Rory brought his fists up. “Go on then!”
Col looked down at him and suppressed the urge to laugh, a faint wisp of pride surging through his chest. Rory was a brave lad. Foolish, but brave.If he didn’t infuriate me so much . . .
Col scooped the lad up under his arm and marched him down the hall while Rory yelled at him and rained wild punches with his fists against his stomach and chest. He opened the boy’s bedroom door, dropped his eldest son onto his bed, and shut the door, turning the lock. “Stay there ‘till yer heid’s cool!”
A bellow of outrage and a few thumps of things being thrown at the door followed him down the hall to his other son’s room. On the way, he stopped to pick up the dropped buckler and examine the damage.
A deep gouge across the Sceacháin escutcheon, featuring a bear rampant, which was carved into the buckler, bore mute witness to Callum’s spite. The buckler was a family heirloom dating to at least the 16th Century and probably earlier. Hisfather had gifted it to Rory as the eldest son and heir. The old man had made no secret of his favouritism towards Rory over Callum, an echo of his preference for Col over his brother Merlow as they grew up. That preference had driven Merlow from his home and caused him to be absent when their father died.
A sudden fury with his father seized Col at this evidence of the damage his favouritism wrought even beyond the grave. He himself was hard on Rory as his father had been on him, but tried where he could, to temper his natural toughness with his younger son, having seen what happens when a father rejects a more sensitive boy. Merlow had simply left home and never come back until after his father was gone.
But staring at the spiteful damage to a family heirloom made it difficult to be sympathetic towards Callum in this instance. Tightly reigning in his anger, he stopped outside Callum’s door.
“Callum!”
Silence.
“Callum, open the bluidy door or ye’ll regret it!”
After a moment he heard the lock being turned, but the door still didn’t open. He pushed the door open himself and stepped into the room. Unlike Rory’s room, which was a mess, Callum’s was neat as a pin.
Callum sat on his bed staring at the floor.
Col shut the door behind him and leaned against it, the buckler clutched in one hand, his arms crossed. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, and he felt slightly sick. After a moment or two of silence he prompted, “Well, what have ye got to say fer yerself?”
Callum shrugged and kept his head down.
“I should belt the living daylights out of ye for this, Callum. This is a bluidy heirloom! Have ye nae respect for the family name?”
Callum shrugged again and something in Col snapped. Dropping the buckler, he strode across the room and hauled the boy up by his collar and shook him.
“If ye’ve none, I’ll teach it to ye!” he growled. “How dare ye take yer petty spite out on something that matters so much, not just to yer brother but the whole family! Generations past and future. There is nae balance in yer revenge, boy! Rory’s crime doesnae match your vengeance, nae even close!”
Callum hung his head but said nothing beyond a faint whimper.
“Drop yer breeches, boy! Ye’ll nae sit down for a week! And think yerself lucky to escape with nae more than a belting.”
He removed his belt as Callum let his breeches fall and bent over the bed.
Col left his son weeping into his pillow, his bottom red raw from the strapping. He unlocked Rory’s door, but there was no sound from within, and he left the boy alone, taking the buckler with him. Downstairs, he sat it on the table beside his chair and resumed his glass of whisky, staring at the marred design until his eyes blurred. Gussie lay at his feet and Hector leaped into his lap and settled.
He finished the glass and poured another from the decanter.
The morning light found him still in the chair, the fire burned down and the decanter empty. His head was pounding and his bladder full.
With a groan he moved, dislodging Hector, who leaped down to the rug and stretched with a squeaking yawn. Gussie sat up and thumped her tail, floppy ears flapping.
He blinked blearily at them and muttered, “Fook, me heid’s like to split.”
Rising, he staggered towards the door and out into the hall towards the kitchen and the rear entrance to the house. Emerging into the glare of the early morning, he squinted and headed for the pump, where he dunked his head in the trough and drank some fresh water from his cupped hands. Straightening, he stretched his creaking back and filled a bowl with water for Hector; Gussie was tall enough to drink from the trough.
Hector drank and then cocked his leg against the trough.
“Good idea, mate,” murmured Col. He moved over to a bush, opened his breeches, and relieved his bladder.
It was a fine morning, slightly misty and judging from the position of the sun, still quite early. The dogs frisked about, and he said, “Alright, we’ll go fer a walk, shall we? Blow the cobwebs out.”
He left the courtyard behind the house, setting off across the lawn towards the trees. The dogs gambolled about chasing smells, and he lengthened his stride, wanting to get the blood flowing, his thoughts on last night. He needed to do something about the boys, but he was at a loss to know what. He was reaping the consequences of his own neglect of them following Catriona’s death. He’d been so grief-stricken with the loss of her and their third child, a girl, he’d lost sight of what was important.
