As he glanced toward one of the young maids scurrying through the room serving food and ale, he thought about his father’s sudden illness, one that looked certain to kill him. It had come on so suddenly, and no matter what healer they brought him, it clung to him tenaciously. A sudden thought as to how that might have happened made Murdoch feel color rush to his cheeks, a flush born of fury and shock, and he was glad he was staring at a buxom brunette so that Robert would not think anything of it.
“Ye cannae handle a lass like that, boy,” taunted Robert.
Murdoch gave his brother an angry look, then went back to staring at his plate. He could not banish the thought that Robert might have had a hand in their father’s illness. It would explain why he had killed poor Old William. From what little he had heard of their argument, it was possible the man had been about to accuse Robert of poisoning his father.
Murdoch’s brother was mad. He was now certain of it. A subtle look at Lachlan and Duncan told him they either knew it or had begun to suspect it, too. All Murdoch could do was try to keep all such suspicions to himself, not even hint at them by expression or word, and pray he could keep all blood off his own hands. It was cowardly, he thought, but he did not wish to be just another victim for his mad brother.
Robert reached out and curled his arm around the brunette’s waist, tugging her down onto his lap. He then nuzzled her neck and the girl laughed, although Murdoch could see fear and disgust on her face. Murdoch wanted to say something and must have been too obvious about it, because Lachlan kicked his leg under the table. He went back to studying the food he tried to choke down and wondered just how deep into Robert’s crimes Lachlan and Duncan were.
Robert soon dragged the girl off to his bedchamber and Murdoch looked at Lachlan. “Why did ye kick me?” he asked Lachlan quietly.
Lachlan studied him and said solemnly, “I wasnae in the mood to watch one brother kill another.”
Murdoch heard Duncan grunt and said, “He is mad, ye ken.”
“Just keep that thought to yourself, fool,” snapped Duncan.
“If ye ken it, why are ye nay stopping him?” Murdoch could not understand their loyalty to Robert.
“He will kill us without blinking,” replied Lachlan.
“Without hesitation and, I suspicion, without warning,” added Duncan.
Murdoch dragged his fingers through his hair. “But . . . there are three of us and only one of him.”
“And, as ye said in a too loud voice, he is mad. He can also wield a sword with far more skill than any one of us can.” Lachlan pushed aside his empty plate and picked up his tankard to have a deep drink of ale. “Ye are younger than the lot of us by many a year, so ye dinnae ken much of how he has always been a fierce and deadly fighter with a blade. Sword or knife.”
“Or both. The mon has a lot of blood on his hands. Tried to stop him from running off to kill some poor farmer whom he claimed had been insulting once and he cut up both of us,” said Duncan. “Stopped only because Da and Old William ran out and made him. That was when I understood why Da ne’er left ye without a guard when ye were small, e’en if it was only a woman who could send up a loud scream and alert everyone.”
“Yet he didnae protect himself weel, did he,” muttered Murdoch.
“I would say nay, yet I cannae believe Robert would have aught to do with what ails our father.” Lachlan shook his head. “’Tis a mortal sin, a heavy one, to set at his feet with nay proof.”
Murdoch finished his ale and stood up. “Weel, if we dinnae do anything, wee Mora and Andrew will be dead soon. I ken I will ne’er be able to stomach it. Mayhap ye should decide if ye can.”
Lachlan watched as Murdoch went to his bedchamber and then sighed. “I hate that I share his suspicions.”
Duncan gave a short, harsh laugh. “Weel, dinnae bother donning a hair shirt o’er it. It isnae needed.”
“What do ye mean?”
“I mean he has probably done just what the lad suspects. I saw the lad listening at the door when Robert and Old William were quarreling. ’Tis why Old William is dead. He was arguing with Robert about what ailed our father, about how he was damned to hell’s fires for trying to kill his own father. He demanded Robert tell him what poison he used and how he was getting it into the mon. That was when Robert killed him. Foolish old mon. William should have seen that coming,” he said softly, and shook his head.
“Why didnae ye tell me? Tell someone?”
“It seems I have a verra strong will to live and to sleep at night. Our brother would slip in and cut my throat if he thought I kenned it.” Duncan stared hard at Lachlan. “And heed this warning, Lachlan. If he e’er tries to get ye to go off alone with him, find away to nay go. Always study the danger if he tries to get ye to do something for him.”
Lachlan sat quietly for a moment. “We cannae do this. I thought if we rode with him we could keep it bloodless or stop something. We didnae stop a thing. Poor Rona and David were smiling at us one moment, Robert was smiling back, and then, with just a few swipes of his sword, they were both dead and our cursed brother was still smiling.”
“I ken it. See it when I try to sleep, but we cannae run from it either. That would be a sure way to die. And watch Murdoch closely. When he tried to stop Robert from killing the lassie’s goats, ye saw what he did to the boy, and trust me in this, he hasnae forgotten and will ne’er forgive Murdoch for interfering. He has always had a hate for the boy.”
“Ye are saying that the best we can do is try to stay alive.”
“Aye, and to keep that fool boy alive as he is the best of us. Robert has always been jealous of how our da treated the boy.”
Lachlan signaled one of the girls to fill their tankards and then just drank quietly with his brother, his mind so full of troubled thoughts he suspected it would ache in the morning, if he got any sleep at all.
*
Mora finished scrubbing the pot Gybbon had made the porridge in as he walked around exploring what was in the house. There was not much to explore. It was ample comfort for a traveler and she was very glad of a roof over her head, but she desperately wanted a bath and there was also nothing to do as the night settled in.
As she wiped her hands dry she thought of how she should look at her wound. She had bandaged it while on the road and it had not looked like much more than a scratch. Yet now it ached all the time and she knew it was because of the walking, the riding, and the horse throwing her to the ground. She also suspected it was bleeding again.
“Do ye play chess?” Gybbon asked.
She looked at him where he stood, next to a set of shelves and holding a board in his hand. “Aye. Why would there be a chessboard here?”
“I wouldnae doubt it was left by one of my kin or a MacFingal.” He searched through all the shelves and sighed. “I cannae see any of the pieces needed to play, so ’tis only good for kindling or something to cut cheese on.”
She hurried to his side and took the board. It was a plain one, yet perfectly done. “Nay, I have something we can use.” She hurried over to her bag and dug out the small box she had packed her father’s chess pieces in. “My fither loved the game,” she said as she returned to his side and handed him the box while fighting back a wave of sadness.
“Did ye even pack any clothes?” he teased, and then opened the box.
“Of course. There were so many things I had to choose carefully. If I had brought all I wished to save, I would have needed a wagon.”
“These are magnificent,” he said quietly as he studied a pawn. “Shall we play then?”
“Ye can set it up and I wish to go up to the loft for a few moments.”
“The pot is in the far corner,” he said as he continued to look over the chess pieces.
Mora knew that she was blushing slightly as she hurried up the stairs, and told herself that was silly since everyone had to use one at some time. Once done with the pot, she sat on the bed, relieved to see there were two narrow ones. There would be no awkward discussion on how to share the bed, just a simple decision about who sleeps near the window and who sleeps near the stairs.