Laird Maclachlan was in one of his more irascible moods. Caillen admired his younger brother’s ability to take the verbal abuse their father dealt out with such a sanguine attitude. When their father lashed out at him with a particularly bad-tempered command, the only thing that betrayed Gawain’s hidden anger or embarrassment--Caillen was not sure which--– was a slight flushing of his cheeks.
Me brither should play cards. He has such good control over his feelings it would take a masterful reader of reactions to see if Gawain was bluffing or secretly holding a winning hand.
The two young men waited for their father to vent his spleen as he settled himself into the comfortable chaise and then gave him their attention.
“The reason I have called ye both here to attend the banquet feast is because I’m nae longer fit to oversee the management of the castle keep or press our advantage further afield,” Laird Maclachlan paused and waited to see if his sons would react to what he had just said. They said nothing, and the old man did not expect there to be any comment. He had reared his sons to be silent observers and only act once they had all the facts.
Satisfied, he continued, “To this end, I have decided to appoint a proxy to rule the clan in me stead ‘til such a time as I feel better or....”
Laird Maclachlan left his final words unsaid. Some days he felt healthier, especially when the local healer whipped him up a concoction with poppy seeds as one of the ingredients, but on others, the pain in his bones made him yearn for the grave.
He looked at the two men opposite him and felt a surge of pride and affection. True to the unforgiving nature of the misty Highland mountains where he had lived all his life, Laird Maclachlan had striven to stay calm as all but two of his late wife’s bairns survived into adulthood. But these two surviving offspring were everything a father could wish for.
Caillen, now with eight-and-twenty years under his belt, was tall and strong, looking more like a battle-hardened Highlander than the free-spirited adventurer he really was. He was handsome enough to have made a maiden sigh from the time he was old enough to shave, but he had settled for having a long-term courtship with a gentlewoman from a nearby lodge. They had been fast friends growing up together, attending the same dances, hunting and hawking amidst the hills, drinking tea in a merry group when the lass visited the keep with her mother. It seemed only natural they would fall into an easy-going relationship over the years, with the tacit understanding marriage was waiting for them somewhere in the future.
It had been hard getting the message to Caillen he was needed back home. The only way of contacting him was to deliver a note to a certain wine merchant in the port of Marseilles, the bustling coastal town from where Caillen launched most of his expeditions. That had been over eight full moons before, and his errant eldest son had only returned three days ago.
He had sauntered into the great hall and casually looked around him, as though inspecting some seedy Atlantic crossing inn where he was forced to spend the night. One of the footmen had instinctively reached for a pole axe mounted on the wall before recognizing the Laird’s heir.
Caillen had a foreign air about him, one that promised danger, adventure, and escape. He had thrown his saddlebags onto the stone floor and turned to greet the footman with the same irrepressible grin he’d had as a naughty boy.
“Greetings and well met, McKinney! Where’s me auld faither? Or is he still to be found forever holed up in the library with his papers?”
When the startled man had returned his greeting and made so bold as to welcome the young master back to the keep, he was heartily slapped on the back and passed a gold sovereign.
“Here’s a small memento of me time in the West Indies. Dinnae gamble it all away at once!”
And on those words, Caillen had picked up his saddlebags and made his way to the library.
When the door banged open after a brief knock, Laird Maclachlan’s eyes had nearly started from his head in shock. His heir’s tumbling brown locks were held back from his face in a knot, and his skin was as burnished as a heathen’s!
“Losh! Me son! Why dinnae ye send a messenger ahead to warn us? And why have ye tied yer hair back in a knot? Ye...ye look like a washerwoman!”
Caillen gave a loud shout of laughter as he went to kneel before his father and then stand up to hug him where he sat behind his writing desk, “Faither, scissors are scarce on board a ship. ‘Tis far easier to grow the hair and then knot it up behind the head, tying it back with a leather thong. All the pirates and brigands do it, and I’m sure it saves them much time in the mornings, as does nae shaving.”
Saying these words, Caillen rubbed his neat beard with one hand, a rueful grin making up for any cockiness his father might construe from his reply.
Laird Maclachlan was too happy to take umbrage at Caillen’s appearance or what he said. He rang the bell-rope that hung down next to his chair and ordered the footman to make up his son’s bedchamber.
Now, with both his sons sitting across from him, he was able to compare their characters and appearances in more detail. It was not so much they had no family resemblance whatsoever, in fact, far from it. It was just that they had chosen such different pathways in life; it had left an indelible mark on each of them.
Since the time he left his wet nurse and joined his older brother in the nursery, Gawain had been studious. Fond of reading a book quietly indoors while his elder brother rode around the countryside. He had always been better at learning what the tutor taught them and remembering important details. Caillen had taken every chance he could to leave his books behind and rush off to sail or fish on the loch. Gawain had tried to cover for his brother’s truancy at first, but as the years passed, he gave up and simply told the truth when an irate teacher or parent asked him. His excuse to Caillen, who would enter their bedchamber later on with a smarting backside and angry frown, was that his elder brother should buckle down and learn his lessons before getting into more trouble.
But it was something Caillen had found impossible to do. In his fifteenth year, Caillen had run away, joined a ship’s crew, and sailed across the Atlantic. His parents, recognizing his wild, indomitable, Highland spirit, had accepted his predilection for adventure and allowed him free reign to roam.
Gawain had stayed at the castle keep during his brother’s long absences, happy to draw up night watch schedules and work as his father’s steward. It was a role Laird Maclachlan hoped he would maintain in the years to come. When Caillen was Laird, he could use his young brother’s skills as estate manager and castle warden.
Gawain’s path in life had shaped his appearance and attitude fully as much as it had changed Caillen’s. Gawain was slim and lithe, a body made for rushing from one side of the castle to the other. Today, in the library, he wore a full-skirted brocade coat, stylishly embroidered, and breeches with silk hose. His chestnut brown hair was unpowdered, and he tied it back with a single black riband. Gawain’s skin was pale, throwing his riveting blue eyes into stark contrast with the rest of him. Ladies would write Gawain off as a mere younger son of no importance until he fixed that startling ice-blue stare in their direction. Then young women would flap their fans and giggle coquettishly as he walked past.
“So, faither,” Caillen said, shifting his muscular body around on the stiff chaise, trying to get comfortable, “why the urgency if only to appoint a proxy? If I’m gone, Gawain can oversee the running of the castle, and when I’m here, I can do it. I have a fair idea about how things should go on. Nae much has changed,” after saying these words, Caillen saw the expression on his father’s face shift, and he continued, “or have things changed?”
Laird Maclachlan searched for the right words, “I dinnae want to sound like a hysterical auld woman, lads, but I have absolute proof there’s a spy in the castle. They must have access to me papers, messengers, and sometimes I even think they must have access to me thoughts!”
Both young men pricked up their ears when their father said this. Indeed, the Laird was a shrewd and calculating man; if he had reason to believe there was a spy operating in the castle, it was more than a suspicion,--it was a fact.
Caillen leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees to prop up his chin. Gawain stared keenly at his father, his senses finely tuned to filter and process the information the Laird was about to share.
“For some time now, Clan Maclachlan has been the only bastion against the insidious southward spread of Clan Sutherland. As ye ken, their southern lands abut our northern boundary. Ye might nae ken this; however, there used to be two small clans,-the MacLeods and the Lewises-settled in between. Throughout the years, the Sutherlands have gobbled up both smaller clans, either through marriage, raiding, or plain auld bullying tactics, and now they encroach on our land.”
