Page 15

15: NOT OUR QUARREL

TENSION CRACKLED THROUGH the large solar.

The air felt heavy, as before a thunderstorm.

This council was highly anticipated, and clan representatives had traveled from every corner of Scotland to attend.

And as Iver had predicted, the room was nearly full.

Servants had brought in a few trestle tables and pushed them together to form one large meeting table, which they’d then covered with a blood-red velvet cloth.

They’d removed much of the furniture from the room, to make space, and carried in long benches for the clan-chiefs and chieftains to sit upon.

King James had already taken his place at the head of the table, seated upon a high-backed chair with courtiers flanking him.

The queen wasn’t with James this morning—indeed, there were no women present.

Only men were invited to political councils such as this one.

Taking one of the few spaces remaining, next to Colin Campbell, Iver nodded to him.

In response, the Lord of Glenorchy flashed him a knowing smile.

“Enjoyed yerself last night, did ye, Iver?”

“Aye,” Iver grunted, pretending not to notice the glint in the older man’s eye.

Sensing Iver’s mood, Campbell cast a questioning look at Lennox, who’d squeezed onto the end of the bench seat next to his brother.

“Looking a little peaky this morn, lad,” he observed.

Lennox pulled a face.

He glanced then over the table at where Malcolm Sutherland glowered across at him.

The two men locked gazes, their stare drawing out before Iver leaned into his brother and growled.

“Let it go.”

A muscle flexed in Lennox’s jaw, yet he obeyed, cutting his gaze from Sutherland and focusing instead on where the king had risen to his feet.

The rumble of conversation inside the solar died.

“Good morning,” James greeted them.

“I take it ye all enjoyed yerselves yestereve?” A chorus of ‘ayes’ followed, and the king smiled.

“I thank ye for being my guests, and for rousing yerselves from yer beds for this early council. We have much to discuss.”

Iver inwardly groaned at this news.

In contrast to his early days as chieftain, where he’d enjoyed the verbal sparring of such meetings, they just exhausted him now.

Nonetheless, he’d have to suffer through this.

The bench he sat on was hard and uncomfortable, and despite that one of the windows was open, letting in a fresh breeze, the smell in here was rank.

There were too many bodies, many of whom needed a bath, pressed in close together.

The odor of stale sweat mixed with the pungent reek of wine and ale.

In contrast, the king was bathed and coiffed, and dressed in a fresh crimson surcote.

He didn’t look like he’d made merry the eve before with his guests; although at two and twenty, Iver also could drink a skinful and then wield a broadsword in the morning without batting an eye.

“We shall begin our council with a report from each of ye,” James announced, settling back into his chair and picking up a goblet of wine.

His gaze then cut right to where a tall, lean man with dark greying hair sat.

“Let us start with the Gunns.”

Tavish Gunn rose to his feet and began his report.

However, as the clan-chief’s voice rumbled across the solar, Iver found his thoughts returning to the lovely Adair.

Where was she right now?

Most likely with the queen and her ladies-in-waiting.

As soon as this council was done, he’d seek her out in the ladies’ solar.

Gunn’s summary was brief.

Answering a question from the king, he then settled back into his seat and let the man next to him heave himself to his feet and say his bit.

But now that Ian MacLeod—a red-faced, loquacious clan-chief from the Isle of Skye—was the center of attention, he was determined to hold it.

After a few words about general business, he started on about how the MacDonalds were stealing his sheep.

Eventually, James brought his complaints to a halt with a dismissive wave of his hand and muttered the words, “I’ve heard enough.”

A few minutes later, it was Iver’s turn.

Rising to his feet, he relayed the words Niel had sent him.

There wasn’t a lot to say as the clan was indeed peaceful and prosperous these days.

He finished speaking and was about to sit down when James forestalled him.

“Why isn’t yer clan-chief here to speak for himself? Is he too busy to meet with his king?”

“He’s recovering from the grippe, Sire,” Iver replied.

It was the truth. Illness had raged through Castle Varrich all winter.

James’s brow furrowed.

“But he is on the mend?”

“Aye.”

The king’s full lips pursed.

“It’s a pity Niel isn’t here. He holds much power in the north … and I wish to seek an assurance from him.”

Iver inclined his head.

“I am my clan-chief’s emissary, Sire … as such, ye may ask me. He has given me leave to speak on his behalf.”

James huffed a sigh.

“Very well. Can ye reassure me that the Mackays are wholly loyal to the crown?” He cut a veiled glance to where William Douglas sat.

“And that he will not seek alliances with other Highland clan-chiefs.”

Tension coiled in Iver’s gut, his own gaze resting upon Douglas’s face.

The older man’s expression was shuttered.

Of course, everyone here knew what James was alluding to.

The king suspected that some of the Highland lairds were moving against him.

It was concerning that James’s distrust extended to the Mackays.

“Niel Mackay is loyal, Yer Highness,” Iver replied after a brief pause.

“As are all his chieftains … I swear it.”

James stared back at him.

His expression was inscrutable, yet his brown eyes were hard.

“Good,” he said, his tone clipped.

“Nonetheless, I will need confirmation from the clan-chief himself. Ye are to send word to Niel and inform him I require a signed declaration of his loyalty.”

“Aye, Sire,” Iver replied, even as heat flickered to life under his ribcage.

James was his king, yet Iver didn’t appreciate the man’s tone.

His lack of trust was insulting.

He hadn’t demanded such a declaration from the other clan-chiefs who’d spoken so far—and his order made it look as if James had a problem with Niel specifically.

The king’s interrogation ended there, but even as Iver sat back down—exchanging a look with his brother as he did so—his anger still smoldered.

Niel would likely comply with the order, but he would chafe at it.

James's aggressive stance risked making him more enemies than friends. Indeed, the king seemed in a testy mood this morning.

Colin Campbell stood up then and made his report. And when he was done, Iver noted that the king didn’t seek any assurances from the Lord of Glenorchy either.

Slowly, the talk edged around the table, and eventually finished with William Douglas, who sat directly to the king’s left.

Douglas didn’t waste words. His report was terse and lasted only a few lines.

When he was done, James’s gaze narrowed. “Is that all, William?”

“Aye, Sire.”

James inclined his head. “Are ye sure ye aren’t leaving anything out?”

The earl shook his head, his face unreadable.

A heavy silence fell across the table, while the tension in Iver’s stomach tightened once more.

Of course, the king had been building up to this moment.

James leaned back in his carven chair, tapping his smoothly shaven chin with a fingertip. “Interesting … for I’ve heard that ye have been busy indeed recently.”

“I have told ye all my news, Sire,” Douglas rumbled.

James’s eyes glinted. “And yet ye left out yer recent meeting with John MacDonald and Alexander Lindsay.”

Murmurs rose then, although James silenced them with a sharply raised hand.

“I might have,” Douglas replied, his expression still veiled. “But surely, that’s my business. John and Alex are old friends of mine.”

Iver shared another look with Lennox then. A groove had furrowed between his brother’s eyebrows.

MacDonald, the Earl of Ross, and Lindsay, the Earl of Crawford, were two of the most influential men in Scotland. Lindsay was known as the ‘Tiger Earl’, while MacDonald held a second title of ‘Lord of the Isles’ and could trace his ancestry back to the times when the Norse had raided these shores.

“Perhaps,” James replied, his voice hardening. “But they’re not my friends. MacDonald and Lindsay rule like kings in the north … and make no secret that they see me as a ‘lowland’ king with no power over them.”

Douglas held James’s stare. “Ye’re mistaken, Sire … neither would presume to ignore yer authority.”

James took another sip from his goblet before setting it down on the table in front of him. “Yer assurances are empty, William. I have eyes in the Highlands … and I know those two are plotting against me.” A nerve flickered on his left cheek, making his red birthmark twitch. “And I ask ye to break yer bond with them.”

Iver’s breathing grew shallow. James wasn’t bandying words this morning. Here was the reason he’d called this council—the reason he’d given Douglas safe conduct to Stirling. He wanted all the Highland lairds to kneel before him.

However, the king’s request clearly didn’t sit well with the earl, for his mouth compressed. His dark brows then drew together as he folded his arms across his chest. “I will not.”

Silence fell in the solar, shock rippling through the stuffy air.

The king’s long face stiffened, his cheeks flushing. “Is that yer final word on the matter?” There was a rasp to his voice, as if he was struggling to control his temper.

“It is.”

“False traitor,” James spat. “Since ye will not, I shall.”

And with that, the king catapulted from his chair and launched himself at Douglas.

Steel glinted, and the earl reared back. Not in time though, for the blade of the jeweled dirk the king had just drawn sank deep into his shoulder.

A roar went up around the table, and the clan leaders and representatives lurched to their feet—Iver among them.

But the king and Douglas were now on the floor.

And as they looked on, James lifted his blood-stained blade high before plunging it deep into the earl’s neck.

Douglas’s raw cries filled the room, joining the muttered oaths from some of the gathered men. He was trying to fight the younger man off, yet the king had straddled his chest, pinning him to the ground.

And when James brought his dirk down once more with a meaty thud, Iver’s heart lurched into his throat. Alarm propelled him forward, and he moved toward the two struggling figures.

King James had lost his wits. He had to stop him before he killed Douglas.

But Campbell grabbed Iver by the arm and held him back.

Snarling a curse, Iver tried to twist away, yet Campbell’s fingers bit into his flesh, his grip like iron. “Stay out of this, Iver,” he growled. “This isn’t our quarrel.”

“Christ’s blood,” Lennox muttered. His gaze wasn’t on his brother but on where the king continued to drive his blade into the earl’s shoulders and neck. Lennox’s face was now taut and pale. Like Iver, he’d seen, and dealt out, death many times. However, witnessing their king attack an unarmed man—seeing him lose control—was shocking.

James was in a frenzy.

William Douglas’s cries had stopped now, replaced by wet choking sounds.

Bile surged, stinging the back of Iver’s throat. This was obscene.

And then, if the king’s savage attack wasn’t enough, one of the king’s courtiers, a tall man with close-cropped yellow hair, grabbed a poleax, from where it hung on the wall, and rushed forward, bringing it down upon the earl’s head.