“And what are theseprinciples?” Garnait’s disparaging tone was difficult to ignore. “Have I offended yer honor yet again, nephew?”
“I have never claimed such an offense,” Niall said.
Lachlann began to count the many times that day alone the man had belittled the three of them, making light of the battles they’d been subjected to with the blood and dust still clinging to their mail.
“And yet I see it in the way ye look at me, the way ye speak to me when ye believe I am too deep in my cup to notice, and yer reluctance to follow the simplest of orders, orders I have every right to give to those who swear fealty to me.”
Fealty to a fool. Garnait’s choice of alliances was galling. It would take very little to spark the resentment stirring in the Danes, who still had claim to the area. With the Norsemen and islanders patiently waiting for an opening to take a stab at them, as well as the English King William—Rufus as he was called—traipsing about as if he owned the entire island, unity and trust were all the Scots had and the only way they could remain a force to be reckoned with. The ones Garnait so easily scorned were the very clans he would need to look to for support should any decide to pick a fight with them.
“Battling on the side of those fighting against our own? And with the southern aggressors?” Niall’s voice was tight. “That does not bode well for us here.”
Garnait guffawed. “And yet we won.”
Lachlann clamped his jaw just short of barking out an outraged “We?”
“It does not sit well with me to fight alongside the enemy.”
“What enemy? The Campbells are our neighbors.”
Niall shook his head. “The Campbell himself would willingly watch as the English run us down with their horses for a chance at an earldom.”
Garnait’s expression turned to disgust. “Ah, and ye are as weakhearted as yer father was.”
Lachlann’s blood boiled.
Niall’s face stiffened at the insult. “My father was many things, but weakhearted was not one of them.”
“Ye need to gird yer loins, boy.”
“We will be leaving at first light, Uncle, with or without yer permission. If ye have gifts ye would like to offer to the other chieftains, have them packed for us and ready to take. Otherwise…” Niall held the man’s angry gaze, his expression surprisingly calm. “I will see ye come the harvest.”
Niall choosing to stand up to his uncle was a balm. Mayhap his closest friend was coming to his senses and remembering who he actually was. The son of a chieftain. Lachlann’s spirits lifted considerably and a strong sense of accomplishment brought a smile to his face. Things were finally looking up.
In a fortnight, they’d traveled across glens and over mountains, through fewer rainy days than they could have expected this time of year and arrived at the coast. The highlanders were as welcoming as Lachlann knew they would be sharing food, fodder for their animals, and a place to rest safely. As planned, Niall offered gifts of seal skin and silver from what his uncle had provided for them. The gifts had been well received and it put them in a favorable light.
Although Garnait’s name was mentioned as their chieftain, it was Niall they wrapped their arms around and welcomed into their clan and whose face would come to mind when they thought of the Clan MacDonell to the west. Niall who they would speak of with friendly warmth. The man was a natural leader, setting them immediately at ease when he showed interest, listening to their stories with great respect.
When the ocean came into view, they slowed their horses at the crest of the forested hill. The clouds hung low, thick and dark. The water churned white. An angry sea, indeed. Lachlann shivered. The knee-length tunics made of coarse wool and thick hose that they now wore as their pilgrim attire kept them warm enough. It was the roiling ocean that was a bad omen. They stopped to cover up with their mantles.
Aldred said, “That rain will be near impossible to travel through.”
“The castle shouldn’t be far now.” Niall tucked the heavy material of thebrataround his legs as he spoke.
“Halt!” an unknown voice commanded.
They obeyed, raising their empty hands, but exchanged perplexed glances.
“Turn about now. Slowly.” The voice, though forceful, cracked.
They maneuvered their horses toward the sound.
A tall, thin man, covered from crown to toe in dark green cloth, stood a stone’s throw away, his bow and arrow poised on the three of them. He looked to be about six and ten. They again looked at each other.
“What do ye here?” the slim man demanded.
A loud crack of thunder sounded out over the ocean.
“We want no trouble.” Niall opened his palms to show again they carried no weapons. “May we lower our hands?”
