not seen him anywhere near the village. Her father had sent him off to foster with a cousin near Skye about three years before…before…before everything had happened five years ago. He must have nigh on ten-and-six years now and be almost a man. Iain must have great faith and trust in Caelan to allow him the honor of escorting such a guest into Dunalastair.
Marian reached her cottage and sat down on a stool she kept near the entrance to her garden. Usually a place for her to clean the plants she harvested or the cuttings she culled, she plopped down and tried to calm her racing heart. When Ciara touched her wet cheek and asked why she was sad, Marian realized she’d been crying all the way from the road when she first saw Caelan. Wiping the tears with the back of her hand, she took in a deep breath and let out a ragged one before she even tried to speak.
“I am not sad, my sweet,” she said, pasting on a smile she neither wanted nor felt. “‘Twas simply the excitement of seeing so many horses and men and everyone gathering around.”
“Did you see the big black horse?” Ciara asked. “It was the biggest horse I have ever seen!”
Marian laughed then, for Ciara loved horses. In spite of not having one at her disposal as she had in her father’s house, she’d passed her love of them down to her daughter just by stories and sightings.
“He did seem to be the largest one.” Marian wiped the last of the moisture off her cheeks and smiled then. “I thought brown was your favorite color?”
“I used to like brown,” she answered, her eyes bright with merriment as she talked about something she liked. “But I think black is the prettiest now.”
Marian paused and realized that there had been only one black horse among all of them, and that had been his horse. The MacLerie’s man. Now she knew who he was but still had no name for him.
Ciara began to chatter about horses, and that horse, and Marian took up her shovel and began where she had stopped before they’d gone to watch the soldiers cross the bridge. Digging into the dirt, she lost herself in her work and tried not to think about the man on the black horse and what trouble he could bring to her doorstep.
Duncan lifted the satchel of parchment scrolls, charts and sheets from the back of his horse and searched for a certain one before turning back to follow Caelan into the keep where the laird awaited him. Handing the leather bag to Hamish to carry, they walked inside and up the stone steps to the second floor where the corridor led to a large chamber. Those waiting on their arrival milled around the whole of the room, which was about half the size of the one at Lairig Dubh.
Still, it was clean and tapestries depicting folk tales and myths of their country’s past covered the walls. A huge hearth stood at one side and next to it was a dais with a long table that ran its length. In front of the table, at the top of the steps leading to it, sat a huge wooden chair, engraved and carved with symbols, he knew, from the Robertson clan badge. And in it sat Iain the Bold, son of Stout Duncan and now second chief of the Clan Donnachaidh 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
