“What did you say your name was?”
“I am Giric MacDomnail, Laird of MacDomnail Castle near Prestwick. I am loyal to the King and you will let me pass.” Giric had no weapons and so took a step forward to gaze down upon the man. His height was threat enough, but to add effect, he folded his arms across his chest and braced his stance.
Luther’s gaze flicked across Giric’s arms and back up to his face. One of the guards cleared his throat which immediately affected Luther’s demeanour.
“You may pass, Giric of Prestwick. I will accompany you to the King.”
“You will not,” Giric said. There was nothing trustworthy about this man and he was not about to bring him into his confidence.
“I speak for the King,” he said. “I determine who sees him and for what purpose. If you want to see him, you will do so with my company and on my authority.”
Giric laughed and turned away from the man. He stood in front of the guards and let his arms fall to his sides.
“I wish to see the King.”
Without hesitation they stepped away from the door. Luther tried to skirt around Giric, but one easy shove pushed him back to where the two guards kept him at bay. Giric opened the door, moved inside and closed it firm.
The king sat near a large stone hearth staring into the fire. He wore thick fur in which his body appeared dwarfed. Across from him a large wooden table was strewn with masses of parchment, some big enough for a map, whilst others were strips of possible messages sent by pigeon.
“Laird Giric MacDomnail to see you, your grace.”
King Constantine glanced over toward the door and grunted. He stared back into the fire.
“You are well guarded, your majesty. I trust you are in good health?”
Still no reply. Giric moved to the table and glanced among the papers. Missives and formally stamped documents lay about. A map showed the entire eastern side of Scotland on which several up arrows pointed toward them from the English border. Was this a previous threat, or a new one? Athelstan had been kept at bay before, but did this mean he had a new plan?
“Your grace, I come with news from the west.”
Giric turned to find the king had emerged from his furs and now stood but a few feet away staring at the map.
“He is coming.”
“Aye, it would appear so.”
Within a heartbeat, the king appeared to snap out of his stupor and acknowledge his company.
“Giric?”
“Aye, your grace. I come with news from the west.”
The king embraced Giric and stood back with a look of wonder on his face.
“I have not seen you in some time, Laird MacDomnail. How fares your kin?”
“My kin are well, your grace. I am come to share some news you need to hear.”
The king clapped his hands and made for a side table on which a tankard and several goblets sat. He poured two nearly full and passed one to Giric.
“Come. Sit. And tell me your news.”
They sat by the table as the king drank deeply. He was pale and smelled sour. Exactly how long had he been holed up in this chamber?
“I have taken a wife. A Viking wife.” Giric was not one to mince words and wondered how long the king’s lucidity would last.
King Constantine stopped drinking and placed his tankard on the parchments. He scratched his beard and nodded. The man Giric knew to be king was strategic and clever. Bits of him emerged at that moment.
“Viking. From where?”
