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‘Are you trying to kill him? By God, the Laird will hear of this. You will be punished. Mark my words.’
Meyrick sat up unsteadily, observed by a group of dirty children nearby, mouths open at the spectacle. Father Boyle rushed forward and tried to help Meyrick out of the trough, but he swayed and fell back into it, half dragging the priest in with him. The children giggled and pointed.
‘Away with you, cheeky wee snots,’ screeched Father Boyle in their direction whilst trying to haul Meyrick to his feet.
Conall tried and failed to keep a straight face, his anger now spent on the pounding he had given Meyrick.
‘Conall, can you not come and help me get him out?’
‘He can drown for all I care,’ said Conall as he walked away, hearing Father Boyle’s voice shouting at his retreating back.
‘One day, young man, you’ll get what’s coming to you.'
***
It was dark, and his knees were numb from kneeling at the altar by the time Conall completed his penance in the chapel. God knows where Meyrick had been taken off to, but he was glad it was out of his sight. Rory had been angry with him for fighting again and had raged at him for what seemed like hours.
‘You will do your penance, or else there’ll be no patrol. I’ll have you mucking out the stables every day to learn some humility and restraint.’
No point in explaining Meyrick’s part in it all. And he had not told Rory what had been said about him. Therefore most of the blame fell on him, so now here he was.
To hell with it, he’d had enough. He got up to go, and there was Father Boyle, waddling towards him like a Yuletide goose fattened for the oven. Wasn’t gluttony supposed to be a sin?
‘I hope you have done your penance and obtained God’s forgiveness for your violence against Meyrick.’
Conall rolled his eyes. ‘Aye, Father, I’ve done my penance as instructed. Rest assured, God has heard me apologise over and over and over.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, and now, I will bid you goodnight, Conall,’ he said stiffly.
‘Goodnight,’ said Conall. He strode out and at the door, turned to the priest with a smile and shouted, ‘A thousand Hail Mary’s I’ve said, Father. A thousand Hail Mary’s, and still I want to rip that bastard’s throat out.’
Chapter Three
Kenna hurried along to the great hall. Her father had summoned her and didn’t like to be kept waiting. She had never figured out which was worse, being beneath his contempt or being the target of it. Usually, it was the former, but today, his summons boded ill. Something was afoot, but she was wise enough not to question his order.
She had been told to change into her best dress. There wasn’t much to choose from, as she was rarely given nice things, but a servant had laid one out, at her father’s instruction, the red one with all the lace and ruffles and a very low bodice, not that she had much to stuff in it. So now here she was with her long hair teased into elaborate coils with ribbons and all manner of adornments trussed up in it, lips and cheeks rouged and pinched to bring colour to them. Kenna’s legs shook, and her palms were sweaty as she rushed along, with the stays of the dress digging in, feeling that she looked little better than a cheap whore.
When she got to the hall, her father and stepmother were standing before the fireplace with an old man who looked every bit as ridiculous as she felt. He was trussed up in a fine jacket, the firelight shining off its faded blue silk, his white ruffled neckerchief at odds with his wizened face. His legs were too short, and his shoulders sloped straight down from his neck, so the jacket, which might have looked dashing on a bigger man, swamped him and gave Kenna the impression of a child dressing in his father’s clothes.
The stranger turned rheumy eyes to her and smiled benignly when she approached, like a kindly grandfather. When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down violently, the skin around it as slack as a cow’s udders. Kenna thought he looked ridiculous, and she stifled the urge to giggle, which was easy when she caught her father’s gimlet eyes.
‘Come here, girl and stand before me,’ he commanded in his usual tone of disgust. Kenna did as she was bid.
‘Well, what do you think, Donald? Take a good look. Check her teeth if you need to.’
‘Ah, no need for that, no need for that,’ said the man laughing. He came up to Kenna and took her hand in his, placing the other on top. Up close, he smelled sour, like milk left too long in the pail, and his hands felt as dry as sun-bleached bones.
He glanced back at her father. ‘Ah, but she’s a nervous little thing. I can feel her hand shaking. Nothing to worry about, my dear. I am Donald Menzies, Laird of the clan of that name.’
Kenna tried to curtsey as she had been taught, but it was awkward while he held on to her hand. A tense silence followed as Kenna did not know what was expected of her, and, fearful of incurring her father’s wrath, she gazed at her stepmother, Edme, for reassurance. The woman seemed to have developed a sudden fascination with her feet, refusing to meet her eye.
‘Are you mute girl as well as stupid?’ snarled her father. ‘The Laird Menzies requires a response.’
‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance Laird. I have not heard of Clan Menzies before. Do you hail from close by?’ Kenna forced out the words, fear tying her tongue.
‘Nay lass, my stronghold is in the far north of here at Malcrieffe, and I have ridden three days to get here. The journey was certainly not wasted, well worth the effort to gaze on such elegance and beauty and what a pretty dress you have on.’
Was the old fool blind? She knew she looked ridiculous.
