Rhys spent the remainder of the day inspecting the crofters’ homes, surveying every inch of occupied property. He continued to wear his conical helm and chainmail armour, for he wanted the Highlanders to realise that he was indeed a threat if they dared to assault him or his men.
He saw four graves dug in the clearing beside the kirk. Inside, he knew that they had prepared the bodies, and the burial would happen within an hour or two. The people were gathering flowers, and he saw another woman enter the stone kirk, carrying a length of linen.
Earlier this morning, he and his men had already buried Ailric beside the forest, saying a prayer for the man’s soul. It seemed impossible that they had broken bread with him last night, speaking of his wife and unborn child. Life was fleeting, and Rhys promised himself that they would somehow provide for Ailric’s widow, Elia.
The priest stepped outside by the graves, wearing a long brown robe knotted with a cord. His expression was sombre, and he approached Rhys and his men with a lowered head.
‘I offer you the peace of Christ,’ he said by way of greeting, using the Norman language. ‘The MacKinnon told me of this grievous tragedy. I will pray for the souls of these men.’ Rhys inclined his head, but knew the priest had another reason for speaking. As he’d anticipated, the priest continued, ‘But I beg you not to inflict your vengeance against our people. They are not your enemies.’
An invisible tension knotted across the space, and Rhys answered, ‘We will only attack those who raise arms against us.’ He glanced around at the people gathering for the funeral. ‘Those who keep the peace have nothing to fear.’
His words would not convince the MacKinnons, he knew. Several mothers held fast to their children, as if they feared he would cut them down where they stood. He nodded to the priest by way of farewell and strode across the space.
But he had seen what the clan chief had spoken of. These people were thin and suffering. Their clothing looked as if the garments had been worn year in and year out. There was no prosperity, no sense of security here.
That was the reason why Rhys’s grandfather, Fergus MacKinnon, had named Edward the heir, instead of a trueborn Scot. Without any children of his own, he had selected Margaret’s grown son from her first marriage as the heir. And by bringing an alliance between Normans and Scots, Fergus hoped to end the vast poverty here.
His father had not lifted a finger, Rhys knew. Edward had no loyalty here, and he cared nothing for Scotland. To his father, this was a vast wasteland of primitive people whose customs were very different. And so, it fell upon Rhys’s shoulders to change that.
A part of him wanted to walk away from this marriage and these people. He owed them no loyalty at all, not after what Sían had done.
But then, Rhys caught sight of a young boy standing near the kirk, perhaps thirteen years of age. The lad’s hair was dark, like his own brother Warrick’s, and his face was gaunt with hunger. Though he was taller than Lianna, the boy’s arms were too thin. Most likely he would die this winter, if there was not enough food.
A weariness settled over Rhys, for this was the reason why he could not walk away. He had inherited Eiloch, and that meant taking responsibility for these people and their poverty. Regardless of his personal feelings, he would never turn his back on starving children. Providing for them was the right thing to do. He possessed the means to change their lives, forging new alliances that would serve his king in times of war.
As a boy, he had suffered his own personal nightmares of abuse. He’d tried to shield his brother from their stepmother Analise, but their father had never believed the truth about her. They had been alone, unable to defend themselves. No one had offered to help, and when Rhys stared at this boy, he saw the shadow of himself.
There was no turning back now. Not from these people, and not from this alliance.
Slowly, he walked with his men towards their camp. They had deliberately left their belongings there, with the intent of returning tonight to take shelter within Alastair’s house. He decided to remain isolated throughout the afternoon and early evening. Let them bury their dead without a Norman threat hanging over them.
And when he returned, he would wear their clothing as a sign of peace.
* * *
Her father released Lianna from her chamber to attend the funeral Mass for her brother and their kinsmen. By then, she had regained command of her emotions, steeling herself as they lowered the linen shrouds into the ground. She hid her shaking hands by gripping them tightly, and when the rain fell upon their graves, it felt like the tears she could not bring herself to shed.
After the bodies were buried, her father led her back to the house. Quietly, he said, ‘You will return to your chamber and await Rhys de Laurent. I will send him to you, so that you may speak with him.’
She wanted nothing of the sort. But if she told her father she had no intention of opening the door, he would drag her below stairs and force her to meet the man publicly. She doubted if this Norman would listen to reason. His fierce bearing revealed a ruthless man who would act only upon his own accord.
Lianna held her silence as Alastair escorted her back. In the space of two days, her father appeared to have aged ten years. His demeanour was heavy with grief, and she slowed her steps. With a gentle squeeze to his hand, she murmured, ‘We will miss Sían.’
He gripped it in return and closed his eyes, as if to gather strength from her. ‘You must take the place he could not.’
She didn’t understand what he meant by that, for she could never lead the clan. But perhaps he intended for her to ensure that their people were protected, no matter what happened. And this she could promise.
‘I will try.’
He took her back to her room and regarded her. ‘I will send your meal to you here. And later tonight, Rhys will come and talk with you. Unless you would rather dine with everyone else?’
She shook her head. Her father knew how much she hated being among crowds of people. It was why she took her noon meal by the dolmen each day.
‘I need you to make this alliance,’ her father said softly. ‘I believe that you have the strength to wed this man. And he will listen to you.’
He was wrong in that. Men never listened to her, and neither would a Norman warrior. But she went to sit beside her window, and her father closed the door behind him. As she’d predicted, he locked it, leaving her a captive once more.
Which was likely a good decision, given that she wanted nothing more than to escape. Lianna walked over to her bed and straightened the coverlet, pulling it so that both sides were even.
Her mind turned over the problem, wondering if there was something she could do—anything to avoid this marriage. But she could not see a pathway to freedom, no matter what wild ideas sprang to mind.
Her stomach lurched when abruptly there came a knock at her door. It was too soon. They had not eaten the evening meal, and she didn’t imagine that her father could have brought the Norman to her this soon.
She ignored the knocking, her heart racing within her chest. And then a voice called out in Gaelic, ‘Lianna, I need to talk with you.’
It was the Highlander, Gavin MacAllister. She had nearly forgotten about him in the midst of the funeral. But now she wondered if he could be useful to her.
‘My father has locked me inside this room,’ she said. ‘Else, I would open it.’
To her surprise, she heard the turning of a key. ‘Alastair gave me permission to speak with you. May I come in?’
She opened the door and saw that he was wearing the same saffron léine and trews that he’d worn before. His dark hair was cut short against the back of his neck, and the bristle upon his cheeks made her want to touch it.
‘Why did my father send you to me?’