Highland Master

by Amanda Scott

  There would be no such need, which was just as well. Wounded or not, Fin knew that he could win a fair fight against any single opponent.

  “This way, sir,” the lass said, gesturing toward the dais. “In Father’s absence, my grandfather uses our inner chamber.” Then, quietly enough to keep anyone else from hearing but with the note of humor that he had heard before, she added, “I warrant he will occupy it after Father comes home, too.”

  “The Mackintosh likes to get his own way, too, does he?” Fin murmured.

  Her twinkling gaze met his. “All men expect to get their own way.”

  “Women do, too, do they not?”

  She shook her head. “Women may hope to do so in some things. But, surely, you know that when heads knock together, men usually win.”

  “Not always?”

  This time, she chuckled. “Nay, as you did see for yourself.”

  He hid a smile of his own but let her have the last word, for now.

  A gillie appeared from an alcove at the end of the dais to Fin’s right and hurried to open the door at the rear of it for them. Catriona stepped into the room beyond with Fin at her heels and the man-at-arms, Aodán, behind him.

  “Sakes, is this an invasion?” a gruff voice demanded, drawing Fin’s gaze from the huge bed in front of him, where he had expected to see the Mackintosh, to a table at the far right of a room that looked to be the same width as the great hall.

  The Mackintosh sat in a two-elbow chair behind a table laden with scrolled documents. And Fin saw at once that the lass had been right.

  Although her grandfather had long since passed what many tactfully called the age mark, from middle to old age, his shoulders and arms still looked muscular enough to wield the huge sword that had made him famous in his youth. The old man’s scowl was piercing, with a strong glint of intelligence behind it.

  Fin realized that he had based his earlier opinion solely on the fact that four years before, Clan Chattan had declared the old age and infirmity of their captain as the reason that his war leader had led them at the clan battle in his stead. No man had questioned the reason, because all there had known that the eighth chief of Clan Mackintosh had already been Captain of Clan Chattan for more than three decades.

  “This is no invasion, my lord,” Catriona said, ignoring her grandfather’s scowl and smiling as they approached his table. “I come at your command, as you ken fine, and beg leave to present our guest to you.” She gestured gracefully toward Fin.

  As he stepped nearer to make his bow, she added, “I found him in the woods beyond the west ridge, injured as you see. When I learned that he was heading for Moigh to speak to you, I brought him here.”

  “How came ye to be injured?” the Mackintosh demanded of Fin.

  “Evidently someone shot me with an arrow, sir,” Fin replied.

  “I found him unconscious with that gash on his forehead,” Catriona said. “Boreas found the arrow in nearby shrubbery with the blood on it still tacky.”

  “Is that the arrow at your waist, lass?”

  “Aye, sir,” she said, pulling it free of her girdle and laying it before him.

  “Had they not found me when they did, sir, I suspect I would be in no case now to accept hospitality from anyone,” Fin said as the old man examined the arrow.

  “Ye suspect someone of murderous intent then, do ye?” He glanced at his granddaughter, and Fin noted silent communication in his expression. He could not observe her response without turning his head, but the Mackintosh added, “I must ask ye to curb your wandering for a time, lass. Things being as they are…”

  Without looking at her, Fin sensed her resistance. But she did not argue.

  The Mackintosh added, “Ye’d better go away now and let me talk with him.”

  “When you are finished with him, sir,” she said, “I will show him to a chamber so that he may rest.”

  “Aodán, ye go along, too,” the Mackintosh said. “I’ll have nae need of ye.”

  Their footsteps—hers light, the man-at-arms’s plodding and heavy—sounded behind Fin as they crossed the floor. Related noises followed as the man opened the door for her and shut it behind them.

  In the silence that fell, the Mackintosh said, “Who are ye, then, that ye call yourself Fin of the Battles? I must say, ye’ve a certain look about ye that I find familiar. But my memory nae longer serves me as well as it once did.”

  Although he had been expecting a demand for his antecedents, Fin realized as he met that fierce gaze that he had no ready answer. He knew that he resembled his famous father, but due to one thing and another, many others in Lochaber also resembled Teàrlach MacGillony.

  At last, he said, “I bear safe conduct from Davy Stewart, Duke of Rothesay and Governor of the Realm, my lord. He would ask a boon of you.”

  “Would he?” the Mackintosh said dryly. “We’ll need whisky then, I trow.”

  Chapter 3

  Catriona would have liked to change her clothing. But when she emerged from the inner chamber, her mother, grandmother, and good-sister were on the dais just outside it. And she knew from the curiosity on all three faces that she would be wearing her old kirtle for a while yet.

  “Who is he, my love, and why does he call himself ‘Fin of the Battles’?” Lady Ealga asked. In much the same breath, Lady Annis snapped, “Where does he hail from, Granddaughter? Who are his parents?”

  Stifling a sigh, Catriona said, “I wish that one of you had asked him, because I ken no more than what I’ve told you. I was walking with Boreas when we found him. In troth, I worried more about the man’s injury than his antecedents.”

  “In faith, Catriona, you should take more care,” her good-sister said sternly.

  “Aye, Morag is right,” Lady Annis said. “One should always ken a man’s roots before approaching him. Sithee, Granddaughter, one day your impetuous nature will land ye deep in the suds.”

  “He is handsome, is he not?” Ealga said. “It would have been hard to leave him lying on the ground without trying to aid him—sadly inconsiderate, too. And whilst I might have been too cowardly to help him, Annis, I believe that you would have done just as our Catriona did.”

  “If I did, it would be because I ken fine that I can defend myself. Can you say as much, Catriona?”

  Lady Ealga said, “You do have your wee dirk, do you not, my love?”

  “I do, aye,” Catriona said, slipping her right hand through the slit—or fitchet—in her skirt, which let her take the weapon from the sheath strapped to her thigh. Seeing her grandmother’s eyes widen, she said, “My brothers taught me to use it, madam, and said to do so only if I feared for my life. I did not need it.”

  Morag shook her head, ever disapproving, and Lady Annis pressed her lips together. Then a twinkle lit the older woman’s pale blue eyes, and she said, “I am not surprised that ye carry a weapon, dear one. And it was both wise and kind of James and Ivor to teach ye to use it properly. However, in my experience, guile and her own claws make better weapons for a woman than aught else.”

  Catriona’s mind offered an instant image of her attempt to slap Fin, and she could think of nothing to reply. Despite her grandmother’s own words, Lady Annis would instantly condemn such rudeness to a guest—and rightly so.

  Tactfully, Ealga said, “Ye’ll want to change that dress afore we sup, my love.”

  “Aye, Mam, but I doubt that our guest will trouble Granddad much longer. I said I would show him to a chamber when they have finished talking.”

  “Ye go and change,” her mother said. “Aodán can put him in that room across the landing from the one I am using at present. Will he stay just the one night?”

  “I had to persuade him to stay at all,” Catriona said. “But that was before I learned that he was seeking the Mackintosh. When I told him that Granddad was here, he agreed to come. But he gave me no more information.”

  “Ye may be sure that I will learn all he can tell us about himself,” her grandmother said. “I wa
nt to know who his parents are and much more, forbye.”

  Determined to witness that confrontation, Catriona excused herself and hurried upstairs, calling for her maidservant as she went.

  At the Mackintosh’s command, Fin took a jug of whisky and two goblets from a niche, poured whisky into each goblet, set one before his host, and left the other where it was. “Shall I put the jug back, my lord?” he asked.

  “Nay, we’ll have need of it. Just pull up yon stool and tell me what the devil Davy Stewart means by disturbing an old man’s peace with his royal affairs.”

  “He prefers to be known as Rothesay, sir, and he spoke not of your age but only of your power. That, he assured me, is vast enough to serve his ends.”

  “Ye’ll no be telling me that he thinks my power exceeds his own.”

  Knowing it would be tactless if truthful to say that Rothesay believed no man’s power exceeded his, Fin said, “As heir to the throne and now Governor, he is well aware of his power, sir. He is also aware that he has powerful enemies.”

  The Mackintosh cocked an eyebrow. “One in particular, I warrant.”

  “Aye, for when Parliament and the King agreed on Rothesay’s coming of age that he should assume the Governorship for three years in the Duke of Albany’s stead, to show that Rothesay can govern, Albany was most displeased.”

  “Ye’re being diplomatic, lad. I heard that he was infuriated. But I’ve nae patience with all these new dukes of ours—like the devilish English. Faugh, I say!”

  “Scotland still has only two dukes,” Fin assured him. “Rothesay and Albany.”

  “Aye, well, Albany was dangerous enough whilst he governed in the King’s stead. To my mind, a man who has no interest in ruling shouldna be King.”

  Fin said, “Rothesay will be a much stronger ruler than his father, sir.”

  “That will not be hard, if Albany lets the lad live that long,” Mackintosh said. “And if his reputed recklessness and profligacy are overstated. Sithee, Davy Stewart is Albany’s own nephew, but Albany is evil. Auld Clootie put the mark of his hoof on him in the cradle. And the older he gets the plainer it becomes that he’ll ever be the devil’s own. Even so, he wields nae power here in the Highlands or in the Isles.”

  “Just so, sir, although he did name his own son Lord of the North.”

  “Aye, sure, when he was Governor. But he kens fine what will happen if that whelp of his ever tries to seize the Lordship from Alex Stewart,” Mackintosh snapped.

  “Alex does hold the Lordship close,” Fin agreed.

  “Aye, he rules from Lochindorb as strongly as ever his own sire did.”

  “I should tell you that Rothesay also sent word to Lochindorb,” Fin said.

  “That castle lies but fifteen miles north of here,” the Mackintosh said. “But if Davy… if Rothesay hopes for his message to reach the Lord of the North, he’s missed his mark. Alex is in the Borders with my own people, aiding the Earl of Douglas.”

  “They will soon return,” Fin said. “Douglas is still the most powerful lord in the Borders. And, thanks to such aid from many powerful nobles, he has routed the English again. My men carried the message to Lochindorb, so I could go on to you at Moigh. But after we parted, whilst seeking a path into the mountains west of here, I walked farther south along the Spey than I’d intended without finding a ford—”

  He broke off when the Mackintosh chuckled.

  “Sakes, lad, we take good care to create no tracks through our mountains east or west,” he said. “If a man does not ken his way, he’ll not find it without help.”

  “One of my men knew the way to Lochindorb,” Fin said. “And I ken the Great Glen fine and can reach it from here just by going west.” To avoid further discussion of his error, he added, “Rothesay also sent a message to the Lord of the Isles.”

  “So he seeks allies amongst his uncle’s enemies, does he?”

  “He does, aye.”

  “What does Davy expect from us… from me, especially?”

  “He wants you to host a meeting for him at Castle Moigh with the Lord of the Isles and the Lord of the North.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To keep Albany’s ambition in check, he said. Beyond that, I cannot tell you. I do not know his exact intent.”

  The Mackintosh said thoughtfully, “His provisional term as Governor ends in January. So I’d wager that he wants to be assured of their votes when Parliament meets to consider whether they will extend it or give it back to Albany.”

  “I would not bet against your wager, sir. But my orders are to deliver his message and send word to him at Perth if you agree to host the meeting.”

  “I see. Then, before I trust your word on this, I would ken more about ye.”

  Having hoped that he had diverted the old man from the business of antecedents and fervently hoping that Mackintosh would not detect his uneasiness now, Fin drew a breath and reached for his goblet.

  “Help yourself to the whisky and ye need to compose your thoughts,” the Mackintosh said amiably. “But, I’d warn ye, lad, do not lie to me.”

  The emphasis in his words forcibly reminded Fin that the Mackintosh held the power of the pit and the gallows. Hanging Davy’s messenger might annoy Davy, but Fin doubted that the old man would spare that a single thought.

  With her maidservant Ailvie’s help, Catriona changed to a more becoming moss-green gown and matching silk slippers. Then, curbing her impatience, she let Ailvie brush her tangled hair and plait it into a smooth coil beneath a white veil.

  Returning to the great hall, she noted her mother’s approving smile and saw that servants in the lower part of the hall were setting up for the evening meal. Food would not appear for another hour, but her grandfather liked his meals on time, so there must be no delay unless unexpected guests arrived or if, by some stroke of fortune, her father and brothers returned in time to sup with them.

  The likelihood of that event was small. When Shaw and his sons entered the Highlands, word would reach Rothiemurchus hours if not days before they did.

  “I’ve not seen that gown afore,” Lady Annis said. “It becomes ye well.”

  “Her gowns all become her,” Ealga said. “Morag’s become her, too.”

  “Thank you, madam,” Catriona said. “I never look as tidy as Morag does, though,” she added, smiling at her good-sister.

  “You never take the pains to do so,” Morag said.

  “ ’Tis youth that becomes them, Ealga,” Lady Annis said. “Catriona,” she added, “your injured gentleman has not emerged yet, so he’ll get nae rest afore we sup. We must hope that the arrow, in striking his head, did not curdle his brains.”

  Catriona chuckled. “If it did, I saw no sign of it. Nor, if he were addled, do I imagine that Granddad would tolerate his presence as long as he has.”

  “Let us adjourn to my sitting room whilst they finish setting up the tables,” Lady Ealga suggested. “I told Aodán to show our guest to his room when he does emerge. He will want to refresh himself before facing us again.”

  “Before facing Grandame, you mean,” Catriona said, tossing that lady a grin.

  “Aye, laugh,” Lady Annis said with a piercing look from under her thin, gray eyebrows. “But know this, impudent one. Ye’ve taken your temperament from me rather than from your gentle mam, so ye’d do well to take a bit o’ my good sense as well. Ye’re impetuous as well as impudent, lassie, and ye can be willful withal.”

  Catriona knew better than to return a saucy reply to that observation, especially since it was true. She said coaxingly instead, “You turned out well, Grandame. And I do have you to show me how to go on.”

  “Ye do, aye, if ye’ll but listen to me. Now, do we go upstairs, or not?”

  Still reluctant to risk declaring himself a member of Clan Cameron, which, truce or none, would likely prejudice his host against him, Fin said, “I will gladly tell you about myself, sir. But I must warn you, I am not at my best and might do better to ascertain first if yo
u have questions about hosting Rothesay’s meeting.”

  “I will stay here until Shaw returns,” the Mackintosh replied. “If Davy Stewart wants his meeting before then, we’ll hold it here. Rothiemurchus was my seat until just a few years ago and is as safe as Moigh would be for such a meeting.”

  “It does seem safe enough,” Fin agreed. “But the lady Catriona did speak of trouble hereabouts… enough to draw you here from the peace and safety of Castle Moigh. Should Rothesay be wary of such trouble?”

  Mackintosh snorted. “Wary of the worthless Comyns? Why should he be? That clan clings to its very existence whilst claiming title to land that has been in Mackintosh hands for a century. They are nobbut a nuisance. One of them has even dared to offer for our Catriona. And some, including my grandson James, do say that we might lay the troubles to rest were her father and I to agree to the match.”

  The notion of the forthright lady Catriona involved in such a marriage seemed preposterous to him, but Fin said only, “Such weddings can sometimes succeed in allying otherwise unfriendly clans.”

  “Aye, sure,” Mackintosh said. “But Rory Comyn is a lackwit too full of himself for his own good or anyone else’s and too quick to seek offense where none is meant. Moreover, the proposed alliance would benefit only Clan Comyn, because they want Castle Raitt added to Catriona’s tocher, which is a thing I will not do.”

  “So Raitt sits on the land that the Comyns claim.”

  “It does, but we drift from the main subject, lad, so tell me more about Davy Stewart. I’ll admit that Scotland has seemed more peaceful since he took on the Governorship.” With a chuckle reminiscent of his granddaughter’s, he added dryly, “I doubt that the King’s life is more peaceful, though.”

  “There have been ructions,” Fin admitted. Knowing that it would be unwise to add that the ructions had occurred most often with men whose pretty wives had caught Rothesay’s eye, he said, “Doubtless that is one reason he seeks allies who will at least give an appearance of supporting him against Albany.”