wounds had not yet festered even though they had not healed as much as they should have. There was yet some danger for Leith.
“Your names,” Parlan rapped out, no longer worried that his anger would frighten the boy.
Aimil did not quail beneath the man’s penetrating, dark gaze. “Shane and Leith Mengue. ’Tis Leith ye have almost murdered.”
Swearing colorfully and with admirable diversity, Parlan continued to help in tending young Leith Mengue’s wounds. He too saw it as a miracle that the boy’s wounds had not festered filling his blood with a deadly poison. Even if the boy lived, which seemed imminently possible now, such harsh treatment of the Mengue heir could provoke the very feud Parlan hoped to avoid. The little Mengue boy certainly looked eager to begin one, he mused.
A man of his times, Parlan did in truth like a good battle or the thrill of a raid. It was the blood feuds he detested, feuds where hate passed from generation to generation, with the initial cause for the feuds becoming distorted, even forgotten. More often than not, the cause was one where, if it had occurred within the clan, a settlement would have come about quickly between the original antagonists. Instead whole clans tore at each other, killing each other wherever and whenever they were able, using up their resources in a long, bloody, seemingly unending feud. What truly annoyed him was how those feuds so often interfered at a time when unity was desperately needed, such as against an enemy like the English.
His thoughts came to an abrupt halt when Artair stumbled into the room, but Parlan’s fury had to wait to be vented.
Aimil recognized the man who had ordered that she and Leith be put into the hole, knew from things said that it was this man who had kept them there, who had drunk and wenched while her brother slowly died. Her delicate hands curled into claws, and she lunged at Artair.
Artair saved his eyes only by a quick raising of his arms. Two men grabbed Aimil before she was able to inflict much damage but it was a few moments before she stopped hurling curses and threats at Artair, and was calm enough to be released. In the confusion the feminine manner of her attack went unnoticed. When she moved to stand by the head of the bed where Leith rested, she was not ready to forgive any MacGuin. But she did note that Artair was getting anything but praise for his actions from Black Parlan. It was clear that he had acted completely of his own accord, something that was clearly an old bone of contention between the two men.
“I see ye found the prisoners,” Artair began weakly for Parlan’s face was dark with rage.
“I nearly had naught but corpses. Did ye never think that they might be worth more alive?”
“No one told me.” Artair’s excuses were abruptly cut off by a sound blow from Parlan’s broad hand that sent Artair slamming into a wall.
“Ye were already too drunk to heed a word said. Fool! Ye have done your best to kill Lachlan Mengue’s heir. Do ye ken what that would have meant? Do ye ken what that would have brought down about our heads?”
“The Mengues arenae strong enough to beat us,” cried Artair only to suffer another blow from his enraged brother.
“Nay, mayhaps not, but they have ties to the MacVerns and the Broths. Aye, and those bastards, the Ferguesons.” Pinning Artair to the wall, he snarled, “They also have power in court and could easily bring the king’s wrath upon our heads.” He released his hold so abruptly that Artair fell to the floor. “Murder it would have been called and murder it would have been. If the king didnae put us to the horn, declare us outlaws, we would still have to deal with four clans at our throats plus God alone kens how many others for t’would be a righteous vengeance.”
“I dinnae ken what ye are so angry about,” sputtered Artair. “The lad still lives and he will bring a fine ransom.”
“Get out!” bellowed Parlan. “Get out before I stuff ye in that accursed hole and forget ye for a week.”
There was no hesitation in Artair’s obedience to that command. When Parlan was in such a fury, retreat was the better part of valor. After seeing Leith Mengue’s precarious state of health, Artair was guiltily aware of his culpability.
Parlan turned his attention to the delicate boy called Shane. “Now we shall get ye cleaned up.”
“I dinnae need your help. I can weel clean myself,” Aimil snapped. “Aye, and I will do so once I ken that Leith fares weel.”
“He willnae fare weel if he is forced to smell ye all the while,” growled Parlan, then ordered his men to fetch some fresh bath water.
Aimil started to tell the big man just where he could put his bath water when Leith weakly touched her arm and rasped, “Clean up, brat, before ye fall ill as weel. Ye do stink a bit.”
Clasping his hand briefly, she teased in a shaky voice, “Ye were no rose yourself until a wee bit ago.”
“I cannae believe I stank quite so foul.” His smile faded as he was seized by a violent fit of coughing ending their banter.
Lagan moved to aid Leith in the drinking of a hot, strong broth that had been delivered. Aimil watched her bath prepared and hoped that the MacGuins would accede to her demand for privacy. There was no need of a guard within the room, and the very thought of what could happen if they discovered she was female sent chills up her spine.
“Here be some clean things for ye to don,” said Malcolm as he set some clothes upon the bed. “These should fit. I even brought a new bonnet for ye as ye seem right fond of the things.” He frowned at the dirty bedraggled bonnet that sat firmly upon her head. “Do ye never take it off?”
She ignored the question, feeling certain that he did not really expect an answer. “Thank ye. How fares Elfking?”
“Weel, though the white Devil lets few near him. Unfriendly beast,” Malcolm grumbled.
“That white stallion was yours?” Parlan could not hide his amazement, thinking it far too much horse for a beardless boy.
“Is mine, aye. I raised him from a colt.” She could not repress the note of pride in her voice.
“Weel, ye didnae do so weel in curbing his bad tempers. I shall have to work upon that.”
“Ye willnae have any time. My father will ransom us soon.” Yet again she felt fear, the fear of losing something very dear to her.
“Aye, he will but the horse stays here. I have taken a fancy to him.”
“I doubt he will take a fancy to ye. He is a verra discerning animal. Ye cannae keep him here,” she said sharply.
Parlan’s brows quickly rose. “Child, no one tells me what I can or cannae do.”
“I am telling ye naught, merely stating a fact. He willnae take to a new master.”
“We shall see. Into the bath.”
“Aye, when ye leave. I wish some privacy for my ablutions,” she said haughtily, even though her heart pounded so fiercely that it hurt.
His thin lips twitching as he repressed a grin, Parlan drawled, “Your wish is my command.” He started toward the door, the other men moving with him. “Whilst m’lord bathes, I shall busy myself by putting my new horse through his paces.”
“Going
