Page 78 of Leila’s Legacy

The man winced with discomfort. “’Tis yer son, my lord.”

“What has that idiot done now?” Lord Armstrong muttered irritably.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the guard said. “But he’s dead.”

Lord Armstrong straightened, as if he no longer felt the bite of the wind he’d complained of only moments before. “What did ye say?”

The tall guard lowered his head reverently. “Alban is dead. Slain by the Lion.”

Lord Armstrong looked to something Niall could not see. The stricken expression on his face suggested that “something” might be Alban. He turned slowly to Niall and stared, unspeaking, for a long moment. His mouth worked wordlessly, and he swallowed before parting his lips once more.

“Ye killed my son.” His gaze shifted to Alban and then back to Niall. In that single instant, the aging earl looked older than he ever had, his skin withered and lined, his eyes hollowed. It changed in an instant, with his face reddening and lips peeling back from his teeth. “Ye killed my son,” he roared, the tendons at his neck straining.

Niall widened his stance, bracing himself for whatever may come. “Ye killed my da. Ye made me hold down the woman I loved and drown her.”

Lord Armstrong fisted his hands and glared with wild wrath. “Guards, arrest this man.” He spoke low and even and it sent a chill trickling down Niall’s spine.

Niall knelt to the ground, hunkering low and tensing, intending to make it as difficult for the guards as possible. His injured thigh blazed with pain and his head swam, but he pushed the agony away.

“My da was loyal to ye. I was loyal to ye.” He slipped his fingers into the lip of his boot where the leather covered his ankle. “Was it because the people wanted someone moral? Because it made ye look good to have me in yer counsel?” He pulled the dagger free. “Except I am no’ as malleable as ye thought.”

Niall drew his arm back and launched the dagger at Lord Armstrong. The blade sailed through the air and sank deep into Lord Armstrong’s chest.

The earl’s eyes went wide with surprise, not unlike how his son’s had. He looked down to the dagger jutting out from his chest.

Niall sagged back. He would be killed, he knew, but it had been worth it to see Lord Armstrong dead.

A rumbling sounded in Lord Armstrong’s chest and bellowed out. Not a death cry, or a howl of agony, but a laugh.

Niall narrowed his eyes at the old man. Had the bastard lost his mind?

Lord Armstrong opened his cloak to reveal a book clutched to his chest with his right arm. The dagger had gone through the cloak and stuck in the middle of the manuscript.

“My psalter I’d brought to chapel with me.” The earl lifted the stabbed book. “God isna done with me yet, and I’m no’ done with ye. Guards, take him to the dungeon, while we ready the gallows. Before the sun sets, he will die.” He looked back at Alban, his mirth fading to something akin to sorrow. “And dinna be gentle when ye deliver him into his cell.”

Several guards rushed forward, catching Niall by the arms and drawing him upright. Lord Armstrong’s fine shoes appeared on the cobblestones in Niall’s line of vision. Niall tensed, expecting the old man to take a hit at his gut. But he did not. Instead, he leaned over and said in a thin, papery voice, “I’ll see ye in hell, Lion.”

The dagger clattered to the ground at Niall’s feet, so close, yet as unobtainable as it would be if it were on the other side of the castle.

The guards who took Niall to the dungeon were mostly men who had served under him rather than being men who had fought alongside Alban previously. They were not rough with Niall as directed. They delivered him to his cell with guilty glances before sliding away into the darkness.

One man, a guard who often served under Niall, lingered behind after the others had left. Connell. He was a good man with a wife who had recently given birth to their first bairn. The younger man stared into the cell with a pained expression pinching his face. “I canna help ye,” Connell said regretfully. “There is a potion I may be able to get, to dull yer senses for the—”

Niall shook his head. “Nay. Dinna put yerself at risk.”

“Forgive me, Niall.” Connell scratched at his thick, dark beard. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“There is one thing.” Niall closed his eyes, succumbing to the vibrant pain blooming in his chest. “When all has transpired and they cease saying my name, I want ye to go to Werrick Castle…” His throat drew tight and he was forced to swallow.

“Aye?” Connell asked in a soft whisper.

Niall leaned his head back on the hard stone wall, mindful of the painful throb on his right side. “Tell Lady Leila that I will always love her.”