Page 31 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
However, at that moment they were distracted by the arrival of six guards carrying a heavy wooden box on their shoulders, and Larry’s attention shifted. He knew the purpose of the box; it was a coffin, and by the way the bearers were struggling to carry it, there was a big body inside. There were many big men in Scotland but Larry could tell it was one of his own.
The guards laid the box on the ground and the Laird stepped forward to lift up the lid. Immediately the sour smell of death assailed his nostrils and he had to swallow hard in order not to vomit. John’s body had been preserved in the coolest part of the cellars, but it was clear that some decay had already begun, even though it was not yet visible.
Ramsay had been ordered to follow the Laird and his men. And now he came forward to look at the beloved face of his brother. Even though the Laird had been true to his word and allowed him to see John just after his body had been washed, he already looked different.
His skin was grey, his lips and the tips of his fingers were blue, and his cheeks were sunken. However, despite these changes, he looked utterly at peace, and although Ramsay’s throat was choked with tears, he felt a little better knowing that John still looked a little like his old self. He had not yet become unrecognisable, although Ramsay was aware it was only a matter of time.
“What has happened here?” Larry demanded furiously. “This is my cousin John. “What happened to him? I demand to know who killed him.” He pointed at Ramsay. “You! You mongrel, you had something to do with this!”
“We do not know who killed him,” the Laird answered calmly. “When we found him he was already dead, and we have no idea who was responsible. As I said, send your uncle. He and I can discuss this, and it need not lead to any more hostility.”
Ramsay leaned down to cup his brother’s cheek gently with his right hand; it was cold, and the skin was as dry as dust. He whispered, “I miss you, John. Look after yourself, wherever you are.” Then he kissed the cold forehead and stood up to meet Larry’s contemptuous stare.
“You idiot!” he said scathingly. “Do you think he can hear you?”
Ramsay gave no answer but stood looking down at the corpse of his brother while fleeting images of their past ran through his mind. He would give everything he had in the world to have the power to reawaken John again, to see his wide smile and feel his arm around his shoulders.
His reverie was shattered when he heard his cousin’s rough voice by his shoulder again. “They killed him,” he growled, looking up at the McBain clan members all around them. He grabbed Ramsay by the chin and jerked his face around so that they were looking at each other again. “They murdered my cousin.”
Ramsay looked around at the Ormond garrison and noticed that many of them had unsheathed their swords and looked ready to use them. The McBains too looked tense and ready for battle, and he knew that somehow he had to calm the situation down before there was a massacre. One false move would surely mean disaster.
Despite his resolution not to lose his temper, Ramsay felt rage building up inside him, but he forced it down with a supreme effort of will and said between gritted teeth, “Calm down, Larry. The McBains can summon the whole village to help them—they are likely doing it right now. Can you make your men listen to me for a moment?”
Larry hesitated for a minute, frowning, then nodded and called his men to order. “Put away your weapons,” he ordered. The sound of swords being sheathed rang out, as well as some muttered curses. Dagger-like looks were aimed at Ramsay; it seemed that many of the Ormonds had been spoiling for a fight with him. Larry turned back to Ramsay. “Say what you have to say,” he commanded. “And be quick.”
Ramsay looked into Larry’s fierce grey-blue eyes and noticed something for the first time. There was a hint of something in their depths that suggested to him that Larry was relishing this experience, and somehow he was not surprised.
“The McBains did not kill John,” he announced. “Neither did I, but it was my fault that he died. He received a letter asking him to meet his betrothed at a certain place near the Braeburn, and when he went there he was ambushed and killed. I tried to stop him from leaving the castle, but I could not. Perhaps if I had tried harder I could have stopped him, but I did my best. Obviously, it was not good enough, which is why I say that it is my fault. The McBains did not kill John.”
“How dare ye know that?” one of the Ormond men asked. “Did ye see the killer?”
“No,” Ramsay answered, “but if they had murdered John I would not be standing here now. They had plenty of chances to kill me too so that I would not be able to supply any information about John’s death. They could have simply made both of us disappear. This is my fault, and I am willing to take the punishment for it.”
At that moment, two of the Ormond men who had previously sheathed their swords whipped them out of their scabbards again and came charging towards him, roaring like wild animals.
Ramsay had trained extensively for his semi-official position in the castle garrison, not because anyone had forced him to, but because he enjoyed it. However, as well as learning all the proper fighting techniques, he had been taught a few that were not officially sanctioned.
He had learned to fight dirty, and those particular skills came in handy now that he had no weapons and was up against two armed men who looked as though they would like to chop him into pieces.
Ramsay was standing beside a waist-height wall, and just as the first attacker reached him, sword upraised to strike, he stuck out his foot and tripped the man up. He went down like a felled tree, and it was immediately obvious that he was not going to get to his feet since the fall had rendered him unconscious.
The second attacker stopped in his tracks for a second as he saw his comrade go down, and it was that hesitation that was his undoing. Ramsay leaped over the first swordsman then lowered his head and barrelled into the stomach of the second one so that he fell over backwards. There was a thud as the back of his head hit the stone flags, and he cried out in pain, but he was still conscious and able to fight. He reached for his sword to retaliate, only to find that its point was touching his throat. Ramsay had snatched the weapon up as soon as it was dropped on the ground and was standing looking down at his enemy. The expression on his face was almost fierce enough to cow the man into submission even if he had not been holding a weapon.
Ramsay said nothing as he hauled his defeated adversary to his feet. He had a sword in his hand, and for a moment he was sorely tempted to use it, but common sense prevailed. He would have been overpowered in seconds if he had done anything so foolish, so he gave it, hilt first, to Laird McBain.
It was a gesture of peace, and both men knew it. Laird McBain nodded, took the weapon from Ramsay, and put it on the ground. The unconscious man was dragged away, and the other one was pushed back into the crowd of his comrades.
Laird McBain came forward to face Larry, giving the sword to one of his men as he did so. There was enough tension in the air and he wanted no more misunderstandings.
“Well, Master Jamieson,” he said heavily, his gaze fixed on Larry so intently it almost made the younger man cringe. “Are you satisfied now, or would you like to talk a little more?”
Larry looked at the men on both sides who were sitting or standing around them awaiting orders. He could think of no reason to postpone their departure, so he shook his head. “No,” he replied, trying to keep his tone as stern and authoritative as he could. “I will inform my uncle of your wish to parley, and in the meantime, perhaps it would be better if our two families kept their distance from each other.”
“I agree,” the Laird replied, nodding. “And I would be obliged, Master Jamieson, if you would send a messenger the next time you wish to speak to me. All this,” He waved his arm to indicate the troops around them, “was not necessary.”
Larry bowed respectfully and turned to leave. The Laird had given them a farm cart to take John’s coffin back to Balmuir with them, and it broke Ramsay’s heart to see his brother’s body being taken home in such an unseemly manner. He hoped John’s funeral would be more dignified, but then, he doubted that he would be invited. Ramsay might have had a funeral of his own by that time, he supposed, although he could not imagine that too many people would attend, except perhaps Ailsa, if she knew about it. An executed man was usually buried in an unmarked grave in unconsecrated ground.
His own mode of transport back to Balmuir was on foot, but Larry had insisted that his hands be tied behind his back.
