Page 16 of Rescued By the Highland Warrior
He had a Council meeting that morning and felt a small flicker of guilt for leaving his councilmen in the dark about the previous night’s incident. But the feeling was fleeting—Roderick quickly reminded himself that there were few he could trust.
Roderick distractedly made his way to the Council chamber a couple floors above his own.
He pushed open the large wooden doors, into a long room with high, vaulted ceilings and exposed, intricately carved wooden beams illuminated by the morning glow.
He observed the Council members sitting at the long oak table that stood in the center of the room, chatting among themselves with murmurs echoing across the hall. He wondered who he could trust. Could there be a wolf in sheep’s clothing among them?
The fine wooden chair, the one that was vacant at the head of the table, was the laird’s chair. It was polished, upholstered with leather, slightly grander than all the others.
Roderick made his way toward it, and as he did, the Council’s murmurs quieted. Most of them turned to look at him, but Lennox, a frail sickly-looking man with a ghostly appearance was not one of them. Roderick, accustomed to Lennox’s moods, paid him no heed. He was but an old man.
Roderick had expected him to slowly take more of a backseat on issues concerning the Council at that point in his life. But Lennox’s determination burned with the fervor of a man half his age.
With his arms crossed, and his gaze fixed stubbornly on the polished table, he radiated his usual air of silent disapproval.
“Good mornin’ gentlemen,” Roderick began, “We have much tae discuss and I trust ye have all come prepared.”
Roderick looked pointedly at each councilmember before taking his seat at the head of the table. He noted Malcolm sitting next to Lennox, his expression unreadable—neither pleased nor disapproving. That’s the way it often was with Malcolm, you never quite knew where you stood with him.
Roderick rested his arms on the carved armrests of the laird's chair, the faint crackle of the fireplace along with the distant bustling of the castle the only sounds in the air.
Roderick felt confident leading the council, it was a welcome contrast to the unease of the night before.
However, as he went through the order of the day, discussing matters of trade, defense, and the upcoming harvest, he noticed that the usual rhythm of these meetings seemed strained. While some men nodded in agreement or raised concerns in turn, others remained quiet—as if there was an undercurrent of tension—something was not being said.
“An’ now,” Roderick continued, “as our last order, I wanted tae discuss wi’ ye the matters o’ me betrothal, in particular when an’ how me fiancée and I plan tae be wed.”
The councilmen fell silent, but the sounds of rustling papers, light murmurs and the subtle creaks of chairs filled the room. He quickly noticed that many of the men were avoiding his gaze, their attention instead drifting toward Lennox. Even those not looking directly at Lennox, had a furtive look about them, shuffling their papers around needlessly, intent on masking their unease.
Roderick almost smiled, more amused than irritated, as Lennox loudly cleared his throat. He watched as the old man drummed his thin, bony fingers on the polished surface of the table, his expression as pouty as a young babe’s.
“Lennox,” Roderick called, his voice echoing with authority as it boomed across the table. “Dae ye have somethin’ ye’d like tae add?”
“Me?” Lennox replied, his tone light, eyebrows raised in exaggerated innocence, and a sly smile. “Why nay, Laird. I dinnae believe so, unless, o’ course, ye think I should?”
Roderick’s sharp gaze locked onto Lennox’s, his patience running thin. “Ye seem awfully pleased with yerself fer someone with nothin’ tae say. Speak, Lennox. What’s on yer mind? Ye ken ye can speak yer mind here.”
Lennox looked around the room at their fellow councilmen as though waiting for someone else to speak. Roderick noticed how many of the men avoided the old man’s gaze, as though they were afraid. Malcolm, as usual, stared blankly ahead with an air of bored detachment.
Lennox tilted his head, once again tapping his fingers on the table.
“It’s nae me mind, laird. I only observe the minds o’ others in this room. Seems there’s plenty stirrin' in them, though perhaps they lack the courage tae voice it.”
The room tensed further, a few councilmen shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Roderick’s eyes swept the table.
“Is that so?” Roderick questioned, his voice icy but calm. “Then let me mak’ it simple fer all o’ ye. If there’s a concern regardin’ me leadership—or me betrothal—this is the time tae voice it. I’ll have nay whispers or hidden agendas poisonin’ this Council.”
The silence hung heavy in the air after Roderick spoke, and for a moment he thought that no one would talk, but he had strong resolve and he’d keep the council running overtime if he had to.
Then, suddenly, one of the younger councilmen hesitantly cleared his throat. “Me laird,” he began. “It isnae that there are whispers or hidden agendas, far from it. It is just that there are some slight... reservations fer some o’ us. Ye see, it isnae a question o’ yer leadership, it is just that none o’ us ken yer betrothed or her family, an’ well, the timin’ o’ it is a wee bit suspicious, is it nae?”
“An’ what dae ye mean by suspicious, exactly?”
If Roderick hadn’t known any better, he would have been concerned. The thought that they might know who Moira was and why she was there briefly crossed his mind, but from the satisfied look on Lennox’s face, he knew exactly what this was.
“Well,” the young man continued, “what if she’s tryin’ tae take advantage o’ ye or our clan, me laird? Ye are a young laird who has just taken the position after yer faither’s demise. When one daesnae ken a family very well, or perhaps even a lassie herself, one never kens exactly what their intentions may be.”
“An’ who is in agreement wi’ this sentiment?” Roderick asked, looking around the room, to which a few of the councilmen nodded with careful hesitation.
