Shutting the big heavy wooden door against the cold air that swept up from the staircase, McBride took his place by the door and Henderson went forward to address the clan chief.
Douglas Kirkcaldy sat in a large chair on the dais against the northern wall, upon which hung a medieval style tapestry depicting a deer hunt. He was a big man, of a size with Col and at least five years Col’s senior, with thick, luxuriant brown hair and a curly brown beard with red highlights and flecks of grey.
Seated beside him, on a smaller chair, was his daughter, Isa. Col hadn’t seen her for a while, and she had gone from awkward teen to beautiful young woman in the interim. Her long red hair was loose round her shoulders, and she, like her father, wore the clan plaid, but over a white gown. She looked every inch the proud Scots lass, and he wondered at her presence. Of his boys and young Willy, there was no sign.
“Chief, may I present Laird Mac Sceacháin, his woman, and Fergus McLeod.”
Col winced internally at Henderson’s description of Aihan, but supposed it was true, and they would have to acknowledge it soon if she were to stay.
He stepped forward, bowed, and said, “Chief. Where are my sons? I was given to understand they are here?”
“Aye, the miscreants are in the cellar. And there they’ll stay until I pass judgement.”
Col clamped his teeth together. It wouldn’t do to alienate the chief more than he was already. He nodded and waited. He was conscious of Fergus vibrating with fury beside him. But the oldman had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and let Col do the talking.
“Are ye hard up, Mac Sceacháin?” asked the Chief.
Col stiffened, but recognising the jibe for what it was, he said as calmly as he could, “Nae, my lord.”
“Then what possessed ye to send yer boys to seize my cattle?”
“I dinnae do any such thing.”
“So, the plan was all their own?”
“Can I explain, my lord?”
“Aye, I’m all ears.”
“The root of the problem lies with my Athair. Ye knew him, Douglas. He was always romanticising the reivers. He filled the boys’ heids with stories. This would be an attempt to recreate those romantic dreams. I’m nae excusing them, my lord. They should never have done it, but I ask ye to consider clemency. They’re only lads.”
The chief stared at him under beetling brows and chewed on his words a bit. “Aye, I knew the old laird well. He was ever one to spin a tale, we all enjoyed them as lads.” He paused. “But the fact is, yer lads are old enough to know the difference between dreams and reality.”
“Ye’re right, my lord, and I’ll shoulder the blame fer that. So, I’ll ask ye to point yer retribution in my direction, nae theirs.”
The chief shook his head. “Ye lost yer way after Cat died, Col. And it would seem ye’re still under the cat’s paw.” He nodded to Aihan. “Ye’ve gone soft. The lads willnae learn if ye treat ’em wi’ kid gloves, man. They’re nae lassies to be coddled.”
“With respect, my lord, ye’re wrong. They’re my lads and I know what’s best fer them, and if ye think I’d go soft on them fer this?—”
“Ye’ve got balls to contradict me to my face, Col, I’ll give ye that. But ye’ll nae change my mind. However, if ye’ve a mind to share their punishment, and in addition pay me a fine forthe bluidy inconvenience of being dragged out of my bed in the middle of the bluidy night to deal with such foolishness, I’ll consider tempering the sentence I had in mind.”
“Aye, I’ll pay yer fine and stand whatever punishment ye’ll see fit to press upon me, if it will reduce their sentence.”
“I’ll take it too,” said Fergus, stepping forward. “Willy’s my responsibility.”
“Nae, Fergus!” protested Col.
“Yer sentiments do ye credit, McLeod, but I’ll nae test yer old bones for the lad’s trespass. Besides, I know who the ringleader of this merry band of would-be cattle rustlers is. For he confessed his guilt straight up and asked to take the lion’s share of the punishment.”
“Rory,” sighed Col, scrubbing his hair.
“He reminds me o’ you at a similar age, Col.” Douglas said with a smirk. “Or have ye forgotten what a hell-raiser ye were?”
“Nae, I haven’t forgotten.”It just feels like it was someone else’s life.
“McBride, fetch the lads.” McBride left the room; his footsteps audible as he descended the stone staircase. The wind swirled in the open door, making the flames in the hearth flicker and sending a cold shiver up Col’s spine in spite of the plaid he wore.
The minutes ticked by in silence, and finally the sounds of footsteps echoed on the stairs. Then the boys appeared, shepherded by McBride, bringing up the rear.
