True to the Highlander(95)

Malcolm’s skin prickled with unease as he and his men rode through the portcullis and into the inner bailey of their enemy’s keep. His wife had said the villagers knew nothing of their laird’s plan. He looked over the villagers crowding the courtyard. Their eyes were filled with a wary curiosity.

Malcolm caught the eye of a large man wearing the long leather apron of a smith, and he offered a smile. Was that hope flaring in the man’s eyes? The smith nodded, a brief smile lighting his face. He lifted a young lad to his shoulders to watch their procession. Encouraged, Malcolm smiled and greeted any whose eyes caught his, signaling his men to follow suit.

What to do about these people had plagued him from the onset. Like him, most of them wanted nothing more than to live out their lives in peace.

Ronald the Red, the laird of clan Comyn, and his son, John, approached from the keep, surrounded by their men. Malcolm watched as father and son sauntered toward them. Both wore smug looks. Neither hid their disdain for him and his men.

“Welcome, Malcolm of clan MacKintosh.” The laird spoke loudly for the benefit of his assembled people. “Today we end the feud between our two clans.”

A cheer rose among the villagers. The Comyn’s shrewd eyes assessed their party as they dismounted, and several lads approached to take their horses. Malcolm held a hand up to stop them. “We will see to our horses ourselves. Your lads can lead the way to the stables,” Malcolm said.

A few of their young warriors not yet blooded in battle had volunteered to come along for this purpose. Malcolm’s young men gathered the reins as he spoke. They would see the horses were fed, watered and cared for before removing them to the agreed upon spot outside the curtain wall. “I’m sure you understand.” Malcolm turned to challenge the Comyn. “’Twill take some time for trust to build.”

The Comyn snorted derisively. “So be it. Come, let us enter. A feast has been prepared. We wish to offer our hospitality.”

The laird’s smile reminded Malcolm of a serpent before it swallowed its prey whole. His hackles rose. Flanked by Angus and Robley, he followed the snake into its lair. True’s description of the great hall proved accurate. The large table, already laid for the feast, dominated one end of the hall. Stairs leading to a minstrels’ gallery and the passage into the private living quarters lay to the left of the large hearth.

“As you can see, we are unarmed.” The laird spread his arms, his hands empty. “In good faith, will you no’ lay aside your weapons?”

The Comyn’s request brought Malcolm’s attention into sharp focus. “If, as you say, your intent to end the feud between our clans is sincere, we have no need of our weapons.” A murmur of voices rang throughout the hall. “So it will make no difference whether or no’ we are armed.” Moving toward the dais, Malcolm studied the laird’s reaction to his words. “We keep them.”

“You insult our hospitality and our honor,” John cried, as angry accusations flew through the air, polarizing the room into two distinct factions.

“Come, you canna expect us to trust the word of a Comyn blindly,” Malcolm challenged Ronald. “We have been enemies for centuries. If you are honorable, it makes no difference whether or no’ I have my claymore to hand. My sword will remain in its scabbard so long as no act of aggression occurs against me or mine. You have my word.”

Again the Comyn’s cunning eyes assessed him. Malcolm kept his expression neutral.

“It changes nothing,” Ronald announced, gesturing to his men to take their places at the table.

That too proved to be exactly as True had described. The Comyn warriors took every other seat, separating him and his men. A chill crept down his spine as Malcolm imagined what it must have been like for his wife to watch as every MacKintosh man in the hall bled to death before her eyes. She had proven again and again to possess an inner strength and resourcefulness that humbled him and filled him with pride.

As soon as he’d taken his place on the dais between the laird and his son, servants came forward and filled their goblets with uisge beatha. Another point True had warned them about. Raising his cup in a toast, the Comyn bid them all drink to their truce. As agreed, he and his men did no more than to touch the liquid to their lips. Servants rushed forward bearing platters of food, as the Comyns made idle conversation and encouraged them to partake of the fine spirits they offered. ’Twas their best, they claimed, in honor of their reconciliation. Malcolm forced himself to relax and waited.




“Wait.” Liam pressed himself against the wall and watched both the kitchen and the door to the keep. Once clear, he grabbed Alethia’s hand, pulled her inside and dashed for the stairs ahead.