Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (25 page)

38

The next evening the royal banquet was even more sumptuous. There was a great, towering cake made to look like a ship with cannons. The cannons were broken open, and to everyone’s amazement, live doves fluttered out.

The silver salt cellars were encrusted with jewels and the king’s own trencher was made of gold. Silver fountains on the table flowed with wine. Guests enjoyed various courses of
venison, swan, peacock, heron, porpoise and seagull. There was roast chicken and roast suckling pig, cabbage, peas, lettuce, and marigolds, and sweet dishes.

The king sat at a raised table that could be seen by all, and he was served on bended knee by a personal carver, server, and cup bearer. He also had a royal taster who tasted everything and deemed it safe before the king would eat it, and a servant whose sole job was to dab James’ mouth with a napkin during the meal.

Gingerbread cake, toast topped with candied ginger and spiced honeyed wine, and strawberry tart was being served when
the king’s men-at-arms surrounded Malcolm. “Malcolm Maclean,” James said between bites of strawberry tart, “I accuse ye of using dark charms against yer king.” His tongue darted out to catch the crumbs stuck to his lips.

There were shocked whispers among the guests. His guards carried gleaming pikes and swords and their eyes were not friendly. Sorcha was hurt to see Jamie Bertran was among the guards crowding Malcolm. He glanced at her and then avoided her eyes.

Isobel’s eyes were wide with fear, and Leith’s face was a barely controlled mask of rage as he removed the linen napkin from his left shoulder. “Why does the king bring such charges against my son?” Leith demanded.

              Maira sat at the opposite end of the table and Sorcha met her eyes. The black-haired beauty smiled smugly. Sorcha knew then Maira had overhead Malcolm talking about his vision, about the king’s death, and she had gone to James and told him. She must’ve been secretly listening at the laird’s ear in a room upstairs when Malcolm told her and Isobel about his dream.

              “It seems yer son didna tell me my true future,” James replied. “He saw my death in a vision after practicing the dark arts and didna warn me about it. I am nae surprised, as the Highlanders consider themselves nearly sovereign to the crown. So why should he care to warn me of a dark future I might then avoid?”

              “What madness is this?” Leith said, risking royal ire.

              “I willna repeat what has reached my ears here,” James said. “I will question Malcolm in private.”

              Malcolm stood. “Dunna be afraid for me,” he said to Sorcha and his parents. “I will go willingly for I ha’e nothing to hide. I dunna practice the dark arts.”

              Sorcha had never felt as frightened as she did in that moment, watching Malcolm being escorted from the hall by a throng of armed guards.

              She made to follow him and Isobel put her hand on her arm. “Nay. There are other ways. This is a vera tricky situation. If we canna convince the king of his innocence….”

              “We will convince him,” Leith said.

              “I feel certain ‘twas Maira who told the king of Malcolm’s vision,” Sorcha said. “And accused him of using the dark arts.” Isobel followed her gaze and saw Maira smiling and flirting with the man next to her, looking like a cat who had just quaffed a saucer of cream. Her father John sat on the other side of her, frowning. “She must’ve been listening at the laird’s ear the night Malcolm talked of his dream. ’Tis the only explanation that makes sense.”

Leith stood. “We will discuss this matter immediately with her father. If Maira did tell James of Malcolm’s vision and accuse him of sorcery, she will recant by morning.”

39

The dungeons of Edinburgh castle were damp and smelled of soiled bodies and fear.

The main guard was a large, muscular man with scarred hands and a crooked nose named Darach. He was a cruel man, as Malcolm was to discover, who belonged in the same cells in which he locked other men. He reeked of ale and sour sweat.

He and one of his guards welcomed the big Highlander to his cell with a thorough beating. “Could ye foresee this in yer future, Maclean?” Darach barked, his fist connecting with Malcolm’s stomach. “Or this?” His curled knuckles smashed into Malcolm’s face and Malcolm’s vision swam with pinpoints of bright lights. When they were done beating him, they left him slumped against the stone wall.

“We will get a confession of sorcery from ye,” Darach said. “We ha’e our ways.”

“Ye will nae,” Malcolm said, spitting blood onto the dirt-and straw-covered stone floor.

The king came to talk with Malcolm. “I want to be kind to ye,” James said, “for yer vision as a lad was a great confidence to my father. Ye predicted his victory at Arkinholm. But I’m afraid we are past the point of kindness.”

Malcolm’s left eye was nearly swollen shut and there was blood on his face. His body ached and screamed at him. He said nothing but waited for James to speak again.

“Be truthful, please me, and it will make the difference between whether ye hang or burn.

Are ye in league with the Devil? Do ye practice black magic?”

“Nay,” Malcolm growled.

“How may I avoid this fate ye’ve seen?”

“What fate is that, my king? For the future I foretold didna include yer death.”

A horrible thought came to Malcolm. Sorcha had never truly wanted to marry him. Had she gone to James in secret, so she would not have to spend the rest of her life with him? Had she taken to the Englishman Jamie Bertran, and seen a different future for herself? She had lied to him when they’d first met. She had tried to avoid the marriage. His heart heavy and his thoughts dark, he shook the thought loose.
Nay. Sorcha may have despised him when they first met but he believed she loved him now. She’d told him she loved him, and he must hold on to that tendril of hope.

Who had accused him of sorcery? One of the guests who was jealous of the Macleans? An enemy clansman? The only ones who knew of his vision were Sorcha, Isobel, and Leith. Unless someone in his
own
clan had overheard him talking….

James grabbed the prison bars with his pale, slender fingers. His cheeks were splotched red with rage. “I may be young, Malcolm Maclean, but great men bow before me and kiss my hand. Greater men than ye! Maira Maclean tells me ye claim I will die by the hand of a priest in a village hut twenty summers from now. Why would ye say such things about yer king? It sounds like treason to me.”

So it had been Maira who’d accused him of sorcery. Malcolm felt a stab of shame for believing Sorcha capable of such a thing. He had to keep his wits about him. Be vera careful what ye say to a king. He’d learned that lesson long ago.

Painfully, he pulled himself to a standing position and gripped the bars. James took a wary step back. “What did she claim I said? What future did she foretell for ye, yer Grace? For whate’er she said, I didna foretell that future. Would ye kill me upon her word alone? Is yer fear so great ye canna see through the wiles of a vain woman?”

“Maira said ye had a vision in which my downfall would be greed. She said in the future, I will ha’e my parliament threaten anyone opposed to the transfer of revenue. No one’s property will be safe. I will muster an army against the English. I’ll become unpopular. Because of my stance on England, people will believe me a traitor to Scotland. My own son will lead a rebellion against me. My own son! And I am nae e’en married to Margaret of Denmark yet!

“She said two armies will meet twenty summers hence and my son will be among the men I fight. I will carry the sword of Robert Bruce into battle. But my men will be scattered. While I’m trying to escape, I’ll be thrown from my horse. A woman drawing water from a well will ask me who I am. I’ll tell her I was her king at morn. She’ll take me to a cottage and I’ll ask her to fetch a priest for I’ll want to make a confession, and the priest will stab me when he arrives.”

              The king trembled now and crossed himself. “Did the Devil show ye these things?”

              No matter what Malcolm said, James planned to kill him. It was only the manner of his death that had yet to be decided. A fearful king was not a merciful king.

Malcolm laughed. “Nay, yer Grace. I
am
the devil.” He released his grip on the bars and faded into the shadows of the cell.

Holding his embroidered doublet high so it would not trail in the dirt and muck on the dungeon floors, The Lion Rampant of Scotland turned and left.

Malcolm had another visitor that night. He heard the sound of an English voice in a Scottish prison.
Jamie Bertran
. The guard quietly let Jamie into the cell and walked away.

“Stand up,” Jamie commanded.

Malcolm sneered and remained slouched against the stone wall.

Jamie pulled him roughly to his feet and it was all Malcolm could do not to cry out in pain. He was fairly certain several of his ribs had been cracked during the beating he’d received from Darach and his thug.

Jamie leaned close and spoke in a low voice so only Malcolm could hear. “I must make this look real. Forgive me. I’m going to punch you but not hard. I have come to give you information that could save your life.”

Jamie punched Malcolm in the stomach and the air left his lungs in a rush. “That seemed pretty real, Bertran,” he growled. “Tell me ye didna enjoy that, ye bloody whoreson Sassenach!”

Jamie kept his voice low. “Be quiet. The king is fearful, as ye ken. Superstitious. E’en now they raise the stake outside and pile wood around it. James will return in a few hours. The king is vera fond of architecture and churches. Tell him ye had another vision and saw another future. Tell him if he builds ten churches he willna die at the hand of a priest.”

Malcolm’s whole being ached and throbbed with pain. He concentrated so he would not vomit on Jamie’s boots. “He believes I’m the Devil.”

“Are ye?”

“I’m certainly no angel.”

Jamie laughed. “Tell him to build ten churches.”

“Sorcha….” Malcolm rasped.

“Sorcha is strong,” Jamie assured him. “Sorcha, Isobel, Leith, and Maira’s father are pressing Maira to recant, which could save your life, Highlander.” He paused, his jaw tight. “You’re a lucky bastard to have such a wife.”

He shoved Malcolm against the wall and Malcolm gritted his teeth. “Now grunt, Highlander, as if yer in great pain.”

Malcolm obliged. He
was
in great pain.

“I apologize for this in advance.” Jamie slapped Malcolm across his bruised jaw and Malcolm’s eyes watered. Then Jamie raised his fist. “Cry out in pain when I hit the wall.”  His fist connected with stone and Malcolm’s well-timed cry of pain fooled the guards listening in the corridor that Malcolm was being beaten by a royal guard.

Jamie looked at his fist. The skin was scraped raw and bleeding. “Looks real enough,” he whispered. “Dunna forget. Tell James to build ten churches.”

“In a real fight, Sassenach, if I were healthy, we’d be well matched,” Malcolm said. “But ye’d still end up on the floor, curled up like a wee baby, moaning in pain and calling for yer Mum.”

“I doubt that, Highlander. But it would be interesting. We are both survivors, eh?” He turned to leave and looked back over his shoulder. “I did enjoy it, though, a little bit.”

“Why do ye help me?” Malcolm asked.

He arched a blonde brow. “Oh, I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for Sorcha. Because for some bloody reason, she loves you.”

Jamie left and for the first time since Malcolm had been accused of dabbling in the dark arts, he smiled, his broad grin cracking the dried blood on his face.

40

Isobel, Leith, and Sorcha waited for John Maclean and Maira in a small drawing room that contained a large desk and chairs.

The father and daughter soon arrived, John walking with the use of a cane due to an old battle injury, but firmly gripping Maira’s wrist and dragging her into the room. She fought him and struggled every step of the way but to no avail. Despite the limp, he was an ox of a man, his cane silver-tipped, the head fashioned into the shape of a fox.

“Sit,” John commanded and Maira obeyed, choosing a chair near the hearth. She smiled disdainfully and crossed her arms over her chest, her burgundy gown rustling with the movement. She glared at Sorcha.

              John slapped Maira’s face hard, the movement sudden and violent, the gold rings on his fingers reflecting the flames in the hearth. Maira caught her breath but did not cry out. “Ha’e ye any idea the effect of yer careless accusations, daughter of mine?”

              Maira stared at the flames in the hearth and said nothing.

              John struck her again, this time leaving a palm print on her cheek. Maira’s eyes watered but she thrust her chin out.

              “Ye ken full well Malcolm doesna practice the dark arts. A man, a good man, may die tomorrow because yer a jealous shrew! They pile wood at the base of the stake now. Do ye ken, dim-witted daughter of mine, that they will burn him alive if ye dunna recant yer statement to the king?”

              “Ye will recant,” Leith said. “My son willna burn at the stake because of yer jealousy, Maira.”

              Maira squared her shoulders. “Father, I ha’e suffered yer beatings and neglect all my life. I ha’e been nothing to ye but a pawn when ye needed an alliance. Ye married me to an auld drunkard twice my age and I will ne’er forgive ye for it!”

“Daughters are born for such purposes, ye bitch! Ye should be grateful that someone would ha’e ye as wife!”

Maira frowned but clamped her mouth shut.

“Ye’d defy me? Ye’d let a good man die because ye couldna marry him yerself? He was betrothed to another at eight summers by a king’s decree, a decree that couldna be broken and would certainly nae be broken for someone like ye. Yer nothing to a king. Yer nothing to me!”

              “I
would
defy ye!” she shrieked. “I am tired of being nothing to ye, nothing to Malcolm, nothing to Seamus. ‘Tis too bad I was nae born a son, for then ye would ha’e valued me, then ye would ha’e loved me. And then, dear
father of mine
, I could ha’e
fought back
.”

              John’s face turned white with anger. “Maira, if ye dunna recant these wild accusations immediately, ye willna ha’e a home with the Macleans and ye willna ha’e a home with me at Lochbuie. I’ll see to it that yer banished from Scotland! Or worse!”

              “Ye’ll nae beat me into recanting!”

              “Well see about that!” John seethed. He raised his cane.

              “Perhaps this is not the way,” Leith said.

              “Recant, Maira,” Isobel said. “I see a future of poverty and illness if ye dunna. I see ye starving in an alleyway, rats crawling in the streets. I see ye alone and heartbroken, for ye dunna speak the French language and no one will help ye. Ye will ha’e lost yer beauty, yer hair will be ragged and lice-filled, yer skin unwashed. Is that the life ye want, the life ye’ll surely ha’e for nae recanting yer careless words? Maira, I beg of ye, lass, be reasonable. My son’s life is at stake. Our clan has provided a home for ye and we ha’e always been kind to ye.”

              “How convenient ye tell my future now, Isobel. I dunna believe ye. I think ye’d say anything to save yer son’s life. And as for ye and yer cane, father, I ha’e endured much worse beatings from ye o’er the years. I hate ye!” she hissed. “I always ha’e. For marrying me to that auld bastard Seamus. For hitting me whene’er ye lost yer temper and threatening to kill me. For…ne’er loving me.”

              “Yer a pathetic and useless creature, Maira. Just like yer mother.”

“Yet mother was nae pathetic enough to keep ye from the bedchamber, forcing her to bear six of yer brats, eh?”

That got her another hard slap across the face, and this time Maira winced. John gripped the handle of his cane. “Give me a few moments alone with my daughter, will ye?”

“Normally I would nae condone such treatment, John,” Leith said. “But my son’s life is at stake and I ha’e no pity for ye, Maira. If ye dunna recant yer words, it makes ye a murderess, plain and simple.”

Isobel, Leith, and Sorcha left the room and stood quietly in the corridor. Soon they heard Maira’s screams of pain.

              “What shall we do?” Isobel said.

“Sorcha?” In the shadows of the guttering torches they had not heard the man approach.

              Sorcha tensed at seeing Tomas.

              “Sorcha, please, I dunna like the look on yer face.  I just wanted to tell ye…. Och, I would nae harm ye lass, e’er, despite what happened with Nessa. I want to declare before Leith and Isobel that ye need ne’e be scairt of me. Since Nessa died ye seem to fear and avoid me and I canna stand it. I didna realize the extent of her madness either. While my heart aches with sadness, for she was my sister, I am sorry for what she tried to do to ye, Sorcha.” He twisted his hands together nervously.

“Nessa was a good friend for many years before….” Sorcha started to say.

              “Let us nae speak of it anymore. I canna stand to ha’e ye fear me, Sorcha. I would nae harm ye, e’er. And if there is anything I can do to help ye and Malcolm now, please ask me.”

              Tentatively, Sorcha took his hand in her own. “Thank ye, Tomas. I dunna wish us to be enemies.”

              “Nay, ne’er that, lass.” He released her hand and walked away.

              Maira’s screams grew louder.

              “We should return to John now,” Leith said, his eyes dark with determination. “She is no good to us dead.”

              When they returned to the room, John was sweating and panting. He had scratch marks down his cheek and a bike mark on his beefy arm. Maira’s nose was bloodied and her lip was split.

              “We will go to the king now and ye will recant, daughter. Ye hear me?”

              “I willna.” Maira wept with rage and pain.

“Ye will, or ye’ll be banished from bonny Scotland fore’er.”

              John yanked her from the chair and dragged her from the room.

              Fear writhed through Sorcha’s being. “I love Malcolm. We ha’e our lives ahead of us. This must nae happen!”

“She willna recant,” Isobel said. “She is a hateful, soulless woman. We must think of something else.”

              They were startled by a wall that moved and opened. The king’s royal magician, Jehanne, stood there. “Forgive my intrusion, but I think I can help Malcolm.”