Rory strode into the room despite the clinking chains at wrist and ankles. He met Col’s eyes with a defiant stare and transferred his attention to the dais as he came to a stop before it. Callum and Willy ranged themselves behind him. Callum’s eyes were red, although there was no sign of tears now. Willy glanced at Fergus, shamefaced, and looked forward towards the dais.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Douglas, leaning an elbow on the arm of his chair and surveying them. “What d’ye have to say fer yerselves, now ye’ve had time to think on it?”
Rory straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and said clearly, “I told ye it was my idea. Punish me, nae them, they just followed my lead.”
“Well, it doesnae quite work like that, lad, but I commend yer bravery. Yer father’s made me a similar offer, so ye’re a chip off the old block, I’d say,”
Rory glanced round at Col, who lifted his chin to him in encouragement.
“Each man shall take his punishment as metered out. But first I want ye to understand something.” He paused, and the boys shifted nervously. All but Rory, who stood still, his fists clenched before him, his jaw set and his gaze dead straight.
“Ye dinnae steal from yer own. Do ye know what would have happened to ye, if ye’d done that in reiving years?”
The boys shook their heads, even Rory.
“Ye’d be dead.” He let that sink in. “And yer Athair, and all yer kin.” He paused again and Rory swallowed visibly.
“The reivers were nae heroes, lads,” he went on. “They were criminals. Blood-thirsty, murdering criminals. Who held grudges for generations. The Scots and Sassenachs, both. If ye want to romanticise a hero from Scotland’s past, I suggest ye go back to Robert the Bruce. Now there was a man worth following.”
Callum managed a tremulous smile at this, and for the first time, Rory’s eyes dropped. Willy fidgeted.
“Now fer punishment. It’s three-fold. First, ye’ll be flogged.” He ticked this off on a finger and Callum and Willy flinched. Rory looked up and straightened his shoulders again. He nodded.
“Second, ye’ll work for me, one day a week for a year, to repay the fine Mac Sceacháin will pay as a bond. If ye shirk yer work, he’ll nae get his bond back, I’ll keep it all, and ye’ll still work for year and a week extra for everyday ye don’t give satisfaction. Ye’ll commence after Hogmanay. Are we clear?”
“Aye, my lord.” Rory spoke first, his voice firm.
The other two offeredAye, my lordsin more subdued tones.
“And third, ye’ll watch the Laird Mac Sceacháin take a flogging fer each of ye. And bear witness to the pain he takes on yer behalf.”
Col felt Aihan’s hand clench his where it hung at his side in the folds of his plaid. He squeezed back but didn’t look at her. His concentration was all on the boys. Even Rory had gone pale at this last condition.
“Fetch the lash, McBride,” said the Chief.
“Ye’ll nae subject yer lass to watching this!” protested Col, realising his intent.
“Isa is no puling miss. She will be chief after me. As such, she’ll bear witness to justice being done.”
Isa sat straight in her chair and did not flinch at her father’s words, although Col saw her hands tighten on the arms of her chair.
McBride returned with the lash and presented it to his chief.
Kirkcaldy took it and descended from the dais. “Remove yer shirts, gentlemen,” he said. “Rory, ye’re first.” He nodded at McBride and Henderson. “Tie him to the post.”
Rory removed his jacket and shirt calmly. Col had tanned him a time or two over the years, with his hand or his belt, but he’d never whipped the boys in his life. His old man had whipped him, though, and he knew how much it hurt. The chief had not said how many strokes they were all to receive, but he hoped he had succeeded in pleading sufficient clemency for the boys. It was certain they would never forget this.
The two men tied Roy to the pillar, his arms wrapped round it rather than above his head. A mercy that Col noted, for it hurt a deal more if the recipient was hung up by his arms with his feet barely touching the ground. The Chief readied the whip, testing it with a crack or two in the air, which made the younger boys jump. Both of them were pale as milk and visibly trembling, but Rory stood resolute, embracing the pillar, his face blank of expression.
Chapter Twenty-One
Aihan attended to the boys’ wounds and put them to bed on their bellies. Fergus took care of Wee. Neither Cam nor Wee had suffered broken skin from the blows, as they only received five lashes each, and she suspected the Chief had pulled his punch with the younger lads, letting the whip crack before it touched the skin. The crack had made the younger boys jump with fright and whimper each time it came down, even when it wasn’t directed at them; and she had seen poor Cam shaking with fear during the entire ordeal. But theatrics aside, the whip’s touch was weakened considerably by the technique. Even so, the skin was red, bruised, and sore. And both boys were shocked and upset, both by the lashing they’d endured and what they were forced to witness.
Rory had suffered twice that number of blows. He had taken all but the last two in silence. Those two had broken the skin open, forcing a grunt from him for each one. He stood, with blood streaming down his back during the rest of the punishments, visibly shaking and pale, but refusing to sit. Aihan had itched throughout to go to his aid, but understood instinctively that she could not.
Mac’s punishment came last. He was subjected to fifteen lashes, five for each of the lads. Like Rory, he took it mostly in silence, but by the end his back was a mess of bloodied lines. She was trembling with helpless fury at this diabolical behaviour and mystified as to why he let it happen.
Leaving Rory as comfortable as she could make him, she went to Mac’s room. She found him bent over the basin, attempting to wash.
