Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (10 page)

Macrath nodded. “I have been waiting for their first assassination attempt.”

“Aye, and this may be it.”

“I am almost certain it is.”

Macrath took steady steps away from the dais, and she kept stride with him. They would go to the map room because they did not want to cause any undue suspicion from their enemies, but they must be wary because their enemies wished death upon them.

Chapter Eleven

REMINDING the council of his position as Prince of Sìtheil, Macrath made certain he stayed ahead of them on the way to the map room.

His brother, Victor, had not obeyed his orders to leave and had been found lurking in the great hall. Macrath admitted he felt very good about having ordered his brother locked in a chamber. He would have felt better if it had been the dungeon, but then he’d have to answer to his father for that, and he did not want to make an enemy of the powerful earl. No matter, he’d let Victor stew for several days before forcing him off the land again.

The door to the map room came into view.

’Twas a chamber he’d been shown once and not yet made it back to until this moment. The fact that the council wanted to meet and have their meal within the room disturbed him. Almost as though they wanted to press the matter of their position to him and Ceana. Granted, he knew their plans were to be rid of them, so his suspicion was quite high.

Was the meal they were to be served poisoned? The wine? Did henchmen wait behind the tapestries to slit their throats when their backs were turned?

Appearing from the shadows, Marrec and two other guards took up a position trailing behind the council.

Macrath had come to trust Marrec, and the two with him—Tobin and Kendrew—appeared to be trustworthy as well. As it turned out, Tobin was the brother of Rhona, one of the lasses who’d been held prisoner by Gowp, and Kendrew was cousin to Mary, the one who’d come forward first about being mistreated. Because of what Macrath and Ceana had done for their womenfolk, the men had pledged their lives.

He and three men were not enough to take on the council, but it was a start.

Macrath took an iron key from where it hung around his neck and pushed it into the lock. The key to the castle, really, as it opened many important doors—but not yet the door he sought to the room of pain.

He’d not given up hope that he would find Beatrice’s lair. As soon as Ceana fell asleep each night, he took a candle and went in search of the chamber where he was held prisoner. He’d found a few secret passageways but had not yet found any that led to that room. A chamber he’d never forget.

A waft of chilly air hit them as he swung the door open. The map room was musty and unused, which sparked his curiosity and had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

Wouldn’t any of the previous Chief Morrisons have used this room? His father, the earl, visited the map room in Argyll Castle nearly daily.

He glanced at Ceana, who wrinkled her brow, perhaps thinking along the same lines.

“This room went unused much of the last Chief Morrison’s rule,” Lady Beatrice broke in. “In fact, it has seen little use from many chiefs in the past.”

“Why is that?” Ceana asked.

Macrath was proud of how strong her voice sounded when she spoke. They were doing a good job of keeping the council’s suspicions about their knowledge at bay.

“There has been no need. No war. No fight from the people.”

Ceana’s arm dropped from his and she went to open a shutter, letting in a cold draft of fresh air. Already he could breathe a little easier. He withdrew his sword and took a moment to check behind the tapestries, his men doing the same, though Macrath took extra care for any signs of hidden doors.

No henchmen awaiting the council’s orders.

No egresses to hidden chambers.

The council crowded into the room and Marrec, Tobin and Kendrew took up places beside the doors, their stances guarded.

A breath later, a half-dozen servants filed in, their gazes on the floor as they quickly dusted, sparked a fire in the hearth, wiped down the large table and lit candelabras upon it. One servant placed sprigs of pine, herbs and holy tied together with string around the room. The scent was calming.

Macrath and Ceana stood by the window while the council clustered near the hearth. Everyone worked hard to keep their expressions placid, but ’twas almost as if they tried too hard, and they ended up eyeing each other dubiously.

The servants worked fast. Less than a quarter of an hour later and the chamber was habitable. The room was brighter, cleaner and not as musty smelling.

Macrath cleared his throat to gain the council’s attention.

“Would you care to join me and the princess at the table?” He wasn’t going to await their invitation.

“Indeed,” Beatrice answered. She swept toward the head of the table near the hearth—though she didn’t sit yet.

Macrath gritted his teeth, disliking immensely that she’d chosen where to sit first. His only other option was to take the head of the table at the opposite end. Was this a strategic move on her part?

Glancing around the room, he discerned that it was. The hearth was closer to the chamber door and the opposite end closer to the window, though the small space wasn’t big enough for him to fit through should an assassin attempt to toss him. But what he did notice was that above the hearth—and facing his side directly—was a small murder hole. The likes of which an arrow could easily fit through.

Dammit. He couldn’t very well argue with the councilwoman about changing seats unless he wanted to draw attention to why he wanted to change seats.

Macrath caught Marrec’s gaze and then slid his stare to the murder hole. His man nodded once, seeming to understand, and left the room.

Gritting his teeth, he first held out the chair to his right for Ceana and waited for her to sit. Once settled, he took his seat and the rest of the council sat down.

Beatrice had chosen her seat out of turn, but for some reason had followed the basic code to wait for him and Ceana to be seated. Was it because of the guards?

A second later, Marrec returned and shook his head. Good. There was no one positioned on the other side of the wall to shoot him.

Macrath flicked his gaze to his guards. They stood still and silent as statues. Their eyes were focused on the far wall. They were there if he needed them. He knew that. And it was good to know he and Ceana were not alone in this castle, and that they had allies within the dark walls of Sìtheil.

The same servants who’d cleaned the room returned with goblets and jugs of wine, placing them before each of the seven seated. He watched to see which mugs were filled from which containers. Everyone’s goblets were filled from the same jugs. This made it less possible that the wine could be poisoned. Still, Macrath made no move to sip.

From across the table, Beatrice pinched the stem of her goblet and twirled the vessel, her eyes on Macrath, almost challenging him to take a sip before she did, but he would not give in.

“A toast,” Beatrice said, raising her glass.

The council members followed suit, lifting their goblets. Ceana and Macrath were the last to do so.

“A toast to the new prince and princess. The first Sìtheil has seen, and we hope not the last.” The corners of Beatrice’s lips twitched as she spoke.

If he’d not overheard her conversation with the council, he might have taken her words another way. Might have taken them to mean that in five years when the games would be resumed (or so the council believed), that another prince and princess would be chosen.

But he knew very well what she meant. She wanted them gone—and replaced soon.

Beatrice touched the rim of her glass to her lips. Macrath nudged Ceana beneath the table. She nudged him back, a silent reply that she would not sip. It looked as though Beatrice took a sip but he could not be certain. In fact, all the council appeared to sip, and yet when they placed their cups back to the table, none of their lips were wet.

The two of them did the same, pretending to sip in case the wine was poisoned. ’Twas possible they all held poisoned cups before them. A ruse to make Macrath and Ceana drink comfortably.

Macrath lifted his cup again. “And a toast to our beloved royal council. We thank you for your protection. For your support. For your continued guidance.”

Ceana raised her cup, and touched it to Macrath’s. She beamed a smile at the council and said, “Aye, we owe you so much.”

Beatrice’s eyes twitched as she studied them. Macrath wished he could see every thought that went through the woman’s head. Then again, he was certain the machinations of her mind would leave him forever demented.

Did she believe their ruse? Did she think them clueless still as to her plans?

Beatrice knew them to be clever, obviously, since they’d won the games.

“Aye, you do,” she said. “But that is not why we’ve brought you here, nor why you won.”

“Indeed, every new ruler of Sìtheil must have a plan for the future. We intend to discuss yours,” said the councilman to Beatrice’s right. Leonard, Macrath thought.

“Does the king wish to know? Shall I write to him?” Macrath asked. “Hmm, on better thought, wouldn’t it be prudent for my wife and me to seek out the king and pledge our allegiance? We’ve not yet sworn our oath to him in person, though we did swear to obey his law at the crowning.”

The council members sat back, identical looks of shock and horror on their faces.

“Whyever would you do that?” Leonard asked, his face turning red. “The king does not wish to see you.”

Macrath watched Lady Beatrice purse her lips and squint her eyes, assessing him.

Beneath the table, Ceana’s warm hand squeezed his knee. His strength was bolstered with her by his side.

“We took it upon ourselves to send the king a letter on your behalf,” Beatrice said smoothly. “For these past one hundred years, no king has wished to speak with the winners of the war games. But, seeing as how you were not raised within a great household, neither of you may have known that part of the rules.”

Macrath took exception to her words. It was a blatant stab at his birth order and the poverty of Ceana’s clan. What did household have to do with anything anyway? The stories of the war games were passed down from generation to generation without prejudice of riches, birth order or clan.

“My lady, we are not so underprivileged as to not know the way things have been in the past,” Ceana said, a slight bite to her tone. “But prior to now, the king has not named a victor his prince nor his princess. As you said yourself, the rules are always changing.”

“Well, not this,” snapped one of the other council members. Simon, mayhap? “The king expressly informed us that he wanted his distance to Sìtheil to remain intact. That is why he has appointed us as the royal council to Sìtheil.”

Beatrice let out an outraged tsking of her tongue, and Simon had the astuteness to clamp his lips closed.

The royal council to Sìtheil…

What did that mean? ’Twas apparently a key point Beatrice wanted withheld from them.

“Well, are we not lucky, then?” Ceana said. “We have been blessed with our very own council.”

Macrath’s eyes widened slightly. Was that it? The royal council had been displaced from the king and set here permanently? Had their taste for blood and vengeance gone so far that the king no longer wished to be associated with them? Was it too much to hope that the king himself wanted the new prince and princess to take the council down?

Nay. That could not be it at all.

The servants returned with a platter topped with a roasted goose, another with a roasted pig, boiled onions and mushrooms in a buttered herb sauce, and still-steaming bread.

Macrath filed away the information they’d just gleaned. An investigation into the matter was warranted, and he still might write a letter to the king. In fact, he most certainly
should
write a letter to the king. He’d have to make sure it was delivered without the council’s knowledge, which would prove harder than the writing by far.

“We are so very glad to have you here with us,” he said. “’Tis a great relief to know we are not alone.”

“We’d have it no other way,” Beatrice promised. And saints, but he knew she meant it in the most sinister way. “We have seen much in you, and we wish to help you however we can.”

Empty words. The councilmen murmured their agreement, though not very convincingly, and took deep sips of their wine. Ah, so it wasn’t poisoned.

Ceana nudged him beneath the table.

Macrath and Ceana followed suit, finally drinking their wine. He kept a watch on what food the council members ate and made certain that he and Ceana stayed clear of the goose, as none of the council ate it. Beatrice and her followers pushed the meat around their plates, eyes flicking to the redressed carcass on the platter, but never letting the meat touch their lips.

Ceana and Macrath, too, pushed it to the side and watched as Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. She’d have to be a lot cleverer than this to poison them. At the very least, she and her subordinates should agree that none of them would so obviously shun the poisoned food.

The council should have chosen another fare to poison, for the goose was a symbol of valor. It was a twisted irony that they chose for Macrath and Ceana to succumb to death by eating such an emblem of courage.

But perhaps the council did not know the history of the goose. Macrath had spent many days watching the silly birds when he’d helped the falconer and hunters as a young lad. They flew in flocks, and should one be injured, at least one would fly back to be by the injured animal’s side. The goose would remain until his comrade was well again or had breathed his last. They never left one behind. They worked as a group, and in their own language were able to warn each other of impending doom. Much like clans and families.