Chapter Sixteen
“Forgive him, Father. He is a grave sinner and kens nay better.”
Triona clenched her teeth against a cry of pain when Sir John slapped her for what she had said. He did so with such a cold calm it was terrifying. She wondered if that was how he had slapped her child, and feared it would leave as big a bruise on Ella’s soft, innocent heart as it had on her face. The priest the man had dragged her to after binding her hands together at the wrists looked at her with icy contempt, making it clear that he felt she had just gotten exactly what she deserved. She smothered the urge to stick her tongue out at him, even though it was a mild reaction compared to what she wanted to do to Sir John.
“Are ye certain ye wish to wed with such an impudent woman?” the priest asked.
“She has the land that I want, Father Mure,” replied Sir John. “This is the only way left to me to get it. Struth, this is the only way to end the trouble she has caused me.”
Triona nearly gaped at the man, unable to believe he could blame her for the mess he was now in. Yet, studying his face she could see that he had convinced himself that it was indeed all her fault. She doubted she would ever understand how he could have come to that conclusion. In her mind, it was just more proof that the man was probably mad.
Father Mure looked her over in a way that made Triona feel unclean. “She may be too old to give ye a son.”
It was undoubtedly a sin, but Triona desperately wanted to punch the priest right in the mouth. She could barely believe it, but she may have finally found a priest more contemptuous of women than the one that had served at Banuilt before the fever had taken him. She made a sudden, fierce promise to herself and to all the other women at Banuilt. When she got free—and she refused to believe she would do otherwise—and returned as laird of Banuilt, she would make very certain that any priest who replaced theirs did not see all women as weak, sinful, and worthy of nothing but contempt. There had to be one out there somewhere.
“I am but five and twenty,” she snapped.
“Married for six years and yet ye gave your husband but one child. A girl.”
The way Father Mure said a girl, he might as well have said a demon from hell. His tone of voice made Ella, the greatest gift Triona had ever received, sound like the worst of failures. Triona was not surprised at how angry that made her, but she was a little shocked to hear herself growl and start to rise to her feet, her hands clenched into tight fists. She cursed when Sir John grabbed her by the shoulder so tightly she could not completely smother a gasp of pain, and then pushed her back down onto her knees.
“I dinnae suppose it would occur to ye big, strong, monly men that the bearing of children is as much the mon’s responsibility as the woman’s,” Triona said. “’Tis his seed used in the planting, aye? Mayhap it was Boyd’s fault that I had only the one child and ne’er gave him a son. Mayhap he nay had more than my wee Ella in him.”
Father Mure and Sir John stared at her in shock. Triona was not sure if they were shocked by her angry words or by her suggestion that a man could be at fault for such a thing. She could almost see that shock slowly turn into outrage, however, and braced herself for some retribution. Men like them did not like to be contradicted. She had learned that lesson well from her own father.
“Aye, and mayhap making Ella was one of the greatest things Boyd e’er did,” she added, and smiled, not caring how they made her suffer for speaking what they probably saw as near sacrilege.
“The laird of Banuilt obviously didnae teach ye how a proper, godly wife should act,” said Father Mure.
Triona still found it nearly impossible to believe, but Father Mure was even worse than Banuilt’s old priest had been in his contemptuous beliefs about women. There was no more doubt in her mind. Although she could not recall the priest her family had dealt with when she was growing up and had no clear memory of him spouting such hard words, she knew he had never done anything to stop the sometimes brutal way her father treated her and her mother, which made her think the man had been of the same ilk as these two. Both of the men glaring at her right now apparently chose to ignore the fact that Banuilt had been run mostly by women for almost two years and would have done very well if not for Sir John’s many attempts to destroy it. Every single thing that had brought her close to failing had been Sir John’s doing.
“Are ye absolutely certain there is no other way for ye to gain hold of Banuilt?” asked the priest. “I cannae believe our liege laird wishes it to be held by a woman. It goes against all the laws of God and mon. Mayhap I should go and speak to him for ye.”
“It willnae work. The mon honors Sir Boyd’s choice.”
“I used to serve our liege laird . . .”
“Before he sent ye to me. I ken it. It still doesnae matter. The laird honors Sir Boyd’s last will. So the only way for me to get Banuilt is to marry this bitch.” Sir John glared at Triona. “Dinnae worry, though. After the way she has sullied herself with that bastard Murray, I dinnae mean to keep her for long.”
“Are ye certain ye should be telling the mon that?” Triona asked, even as she wondered how he knew what she had been doing with Brett. “He is a priest and all that. Nay sure ye should be talking to him about your plans to murder me. I may be one of those poor female creatures he appears to think near useless, but murder is murder nay matter who is the victim.”
“Did I say I planned to kill ye? I dinnae recall saying anything about murder.”
“And I didnae hear him say that, either,” said Father Mure. “I did hear, howbeit, that ye, a widow of nay e’en two years, has nay kept herself chaste as is right and proper. It may be past time that ye enter confession and do a penance.”
“And I begin to think that ye are as mad as Sir John,” Triona said.
It did not really surprise her when Sir John hit her again. It did anger her, however. Triona did not think she had ever been so angry before, and yet within moments after falling into the hands of these two men, she had tasted that fierce anger twice already. She had always considered Sir John Grant vain and spoiled, but she now realized he was far worse. He was a cold brute, one who could deal out pain and cruelty without a twitch of true emotion. She suspected he did not simply see women as something beneath him or view them with disdain. He hated them.
“There is no respect in her for the superiority of men,” muttered Father Mure. “She doesnae ken her proper place at all. I am certain our laird, Sir Mollison, would quickly change his mind about all of this if he but kenned what a disrespectful little whore she is.”
“Too late,” said Triona. “The laird has already given this disrespectful little whore, who just happens to be the laird of Banuilt, the full right to seek whate’er justice she deems needed against Sir John Grant for the kidnapping and imprisonment of my entire garrison. It seems our laird doesnae like it when one of his supplicants nearly destroys a large force of fighting men—good fighting men, allies who have weel proven their worth. There are other crimes too numerous to list, which I now hope the laird will listen to, but what Sir John did to my garrison is what made the laird cast him aside and take away all protection.” She saw the priest frown. “Did ye nay ken what Sir John did to my men?”
“Nay, but it doesnae matter,” replied Father Mure. “They were, and are, just common men. I am but surprised that our liege laird would discard a weel-born knight like Sir John for such a reason. Men who can swing a sword can be found or bought anywhere, but a true knight of good blood is worthy of more care. I am certain I can change Sir Mollison’s mind about heeding all your charges and putting his knight in a state of disgrace. I refuse to believe the mon would hold firm to his mad decision to give a mere woman the right to mete out justice.”
Triona barely stopped herself from gaping at the man. Then she decided it was undoubtedly such thinking that got the priest sent away from the laird’s lands to languish in the much poorer church at Gormfeurach. Sir Mollison might hold much the same disregard for her as too many other men did, refusing to accept her word over that of a man, but she was very certain that he valued good fighting men like the ones in Banuilt’s garrison, common born or not. It was what Sir John had done to those men that had finally caused Sir Mollison to heed her charges against Sir John. Any fool should be able to see that the laird would not be made to change his mind.
“Let us get this done,” snapped Sir John. “I wish to have this marriage blessed and consummated before nightfall. Where shall we do this?” He grabbed Triona by the arm and tried to pull her to her feet, only to find himself hanging on to a woman who was as limp as soaking-wet linen.
Something Triona had learned from her father as a way to avoid another blow from his heavy fists was to go completely limp. Not only did he then have some difficulty getting her into a position to strike another blow, but he had had no interest in brutalizing someone who did not appear to be conscious enough to suffer from it. Her mother, long cowed by her father and believing the man could do no wrong, had lectured her on the habit, telling her to stop, but Triona had not heeded her. Now, years of playing that game gave her the skill to remain limp even when Sir John shook her.
“She has swooned,” said Father Mure. “Overcome by maidenly fear, I should think.”
Overcome by revulsion, Triona thought, and prayed that someone would come and find her soon. The game of going limp had worked with her father because he had given up fairly quickly, but Sir John was in no position to do that. She was not sure how long she could hold off the forced marriage with such a trick. Any delay is a good one, she told herself, for it gives time for someone to come and get me free of this nightmare.
Brett paused when Harcourt did and then looked around. They were riding for a place not far from where Sir John had imprisoned the garrison. This part of Gormfeurach land was obviously remote and unpeopled enough for the man to do as he pleased without worrying about being seen or caught. He began to wonder if there were even more crimes Sir John was guilty of, ones he had committed in this lonely place with the surety that they would never be uncovered.
“More wee rocks. The child must have been fair weighted down with them,” said Callum. “Ye would have thought whoever grabbed her would have noticed that she was a bit heavier than she ought to be.”
“And there sits the eagle nest in the crooked tree,” said Brian, looking upward.
Following the man’s gaze, Brett had to shake his head. It would not have been easy for a small child to have seen such a thing unless she was working hard to notice everything around her. Little Ella had learned her lesson about seeing things right to find a path home very well indeed.
Uven hurried up to them on foot. He had taken the chore of slipping ahead of them, into the trees, to see if he could better judge what was in advance of them. With Triona’s life at stake, Brett could not afford any surprises.
“They are just inside those trees,” he said, pointing into the thickest section of the woods just beyond the crooked tree with the eagle’s nest. “There are about ten men as weel as Sir John, and a tall, thin mon I suspect is a priest. Triona was looking just fine, but a moment before I turned to come back here, she went limp.”
“Ye think she is hurt?” asked Brett, holding back his fear for her with difficulty.
“I saw neither mon touch her. Sir John grabbed her and was trying to get her to move toward a place to the left, and she just went limp. He cannae move her, and the mon I think is a priest suggested that she may have swooned.”
“Triona doesnae swoon.”
“But she has learned that ’tis far more difficult to be forced to do something when she is naught but a wet rag in his hands,” said Brian, who shrugged when the others looked at him. “Had a brother who did that whene’er the rest of us looked to be eager to thrash him. He had a limp, ye see, and couldnae run fast.” He grinned. “He stopped doing it after the time we simply picked him up and threw him in the pig’s wallow.”
“Ye would beat on a person with a limp?”
“It was just a wee one, and he was one of those brothers that just seems to beg ye to thrash him every time he opens his mouth.” He unsheathed his sword. “Shall we go and save your lady?”
Brett shook his head, unsheathed his own sword, and nodded. “Sir John is mine.”
Triona winced as Sir John began to drag her along the ground. She was about to give up being limp when a bellow cut through the quiet surrounding them. It was a battle cry, and she was sure it was from men coming to save her.
She abruptly ceased to be limp, leaping up on her feet and kicking Sir John in the shins. Triona savored his loud curse of pain, and when his grip on her loosened, she yanked free. Before she could run away, however, the priest grabbed hold of her and she hesitated to hit him. He might be a very bad priest in her opinion, but he was ordained. It was hard to shake the well-taught rules of respect for such a man that her mother had drummed into her head.
“Ye are going nowhere,” the man snapped, and dragged her over to a tree.
Ignoring him, Triona looked around just as Brett and the others broke through the surrounding trees into the small clearing. The way the men dismounted, two men quickly grabbing the reins of the horses and moving them out of the way, impressed her. Here was the training she had wanted for her own men. The sight of Brett stole her breath away as well. Tall, strong, his sword held expertly in his hand, he was the brave knight every small girl dreamed of. Triona almost smiled at her own romantic thoughts. After one hard look her way, which she returned with a smile, he turned all of his attention on Sir John.
The other men who had come to rescue her were busy cutting down Sir John’s men and chasing after the ones who had bolted, running for their lives into the forest. A couple of sharp screams of pain told her that they had not managed to get very far. Then she looked at Brian and Callum, who, all the while keeping a watch on Brett, came over to stand in front of her. It was only then that she realized the priest had set her in front of him like a shield.
“Wheesht, what a coward ye are to hide behind the skirts of such a wee lass,” she muttered, and could tell by the way the priest clenched his free hand into a fist that her comment had caused his anger to rise.
“I but try to be certain these men dinnae mistakenly kill a mon of the Church, mistaking him for one of the enemy,” Father Mure said.
“Nay a mistake,” drawled Brian, and grinned at the man. “Ye are a priest willingly helping a mon, declared an outlaw by his own laird, to marry a lass against her will.” He poked his sword a little closer and laughed when the priest quickly pulled her more firmly in front of him.
“I am unarmed,” Father Mure said.
“But shielded. Ye want me to move the fool, lass?”
“Nay, he is fine where he is.” She held out her hands. “I would like these gone, if I might.” She stood calmly as he neatly cut through the ropes with his sword. “I dinnae suppose Brett means to capture Sir John alive.”
“Nay.” Brian did not lower his sword, but he looked where Brett faced Sir John. “He may make him sweat a wee bit first, but he will kill him.”
Triona nodded and watched her lover face her enemy. For a moment she feared for Brett, not wishing to see him wounded, or worse. It only took a moment of seeing how he easily and gracefully fended off every swing of Sir John’s sword to know that Brian was right. Brett was going to make Sir John sweat a little and then kill him. She knew that should probably trouble her a little, but it did not. She only had to think of her garrison imprisoned for nearly two years for no reason other than this man’s greed, and how they must have struggled to survive, losing hope with each passing day that they would ever see the outside again. That was the sort of inhumanity that earned Sir John whatever punishment Brett meant to mete out. She only wished she were a man, just long enough to do it herself.
“Your death should be as slow and painful as the one ye condemned her garrison to,” Brett told Sir John, “but I fear I have nay wish to see ye breathe the same air as the rest of us for that long.”
“I didnae kill her garrison and ne’er intended to.” Sir John grunted when Brett’s sword sliced open the front of his jupon, cutting through to split open the skin beneath it. “’Tis nay my fault the guards didnae do what they had been told to. That plan cost me a lot of money.”
Brett almost paused to just stare at the man. Sir John was one of those who never accepted blame for anything. He could see it now. He suspected the man even blamed Triona for saying she did not want to marry him for the way he had tried to destroy Banuilt. They would probably never understand why the man had done all he had, for he did not think clearly or with any sense of the truth.
“I think the people of Gormfeurach will be much better off without ye sitting in the laird’s chair,” he said, and cut the man’s arm.
“So this is why ye mean to murder me, to take what is mine for yourself, just as ye took Lady Triona. She was supposed to be mine. That fool Boyd should ne’er have left her that land, and his error should have been my gain. Instead ye came here and have ruined all my plans.”
For a brief moment Sir John fought fiercely, and Brett actually saw the hint of skill in the man’s use of his sword. Then he saw how badly the man was sweating, his chest heaving with the effort of continuing the fight. There would be some touch of sweet justice in it if he let the fool fight until he stumbled to his knees and had to stay there trembling, unable to save himself as Brett killed him, but Brett decided he really did not have the stomach for it. If Sir John were a worthy opponent there could have been a sense of victory in it all, but the man was no true warrior, and that would make it a cold slaughter of a weak man.
Despite Brett’s decision to be quick about it, Sir John had time to see that he had lost. As Brett drove his sword into the man’s chest, Sir John’s eyes widened with something that looked much like surprise followed rapidly by sheer terror. Brett pulled his sword free and watched Sir John’s body fall to the ground, wondering idly if the man had, in that last breath, caught a glimpse of where his soul was headed. It would certainly not be heaven he saw.
He then looked for Triona and found her standing in front of a tall, thin man who had to be the priest. The man was staring at Sir John in surprise, as if he had believed the man would win. A quick look around told Brett that all of Sir John’s hirelings had been killed or captured, so he walked over to stand in front of Triona.
“Why is that mon hiding behind your skirts?” he asked, and very gently touched the bruises forming on her face.
“He is a cowardly priest,” she said, “who felt Sir John was doing as he should and that I was just some disrespectful little whore who didnae understand what good fortune had befallen her.” She grinned at the look of anger that tightened Brett’s expression.
“Were ye hurt in some way?” Brett asked, fighting the urge to beat the man, despite the fact that he was a priest. “Uven said ye had gone limp.”
“Aye, just a trick to make it verra hard for someone to get ye to do something they wish ye to do.” She saw Sir Brian nod but decided now was not the time to ask why he knew exactly what she was talking about.
“I told ye nay to give him what he wanted,” Brett said.
“I ken it, and I was glad ye ne’er asked me to promise ye that I wouldnae go to him. I would have hated to have to lie to you. Do ye ken if Ella and the women made it home safely?”
“Aye, they did. We met them on the way here.” Brett told her of how Ella had helped them and smiled at her look of pride. “She thinks she ought to get a kitten for that.”
Triona laughed. “Weel, mayhap I will have a look at the kittens in the stables and see if there is one I can abide being treated as if it is a member of the family. Now, I would verra much like to leave this place, but I am nay sure what we should do about this priest.”
“I shall need someone to take me back to Gormfeurach,” Father Mure said.
“I thought ye might be theirs. Poor people of Gormfeurach. A bad laird and a worse priest. They have been twice cursed.”
Father Mure stepped around her to confront her, his face hard with anger. “Ye dinnae understand your place, woman.”
“Och, nay, the fool just called her woman,” muttered Brian.
“Since he has already called me worse, I suppose I shouldnae be surprised. May I?” she asked as she looked at Brett.
Brett noticed how her small hand was curled in a tight fist. “If ye wish.”
Triona punched the priest in the mouth so hard he staggered back with a cry. He stared at his hand when he took it away from his mouth and paled at the sight of his own blood. To her astonishment his eyes rolled back and he collapsed on the ground.
“I didnae hit him hard enough for that,” she muttered.
“Nay.” Brett nudged the priest’s body with his foot. “He swooned when he saw his blood on his hand. Swooned like a wee lass.” He started laughing with the other men and slung his arm around Triona’s shoulders. “Ye really need to stop hitting priests, love.”
“I will do a penance.” She turned into his hold and wrapped her arms around his waist, deeply moved when he hugged her back with obvious affection, even though she wished it was more than that. “May we go home now?”
“Aye.” He kissed the top of her head before setting her aside. “Just let us clear away the mess and get Sir John’s body on his horse.”
She nodded and went to her pony. It would not be easy for the little animal to keep up with the men’s horses, but there was no need of any great speed. Triona wanted to see with her own eyes that her daughter was safely back at Banuilt, but that was the only pressing need she had. It was going to take her a while to accept that her troubles were now over, at least until a new laird came to Gormfeurach, but she would deal with any problems when they arose.
It took her a moment to wonder why she was not happier. Although she did not wish anyone to die, Sir John would never have given up, and his death did not trouble her at all. Then she realized why there was a growing sadness in her: her troubles were indeed over, and that meant that Brett had no more reason to stay at Banuilt.
Turning away so the men clearing up the bodies in the meadow could not see her face, she fought the sudden urge to weep. He had given her no words of love, just affection and passion. He had made no promises except the one to help rid Banuilt of its troubles, a promise he had fulfilled admirably. Brett, as well as Brian, Arianna, and all the others, had no more reason to stay, and they all would undoubtedly leave soon—and it hurt.
She had tried not to nurse any hope in her heart, but it was evident that her heart had not listened to her and had simply gone its own way. Triona struggled to hide how badly it was breaking. At best she had one more night with her lover. She was not going to spoil it by letting him see her sorrow. There would be plenty of days after he was gone to indulge in that.
When he stepped up, brushed a kiss over her mouth, and then set her in the saddle, she gave him her warmest smile. What little time they had together would not be marred by regrets or unfulfilled wishes. Brett, she decided, was going to be blinded by passion if she had anything to say about it. That way he might miss the hurt she knew she would not be able to hide completely when he said farewell.