Page 22 of Highlander’s Wrath

Things Other Than Wounds Can Fester

Laird Barclay and Coira would have found one of the prisoner’s thoughts very interesting if they had been able to read minds.

One of the six men who had thrown down their swords and pleaded for mercy had not done it because he feared death; in fact, far to the contrary. He relished the thought of dying, but only after he had fulfilled the burning desire for vengeance inside his heart. One Gregor McKay, son of Mistress Sarah Farquharson, surviving daughter of the late Laird Farquharson, and Master John McKay, late sergeant at arms at the northern lodge, had thrown down his sword and held up his hands in surrender because he wanted to live long enough to kill Laird Hamish Barclay with his own bare hands.

His heart had jumped with joy after hearing Coira’s words.

Finally, finally, he would be given the opportunity to get close enough to the Barclay himself to carry out his vengeance...if it were possible. This was a great achievement; to have proximity to his lairdship was more than any other Farquharson had ever been granted before. As the Barclay captain of the guards led the rope-bound prisoners down toward the dungeons, Gregor McKay’s eyes darted from side to side as he took close note of the route, the locks, and the windows. He was not entirely disheartened by his observations. He kept in mind the kitchen garden he had seen through the gate that the bonny governess had pushed through earlier on in the day. The sky had shown clearly over the yew hedges—hedges that were shorter than the forbiddingly tall walls surrounding the courtyard and stables.

As fanatical as any assassin or gold-greedy marauder, Gregor McKay had been reared by his mother since he was old enough to understand that his mission in life was to kill every last Barclay until there was no one left to sit atop the castle dais on quarter days.

When he saw the groom leave and take the ax with him, his relief had been so heartfelt, for one moment, Gregor thought the soldiers would be able to hear the quickening of his breath in his chest and feel the triumph leaping therein. Never before had a Farquharson soldier been granted prisoner status. Gregor knew he had a painful interrogation with Laird Barclay to look forward to, one where the man would try to ascertain his rank and stature within the clan. If he could hold fast during the cross-questioning and hope the five remaining Farquharson soldiers would do the same, his chances of slipping through the castle cracks and finding himself unguarded for that one golden moment—all it would take to stick a blade into the dastard’s heart—would be more than enough to bring his clan’s vengeance home to roost.

Gregor’s blood boiled when he remembered how happy his childhood had been up until Laird Edgar Barclay had chosen to take out his petulant anger on his rival’s clan instead of the rival himself. All young Gregor had been able to do was watch with helpless horror as, one by one, his family members were taken from him. First, his uncles and cousins, and finally, his own father. Slain like a dog as he went hunting for stag in the southern mountains. Laird Edgar Barclay had claimed full responsibility for the death, even sending word to the local carpenter to make ready another coffin and laughing at Gregor’s mother as she walked through the village in her husband’s wake, wringing her hands with utter despair.

Gregor McKay reveled in the heat his hostility brought to his body. It had kept him warm through many a cold Highland winter, and it would do the same for him here as he waited in the Barclay clan dungeons. The prisoners were thrown into the same cell, the jailer deeming this the best way to guarantee himself a quiet night; the prisoners would strive to help themselves and not call out to their captor for succor.

Once the gate was secured, Gregor lost no time in ascertaining his fellow prisoners’ injuries. They were severe: not one man lay unscathed. When the jailer returned later and threw the mens’ shirts and coats through the bars, Gregor thanked him gratefully. By draping their great kilts over their heads and across their shoulders, the men would be able to use the shirts to bind their wounds.

One of the prisoners spoke out in a harsh whisper, “Who was that young maiden? Is she the Barclay’s light o’ love?”

Gregor had been asking himself the same question. No woman for miles around would be foolish enough to set up as his lairdship’s mistress. The man was notoriously tight-fisted and hard as nails when it came to wooing and romance. From the time he was old enough to grip a sword, Hamish Barclay had been raised to be a ruthless warrior, lethal in battle. If his father, Laird Edgar, had not made the effort to find his son and heir a good wife, the man would no doubt still be single. Inverness hostesses quaked in their shoes when they heard Hamish Barclay would be attending their ball; mothers with daughters of eligible age sent their apologies to say that they would not be attending the evening’s festivities. If some maiden was foolish enough to engage the ferocious gentleman with idle chatter, encouraged to do so by his undeniable good looks and noble bearing, he would bite off her head, telling the poor girl to broaden her mind with knowledge before boring him with her silly prattle. Word had spread from the bawdy houses that enjoyed his occasional patronage that harlots fared no better when it came to Hamish Barclay’s notoriously bad temper. He would throw the money on the table with a scornful glare and stride out of the room the moment he was done—not one bauble or sweet word passing his stern lips.

The prisoners came to the conclusion that some Sassenach wench had been paid enough gold to come and set up as his lairdship’s mistress without the benefit of a ring being placed on her finger. They roundly thanked their lucky stars for the wench’s fortitude; if it had not been for her wounded Sassenach sensibilities, their heads would even now be decorating the north-facing gate posts.

When the sun sank behind the barred window ledge, the jailer returned with a cauldron of pottage and pewter jug of light ale. The men drank it off quickly; there was nothing like a good bloodletting to make a man’s thirst rage within him. The straw seemed fresh enough, and as they tried to make themselves comfortable on top of it, Gregor gave the men his orders: They were not to divulge his identity or let his lairdship know that Farquharson Lodge was now bare of soldiers. This mission had used the last of their men. The womenfolk had been reduced to harvesting the fields themselves; the eldest sons next in line were still too young to be sent off for training. The last Farquharson clan male was sitting in Laird Barclay’s dungeon. It was a sobering thought.

All Gregor had ever known for the last three and twenty years was the strife of their blood feud with their neighbors. His hatred of the present-day Laird Barclay had made him bitter and twisted. Now was the time to take his revenge for those long, sad days growing up without his father. All he had to do was pretend he was just some poor lowly soldier called Gregor McKay...

Coira decided to run the risk of bearing the brunt of Laird Barclay’s anger and joined him for dinner the next day. Despite the freezing condition of the castle, all she wore to cover her shoulders and neckline was a light muslin fichu. She knew from past experience that his lairdship ordered his servants to build up a large fire in the dining hall on colder days, and she did not want beads of sweat running down her forehead if Hamish Barclay chose to take umbrage with something she said.

Thusly, when Coira removed the Barclay arisaid she had wrapped around her and revealed the pale skin of her collarbone to his lairdship seated at the dinner table, he was pleasantly surprised, and forgetting all cutting things he wanted to say to her about interfering with lairdly politicking, instead said, “That’s a nice dress ye wear.”

“I thank ye, Laird,” she replied in a sweet tone. “You have made the room so warm, I feel as though ‘tis a Highland summer’s day in here.”

He scoffed at these words but smiled all the same. “Hah! And what would ye ken about Highland summers, lass?”

She stood her ground. “My mother and father have described them to me in some detail.”

The rest of the meal was spent in happy conversation about the many beauties of bluebells, moss campion, and bog myrtle.

When the footman entered to remove the platters, Hamish leaned over and took Coira’s hand to stop her from leaving, saying, “Nay, stay with me awhile longer, Coira. I mislike drinking in solitude and wish to ask ye how me son’s learning is progressing.”

She hesitated. Colban’s behavior could be erratic, and she did not want to make his lairdship any promises that would later be proven untrue. Only this morning, the Barclay heir had upended his porridge bowl onto the floor and demanded to be brought fine meat cuts from the kitchen. Used to the fussy eating patterns of her brothers at home, Coira had calmly wiped up the mess and told her naughty charge that he must not do that again or else she would be forced to take away his ball. This strict blandishment always worked.

She considered her words carefully before replying, “He can count to ten and recite the alphabet—two great achievements for such an active little boy, as I have no doubt you already know. But he shows a marked preference for playing outside and wants to learn how to fight with his wee wooden sword. In this regard, I can only say that he takes after his father.”

Laird Barclay frowned. “I inherited this blood feud, Coira, as ye are well aware. ‘Tis that which forces me to ride abroad and set watch around the castle. As for my training, it is required of all lairds that they ken how to defend what’s theirs.”

She took a nibble of the crisp apple slice she had cut from the harvested fruit on her platter and then said, “Did you never think to extend the hand of friendship and reconciliation to the Farquharson clan after yer father’s death? Surely it must be a tedious and arduous task to live like this, at continual war with your neighbors?”

The memory of the paternal Mister Abercromby telling him to uphold Laird Edgar Barclay’s verdict in all things flashed across Hamish's mind for a brief moment.

“How could I?” he asked, shrugging his broad shoulders. “It was the Farquharson clan who put the arrow through me faither while he was out riding.”

Coira was not to be put off. “And you have proof of that?” She saw him about to reply and amended her question. “A confession obtained without the use of torture, I mean.”

He did not reply.