Page 126 of The Speed of Lightning
Balder shook his head, still gaping. “You—you look like—” His gaze raked over him, lingering on the Wolfhound stigma and then the scar above his lip. “You look like Calum MacLean returned from the dead.”
Chapter 37
ARDTORNISH CASTLE - MARCH 11, 1387
Adozen of the king’s guard flanked Freya as she was shoved into the throne room. The doors groaned closed behind them, cutting off any possible escape through the corridor. She turned, her eyes falling on Aoife—alone, trembling, at the center of the magnificent stone hall. Her heart leapt.
The guards swiped for her as she pulled out of their grasp. “Stop her!”
Freya ignored it. She wrenched free, clutching Aoife to her chest. They held each other, frantic.
Aoife burst with a sob, holding onto her. “Are you all right?”
Before she could answer, the guards tore them apart. Freya went limp, clinging to Aoife even as they tried to drag her across the stone floor.
“Stop struggling, Freya.” The smooth honeyed drawl of Rory’s voice made bile rise in her throat, but remembering Papa being run through with the sword, she stilled, allowing the guards to drag her back.
Her eyes swept the hall. Seven nobles sat in polished oak chairs, their murmurs and sharp looks imparting a tide of judgment. At the center, in the grandest seat, sat Dómhnall. Hisappearance threw her. This was not the confident usurper who had torn Calum’s clan from him, but a man worn thin, dark circles shadowing his eyes, fatigue etched into every line of his face. To his left perched the Abbot of Iona, thin and sour, his jeweled mitre so gaudy it bordered on absurd. To Dómhnall’s right, in the place of true power, lounged the Wolf—far younger than she had imagined, strikingly handsome, and leering at her with open interest.
From the corner of the room, a man blew a long droning note from a dord. Dómhnall nodded. “The Council of the Isles is called to order.”
Something was wrong. This couldn’t be the council. None of the familiar island chiefs sat amongst the chairs. These men looked like lowlanders. Already drumming, her heart skipped. This was not a mere presence before the king, this was something else.
Rory strode toward her in his robes of honor as head of the king’s guard. His steps were measured, his voice calm. “You know why you are here. Your hand is required.”
She closed her eyes, imploring God to help her, then raised her chin, her voice strong as it had been on Findlugan. “For what is my hand required?”
The king leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “Impudent woman.” He cleared his throat. “Freya MacSorley, you are brought before me to give your testimony concerning the annulment of your marriage. Your father assures me that this marriage was fraudulent from the start, that this union was undertaken against your will, and that before you were joined in marriage to Calum MacLean you were betrothed to Rory MacDonald. Is this true?”
Freya spoke with controlled indignation. “My father is dead, Your Grace, as I am sure you and everyone here are aware. Of course it isnae true. I love my husband, and he loves me. Weboth entered into this marriage willingly. The matter was settled months ago, when you wrested control of my husband’s clan—his birthright—from him. Rory himself agreed to what was settled, my father’s chieftainship for Calum’s bride.”
Rory spoke right over her. “We were to be handfasted when I returned to Jura?—”
“It wasnae finalized. Chief Hector had not signed the banns. My banns with Calum, however, were signed by Chief HectorandKing John.”
Rory shouted over her again. “The bride-price had already been exchanged!”
“It’s a lie!”
King Dómhnall held his hands up for silence. Then pressed on. “You yourself have told me that your union with Calum MacLean remains unconsummated. You did not have a bedding ceremony witnessed by a priest of the holy church, nor has it been consummated since. Therefore, by law, the marriage is not binding.”
Pleasure shivered down Freya’s spine, and she smiled with quiet pride. “My husband took me to himself three nights past. The marriage is whole, final, and beyond undoing. God Himself has blessed our union; our vows are sealed. If you will not take my word, ask Aoife MacCormack, who stands beside me and was present the morning after. If her witness does not suffice, then inquire of any of the nine souls who shared Moor Leathann cottage that night. And if even that fails you, I will submit to the judgment of a healer.”
Aoife cleared her throat. “’Tis true.”
The king’s gaze snapped to her. “You will not speak, Mistress MacCormack, unless you are spoken to.”
Rory lunged forward, seizing Freya by the arm. “You wretch! You vile wretch!”
She shoved him back, her voice cutting through the chamber. “I would rather eat anadderthan marry you, Rory MacDonald. I am Calum MacLean’s—I have always been his. And what is more, I have always hated you. I never gave my consent the night my father drew up our banns; you forced me. And now you are too late. It is done. Give up this foolish pursuit.”
The back of his hand struck her so hard her ears rang. But she lifted her chin, locking eyes with him. Her voice rang steady. “As you see, my testimony stands true. He is a violent, bloodthirsty man. He ran my father through with a sword—for no cause he will give.”
Rory grabbed her by her hair, wrenching her head back. “Ragnall MacSorley was never your father.”
King Dómhnall burst to his feet. “Stop speaking at once.”
Freya opened her mouth to argue, but closed it remembering her birth record registering her as illegitimate. “What do you mean?”
