The King’s Court
The Year of Our Lord 1396
(Ten Years Later)
God’s blood, his back was aching! Iain MacLeod tried to subtly shift his stance as King Robert paced the stone floor in front of him, ranting at a volume that was making Iain’s head ache. Or maybe his head was pounding from the nonstop days of relentless travel from his bonnie home on the Isle of Skye to the king’s court, where he’d so foolishly years ago pledged to live and serve the kings of Scotland until the day Iain took his last breath. If he did not care about the Highlands and his clan so much, he’d have never made such a pledge, but he’d learned long ago that simply wearing a crown and sitting on a throne did not make a man a wise ruler. Rulers needed men around them who were truthful and loyal, and he was, for better or worse, both of those things.
Iain kept his face impassive as the king’s voice echoed off the ornate walls of his private solar, though inside, Iain simmered with irritation at being summoned straight to the king like a child when he’d barely dismounted his horse, reeked of sweat from the hard riding, and was sticky from the spray of salt off the birlinn. But what really stirred his temper was not being able to see his wife. He’d been thinking about taking Marion in his arms and loving her since the day he’d had to leave the Sassenach here three fortnights ago to make his way home to Dunvegan to aid his son in the continuing feud with the Mathesons.
“Do ye have any notion of what ye’ve cost me by yer absence?” King Robert thundered. His face contorted with rage as he stopped in front of the hearth to glare at Iain. Behind the king hung tapestries depicting Scottish victories over the English, in which Iain had fought side by side with King David. He sorely missed that man who was far more reasonable than King Robert. Or at least Iain remembered it that way. Marion sometimes accused him of forgetting all the bad of the past. Mayhap he did. It made sleeping easier, for sure.
“Are ye even listening to me now?” the king bellowed.
“Aye,” Iain said, though weariness was making his thoughts drift more than usual. “Ye said the English ambassador was most displeased. Most displeased indeed!”
King Robert frowned at Iain mimicking him, which honestly made Iain want to chuckle. Instead, he drew in a measured breath. “Yer Grace, I sent word—”
The king slapped his hand to his desk, making the wine goblet rattle. Iain eyed it, wishing sorely for a goblet of wine, a steam bath, and his wife’s long, shapely legs wrapped around him as he brought her to pleasure.
“Oh, aye. Ye sent word that ye would return in time for my negotiations.”
In truth, he’d said he’d try, but that the feuds raged on, but correcting the king in his current mood would get Iain nowhere. “Sire, I—”
“I do nae care if the Mathesons stole every last sheep from MacLeod land. I needed my most trusted advisor at that summit!”
“I beg yer forgiveness, Yer Grace,” Iain said, inclining his head just enough to appear contrite without showing subservience. A fine line to walk, but one he’d mastered over the years of service to the crown. “But the matter required immediate attention to prevent more bloodshed.”
The king’s sharp brown eyes narrowed as he dropped into the massive oak chair that served as his throne when in these private chambers. “Bloodshed,” he echoed, his voice suddenly quiet—a storm momentarily held at bay. “Yer clan’s feud with the Mathesons threatens more than just Highland blood, MacLeod. It now threatens my standing with England.”
A prickle of unease danced across Iain’s shoulders. When King Robert lowered his voice, it never boded well. Marion was wrong about King Robert and the past. This was not the man his father had been—not the king who had been Iain’s friend in younger days. This man was unpredictable, temperamental, a man who might smile while signing your death warrant.
“The Anglo-Scottish treaty hangs in the balance,” the king continued, drumming his fingers against the carved armrest. “And I will nae have it jeopardized by Highland stubbornness.”
“The treaty will hold,” Iain assured him, though in truth he had his doubts. The English had never been trustworthy allies, always looking for advantage, for weakness.
“It will hold,” King Robert agreed, leaning forward, “because I’m about to ensure it does.” His lips curved into a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “I have found a solution to yer clan problems, MacLeod.”
A warning resounded in Iain’s ears. Royal solutions often came with steep costs. “Yer Grace is most wise,” he murmured, caution making his tongue careful.
“The Mathesons have a son—their heir, Rory. They call him the Hammer of the Highlands.” The king’s smile widened fractionally. “And ye have two granddaughters of marriageable age—eighteen summers, I believe.”
Iain ground his teeth. The king was trying to lead him like a lamb to the slaughter and pretend he was doing him a favor.
“What are the ladies’ names? The twins?”
A rock settled in Iain’s gut. “Yer Grace speaks of my son Royce’s daughters, Lenora and Lillith.”
“Aye, those are the lasses.” King Robert rose again and approached Iain until they stood face to face. “By the Winter Solstice, two fortnights hence, one of yer granddaughters—Lenora or Lillith, I care nae which—will wed Rory Matheson.”
Iain felt his nostrils flare. “Yer Grace, I—”
“Nae a word, MacLeod. Ye’ll ride home with yer wife to ensure the wedding occurs, and if it does nae, ye’ll forfeit substantial portions of yer land.”
An immediate solution to avoiding this calamity came to Iain. “Yer Grace, how do ye expect me to get Laird Matheson to wed his son to one of my granddaughters?”
“I do nae,” King Robert replied so quickly that Iain instinctually knew a plan had already been set in motion. He slid his teeth back and forth, working to keep his temper. The king showed a smile that looked feral. “I’ll send the same command to Laird Matheson. Wed his son and heir to one of yer granddaughters by the Winter Solstice or forfeit land.”
Iain’s mind raced through the implications. Royce had promised his girls they could wed for love. Royce would be furious, his wife Eve would be angry, and Iain did not even want to think about how upset Marion would be. She’d been not so secretly fighting against arranged marriages for years. But to refuse the king meant risking everything his family had built for generations.
