Page 13 of Beyond Dreams

Returning to Duncan’s original statement to him, Graeme remarked, “I have some faith that we might depart your nuptials with more than only a hideous bride, but leave with a few more than the fifty promised us, and I’ve tasked the lads with making discreet inquiries. We’ll welcome any who want to fight for right under the MacQuillan’s banner.”

Duncan nodded, pleased with this, supposing it was not only a far-fetched possibility.

Among the peasants and serfs, and to a degree in all the less prosperous regions all around Scotland, war and a rough winter and wet spring had taken its toll; there were plenty of disappointed, desperate men, ripe for tumult and strife, for an eviction of loyalty, and these were lean and worrisome times all around Scotland. The man who might fight at your side in the morning or plough the field with you in the afternoon might raise his sword against you in that night or on the morrow, falling in with one who promised something greater than worry and hunger.

Any fighting man inside the MacHeth demesne might be receptive to persuasion, since it was known in the Highlands that the MacQuillan army was treated fairly and provisioned generously—and that they maintained the gratitude and esteem of the higher offices of the land. Surely, some of those men did only wish for glory, in both purpose and status, neither of which was likely to be found as part of the MacHeth force.

“I would nae mind taking home more men,” Duncan said, “or sending off a hundred to Wallace straightaway.”

Graeme grinned again. “One thing at a time, mate.” He pointed to the mountain looming ahead of them, upon which Hewgill House was nestled. “Let’s get you united with your sweet bride first.”

Duncan’s lip curled. Many tales he’d heard of Ceri MacHeth over the last year and most of them were too conflicting to have any idea what might be truth—she was tall or short, fat or sword thin, bonny beyond imagining or unsightly enough to provoke gasps, depending upon the bringer of news. Only one constant had been known in any gossip that had reached Duncan’s ears: there was nothing sweet about Ceri MacHeth.

Ten minutes later, Duncan and Graeme led the party of the MacQuillans to the gates of the MacHeth fortress. Aside from Graeme and his stepmother and stepsister, Duncan had brought only one unit of twenty men-at-arms. His standard bearer approached first, pausing at the gate and low curtain wall, the latter never having been expanded beyond its original ten foot height, the keep’s position on the mountainside a huge impediment to an attack. The portcullis groaned and creaked as it was raised. A second later, the interior gate, not much taller than Duncan on his steed, was pulled open and the party entered the small bailey.

He knew that the remote position of both Thallane and Hewgill House meant that neither of them saw many visitors, but still he’d rather expected to be greeted upon their arrival, certainly since they came for what should have counted as a celebration.

Dismounting, he approached the carriage that followed—too fine a vehicle for the rough landscape of the Highlands but which Doirin had made Duncan’s father purchase for her years ago. He half expected that he would be subjected now to the whining and grumbling of that woman and his sister, Moire, for the treacherous ride they’d been forced to endure up the mountainside.

Countless times in his life, either or both his stepmother or his stepsister had disappointed him. Sadly, this was not one of those times.

“We might have been warned,” Doirin started in on him as soon as the carriage door was pulled open, “about the precarious incline or the shoddy state of the roads. This is a disgrace, Duncan, and I insist you take to task the MacHeth first thing over this nuisance.”

“Duncan,” Moire whined as she followed her mother out of the carriage, “look at my hands, all white and blue, so long were they clenched for the harrowing ride.”

“Aye,” he said, as he had for years. He never engaged, never commented or rebutted any of the litany of complaints. He’d learned it only begged greater bleating from them. But then if he did not acknowledge their complaints, this lack only invited another matter about which they might stew and grumble. A simpleayeusually sufficed. A few more weeks and he’d be shot of them altogether.

In the meantime, he did not discount Doirin’s usefulness. Aside from needing her and her daughter to lend authenticity to the MacQuillan’s diplomatic visit, Duncan could not disregard the other role Doirin would fill. She was chatty, which would go far to take so much pressure from him. Though often dull or self-serving—she mostly liked to garner attention by pretending she was a greater lady than God or this life had actually made her—her prattle was generally unoffensive and left little room for awkward silences or gaps in communication. Thus, Duncan was relieved of any responsibility, didn’t have to force himself to be sociable or engage in useless blather. He could let his stepmother attend all that nonsense.

He swept his glance over the façade of Hewgill House—a hilltop fort, Duncan’s father had always disparagingly referred to it—which had never not appeared murky and gloomy, since the timber used in the construction had been fired to create a slag-like core to the walls.

The door opened just as he led the two women toward it and out stepped Black Hugh, who’d Duncan had seen just six months ago when the betrothal contracts were signed, but who seemed to have aged by a decade since then. The expression on the man’s face suggested he was of a mind with Duncan in at least one regard: let’s just get it done.

Duncan might and should have greeted his host first, but Doirin was present so that wasn’t going to happen.

“Hugh the MacHeth,” she cooed, her voice dripping with good will but little sincerity. “Too long it has been since we’ve kept amiable company. How pleased we are to put to rest so fruitless and deadly the dagger of turmoil.”

Next to Duncan, Graeme made a noise that was either a humorless snort or an ignoble response to the mention of thedagger of turmoil.

Hugh was unimpressed as well, grumbling something unintelligible before waving them inside with no measure of ceremony. Duncan took no offense to this but did exchange a look with Graeme before they followed, finding his cousin’s eyes narrowed as well. Graeme then had noticed as well that Black Hugh hadn’t once met Duncan’s gaze. Graeme inclined his head and then hung back a moment. Duncan felt confident that he was now instructing their few men that something might be amiss and their attention should be observant and keen.

The door opened directly into the hall, where it appeared little had been done to say that a wedding would take place here today, though dozens of people were gathered into the chamber. Aside from the obvious lack of ornamentation, the hall itself was untidy, the floor unswept save by trains of gowns and soft-soled feet, while cobwebs glittered and danced about the chandelier overhead. Indeed, only a few of the candles overhead had been lit so that the vaulted chamber was dimly lit, everything and everyone within appearing as shadows highlighted by dark color.

“I thought as much,” Doirin murmured as Hugh went on ahead. “I should have said to you, Duncan, that the feast might have been held at Thallane. I have come to a peasant’s wedding, it seems.”

Even Moire noted the lack. “I feel I’ve squandered this most fine silk gown, mother.” Her shoulders sank. “Will they bother to serve a wedding meal, I wonder.”

All the better if no plans have been made for that, Duncan thought, seizing on what seemed a grand idea, saying vows and simply departing with his bride, not spending one more minute than necessary under the MacHeth roof.

Still, he was marginally put at ease, since among the ‘guests’ there were several women and children, all local denizens he judged by their plain garb, but who would not have been included if Black Hugh had some scheme in mind to make this not a wedding but a funeral.

Duncan sent his gaze again to Black Hugh, less concerned but still curious about his complete lack of proper greeting, who now stood with his brother, the wiry and unpredictable Wedast, and amid several other kin and household retainers. Duncan was actually, at this point, surprised to see a cleric among them, though considered it yet another sign that though the lack of welcome was nearly objectionable, it seemed they intended to honor the betrothal. He hoped the same could be said of all the details of the contract, specifically that the MacQuillans and MacHeths should abide now in peace, with this union.

As Black Hugh now stood with his hands at his front, his dark gaze fixed on the stairs that led to the floors above, Duncan sighed and moved to the forefront of his party, standing beside Hugh and the cleric, a man more round than tall, who Duncan wouldn’t have put above ten and eight as an age, though surely he must be more advanced in years to be draped in so grand a cassock, gown, and cap.

The cleric tipped his head back to look up at him, and Duncan didn’t for one minute believe that the gulp of apprehension he witnessed in the man had anything to do with his diminutive size in relation to Duncan towering over him. Something was afoot. Few would meet his eye, and of those that did, not long did their gazes remain. Wedast chewed almost feverishly at the inside of his cheek, so said his twitching mouth and jaw. Black Hugh’s knuckles were white where he held his hands together in front of him.

Duncan turned his gaze back to Doirin and Moire and then beyond, to Graeme at their side. Once more Graeme’s countenance matched Duncan’s. He felt it, too—something was off. Stealthily, Graeme moved around behind the MacHeths, silently positioning himself close to Hugh, at the ready.

---