Amanda Scott (26 page)

As they made their way down the cliff stairs to boats waiting at the landing, the morning sky dawned leaden and low. Wispy curtains of mist clung like ragged cloaks to nearby hills and dipped into the Sound of Mull. No mist could dampen the hunters’ high spirits, however, because they knew it covered scent and deadened sound, two attributes that would help in stalking their prey.

The procession of longboats was colorful despite the gloom. Black-ship banners waving, the royal galley led the way followed by Lady Margaret’s boat with her ladyship, Mairi, and Elizabeth. Her ladyship’s women and any guests who chose to bear her company on the hunt followed in the next boat, with a tail of other vessels behind it, large and small, all gaily decked with ribbons and banners.

Their destination, Craignure Bay, lay two miles west of Duart and four miles southeast of Ardtornish. With the boats heavily laden with passengers and high tide on the ebb, the journey took over an hour.

As they disembarked onto the long stone-and-timber jetty built against the steep cliff that plunged deep into the bay to form its eastern boundary, their helmsman said as he helped Lady Margaret out of the boat, “Take care here, my lady, and mind where ye step. This cliff plunges thirty or forty feet down, so the water here be gey deep. Ye others take heed, too,” he added. “Folks ha’ stepped off this wharf and sunk like stones, never t’ be seen again.”

They followed MacDonald and the others up the path, past an abandoned three-story stone watchtower, to their waiting horses, leaving the oarsmen to row on to Duart Bay, below the castle, where they would have their midday dinner and rest until time to collect their passengers and row home again.

The horses, supplied from MacDonald’s holdings on Mull and stabled at Duart, had been delivered to Craignure earlier for the Ardtornish party and any guests who might choose to join them from nearby isles. Judging by the number waiting, Mairi deduced that several had already arrived.

The logistics for MacDonald’s tinchal were complex, and more than one guest had asked why he did not simply hunt deer on the mainland of Morvern. His tactful answer was that he preferred hunting on the Isle of Mull, but Mairi knew the primary reason was that with a party comprised of nearly as many women as men, most of whom felt obliged to take part lest they offend their host, the quicker they could stalk their prey the better. Moreover, if not hunted regularly, the deer on Mull multiplied at a rate greater than the isle could easily sustain.

MacDonald had paused to talk with one of the gillies, and as he mounted, he said, “The lot from Duart should pass this way, but we’ll not wait for them. They ken the route to the clearing where we’ll break our fast, and should be along soon.”

By the time everyone mounted, the boats had disappeared around the point, but the ride to the clearing was less than a mile, and they arrived soon afterward.

Mairi knew that Niall Mackinnon had crossed the Sound at least two hours before to oversee the preparations, and the result was nearly as splendid as if the meal were being served in the Ardtornish great hall. Three rows of linen-draped trestle tables stood in the grassy clearing, and the delicious aroma of roasting beef wafted to the riders as they forded the swiftly flowing burn nearby. The cooks at Duart had roasted the meat earlier, but Niall had ordered a spit set up over one fire to keep the meat warm while gillies broiled fresh salmon over another.

Some would doubtless complain that the Lenten fast still had two days to go before ending with the Paschal feast on Sunday, but since MacDonald liked meat, he provided it for those guests who, like himself and most other Islesmen, paid little heed to such intrusive edicts from faraway Rome.

“Where are the others?” Elizabeth demanded. “Being closer, the party from Duart should have arrived before we did.”

As Mairi turned to say that it did not matter to her when they arrived, she encountered a speculative look from MacDonald, and since he was near enough to overhear, she decided she would be wiser to reveal nothing of what she felt.

With a slight shrug, she said, “I warrant they will come soon enough, Elizabeth. Are you pleased with the horse you are riding today?”

MacDonald turned to speak with Ranald as Elizabeth said in surprise, “Of course. Is he not from Duart, and have I not ridden him often these past two years?”

“I’d forgotten,” Mairi admitted. “We should join our lady mother, should we not, before she sends for us?”

Casting a look toward the east, and Duart, she wondered what was keeping them. As Elizabeth had said, being only two miles away, they ought to have arrived by now, and when they did, she had a few things to say to Lachlan Lubanach.

Rarely noted as a man of exceptional patience, Lachlan was for once grateful to two of his fellow guests at Duart for their dilatory nature, because they had given him time to attend to some details of his own without drawing attention.

“You’re gey quiet,” Hector said a short time after their party set out at last. Like Lachlan, he wore his sword and had slung his famous battle-axe across his back as he usually did when he rode. Shifting its position slightly, he added, “I expected you’d be harrying that pair of sluggards like a shepherd with stray lambs.”

“As so frequently happens, you misjudged me,” Lachlan said. “I rarely advocate haste, but I do strive for efficiency.”

Hector chuckled. “Aye, well, I don’t doubt that you’ve been efficient, for I saw that you were up betimes and warrant I was snoring before you reached your bed last night.”

“I set a few things in train after hearing what Ian had to say,” Lachlan said, casting a wary glance at the four men and two women riding ahead of them.

“They are too far away to hear us,” Hector said, clearly reading his thoughts. “Are we trailing behind because you have commands for me?”

“None but to keep your eyes open as you always do, and stay alert for anything that seems amiss,” Lachlan said. “I’ve arranged a trap for our would-be assassins, but for it to succeed, we’ll have to live long enough to spring it.”

“Then we’ll do that. Shall we catch up to the others now?”

“Not yet. I put no trust in that lad’s assurance of our safety before the hunt begins, but a man would have to be a wretched archer indeed to hit one of those others if he were aiming at us.”

“Do you mean to share the details of this wee trap you’ve laid?”

“Aye, but not until I know it is set. I’m glad you brought your axe, though, even if some folks might question its usefulness for hunting deer.”

“No one who knows I always carry it will be so impertinent,” Hector said. “Moreover, since half the men here are wearing swords and dirks, including us, I doubt that anyone will pay our weapons much heed.”

“Niall Mackinnon is perfectly capable of suggesting that we leave all extra weapons at the gathering place.”

Hector shrugged. “He can suggest what he likes.” After a short silence, he added, “To my mind, the man suits the role as a villain well enough, but I know not why he would choose it. What can we have done to draw such ire from him?”

“We are sons of Gillean. Doubtless, that is enough, but if, as we suspect, he had a hand in Elma MacCoun’s death, he may dislike the questions being asked. And apparently, I’ve given him another cause, as well.”

“The lass?”

“Aye, the lass indeed.”

“Do you believe that he would kill just to keep you from flirting with her, or does he suspect the truth?”

“He would kill because he wants her for himself. Even more, I think, does he want the wealth and power that accompanies her.”

“And what of you? Is that not what you want?”

Lachlan hesitated.

“You did not answer that question last night,” Hector said grimly, “but I think you must if you mean to condemn Mackinnon for wanting her inheritance.”

Giving him a hard look, Lachlan said, “Do you believe that I would kill for the sake of winning her?”

“No, of course not, but surely Mackinnon cannot believe MacDonald would relinquish so important a piece on his board as the lass represents, to you or to him. After all, Alasdair Stewart is not the only eligible man with royal connections.”

“You still doubt my capabilities, brother, but Niall Mackinnon does not. ’Tis precisely because he
does
believe MacDonald will give her to him if the betrothal to Alasdair fails that my appearance on the scene infuriates him. Before you and I arrived at Finlaggan, he believed he could bide his time, that the path to his victory was clear. But Lady Mairi makes no secret of her preference for me, and my age makes me a much more eligible husband. She looks on Niall much as she does her father, although she does not like or admire Niall as much.”

“Mayhap you are merely blinded by your desire for her,” Hector said bluntly. “You would not be the first man whose brain stopped working when lust for a beautiful wench struck—or lust for wealth and power, come to that.”

Lachlan smiled. “I tell you, if Alasdair Stewart refuses to marry her and the Steward does not force him to do so, I stand in the best position to win her.”

“Then, as usual, you know more than you have told me.”

“Aye, but ’tis plain enough. Political winds shift, and my lads tell me Mackinnon persistently counsels MacDonald to wait until the omens for success are perfect, not to push the Steward or the Pope until the time is just right. Moreover, he exploits his kinship to the Green Abbot of Iona—a fiendish devil if ever I’ve met one—to warn his grace that the Pope may not be ready yet to approve the necessary dispensation for two such close kinsmen to wed.”

“If the Pope were sensible, he’d reject Alasdair’s application outright.”

“I agree, but think you that a request from the future King of Scots and the present King of the Hebrides and Lord of the Isles would not sway his holiness?”

Hector sighed. “It would.”

“Aye, so I’m thinking ’tis Alasdair himself who presents the obstacle. You will note that having made no appearance at Finlaggan, he likewise fails to make one here, although I did hear at least one rumor that he meant to join us today. It would not be strange if even that scoundrel balks at marrying his own niece.”

“Still, Alasdair may not be the one who balks, especially since MacDonald is out of favor again with the King of Scots,” Hector reminded him. “MacDonald and the Steward may be wary of approaching the Pope if David threatens to intervene.”

“That, too, is possible.”

“In any event, I’m thinking you’d be unwise to count Alasdair out when the rewards of marrying her ladyship are so great. Though young, he has revealed more than once that he has no scruples, and I don’t believe that marrying his niece would trouble his conscience one whit.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m counting him out because I have decided to marry her, so we need consider nothing else.”

Hector nodded, and although the straight look he gave Lachlan made him wish it were easier for him to explain his emotions, or even to understand them himself, he knew that his twin would pursue the discussion no further.

They topped a rise, and the clearing they sought hove into view beyond a tumbling burn. Lachlan saw Mairi at once, and the fact that she was showing him her back as others turned to watch their approach made him smile. She was a puzzle, his Mairi, but he held the key, as she would soon learn.

With those in the clearing excitedly hailing their arrival, and their private conversation over, he and Hector spurred their horses to catch up with the others.

Mairi knew he was watching her. She felt his gaze boring into her back, but she kept her attention on Fiona, hopefully observing the breakfast preparations.

“That beef smells like something one might taste in heaven,” Fiona said, “but my lord father would skelp me till I screeched if I tasted any. I tell you, the more the Green Abbot flaunts his leman and his many children the more closely my father insists that we keep to the rules of the Roman Kirk.”

Mairi murmured sympathy, but her attention was more closely fixed on sounds of the arriving party. Despite her anger with Lachlan, something deep inside made her want to run and fling her arms around him, making her glad she dared not do so. Not only was Niall’s stern eye upon her but MacDonald had glanced her way in that speculative manner more than once. And Lady Margaret would make her displeasure known at once if she caught either of her daughters engaged in more than light flirtation. Therefore, she hoped Lachlan had sense enough to ignore her but was disappointed when he did.

Everyone was soon at the tables, and for once, little ceremony reigned. After the grace before meat, MacDonald’s body servant served his master’s portion and Lady Margaret’s, as the carver continued his swift slicing and gillies hurried to place heaping platters of beef and grilled salmon on the tables. Great rounds of bread sat ready to be torn apart at will, and wine and brogac flowed freely.

Mairi sat between Fiona and Elizabeth at a table of women, with Ailsa Macleod and her mother across from them. They had finished all but their wine when a cheer broke out and she turned to see his grace’s huntsman running to kneel before him with his hunting horn held out.

“I’ve not hunted before,” Ailsa said. “What is that man doing?”

“The huntsman and his men have found fresh spoor, which he is showing to his grace,” Mairi explained. “They can estimate the size of the stag by measuring the distance between its tracks and the height of rubbed-off velvet on nearby trees.”

“Velvet?”

“From the antlers,” Fiona said. “Deer rub them against tree bark to shed the velvet as their antlers grow. The tracks must indicate a stag of good size,” she added when MacDonald nodded his approval and the huntsman stood.

“What will they do next?” Ailsa asked.

Mairi said, “The huntsman’s minions will stalk the deer whilst the dogs’ handlers cut off its retreat and lads climb trees to watch which way it goes.”

“You’d think so many would scare it away,” Ailsa said.

“No, for they all know their business well. His grace pays his huntsman handsomely and gives him ten pence a day extra for each day he hunts.”