“Why?” I asked, meeting his gaze. “When we both ken I do nae.”
He sighed, a sound heavy with disappointment and something that might be pity. “Let’s move to a table so we cansee each other as we discuss matters,” he said, looking to his left and right to include all the council at the dais.
As murmurs of agreement came from the council, I reached for the flagon. It seemed there was always more to be said, more demands to be made, more reminders of how far I had fallen. And never enough wine to make it bearable.
Last at the dais, I finally made my way to the table and took the laird’s chair, which the servants had quickly pushed up to the table. As my council members arranged themselves around the table, I ran my thumb along the rim of my cup, feeling the smooth edge worn by generations of Ross hands. My hands. My da’s hands. His da’s before him.
Had any of them sat as I do now, half-drunk and wholly indifferent to the machinations unfolding before them? Hector took the seat to my left, while Uncle Gordon took the seat at my right. James, Alan, and Simon filled the remaining chairs, their expressions ranging from concern to calculation. I drained my cup and refilled it. This dance was familiar now: drink, discuss, drink.
Hector cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him. I studied him through the haze of wine. He’d known me since I was a squalling bairn, yet there was no warmth in his gaze now. Only judgment, cold and absolute. The deep lines etched around his mouth were tugged down with his scowl, and his weathered hands were folded precisely before him on the table.
“The clan’s discontent grows deeper with each passing sennight,” Hector said, his voice carrying the weight of his years. “What we witnessed today was but a taste of what’s to come if something does nae change.”
I lifted my cup in acknowledgment but did not speak. There was nothing to say that hadn’t been said a hundred times before.
“We must consider,” he continued, his gaze sweeping the table before settling on me, “the possibility of choosing a new laird before the clan revolts.”
The words hung in the air between us, and some emotion prickled through me. It was possibly anger, or wounded pride, but it faded before I could grasp it.
“Gordon,” Hector said, turning to my uncle, “ye have the bloodline, the experience, and the respect of the clan. If Munro were to step aside—”
“I could nae ever presume to take my nephew’s place,” Uncle Gordon interjected swiftly, placing a hand on my arm. I knew he was trying to reassure me, but his gesture felt more like an anchor than comfort. “Unless,” Uncle Gordon continued, surprising me, “it becomes necessary for the survival of our clan.”
“A vote can only be called,” James said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of agreement from Alan and Simon for Hector’s suggestion, “if the laird is unfit to rule. That is our law, and it has been since before any of us drew breath.”
James’s gaze was steady on me, beseeching me to speak. I knew he saw something still worth saving by his actions and words to me. He was a fool.
Hector’s gaze settled on me once more, taking in the wine stains on my tunic, the unkempt beard, the cup clutched in my hand like a lifeline. “And would ye say our laird is fit, James?” Hector demanded, “Would ye stake the future of Clan Ross on the claim that Munro is fit to rule?”
James’s jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the skin. He had defended me beyond reason, beyond loyalty, and we both knew it.
“Munro is still our laird,” James said firmly. “He’s led us through war and peace. He has—”
“He has spent the last two years drowning himself in wine and women,” Alan interrupted, his voice unexpectedly sharp. Ah, the discontent had reached new levels. Alan avoided looking directly at me. He had never possessed the spine needed to be ruthless, but now that Hector had thrown the first dagger toward me, Alan would play in the game. “The clan coffers dwindle. Our defenses weaken. Our standing among the other clans diminishes with each passing day. And yet,” Alan added, his deep voice rumbling through the hall, “Munro sits before us now and does nae speak.”
“He is still our laird,” Simon joined in, smiling encouragingly at me. Simon was the youngest on the council, and I knew he had once looked up to me. I suppose it was hard to let go of the man he remembered me to be.
I traced the rim of my cup again, feeling the weight of James, Simon, and my uncle’s expectations. They wanted me to defend myself, to rise in righteous anger and prove Hector wrong, prove the disgruntled clan wrong.
“Perhaps,” Uncle Gordon said softly, looking to me, “we might consider a temporary arrangement. A regency of sorts, until ye find yerself again.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. It was a short, bitter sound that silenced them all. “Find myself?” I echoed, meeting my uncle’s gaze. “And where do ye suggest I look? At the bottom of the cliffs where Isabella’s body was found, broken? In my bed where she once slept? At the grave where our son’s body is buried?” Emotions rose swiftly, trying to grasp me with greedy fingers. Rage. Anguish. Desperation. I downed another goblet of wine in four quick swallows.
The silence that followed was heavy with discomfort. Good. Now they got to feel a fraction of what I had to deal with daily.
“We are nae speaking of abandonment, Munro,” Hector said eventually. “But of necessity. Of duty.”
“Duty,” I repeated, the word tasting of ash. “Aye, I ken all about duty. It was a duty that Uncle Gordon demanded I see to, which took me away from Isabella while she gave birth.” I don’t know why I brought that up now. I’d never even hinted to my uncle that I blamed him for my not being at Isabella’s side when she needed me most, but there was a small part of me that did blame him. If he had not insisted that the battle could not be won without me, my son might still have lived, and Isabella would never have grown sad and withdrawn. Then she wouldn’t have gone to the cliff where she died. “Do nae speak to me nae of duty, old man.”
Uncle Gordon cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should adjourn for now,” he suggested, his voice carefully modulated to sound reasonable. “We can revisit this matter when heads are cooler and minds clearer.”
One by one, they rose from the table, each casting me a final look before departing. My uncle squeezed my shoulder as he passed. I felt a pinch of guilt then for how I’d likely made him feel.
Soon, only James and I remained in the hall, the silence stretching between us like a thread pulled too taut. I refilled my cup, avoiding his gaze. The last thing I wanted was to see that damnable mix of loyalty and disappointment that he wore so openly these days.
“If ye continue on this way, Simon will soon agree with Alan and Hector, and they will vote ye out as laird and yer uncle in.”
I was about to say Uncle Gordon would never take the position, but I stilled, thinking upon his words of making someone else laird temporarily. That had surprised me, but I supposed even my uncle’s loyalty was stretched to the limit.
