Chapter Four
“This weaving is beautiful, Joan.”
Triona stroked the wool cloth Joan held out for her to study. Joan was an excellent weaver, her work much coveted at the marketplaces in the larger towns. The shearing had been good last year and looked to be even better this year, if all continued to go well. Soon they would not only have enough wool for all of Banuilt’s needs but a goodly amount to take to market as well. It was one of the few things that had not yet suffered from Sir John’s continued attempts to beggar them. It might even prove enough to make up for all he had cost them, for it would give them the coin needed to buy supplies.
“’Tis going verra weel, m’lady. The shearing is coming along weel and it looks to be a finer lot than we had last year. The flocks are weel guarded and there has been no trouble. We move them around more often, too, just as ye ordered, so that they are nay so easily found.”
“Good. I think we need to try to do the same with the cattle. Will says we lost six head last week. Poor little Donald was so upset that he had failed as a watchmon, he was close to crying, but I cannae fault the lad. He is young and he fell asleep.”
Triona looked around the village as she fought down her anger over that loss, and idly noted that a few of the buildings needed some repair. It was sad to see how very empty the village now was. With so many of the surviving men having gone to France, it was mostly women and children who remained. A lot of them had moved in together, finding it much easier to manage the work and their children with other women right at hand. It was a good idea, undoubtedly made the women feel safer as well, but it left a lot of empty cottages, and there were not enough skilled hands to keep those empty buildings in good repair. It hurt her heart to see the once thriving village in such a state, and she knew that the longer the lack of repair continued, the harder it would be to return it all to what it had once been.
“There be only two cows missing now, m’lady,” said Joan, breaking into Triona’s thoughts. “Four wandered home.”
Looking back at Joan and nearly gasping in surprise, Triona asked, “They wandered home?”
“Aye, m’lady.” Joan grinned, giving a beauty to her plain, round face, which had undoubtedly been what had captured the heart of her tall, handsome husband, a man who was now running about France with far too many other Banuilt men.
“What amuses ye?”
“Weel, either the men who stole them were a witless lot, or they let a few come back here apurpose. I be thinking it was the latter. I have kenned enough Grant men o’er the years to ken that they are nay a witless lot. And some of them are nay so far removed from their reiver ancestors.”
“Ah, so ye, too, are thinking that Sir John Grant’s men are nay in favor of his tricks. ’Tis something I have begun to believe and Sir Brett and his men suspected. E’en Nessa believes it.”
“Aye. There be a lot of ties atween people here and the people there. Sir John’s father was a fine mon though nay a great laird, and ne’er a bother. I dinnae ken what went amiss with his son. ’Tis sad and all, but Sir John isnae the mon his father was, and his people ofttimes complained on the fact. They say he is a harsh laird and given to fits of temper. Weel, they told us such things afore this trouble started, and, once the harassment began, we ceased speaking to each other.”
There was something in the tone of Joan’s voice and the way her gaze briefly drifted to the right that told Triona there was a lie being told. Obviously not all ties had been broken. For a moment she considered pressing the woman for the truth and, if there were some meetings between her people and Sir John’s, demanding that they cease immediately. Then she inwardly shook her head. As of the moment, no blood had been spilled, something she suspected was aided by those ties that had not been completely broken. Until this fight with Sir John turned bloody, she would simply ignore it all. Thus far, communication between the people of Banuilt and those of Gormfeurach had really been to her benefit, such as in the mysterious return of four of the six stolen cattle.
It was sad that the two clans had to remain apart, thought Triona as she looked around the village again. The fever had hurt the Grants as much as it had hurt her own people. There were far too many widows and widowers in both places. Somehow Sir John had kept hold of enough supplies and coin to keep his remaining men from going off in search of it as hers were forced to, but he had not been able to replace the women they had lost to the fever. For reasons she knew she would never fully understand, the fever had hit the women of Gormfeurach the hardest. In Banuilt it had struck harder at the men. Instead of pulling apart, the people should be pulling together to rebuild both places. The way Sir John wanted that to happen was not one she could accept. The mere thought of being forced to marry him made her shudder with revulsion.
“Do ye think our men will soon return from France?” asked Joan. “It has been near eighteen months.”
“I dinnae ken, Joan,” Triona replied. “In truth, I dinnae really understand why they left at all. We were nay in any danger of starving. Mayhap they thought they couldnae abide being ruled by a woman.” Triona did try to understand why the men left but could not fully stop herself from fearing now and again that it was her becoming laird that had done it.
“Och, nay, they didnae care about that. My Aiden was all excited after talking with a mon o’er an ale. Man’s name was Birk. Aiden said the mon was going to fight in France and that there was a lot of coin to be made in the doing of it. He told our men of others who had gained riches doing the fighting for the lairds and the king o’er there, and that they welcomed the sword of a Scotsmon. Threw in a few tales of fighting the Sassenach and getting paid to do it, and nay one of those fools would heed us women when we asked them nay to go. Nay, they set off all cheery and promised to return with purses heavy enough to buy us all fine linen gowns and bonnie slippers and all. Things we ne’er said we wanted, nay once. I am just a wee bit concerned that we have heard naught from them since the day they rode away.”
Triona was not sure why, but a chill of suspicion ran through her veins. No matter how foolish she told herself it was to think it, she could not stop wondering if Sir John was somehow responsible for the loss of all her fighting men. The fact that those men included the ones skilled in hunting, woodworking, thatching, and nearly every other skill a village desperately needed to survive, would only make such trickery a greater success for Sir John. Yet, she wondered, if the men of Banuilt were not really fighting in France, where were they? It was the question she asked herself whenever the thought of treachery slipped through her mind, and the reason she had so often shrugged aside the suspicion. She simply could not believe Sir John’s people would stand silent as he slaughtered thirty men, nor would they have helped him do it.
She tried to tell herself that she was being foolish, that she had just never heard the whole tale of how the men had decided to go to France because of the confusion and deaths caused by the fever and was seeing more in it than there was. How could Sir John lure away so many men and the men never guess at his game? They had to be in France. All reasonable questions, but this time her suspicion was not being so easily dismissed.
“Weel, isnae he a bold bastard to come ariding right into the midst of the people he torments.”
Joan’s muttered words drew Triona out of her confused thoughts. She looked in the direction of Joan’s scowl and nearly cursed. Sir John was riding toward them, six armed men riding guard, and he was looking around her village as if admiring all the signs of the results of his trickery. The man knew she had no firm proof that her troubles were his fault, just as she knew that without such proof she could not demand that he stay off her lands. His friends were far more powerful than the few Boyd had had and would not look kindly upon her if she was seen to have insulted Sir John in any way.
As he rode up to her, she had to admit that he was a fine-looking man. Not tall, but strongly built, and with a face most women would find attractive. His hair was the deep brown of a chestnut and his eyes were an interesting hazel color. He also dressed very elegantly, yet all she could think when looking at his finery was to wonder just how much it had cost him. Everything about him would suit many women, and probably had. Yet, not once had he made her heart flutter.
His nature, however, was one that she utterly despised. He was cocksure, so arrogant that it made her teeth hurt from clenching them against all the words she wanted to say to him. The man also made his opinion all too clear, in his every look and word, that women were far beneath him. Whenever his words stirred her anger, making her ache to spit out that fury at him, she simply reminded herself that, without a woman, he would not even be alive to strut around as he did. It always gave her the strength to let his words just flow around her, never touching her.
“My laird,” she said, and curtsied, ignoring the fact that his returning her curtsy with little more than a slight nod of his head was an insult. “Why have ye come to Banuilt?”
“I but ride through on my way to dine with our liege laird,” he answered, and smiled.
A smile meant to keep her keenly aware that their liege laird, the man they all vowed allegiance to, had never once asked her to dine with him. She and Sir John were but small septs within the larger clan, minor landholders with only a few men to spare for any battle and no vast riches to draw a covetous eye. Boyd had gone to dutifully pledge himself to the laird, even occasionally sending some of Banuilt’s men to increase the size of the laird’s forces, but she had been mostly ignored. Once Boyd was dead, their liege laird had only requested she sign a promise to continue the allegiance the men of Banuilt had always pledged. He had decided not to extend her the courtesy of inviting her to his keep to offer her pledge face-to-face.
It had been an insult in a way, indicating that she was simply not important enough for the laird to see in person. At the time she had been so busy with the sickness gripping the people of Banuilt, fearing for her daughter’s life, and seeing to the burying of far too many people, that she had ignored it. When one is burying people one has known and liked for years, the lack of a proper invitation from one’s liege laird is of little importance. Now and then it still stung, however. The man had not even granted her request for a new priest.
Not that she missed the old one. If that man had survived, he would have been following her around day and night, telling her that it was her place as a woman to have a husband, and how Banuilt would be better for it. He had died still cursing her for dragging him to every man, woman, and child in the fever-ridden town and manor to give them what was needed so that none would die unshriven. Triona suspected she would be quite happy to live without another man like that around, but people needed a priest, and she would have to write the laird about it again.
She noticed Sir John glaring at her and realized she had been expected to reply to his statement. “I wish ye a safe journey, m’laird.”
“Banuilt is looking a wee bit worn,” he murmured as he glanced around. “It needs men here to mend what is broken.”
“We are doing weel enough, m’laird, and will do better still when our men return from France.”
“Those who go to France dinnae always return, m’lady. ’Tis a fine country and the weather much fairer than ours, and it can sore tempt a man to settle down in it. Bonnie lassies, too. Ye shouldnae hope too much for them to come home and rescue ye from this.”
“Many of them left behind wives and bairns, m’laird. I suspicion they will wish to return to them if naught else.”
The smile he gave her was so condescending that Triona’s palm actually itched from the urge to slap it off his face. From behind her she heard Joan softly curse and knew the woman felt the same. Sir John thought her na?ve to believe a man would come home simply because he had left behind a wife and a child or two. Some might act with such dishonor, but she had more faith in her men. She also knew that most of them truly loved their wives and children.
“A wee cottage in a French village with a bonnie French wife could be equally tempting,” he said.
“Then I hope such a mon stays there, for I would want none who thought so little of their promises given to another to serve me.” The fact that he could find such a possibility something to smile about was just one more reason to never accept his offer of marriage.
“So na?ve ye are. It would be good if I could tell your liege that ye have agreed to allow me to take this place in hand, my lady.”
“I have it in hand, thank ye kindly.”
“Do ye? It appears to be slowly rotting beneath your touch. A strong mon at your side could make all the difference.”
He was about as subtle as a rock to the head, she thought. It was hard not to spit out her accusations against him, to tell him that she knew well who caused her to have trouble keeping Banuilt’s larders filled and its cottages in good shape. She had tried giving voice to her suspicions in the beginning, and it had done nothing but gain her Sir John’s feigned show of hurt and insult, as well as a letter from their liege telling her to be more cautious in her speech.
“It but needs to recover from the loss of so many of its people,” she said.
“Ah, but if the people from Gormfeurach and Banuilt were united, that repair would move along much more quickly.”
Brett paused in his approach to study Sir John Grant. He was a healthy man of Brett’s own age or thereabouts, but despite his good looks and fine clothes, there was something immediately disquieting about the man. Brett had seen the men ride into the village and had begun a cautious approach, his companions spreading out and doing the same, but noticed no alarm amongst the women. In fact, he had caught the exchange of flirtatious looks between some of Sir John’s men and some of Triona’s women, and relaxed his guard just a little.
Once close enough to hear what was being said, however, his caution rapidly returned. This man was the one responsible for trying to keep Banuilt in a state of near starvation, and only Triona’s skills had stopped him from succeeding. Sir John sat there on his mount, looking down at her with a look of such arrogant condescension that Brett was astonished she had not told him to leave and never return. She showed more restraint than many of his kinswomen would have.
What he gathered as he slipped closer and listened carefully was that Sir John wanted Triona, not just the land. Just as he had suspected, the man had hoped to simply marry his way into the laird’s seat at Banuilt. He doubted the man did more than lust after her, for no man who actually cared for a woman would speak to her in such a way, but it was clear that he wanted her to give in to his wishes to become the laird of Banuilt through a marriage between them. The man was also a fool not to at least attempt to woo Triona. He was not making her more inclined to give in, with his tricks and not-so-subtle insults, only making her stand more firmly against him. And, he thought as he glanced around at the other women, making her women stand more firmly beside her as she refused him.
Deciding he had heard enough, he moved into the open and walked the last few feet to stand beside Triona. He smiled faintly when Sir John scowled and his hand went to his sword. Brett would welcome a fight but knew now was not the time for one. He just crossed his arms over his chest, not showing any overt threat to the man. Brett swore he could see his men all bristle with badly hidden outrage each time the man opened his mouth.
“The lady has help now,” he said.
“And who are ye?” Sir John demanded.
Triona hastily introduced the men to each other, thinking that they looked a little too much like male dogs bristling in preparation for a battle over a bone. Looking from one man to the other, she decided that Sir Brett was by far the better specimen of manhood, and Sir John would easily lose to him in any fair battle. Something about the way Sir John glared at Sir Brett told her that he also thought that he would lose a fight with the man.
“They came with my cousin Lady Arianna MacFingal, who decided to visit with me for a while,” she explained, but it did nothing to ease the tension between the two men.
“How long do ye mean to stay at Banuilt?” Sir John demanded.
Before Triona could reply that it was none of his business how long her visitors remained, Brett said, “For as long as it takes to be certain that Banuilt stands strong and untroubled again.”
And that was a gauntlet thrown down if ever she had heard one, thought Triona. She had to fight the urge to kick Brett. This was not how she had wanted Sir John to find out that she had strong fighting men at Banuilt. This was a challenge to Sir John, but she suspected that, at heart, he was too much the coward to take it up directly. He would just increase his efforts to cause her misery. She had welcomed the addition of fine, strong fighting men, but knew they could not watch over everything at Banuilt if Sir John decided to try even harder to beggar her and her people.
Worse, he might think Sir Brett or one of his men could become a threat to his own plans for her. How was he to push her into a marriage she did not want if she had men of equal rank around her at all times, men who might decide they would like to be laird of Banuilt? Since Sir John wanted to marry her so he could set his backside in the laird’s chair at Banuilt, he would no doubt suspect that any other man near her coveted the same thing. Triona did not want to even think of what Sir John might do then.
It also annoyed her that Sir John saw Sir Brett as an equal and a threat, yet had never considered her to be. He had seen her only as a nuisance, one he simply had to push to do his will. She had held out longer than he liked, but she doubted he had ever considered that he would fail, until he saw Sir Brett walk up. Triona was deeply insulted by that and wondered why the man could not acknowledge that it was her and her people, most of them women, who were holding him back from getting what he wanted.
“Banuilt suffers because it is too much for a lone woman to manage,” said Sir John.
“I suspicion she would manage weel enough if the fields didnae catch fire and her stock stayed where she put it.”
There were a few snickers from the women listening to the exchange, and Triona saw Sir John flush with anger. “Sir Brett and his men have most kindly offered to give my men some training,” she said quickly, hoping to ease the sudden tension between the two men. “They must take the place of the garrison lost to France, and training by belted knights is an offer I would be foolish to refuse.” She watched him closely to see if he had any reaction to her mention of her garrison, and wondered why she was not relieved when she saw none.
“Ye could have asked me for some men to do that,” Sir John said. “I would have sent ye a few of my best to see to the training of yours.”
Which would have given him armed men right inside the walls of her manor, she thought, but just smiled. His one true weakness was his utter disregard for the wits and strength of women. She knew he thought her foolish enough not to see how such an offer would aid him in taking hold of Banuilt, but she would say nothing to make him question his own opinion. There was also the chance that he would send men who would not be such a great help to him because they might simply be reunited with the women of Banuilt who were heartily missing them, but she doubted he noticed enough of the goings-on amongst his own people to be aware of that. Triona had no intention of enlightening him, either.
“That would have been most generous of you, my laird, and I thank ye for the offer. Howbeit, as Sir Brett is a cousin by marriage . . .”
“Many times removed,” Brett said, and met her quick glare with a grin.
“I think it best if I allow him to do the training,” she continued. “If he and his men are forced to leave ere the men are fully trained, I will give due consideration to your offer and let ye ken what I think.”
Which she would never do, she mused, for if she told the man what she really thought, he would probably beat her and then drag her before a priest. Triona could see the brute beneath his fine clothing. From the gossip she had heard from her women, his men thought him a harsh laird, nothing like his father or grandfather. They called him vain and spoiled, his temper flaring at the smallest thing. Since Sir John had so many highly placed friends, she had to assume that he saved the revelation of that side of his nature for those he thought beneath him. Since those included women, that was another reason she had never even considered the marriage he offered.
“As ye wish, m’lady, although I think it a mistake,” said Sir John. “Always best to stay with those closest to ye. I have ne’er heard of any of your kin coming to visit ere now, so pardon me if I am concerned just a little about this.”
“My cousin resided in France until recently, my laird. She was a close friend of mine before then. Naturally, when she returned home to Scotland she wished to renew our friendship. I am certain all will be weel.”
“Ye ken how all can be weel, my lady, but ye continue to refuse to see the wisdom of our uniting.”
“I am still in mourning, my laird. Considering anything more than honoring my husband’s memory would be wrong.”
Triona was amazed those words had not burned her tongue. She had barely thought of Boyd after he died, missing him only in passing and in an odd, unemotional way. She had buried him and just continued on as she always had, only without the tedious business of his trying to breed a son on her. There was a hard look in Sir John’s eyes that told her he might have some idea of how little she grieved for her husband, but she did her best to continue to look sweet and innocent.
She did wonder why he felt so at ease delivering what was a less than subtle insult to Sir Brett. Sir John had implied that she was wrong to trust the man, and many a fellow would see that as a slap against his honor. A peek at Sir Brett, however, revealed him just calmly watching Sir John, apparently unmoved by the not-so-well-hidden slur.
“Please wish our liege my best when ye see him, Sir John,” she said, hoping to move the man on his way.
“Oh, I intend to speak to him about ye and Banuilt, have nay fear of that. I do my best to keep the mon weel informed of all that goes on here, and the sad state of the village.” He looked at Sir Brett and frowned at the four men who had silently come out of the shadows to stand behind him. “I will also speak on your new guests.”
“Ye do that, Sir John,” said Brett. “Be certain to mention that she is kin to the Murrays of Donncoill.”
“Through marriage many times removed,” Triona murmured, but was not surprised when Brett ignored her as completely as she had ignored his reminder of that fact.
“. . . and the MacFingals of Scarglas, and the MacMillans,” Brett continued. “He may have heard of some of us and be able to put your concerns to rest. Many of my kinsmen spend time at the king’s court, as I suspect your liege laird does. I also have many kinsmen I can call upon to help me in aiding Lady Triona if she should have need of it.”
Triona was not sure what good that would do, but Sir John did look briefly disconcerted. Perhaps the confidence behind Sir Brett’s words made him worry that there was something about those clans he should know but did not. He simply jerked his head in a nod and rode off, his men scrambling to follow him.