by Amanda Scott
Beaton raised his eyebrows. “Peaceful?”
“It was you and yours that made all the noise,” Patrick said bluntly.
“Aye, ’tis true, but you shut your doors to us.”
“Only after you demanded that Kintail surrender to the King’s grace as a hostage. With respect, sir, one does not take one’s friends hostage. You would have done better to seize young Donald of Sleat, who is your proven enemy.”
“Aye, and so we expected to do,” Beaton said, “but someone warned him, and he has fled. Doubtless, he will find sanctuary with England’s Henry. He would not be the first enemy of his grace’s to do so.”
“That is true enough,” Patrick said. He had never encountered England’s Henry, the eighth of that name to rule there, but like any educated Scot, he knew that Henry had for years been a thorn in the side of his nephew, James of Scotland. “Nevertheless,” he added, “Kintail is no enemy of the King’s, sir.”
Beaton smiled. “You should call me ‘my lord,’ or ‘eminence,’ Sir Patrick.”
Patrick found himself smiling back, astonished that Beaton knew his title. “I apologize, my lord. I have never conversed with a cardinal before.”
“I am also the papal legatas a latere,” Beaton said.
That news astonished Patrick, for having studied at St. Andrews University, which was connected to the Archbishopric, he knew that the title Lateran Legate meant that Cardinal Beaton acted as the Pope in Scotland.
Uncertainly, he said, “Does that mean you make the decisions here, my lord, or should I still present my master’s invitation to King James?”
To his further astonishment, Beaton grimaced and said, “I am certainly not the one making the decisions today, Sir Patrick. You must render your duty to his grace, of course, and mayhap he will accept Kintail’s generous invitation—if you can persuade him that it will serve his interest to do so.”
More uncertain than ever about what was going on, Patrick bowed. “I thank you, your eminence. I shall go at once to his grace’s ship.”
As he turned away, Beaton said gently, “Sir Patrick, I am told that you are astonishingly loyal to Mackenzie of Kintail, so it occurs to me that we may find opportunity to meet again.”
Glancing back, Patrick raised his eyebrows. “I do not take your meaning, my lord. Unless his grace orders me to accompany my master, as constable of Eilean Donan and Dunsithe—Kintail’s castle in the Scottish Borders—it is likely that I shall remain to attend my duties.”
“Nonetheless, sir, if you are ever in need of a friend at Stirling, you may apply to me.”
Bowing again, but no wiser than before, Patrick said, “I thank you and hope you will not think me disrespectful if I add that I hope the occasion does not arise.”
His expression unreadable, Beaton dismissed him with a nod.
Still bewildered, Patrick descended the rope ladder to his boat and told his oarsmen to row to the next ship, where after learning his mission, a lackey led him below to a cabin from which issued the sound of hearty masculine laughter.
His escort pushed open the door and, blocking the way, announced loudly, “Sir Patrick MacRae desires speech wi’ your grace, an it suit ye, sire.”
From within a mild voice said, “Bid him enter.”
His escort moved aside, and Patrick stepped through the doorway to find two men inside a luxuriously appointed cabin. Their clothing was rich enough to make him aware that his was no longer even fashionable. Tapestry hangings covered the walls, and carpets decked the floor. A leather dice cup and a pair of ivory dice lay on a marquetry table between the two men, along with a gold wine flagon and two delicately etched golden goblets.
Although Patrick had never met the King, he had no difficulty recognizing which of them was James, fifth of that name to be High King of Scots. At twenty-eight, his grace was tall, handsome, and well built with the Stewart red hair and blue eyes. Rumor had it that he drank too much and wenched too much, and indeed, Patrick could see that the royal face and figure were puffy, and the royal complexion blotchy. He decided that his grace probably needed more stimulating exercise than spilling dice from a cup.
The man at James’s side—also handsome—was younger, more slenderly graceful, and carried himself with a lordly arrogance that James lacked.
Bowing deeply to the King, Patrick waited until he heard his name spoken before he looked up again.
James smiled and said in broad Scot, “Does your master yield to his king?”
“He does, your grace,” Patrick said, speaking the same language.
“Then where is he?” demanded the second man. “He should be here.”
Not liking his shrill, arrogant tone, Patrick had all he could do not to reply sharply, but he suspected that the gentleman must be one of the King’s infamous favorites, and Patrick was not a fool.
Carefully controlling his voice, and addressing a point midway between the two, he said, “As constable of Eilean Donan, I speak for the Laird of Kintail and yield to a superior force.” Turning slightly, so that he now addressed only James, he added gently, “He commanded me to offer hospitality, as well, your grace. The Laird bids you join him and his lady at supper, with any number of your party whom you choose to accompany you, and to pass the night in a comfortable bed.”
James chuckled, but the other man said indignantly, “He would see us murdered in our beds, more like. Don’t do it, James!”
“Peace, Oliver,” James said with a fond smile. “You know that these Highlanders have notions of hospitality far stronger than ours. In any event, the Mackenzies of Kintail have ever remained loyal to the Crown.”
“I have told you and told you, James! The only safe Highlander is one you can watch every minute! Do you really believe he will surrender so meekly?”
Since it was not appropriate for him to interject his opinion, Patrick held his tongue, but he longed to tell James he had nothing to fear at Eilean Donan.
James glanced at him, his eyes twinkling. As if he could hear Patrick’s silent thoughts, he said, “Have you naught to say in your defense, sir?”
Bowing again, Patrick said quietly, “Not in my own defense, sire, but for the people of Kintail, I say that all here remain loyal to your grace. In fact, sire, were you enemy instead of friend, you would still be safe inside our walls now that Kintail has extended his welcome to you. Highland hospitality forbids attacking those seeking its benefits. Our rules forbid, as well, any refusal to grant hospitality. In a fierce winter, such a refusal could equal a death sentence.”
“There, you see, Oliver. Ah, but I have not yet properly made Oliver known to you, have I, Sir Patrick? This is Oliver Sinclair,” James added with his easy smile. “He is my friend, and those who are loyal to me are likewise loyal to Oliver.”
“Your friends are all welcome at Eilean Donan, sire,” Patrick said, “and tonight you may be glad of a bed that does not rock at the whims of the tide.”
“So I will,” James said, chuckling. “We accept your master’s invitation, Sir Patrick, and trust that we will never find your doors locked against us again.”
Seeing nothing to gain by pointing out as he had to Cardinal Beaton that only the royal demand for Kintail’s submission had resulted in the gates being shut, that without such a demand they would have opened eagerly, Patrick said nothing.
James let the silence linger for a beat before he said, “We will join your laird in an hour, sir. I do hope that he and some others within your walls also speak Scot, for I confess I have but a smattering of your wretched Gaelic.”
“All within speak Scot if need be, sire. Kintail and I attended university at St. Andrews, and our lady speaks both Scot and the Highland Gaelic fluently, due to her unusual upbringing.”
“Ah, yes, I recall Lady Mackenzie’s history,” James said. “I have heard that she is a bonny lass, too. If she has the good fortune to resemble her mother…”
Since Patrick’s hackles rose at this cavalier assessment of his mistress, it
was just as well that Oliver Sinclair said petulantly, “James, if you wish to sup with Mackenzie and his lady in an hour’s time…” He paused, frowning.
“Indeed,” James said, “we must send Sir Patrick back to warn them to expect us.” To Patrick, he added, “Tell your master I am pleased to learn that he means to surrender without a fuss.” With a dismissive gesture, he reached for the dice cup, and Patrick was grateful for the diversion. He knew that one ought to back away from the royal presence, but he had no memory of what lay behind him. Hoping the King’s amiability meant that James was unlikely to insist on absolute adherence to ceremony, he glanced over his shoulder to see if the way to the door was clear.
“One moment, MacRae,” Oliver Sinclair said curtly. “James, you cannot mean to send this fellow back before us. He and his master will likely use the intervening time to plot mischief.”
“Peace, Oliver,” the King said. “I tell you, we have naught to fear.”
“But the Highland chiefs are all treacherous dogs,” Sinclair argued. “You trusted Donald of Sleat, and look where that led. The purpose of this venture is to teach these barbarians a lesson before more of them defy you, is it not?”
James sighed, pushing back his chair. “Very well, we shall return now with Sir Patrick. Will that suit you?”
“Only if we take a well-armed contingent with us.”
“Can you accommodate such a force, Sir Patrick?”
“Aye, your grace,” Patrick said quietly.
“Then we will go with you now.”
Seething at the aspersions cast on his honor and that of Kintail, Patrick nonetheless held his peace. He had changed his mind yet again, however, about who was the most powerful man in Scotland.
That thought reminded him of his interview with Beaton. Since duty, family honor, and friendship demanded that he do whatever he had to do to win freedom again for Kintail, having a powerful friend at Stirling might well prove helpful.
Elsewhere, and in their own time
The shadowy, orange-gold glow that lit the twelve faces in the Circle resembled that of a fire dying at the end of the storytelling at a Highland ceilidh, but the present gathering was no celebration. The sinister, black-cloaked shapes of the twelve were unmoving, and the glow did not flicker the way firelight did.
Brown Claud sat uneasily outside the Circle, a short distance behind his mother, Maggie Malloch, who was a member. The long silence was awesome to one who had not experienced such an occasion before, and Claud did not know why he had been ordered to attend. He did not even know who had issued the order. Maggie had simply said he was to come, and one did not refuse such an invitation, because in their world, the Circle reigned supreme.
“But why do they want me?” he had asked her.
“They’ve questions tae ask ye, and I’ve a few tae ask them, too. Doubtless they’ll want tae hear what ye can tell them about our recent time in the Highlands.”
“They’ll no want tae hear about Catriona, will they?”
“Ye’d best hope they dinna ask ye about that parlous slut,” Maggie snapped. “And whilst I think on such, ye’d best no be thinking o’ taking up wi’ another such, me lad. Try thinking for once wi’ your brain, such as it is, and no wi’ that other, less sensible bit o’ yourself.”
Claud did not want to answer questions about the Highland pixie who had bewitched him. Maggie never approved of his romantic adventures, but he feared the Circle would agree with her this time. What they would do, he did not know, but he was sure to fare badly. “I’ve no met anyone like her since we left the Highlands,” he protested. “Ye’ve had me running hither and yon all over the Borders.”
“Aye, and what ha’ ye found?”
“Naught,” he admitted. “I ha’ searched from Angus’s Tantallon all through the east and middle marches, but no one kens aught o’ the wee lass we seek.”
“She’ll no be so wee anymore,” Maggie reminded him. “There be mischief afoot, though, and I mean tae learn who lies behind it.”
Her mood since had deteriorated, and Claud had taken care to stay out of her way. He had accompanied her to the meeting, though, knowing no way to escape.
The silence continued until he felt a chill slither through him. Then, suddenly, without visible individual movement, the Circle opened and straightened out, with the two black-robed members who had been flanking Maggie at each end of the line.
She remained alone, isolated, facing the other eleven.
“Stand and account for yourself, Maggie Malloch,” a deep voice intoned.
Claud was not certain, but he thought the one in the center had spoken. He watched as his mother straightened, reading anger in her tense posture as easily as if she had flown into the sort of animated fury that her anger usually produced.
She stood still, but her plump body was stiff, her expression enigmatic to those who did not know her well. He doubted that anyone now sitting in judgment over her fit that category, though.
“With what am I charged?” she demanded.
“With overstepping your authority in the mortal world, o’ course,” said another voice. “Sakes, lass, ye canna overturn history wi’out we call ye tae order, as ye ken right well.”
Amusement underscored the new speaker’s voice, and Claud gazed in astonishment at the male who had spoken.
He sat one position left of center. Claud did not recognize him and wondered who he was that he dared to laugh at Maggie Malloch, who was one of the most powerful of them all.
The chap was odd-looking, to say the least, with hair that even in that golden glow was clearly dark at the roots, reddish as it grew out, and fair at the tips. It radiated from his head like rays of the sun, sticking straight out in a semicircle around his long, narrow face. The face was not remarkable, unless one counted the thin yellow, green, red, and blue streaks on each cheek, but his dark eyes gleamed and his smile was mischievous, as if the chap delighted in seeing Maggie called to order before the Circle. Ornaments glinted on his robe and in his hair, and when he fluttered a hand in Maggie’s direction, Claud saw that the hand bore six fingers, each decked with a glittering ring.
“Overstepped my authority, did I?” Maggie snapped, giving back look for look. “Since when, Jonah Bonewits, does your authority allow you or any of these others but our chief himself to question my authority?”
“Of mine own accord, perhaps it does not, though we ha’ yet tae measure your power against mine, Maggie lass,” he retorted, still twinkling. “One day we will, but today is no the day. Today the chief agrees that ye’ve overstepped.”
“Aye, as do the others,” the man in the center said grimly.
“Be that why ye sent for my Claud, tae question him?”
“Aye, for belike he can tell us about such time as the pair o’ ye spent in the Highlands,” the chief said. “It be possible ye ha’ placed us all in jeopardy.”
“Pish tush,” Maggie said. “We did nobbut our duty, and we did it well.”
“We’ll judge that for ourselves. Some amongst us believe ye interfered more than our rules allow, that because ye did, ye were forced tae reverse all that had gone before. Many were involved, and all ken too much about your activities.”
“None who were involved will ever mention my name or Claud’s,” Maggie said. “I stripped most o’ their memories after the event, and none o’ them recalls aught but what I meant him tae recall. It be just as it should be. I ha’ done nowt tae endanger folks in me own Good Neighbor tribe or any o’ ye in the Circle.”
“Perhaps, but we have many questions for you and for Brown Claud.”
She shrugged. “Ask away, but mind, the lad were in lust wi’ a Highland strumpet and had eyes for little else. It be his nature, as well ye ken, the lot o’ ye.”
Claud trembled when all eyes turned toward him, but the ordeal proved less terrifying than he feared. It was as if he blinked and it was over, for when the chief said, “That be all, lad. Ye may go,” he had no memory of any question put
to him.
“One moment,” Maggie said sharply. “I’ll ha’ a word wi’ him first—in private, if ye please.”
The chief nodded.
Maggie whisked to stand before Claud, saying quietly, “They canna hear what I say tae ye now, so dinna heed them, but listen well and do as I bid ye.”
Still stunned, Claud said, “But wha’ happened, Mam? I didna speak a word!”
“Ye did nae harm, lad,” she said. “They’ll keep me here a while, but I’ve learned summat, m’self, and I want ye off tae the Borders straightaway tae continue our search. Although Angus dwelt in the east, there be Douglases aplenty in the west, so look ye there. And mind ye stay clear o’ trouble, for we’ve still our duty tae do.”
“What ha’ ye learned, though?”
“That Jonah Bonewits takes interest in what we do.”
“That odd-looking, six-fingered chap wi’ the peculiar hair?”
“Odd-looking he may be, but dinna underestimate him, for he wields as much power as I do, mayhap more,” Maggie said. “And ’tis odd that I didna consider his possible interest afore now. ’Tis plain ’twas unnatural means hid the truth from me, and Jonah be one o’ the few who could ha’ done it wi’out my knowing he did.”
“But why would he?”
“Because he and his ha’ long served the earls o’ Angus just as we ha’ served the Gordons, Claud. Bear that in mind whilst ye search Douglas country, because even in exile, Angus still rules a vast portion o’ that meddlesome tribe.”
Some time had passed since Brown Claud had received his instructions, and he was growing bored with his lack of success. He had been searching the west march for what seemed like eons, and he knew no more than he had ever known. As he sat on a grassy hilltop, contemplating his failure, he decided that a benevolent guardian’s tasks were much more difficult than he had expected them to be.
In his youth, listening to stories told around peat fires at ceilidhs, he had envisioned achieving more heroic deeds, such as fighting evil beasts, subduing malevolent spirits, or saving damsels from dragons—albeit without the burden of heavy armor or a white charger to feed in between his daring deeds.
