Possessed By The Highlander. Terri Brisbin
or Robertson as they preferred to be called.
Standing behind him and at his side were the other three remaining sons of Stout Duncan—Caelan, Padruig and Graem—as well as other clan elders and councillors. With Hamish at his own side and the others behind them, he walked quickly to meet the laird. All conversation stopped as they approached the dais.
“Greetings, my lord,” he began with a deep bow. “I bring regards and a personal message from the MacLerie.” Duncan moved closer and held out the scroll.
The Robertson laird stood and walked down the steps instead of summoning him forward. He took the scroll and tucked it inside his shirt and then held out his arm in greeting. “Welcome to Dunalastair Keep, Duncan.” The laird’s grasp was strong and sure as they clasped arms and shook. “I offer you and your men the hospitality of my home and hearth as we discuss the future of the alliance between the Robertsons and the MacLeries.”
As clapping and cheering exploded throughout the hall at his words, Duncan took a moment to assess the laird. The reports he’d received were very close to the reality of the man. The laird was a tall man, nearly as tall as he, and a young man, too, having followed his father into the high chair of the clan at only five-and-twenty years old. Young, yes, but clearly well-liked and secure in his clan’s backing. Duncan sensed no hesitation or divide among those at the laird’s side and had learned of none in his investigations.
A servant came forward with a mug of ale and offered some to his men as well. The Robertson climbed the steps so that he could be seen by all in the hall and raised a cup of his own. Duncan waited, preparing his own words.
“I welcome you, Duncan MacLerie, and bid you to be at ease in my hall, my keep and my village. You and your men are welcome to move freely among the Robertsons as the talks commence that will surely make us allies and friends.”
Duncan smiled and met Hamish’s gaze. No sign of suspicion there, a good omen then, for Hamish had the instincts of a fox in seeking out any sign of subterfuge or dishonesty. The laird came down the steps, leaned over and spoke close to his ear, so he could hear it above the din.
“Your reputation is quite well-known here. Duncan the Peacemaker you are called for all the times you have averted war and battle between factions, clans, even countries. I am honored by your presence in this matter.”
That was not expected. Duncan nodded his head, accepting the compliment without allowing it to swell his head. He recognized it for the strategy it was. When the cheering quieted, Duncan raised his own mug as did his men.
“On behalf of Connor MacLerie, Earl of Douran and chief of the Clan MacLerie, I thank you for your welcome and the hospitality you offer and promise to use all good counsel so that our clans may be united in the bond of friendship and treaty.” Raising his cup higher, he called out, “A Robertson! A Robertson!” His men joined in and then so did everyone else in the hall, which echoed with the chant for several minutes.
The laird smiled and drank deeply of his cup. Waving Duncan onto the dais, he brought him and the others to the long table. Trays and platters of food, breads, cheeses, fruits and cooked meats filled the table and the laird directed them to stools around it. Once they had gained their seats, servants circled the table and the guests, filling cups, serving food and seeing to their needs.
“Your journey was a good one, Duncan?”
“Aye, my lord,” he replied, tearing off a piece of bread. “The weather held and the winds, when we needed them, were fair and strong.”
“Did you come directly here from Lairig Dubh?”
The question was asked in a convivial tone, but it was a test nonetheless. The Robertsons wanted to know who else he was negotiating with and who their competition was. The truth was the easiest way.
“Nay, my lord. We traveled to both Glasgow and Edinburgh on the earl’s business before heading north to Dunalastair.” Duncan caught Hamish’s eye as he took a mouthful of ale from his cup.
“So you having been traveling since…?”
“Since midsummer’s day, my lord.”
“We are friends, or are soon to be friends. Please call me Iain, as those in the clan do,” the laird offered.
He passed the test, apparently, for the laird nodded to several of his councillors.
“As you wish, Iain,” he replied.
“Let me make you known to my brothers, the sons of Duncan the Stout. This one you have met—” he patted the man next to him on the shoulder “—my youngest brother Caelan.” Duncan nodded as Iain continued, “He has only just recently returned from his fostering with the MacLeans.”
Point taken—an established relationship with the powerful MacLean clan of the isles.
Duncan watched Caelan and realized he was much too young to be husband or lover to the woman he’d met…and he was gone when the child was conceived, if Duncan knew anything about calculations. The little girl was nigh on five which meant she could not be his. Not certain why this was important to him, Duncan turned to the man seated next to him as the laird continued the introductions.
“That is my brother Padruig and his betrothed next to him, Iseabail of the MacKendimens.”
The MacKendimens were a small, but not inconsequential clan near Dalmally, not far from Lairig Dubh. Another connection made and acknowledged. Duncan the Stout would have been proud of Iain’s neat handling of showing their strength without ever raising a weapon. With a nod to both of them, Duncan waited for the last brother to be introduced.
“And that is Graem,” Iain began, with a tilt of his head at the last brother who was seated opposite of Hamish, “who has been invited by the Bishop of Dunkeld to take up studies under his tutelage.”
And that was the final connection—to one of the most powerful and important bishops in Scotland, giving the clan a link to the Church. The sons of Duncan the Stout were well-established and connected to important clans, big and small, throughout Scotland. And the clan was one of the oldest families in the land, tracing their heritage back to the Celtic lords of Atholl. Their heraldry and position had been announced more effectively than calling the roll of ancestors. Duncan admired the efficiency with which Iain had established their position.
Iain may only have been laird for just over two years, but he was firmly in command and knew his mind. From the expressions of the others seated at the table, they were proud of him as well and would back his efforts and decisions.
Duncan recognized a challenge made and he could feel the blood in his veins begin to pulse in anticipation of a good fight. He relished nothing more than a worthy adversary across the negotiating table and now knew that the next few weeks would test his abilities on every front.
“We will begin on the morrow, if that suits you, Duncan?” Iain asked.
“Aye, ‘tis fine.” Duncan was anxious to get into the thick of battle.
“My steward will see to your comfort,” he said. An older man came forward and stood at Iain’s side. “If there is anything you need, Struan will see to it.” Struan bowed and, after asking about their preferences for rooming, left to make the arrangements.
The rest of the meal passed pleasurably, but Duncan discovered he did not even remember what he ate or drank, though the latter was sparsely done. He wanted and needed time to make his final review of the possibilities and their offer before night fell. He could not wait for the thrill of the process. And like a child with a wrapped gift sitting before him, Duncan found that he could not wait for the day to be over and the negotiations to begin.
Duncan would look back, at some time later, and laugh over his misbegotten anticipation and excitement of what was to come. And five days later, in the middle of a heated discussion, and for the first time in all the treaties he’d negotiated, Duncan the Peacemaker lost his temper.
Chapter Three