Page 46

Kilchurn Castle

Argyll, Scotland

One month later …

“HOW MANY MEN does the king want?” Robert Sutherland’s gravelly voice carried across the hall.

“As many as ye can spare,” Colin Campbell replied. “He intends to crush the Black Douglases in the coming months.”

Sutherland’s gaunt face tightened at this proclamation, and he shook his head.

Meanwhile, the other clan-chiefs and those representing the Highland clans all shifted uncomfortably on the hard benches lining the long wooden table upon the dais.

It was late in the day. Supper had been and gone, and cressets burned upon the stone walls, casting long shadows over the hall.

At the king’s behest, the Lord of Glenorchy had summoned them all here so that the northern clan-chiefs might swear loyalty to his cause.

Yet, from the looks on their faces, some of the lairds were cautious about getting involved.

Robert Sutherland looked as if he’d just supped on vinegar. Ian MacLeod wore a stony expression, Tavish Gunn was frowning, and Niel Mackay’s mouth had thinned.

In truth, none of them wished to involve themselves in James’s persecution of the Black Douglases, but they all were here nonetheless.

None of them wanted to raise James’s ire either.

Brodie had never met ‘Fiery Face’, as the king was called behind his back—not just due to the bright vermillion birthmark that stained one side of his face but also for his volcanic temper—but despite that he was still a young man, all these clan-chiefs were clearly wary of him.

Squeezed in between Iver and Niel, Brodie surveyed the gathered assembly with interest. Some of the clan-chiefs, like the Mackays, had brought along one or two of their most trusted chieftains. They’d all barely fitted around the laird’s table inside the hall.

“To what end exactly?” Niel asked then. Tall and lean, his short dark hair laced with silver these days, the Mackay clan-chief still carried an aura of leashed power about him.

Brodie had met him a handful of times over the years and had always admired him.

The clan-chief ruled with just the right blend of strictness and mercy; he was loved by all his chieftains.

Colin Campbell glanced Niel’s way, his thick dark brows drawing together over a strong nose. “He intends to see them attainted.”

Brodie shared a look with Iver. For a clan to be marked as ‘attainted’ was to forever carry a stain. The Douglas name would fall into disrepute. It was harsh indeed, a further reminder of what happened to those who crossed James Stewart.

“Very well,” Robert Sutherland grumbled, tapping long fingers on the scrubbed oak surface of the table before him. “I might be able to spare some men.” He glanced then at his son seated next to him. “Malcolm will lead them.”

Malcolm Sutherland’s heavy jaw tightened at this news. Clearly, his father hadn’t discussed this with him previously.

Brodie observed the Sutherland clan-chief’s firstborn with interest. Like his father, he was tall with pale-blue eyes, yet whereas his father’s hair was white these days, his was peat-dark and cut close to his scalp.

And while Robert was lean and rangy, Malcolm was built like an ox.

His thick neck was corded with muscle, and his shoulders strained against the material of hi s lèine.

Iver fought that brute and won?

Brodie was impressed. Iver hadn’t told him that Malcolm Sutherland had the brawn of a berserker.

“The Gunns can provide twenty men,” Tavish Gunn spoke up then. His hawkish features were set into an inscrutable expression now.

“And the MacLeods the same,” Ian MacLeod added, less graciously than Gunn.

All gazes swiveled to Niel Mackay then. For he was the only one yet to pledge his support.

A tense silence fell, rippling across the hall. This hadn’t been an easy meeting so far, for many of these clans had strained relations. It was rare for them to sit at the same table like this and agree upon something.

Indeed, Colin Campbell had presided over this council masterfully, driving it forward whenever it looked as if bickering might erupt. Davina’s father had proved himself adept at handling the northern chiefs. Brodie thought the king had done well to recruit him.

This was Brodie’s first attendance at a council like this, and it fascinated him. He enjoyed observing each of the men present and guessing what motivated them, what hidden agendas some of them had for agreeing to help the king.

Some of the clan-chiefs hid their emotions better than others, and the looks on the faces of those accompanying them were telling as well.

Iver often complained about having to attend these meetings; even now, he sensed his brother’s tension next to him. However, Brodie found this one invigorating.

“Aye,” Neil Mackay said eventually. “I too will provide twenty warriors … when the time comes.” He nodded then to Iver. “The Mackays of Dun Ugadale are the closest branch of my clan to the lowlands … Iver Mackay will lead any men I send.”

This wasn’t news to Brodie. They’d already discussed this with Niel the eve before. The clan-chief would send warriors south to join those from Dun Ugadale. Iver would lead them all into battle.

It made sense, for in the past, the Mackays of Dun Ugadale were the last ones to be called up whenever there had been conflict closer to home—as it took several days to reach Castle Varrich from the Kintyre Peninsula. But, this time, Iver would be representing the clan.

Colin Campbell nodded at these words, although farther down the table, Brodie marked the way Malcolm Sutherland scowled. His pale-blue eyes fastened on Iver then, boring into him.

Iver stared back, his face hard.

There was still rancor between them. Iver wouldn’t have forgotten how Sutherland had insulted Bonnie, and Sutherland would still recall how Iver had humiliated him. Neither man would enjoy fighting on the same side.

“When can we expect to be called upon?” Tavish Gunn asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“Not yet, my friends,” Colin Campbell rumbled, “It could be in a month or two … or early next year … but ye must be ready.” He twisted in his chair, beckoning to the three lads standing behind him, jugs of ale in hand.

“Now, let us drink to the king … to our promise to him … for I too will rally my men and ride to his side when the time comes.”

“I’m glad we’re done here,” Iver muttered as he saddled his horse the following morning. “Spending time under the same roof as the Sutherlands is giving me hives.”

Brodie snorted. “I was hoping the discussions might have gone on longer,” he admitted before adding, “I enjoyed seeing ye all spar with each other.”

Iver barked a harsh laugh. “Just wait until Malcolm Sutherland and I have to ride into battle together.”

Brodie shook his head. Aye, that would be quite a sight. The Mackays and the Sutherlands hadn’t spoken directly since their arrival at Kilchurn Castle three days earlier. They’d made a point of sitting as far away from each other as possible during mealtimes.

“Ready to ride out, lads?”

Brodie glanced up to see Niel Mackay stride into the stables. His men were already here, busy saddling the horses. Outdoors, the sky was only just starting to lighten, yet the clan-chief had a long ride home and was keen to depart early.

Iver flashed him a smile. “Aye.” He turned then to his saddle bag and withdrew an item, wrapped in leather, from it. “Here, Niel … I have a gift for ye.”

The clan-chief nodded, taking the item.

Looking on, Brodie tensed before shooting a glance at Iver. He’d thought his brother had already handed over the gift, yet he’d deliberately waited until Brodie was present.

Niel carefully unwrapped it, revealing a wickedly sharp dirk. Holding it up, the thin blade gleamed even though the light inside the stables was murky.

“This is excellent work, indeed,” Niel murmured, his mouth curving. “Ye have inlaid the hilt with amber.”

“Aye, I found the biggest of those stones on the shore when I was a lad,” Iver replied. “But the dirk is my brother’s work” —he then nodded to Brodie— “I told ye he has talent.”

“Ye do indeed, Brodie.” Niel flipped the blade expertly before catching it by the hilt. A grin then flowered across his face. He met Brodie’s eye and winked. “Thank ye.”

Brodie smiled back, both pleased and embarrassed to be singled out for attention and thanks. Nonetheless, Niel’s words meant a lot to him. He’d worked hard on that dirk for his clan-chief.

He was the bastard brother of the chieftain and would never hold the same status as his three elder siblings, yet his skill with iron and steel was something he was proud of.

His gaze shifted to the dirk then, watching as Niel carefully wrapped it.

Brodie turned away, and his gut tightened. Guilt. The knife was a reminder of his promise to Lady Greer. She was still waiting for her new dirk. However, he’d deliberately put the job off.

Ever since their meeting that morning in the stables, they’d barely spoken.

Brodie had seen the hurt that flashed across her face when he snapped at her, yet he’d walked off without apologizing anyway.

He didn’t like that the lass had caught him at an unguarded moment. It made him feel vulnerable, exposed—an unwelcome sensation.

He’d made a mistake the evening before that. He should never have danced with her.

He’d done it to goad his stepmother but had found himself enjoying the dancing more than he’d expected. And then, when the music had ceased, he’d stared down at Lady Greer’s flushed face and lost himself in the depths of her steel-grey eyes.

Aye, it had been a misstep, one he’d had to rectify.

His rudeness had worked, for Lady Greer kept away from him these days. She hadn’t even ventured into his forge to enquire how the dirk was progressing, and nor had he approached her with an update.

Frankly, he hoped she’d forgotten. Nonetheless, he’d told her he’d have the dirk ready by the end of summer, and he would.

Moving to Brèagha, Brodie frowned. It irritated him that he’d let Lady Greer creep into his thoughts—as she often did these days, despite his best efforts to shut her out. Jaw clenched, Brodie tightened Brèagha’s girth. He then led his courser outside into the wide bailey beyond.

Kilchurn’s impressive tower house reared above them, and the sun was rising now, glinting over the edge of the eastern walls.

Out in the bailey, several horses and warriors were milling around. The Mackays weren’t the only ones wanting to make an early start, it seemed.

Among them were men wearing clan sashes of muted brown with shades of grey. Brodie recognized the colors. It was ‘The Black Watch Weathered’, the Sutherland plaid.

Malcolm Sutherland had led his horse outside to mount. Unsurprisingly, he rode a massive beast, with large feathered feet. Indeed, Brodie had seen few men as tall and broad as the Earl of Sutherland’s firstborn.

However, Malcolm wasn’t observing Brodie with the same keen interest; he wasn’t looking at him, at all. Rather, his gaze was fixed upon Iver. There was a challenge in his stare, as if he dared the chieftain of Dun Ugadale to insult him.

The two men eyeballed each other before Iver flashed him a goading smile. “Gird yer loins, Malcolm,” he drawled. “For soon we shall be fighting shoulder to shoulder.”

Malcolm’s mouth twisted at this, and he spat on the cobbles between them before growling, “Only because the king wishes it.”