“The emerald ring was a generous gift to the church,” the bishop said, admiring the glinting stone on his pinky. “That could not, of course, dissuade me from performing my duty to keep meticulous records for the church.”
The bishop was finally getting to the point of his visit.
“’Tis not every day we receive a document from the Holy Father himself,” the bishop said. “Only the original document had the pope’s leaden seal, but I made a copy for our records.”
“So you’ve come to ask what I’ll pay ye to destroy these records.”
When the bishop gave him a smug smile, Hector took hold of the front of his robes and backed him into the wall.
“If ye believe I’d murder Rory, who is my own flesh and blood,” Hector said, “what makes ye think I won’t slice the throat of a churchman who threatens me?”
“I’m not threatening you,” the bishop said in a calm voice. “I’m offering a service you need. After the unfortunate news about the theft at Eilean Donan, the value is even greater than before. Tsk, tsk. Such a shame about those ledgers.”
“Once I’m chieftain,” Hector said, “I’ll donate a grand sum to the church for ye to use as ye see fit.”
“I’d prefer something now.”
Hector laughed. The bishop had ice in his veins and was driven by greed and ambition. They could no doubt work together. When he tossed a bag of coin on the table, the bishop nodded in agreement and pulled a rolled sheaf of parchment from his sleeve.
“You’re certain this is the only evidence this bull was issued?” Hector asked.
“There will be a record in Rome, but it could take years to obtain confirmation from the Holy See.”
Hector held the copy of the papal bull over the candle and watched it burn until there was nothing left but a few black cinders on the table. That was one less obstacle.
“There’s something else I’ll need ye to do for me,” Hector told the bishop. “I’ll get word to ye.”
“I find being of service most rewarding,” the bishop said, and took his leave.
“Fetch the old woman,” Hector shouted to the guard who stood outside his door. Thinking she might need encouragement, he added, “And bring her granddaughter up from the dungeon.”
When the time came, the old woman would say and do exactly what he told her to.
***
“There are visitors riding up to the gate, Lady Sybil,” the guard told her. “The MacKenzie is not back yet."
“Who are they?”
“Members of the Grant clan, including their chieftain and”—he paused and cleared his throat—“his family.”
“The Grants are friends of Clan MacKenzie, are they not?”
“’Tis hard to say,” he said, scratching his neck. “They used to be.”
The Highland custom of showing hospitality to all guests, friend or foe, was practically sacred, so she wondered why he was so uneasy.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll come out to the courtyard to greet them.”
“I’d best ride out to meet the laird,” he said. “He’s expected soon, and he’ll want to know the Grants are here.”
After tidying a loose curl that had escaped and brushing her gown with her palms, Sybil hurried outside. She was waiting at the top of the steps to the keep when the gate creaked open to admit a large party of riders. The gray-haired warrior who led them was the Grant chief, judging by his air of authority and the jeweled pin that fastened his plaid on his shoulder.
On either side of the chief rode two men who shared his strong features and hard expressions. They were an intimidating trio, and behind them rode thirty Highland warriors armed with claymores, axes, and dirks. Sybil put on a bright smile and started down the steps.
The Grant chief dismounted, and at his signal, all his men did the same. When the chief started up the steps, she came halfway down to meet him.
“Mìle fàilte oirbh,”a thousand welcomes, she said.
