Amanda Scott (20 page)

Molly stared. She had thought that Sir Patrick looked splendid, but Kintail put him in the shade. Both men were dressed in
the French fashion common to west Highland gentry on formal occasions, but Kintail wore red-and-black striped netherstocks.
His upper stocks were slashed and banded with red satin, his elegant red doublet patterned to match. His black velvet cap
sported the two eagle feathers proclaiming his rank as a Mackenzie chieftain. His attire was much more formal than anything
else she had seen him wear, and she thought he looked magnificent.

Acting as baron’s bailie, Sir Patrick demanded order and called the first case, a claim of simple assault filed by a Mackenzie
against a Matheson.

Kintail listened to both sides, decided in favor of the Mackenzie, and ordered the Matheson to pay a fine of two merks and
to keep the peace in the future.

“If you fail to obey me in that, Will Matheson,” he added with a fierce look, “I’ll think of a harsher penalty to remind you.”

“Aye, laird, I’ll mind ye,” the young man said, nodding emphatically.

Molly had expected more interesting crimes, like murder or mayhem, and she wondered if Kintail always found in favor of the
Mackenzies. She learned as the morning progressed that he did not, but the claims seemed petty, and she did not know the people
involved, so she soon grew bored. She saw that Barbara shared her feelings, but she dared not suggest they leave. She had
worked too hard to gain entry and feared that if she left, he would say that he had warned her what to expect and would forbid
her attendance on future such occasions.

When his gaze met hers, she saw his lips twitch and detected a twinkle in his eyes. Did he know what she was thinking? She
found herself watching him rather than heeding the cases presented to him, until one of two men standing before him said pleadingly,
“Please laird, it were the fairies what did it.”

Her interest piqued, as good-natured chuckles rippled through the hall.

Kintail, not amused, said curtly, “Explain yourself, Ranald MacVinish.”

The second man protested, saying urgently, “Laird, it were Ranald himself that shot my cow, for I saw him do it, and I only
had but the one.”

“I know that,” Kintail said. “Let him speak.”

“But fairies, laird? Nae doubt he’s lost his mind, but fairies, indeed!”

Spreading his hands, Ranald MacVinish said, “Aye, sure, but ’tis true, Ian MacMurchie.” Turning back to Kintail, he said pleadingly,
“I were walking home late at night after hauling a foundered sheep from a ditch when I heard a rush of air like some’un had
flushed a hundred birds. ’Twere the Host passing by, laird, and they swept me right up off me feet.”

A mixture of gasps and chuckles greeted this tale, but Molly listened avidly now to every word.

“Aye, there’s a tale,” his accuser said scornfully. “ ’Tis like I said afore, Ranald. Yon fairies must ha’ dropped ye on your
head.”

More laughter rippled through the audience.

“Aye, ye laugh now,” Ranald MacVinish said, clearing his throat nervously.

Even from the rear of the hall, Molly could see that he had gone pale and that sweat beaded on his forehead.

He went on grimly, “I trow ye’ll alter your thinking, man, when I tell ye your daughter Anna were milking that cow when we
passed overhead. The Host ordered me to shoot her, but when they put me down, I shot the cow instead, for it be well known
that so long as an animal be killed, the command o’ the Host be fulfilled. Ye should be glad ’twas your cow and no your daughter,
ye sniveling ingrate.”

His accuser was silent, and Molly thought he looked taken aback.

Kintail said harshly, “You do admit to shooting the cow, do you not, Ranald?”

“Aye, laird, but it happened the way I said.”

“You will pay Ian MacMurchie for his cow. Have you the means to do so?”

The man’s face fell, but he did not argue further, saying only, “I ha’ but the four sheep, seven bit chickens, and a dog,
laird.”

“I canna milk one o’ your wretched sheep, Ranald,” Ian MacMurchie said.

“It is a fair price, however,” Kintail said. “I will take one of your sheep, Ranald, and I will give Ian MacMurchie a milk
cow. Is it time to eat yet, Patrick?”

“Aye, laird, they’ve been waiting to bring in the food this quarter hour past.”

Nodding, Kintail announced that the court would resume after dinner. When he stood, everyone else in the hall stood as well,
and when he left, the men set up trestles at right angles to the dais, where they replaced the high table. In a short time,
Mauri MacRae’s numerous helpers were setting out food.

Everyone sat down together at the long tables, sinners and sinned against, and as far as Molly could tell, no one seemed to
mind in the least.

Seated between Barbara and Kintail, she surveyed the assembled company, trying to think of a graceful way to excuse herself
from the afternoon proceedings, when a clamor at the entrance heralded new arrivals.

At least three men-at-arms accompanied them, and heads craned to be sure the newcomers were friend and not foe.

A Mackenzie man near the entrance took it upon himself to act as Kintail’s porter, announcing in stentorian tones, “’Tis Mackinnon
o’ Dunakin, laird.”

“Enter and welcome, sir,” Kintail said, standing to welcome the older man.

Mackinnon strode forward, leaving his men at the entrance.

Molly smiled at her foster father, but although he smiled back, she detected lines of worry etched into his grizzled face.
His lady apparently was not with him.

Conversation faded into silence as the diners watched him, and she knew that she was not the only one to read warning in his
grim expression.

“Will you dine, sir?” Kintail said, reaching to shake Mackinnon’s hand.

“Nay, lad,” the older man replied, bending to kiss Molly’s cheek. “You’re looking well, lass. This place seems to agree wi’
ye.”

“Thank you, sir,” Molly said, but his attention had shifted back to Kintail.

In a gruff undertone, Mackinnon said, “We must talk, lad, and straightaway.”

Kintail nodded and turned to Sir Patrick. “You can begin the afternoon session. Get Tam Matheson to act as your bailie. I’ve
a notion this business with Mackinnon will take more than a few minutes.”

Mackinnon nodded. “That it will, lad. We ha’ some serious planning t’ do.”

“Come with me, then,” Kintail said.

Sensing that what they would discuss concerned her, Molly said, “What is it, sir? What has happened?”

Mackinnon turned toward her as if to speak, but Kintail said curtly, “If you require to know, mistress, be sure that we will
inform you in good time. You are not to attend the afternoon session, however. When I want you, I will send for you.”

Her temper stirred, but knowing that it would be foolhardy to defy him in front of so many people, she held her peace.

A tall, lanky young man, whom she assumed to be the same Tam Matheson who had acquired Sir Patrick’s wet boots and who had
given the bucket of water to Barbara, announced that the session would begin as soon as the trestles were dismantled. Men
got up at once to deal with that task.

Barbara said, “If we are not to attend the session, then I had better see what chores my mother and Mauri have kept waiting
for me. Will you come with me?”

“No, thank you,” Molly said. It had occurred to her that with all the men occupied in the hall and the women busy elsewhere,
the opportunity was excellent for a walk outside. She had had scant time to examine the islet since her arrival.

Not wanting to take the chance that one of the men-at-arms at the entrance might take it upon himself to forbid her going
outside, she went instead to a postern door at the foot of the northwest tower that she had discovered upon taking a wrong
turning the second day of her stay. In moments, she stepped out into the sunlight.

“What is it, sir?” Fin asked as he shut the door to the little office into which he had shown his guest.

Tersely, Mackinnon said, “Donald kens where the Maid is, and he means t’ stir trouble wi’ ye.”

“I expected as much,” Fin said, but the information hit harder than he had imagined it would. He was not ready to relinquish
the Maid to Donald of Sleat.

Gesturing toward the single chair in the chamber, he took a stool for himself and leaned against the stone wall between his
worktable and the olivewood stand that held his iron-bound desk box. “She will be safe enough here. Eilean Donan is impregnable
to attack without cannon. The last I heard, Sleat had none.”

“True,” Mackinnon admitted, “but the man be gey dangerous all the same, lad. He ha’ decided t’ take the Maid back, and he
says he’ll do what he must t’ get her. He ha’ gathered an army, ye ken, and his galleys be many and swift.”

“You have talked with him,” Fin said.

“Aye, and the sour-natured devil threatened me,” Mackinnon said, grimacing. “Says he meant t’ offer our Molly t’ Huntly in
exchange for Huntly’s promise no to interfere in his attempt t’ reclaim the Lordship of the Isles. Now, Donald says, he has
naught t’ offer Huntly and Huntly will side wi’ the King.”

“Aye, he will, as I will,” Fin said.

“Donald believes his cause is just,” Mackinnon said. “And ’tis true that they carried off the last Lord o’ the Isles when
he were but a bairn. I dinna hold wi’ abducting children,” he added with a speaking look.

Fin raised his eyebrows. “You would compare the Crown’s annexation of the Lordship of the Isles to Angus’s abduction of the
Maid of Dunsithe?”

“Aye, and why not? Just as the Crown gave Macdonald land to its cronies ha’ Jamie passed our Molly about like a prize at an
apple-bobbing.”

Controlling his annoyance with effort, Fin said, “If you have come seeking my support for Donald of Sleat, you have come in
vain, sir. I would remind you that the man killed my father and many of our people.”

“Whisst, lad, ’tis Molly I care about. I want only t’ remind ye what Donald believes and mayhap t’ offer ye another lesson
in the fine art o’ chess.”

“I do not doubt that Sleat has persuaded himself of his rights,” Fin said, “but he will find it hard to rally other clans
in the name of a defunct title.”

“The Macdonalds number in the thousands, lad. Moreover, he’s threatened t’ move against MacLeod and me if we dinna help him
reclaim the Maid, and he’s as good as promised to attack Eilean Donan and all of Kintail to get her. Only if ye can reduce
the value o’ the prize that draws him might ye prevent true disaster.”

“I’ll do what I must to protect Eilean Donan and my tenantry,” Fin said. “The castle cannot support the entire population
of Kintail through a determined siege, so Sleat will wreak havoc if we cannot stop him.”

“Aye, I ken that fine,” Mackinnon said. “We canna raise an army t’ match his in a twinkling, but ye’re bound t’ discourage
him if ye wed Molly straightaway.”

Fin inhaled deeply, not trusting himself to speak. To tell Mackinnon that if he suggested marriage to Molly, she was more
likely to murder him than to submit willingly did not seem to be the most sensible course. Nor did he think it wise to admit
to Mackinnon or to anyone else that the thought of wedding and bedding Molly tempted him more than he would have believed
possible a sennight before.

Mackinnon’s eyes twinkled. “I ken how it is, lad. Dinna think I do not. I ha’ lived wi’ the lass for nigh onto a dozen years,
ye ken, and I took her measure long since. Still, ye can manage her, and ye’ve the royal writ t’ support ye.”

“My marrying her would make no difference to Sleat,” Fin said more curtly than he had intended. In a more reasonable tone,
he added, “He would simply declare the marriage null and do as he pleases with her. I’m told he expected to marry her to that
whelp of his, although she’d have eaten the brat alive.”

“Aye, she would that,” Mackinnon said with a fond smile. “But I’d as lief keep her out o’ Donald’s clutches, and ye be forgetting
Huntly. Recall that ’tis Donald’s hope t’ use the lass as a bargaining piece.”

“Huntly is a clan chief,” Fin reminded him. “He also can declare any marriage null and void and then marry her where he chooses.”

“Aye, that would be true most places in the Highlands, but ye forget that Huntly be a devout Papist. Ye ha’ a priest o’ your
own in Kintail, d’ye not?”

“I do,” Fin said, seeing where the older man’s thoughts had taken him. “You think that if I were to marry her in a proper,
priestly ceremony, Huntly would support the marriage and refuse Sleat’s offer.”

“Aye, and dinna forget that presently, at least, Huntly supports Jamie.”

Fin said, “Then he won’t want to go against Jamie’s writ. There is no need for me to marry her.”

“Ye make it sound like a penance, lad. D’ye ken how much land the lass will bring ye? Even an ye never find her treasure,
Dunsithe alone be worth a marriage.”

“But I’d have to secure it, which is no easy task at such a distance,” Fin pointed out. “In any event, it is too soon to think
of marrying her, and ’tis my belief that she’d be unwilling. So, if Huntly is likely to refuse Sleat’s offer—”