Page 12 of The Heart of a Highlander
“Iain MacLeod,” the king began, “Archibald Douglas, and Grant Macaulay.”
William nodded. Archibald Douglas was cousin to the Earl of Douglas and the illegitimate son of Sir James Douglas, and William happened to know Archibald had served as a page of sorts to David before he was king. But William was not certain what connection Grant Macaulay, cousin to the MacLeod laird, had to the king. Had Grant trained with King David and the MacLeod when they were younger? William sifted through faded memories trying to recall what he knew of Grant Macaulay. He had a wicked scar down the length of his right cheek that he’d received while a prisoner at the Earl of March’s castle.
“Each of these men has sacrificed a great deal for me—yer father obviously the most, since he gave his life. After I gathered with the men I’d called to me at my prison, we all agreed that my nephew was already doing things that appeared to point to him preparing to take my throne. So the men became my spies, using the connections they had to learn of any plots that might be afoot. Yer father was responsible for keeping me alive more times than I can count by discovering plots against me. Hell, yer father constantly being away on missions for me was what drove yer mother away. That always weighed heavy upon me.”
William frowned. “I did nae ken that. He never said why she had left, simply that she had.” His chest jerked. It didn’t change that his mother had not cared enough to stay and that she had left him when he was but a lad of thirteen summers, but at least now he knew the real reason.
“He could nae tell ye,” the king went on, oblivious to William’s inner thoughts. “To do so would have revealed his work for me. But I ken yer mother was tired of being left alone with ye boys. Men like ye, men like yer father, give much for Scotland.”
When the king gave him an expectant look, William nodded, feeling David would not continue until he got some sort of indication that William understood there would be more sacrifice than he’d already offered.
The king heaved a sigh and continued. “Yer father had a mission to ascertain whether the MacQuerrie laird had turned against me. Do ye ken the MacQuerries?”
“Only a legend about the laird’s daughter,” William replied. “But it is nae one worthy of repeating.” The idea that a lass could make the king of Scotland was ridiculous.
The king’s lips flattened into a hard line. “The legend is true, William. ’Tis why it was important to discover if MacQuerrie had turned against me. I verra much have a stake in who his daughter will wed, and she must wed a man loyal to me.”
“Sire, I dunnae mean any disrespect, but the legend says the lass—”
“Ada,” the king interrupted, his eyes narrowing to an intense look. “Her name is Ada, and the legend is true. Dunnae tell me ye dunnae believe in the fae?”
William rubbed the back of his neck. He knew the king, and most in Scotland, believed in the fae. He also knew the MacLeod laird and his entire clan credited the fae with the MacLeod clan’s prosperity and very survival. The MacLean had told him long ago that the MacLeods had a flag they swore had been given to one of the long-ago MacLeod lairds, and that the flag carried special powers the MacLeods could call upon in dire times. William didn’t want to argue with the king, but he didn’t want to lie to him, either. “I believe in things I can see,” William replied slowly.
“Aye,” the king said with a nod. “So do I. And I have met fae, been saved by fae, and heard fae predict the future for several people, and every word of it came true. I have even witnessed a fairy bestowing a gift upon a man. I tell ye, fae are real and so is their power. And knowing this as I do, the lass Ada, when she weds, will have the power to either keep me on the throne or snatch it from me. I spoke with her father long ago, and he pledged his undying loyalty to me and vowed he would wed his daughter to a man utterly loyal to me. But over the last five years, the laird’s stepson has been more in control of the clan than the laird, and now the MacQuerrie is dead. Which means his stepson is now laird. I’ve heard increasingly disturbing reports that the stepson was loyal to my nephew, who is his father.”
“I beg yer pardon?” William said, dumbfounded.
The king waved a dismissive hand. “My nephew has sired bastards all over Scotland, and the new MacQuerrie laird, Brothwell, is but one amongst them. But he is the most dangerous one. He is now laird of a strong clan, and he is the one who will decide who the lass Ada weds. But I’ve jumped too far ahead…”
William could do little more than nod. His thoughts were bumping into one another with all he had learned.
David continued. “Yer father came to me three years ago with his concern that the MacQuerrie’s stepson, Brothwell, would eventually gain control over the MacQuerrie clan and that Brothwell was nae loyal to me. Yer father proposed going there and spying on the stepson—an easy enough task for yer father because he and the MacQuerrie were friends. When yer father returned to me, he confirmed our suspicions, but it was worse than I’d imagined. The MacQuerrie was ill but hiding it from everyone; his mind was slipping. Yer father told me he would forget everyday things, and Brothwell was taking advantage of it. Yer father believed Brothwell, unbeknownst to the MacQuerrie, was recruiting other clans to the Steward’s side. After much discussion with yer father and the other men in my inner circle, we decided the best thing to do was to plant yer father as a spy and as someone who might aid us in battles by giving the other side false information. But in order for anyone to trust him, it had to look like he and I had fallen out and that yer father was betraying me.”
“Yer mistress,” William said, the truth hitting him like a swift punch in the gut.
“Aye. We argued publicly over my mistress. Yer father did nae approve of her, and then he left and went to Brothwell. He fed him false information about where I would strike at the Battle of Glenfurrie, but Brothwell and my nephew are clever. They sent a troop of men to where yer father had told Brothwell I would be,andthey sent a larger troop of men to where my troops really were. We were outmanned, and yer father was there, seemingly fighting for Brothwell, but I saw him and he nae ever raised a sword against a man of mine. ’Twas why he died.”
William was at once enraged to know the truth, though glad to know it at the same time. His father had not been a traitor. A wave of relief slammed into him, followed by searing-hot shame that he’d believed his father capable of such a ruse. Why hadn’t he questioned it? Why had he been so quick to condemn his father? He knew part of the reason. His throat grew tight with the memory of how easily he’d believed the worst of a man who had given him everything.
Jesus.William yanked a hand through his hair. The things he’d said to his father… Memories came at him, piercing his heart like arrows. The words he’d said…
Christ, those god-awful words…
William clenched his teeth as he recalled telling his father he was ashamed to be his son when his father had told him he was departing the clan to pledge loyalty to the Steward. His father had never hinted that he was working for the king. “Why didn’t he tell me?” William groaned, unable to repress the question.
The king grasped him by the shoulder, and his sorrowful gaze held William’s. “Everyone had to believe—most especially ye and yer brother.”
Bram.
William’s head began to pound to match the ferocious rhythm of his heart. “Is Bram working for ye, as well?” he asked, hope and fear tangling inside him. He’d turned his back on Bram just as quickly as he’d rebuffed his father, and if Bram had been innocent, too…
He clenched his fists, and nausea roiled within him. His father was dead. He’d turned his back on Bram completely when he thought him a traitor, too. There was no taking back how he had acted, but was there a chance to set things right with Bram?
“Aye,” the king said, his brow furrowing. “Or he was,” the king replied, frustration in his tone. “I am unsure at this time if Bram has nae turned against me truly for Brothwell’s sister, which was the cover we originally created for him.”
Regret and guilt washed over William, making him feel as if he were going to drown under the deluge of emotion. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. Even if he had wanted to question the king now, ask for answers, he could not. His throat had tightened in an effort to restrain the bellow of rage that wanted to escape him.
King David nodded as if he understood William’s plight. “Once people thought that I believed yer father to be a traitor and we had publicly quarreled, it was easy for him to go to the MacQuerrie clan to seek refuge and then gain acceptance by Brothwell. Once he had that, yer father easily discovered that Brothwell was, indeed, recruiting men to aid in my nephew’s plot to steal my throne. The MacQuerie laird was apparently already losing his grip on his memory even three years ago, so Brothwell was able to easily manipulate him. Yer father learned the names of some of the lairds who were vile traitors when Brothwell had spoken of their fealty to the Steward.”
