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Now it was the turn of the younger woman to take to weeping. “Please, laird, please… Have mercy. My bairn will have no da. How will we manage?”
A fair question. The family would be destitute, and it would therefore fall to him to provide for them. The Mullett menfolk might be violent traitors, but, as earl and laird, he could not let women and children starve on his land.
“Why?” he demanded of the sullen trio. “Why did ye do it? What had Lady Katherine done that ye would despise her so?”
Perhaps because he realised his fate was already sealed, one of the lads, by the name of Dougie if Robbie’s memory served, struggled to his knees and glared up at him. “She be English. Not one o’ ours. A sassenach. She dinnae belong here.”
Robbie dismounted. He circled the men, taking his time, regarding them from all angles. “Is that what all of ye think?” he asked at last.
Dougie twisted his neck to face his laird. “Aye. We do. ’Er brother killed seven o’ me cousins.”
“Ah, aye, I do recall that. They had been reivin’ on his land, had they not? Stole a dozen sheep an’ killed at least as many more.”
Dougie spit on the floor. “Sheep,” he snarled. “A ewe’s no’ worth a man’s life.”
“Such a pity none o’ your cousins shared your view. They might ha’ still been with us now.”
“The English are our enemies,” Fergus put in. “Ye cannae be meanin’ tae wed one o’ them.”
“I see. And, ye decide on such matters, do ye?”
“’Tis just no’ right,” Fergus ploughed on, seemingly oblivious to his laird’s thunderous expression. “Ye should—”
His reasoning was rudely interrupted by Robbie’s boot colliding with his chest to send him sprawling in the dust.
Robbie grasped him by the collar and hauled him upright again, then bent to speak directly into his face. “Iam laird.Idecide what is right and what is not. Ye an’ your mutton-headed brothers are nothing more than cowardly traitors. Murderers, who cannae even get that right. Ye shall die for your treachery, an’ ye may consider yourselves fortunate that I will settle for a quick hanging.”
Meg Mullett flung herself to her knees and clawed at his trousers. “Laird, I beg of ye… Not me boys. Not all o’ me lads…”
At a signal from Robbie, one of the guards took hold of the woman and helped her to her feet as gently as might be managed. Robbie was genuinely sorry for her, for the loss she must now endure. She, and her distraught daughter-in-law, were just as much victims in all of this as Katherine had been. But he had no option. Such a crime could not go unpunished. Examples must be made. By now, the entire countryside for miles around would know what had happened. He could not show weakness.
“Take them tae the castle. They can spend their final night in my dungeon, contemplating their fate. Charles, see that they are dangling from my battlements by first light tomorrow. All will see what awaits those who think tae raise their hand tae me and mine.”
Robbie swung back into his saddle, leaving Charles to oversee the prisoners. He did not care to lay eyes upon their thuggish faces again, at least not while they continued to draw breath.
Even after the woman was out of earshot, the plaintive sound of Meg Mullett’s heartbroken wailing seemed to pursue him right the way to his own drawbridge.
Fucking stupid bastards.
Robbie glowered at the flames leaping in his hearth. The jug of ale at his elbow remained untouched. The platter of roast duck, carrots, and turnips sent up to his solar by Mistress Hollett had long since gone cold.
How had he been so stupid? What madness had assailed him to make him think this alliance could possibly work? The scars of enmity ran too deep. Old hurts, the thirst for revenge…
His people would never accept his marriage to an English noblewoman, and seeing three of their own lose their lives over it would not advance his cause one bit. He was about to make martyrs out of three brainless idiots, and he had no doubt there would be more bloodshed before he got his way. He had but to cast an eye over his men to witness their distaste for his coming alliance. They did not want peace with the hated English, they did not understand it.
Surely, when their farms thrive…? When they no longer go hungry in the winter because the Marquis of Otterburn trampled their crops or seized their beasts, in retaliation for similar treatment meted out to his tenants? Surely, then, they will understand.
Perhaps, but such a happy state of affairs seemed a long way off. In the meantime, how would he best keep his bride safe from those who would seek to finish what the addle-pated Mulletts started? He did not relish the prospect of taking a switch to Kat, but he saw no alternative. The next attack upon her might be better thought out and more efficiently executed. She must learn the crucial importance of vigilance, and of doing as he told her. Always.
Luckily, Stephen agreed. It would have been awkward had he not, but the marquis was as determined as Robbie to make their treaty work. He would take responsibility for Flora’s safety in England, and his methods would not be dissimilar.
Robbie allowed himself a wry, mirthless chuckle. He might have found common ground with his old adversary, but he would doubtless make an enemy of his wife.
His musings were interrupted by a knock at his door. It would be young Billy, probably, come to take the empty platter back to the kitchens. Robbie called out to him to enter.
It was not the lad from the scullery, though, who appeared in his doorway. Robbie narrowed his eyes at the sight of his bride. She looked somewhat pale, though on the whole remarkably well, considering…
She wore a gown made of soft blue wool, and no headdress. Her mahogany-coloured hair had been wound into a plait which hung over her right shoulder, almost to her waist. He recalled the silken feel of it between his fingers when she had lain in his bed the previous night. That seemed a lifetime ago.
