As they approached, she watched the gates, remembering what happened at Eilean Donan, and willed them to open. Suddenly, a horn sounded, loud and clear. The gates opened, and the sound of cheering reached them.
When they rode into the castle, the courtyard was filled with well-wishers shouting Rory’s name. Tears stung at the back of Sybil’s eyes. This boisterous welcome was better than anything she had dared hope for.
Rory waved to the crowd and dismounted, leaving her on her horse. She felt the speculative stares of three hundred MacKenzies when he took her horse’s reins and led her through the crowd to the keep, pausing every few feet to grip a man’s arm in greeting or slap his back. She was sure he only meant to keep her from getting lost in the crush, but he was drawing more attention to her than he ought.
When they reached the keep, Rory lifted her down from the horse, took her hand, and climbed the steps. She paused at the entrance to the castle’s great hall. The hall had no windows, and though it was lit by torches, candles, and the fire in the enormous stone hearth, crossing the threshold was like traveling from day into night.
Sybil felt as if she was crossing another kind of threshold, one she could not cross back once she stepped through.
The walls of the large, cavernous room were covered with shields, axes, and various other weapons and seemed to serve as warning to anyone challenging MacKenzie power. Antlers of impressive size hung in the few spaces that did not hold weapons. More intimidating than the weapons were the scores of brawny MacKenzie warriors.
The crowd parted for Rory, creating an opening down the length of the hall to a raised platform at the far end that held a single chair. Sybil knew without being told that it was the chieftain’s chair. This was Rory’s moment, a day that would be remembered in songs and stories that told the history of his clan.
“I’ll wait here,” she told him.
“Nay. I want ye at the front with Alex where he can watch over ye,” he said, then turned to his brother, who had appeared out of nowhere. “Ye know what to do.”
Rory strode ahead of them through the parted MacKenzies like Moses through the Red Sea and climbed onto the raised platform. Alex gave Sybil a wink as he took her arm, then proceeded to follow Rory, stopping just short of the raised platform.
From her vantage point at the front of the crowd, she was able to see the details of the chieftain’s ornately carved chair, which appeared to be very old. The arms were carved wolves with bared teeth, and the legs were wild boar with wicked tusks. An image of a stag was carved on the chair’s back. On the wall above the chair, mirroring the antlers on the stag in the carving, was the most massive set of antlers she had ever seen.
“The stag’s head is the symbol of the MacKenzie chieftain,” Alex said in her ear.
The crowd pressed against her and grew noisy.
She looked back over her shoulder at the sunlit doorway at the opposite end of the dusky hall. Though she did not understand why, she could not shake the premonition that her life was about to change again and that nothing would ever be the same.
CHAPTER 25
Where in the bloody hell was Hector?
Rory scanned the hall again. Hector would not give up this easily. If he came and lost, Hector would have had to swear his allegiance and this fight would be over. He must have decided the risk was too great. Though he may have conceded the battle today, that did not mean Hector had given up the war. This would not be settled until Hector swore his allegiance to Rory—or one of them was dead.
But today belonged to Rory.
He stood on the dais, mindful of the legacy of the MacKenzie chieftains who had come before him, particularly his grandfather, Alexander the Upright, and his father, Brian of the Battle. Now more than ever, his people needed a man of strength and fortitude to lead them.
Rory must be that man, and he would be for them.
He raised his arms, and the noise in the hall died.
“I am Rory Ian Fraser MacKenzie,” he said in a loud voice. “I am the brother, son, and grandson of MacKenzie chieftains, and their rightful heir.”
Several men shouted their approval.
“I hereby claim, as my right and duty,” he said, letting the words that his father and grandfather had spoken before him ring out through the hall, “my place as chieftain of the great Clan MacKenzie!”
The hall burst into thunderous applause. The crowd shouted and clapped and stamped their feet until the floors and walls shook. Rory raised his hands for quiet again.
“As your new chieftain,” Rory shouted, “I demand, as is our custom from ancient times, that every man of our clan swear his oath of loyalty to me.”
Every head turned toward the back of the hall to see who Rory had chosen for the honor of being first to swear the oath. Malcolm, who had fought many a battle at his grandfather’s right hand, stood in the open doorway holding a claymore sword across the flat of his palms. With slow, measured steps, Malcolm crossed the hall.
When he reached the dais, he knelt and held out the blade with outstretched arms. Rory recognized it at once from the carved stag on the hilt that was worn smooth from use. He had not expected to see this sword again.
“This sword belonged to two great chieftains, your grandfather and your father,” Malcolm said, speaking in a booming voice that could be heard throughout the hall. “It rightfully belongs to you now.”
The sword had disappeared when his father fell in battle. The story was that it was stolen by the enemy that day, but Malcolm must have saved the sword and hidden it away.