Page 117 of Bride of Mist
Seething with furious purpose, he stormed across the courtyard, through the crowd of shocked and whispering clan folk. With a great heave, he burst through the doors of the great hall.
“Gaufrid!” he bellowed across the cavernous chamber.
The dozens of servants and mercenaries bustling about the hall froze in alarm.
“Fetch Gaufrid!” he barked at a kitchen lad standing with his mouth agape.
The lad scurried up the stairs to do his bidding.
Dougal leaned back against the doors to close them, shutting out the daylight with a resolute thud. Then he slowly ambled to the middle of the great hall, keeping the mercenaries at bay with a menacing gaze. They didn’t dare approach the brother of the laird, not without the laird’s permission.
When the lad clambered back down the stairs, it was not his brother who followed him, but Fergus and Morris.
“What’s this about?” Fergus demanded with feign authority.
“I asked for Gaufrid,” Dougal bit out. “Gaufrid!” he yelled.
“He’s unwell,” Morris scolded.
“Why? Did ye poison him?”
The servants gasped.
“How dare ye,” Fergus said.
Dougal crossed his arms. “Are ye tryin’ to get rid o’ him the same way ye tried to get rid o’ me?”
The servants gasped again.
“What are ye blatherin’ about?” Morris asked. “We’ve been naught but kind and carin’ to the laird, lookin’ after him in his grief.”
“’Tis your fault he’s unwell,” Fergus said. “He’s been worried sick about ye.”
Dougal didn’t believe that for an instant. “Then he should be glad to see me returned.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Gaufrid!”
At last his brother stumbled down the stairs. He was a mess. He must have been drinking all morn. His eyes were bleary. His hair was uncombed. The two edges of his gambeson were mismatched, laced in a crooked tangle.
“What are ye doin’ here?” he said, slurring the words.
“Look, Gaufrid,” Fergus prompted him. “Your prayers have been answered. Your brother’s returned.”
Dougal’s mouth twisted with bitterness. “Surprised to see me? After all, ye planned to have me killed, aye?”
“Ye? Killed?” The hall filled with anxious murmurs as Gaufrid mumbled out a denial. “Why would I do that?”
Fergus wiped his sweaty upper lip. “Quiet, Dougal. Can’t ye see ye’re upsettin’ him?”
Morris, sensing the tension in the room, lowered his voice. “Why don’t we go upstairs, the four of us, and have a wee chat?”
“Why?” Dougal asked, gesturing to the clan folk surrounding them. “Do they not deserve to know the truth?”
“What truth?” Gaufrid sneered.
Fergus clamped his jaw and grabbed Dougal’s forearm to warn him to silence.
Dougal snatched it back. “The truth that ye set the fire at Kirkoswald.”
Astounded whispers circled the great hall. But his stark accusation also drew the attention of the mercenaries, alert to any sign of threat to the man who paid their wages. Meanwhile, more servants crept into the great hall from the buttery and the chambers above, drawn by the commotion.
