Once all were situated in the great hall, Malcolm took his father’s place in the center chair on the dais, flanked by Liam and Angus. Alethia stood behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder. The chairs were taken up by MacKintosh warriors, and the stern lot of them faced their unwelcome guest with grim expressions. Their placement forced John to face them alone and standing.
John reached into his sporran and pulled out a rolled parchment sealed with wax. Approaching the dais, he handed it to Malcolm. “Our two clans have been enemies since the days of Robert the Bruce. King James returns to take his place upon the throne, and it is his wish to unite the clans. I assume you have received the edict forbidding all clans from fighting amongst themselves?”
“We have,” Malcolm replied. “’Tis no’ the MacKintosh who keep the feud alive. Our actions have always and only been in retaliation for the treacherous aggression committed against us by your clan. Whatever message your father sends, ’tis unworthy of our notice. The word of a Comyn canna be trusted.”
John reached for the sword no longer at his waist, and Alethia could feel the seething rage emanating from him.
“Much of the land your clan holds today was once ours.” John spoke through gritted teeth. “Dinna speak to me of treachery.”
“’Twas no’ the MacKintosh who took your land, but the Bruce, and rightly so. Your clan chose unwisely, supporting a foreigner’s claim to the throne of Scotland. To the victor go the spoils of war.” Malcolm waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Enough. I’ve no stomach for a lengthy debate about ancient history. What is it you wish to say?”
Even before John spoke, she felt the malice emanating from him. Lies. Whatever he said would be lies. She squeezed Malcolm’s shoulder to alert him.
“We wish to end the feud between our clans in compliance with our king’s wishes. The missive you hold is an invitation from my father. In honor of our promise, you are invited to a feast of reconciliation.”
The moment the words left John’s mouth, a strange sensation flooded her entire being. Her peripheral vision began to darken. Stars appeared before her eyes, and her legs gave out from under her. Just as darkness took hold, she felt strong arms lift her. Then she left her body completely, to be dropped into a scene unfolding around her. It was as if she stood in the midst of a hologram or a three-dimensional film.
Inside a strange keep, MacKintosh clansmen sat beside men who were strangers to her. Men who wore kilts bearing the same colors as John’s. None showed any awareness of her presence. Like a phantom, she moved around the room to stand before each warrior until she faced the dais. The MacKintosh men appeared to be inebriated, their speech slurred, their movements and coordination off.
Malcolm sat between John and a large, cruel-looking man with hair the color of silver-streaked copper. He could only be the Comyn laird, Ronald the Red. As she watched, servants brought out the head of a black boar on a large platter. As they set it down in front of their laird, he gave a signal, and servants rushed to fill everyone’s goblet. The Comyn laird then raised his cup and waited for all assembled to do the same.
A toast. He was giving some kind of toast. But wait, why did he hold his goblet in his left hand when he’d clearly been eating with his right? With a sense of dread, she looked around the hall. All but a few of the Comyns did the same.
“No!” She rushed around the table toward Malcolm as she screamed. No sound came out of her mouth as she frantically tried to warn him. “Malcolm, watch out!”
Even before his goblet was lowered, the Comyn laird rose up, a dagger in his right hand. She threw herself between the laird and her husband. The Comyn laird’s arm went right through her as he slashed Malcolm’s throat. She watched helplessly as blood gushed from the gaping wound through her formless fingers. Malcolm raised stunned eyes to his enemy, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to speak.
Horrified, she backed away from the table, only to find the same gruesome sight wherever she looked. Every MacKintosh present bled to death before her, their faces all wearing the same look of shocked disbelief. The floor turned a sticky, thick crimson as the Comyns laughed and congratulated themselves on their easy victory.
“No!” Alethia screamed and screamed, her heart breaking into a million shards like slivers of glass to splinter her soul.
True’s hand slipped from his shoulder. Malcolm glanced at her just in time to see her swoon. He was out of his chair in a trice, catching her up before her head hit the dais. “You will excuse me.” Malcolm lifted her close to his chest. “My wife has been ill of late. Liam, see our guest is settled into a comfortable chamber.” He gave his cousin a pointed look, trusting Liam to post a guard at the door of said room. “We will speak again later.”