Page 48 of Rebellion's Fire

A wet springhad lightened into a much sunnier summer than normal when Adam returned from one of the remoter regions of Ross to find that someone with a following, mounted on horses far larger than was commonplace in the north, had broken cover from the woods close to the gates of his mother’s hall at Brecka.

Discovering the tracks, Adam was conscious of anxiety tightening his shoulders and stomach. That there was no blood, no sign of a fight on either side of the gate only partially reassured him. Isolated as they were in Ross by their current status, they received few visitors save those that gave warning, like Somerled, or the minor lords from the south who didn’t travel with huge retinues.

Strangers hung around the yard, a few in slightly wary conversation with his own people. They all spoke in Gaelic. Adam didn’t wait for those hurrying across the yard to speak to him, but simply brushed everyone aside and all but ran into the hall.

His mother sat at the high table with Donald on one side of her and a stranger on the other. Donald’s pose, upright and alert but not rigid, spoke of excitement rather than danger. And there were no other strangers in the hall.

Relaxing at last, Adam slowed to a mere stride.

“Here is my other son,” his mother said calmly.

The stranger rose to his feet. Not a large man, but a big, overwhelming presence. Adam steeled himself and observed the fierce, almost black, little eyes, the gray-streaked beard, the lined, harsh face of a man who’d lived and aged hard. There was curiosity in the rugged stranger. And if not quite derision, a readiness to deride. Adam encountered that in many new people. Sometimes it never went away.

“The famous Adam MacHeth!” the stranger said jovially, leaning across the table and thrusting out his hand. “Honored to meet you at last.”

Adam looked at the outstretched hand. Smallish for a man’s. Clean. Hard. Leathery as a saddle. He lifted his gaze to the man’s face and felt reality begin to slip.

“We welcome the king of Galloway to our hall,” his mother said. Although she didn’t raise her voice, it definitely had an edge, a hint of warning, in case Adam would avoid the physical contact. Well, one wouldn’t want to offend so powerful a potential ally, who didn’t look the most patient of men, however amiable his smile.

Adam drew in his breath. With resignation, he took the hand of Fergus of Galloway.

The world didn’t just slide. It catapulted into chaos as he’d known it would. Blood and battle. A tonsured monk looking on with curled lip and the fierce eyes of the king of Galloway. Young men were tied to Fergus by long ropes which suddenly whipped free, coiling round and round yet another young man. Fergus of Galloway held the ends, drawing them tight. His captive threw back his head. Donald.

But the scene had changed. Heavy, solid iron gates were opening under blazing sun, and a man strode through. Although his face was hidden by the blinding sunlight, he seemed to drag happiness in his wake, along with a tail of dancing, laughing children.

“That’s a firm grip you have, Adam mac Malcolm,” Fergus said, no longer jovial, breaking through the dream, which only partially faded as Adam stared at him. “I’ll be needing my hand if I’ve to wield a sword in your family’s cause.”

The hall and Fergus of Galloway swung back into focus, merging with the dream, slowly drowning it. Fergus’s not quite amused eyes seemed to flash. Beside him, Donald and his mother stared at Adam as though willing him fully back to this world.

Adam dropped Fergus’s hand, “Is that why you’ve come?”

“I’m sure we can do each other a few favors. And Roxburgh’s not so far from my own country.”

Adam blinked. “You plan to lay siege to Roxburgh Castle?”

Fergus laughed and sat down, accepting his refilled cup from the serving girl. “That would be a long and costly business. I’m sure there are faster ways to free the Earl of Ross, your father.”

“I hope you’ll tell us what they are,” the earl’s wife said tartly.

“Well, that’s what we must discuss.”

“You have no quarrel with the King of Scots that I ever heard of,” Adam observed, taking his own cup from the girl and perching his hip on the table. It was Eithine, the mother of his nephew. He smiled at her.

“Well, he is a little cozy with my nephew, the King of England,” Fergus said carelessly. “Galloway is squashed between. A little more…acknowledgment of my country and my position would please us. You understand the old ways.”

“By which you mean,” the Lady of Ross suggested, “that were the kingdom of Scots in our hands, we would guarantee your own country’s total independence?”

“I walk a narrow path, lady, between my powerful neighbors.”

“And your sons,” Adam observed, “are not conciliatory.”

Something flickered in Fergus’s eyes and vanished. “My sons are warriors,” he said with pride. But Adam knew he was right. In some not quite clear way, Fergus’s visit had something to do with his sons, who were, generally, at each other’s throats. Adam, who’d met them more than once during his sojourn with Somerled, doubted their ability to walk the same narrow ridge as Fergus. Under whichever feuding son succeeded their father, it seemed likely Galloway would vanish into the great maws of Scotland or England. Or both.

Fergus set down his cup and leaned forward, his fierce eyes open and frank as he gazed from Adam to Donald and their mother.

“Let us speak plainly as friends,” he said, low. “I will do everything in my power to put Earl Malcolm on the Scottish throne, in return for his”—his gaze flickered over Donald—“and your guarantee of Galloway’s sovereign independence.”

Donald stirred. “That is a most generous and welcome offer. Though you must know we can’t speak for my father the earl, and it is his freedom we must accomplish first.”

---