Amanda Scott (4 page)

The thirty-by-sixty-foot-long hall teemed with men. Not only did they occupy every bench, they also crowded each long side aisle from its line of pillars to its outer wall, leaving a walkway only from the door where Lachlan and the other two stood with Mairi, up that short side aisle and around to the dais.

Beyond Mackinnon, between two of the nearest line of pillars supporting the barrel-vaulted ceiling, Lachlan could see MacDonald of the Isles seated behind the table on the dais in a full-length black robe edged with gold braid. He was flanked by two golden banners bearing the Nyvaig, the “little black ship,” that was both his device and the Great Seal of the Isles. Nearby stood his ever-present body servant.

As Mackinnon tried to espy a suitable seat for her ladyship, MacDonald gestured to him.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Mackinnon said with a bow before turning to obey.

“Look after the door, Hector,” Lachlan said. “I’ll look after her ladyship.”

As the lass stepped aside to permit Hector to obey, she snapped, “What if I do not want you to look after me?”

He grinned as he raised his forearm, inviting her to place her hand upon it. “Faith, lass, but I have always wanted to witness an avenging goddess in action,” he said. “Would you deny me that pleasure?”

Becoming color flooded her cheeks. “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “And you should more properly address me as ‘Lady Mairi.’”

“Should I?” He chuckled, waiting pointedly, his arm still extended.

The chuckle had come from low in his throat, and the sound reached right inside her to inflame the very blood in her veins. She knew her cheeks were red, because she could feel their heat, but her anger had not fazed him. Indeed, she seemed only to amuse the wretched man, yet something about him fascinated her.

It certainly was not his appearance, for although he dressed with an extreme air of fashion and possessed undeniably intriguing eyes, she did not think he was especially handsome. Other women might disagree, she knew, but his hair was too ordinary a brown for her taste—like the dusky brown of a hawk’s wing—and his features too sharply chiseled for beauty. Moreover, he was too tall.

She was not accustomed to craning her neck to meet any man’s gaze. To be sure, her father and brothers were tall, thanks to Viking raiders who had mixed with their Celtic forebears, and yet the man facing her was taller even than Godfrey, the second eldest of her brothers, and so far the tallest. And the man’s brother—for brothers they must be, so much alike were they—was taller yet, a veritable giant. They made a formidable pair.

“Come, lass. They’re all staring at you, so we must find seats or risk drawing his grace’s ire.” He waited, arm out, clearly expecting her to accept his escort.

Knowing she could do her cause no good by creating a scene, and certain he would not simply stand aside, Mairi set her hand lightly on his forearm.

No sooner had she done so, however, than he put his free hand over hers, gave it a decidedly familiar squeeze, and murmured, “Alas, my lady, but I see no room left on any bench unless you would have me order some man from his place, and that, I believe, would cause more of a stir than you’d like.”

Deciding he was determined to stir her temper again, she tried to ignore the large hand entrapping hers as she peered around the hall, only to see instead, to her chagrin, that he was right.

Niall Mackinnon had already reached the far end of the dais, where he stood ready to begin, and although he glanced toward her, he did not meet her gaze. Nor, she knew, would he delay the proceedings to accommodate her.

With a little tug, she pulled her hand from its captor’s grasp and stepped back against the wall, realizing only then that unless she had been so fortunate as to find a place in the front row, she enjoyed a clearer view now than she would have had from anywhere else.

The first hour passed slowly, for despite her young informant’s prediction, MacDonald dealt first with a stream of petty grievances, albeit settling each one with dispatch. The appeal of a decision by a Brehon on the Isle of Lewis likewise went quickly, and at last, Niall called the case against Ian Burk of Isla, for murder.

“Is the accuser in the hall?” Niall demanded in stentorian tones.

“Aye, I’m here, right enough,” declared a barelegged man in a short, shaggy black cloak, a long saffron-colored shirt, and leather shoes with the hair still on them, who stood by a front pillar not far from Mairi. His dark, shoulder-length hair hung in ragged tangles beneath his flat black cap, and he looked grim as he made his way along the crowded front bench and onto the dais.

“Hail forth the prisoner,” Mackinnon commanded.

Two stout men-at-arms escorted poor, well-shackled Ian Burk into the hall through the very door near which Mairi and her two self-appointed guardians stood.

Between his escorts, Ian’s lesser height and wiry build made him look thin and vulnerable. His tawny hair was tousled, and he looked frightened—as well he might, Mairi thought—but he stood straight between his two guards and faced his liege lord bravely as the three passed within arm’s length of her.

Although Ian had not glanced at her, she had no doubt that he had seen her. Even had she been across the room, she knew she must stand out in that assembly of men and would have done so even without her scarlet dress. She likewise had no doubt that Ian would take comfort, however small, from her presence.

That knowledge gave her pause, for the first time since she had learned of his trial, to consider the wisdom of her actions.

She had never spoken up at such a proceeding before, and although she did not doubt that her father would allow her to speak, she could not be certain that any words of hers would sway him if he believed Ian had committed a crime for which he should hang. That her presence might give Ian false hope seemed cruel.

However, that thought lingered only long enough to be dismissed. Ian had been loyal to her from her childhood. He was a staunch friend who had served her well and deserved her loyalty in return. To abandon him to his fate without doing everything she could to protect him would be a much crueler act.

MacDonald let the silence lengthen until Mairi felt her nerves straining and her fears returning in double measure. He was generally a mild man, more diplomat than warrior, known for looking first to his own advantage and that of Clan Donald. To the best of her knowledge, he had never taken part in a battle, but he defended his clansmen and supported other leaders, such as the Pope, the High King of Scots, or the King of England, when he agreed with their acts or intentions.

However, above all, he was a practical man, and thus unlikely to release any prisoner just because his daughter asked him to. MacDonald believed in the rule of law, and as Lord of the Isles and King of the Hebrides, he
was
the law of the Isles.

“State your name,” Niall Mackinnon directed the accuser.

“As God and all here ken fine, I be Mellis MacCoun,” the man snapped.

“With what crime do you charge Ian Burk?”

Red-faced and narrow-eyed, Mellis MacCoun put his hands on his hips and glowered at poor Ian. “I charge him wi’ murder, that’s what, for causing me poor wife Elma’s death, and I’ll have justice, I will. The villain should hang!”

“Before God and this company, Ian Burk, how do you plead to the charge?” the Lord of the Isles inquired in his quiet but clearly audible voice.

The hall was so silent that Mairi could hear herself breathing and could nearly hear her heart pounding in her chest.

“’Twas not me who caused Elma MacCoun’s death,” Ian said. “By my troth, your grace, and before all here, I dinna think I even clapped eyes on the woman the day she went missing, though I dinna ken for a fact what day that were.”

“The accused swears that he is free of guilt,” MacDonald said. “Mellis MacCoun, what manner of proof do you offer us that Ian Burk swears falsely?”

“He were with her,” MacCoun declared angrily. “Others saw them together.”

“Call forth your witnesses then,” MacDonald ordered. “But first, to make the matter plain for us all, on exactly what day did this meeting between them occur?”

“Why, the day she disappeared, o’ course.”

The words stirred a ripple of laughter through the hall, but it broke off when his grace’s gimlet gaze snapped from accuser to audience.

Again, he let the silence stretch tautly before he looked back at Mellis MacCoun and said, “You must forgive me, for even if I could say what day your wife disappeared, the accused declares his belief that he was not with her and says he does not know the day. Therefore I must ask you to supply us with the exact date of her disappearance so we may know that we all refer to the same day.”

“But all here ken the day, your grace.”

Mairi frowned. She did not know. Indeed, she knew little about the murder. She had known Elma MacCoun, because she knew everyone on Isla, but she had not known her well. She recalled that Elma had been Mellis MacCoun’s second wife, rather pretty, and sadly childless.

“He must know that everyone here is not of Isla,” a low voice murmured near her ear. His breath caressed the side of her neck like a warm breeze but was scarcely as soothing, agitating her nerves instead.

She had been trying to ignore his presence, to concentrate on her father’s questions and the answers to them, but her awareness of him had not diminished one whit. Nonetheless, his voice startled her, and his comment stirred her to look around the hall again.

Isla was a well-populated island, and the Finlaggan complex alone employed and housed numerous servants and guardsmen, but Mellis MacCoun should certainly have realized that at least half of those present in the hall were off- islanders, present only for the Council of the Isles. She decided that he simply thought everyone in attendance would somehow already know the details of the crime without his having to relate them.

To be fair, such news would normally travel quickly, carried by seanachies to the remotest areas of the Lordship. Murder was not a common event in the Isles—not without a blood feud between clans or a war in progress, at all events, and her father’s rule of the Isles had been generally peaceful despite his being now, as so often before, at odds with David Bruce, the High King of Scots.

Murmuring had begun again in response to Mellis MacCoun’s insistence that everyone knew the details, but this time it took only a glance from the Lord of the Isles to restore silence.

“What day was it that your wife disappeared?” MacDonald asked. “Come now, man, think. Was it a year ago, a month, a sennight?”

Mellis looked at the vaulted ceiling and sighed. When his frustration was met with more silence, he said abruptly, “No more than a bit past a fortnight, I warrant, but I’m no a priest, am I, counting each day o’ the sennight? Nor each hour, neither, from Prime t’ Sext t’ Prime again. I dinna ken nowt o’ time without yon chapel bell telling me when t’ work or sleep!”

“Then what more can you tell us about that day?” MacDonald asked, his patience apparently undiminished.

Mellis shrugged. “I’m recalling Elma were no there t’ get me supper when I come in late from the stable. ’Twas no till Ewan Beton found her days later that I saw her again. Saw her dead body, that is t’ say,” he added with a bitter look at Ian.

“Have you duties on a Sunday?” MacDonald asked.

“Nay, and I’m thinking ye ken fine I do not. Sunday be a day o’ rest.”

Several grunts indicated that it was no day of rest for some among the company, men that Mairi knew were likely guards or household servants.

“I’d have you think now with your day of rest in mind,” MacDonald urged. “Might Elma have disappeared the day after a Sunday or the day before one? Did anything else unusual happen on that day or near it?”

Frowning, Mellis shook his head. “I dinna ken . . . hark, though! I do, by me troth. I were late in from the stables because I’d ridden wi’ me lord Godfrey t’ Kilchoman and back that day. I should ha’ recalled straightaway, but we’ve been again since, and what wi’ everything . . .” He shrugged.

A near memory twitched in the back of Mairi’s mind as her father said, “Did anyone else accompany you and Lord Godfrey to Kilchoman?”

“Aye, for did we no take three lads t’ begin cleaning yon great house for when Lady Margaret takes the bairns there? And we took two men t’ repair a wall.”

“Very well,” MacDonald said. “Name your witnesses against Ian Burk.”

“Gil Dowell, Fin MacHugh, and Shim MacVey,” Mellis said tersely.

“Which of them saw Ian Burk with your wife?”

“Shim did, for one.”

“Then ’tis Shim MacVey we’ll be hearing from next,” MacDonald decreed.

Niall Mackinnon snapped the order, and a lanky man with fiery red hair made his way forward, climbing over benches, between men until he stood on the edge of the dais. He gaped from Niall Mackinnon to MacDonald to MacCoun, fixing his gaze at last upon Ian Burk.

“Tell us what you saw, Shim MacVey,” MacDonald said.

“I did see him—Ian Burk—walking wi’ Mellis MacCoun’s Elma across the causeway from Eilean Mòr t’ the mainland o’ Isla. Gil were wi’ me. Fin, too.”

“Are Gil Dowell and Fin MacHugh here, as well?”

“Aye,” Shim said, gesturing toward the company.

“Stand up then, the two of you.” When two dark-haired men of the same age and general build as MacVey got reluctantly to their feet, MacDonald added, “Do you both swear that you saw Ian Burk with Elma MacCoun?”

“Aye, laird, I did,” the first growled, echoed by the second.

“What day was that, Shim MacVey?”

Looking as bewildered as Mellis had, Shim said, “I dinna ken the day, your grace, but ’twas the day Mellis said, the last day ever we saw Elma, and she were looking grim, too.”

“Grim?”

“Aye, sure. I’m thinking ’tis likely she were that scared o’ being murdered!”

“Did you see Ian Burk kill her?”

“I did not! But then, I never clapped me eyes on the woman after.”

“Are you sure it was the same day described by Mellis MacCoun?”

“Stands t’ reason, I’m thinking, ’cause we never did see Elma again.”

“Do you agree with that, Gil Dowell?”