Tit for Tat
Isabel spent the next two days pacing in her chamber, trying unsuccessfully to calm the turmoil in her belly. She had little appetite for the food Coira brought. Stung by her father’s failure to provide any comfort, she itched to confront him and loudly refuse to marry Tremaine. However, she’d always been an obedient daughter; though Rory MacRain had changed, the notion of challenging him was daunting.
Her maid reported that talk of the marriage seemed to have ceased. There was no point poking at an empty hornet’s nest. Perhaps the entire affair would blow over and she could resume her life, though what fate held in store now…
Still, pride and indecision kept her chained to her chamber. If she ventured to the hall, castle folk would turn away, not knowing what to say. She was probably already the butt of many a jest.
Uncle Boyd was her only visitor. He briefly assured her all would be well. He was a man of few words, but they’d always been close and she had no doubt he loved her. Younger than her late mother, he had the same dark hair and similar features. He’d taken his sister’s death hard and been outraged at Rory’s repudiation of Ian.
She found comfort in his embrace, but was disheartened by news from Coira that he had apparently left the castle for parts unknown shortly after his visit, leaving her without her strongest ally.
Her world, full of love and laughter when her mother was alive, now consisted of a loyal maidservant and a blue dog. An uncertain future loomed if she stayed at Dungavin. “I suppose we could go to Beaton House,” she whispered to Blue.
On the morning of the third day of her self-imposed exile, Coira appeared without the usual tray and fell to her knees at Isabel’s feet. “Forgive me, my lady. The Nellis woman has forbidden me to bring ye food,” she said tearfully. “Threatened to beat me if I defied her.”
Anger surged. MacRains didn’t beat loyal servants. “Evidently the tactic is to starve me,” she replied.
“Nay,” Coira sniffled. “Yer father commands ye break yer fast in the hall, but he insists ye attend him in his solar first.”
Isabel had accepted this day would inevitably dawn. She couldn’t stay hidden in her chamber forever. Better to face the future head-on. She reminded herself she was the daughter of a chief and a high-born noblewoman. Rory MacRain might have lost his way, but she would forge her own path. She wouldn’t allow Darroch MacKeegan’s betrayal to destroy her. Indeed, hatred of him would strengthen her, just as fire tempered steel.
She offered a hand to her sobbing maid. “I dinna blame ye. Come. We canna keep the Nellis woman waiting.”
Granted permission to enter the laird’s solar a few minutes later, she faltered, at first not recognizing the man with droopy eyelids and disheveled grey hair slouched in an upholstered chair. Her father looked like he hadn’t slept for days. The tall, broad-shouldered warrior of her childhood seemed to have shrunk.
Ghalla sat beside him, back ramrod straight, hands clasped in her lap, not a hair out of place. There was no sign of Tremaine, thanks be to God.
Isabel bobbed a curtsey. “Ye sent for me, Dadaidh?”
He frowned as if not sure who she was, then seemed to collect his wits. “Terrible predicament ye’ve put me in, Daughter.”
“Aye,” his wife muttered.
Isabel reminded herself she’d expected this, but it pierced her heart just the same. The loving father she’d grown up with had changed. He saw only what Ghalla wanted him to see.
She flinched when he hauled himself to his feet.
“I’ve organized a raiding party to the MacKeegan crofts in the Trotternish,” he declared, holding on to the arm of the chair. “We leave within the hour.”
She wasn’t surprised. The tit-for-tat round of cattle rustling, murder and mayhem that had gone on for generations would continue now that the alliance had failed. It seemed to her that two clans living on the same island would benefit from cooperation, but she was a mere lass.
MacKeegan crofters who scratched out a meager existence on the rugged Trotternish Peninsula to the east of MacRain territory would suffer. The destruction would anger the MacKeegans in their main stronghold to the south, and prompt reprisals. The end result would be more men from both clans killed and Darroch still sitting pretty in Dun Scaith.
For all his faults, she wished her father wouldn’t lead the raid. It was obvious he was ailing. Concern for him emboldened her. “Can ye nay send Tremaine to attack the Trotternish?”
Ghalla shifted her weight in the chair and tightened her forced smile. A thrill of satisfaction crept up Isabel’s spine. Tremaine was a coward, and his mother knew it. She would never allow him to be exposed to danger. It was perhaps for the best. Tremaine’s leadership and fighting skills were nonexistent. He was afraid of horses and terrified of cattle. It wouldn’t bode well for the clansmen who went with him.
Her father risked a sheepish glance at his wife. “He’s too young,” he replied. “But when I return, we’ll speak of yer betrothal.”
She seethed with a compulsion to point out that a man too young to fight for the clan was surely not a suitable bridegroom for the chief’s daughter. The slur would simply serve to further alienate Ghalla.
Instead, she gritted her teeth and calmly explained the only rebuttal she’d been able to think of in two exhausting days of pacing. “I canna be betrothed to two men,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster.
The fleeting twitch of surprise on Ghalla’s face spurred her on. “We havena ascertained why Darroch MacKeegan didna arrive. Mayhap the mon fully intended to come but lies dead or injured somewhere. Have ye sent emissaries to inquire?”
Rory MacRain turned puzzled eyes to his wife, but she too seemed to have no reply to offer. “Weel,” her father said, “I’ll see to that right after the raid.”
It was a struggle not to voice her contempt. If men had their way, there’d be no living thing left on the Isle of Skye, but she couldn’t jeopardize the small victory she’d gained. As well, the notion of MacKeegan lying gravely injured or, better still dead, had been sinfully pleasing.
Forcing her knees into a full curtsey she begged leave to break her fast in the hall.
“Aye,” Rory mumbled, sinking back into the chair.
She withdrew, saddened that her father might not return from the Trotternish. Ghalla had so thoroughly divided them, Isabel hadn’t even wished him fare-thee-well.
*
Darroch spent two hectic days preparing ships, men, and armaments for the voyage to the western isles. By evening, he was weary of the back and forth ’twixt castle and docks, but still looked forward to a visit to Kyla’s chamber to kiss her goodnight and tell her a bedtime story.
Adamant Kyla wasn’t his blood kin, his father had at first refused to allow the whore’s spawn to live in the castle. The mop of curls as red as his own and the green eyes were enough to convince Darroch. In defiance of his father’s wishes, he’d provided the child with her own wee chamber, though it wasn’t much more than a cubbyhole. He’d recruited a wet-nurse and installed the grieving grandmother as her nanny.
However, as far as Stewart MacKeegan was concerned, Kyla didn’t exist.
Darroch’s daughter was an innocent victim of her illegitimacy. In a year or two, he planned to find a tutor. She made sounds when she laughed and cried, but refused to speak. He hoped whatever demons held her tongue would one day be banished.
She loved the old tales he recounted of Dun Scaith’s history. Every night, he teased her by pretending to embark on a different story. “Shall I tell ye the saga of the mighty King Malcolm Canmore?” he asked, tucking in the linens.
Eyes twinkling, she gave a hearty shake of red curls.
“Perhaps the history of how Clan Robertson pursued and captured the assassins of King James?”
She sighed with exasperation and rolled her eyes, enjoying the game as much as he.
“Weel then, I suppose ’tis the tale of Cú Chulainn.”
She beamed the smile that never failed to melt his heart. This beautiful child was the result of his youthful wild oats, sown like a rutting boar, without regard for the consequences. He’d barely known her mother, a sweet village lass much too delicate to bring a bairn into the world.
He couldn’t restore Elspeth back to life but had sworn to do his utmost to atone for his selfishness. Since Kyla’s birth he’d lived like a monk. Marrying a MacRain wasn’t the perfect solution but at least the bairn would have had a mother and there’d be an end to his penance.
There was no point dwelling on that lost cause, so he got on with the narrative. “Long ago, the hero Cú Chulainn traveled to Skye from his home across the sea in Ireland.”
Kyla yawned.
“He came to learn the martial arts of war.”
Green eyes drifted closed.
“His teacher was the warrior queen, Sgathaich, who dwelt here in this very castle. She gifted Cú Chulainn with her deadly spear.”
He never included the details of illicit affairs and slain lovers, unsuitable stuff for a wee bairn. Her grandmother had been forbidden to ever recount the part about Cú Chulainn killing his own son by mistake. That was enough to give anybody nightmares.
He paused, thinking she had fallen asleep, but she opened her eyes. He’d left off an important detail and she wasn’t going to let him forget it. “Aye, the faeries built this castle for the warrior queen in one night,” he whispered. “They called it the Fortress of Shadows and protected it with a pit of snakes and beaked toads.”
He wasn’t sure why the notion of beaked toads sent his little lass into a deep sleep every night, but he pecked a kiss on her forehead and whispered, “Sweet dreams, my warrior princess.”
He left to retire to his own chamber, not looking forward to the morrow. He’d have to tell the one person who loved him despite his faults that he was sailing for Ywst.