“Aye, most are the remnants of other groups that went o’er there to fight, gain some coin.” He smiled at her. “And, aye, I have some. Hid it weel enough that it was ne’er found and, luck was with us in that small way at least, for the mon who caged us kept all our saddles. They held our treasure. On the long journey home we did keep our word and didnae hire out our swords, but we did have to defend ourselves a few times and collected some wealth from those we defeated. A few were prizes we ransomed for handsome sums.”
He frowned. “Then I drew near home and heard the rumors of a battle at Glencullaich. So, all the way here we gathered as much information as we could. ’Tis how I kenned my brother was dead,” he said, emotion making his voice unsteady. “Tell me.”
Annys did but was as vague and gentle as she could be in the details about David’s death. There was no need to dwell on the painful horror of it all. She could see by the grief darkening his eyes that Nigel knew it had been a hard death. It was much easier to tell him about Biddy and how she had paid for her crimes, despite the lingering sting of that betrayal.
“One of our own,” he muttered, as shocked as everyone else had been. “Hard to believe.”
“Aye, but e’en her sisters admit that Biddy thought of little more than of becoming a lady, someone who would have rule o’er others. I suspicion Adam and his mon Clyde recognized that greed inside her and were quick to use it. The ones who used her, killed her, and it wasnae an easy death.”
Nigel nodded. “I dinnae believe in torturous punishments but cannae find any sympathy for what happened to her.”
“Nor does anyone here. Ye are to stay here then?”
“Oh, aye.” Nigel laughed. “My adventure in France was enough to cure me of any urge to seek another. From the moment I woke up in that French hell, all I have thought about is getting back to Glencullaich. My only regret now that I am finally back here is that I was too late to say fareweel to David.” He gave her a sad smile when she briefly clasped his hand to offer comfort. “Ye chose the perfect resting place for him, Annys. He would often sit up there, enjoying the view and thinking of ways to better life for us all.”
“I ken it. I was thinking to bury our dead from the battle beside him.”
“Excellent idea. They, too, belong up there, overseeing the land they fought so hard for. Who died?”
Annys told him who had been lost. She discovered it eased some of her concern about whether this man she did not know all that well would be a good laird. He was saddened by each one she named, knowing more about a few of them than he did the others, and revealing a true grief over their loss. That he would recall anyone after so long a time away told her that he cared for the people as much as David had.
Nigel pushed away from the table. “Give me one hour,” he said. “I wish to think and walk about. Then,”—he looked at Harcourt and then at Annys—“I believe we should meet in the ledger room and have a talk.”
And there went what little appetite she had, Annys thought. She watched Nigel leave with his man Andrew and another who quickly left his seat at a signal from Nigel. Annys looked across the table at Harcourt who was frowning after the man. He did not look very concerned though and she told herself she would not be either. She also knew she was lying to herself.
“What do ye think, Andrew? Kerr?” Nigel asked as the three of them walked around the outside of the keep, idly surveying what damage had been done. “Sir Harcourt and my brother’s wife?”
“Lovers,” said Andrew. “Mayhap e’en in love.”
“And that wee lad Benet?”
“Theirs,” said Kerr. “Looks like ye just a bit, but nay so much when that mon is standing close to him.”
“I think the same. I would be angry, condemn her as a whore, if I didnae ken her at all,” said Nigel. “But I did ken her ere I left. True, she was little more than a child sent to learn how to be the lady of the keep before she actually married the laird, but I find it verra difficult to believe she would betray David or try to pass off a bastard child as his heir.” He sighed. “I also ken poor David could ne’er have sired a child.” He nodded when his companions winced at the soft reminder of what had happened to David.
“Ye think your brother got Sir Harcourt to play the stud? To breed a child he could then call his own?” asked Andrew after a few moments of thoughtful silence.
“I do and I also think that everyone here kens it,” said Nigel. “I saw the way they looked when we were all together on the steps to the keep.”
“It was a good plan,” said Kerr. “Didnae work to keep Sir Adam away but it might have.”
“Since Sir Adam kenned full weel that David couldnae sire a child since he was the one who set that mutilating bastard on my brother, I think it only made him angrier. Aye, especially when it became evident that no one here would e’er deny that Benet was David’s son. Nay, nor when David’s claiming the boy openly made it true by the laws of the court and the Church. But, now, I need to decide what to do about it.”
“Because ye wish your own get to be the heir.”
“When and if I have any, aye.”
“Ah, ’tis the ‘if ’ ye think on. Ye could breed naught but lassies.”
“Or none at all. Cannae see that happening but it could.”