CHAPTER 34
“How dare that weasel Hector of Gairloch call my sister a whore,” Lovat said as he paced in front of a giant portrait of himself. “I’ll tell the council this is an affront I’ll not tolerate.”
Rory was relieved Lovat was willing to go to the king’s council on his behalf, though Lovat was perhaps more motivated by the insult to Fraser honor than by his desire to see Rory’s claim to the chieftainship recognized by the crown.
“Of course, Hector can have no proof to support his despicable lie because there is none. No man knew my sister Agnes, before or after your father,” Lovat said. “But if you could find that papal bull, that would settle the matter for good.”
“If my mother had it at Killin, it was destroyed in the fire, and Alex has not been able to find the church’s record,” Rory said. “But I brought something else for ye to show to the council.”
Rory set the ledgers from Eilean Donan on the table. As Lovat looked through them, Rory explained the thievery Sybil had uncovered.
“These will be an enormous help in swaying the regent and council against Hector. As chieftains themselves, they will judge him most harshly for stealing from his laird,” Lovat said, which was exactly what Sybil had said. “Not only will I ask for a royal declaration that you are the rightful heir, but I’ll also petition for an order commanding Hector to relinquish Eilean Donan into your possession and to repay all that he’s stolen over the years.”
“I appreciate your going to Edinburgh to speak on my behalf,” Rory said as Lovat walked him out.
“Ye say it was Lady Sybil who uncovered the scheme?” Lovat said. “She’s a clever lass.”
“Aye.” Rory waited for Lovat to harp again about Sybil being the wrong wife for him. She may have won over Alex and Catriona, but Lovat was a cynical man of the world.
“I confess I made an error in judgment about your wife,” Lovat said with a smile. “She’ll watch your back, that one will.”
Rory thought of the times she had stepped in to support him, even when he did not know he needed the help, as with the Munro chieftain.
“Ach, what a queen she’d make,” Lovat said, shaking his head. “That lass understands the fine art of negotiation and how to gracefully apply the right pressure at the right time without engendering hard feelings.”
Rory was not sure he liked Lovat giving his wife extravagant compliments any more than he had appreciated him insulting her.
“Trust me,” Lovat said, putting his arm around Rory’s shoulder, “you’ll find these useful qualities in a chieftain’s wife.”
“How is it that ye came to learn all this about my wife?” Rory asked.
“Let’s just say the two of us reached an understanding.” An amused smile played on Lovat’s lips. “A remarkable woman. I wouldn’t want her for an enemy.”
Rory rode home as if the devil was chasing him. He had let his pride blind him. Sybil had learned to maneuver through court politics because her family required her to—and she had to in order to survive. Instead of criticizing her for it, he should appreciate the skills she gained, not the least of which were her quick and acute perceptions about the motives and true nature of others she met.
She had not set out to deceive him about the marriage contract or done it out of spite or cruelty, but because she was in fear for her life. She did not confess sooner because she had not trusted him enough to tell him. After how she had been abandoned by her friends and family, it was no wonder she was slow to trust. He was slow to trust himself, so he should have understood.
She could have kept the secret forever. Instead, when she finally did trust him, she told him the truth. And what had he done? He had shouted and berated her. Insulted and rebuffed her. Used her and made her weep.
He spurred Curan to a gallop. He needed to get home to Sybil and try to make things right.
***
Hector drank down another whisky. He was going to skin his clerk at Eilean Donan and then boil him in oil for letting those ledgers out of his hands. As both Catriona and the ledgers had arrived safely at Castle Leod, Duncan had failed to burn them with the house at Killin.
Even if Rory had the ledgers, how in the hell had he figured out the theft Hector had successfully hidden for so many years? Now half of Hector’s own men were eyeing him with questions in their eyes.
He took another drink. The ledgers did not matter. His plans were set in motion. When he was done with Rory, no one in Clan MacKenzie would remember the theft.
It was long after midnight when the bishop, of all people, arrived at his door and interrupted his drinking. Hector eyed the churchman. He was a squirrelly man, physically weak and pompous.
“Good evening to ye,” Hector said. “What brings ye out to see me at such a late hour?”
The bishop smoothed his robes with his long, slender hands. Christ, what man did that?
“I’ve found something I believe will interest you.”
“A young virgin with parents desperate for coin?” Hector laughed.
“I believe you’ll find what I have is far more valuable.” The bishop paused. “I assume you heard of your brother’s request for a papal bull declaring his marriage to Lovat’s daughter valid and the children of the marriage legitimate.”
The bishop had his full attention now. “What do ye know about this papal bull?”
“The request was supported by my predecessor to our cardinal, who, in turn, forwarded it to Rome.”
“Did the pope act on it?”
“He most certainly did,” the bishop said with a thin smile. “The Holy Father granted your brother’s request in all regards.”
“Goddamn it to hell.” Hector slammed his fist on the table. This was the last thing he needed now. It could ruin all his plans. “Do you have it?”
Rory surely did not have it. If he did, he would have waved it from the tower of Castle Leod when he heard the lies Hector spread about not being his father’s true son.
“The papal bull arrived shortly after your brother’s death,” the bishop said. “I delivered it personally to his widow, Lady Agnes, who destroyed it.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She confided in me that she feared it would put her son Rory’s life in greater jeopardy.” The bishop laced his long fingers together. “To be blunt, she believed you’d have him murdered.”
Agnes was as clever as she was beautiful. Hector gulped down the rest of his whisky to dull the old, familiar pain. She should have been his. If she had been, her sons would have been his and they would not have been at cross-purposes.
“She said she would destroy it, and she begged me never to disclose that the petition was ever granted.”
“How much did ye make her pay for your secrecy?” Hector asked.
“The emerald ring was a generous gift to the church,” the bishop said, admiring the glinting stone on his pinky. “That could not, of course, dissuade me from performing my duty to keep meticulous records for the church.”
The bishop was finally getting to the point of his visit.
“’Tis not every day we receive a document from the Holy Father himself,” the bishop said. “Only the original document had the pope’s leaden seal, but I made a copy for our records.”
“So you’ve come to ask what I’ll pay ye to destroy these records.”
When the bishop gave him a smug smile, Hector took hold of the front of his robes and backed him into the wall.
“If ye believe I’d murder Rory, who is my own flesh and blood,” Hector said, “what makes ye think I won’t slice the throat of a churchman who threatens me?”
“I’m not threatening you,” the bishop said in a calm voice. “I’m offering a service you need. After the unfortunate news about the theft at Eilean Donan, the value is even greater than before. Tsk, tsk. Such a shame about those ledgers.”
“Once I’m chieftain,” Hector said, “I’ll donate a grand sum to the church for ye to use as ye see fit.”
“I’d prefer something now.”
Hector laughed. The bishop had ice in his veins and was driven by greed and ambition. They could no doubt work together. When he tossed a bag of coin on the table, the bishop nodded in agreement and pulled a rolled sheaf of parchment from his sleeve.
“You’re certain this is the only evidence this bull was issued?” Hector asked.
“There will be a record in Rome, but it could take years to obtain confirmation from the Holy See.”
Hector held the copy of the papal bull over the candle and watched it burn until there was nothing left but a few black cinders on the table. That was one less obstacle.
“There’s something else I’ll need ye to do for me,” Hector told the bishop. “I’ll get word to ye.”
“I find being of service most rewarding,” the bishop said, and took his leave.
“Fetch the old woman,” Hector shouted to the guard who stood outside his door. Thinking she might need encouragement, he added, “And bring her granddaughter up from the dungeon.”
When the time came, the old woman would say and do exactly what he told her to.
***
“There are visitors riding up to the gate, Lady Sybil,” the guard told her. “The MacKenzie is not back yet."
“Who are they?”
“Members of the Grant clan, including their chieftain and”—he paused and cleared his throat—“his family.”
“The Grants are friends of Clan MacKenzie, are they not?”
“’Tis hard to say,” he said, scratching his neck. “They used to be.”
The Highland custom of showing hospitality to all guests, friend or foe, was practically sacred, so she wondered why he was so uneasy.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll come out to the courtyard to greet them.”
“I’d best ride out to meet the laird,” he said. “He’s expected soon, and he’ll want to know the Grants are here.”
After tidying a loose curl that had escaped and brushing her gown with her palms, Sybil hurried outside. She was waiting at the top of the steps to the keep when the gate creaked open to admit a large party of riders. The gray-haired warrior who led them was the Grant chief, judging by his air of authority and the jeweled pin that fastened his plaid on his shoulder.
On either side of the chief rode two men who shared his strong features and hard expressions. They were an intimidating trio, and behind them rode thirty Highland warriors armed with claymores, axes, and dirks. Sybil put on a bright smile and started down the steps.
The Grant chief dismounted, and at his signal, all his men did the same. When the chief started up the steps, she came halfway down to meet him.
“Mìle fàilte oirbh,” a thousand welcomes, she said.
Her greeting—in fact, her very presence—seemed to sour the Grant chief’s already cheerless expression.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Sybil was startled by his rudeness. She straightened to her full height, which still left her a head shorter than the Grant chieftain.
“I am the wife of the MacKenzie,” she said.
His brows shot up. After a long moment of stunned silence, he seemed to recall his manners and gave her a stiff bow. “I apologize for my discourtesy. I’d not heard that Rory had taken a wife.”
“I understand your surprise,” she said, though she was puzzled by how strongly he reacted to the news. “Our marriage is quite recent.”
“Aye, it would be,” he said. “Let me introduce my sons.”
The Grant chief motioned to the two warriors who looked like younger versions of himself, with their straight, dark hair, piercing gray eyes, muscular builds, and wicked-looking weapons. As his sons stepped forward to join him, several MacKenzie warriors moved to either side of Sybil, ready to draw their weapons. She gave them a warning glance and a slight shake of her head, but they remained at her side.
When the first of Grant’s sons swept her a deep bow as his father introduced him, she sensed the tension of her guards ease a fraction. The other brother followed suit. Sybil was distracted by the sound of thundering hooves approaching the gate and failed to catch his name.
“And this is my grandson,” the Grant chieftain said, stretching out his arm in the direction of the Grant warriors.
Sybil looked past them to see Rory and several of his men galloping through the gate.
“Come, lad,” Grant said, drawing her attention back to her guests.
Sybil caught a glimpse of a young boy with copper curls emerging from the Grant warriors, but quickly shifted her gaze back to Rory, who leaped off his horse, dropped the reins without waiting for the stable boy, and started running toward them. Everything about him signaled urgency. But why? Did he not trust her to greet their guests properly?
Remembering her manners, she smiled as the chieftain’s grandson, a boy of eight or nine, came forward. Her smile faltered as she found herself looking into familiar green eyes.
“This is Kenneth Grant MacKenzie.” The Grant chief raised his voice so that it carried throughout the courtyard. “He is your husband’s son and heir.”
The ground seemed to shift under her, and a small, high-pitched gasp escaped her throat. Sybil felt as if she was falling backward into a black, bottomless chasm as her gaze traveled over the child’s face. He had Rory’s dimple in his chin and the same wide, expressive mouth.
And still, her mind could not accept what the Grant chieftain said as true. Nay, Rory would not have kept something—rather, someone—so important a secret from her.
“Sybil—”
She raised her gaze from the boy to Rory, who had come to a halt behind him. The truth was written in the guilt on her husband’s face. She understood now why the guard had hurried to fetch Rory, why the other MacKenzie guards were so uneasy about her meeting their guests, and why Rory had raced back to the castle.
The Grant chieftain had told her the truth. This boy was Rory’s son.
She felt as if an iron clamp was tightening around her chest and struggled to draw breath. How could Rory have hidden the boy’s existence from her? She knew instinctively that every MacKenzie and every Grant here knew what Rory had failed to tell her, his wife.
She felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes as she and Rory locked gazes over the boy’s head. It was bad enough that her husband had mistrusted and disrespected her—and that everyone knew it. She would not humiliate herself further by letting them see how very much the insult wounded her.
For once, she was grateful for the years she spent navigating her way through the slings and arrows of court life. She needed the lessons of every single day of it to maintain her composure. These Highlanders saw that Rory had made a fool of his ignorant Lowlander wife.
She refused to let them see that he had also ripped out her heart.