‘Ah, the regrets of my youth. Are you still trying to turn her into a nun? A fool’s errand, for that lass has too much fire in her blood.’ Eaden leant over the table. ‘Why don’t I take her off your hands? I will be in need of a wife when I am Laird of Fellscarp, and she will do nicely.’
‘You’ll never be Laird Strachan.’
‘Why not. Many call you a usurper?’
‘My claim is as good as any. And I have Clan Strachan’s best interests at heart.’
He sneered. ‘Why? Because old Hew squirted his seed into your mother? ‘Tis but a rumour, put about by her to rise you up, Peyton. For all we know, he had my mother, too. She is certainly capable of it, the old bitch, and Hew was not too fussy when the fancy took him.’
‘I know who your sire was, Eaden. It was Satan under a full moon. Now state your business and get out.’
‘Alright, it is this. There is a foul stench in the air, blowing this way. I fear it comes from Sir Walder Moffat’s rotting bowels.’
‘What of him?’
‘He has taken to his bed with an ailment and is slowly puking and shitting his way to an early grave. That old bladder of wine was easy to control, was he not? If he does not leave his sick bed, what comes next will not be. I have already made myself agreeable to his successor.’
‘And who is that?’
‘As if I would tell you?’ said Eaden, all smugness.
Peyton kept his face impassive, but inside, he felt a small triumph. Eaden thought he was taunting him with inside knowledge of Sir Walder and his possible replacement, but he already knew the worst from Father Luggan. He thought of Edmund Harclaw’s body, now a feast for worms, and Peyton’s triumph soured.
‘All you need to know is that you are long on pride and short on allies, cousin,’ continued Eaden in the face of his silence.
‘We are but distant cousins, Eaden, so do not try and claim some blood tie to me. That would be offensive.’
‘As you like. But you should hear me, all the same. The King tightens his grip and casts a baleful eye on the Marches. In these changing times, I fear the strongest man will take Fellscarp, not the worthiest. And you may have escaped with your life from that fight with the McColls that took our fair Robert Strachan, the heir to this rat heap, but that does not make you a laird. It merely makes you a survivor, a hanger-on.’
‘You may leave whenever you like, Eaden.’
‘I hear the Macaulays and you have fallen out,’ said Eaden, raising his eyebrows. One had a thick white scar through it, giving him an evil look. ‘Never much of an ally, old Griffin Macaulay. Step aside now, and I will reward you handsomely. Otherwise, I will wait until all your challengers have whittled you down to a stub of a man, and then I will just come in and take everything you have.’
‘If you are here bartering, you cannot be assured of your claim, Eaden. Take your stench out of my house.
They locked eyes, and Eaden stood up. He began to pace about the hall. He was well over six feet tall and built like a bull, but Peyton was not intimidated. The man was all bluster and villainy, but he did not have the grit to be a laird or the heart to be a leader of men. As usual, Eaden went for the low blow.
‘I can just take her, you know - Lowri. I can pluck her from the bosom of those clucking old hens in their abbey easily enough.’
‘Aye, but that would mean going into the East March, and they will have your head on a spike as soon as may be if you set foot there again. They have long memories, Eaden.
‘And short cocks, as I hear it.’ He guffawed loudly and suddenly leapt at Merren and grabbed a handful of her bottom. ‘Not much use to you, lass.’ She shrieked, dropped the ale jug and scuttled from the hall.’
‘Off she goes. Run little rabbit.’ Eaden shrugged his shoulders. ‘She’s not to my taste anyway. Too skinny. I like them with more spirit and some flesh to cushion a man.’
‘Leave while you still have your head, cousin,’ said Peyton wearily.
‘Oh, taking my head would not look good for you. That would mean more dead Strachans to explain away, and you already have Laird Hew’s death on your hands. Some say you poisoned the old bugger to take his place.’
‘Aye, you do love to gossip, don’t you? If you threaten me or come here again, I will end you, Eaden. That is a promise. You can never be laird of Clan Strachan. You are not suited to it. A laird cannot do just as he pleases.’
‘Aye, he can. That is the point of being a laird, which is why you will never be one. You have the courage of a lion and fight like a mad dog, but you never had the ruthless streak, did you, Peyton?’
As Peyton tried to contain his rage, Eaden Strachan strode from the hall as if he did not have a care in the world. The man would melt away into whatever hole he was hiding in and return when he was least wanted, like the pox. Peyton had only just managed to unclench his fists when Bertha bustled in.
‘Has that dog been sniffing after Merren? She’s all a’flutter.’
‘Aye. But no harm done.’
