Page 111 of The Guardian
Ian pointed to three older men in the front. “Would ye say ye have fought against the English and other Highlanders often enough to know the difference in their weapons?”
“Don’t be a damned fool,” one of them said. “Of course we can.”
“Then can ye tell us what weapon made the scar on the back of my da’s head?”
Payton took off his cap and turned around. His head had been shaved around a five-inch wound.
“Lucky he caught ye with just the tip of his sword, or you’d be a dead man,” one of them said. “Your moving to reach the chieftain and Ragnall as the blow fell is probably what saved ye.”
“Can ye tell what kind of sword it was?” Ian asked.
“This was made by a claymore, not an English blade,” the man said, and the other two nodded. “Ye see how thick the cut is? Aye, that was done by a claymore.”
The noise in the hall was deafening until Ian raised his hands for silence.
“We have plenty of enemies among the clans, and most of them were there that day,” Hugh said. “Our chieftain was my brother, and Ragnall, my nephew. I’d never raise my hand against my own blood.”
“Is Connor not your own blood?” Ian said, stepping toward Hugh with his hands clenched into fists. “Why don’t ye tell our clansmen what ye did to Connor?”
“I haven’t laid eyes on Connor in more than five years.”
“I know what ye did,” Ian said, his eyes narrow blue slits. “First, ye asked Shaggy Maclean to kill the four of us before we got to Skye. But we surprised ye, when we escaped Shaggy’s dungeon.”
Hugh started to speak, but Ian shouted over him. “So ye made a deal with that devil Murdoc MacKinnon. Ye told him he could keep Knock Castle—and take my wife—in exchange for murdering Connor.”
Every man in the room had wondered why Hugh did not fight for Knock Castle; Ian had just given them an explanation they could believe.
“You’re a liar,” Hugh said, but sweat was beading on his forehead.
“Murdoc MacKinnon admitted the treachery to my wife.”
“A woman will tell ye what she thinks ye want to hear.” Hugh’s eyes darted around the room. “What I think happened is that Connor and the other two decided to return to France soon after the four of ye came home.”
“Then why have ye been spreading the word that they were murdered by the MacKinnons?” Ian asked. “Shall I call on Connor, Alex, and Duncan to tell us the tale?”
The high, sweet sound of a whistle started at the back of the hall, causing everyone to turn and look. At the back of the room, stood Connor, Alex, and Duncan, without their disguises. Men gasped and women drew back their skirts to let them pass as the three started forward.
“It’s Samhain, uncle,” Connor called out. “Are ye prepared to meet the dead?”
Hugh’s eyes went wide, and he made a strangled sound, while his men crossed themselves and backed away. Though the three men limped and their faces were bruised, there was no mistaking that these were warriors to be reckoned with.
“Ye should have murdered me yourself,” Connor said, when he reached his uncle at the front. “Only a fool would rely on a Maclean or MacKinnon for such an important task.”
When several clansmen surrounded Hugh, he looked to his guards to protect him. But Hugh’s men, who as pirates were known for vanishing into the mists to avoid capture, had disappeared into the crowd. In no time, Hugh was disarmed and dragged to the side.
Every eye in the room was fixed on the four Highland warriors who had returned from France. Despite their injuries, they were hard-muscled men in their prime, a new generation of MacDonald men, ready to take their place as leaders and protectors of their clan.
Ian’s father began pounding his cane rhythmically on the stone floor. Immediately, others began to stomp and clap to the same rhythm.Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.Deep voices filled the hall, shouting in time to the stomping and clapping. “Chief-tain! Chief-tain! Chief-tain!”
Connor stepped forward and raised his arms as the crowd roared louder and louder, proclaiming him as their choice.
It was a miracle Connor managed to stand alone as long as he did. Sìleas didn’t think the crowd noticed when he started to weave, but Alex and Duncan limped forward to stand on either side of him.
Ian stood a little apart, his eyes searching the hall until he found her.
They had succeeded. Connor would be the next chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat.
Ian felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders—a weight he had carried since the moment he first learned of the calamity at Flodden. He had redeemed himself by saving his clan from certain disaster.
