Escorting his mother, the MacDonald led his chieftains and the other invited members of the Highland contingent into the hall. Alexander MacDonald stopped at the foot of the dais. He offered the king a slow, elegant bow. Next to him the old Countess of Ross curtsied. Her wobble was barely noticeable, and the king could tell her knees hurt her as she rose, but the smile on her face was genuine. He briefly felt regret at what was about to transpire.
“My lord,” the MacDonald said, “I welcome ye to the Highlands. May yer stay be a pleasant one, and may ye return often.”
The king’s reply was a terse one, and Alexander MacDonald, not to be shamed before his clansmen and allies, answered sharply. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. He was the king of the north, and resented this Stewart upstart who would attempt to pull him down from his high place.
But James Stewart was not the kind of Stewart he had been used to dealing with in days past. This king was a hard man. Looking first directly at the lord of the isles, and then at the others in the hall, he said, “I am told there are some among you who would have my life.” Signaling his guard, who had been notified in advance of what they would do, he watched as Alexander MacRurie and Ian MacArthur were hauled forth from among the other clan chieftains and dragged before him. “You two spoke of my murder. I cannot trust you. Your deaths will provide an example to your companions.”
Raising his hand, the king signaled his executioners, who stepped forward and swiftly beheaded MacRurie and MacArthur. Neither man had the chance to cry out. Their heads fell from their bodies, rolling a short distance. The women in the hall screamed and began to weep in their fright as blood gushed from the severed necks of the two clan chieftains.
“Seize them all!” the king roared angrily. “They shall be imprisoned in the dungeons prepared for their arrival.” Rising from his throne, he stepped down from the dais, stepping over the river of blood, and offered his hand to the Countess of Ross. “You, madam, will be my guest,” he said, “while your son and his friends contemplate their disobedience to me, to Scotland.”
“Are you not Scotland?” the Countess of Ross replied, taking the hand offered.
James Stewart smiled grimly. “I am, madam,” he agreed. “I am.”
This was the tale Kier Douglas told Cicely when he returned home in early August. “No one, or at least only a very few, knew what he intended,” Kier said.
“What happened afterwards?” Cicely asked.
“The MacDonald’s sister-in-law stepped forward and upbraided the king for his behavior. She asked if this was the king’s justice.”
“Did the king throw her in the dungeon too?” Cicely asked, fascinated.
“Nay. He called her a cattle thief and a whore, and ordered her from his hall,” Kier told his wife. “But she had the last word and she left the king speechless. She told him, ‘Better an honest whore, my liege, than a dishonorable king.’ ”
“The woman must be mad to have spoken to James Stewart like that,” Cicely said. “And he let her go unscathed?”
“A priest stood near his side, his kinsman, I think. He murmured something to the king, and oddly the king refrained from taking any action against her. He said nothing more. The woman left the hall, followed by all the other women.”
“What happened then?” Cicely asked.
“Well,” Kier continued, “a couplet had been making its way about the encampments. ‘To donjon tower let this rude troop be driven, For death they merit, by the cross of Heaven.’ The Highlanders were on edge, as were the rest of us. The king, however, did not keep us waiting long. A week after his first meeting with the MacDonald and his allies, he invited all who had come to gather at Inverness to attend his parliament. He announced he would then render his judgment upon them all. The MacArthurs and the MacRuries had already left to take home their dead chieftains. The Highlanders were very fearful, for the couplet was said to have been written by the king himself.” Kier chuckled.
Cicely was fascinated by his recitation. Kier had kept a very close account of what had happened in Inverness so he might share it with her.
“In an effort to demonstrate to the Highland chieftains that he was showing no favor to any in particular, the king had hanged that same week James Campbell, who had murdered Alexander MacDonald’s cousin, Ian MacDonald. His execution got those in the dungeons talking among themselves. But then, to their great relief, the king fined them and released them back to their clanspeople,” Kier said.
“And the lord of the isles?” Cicely asked.
“A large fine to fatten James Stewart’s treasury, and a lengthy lecture. The king said there could be but one king in Scotland, and that king was James Stewart, by the grace of God, and anointed with the holy oil of the Holy Mother Church. He told the MacDonald that he had to stop taking up arms for every offense, real or imagined. He threatened MacDonald that if he did not cease his rude ways, James would come north again, and stop them for good and all. If Alexander MacDonald would keep the peace in the north he would find favor with James Stewart. Then he instructed the lord of the isles to kneel and pledge his fealty. You could tell the MacDonald was angry at being held up to public censure, but he did indeed kneel, and pledged hisfealty to the king. After that we were free to go home, and so our Glengorm men and I hurried south again.”
“What an amazing time,” Cicely said. “I wish I had been there to see it. My life hasn’t been as interesting at all, my lord.” Then she went on to tell her husband that the haying had been completed, and the harvest just begun. Summer was coming to an end, and they would need to prepare for the winter ahead.
But Alexander MacDonald had been embarrassed by what had transpired at Inverness. He had lost control of the situation, and on his own ground. He would need to make a public gesture so as not to appear weakened among his own. The king would certainly understand, and then the peace would hold for however long it would hold. Inverness would pay the price for their outspoken loyalty to James Stewart. The MacDonald gathered his clansmen and his allies. Marching upon Inverness, they burned it to the ground. Then, satisfied, Alexander MacDonald returned home to his island kingdom of Islay, and his army of ten thousand men dispersed.
However, James Stewart did not understand. A royal burgh had been burned to the ground, its inhabitants slaughtered, the town looted, the few survivors scattered, desperate to survive the coming winter. Autumn was already in the Highlands. The nights were cold, the days little better. But a party of Inverness’s survivors trekked south to Scone to tell the king what had happened. Reaching him after several weeks, they begged for his justice, and James promised to give it to them.
The king sent to all of his liege men, the border lords among them. He told them what had happened at Inverness. It was too late now to go north to wreak his revenge upon the MacDonald. They would go closer to spring. Kier Douglas was ordered to be ready at a moment’s notice, and to be prepared to travel hard. He was to bring as many men as he could muster. Alexander MacDonald would receive a lesson in royal justice he would never forget—if he survived the king’s initial wrath.
Cicely was not pleased. “Can you Scots not learn to live peacefully among yourselves?” she demanded. “I should have married a man like my father: rich and unimportant. One who did not have to answer a call to arms.”
“Now, sweetheart,” he attempted to cajole her, but she waved her hand at him.
“Nay, Kier, I do not like this constant fighting. What if I were with child again?”
“Are you?” he asked eagerly.
“Nay,” she admitted.
