AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘See,’ shouted Logan, ‘if even her own father is frightened of her...’
‘Silence, man. I’ve had enough of your lies and ignorance.’
‘Laird, I’ll not leave with that Devil’s doxy. I’ll have satisfaction, or I’ll send word to the witchfinder myself.’
‘Silence,’ bellowed Rory. ‘My decision is made, and it is final. She’ll have sanctuary at the castle. You may no longer consider her your wife or your property. Now hear me and hear me well. Talk of her in that way again, threaten me in my hall or spread rumours about her, and it will go very ill for you. If I get a visit from the witchfinder, God help you, and if you come into this hall again, come anywhere near her again, you cruel bastard, I’ll split you open…from your limp cock right up to your gizzard. Now get out.’
Rory glanced at the girl, watching as her husband stormed out of the hall, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw the ghost of a smile. She turned, and their eyes met. Hers were glorious and strange. They seemed to look right into his soul and find it wanting.
***
Conall stormed from the hall out to the stables, where he grabbed a handful of hay and used it to polish the hair on Erebus’ grey flanks until they shone. It calmed the horrible anger twisting inside his belly. It often rose up in him, like an evil spirit trying to claw its way out of his body. Sometimes he had so much frustration with himself, and with his life, that he could scarce contain it. He feared it would one day burst forth, and he would become a demon, scorching everything in his path.
He had to calm down, for he was leaving on patrol in a few hours and needed a clear mind. But if he could have run through that vicious old bastard, Logan, he would have. To treat a woman like that was unthinkable to him. Women were for men to protect and worship, not hurt and violate. Conall loved women, couldn’t get enough of them, in fact, and they, in turn, loved him. No real man ever had to force a woman, or beat her into submission or treat her like property, and he heartily despised that Blythe fellow for doing so. And all that ignorant talk of witches. The people hereabouts were so uneducated, narrow-minded. Dumb they were, like sheep in their willingness to follow each other in lies and superstition. Few ever travelled to the world beyond Dunslair and certainly never looked past the encircling mountains to open their minds and hearts. He didn’t want that to be his fate, his future.
After this patrol, he could leave, go back to Cailleach, his mother’s ancestral home. His brother-in-law Murray was left in charge of the castle in his parent’s absence, and, being just ten years older, perhaps he would not be so disapproving all the time as Rory was.
Murray may not be his brother by blood, having been adopted by his parents as a child, but despite their difference in age, they got along well. Murray had seen more battle and bloodshed than most men see in two lifetimes, and it had made him fearsome and unyielding. Murray’s way to get through life had been to thrust aside anything that got in his way with a single-minded ruthlessness, until Conall’s sister, Ilene, had sunk her claws into him, that is. She had tamed him somewhat, and Murray’s love for his family, his wife and two sons was deep and abiding.
But Murray would not have reasoned with Logan Blyth. No doubt he would have knocked his head off at the first word he spoke out of line. Rory’s way was more circumspect. He would not baulk at using force when necessary, but he preferred to negotiate, to build alliances and foster allies. Conall knew deep down that he could learn from both of them, learn to be a laird, learn to do his duty and bear his responsibilities.
He should go. It would be good to see his sister again and his little nephews too. A dose of their childish adoration was just what he needed.
He hadn’t realised he was muttering to himself until a voice behind him sneered, ‘Talking to yourself, Campbell or are you communing with the Devil in support of that red whore?’
Before him stood Meyrick Campbell, the young man who had made the holy sign in the hall at the mere mention of witchcraft.
‘Shouldn’t you be away somewhere pulling the wings off flies or strangling small animals, Meyrick?’ he snarled.
‘Just a bit of advice. If I were you, I’d stay well away from that woman.’
‘I’ll not take instruction from the likes of you.’
Conall’s condescension seemed to bounce off the other man, who continued to hover over him as he worked, like a troublesome gnat.
‘Come, you have to agree that mark looked like something the Devil would suckle on, did it not?’
‘Many women have marks like that. It’s nothing.’
‘Aye, you would know, I suppose, having seen enough of them naked. But her eyes, he said there was a mark in her eyes. You were close. Did you get a look at it?’
‘No, I did not, and you shouldn’t be stupid enough to believe everything you hear.’
‘No, I suppose not. Rory Mor seemed to take to her, though. Mayhap he’s blinded by lust as usual. He’s not fussy, or so I hear. Like you, he’d bed anything, even a witch.’
‘She’s no witch, just a poor frightened woman and mind how you talk about Rory.’
‘Why? What will you do? Your father is not here to back you up. You’re only the big man when he is around.’
Conall turned quickly and seized the young man by the throat. ‘Meyrick, you need to shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you.’
They stared at each other, locked in mutual hatred, and then Meyrick spat straight into his face and followed it with a fist, propelling Conall back and flipping his mind into a blind fury.
All hell broke loose, and suddenly they were rolling on the floor, in the hay and the horseshit, punching, kicking, gouging. They burst out of the stable and into the yard, pummelling each other mercilessly and then, with one big punch at the point of his jaw, Meyrick was sent reeling back into a horse trough. Conall grabbed him by the neck and used his weight to hold him down under the slimy green water, watching him thrash and gurgle. He would teach him a lesson, alright, the sneering fool.
‘Conall Campbell, you will release him at once. Release him, I say!’
He gave Meyrick one last shove and whirled, spitting on the ground, wiping the blood from his nose. Father Boyle’s face was almost the colour of beetroot, and Conall braced himself for the inevitable.
