known as the King’s House. A neatly dressed man in black robes stood before the door, flanked by two more guards in the royal colours. Beside him, a scribe sat at a table covered with rolls of parchment and an inkwell.
Ewan dismounted and passed the reins to Jamie. He moved to offer his arm to Angus and received a contemptuous eye roll.
‘I don’t know what sort of weaklings they have in Glasgow, but I’m no’ in ma grave yet, laddie. I can use ma legs.’
Ewan took a measured breath, reminding himself that though white haired, Angus was a man of fifty-eight who had fought and survived the massacre at Flodden, not in his dotage. His offer had been an attempt at courtesy, not to insult. He ignored the jibe against the city where he had been living for the past five years. They might walk streets rather than glens and hill paths, but there were men mad-eyed and bottle-brave enough in Glasgow to meet Angus on the battlefield.
Angus clambered down unaided. He adjusted the folds of his brat across his shoulders, and pushed back the sleeves of the yellow linen leine he wore beneath the heavy length of cloth. Ewan rearranged his own cumbersome length of plaid and straightened the more formal doublet he wore beneath. Satisfied that he was presentable enough for any royal court, he walked to the doorway and made a deep bow to the standing figure. The man inclined his head slightly in return.
‘State your name.’ The man at the table dipped his quill tip into ink. He waited, hand poised over the parchment for Ewan’s answer.
‘Ewan Lochmore of Clan Lochmore.’
The secretary wrote his name on what Ewan could see was a growing list.
‘Your business?’ asked the robed figure.
He sounded uninterested in the reason Ewan was there. His face was unfamiliar, but he was a man of some importance given the rich nap on his black robes and the jewels that bedecked his hat. He might be anyone, from a minor secretary, or an advisor to the Chamberlain of Scotland himself. He knew already why most of the grim-faced men were attending the hastily convened Special Council. The question was simply a formality.
Once Ewan said the words out loud it would be admitting to the nightmare he wished he could wake from, but with the light fading and many behind him waiting to be admitted, he could not permit himself the indulgence of delaying any longer. Ewan lifted his chin and gave the man a firm look.
‘My father Hamish Lochmore is dead and I am here to claim my title. I am the new Earl of Glenarris.’
The secretary scribbled this information, too, without raising his eyes.
‘And your servants?’
Ewan named them, managing to avoid Angus’s eye as he was described as such, and their names, too, were added to the document.
‘Stable your horse and stow your cart in the yard to the rear of the Great Hall,’ said the black-robed man. ‘You will be escorted to your accommodation. The castle is extremely full. Many of the Parliament arrived yesterday and have been meeting continuously.’
‘I have matters I wish to put before the Parliament,’ Ewan said. ‘Many men from my clan fought at Flodden alongside my father. There are tenants who lost their husbands and fathers fighting. I seek alms for them as King James promised.’
The man’s expression softened slightly. ‘That matter will be dealt and compensation will be given. The council has not yet decided the amount it can afford to spare, but rest assured, your people will be provided for.’
Ewan tried not to bristle at talk of ‘sparing’ money to support the families of those who now had no other means to support themselves. He followed the directions he had been given, promising himself he would not leave without an assurance, if not the money itself.
The rear courtyard was bustling and finding a convenient space for the cart took some time. Most of their property would have to remain on the cart. The small chest containing Ewan’s books of law, papers and other valuables was padlocked and chained to rings set into to the floor of the cart and Ewan had no fear it would be stolen or broken into. There were grander and more tempting vehicles surrounding their modest cart. He ran his hand over the top of the studded chest and another pang of misery welled up inside him. His days of studying law at the University of Glasgow were finished. When Angus had arrived bearing the news, he had left his rooms the same day, knowing he would not return.
Ewan’s eye settled on his father’s targe that was propped up at the back. The great shield had been no protection against a pike through his back. A feeling of grief overpowered Ewan. Regretting the loss of his future career seemed petty compared to the loss of his father and brother.
The three men rearranged a few rolls of cloth, boxes of dry goods and two barrels of wine, then pulled heavy sackcloth over the most vulnerable pieces of Hamish’s armour and sword. The whole cart was covered with a large piece of heavy sackcloth secured at the edges with rope. Satisfied with their work, the three men returned to the entrance and were escorted to a chamber on the second floor of the King’s House. The room was small and cramped, with two truckle beds squeezed side by side at the end of the larger bed meant for Ewan. There was barely room for the roll of clothes that Jamie carried.
‘It’s an insult to you, to be placed so high and distant from the Great Hall,’ Angus muttered, prodding his pallet with a foot while Jamie set to laying out their fresh linens.
Ewan grinned at his companion’s outrage. When they had been younger men Angus and Hamish would spend days away from Lochmore Castle sleeping in bracken under the skies. Ewan and his older brother had gone with them on many occasion, learning to hunt and snare. He sighed, remembering the good times. Not wanting Angus to see the emotion he was sure his face gave away he straightened the coverlet on his bed and realised how tired he felt deep in his bones. The mattresses were filled with sweet-smelling barley straw and looked comfier than anything he had slept on while travelling and the sheets were clean and tempting. He could gladly tumble back and pull the curtains around himself, blotting out the world.
‘I don’t mind this room,’ he said. ‘If we were the only guests I might see it as a slight, but you saw for yourself how many others are here.’
‘You should mind, laddie. It’s an earl you are now and you should remember you’re accorded respect. You should demand it!’
Ewan hid the unexpected grin that he felt forming. He was truly fond of the older man, even if Angus lived in a past where ready fists and a forehead could settle a score easier than negotiations. Fortunately Hamish had been more longsighted in his vision for his second son and, when he saw Ewan’s inclination was not for patrolling the borders between Lochmore and McCrieff lands, he had encouraged Ewan to take a place at the University in Glasgow.
‘The first Lochmore to be educated beyond reading and numbers!’ he would roar proudly, daring anyone to pour scorn on Ewan’s accomplishments.
‘Do you not think that respect is gained quicker if you don’t bluster and demand and shout?’ Ewan asked.
Angus looked at him as though the concept of not shouting was beyond him. ‘Aye, possibly here. But you’ll need to command the clan and the men will be wanting more than fancy words and polite bowing.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘You’ll need to be able to fight. Can you do that?’
This was the fear that had kept Ewan awake as much as his grief. Hamish might have valued his learning, but that mattered little to men who prized swords over
