Book 8 > Highlander Vows
1361
Isle of Skye, Scotland
When a man discovered his destiny, he could either control it or let it destroy him, and Brodee Blackswell had no intention of being defeated this day or any other.
“What say ye? Will ye accept my reward?” King David asked again. But it was not a question. The men present in the great hall of Dunvegan Castle, the stronghold of the MacLeod clan, knew as well as Brodee did that the King of Scots often disguised a command as a request. The clever king loved to test the extent of his subjects’ loyalty, and he was testing Brodee’s now.
Uneasy looks were exchanged surreptitiously among the MacLeod brothers, their wives, and the council that served the MacLeod laird. But they were not sly enough, and their expressions revealed the underlying uncertainty of Brodee’s response. The doubt did not surprise him. They questioned the extent of the burden he would accept, not his allegiance to the king.
He had proven his devotion over the last year as King David’s right hand. He’d recaptured more than twenty castles for the king, driving out men who thought to defy David—or worse, unseat him from the throne. The sieges had earned Brodee the sobriquet of “the Savage Slayer.” He suspected the king himself had first whispered the nickname. Brodee had no doubt it was to make those who thought to defy the king—or to support his greatest enemy, his nephew the Steward, who coveted the throne—to reconsider. He didn’t mind being called the Savage Slayer, though. He knew it wasn’t true, but his enemies did not, making the nickname quite beneficial. It had ended a few battles before they had begun, sparing numerous lives. For that, he could withstand the fear he saw in the eyes of others.
“Blackswell?” The king shifted forward, his hands coming to rest upon the table. His blue gaze delved, attempting to uncover Brodee’s answer. A frown appeared on the man’s regal face, and the drumming of his fingers broke the silence in the room. His brown eyebrows arched high, David’s irritation apparent.
Dangerous situations called for deliberate questions. The king was offering him Silas Kincaide’s castle as a reward for killing the man, who had been one of his nephew’s biggest supporters. Of course, Brodee would first have to seize the castle from the Kincaides, who still occupied it. That would not be a problem. Silas’s younger, weaker brother was now laird and would be easily defeated. The problem, as Brodee saw it, was that the king had also offered Silas’s widow as a gift to be Brodee’s new bride.
He took a measured breath, and then he spoke. “When would the wedding take place?”
A spark of triumph lit King David’s eyes. “Immediately.”
The king might as well have said, I sentence ye to Hell. Brodee didn’t want a damn wife.
Careful, careful. He had to tiptoe. He walked upon a shore of shells that was the king’s pride. “I beg pardon, Sire, what was her name?” Brodee had already forgotten it. Perhaps unconsciously? No, purposely.
Royal lips pressed together in annoyance. “Lady Patience Kincaide, originally of the Bullard clan…the traitors,” David spat. “Though I’m told she’s a rare beauty.”
That was supposed to be an enticement. It wasn’t. It was anything but. Still, Brodee gave the expected answer. “I’m pleased to hear it.”
A collective sigh came from the occupants of the room, and the spark of triumph moved from the king’s eyes to his lips and twisted them into a smirk. Brodee shifted onto his heels, sending the weight of his annoyance away from the king. David thought he’d won, and he had. But only because Brodee would triumph, too. He wanted his own lands, ones he had earned, not property his elder brother had given him. His brother would inherit the lairdship of Clan Blackswell when their father died. He didn’t begrudge Broch that. He’d been born a cry before Brodee, thus it was his by the luck of birth order. This desire to gain a holding Brodee had worked for and the loyalty of men pledged to him, was precisely why he’d accepted the king’s offer to become his right hand in the first place. He’d figured—correctly, it seemed—that if he served the king well, David would reward him.
What he’d not considered was that the reward of land would include a bride.
Unease danced a jig in his gut.
“Blackswell, do ye accept my gifts or nae?” Irritation laced the king’s words.
A hard gaze fell on Brodee, almost like a physical blow. He directed his attention to the man sitting to the king’s right, Iain MacLeod. The laird was the king’s oldest and closest friend. The MacLeod stared at him, as if searching for his secrets. Brodee had many, but he’d die before revealing them.
A slow smile, one of interest, spread across the MacLeod’s face, but thankfully, he did not speak. Broch had told Brodee that the MacLeod was an uncommonly observant man, and Brodee did not need the laird noting things that were private. Especially things that might anger the king and cause Brodee to be stripped of the land and castle in question.
“I gladly accept yer gifts,” Brodee said, though awarding him a castle teeming with warriors who supported the Steward and who would despise Brodee for killing their laird was hardly a gift. It was more like another mission to drive out the men who did not support the king. Except when this one was completed, Brodee would become laird of the castle and create another branch of the Blackswell clan—the Blackswells of Skye.
The king flashed a conqueror’s smile, sharp and gleaming, before raising a hand to wave over one of his personal guards. “Send a missive to Laird Bullard. Tell him the Slayer will wed his daughter and will fetch her from the castle.”
“Beg pardon, Sire,” the guard began when he approached, “but I thought ye were rewarding the Slayer with the castle?”
“I am, ye foolish pup,” the king snapped.
To the young guard’s credit he did not show any reaction to the public scolding, though his ears did turn red.
“See if ye can follow along,” David said, his expression holding a note of mockery. “Bullard dunnae ken that Blackswell will nae simply ride to Crag Donnon Castle and fetch his daughter.” He paused, picked up his goblet, took a swig of wine, and plunked the cup down on the dais, all the while keeping his eyes upon the now-fidgeting guard. “Can ye imagine why it may be that I dunnae wish Bullard to ken that Blackswell will take Crag Donnon in my name and make it his by my good graces?”
Brodee sighed inwardly. Whenever the king’s voice rose several octaves as it just had it meant he was at the beginning of a speech. Brodee hoped this one was short. He was eager to get to his men.
The guard looked suddenly as if he might be ill. The poor clot-heid was likely terrified to answer, yet he knew he must. David was a good king, but he could be a harsh king, made so by the brutal times during which he reigned.
“I imagine,” the guard began, his voice cracking, “that ye wish to prevent the Kincaide warriors from hearing word of the Slayer’s siege. That way,” the guard continued jerkily, “the Kincaides will nae be able to mount a defense before the Slayer and his men arrive at the castle.”
King David slapped both his palms against the dark wood of the table and grinned. “By God, I think ye do have some wits, after all.”
“Aye, Sire, thank ye, Sire.” The guard’s face was now red as a beet.
David pointed at the young man. “Dunnae ye ever forget, the fewer people who ken my plot, the better. Can ye remember that, Farquort?”
The guard blinked in surprise, likely at the king knowing and using his given name. The young man appeared to grow in height. “I pledge nae to ever forget it,” Farquort said, his tone now strong with the sense of importance the king had managed to give him by simply knowing who he was.
That was the thing about David. He was wickedly smart and surprising, and underlying his maneuverings for his kingdom was his real regard for his subjects, though he would manipulate them, without a moment of pause, for what he considered the greater good of Scotland.
“Farquort, ye will tell Bullard that the bargain is accepted, and I’ll expect him to denounce my nephew publicly and make his support of me kenned immediately, by word and deed.”
The guard nodded. “Any particular deed, Sire?”
“Aye. He already kens what is required.”
Brodee cleared his throat, hoping to draw the king’s attention, as he did not know the terms himself. The king’s gaze fell on Brodee. “Ye desire to ken the terms I gave Bullard?”
“Aye. I dunnae wish to be uninformed,” Brodee said.
Or wed, but that wish is hopeless now.
“Off with ye, Farquort,” the king commanded, holding to his comment that the fewer people privy to his plans, the better.
Once the guard had left the room, the king continued. “After ye get yer new home in order, ye’ll join forces with Bullard to take back the Gordon stronghold.”
A suspicion rose in Brodee’s mind, one he hoped was wrong. “Surely, ye dunnae trust Bullard to help stop another enemy simply because he weds his daughter to me?”
A dark look crossed the king’s face. Whether because of the thought of treachery or because Brodee was questioning his decision, Brodee couldn’t say. David swiped a hand over his jaw, his nostrils flaring. “I will trust him as much as I trust any man who was formerly aligned against me unless he proves I should nae trust him at all. He is the one who warned us that Kincaide and his men would try to overcome me on my trip to Edinburgh.”
The desire to point out that Bullard may well have sacrificed Kincaide to gain something greater, like King David’s favor, made Brodee’s teeth ache, but he clenched them together to hold in the words. David would not like his decisions being questioned—twice—in front of so many others.
“I’m pleased ye’ve accepted my gifts of land and wife.” The king did look pleased. With himself.
Brodee could do no more than nod. His thoughts were locked on his impending marriage. Was Lady Kincaide a viper like her father? It didn’t matter. Brodee would wed her because he had to in order to get what he desired. He had no doubt if he refused the lass, being laird of the castle would not be his for the taking. The king was a prideful man who did not like to be rejected, and he would surely consider Brodee not wanting half of what the king offered him a rejection.
“Ye will be my eyes, as always, Blackswell,” David added.
Brodee nodded. There was no choice but to do so. He’d hoped once he had land that he could have peace, but it seemed peace would have to wait.
The king picked up his goblet then, took a swig of wine, and stared for a long moment over the rim at Brodee. “Bullard specifically requested ye for his daughter.”
“Requested?” Brodee asked, frowning. “This was Bullard’s proposal?” Warning bells sounded in his mind.
“I was already decided upon giving ye the land, but then Bullard approached me and said he wished to pledge his fealty to me and offered his daughter for ye, my most valuable warrior, as proof of his intentions.”
The warning bells became near deafening. “Sire—”
The king shook his head. “I already told ye,” he said, his voice grave, “I trust him as much as any man who was once my enemy and now claims to be my ally. And ye are even less trusting than I am, so all will be well.”
Brodee nodded, a feeling of impending treachery making him tense.
“I accepted his pledge of fealty, of course,” David continued, “but told him I’d need deeds to prove it beyond the offer of his daughter, which I took for ye.”
The king took another swig of wine, and the pause, Brodee knew, was intended for him to show his gratitude yet again. “Thank ye, Sire.”
David inclined his head. “’Tis the least I could do for ye after all ye have given to me. Now then,” the king boomed, apparently pleased that Brodee was appropriately grateful. “Once his daughter and his pledge were accepted, I told him what else I required.” He chuckled. “I dunnae believe he expected me to require him to go on a siege with ye.”
“Hopefully, he’ll nae try to kill me during it. Or mayhap he simply intends to use his daughter to spy on me,” Brodee said, unable to contain his doubts any longer. Damned the punishment if the king became angry that he’d voiced his concerns. He’d rather be alive and in the king’s disfavor than dead because he’d not wanted to incur the king’s ire.
“I thought of that, as well,” David said, one corner of his mouth twisting upward. “Ye and I think verra much alike, Blackswell. ’Tis why we have been so successful since ye became my right hand. I’ve nae a single doubt that ye’ll take a care with yer new wife. Bed her but dunnae give her yer trust.”
He didn’t plan to. “And if Bullard proves treacherous?” In Brodee’s mind, the question was when Bullard proved treacherous.
“Then we will crush him.” The severe words rang with finality.
It was a good thing Brodee had no need for a happy marriage. “Will that be all for now, Sire?”
“Aye.”
Brodee inclined his head and made for the door, eager to seek out his men. He wanted to ensure they were ready to take the castle. Four steps out of the great hall, and the door squeaked open behind him.
“Hold.”
Damnation. Brodee swiveled to face the deep voice. The MacLeod stood in front of the now-closed door, a wry look upon his face. “Ye dunnae wish for a wife, do ye?”
Broch’s words regarding Iain MacLeod came to mind: Fair. Honorable. Fierce. Loyal. Utterly devoted to his wife. Reasonably devoted to their king. Meaning, the MacLeod knew the king was a man who made errors like all mere mortals. This was in addition to being dangerously observant…
Brodee frowned. “What makes ye say that?”
“Experience. I recognize the signs. But dunnae fash yerself, the king dunnae see what I see.”
“Do ye have a point?” Brodee asked, refusing to acknowledge the MacLeod’s comment about what he saw in Brodee.
“Aye. If ye dunnae consummate the marriage, it can be dissolved.”
“Was that yer plan when the king ordered ye to wed yer Sassenach wife?” Brodee tried to keep the amusement out of his voice, but he failed.
The MacLeod’s eyes glazed with exasperation. “First of all, he did nae order me. He asked.”
Brodee just stared. The MacLeod knew as well as Brodee how the king maneuvered to get what he wanted.
“And secondly,” the MacLeod said, scowling, “I took one look at my wife, and lust overcame me.”
“Ye sound weak to me,” Brodee said, purposely prodding the man.
The MacLeod smirked. “Ye’re witty. And witty men tend to hide things.”
Brodee snorted. “Ye’re too personal with yer questions. Can ye keep a secret?”
The MacLeod nodded and leaned closer.
“I can too,” Brodee whispered, allowing his amusement to come through in his tone this time.
The MacLeod chuckled. “It seems we’re both flawed.”
“Seems so,” Brodee agreed. He liked the MacLeod.
The laird grinned. “My point is, dunnae let lust or emotion overcome ye, and ye’ll be fine.”
“I never have,” Brodee said, even as he was struck by the untruth of his own words. Once, he had allowed lust and emotion to swallow him up like the sea, and he’d almost drowned because of it.
But that was his secret to keep.
