetling brows and chewed on his words a bit. “Aye, I knew the old laird well. He was ever one to spin a tale, we all enjoyed them as lads.” He paused. “But the fact is, yer lads are old enough to know the difference between dreams and reality.”

“Ye’re right, my lord, and I’ll shoulder the blame fer that. So, I’ll ask ye to point yer retribution in my direction, nae theirs.”

The chief shook his head. “Ye lost yer way after Cat died, Col. And it would seem ye’re still under the cat’s paw.” He nodded to Aihan. “Ye’ve gone soft. The lads willnae learn if ye treat ’em wi’ kid gloves, man. They’re nae lassies to be coddled.”

“With respect, my lord, ye’re wrong. They’re my lads and I know what’s best fer them, and if ye think I’d go soft on them fer this?—”

“Ye’ve got balls to contradict me to my face, Col, I’ll give ye that. But ye’ll nae change my mind. However, if ye’ve a mind to share their punishment, and in addition pay me a fine for the bluidy inconvenience of being dragged out of my bed in the middle of the bluidy night to deal with such foolishness, I’ll consider tempering the sentence I had in mind.”

“Aye, I’ll pay yer fine and stand whatever punishment ye’ll see fit to press upon me, if it will reduce their sentence.”

“I’ll take it too,” said Fergus, stepping forward. “Willy’s my responsibility.”

“Nae, Fergus!” protested Col.

“Yer sentiments do ye credit, McLeod, but I’ll nae test yer old bones for the lad’s trespass. Besides, I know who the ringleader of this merry band of would-be cattle rustlers is. For he confessed his guilt straight up and asked to take the lion’s share of the punishment.”

“Rory,” sighed Col, scrubbing his hair.

“He reminds me o’ you at a similar age, Col.” Douglas said with a smirk. “Or have ye forgotten what a hell-raiser ye were?”

“Nae, I haven’t forgotten.” It just feels like it was someone else’s life.

“McBride, fetch the lads.” McBride left the room; his footsteps audible as he descended the stone staircase. The wind swirled in the open door, making the flames in the hearth flicker and sending a cold shiver up Col’s spine in spite of the plaid he wore.

The minutes ticked by in silence, and finally the sounds of footsteps echoed on the stairs. Then the boys appeared, shepherded by McBride, bringing up the rear.

Rory strode into the room despite the clinking chains at wrist and ankles. He met Col’s eyes with a defiant stare and transferred his attention to the dais as he came to a stop before it. Callum and Willy ranged themselves behind him. Callum’s eyes were red, although there was no sign of tears now. Willy glanced at Fergus, shamefaced, and looked forward towards the dais.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Douglas, leaning an elbow on the arm of his chair and surveying them. “What d’ye have to say fer yerselves, now ye’ve had time to think on it?”

Rory straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and said clearly, “I told ye it was my idea. Punish me, nae them, they just followed my lead.”

“Well, it doesnae quite work like that, lad, but I commend yer bravery. Yer father’s made me a similar offer, so ye’re a chip off the old block, I’d say,”

Rory glanced round at Col, who lifted his chin to him in encouragement.

“Each man shall take his punishment as metered out. But first I want ye to understand something.” He paused, and the boys shifted nervously. All but Rory, who stood still, his fists clenched before him, his jaw set and his gaze dead straight.

“Ye dinnae steal from yer own. Do ye know what would have happened to ye, if ye’d done that in reiving years?”

The boys shook their heads, even Rory.

“Ye’d be dead.” He let that sink in. “And yer Athair, and all yer kin.” He paused again and Rory swallowed visibly.

“The reivers were nae heroes, lads,” he went on. “They were criminals. Blood-thirsty, murdering criminals. Who held grudges for generations. The Scots and Sassenachs, both. If ye want to romanticise a hero from Scotland’s past, I suggest ye go back to Robert the Bruce. Now there was a man worth following.”

Callum managed a tremulous smile at this, and for the first time, Rory’s eyes dropped. Willy fidgeted.

“Now fer punishment. It’s three-fold. First, ye’ll be flogged.” He ticked this off on a finger and Callum and Willy flinched. Rory looked up and straightened his shoulders again. He nodded.

“Second, ye’ll work for me, one day a week for a year, to repay the fine Mac Sceacháin will pay as a bond. If ye shirk yer work, he’ll nae get his bond back, I’ll keep it all, and ye’ll still work for year and a week extra for everyday ye don’t give satisfaction. Ye’ll commence after Hogmanay. Are we clear?”

“Aye, my lord.” Rory spoke first, his voice firm.

The other two offered Aye, my lords in more subdued tones.

“And third, ye’ll watch the Laird Mac Sceacháin take a flogging fer each of ye. And bear witness to the pain he takes on yer behalf.”

Col felt Aihan’s hand clench his where it hung at his side in the folds of his plaid. He squeezed back but didn’t look at her. His concentration was all on the boys. Even Rory had gone pale at this last condition.

“Fetch the lash, McBride,” said the Chief.

“Ye’ll nae subject yer lass to watching this!” protested Col, realising his intent.

“Isa is no puling miss. She will be chief after me. As such, she’ll bear witness to justice being done.”

Isa sat straight in her chair and did not flinch at her father’s words, although Col saw her hands tighten on the arms of her chair.

McBride returned with the lash and presented it to his chief.

Kirkcaldy took it and descended from the dais. “Remove yer shirts, gentlemen,” he said. “Rory, ye’re first.” He nodded at McBride and Henderson. “Tie him to the post.”

Rory removed his jacket and shirt calmly. Col had tanned him a time or two over the years, with his hand or his belt, but he’d never whipped the boys in his life. His old man had whipped him, though, and he knew how much it hurt. The chief had not said how many strokes they were all to receive, but he hoped he had succeeded in pleading sufficient clemency for the boys. It was certain they would never forget this.

The two men tied Roy to the pillar, his arms wrapped round it rather than above his head. A mercy that Col noted, for it hurt a deal more if the recipient was hung up by his arms with his feet barely touching the ground. The Chief readied the whip, testing it with a crack or two in the air, which made the younger boys jump. Both of them were pale as milk and visibly trembling, but Rory stood resolute, embracing the pillar, his face blank of expression.