sent to his chamber; instead, the Campbells came to an inn. It struck Monty as odd. He’d known Brodie long enough to have seen the man had a healthy and genuine appetite for the opposite sex. “What have you been up to of late?”
Brodie sat back and looked around. Dark circles cast shadows beneath his eyes, but he was alert to those around them. He leaned forward once more. “There was an incident recently that I need to make the king aware of.” Without saying more, Brodie returned to his pottage. When he finished the bowl and the heel of bread that was served with it, he shook his head and sighed. “People will hear of it soon enough. I married Eliza MacMillan a fortnight ago.”
“A newlywed!” Monty crowed. “No wonder you look exhausted, mon.”
“She’s dead.”
“What?” Monty stared at Brodie before glancing at Donnan.
“The marriage to Lady Eliza meant my clan would increase our lands along Loch Sween. Since the MacMillans have supported the Bruce since the beginning and the MacMillans’ land sits between two parts of Clan Campbell’s territory, the marriage made sense.” Brodie sighed and ran his hand over his face, closing his eyes for a moment. “We had the wedding, but the lass was very young.”
Brodie gave Monty and Donnan a pointed look, and the men knew Brodie meant she was little more than a child compared to Brodie. He hadn’t bedded her, so it was little more than a betrothal, but the couple exchanged vows within a kirk.
“We were on our way to Kilchurn when David Lamont attacked. Eliza panicked and tried to ride out of the fray rather than remaining in the circle. She spurred her horse through my men as they fought, and David Lamont took her head from her shoulders before my eyes.” Brodie looked down at his empty trencher, reliving the attack for the umpteenth time since it had happened. He could see Eliza’s terrified expression, could hear himself yelling to her not to move. He could smell her blood in the air as David held up her head and threw it at Brodie. It had horrified him that David would attack Eliza, who was clearly more of a girl than a woman. But guilt plagued him that he didn’t feel guiltier about her death. He regretted it since she’d been a sweet lass, but he didn’t feel any significant loss. And he was certain he should have.
“Why did Lamont target you? Are they still bitter that the stand they made with the MacDougalls of Lorne did naught to stop the Bruce becoming king?”
“Aye, there’s that. But they also don’t want us to increase our holdings, especially since it will diminish their influence along the Cowal peninsula and the Firth of Clyde. They sought to end the alliance, and they succeeded,” Brodie scowled. “I have the MacMillans up my arse, and rightly so. The Lamonts aren’t satisfied with killing an innocent girl, and the Bruce expects me to provide more men to fight against the MacDougalls. Bluidy bleeding hell.”
“Sounds like you’re deep in the shite,” Donnan mused.
“Aye. You’d think my eyes were brown for how deep I’m in,” Brodie huffed. “Before I go before the Bruce in the morning, I decided a hot meal without prying eyes would put me in a better mood.”
“A willing woman helps, too,” Monty said before taking a long draw from his ale. He watched Brodie’s reaction, but there was none.
“It’ll ease your mood,” Donnan suggested.
“I’d been prepared to set those days aside when I married. I find I’m not in such a rush to return to them,” Brodie frowned.
“How old was Lady Eliza?” Monty wondered.
“Four-and-ten,” Brodie answered.
“Plenty of other men would have seen that as a fine age for a bride,” Monty pointed out. “Both of my aulder sisters were married close to that age and had their first bairns within a year of their wedding.”
Brodie didn’t respond. He couldn’t admit that bedding any female young enough to be his daughter made him feel ill. And he couldn’t admit that Eliza’s plain face and grim expression had done nothing to entice him. When he remained quiet, Donnan asked, “How long did you plan to wait?”
“At least two years,” Brodie replied.
“Two years of living like a monk?” Monty chortled. “That doesn’t sound much like you, Brodie.”
“Maybe I grew up. I am nearly forty,” Brodie retorted. “Anyway, what brings you to Crosspool? I would think you would prefer a rowdier tavern if wenching is how you pass your