Page 44 of Rebellion's Fire

“It would leave me weak in the west, with their Uncle Somerled waiting to pounce. He’ll leave Man in a trice if he thinks Scotland itself is weak.”

“Perhaps,” Fergus allowed, reaching for his cup. “But surely we can’t allow this rebellion to go on any longer?”

King Malcolm’s eyes sparkled as he laid down his knife. “We’re crushing it by stealth. I have a man in Ross with a small force, still holding the land I gave him there. The MacHeths cannot shift him. From small seeds…”

“Indeed,” Fergus agreed. “And at worst, he will be there on the inside to aid any invading royal army.”

“Exactly,” young Malcolm said, clearly pleased by Fergus’s quick understanding.

“This would be Sir William de Lanson?” Fergus asked as if he’d just heard the name. “Who’s already fought for the King of England?”

“And in the Holy Land,” Malcolm said proudly. “And killed the traitor Arthur for us in single combat.”

“I’m sorry I missed Sir William during his stay with you,” Fergus said. “And his lady sounds most interesting, too.”

As he’d hoped, he was able to stop asking questions as the dangerously political turned into the merely personal gossip concerning Christian de Lanson, daughter of Rhuadri of Tirebeck. The court was amused by her disgrace, although the king himself was inclined to believe her more victim than an actual adulteress. The king, of course, was intrigued because the girl wore a mask over one side of her face and was, apparently, rather charming and unusual.

In more ways than one, although no one here seemed to be aware of that.

The Lady of Strathearn said, “The funny thing is, she fell straight into the arms of the MacHeths. Fortunately, Lanson captured Donald MacHeth and exchanged him for both his lady and Tirebeck. Or so I heard.”

“I would have thought Lanson would just leave her with the MacHeths,” murmured an older woman. “He has a much prettier mistress.”

“I suppose in the eyes of the people, the Lady de Lanson is the one with the right to Tirebeck,” Fergus said mildly. “And Lanson has the ability to hold it. And maybe even the whole of Ross, who knows?”

The king nodded enthusiastically.

Keeping one ear open to the continuing discussion among some of the women, Fergus moved on to inquire about the king’s next meeting with King Henry II of England.

Malcolm’s face lit up like the sun. In spite of their disputes, King Henry was something of a hero to the Scottish king and had promised him knighthood at the earliest opportunity. A romantic, young Malcolm was far too desperate to win his spurs from a man no Scot should trust. But judging from the scowling faces around the table, he’d been well warned about this without Fergus adding to it. Fergus didn’t care for too strong an alliance between Scotland and England. It constricted Galloway.

“My nephew is a great soldier,” Fergus allowed. Being the husband of Henry I of England’s late daughter, illegitimate though she was, remained a useful tool to boost his standing. And, hopefully, gave him a position from which tosubtlywean Malcolm off his hero worship. “His power—” Fergus broke off as someone burst suddenly into the hall like a blast of wind on a calm, sunny day.

Before the shocked silence could properly fall, the whirlwind exclaimed, “My lords, the MacHeths are coming! They can only be a mile distant!”

It was a woman, a beautiful, clearly agitated woman, wearing an elegant traveling cloak and a frantic expression. Presumably the Lady of Kingowan herself.

Close behind her came a soldier. “They landed not four miles from here,” he said heavily. “We’ve only just had word, and they robbed the lady!”

“I thought they’d returned to Ross,” Fergus said innocently, while the women all rushed to comfort the distraught lady. Her husband looked furious, dividing his attention helplessly between his abused wife and his threatened king. Fergus’s mischievous soul was delighted.

“One lot left,” the soldier growled. “The galleys must have doubled back.” And again, nobody saw. “Sir, we must evacuate.”

King Malcolm sprang to his feet. “Evacuate? Nonsense! Gather the men! Bring my sword!”

He had courage, the little king. Fergus allowed him that. But of course, the king could not be risked. The Earl of Strathearn took him in hand, letting him give orders for the defense of Kingowan while bundling him out and rushing him south.

From curiosity, Fergus stayed with the defenders rather than accompany the king, and waited with interest for the notorious MacHeths to arrive.

It was, Fergus reflected with even greater interest, alarmingly close. Another few minutes and the king could have been besieged in here. Who knew? By the time the royal army arrived in enough force to relieve him, the attackers could have negotiated the release of Malcolm MacHeth himself.

Malcolm MacHeth. Now there was a man. Not for the first time, Fergus wondered how that untamed spirit coped with more than twenty years’ imprisonment. And now, here was at least one of the wild sons, worthy successors, riding like the wind from the coast road. From the wooden rampart built around the top of the house, Fergus watched beside the Lord of Kingowan. The lady, seemingly recovered from her ordeal, lurked behind them, apparently more curious than afraid. Fergus liked that, felt his erratic interest stir.

The MacHeths couldn’t easily have brought the horses on the ships—already loaded with plunder, by all accounts—so either they stole them en route from the coast, or they had help. Either way, it spoke of careful planning.

Perhaps not so wild.

The tall young man on the big gray horse—presumably the young MacHeth—who moved forward in front of his men on the other side of the moat, wore a breastplate and helmet. So did many of the others. Hardly full armor, but protection against most stray arrows. And, in their leader’s case, against assassination. Although they carried merrily burning torches to light their way through the darkness and provide more than enough light to shoot by.

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