Burial
Kyla decided to wear a dress for the burial. It was appropriate for the solemn rites in the chapel, but not warm enough to protect against the chilly east wind blowing off the Firth as her crewmen were interred in the small cemetery outside the walls.
The balmy weather they’d enjoyed in the morning had deteriorated. As a child of Skye, Kyla should have been prepared for such an eventuality. She shivered, despite the woolen maud provided by Doreen.
The castle’s resident presbyter intoned a prayer for the dead as the shrouded bodies were lowered into the grave. He’d been kind and respectful, but he hadn’t known the two young men personally, and they were from a family that held to the auld religion. She had an urge to rant and rave about the hardship the loss would inflict on their small community back home.
She looked across at Nicolson. He showed no emotion and many might think he didn’t care, but she recognized the tell-tale tic plaguing his right eye. Beside him stood Adrian, a youth who might have suffered the same fate were it not for the navigator. Was he pondering that reality as he stared into the grave? If the young valet was to be believed, Corbin had cared naught for the boy’s life.
His actions were tantamount to murder.
That notion led to thoughts of the sexton.
She shivered. It was too much of a coincidence. But Corbin had paid for his malevolence with his life, hadn’t he?
Broderick stood ramrod straight at her side. It struck her full force that she didn’t need to tell him of her sorrow for the folk of Ywst—he knew. But she was responsible for the guilt marring his handsome features. She’d blamed him when ultimately the sinking was Lochwood’s fault.
If she voiced her feelings, she might burst into tears and never stop; a MacKeegan couldn’t allow that to happen. So she kept silent.
Grief threatened to choke her when Broderick took off his cloak and nestled it around her shivering shoulders.
She grasped his hand lest she swoon. His warmth kept her afloat in a cold sea of confused emotions.
*
Broderick hadn’t shed a tear over his father’s death but, for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to howl like a babe as handfuls of earth were tossed atop the shrouded corpses of two youths he’d never met.
The surviving members of the Hebridean crew scowled and he supposed their hatred was understandable. The loss of cousins would be felt keenly in a small community.
Lily surreptitiously slipped her hand into Adrian’s, as if she sensed his feelings as he stared into the grave. However, the lad was a valet—from an enemy clan to boot.
Kyla shivered, clearly distraught, and it was of some consolation that she held on to his hand after he gave her the cloak. Had she forgiven him?
He bristled at that notion. What was there to forgive? The entire disaster could be laid at Lochwood’s door.
A drowning boy deprived of a chance to survive; an ancient sexton beaten to death.
Murder and murderous intent. Were the two crimes linked?
He’d assumed a mad monk had killed Cladh, but what if Lochwood wasn’t dead?
Several of the bales of cloth had washed up on the banks of the Nith. Could one of them have carried Corbin Lochwood to Darling Abbey?
He resolved to intensify the search for the monk as soon as they returned to the castle.
The Maxwell piper tuned his instrument, ready to bring the ceremony to a close. Perhaps it was the drone of the pipes that prompted Broderick to clear his throat and give voice to the song made popular a hundred years before after the disastrous slaughter of thousands of young Scots at Flodden.
I’ve heard the lilting, at the ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before dawn o’ day;
But now they are moaning on ev’ry day dawning;
The Flowers of the Forest are withered away
In the morning, nay blythe lads are scorning;
The lasses are lonely, woeful and gray.
Nay dallyin’, nay talkin’, but sighing and sobbing,
The Flowers of the Forest are withered away.
At harvest and shearing, nay youths now are jeering,
The binders are auld men, wrinkled and gray.
At fair or at preaching, nay wooing, nay coaxing,
The Flowers of the Forest are withered away.
At e’en, in the gloaming, nay young men are roaming,
’Bout haystacks wi’ the lasses to play.
But each lass sits dreary, lamenting her dearie,
The Flowers of the Forest are withered away.
As the last verse drifted away on the wind, he risked a glance at the assembled mourners. Singing the poignant song had filled his heart with optimism, but had it been inappropriate?
Tears trickled down Lily’s cheeks, but she was smiling.
Several of the sniffling Hebridean crewmen nodded pensively. Even the stone-faced Nicolson seemed moved.
The cleric gripped his prayer book and stared heavenward.
But it was something in Kyla’s eyes—surprise, gratitude, sympathy, kinship—that confirmed what he knew in his heart. The song had soothed her troubled spirit and lightened the burden of guilt he’d carried since his father’s execution.
He was elated when she accepted the offer of his arm.
The somber cavalcade wound its way back to the castle to the haunting strains of the piper playing the lament.
*
People were subdued as they gathered for the evening meal, which befitted the occasion. Those who hadn’t attended the burial were aware it had taken place.
But Kyla sensed something in the mood of the castle folk had changed. Certainly, the smiling Broderick seemed more at ease. She suspected the news that he’d sung so poignantly at the funeral had spread rapidly.
It was as though the weight of Alasdair Maxwell’s crime and ignominious punishment had lifted from the clan’s shoulders as well as from Broderick’s.
Expectation hung in the air.
“Lily spoke true,” she told him. “Ye’ve a marvelous voice.”
He winked at his sister. “I dinna ken about that, but I do love to sing.”
“He plays too,” Lily bragged. “Any instrument.”
His endearing blush warmed Kyla’s heart, as well as a very private part of her body. “Aye,” he confessed, “though my favorite is the fiddle.”
She was beginning to see a completely different and unexpected side of Broderick Maxwell. Fiddlers on Skye played raucous reels and jigs that folks simply had to dance to. “I’d love to hear ye play the fiddle,” she said, “but I suppose ’tisna appropriate on this occasion.”
“Nay,” he agreed, as servants began to take away the last of the trenchers.
Hearing the regret in his voice, she plucked up her courage. “I think yer clansmen want to hear another song from ye.”
He scanned the hall, frowning in surprise, then got to his feet. “Weel, we canna disappoint them.”
A hush fell over the crowd as everyone turned to look at their laird.
“Today we buried two young men here at Caerlochnaven. They didna deserve to drown far from their Hebridean home. Let us think of their families and dedicate this song to their memory.”
He cleared his throat, then began.
Where, oh where is yer Highland laddie gone?
He’s gone wi’ streaming banners,
where noble deeds are done,
And it’s oh, in my heart I wish him safe at home.
Where, oh where did yer Highland laddie dwell?
He dwelt in Bonnie Scotland,
where blooms the sweet blue bell,
And it’s oh, in my heart I loved my laddie well.
What, oh what does yer Highland laddie wear?
A bonnet with a lofty plume,
and on his breast a plaid,
And it’s oh, in my heart I loved my Highland lad.
What, oh what if yer Highland lad is slain?
Oh no, true love will be his guard
and bring him safe again,
For my heart would break if my Highland lad were slain.
Rowdy applause greeted the end of the song, and there was nary a dry eye in the place. Most had hummed along.
As for Kyla, Broderick’s rich, melodious voice had wrapped itself around her heart. She reluctantly admitted inwardly that she was falling in love with him.
*
Corbin had taken an enormous chance, but hunger had driven him to the crowded Laird’s Hall. Hampered by the need to keep his face covered, he’d scooped up from the servery only what he could hold in one hand.
He lurked in the shadows near the entryway for a moment before making his getaway. All eyes were on the Maxwell laird holding forth with some maudlin song—and Kyla MacKeegan gazing at him as if he were Gabriel come down from heaven.
It was enough to make a man’s blood boil.
But who was the pretty, bright-eyed lass sitting next to Maxwell on the dais? Certainly not the dimwitted, painfully thin little sister he’d heard about.
He smiled when he caught sight of something else he hadn’t expected. He’d assumed Adrian had drowned, but here he sat, larger than life.
On his way back to the hiding place he’d located in the castle’s undercroft, he pondered a way to use the young valet and the only other surviving Maxwell sibling—what was her name?
A change of plan was called for.