Page 220 of Tales of Highland Loyalty

"I...I'll go an' fetch him," said the guard, before turning and promptly tripping over the unlit candelabra stationed beneath his feet.

Malcolm held a grin, as the lad faltered, scraping the metal against the floor as he pushed it away. When he was gone, he looked about. James saw him, and pondered.

"Well, that was easy," said James, watchfully. His eyes flitted about on high alert.

Malcolm contented himself with doing a tour of the hall - starting at the dusty edge and moving along the center. It had seen better days. On the walls were still the portraits, but they had faded with age. In the poor light, it was hard to make much out, but as he stood there he could hear the sounds of feet outside.

Voices murmuring in the corridors alerted him. Clearly there were still some folk around. Bit by bit, people were coming. Footsteps down the hallway became louder. Then, the hall door opened.

In walked a servant. Coming closer, Malcolm could see it was a different man than before. This one was taller, and older, and far more richly dressed. Judging by his demeanor, he was an advisor, or maybe a steward, Malcolm wasn't sure.

One thing was for certain, he was important, as he came bustling into the main hall to meet them. "Hoo, come hither, the laird requests to ken who ye are,"

The man came shortly toward them, looking them up and down with his nose in the air. Malcolm eyed him closely. He seemed well-attired, and, not stupid. His thick black hair curled around him, half-disguising a quiet pair of eyes, watching them with care.

"We are here to show oor wares," said James, before Malcolm could fully open his mouth. The steward - or whomever - almost tutted.

"Well then, ye are to go into the chambers, where he will await ye. Or a servant will assist ye..."

He shot his comments through with a look of suspicion, as if they were somehow not respectable. Perhaps it was not surprising.

After ten years at sea, they did look a little bedraggled, but smartening himself down, Malcolm did not think he was any worse than a regular hawker who sold such goods.

"Sir, I have...," Malcolm asserted himself, opening a pouch in his bag. He didn't get to finish this.

Over the top of his head, a shadow stretched deep. The hall door was opening, casting a draft into the already cold hall. Malcolm and James looked up, as a figure entered. Walking in slowly, the man came around to the top of the hall.

"An' who are these?"

Malcolm knew that voice anywhere. Instantly, he gave a start. Bruce!

"Sir, tis just some itinerant chapman," said the steward, dismissively. He looked at them as if he might shoo them away. "He says he has wares to show ye, but..."

Bruce walked nearer. He entered from the front of the hall, in the shadows, to stand before them. Quickly, he was followed by some servants, one carrying a lit candelabra. Finally, some light trickled into the dark and drafty room.

"Och, let me see, it cannae hurt," said Bruce, his voice slurring and vague. Malcolm held his breath. He was drunk, he was certain. Before he could even see him, he smelt the whiskey coming off Bruce.

Malcolm all but recoiled. Shuffling into view, came a stooping figure. From his gait, Malcolm would have put his age at over fifty.

Behind him, others came, some servants, standing in waiting, those who looked like locals, come to view the wares of the chapman. Malcolm waited, as scores appeared, filling the benches of the hall.

He had not expected an audience! But perhaps he might, a visit from the chapman was an event. Word had spread, and now women from the village were lined up, jostling to get a look at their pocketbook. Malcolm felt a slight twinge of guilt for the doughty fishwives, all waiting.

How disappointed they would be to find no lace trimming on offer!

"Come now, laddie," said Bruce, indulgently. He indicated to them to come over. Glancing at him, James looked warily, as Malcolm grabbed their bags, and made his way over.

Soon, they were seated, by the side of the grand chair. Taking their place, Malcolm had a sudden pang for his father. This was his seat! Who the hell was Bruce to take it from him!

A low whirl of anger burned in him, but he kept it in. Instead, he turned to greet his brother.

"Let's see what ye've got, eh?" said Bruce, slurring slightly. He gave a slight hiccup and spread himself back in the seat.

James looked at Malcolm; blootered oot o' his skull, his eyes said.

Malcolm barely acknowledged him. He was too busy watching for Bruce to emerge from the shadows. With a low murmur of the crowd behind him, Bruce stared directly into Malcolm.

For the first time, Malcolm saw his face. With a gasp, he recoiled. The last ten years had hit him like a shoal of off fish.