CONFRONTATION
Dougal walked briskly to the stables. He called for the groom.
“Saddle my horse, at once. And have a horse made ready for the lady.”
“At once, my lord.”
The groom rushed to do his bidding. Dougal waited in the doorway of the stables as he worked. Joanna had gone upstairs to explain to her mother and to fetch her riding coat. He looked out across the yard towards where the hills rose sharply, projecting up toward the sky. He would go up there shortly, to the castle, which he could not quite see from his viewpoint, to confront his brother.
His heart was sore. He wished he had been wrong. However, Joanna, through some power of deduction he could not quite follow, or inspiration, had arrived at the same result.
It was Alexander. There could be no other explanation.
He felt his throat tighten with emotion and cleared it, feeling impatient with himself. He could not allow his memories to cloud his judgment. Alexander was his dear brother. Nevertheless, he had gone too far in this. He could not let him go on unchecked.
He heard footsteps and saw a swirl of dark cloak. Joanna.
“Here I am,” Joanna said, appearing in the stable door. “Is my horse ready?”
“I did not know whether your horse was here,” Dougal said, “so I borrowed one from the inn. Is that well?”
Joanna shrugged. “Should be. And if I bolt,” she smiled, “you'll just have to catch me.”
He felt her words slide over his heart, stroking it like tiny fingers. He knew she referred to that day on the hillside, when he had caught her, saved her from the possible death on the cliffs. He smiled fondly at her.
“You are a good horsewoman, my lady. Your horse will not bolt.”
“Thank you,” Joanna said, archly. “I am grateful for your assurance. I am not so sure.”
He laughed. “My lady...”
His next words, of praise, were interrupted by the groom as he brought their horses out.
Joanna took the reins of the bay mare he brought for her, leading her horse to the mounting block in the yard and slipping nimbly into the saddle. She smiled down at him, a slight challenge in her eyes, as if to dare him to say anything against her horsemanship. He saluted.
“Nimble as ever, milady.”
She blushed. “Oh, go on with you. Let's get started.”
He grinned and hauled himself up to the saddle, hoping that his horse was recovered from the previous day. He turned to Joanna, who smiled, and waited for her to exit before he followed her out to the road.
Dougal reined in beside her as they headed down the main street of Buccleigh, going up the steep incline together.
He watched, amused, as the townsfolk looked up at her in awe. With her brown riding habit trailing in a straight line down her back, the hood thrown back to show her gleaming hair, she looked like a princess from a tale. His heart swelled.
She is my wife.
At least she would be soon. He had decided. He would not let anything take it from him.
Feeling his heart filled with pride, he rode beside her through the town and together they approached the fastness of Buccleigh.
As they neared the top of the hill, where the castle was, Dougal felt his assurance fade to worry.
What will happen? Will Alexander deny it? Will he try to scorn me? I have no tangible proof here with me...just my uncle's word. And Joanna.
He turned to face her. Noticed, then, that she had stopped. Her face had gone deathly pale.
“Joanna?”
“Wait,” she said stiffly, lifting a long-fingered hand. He froze where he was, the gesture so imperative.
Joanna rode forward two steps, heading to the cobbled roadside, where a hermit walked.
At least, Dougal thought it was a hermit. However, why would Joanna be so fixated on a hermit, a holy man who had denied society and gone to live somewhere alone on this cold, barren hilltop?
“Father...Father Mallory?”
Joanna had said it in a whisper, but it was still loud enough to carry to where Dougal sat, waiting, at her shoulder. It was also, evidently, loud enough to carry to the holy man, who turned and stared, dropping his bundle of kindling in amazement.
“Lady...Lady Joanna?” he breathed. His long, thin face was white, his pale eyes huge. He stared at her.
“Father Mallory!” Joanna cried. She slid from the saddle, throwing the reins back in a single fluid gesture, and then hit the grass, running, to take the man by the hands. “Whatever are you doing here in Buccleigh?”
The holy man stared at her. Licked his lips. Cleared his throat. He looked monumentally awkward.
Dougal dismounted, walked to stand nearer her. He did not want trouble, even if it seemed unlikely.
The man stared, throat working. He dropped to one knee, abruptly, startling all of them. He took Joanna's hand and raised it to his lips, then looked into her face, beseechingly.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, still on his knees, though he had loosed his fast grip on her hand. “I was...I was told to come here. That...that my presence in the valley would lead to nothing but dismay. He threatened my housekeeper. He said he would discredit me to the bishop. My career would end. He said it would be disgrace if I went to Dunkeld, to follow you. As I wished to. My lady, I...” he looked down sadly, shoulders heaving, face sad. “I should not have believed him.”
“Believed who, Father?”
“His lordship, Alexander.”
Joanna stared at him. “Alexander?”
Dougal took a step forward, placed a hand on her shoulder. Looked down at the priest, who raised a turbulent gray gaze to her own gray eyes. She looked back levelly.
“He visited me in my home. Made a great fuss of it. Said he would like to see me better placed. That all I need do, for a comfortable priory of mine own, here in Buccleigh valley, was to use my influence with the people. Stir them up against the present lord. I couldn't,” he sighed.
“For which we thank you,” Joanna said softly.
He looked wretched. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said softly. “I could have done it. Could have withstood him. Brought the news to the hall. Or to Dunkeld. But he...” he sobbed. “But not when he threatened Frances. He said he'd cut her throat if I didn't comply.”
Joanna nodded. She looked as if she, too, would weep. Dougal stroked her head. Looked down at the man. “You did rightly,” he said softly. “Anyone who could stand by and see another slaughtered at their word is committing the worst sin. You did right to save her life. Of course, you did.”
The priest looked up, eyes hesitant. He seemed reluctant to accept absolution himself, where he would so freely give it, Dougal was sure. He nodded to him.
“You have done right by telling this to us. Whatever you did, you have undone it in this moment. Now, please. Do you think you could come with us?”
“Yes, please, Father,” Joanna agreed, seizing on Dougal's words in utter and complete agreement. “Come with us, Father. We have something we need you to do for us.”
“Yes,” Dougal agreed, feeling certainty fill his heart now that he had an advantage. “Please. Take my horse. I'll lead him and walk. It is not so very far now.”
Joanna smiled at Dougal, who smiled wanly back. They helped the priest to get into the saddle, leaving his kindling a safe distance from the road.
Then, together, Joanna leading her horse, Dougal leading his, on which sat the gaunt, worried priest, they walked together the last fifty paces to the castle. Down below them in the valley stretched the town of Buccleigh, skirted by the vast stone wall that joined, here, with the castle's battlements.
Dougal had, it seemed, truly come home. They also had all the proof they needed.
Together they walked through the vast gates and into the courtyard, the guards stepping back smartly to let them pass within the walls.
Dougal left Joanna at the foot of the steps and rushed toward the hall.
“Davies,” he hailed the guard there. “Any news?”
“Aye, sir. Your father is returned from his hunt. He is within.”
“Yes, I know,” Dougal said, trying to fight his impatience. “Is my brother returned also?”
“Yes, sir,” Davies said crisply. “He's within. Just got back about twenty minutes afore ye, sir. Lucky that you came back now, sir.”
“Thank you.” Dougal said flatly. He was not certain how lucky it was. However, he was glad they would have an opportunity to face this now.
We can finally end this.
He turned to Joanna, and she nodded back to him, leading the priest up the stairs.
Dougal waited a moment, until he knew they were in the hallway just behind him, then sprinted up the stairs, hoping Joanna would follow. His brother was probably still in the solar.
He hurried along the upstairs colonnade, booted feet ringing in the space. He reached the solar. His brother was within. He was at the table, boots facing the fire, a scroll open and a tankard of ale beside his hand.
He looked up mildly when Dougal entered. His gold eyes, the color of a hunting-hawk's, narrowed fractionally, and then he rearranged his face to a calm mask.
“Brother,” he said smoothly. “Come, join me. I just returned. I think Patrice in the kitchen is sending up spiced cakes for us. Foul weather, is it not?” he said, shrugging in the direction of the window. “Come, get warm.”
Dougal felt bleakness in his heart, just then. If his brother had shown some kind of remorse, even for an instant, some flicker that he was aware he did wrong, he could have forgiven him. Now, brazen, smooth and cold, his brother seemed incapable of feeling.
“I have something to tell you.”
Alexander looked up. His eyelids flicked briefly closed, the way a hawk's do, feeling ruffled. “Yes?”
“I know you sent a man to kill me, Brother.”
Alexander blinked again. He had been about to pour ale. His hand moved to set the beaker down. He looked up.
“Oh.”
Dougal stared at him. He looked perfectly composed, as if Dougal had just asked him if he planned to take a ride later.
“You have nothing to tell me?” Dougal asked. His heart pounded in his chest, thoughts rising with a sense of absolute outrage.
Alexander lifted his mild gaze. “No. Not really. I have to ask you how you know that, mind. I'd be very interested to hear how you concocted such an...extraordinary tale.”
Dougal breathed out, feeling rage begin to fill him slowly. “Don't try to pretend, brother. You know as well as I do that I speak truth.”
“I have no idea,” Alexander said glibly. “It would be fair of me to suspect you have been out in the cold and caught a fever. Such things may distemper the mind. But do tell...what makes you say so?”
Dougal laughed, harshly. “You can tell me I'm going mad as much as you like, brother. I know. And I can prove it.”
“Oh?” Alexander sounded curious. He had resumed his pouring of the ale. He poured a measure into each glass, and then lifted his own. He regarded Dougal curiously over the rim of his, as if surveying an interesting find at the market place. “Tell me.”
Dougal sighed. “You bribed the village priest. Or tried to. Then you threatened him. He had to leave, if he did not comply with your version of events. That I was not the rightful heir to Lochlann castle.”
“Interesting,” Alexander observed. “But sadly, I won't credit it. Without the fellow to give testimony, who would believe you?”
Dougal felt his heart sink.
“He has the fellow, to give testimony.” A voice snapped. Dougal felt relieved.
Joanna.
“He has the fellow to give testimony,” Joanna continued, her voice clear as Italian glass in the silence facing her. “And I bring him forth now.”
Dougal nodded and stepped back into the shadows. Father Mallory appeared between them in the hallway, a pale ghost-like figure, dressed in his long white robe. He looked, Dougal thought, terrified.
Alexander stood when he saw him. “What nonsense is this?” he said. He sounded scornful. “Who is this man?”
“I am Father Mallory of Lochlann,” the older man said, clearing his throat. He stood straighter, looking Alexander in the eye. “I know you, for you came to my house. Shared in the hospitality of my household. Ate the meal Frances cooked. Then held a knife to her throat, threatening to kill her.”
“What nonsense!” Alexander said. His eyes narrowed and he glared at the man. Then he looked at his brother. “Take this man hence,” he said. “How dare you bring him here to smirch me with his foulness? I am insulted.”
Dougal looked angrily at his brother. “You say that. But can you answer his challenge?”
“I can,” Alexander said, and his expression was dangerous, eyes dancing. “With my sword.”
Dougal felt the blood drain from him. “You wouldn't?”
“I challenge you, Brother. Here and now. Sword against sword. Or sword and dagger, as you prefer,” he added casually. “I will not be called a liar. First blood will have the right of it.”
“First blood,” Dougal agreed.
Joanna didn't speak. He heard her raise her hands to her face, the rustle of the linen of her dress. He looked at her. She was tense, her face a mask of agony. Her hands rested on her chest, clasped, a gesture of hopelessness. Alexander, Dougal thought angrily.
The man was the best swordsman he had ever seen. He knew in his heart that he was not his equal. Yet he had to face him. For honor. For his word. For the future, when he would be free to marry.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I accept.”
The priest looked horrified. Alexander smiled. However, he was not looking at their faces.
He was looking at Joanna, who was looking back at him with a look in her eyes that said he had just changed, in her eyes, becoming something monstrous.
He wanted to explain to her, to tell her that he could not back down. Could not refuse. It was the only way. Did she not see that? However, he was too late to get out the words. Silent, her arms at her sides, she stepped backwards out of the room.