Page 57 of Bride of the Mad Laird
He smiled. He looked forward to resistance. His men would cut a ruthless path through the feeble MacKinnon Clan and any allies who were fool enough to follow them.
He’d see to it that the castle was destroyed, stone by stone, that Laird Tòrr’s ships would be burned, his peasants disbursed and starving, their animals slaughtered, and their cottages and all their paltry possessions destroyed.
He hummed a pleasant tune as he wrote. The prospect of hanging MacKinnon from a gibbet in his own courtyard had great appeal. He looked forward to the foolish lad’s resistance.
He took out his sealing wax, melted it over a candle, dropping the molten wax on to the folded parchment, and pressed it with his seal, the Clan crest and its motto:Buaidh no Bas.Conquer or Die.
There would be no second chance.
CHAPTERTWENTY
Even before he ripped open the parchment, Tòrr felt the malevolence of the man who had sent it scrabbling with bony fingers along his spine, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise up.
The message was as he’d expected. Hand over Lyra, or death and destruction would follow at the hands of Laird MacDougall.
At least this would provide clarity to his Council. There was no doubting his adversary’s intention.
Resisting the urge to fling it into the fire, he placed the parchment on his desk and returned to his armchair. His mind was made up. There would be no acquiescence to MacDougall. Now, all he had to do was persuade the Council to come to the same decision.
He pulled his cloak around him and leaned back in his seat in a search for a comfortable position in which to spend the night.
* * *
After a fitful sleep, Tòrr woke before dawn. He rose and splashed his face with water, groaning at the discomfort in his back and shoulders.
He headed downstairs to the dungeon where he found the gallowglasses huddled under the watchful eye of the jailer, Tòmas, a stout fellow who always struck Tòrr as being far too cheerful for his role.
The two men were now clad in rough-woven shirts. He smiled at the thought of the itching the flax would incur.
He was yet to decide what their fate would be.
The men greeted him with groveling words.
“Please show us God’s mercy, dear Laird MacKinnon,” one of them said, his hands lifted in a parody of prayer.
The other was equally wretched.
“We bear ye nay ill will, me laird. We merely followed the orders of the man who pays us.”
“And who would that man be, pray tell?” Tòrr said smoothly, having no doubt at all who that man would be.
One of them nodded. “Why, ‘tis the Laird of the MacDougalls, he who resides in Duart Castle.”
Tòrr nodded and turned to go, but the other man cried out to him.
“If ye let us free, we’ll serve ye just as bravely.”
Tòrr pshawed loudly at this affront. “And, I daresay, with as little loyalty.”
He left the dungeon with instructions to Tòmas to provide the men wi’ water to drink and a bucket in which to relieve themselves.
Stripes of pink and gold were breaking through the grey dawn sky when he reached the battlements. He gazed out over the Sound, the water shimmering silver in the morning light.
He knew what he wished to say to his Council, but first they would need to hear about last night’s skirmish. The incursion into the castle was an act of war on the part of MacDougall and his missive laid out his demands in no uncertain manner.
The Council was now faced with a clear choice – hand over the Lady MacInnes, or face war.
A cruel fist was tightening in his belly when footsteps on the stone walkway had him turn to find Edmund hurrying toward him.
