‘I agree,’ said Caolan.
‘If you cannot hold your own, either of you, then what use are you as allies?’ said Jasper.
‘Better allies in these troubled times than foes. You two must put your enmity aside and work with me,’ said Caolan.
‘If I ally with you, then I ally with Seaton,’ said Jasper.
‘Now there’s a bitter pill to swallow,’ laughed Strachan.
Caolan glared at Strachan. ‘Aye, but Jasper need not see my brother. I will be his voice in this, and he is in this fight, make no mistake, for if someone strikes at me, they strike at Seaton.’
‘Are the Macaulays still your allies, Strachan?’ said Jasper.
‘No. That was a marriage of convenience, and it did not end well, much like yours, Glendenning.’
‘I will enter this alliance with you, though I doubt you’ll survive as laird of Clan Strachan long enough to be useful to Caolan and me,’ sneered Jasper.
‘Enough bickering,’ said Caolan. ‘We will meet once we separate friend from foe. Agreed?’
Jasper nodded. ‘I must go. I cannot tarry here with you two fools.’
He locked eyes with Peyton Strachan, and judging by the smug look on his face, Jasper was sure that Strachan knew something he did not.
***
Upon his return to Kransmuir, Randel was incensed by the news of the Warden’s death.
‘That fat rat, Walder, was no friend of mine, but he let us have our way and was easy to bribe or frighten.’
‘Well, this new one is not. So I want you to watch everyone. I want to know when a mouse scurries from its burrow and when a spider moves in its web. I want to know which man is tupping which servant lass, who is stealing from our stores, everything. If any strangers come to Kransmuir, you tell me. Nothing is too small to bring to my notice.’
‘I will set men on it’.
Jasper grabbed his arm. ‘Only a handful, and only those you trust with your life, Randel.’
‘It will be done. And there’s news, Jasper. Bran MacCreadie is back.’
‘More fool him. Gather some men. I need to pay another visit to that whoreson and throttle the truth out of him.’
Chapter Eight
Rowenna stirred her bowl of thin grey porridge. She would have to force it down, or her stomach would groan all day. Meals were often a sorry affair at Fallstairs, but even by MacCreadie standards, this was desperate.
‘Is this slop all we have?’ demanded Bran, who had recently skulked back home.
‘Winter is dragging on, and our rations will not stretch,’ muttered Rufus, slurping down the awful stuff. ‘What spare coin we had was used to buy feed to keep the horses going or gambled away by you in search of an easy fix to our woes.’
Bran looked pained. ‘Had luck been on my side, Father, I would have seen us through with my winnings. But the men at the tavern are all cheats and rascals.’
‘I know, son, I know.’
Hopelessness settled on Rowenna like a shroud. Why did her father always make excuses for her lout of a brother? It would never change.
Morag dawdled in. ‘There’s men in the yard. Come to see you, Master.’ She shot Rowenna a smile dipped in vinegar.
‘Better send them in then,’ said Rufus.
Four men entered, and at their head was Wymon Carruthers, looking remarkably rosy-cheeked for a man on his deathbed. Rowenna rose in surprise, but Rufus betrayed no surprise at all and carried on eating.
