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Rory shot Conall a look of disapproval as Logan Blythe turned on him.
‘Go to hell, Conall Campbell. I’ll not be schooled by a whelp with no fur on his balls. Your father still breathes, so you’re no Laird here yet.’
‘But I am,’ said Rory, standing up to his full intimidating height. ‘Laird Campbell has given me that honour and put me in his place, and I will have your respect or see you swing from Dunslair’s walls. My word here is law, and you will obey it.’
Rory turned to Conall and whispered in his ear. ‘You can hold your tongue. We must deal with this carefully, however unpleasant this man is.’
‘Man! He barely merits the word,’ hissed Conall.
‘That’s as maybe, but for now, we must hear him out and get the facts of his case. He is airing his grievances in public before our clansmen, so we must be seen to be fair, no matter how much of a toad he is.’
Rory sighed and approached Logan’s wife, pity taking hold of him. Her hair was dirty and loose and hung down over her face. It was an uncommon colour, a pale red and very pretty. He imagined it shone when it was clean, like freshly minted copper. Everything about it made him think of the turn of the season from summer to autumn, like the last bright day falling to wetness and cool winds.
Her dress was made of poor stuff and was dirty and ragged. He noticed that the hair on her forearms stood up with cold, goose-bumps all over her pale skin, and one wrist was purple and yellow with what Rory guessed was an old bruise. She shivered in the cold of the great hall with not even an arisaid to cover her. Could her husband not have given her something to keep out the chill? He felt wretched at her predicament. Was he to force this man to keep her as a wife when it was clear she had been sorely mistreated?
Rory looked over at her father, a cringing sort of man, weak as water by the looks of him. He could be worked on, perhaps.
‘What is your name?’ he asked the woman.
‘Monnine,’ she whispered down to the floor.
‘Monnine, that is an unusual name. I don’t think I have heard it before.’
‘My mother chose it for me.’
‘Aye Laird,’ interrupted her father, ‘my dear departed wife was Irish, God rest her soul. My daughter favours her in looks, with her red hair and such. Named her Monnine for an old Irish saint, and she was brought up godly no matter what she is now, I swear.’
Rory frowned at his meaning. ‘Let your daughter speak for herself.’ He turned back to the woman who would still not look up. ‘Brought up godly, your father says. So, Monnine, tell me, are you a saint like your namesake or a sinner?’
‘A sinner through and through,’ snarled Logan Blythe, but Rory put a hand up to shut him up.
‘How old are you, Monnine?’
‘I’m thirty, Laird.’
The father carried on whining. ‘It’s as well my good wife is at rest, for she would turn in her grave to see her daughter so sorely used by her husband and cast aside in this way.’
‘Take her back into your home then,’ snapped Rory.
‘Nay, I will not do it. She’s wed, off my hands, one less mouth to feed.’
Rory took a deep breath, trying to calm his impatience. ‘Your daughter was married before?’
‘Aye, but she was widowed just over a year hence, and I sought to secure her future with another marriage to Logan.’
‘Did you claim her to be fertile when she was not?’
‘No. If she had no bairns with her first husband, ‘twas not her fault, ‘twas him that was lacking, like this one here. The hand-fasting was done good and proper with Logan, and he has no legitimate complaint and no right to return her, ill-used and unmarriageable, what with the stain of barrenness upon her.’
‘Then to settle this argument, it is only fair that you keep your wife Logan as the hand-fasting has taken place, the union has been consummated, and you have a duty to care for her. And I’ll see her treated better, or you will answer to me.’
‘I’ll not stand for her to be under my roof a day longer. I want her gone.’ With that, he shoved Monnine hard in the back, propelling her towards her father.
‘Leave her alone,’ shouted Conall, rushing forward and pushing Logan Blythe so hard in the chest he staggered back. He put his hand on his sword hilt, and Rory dragged Conall back.
‘Tell him to stay out of this,’ snarled Logan, ‘or I swear I'll….’
‘Logan, your case is lost. You are wed. You must look after your wife, and that is my decision.’
