CHAPTER 40
Sybil’s opinion of him now was lower than dog shite. How would he ever win her back? He could not accept the Grant lad as his just to please her. If he somehow managed to hold on to the chieftainship, claiming the lad would make him the next chief. If the lad did not have MacKenzie blood, that would be wrong. A false chief inevitably brought bad luck to the clan.
The boy’s mother had not named Rory as the father for eight years—if then. He had only Grant’s word for her supposed deathbed confession.
And yet it was possible the lad was his.
He knew of no way to resolve that question, but there was another he could lay to rest. Sybil’s accusation that someone purposely tried to harm the lad would nag at him until he proved it false.
After supper, he headed to the stables to examine the pony himself. When he asked where it was, the taciturn stable master pointed to the far corner of the stable. Rory paused when he saw a head of bright red hair pop up on the far side of the horse. His own hair had turned to auburn as he grew older, but when he was a bairn it was that same blinding shade.
The boy kept up a steady, soothing murmur as he brushed the pony.
“You’re not afraid of him after he bucked and bolted on ye?” Rory asked.
The lad looked at him over the horse’s back with wide eyes. He was clearly more frightened of Rory than of the horse that had nearly broken his neck.
“It wasn’t his fault.” The lad stroked the pony’s neck as he spoke, a gesture that Rory suspected soothed him as much as the animal. “He’s the best horse ever. I’ll not let ye take him away from me.”
“I won’t.” Rory patted the pony’s rump. “I can see he’s a fine animal and good friend to ye. A lad needs a horse like that.”
“Thank you, Laird MacKenzie.” The tension in the boy’s body visibly eased.
He must have been worried sick he would lose his horse. For the first time, Rory began to see the situation from the lad’s side. He was only eight, and his family had left him among strangers and in the care of a hostile stranger. He carried no blame for his mother’s deception or his grandfather’s scheme to make him the future MacKenzie chief.
“How would ye like to go hunting?” Rory asked.
“With you?” The boy’s face lit up like a torch. “When? Tomorrow?”
“I have business away from the castle tomorrow.” Rory had asked before he’d thought it through. He had a dozen things he ought to do instead of hunting, but when he saw the look of disappointment on the lad’s face, he said, “But I’ll take ye the next day.”
Before he left, he ran his hands over the pony to see if he could discover what made him bolt. His legs and hooves were fine, and he had no sores from the saddle rubbing. The pony did have a couple of raised bumps on his rump, but nothing unusual for a horse.
Anything could set off a horse—a bee sting, a sudden noise, a nip from another horse. Luckily, there was no harm done.
***
Rory and his men rode across the Black Isle to the great red sandstone cathedral that had stood for more than three hundred years on the MacKenzie side of Moray Firth. Several highborn MacKenzies were buried here, along with a few Frasers.
Alex was waiting outside for them.
“Hector and his men arrived first,” Alex said. “They and the bishop are waiting for us inside.”
“I’m surprised the bishop is allowing us to bring our men inside.”
“They must disarm, of course, but they are invited to bear witness to the bishop’s peaceful—nay, miraculous—resolution of this dispute.” Alex rolled his eyes. “The bishop appears to relish his role and wants to be lauded for it.”
Rory drew a deep breath and crossed himself as he stepped inside the cathedral’s hallowed walls. Even in the dim light of the cathedral, the bishop was hard to miss standing in the middle of the nave with his arms outspread and wearing his red silk tunic, snowy white gloves and stockings, a large, bejeweled cross, and purple ropes of braided silk embroidered with gold thread hanging from his neck.
Hector’s men stood to the bishop’s left along the north aisle. Rory thought he had steeled himself to see his uncle, but a blinding rage took hold of him when he saw Hector.
The bishop cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”
Rory walked past the bishop to stand toe to toe with his uncle.
“Are ye not afraid of being struck down in this holy place?” Rory said. “The blood of my brother is on your hands.”
“If you’re speaking of our sadly departed chieftain, I did my best to protect him,” Hector said. “But where were you when your chieftain needed you? You abandoned him, that’s what ye did.”
Alex hauled Rory back and said in his ear, “Don’t let him bait you.”
“Shall we turn to the matter that brought us here?” the bishop said. “I understand that you, Hector of Gairloch, have an offer to make.”
“We can end this conflict right here, right now, without bloodshed,” Hector said. “They pay good money for fighting men in Ireland and France. With a good ship and thirty strong warriors, a man could make a new life for himself.”
Rory was stunned by his uncle’s proposal. Surely Hector would not agree to go so easily.
“I give ye three days to accept my offer and leave MacKenzie lands,” Hector said. “If ye don’t, the blood of MacKenzies will be on your head.”
“I came here to discuss the terms under which my uncle will cease his rebellion,” Rory said. “If it takes bloodshed to end it, then so be it.”
Rory was furious that Hector and the bishop had brought him here for nothing.
“Wait,” the bishop said when Rory started to leave. “I believe Hector of Gairloch has brought evidence bearing on the question of who is the rightful MacKenzie chieftain.”
“I am the MacKenzie, the 9th of Kintail.”
“By what right,” Hector said in a voice that carried to every corner of the cathedral, “do ye claim that honor?”
“Ye know verra well by what right,” Rory said. “I have been chosen by our clan, and I carry the blood of chieftains from my father and his father and his father for as long as there have been MacKenzies.”
“Your mother was not wed to my brother when ye were conceived,” Hector said.
“Their marriage may have been irregular, but my father claimed me, as you and everyone in the clan knows.”
“My brother was so bedazzled by Agnes Fraser that he was blinded to the truth,” Hector said. “She was with child by another man before she ever went to my brother’s bed.”
Rory’s vision was tinged with red. “That is a lie!”
“Your mother was a whore,” Hector said.
Rory lunged for him, but Alex and several other men rushed between him and Hector.
“This is hallowed ground!” the abbot shouted, holding his hands up. “Any man who sheds blood here commits a sin against God.”
“Not here,” Alex said as he held Rory’s arm. “Not unless ye want yourself and the whole clan excommunicated.”
The bishop appeared to motion to someone behind Rory. He turned to see the figure of a hunched woman emerge from one of the chapels built into the south aisle. He did not recognize the woman at first. But when she stood in the light of the candelabra next to the bishop, he knew who she was.
“Isn’t that Mother’s old servant?” Alex whispered.
“Aye. She’s also a wise woman.” Rory felt as if a hole was opening beneath his feet. “And a midwife.”
Rory knew what was coming. He should leave now, but something compelled him to stay and watch the disaster unfold.
The bishop made the old woman hold the large, heavy cross he wore and swear by the blood of Jesus Christ that every word she spoke was true.
“My mistress,” she began in a soft voice.
“Louder,” the bishop told her.
“My mistress, Lady Agnes, was with child by one of the stable lads in her father’s castle and was frantic not knowing what to do about it,” the old woman said, glancing several times at Hector. “When the MacKenzie chieftain laid siege to the Fraser castle and demanded to wed her at once, Lady Agnes believed her prayers were answered, and readily agreed.”
“How do you know this?” the bishop asked.
“I was her personal maid, and she confided in me,” she said, with another furtive glance at Hector. “I’m a skilled midwife as well and helped her deliver the child. She confessed to me again then that the babe was her lover’s babe, and I agreed to say he was born early.”
Hector had coerced the poor woman to say these lies. Rory should have foreseen this. The damage was done now.
“And who was this child?” the bishop prodded her.
“It was him, Rory.” The old woman looked at him for the first time, and there was sorrow in her eyes. “He was a fine, fine boy and always her favorite.”
“I forgive you,” Rory told her in a soft voice.
A tear trickled down the old woman’s cheek.
“I am the MacKenzie,” Rory said, locking gazes with Hector. “And one day ye will answer for this.”
Then he turned and walked out of the church.
“You can never be the true chieftain when ye don’t have chieftain’s blood!” Hector shouted after him. “You’ll bring bad luck to yourself and the clan.”
Rory kept walking.
“You’ve no right! I warn ye, you’ll lose everything and destroy the clan.” Hector’s voice rang out through the cathedral. “Everything ye touch will turn to ashes.”