Page 223 of Tales of Highland Loyalty

Then, he turned his attention to the guards.

"Together, just the two o' us, nae one else," said Malcolm, carefully. Bruce nodded, but Malcolm knew he could not trust him.

A deep, soporific silence opened up. Malcolm did not waste time. Quickly, he reached for his dagger, grasping it tight.

Swiftly, he wielded the clan blade, pointing it straight at Bruce. It had a pleasing quality to it - heavy and well weighted, it felt right in his hands. The hilt was decorated ornately with gemstones, which sparkled provocatively in every possible hue.

Squeezing it between his hands, Malcolm felt emotional. So, he had his father's sword - but he did not yet have his authority. Perhaps Bruce recognized it, because as Mal held it to his neck, he gawped. He glanced up at his step brother.

"Enough!" he snapped, but Malcolm did not falter. There was a low murmur, but no immediate reaction from the crowd.

Smiling angrily, Malcolm pressed the tip of the knife straight into his flesh. "Now what, Bruce, now what?"

CHAPTER 19

"What if we're too late?" Ainslee asked, with bated breath, as they raced towards the keep.

The sturdy brownish-gray outline cast a shadow over the landscape, standing out for miles around. With Marisse by her side, the pair hastened over the muddied ditches and glens of the way.

Marisse fixed her with a stare. "Well we'll just have to hurry," she said, taking the reins of her mare. Ainslee, astride her horse, harrumphed exasperated.

"I shouldnae have let him get ahead o' me!" she said, anxiously. "I nae should ha' let him go..."

Marisse looked at her sharply. "Let him?" she said, briskly. "He's a grown man, ye cannae tell him what to do..."

Ainslee nodded, reluctantly. Marisse was right, when had she ever been able to tell Malcolm what to do? Spurring on her horse further, Ainslee took the reins and rode like she had never done before.

Past the little copse of trees reaching to the keep, and up to the main gates, she galloped, the little pony dutifully doing its best. As they approached, she could already see a crowd forming with folk milling in and out of the castle.

Slowing up, Marisse looked at Ainslee. "What's happening?"

Ainslee stared ahead. The guards on the gate seemed overwhelmed. The sheer force of the people had proved too much. They were waved through the gates, and soon enough the pair found themselves at the Duncan keep.

"I cannae believe folk are just going in," said Marisse, dumbfounded. But with several heavyset men behind them, they simply passed through the keep doors, and into its drafty corridors.

All the while, the sense of alarm was growing.

"What, what is going on?" whispered Marisse, as all the guards seemed to have disappeared. Ainslee, her eyes peeled and darting, watched anxiously.

"I dinnae ken," she began, when a thickset villager cut in.

"The auld laird's son is back, an' fighting wi' his brother for the clan!"

"So they say!" added a second one, a small, bony man, smelling of sheep. Before either of them could answer, the pair pushed past them. Not far behind, a noisy stampede was igniting.

"Come on," Ainslee grabbed Marisse, and deftly cut through them all. Taking advantage of their smaller size, she simply dived under the crowd, to get to the front.

Not long later, they had shimmied to the front of the great hall. Clutching Marisse's hand tightly, Ainslee dragged her friend along.

"I cannae let him kill himself, I cannae..."

The hall was packed and buzzing. Its froideur lost under the weight of bodies, pushing to get to the fore. There was so much shouting, Ainslee could not hear, and it was some time before she got close enough to see.

Then, she did see.

"Ainslee!" Marisse, taking her hand, led her through the crowd, to the side, where there was a gap. There, at the front of the hall was Bruce. He was on the floor.

For a moment or two, he did not move; his face, a strange shade of gray.