Page 170 of Tales of Highland Loyalty

"A duel?" he asked, suddenly getting in the face of the red-faced fisher. There was a tense pause, as he saw James' watchful eye. "Ye telling me Bruce challenged my f- the Laird to a duel?"

Malcolm felt his heart speed up. This he had not known. The red-faced fisher nodded sheepishly, although some of the others, who still had their wits about them, craned their necks in suspicion. Malcolm knew he had to reel it in, keep things casual if he was not to arouse suspicion, but it was hard.

"Aye, a duel," slurred the fisherman, as the even drunker man in front of him nodded in time to his hiccups. "The son challenged his da to a duel, an' he lost!"

Malcolm went hot, then cold. Suddenly he needed to sit down. Before he could say more, one of the background men chimed in.

"It wasnae quite like that. He didnae mean to kill him, they say..."

Malcolm's eyes pressed towards a tall, dark fisherman, sipping quietly from a mug near the bar. He was about to answer, when another man butted in.

"They say, he says, mair like," said the man, skeptical. His tanned, slender face wore an expression of amused disbelief. Malcolm felt sick. This was just a game to them.

Fighting a very strong desire to tell them all to boil their heads, Malcolm kept his counsel, just.

"What do ye mean, friend?" he asked, wearing a carefully placed smile.

"Och, I mean the laird, Bruce, he was walking awa'. The duel was over, an' he had been declared winner. But the auld laird, he wasnae harmed... but he had been banished by the son, for conspiring wi' the McIvers to take mair land..."

Malcolm's mind was buzzing. "The McIvers?" he said, more confused than anything. "Working wi' them?"

It was preposterous. His father? Of all people! Malcolm shook his head, despairingly. Surely no-one could believe that!

"Well, that's what they say," said the tall, dark haired man, patting his nose. "But I dinnae ken... there was something verra fishy aboot it, an' I dinnae mean the halibut we caught today!"

The inn cracked open, guffawing loudly, even though Malcolm did not think there was anything very funny about it. He waited patiently for the men to settle down, and carry on explaining.

"Anyhoo, the auld laird, he made a run at it, he wouldnae gae quietly, an' tried attacking the guards escorting him from the clan. So they killed him...since then, Bruce has been oor laird..."

Malcolm turned pale. He sat down, quick. Beside him, James placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Nae," he said, unable to hide his true feelings. "It cannae be. It cannae be..."

The world was swirling, and it was not just the packed room, and the copious booze. The shock of finding out his father was dead - and then how it had happened - had floored him completely.

Unaware, the blithe fisherman continued. "Och, aye, it tis! Michty me, like I said, ye must have been gone for a lang time!"

In despair, Malcolm turned to James. "Ma father's dead!" he said, in shocked tones. All the same, he kept his voice down, so they would not hear.

He was not quite ready for the crowd's reaction to his name, just then. Besides, he had no certainty how they would react. Whose side were they on?

"I ken, son," said James, a troubled look in his eye. "Who would ha' thought it. I am sorry..."

But Malcolm did not want his condolences. He turned away. He needed to know more.

"Ye dinnae really think that Laird Rabbie was a traitor, do ye?" he asked, point blank. There was a slight silence, and a bit of coughing. James looked at him, uncertain.

"Nae," said the dark haired man. "An' it hasnae been the same since he went! It's nae safe round here...!"

"Nae a bit o' it," chimed in the quietly spoken man, between sips of his pint. "Tis a load o' fanny baws. Still, the new laird got enough folks on side to claim the spot!"

Now the dark haired man was looking at Malcolm, with interest. "So whit do ye think, stranger?"

He leered at Malcolm, who blinked.

Malcolm shook his head. He was still reeling. "I think, I need to get oot o' here!"

Setting his dram down, Malcolm pushed through the noisy crowd, leaving the fishermen to their revelries. Hot behind him was James, his dark head pressing through the bodies in the bar.