Page 67 of Highlanders for the Holidays
Nay. He treated Afric as he did all his bastards—with very little regard, ordering him about like a common servant. He couldn’t even be bothered to read his own letters—a fact for which Afric would be eternally grateful, because he still had not heard the news…
Everything was going according to plan.
It was simple enough to hide amidst so many faces, old and new. Afric could come and go as he pleased. No one had the first notion who he was, or whence he hailed.
Not even Hugh had yet to spy him. His father was a doddering old fool, far too easily deceived. Whilst he’d run about gathering supplies and men for the journey north, Afric had ridden ahead, under the pretense of racing toward France. Instead, he’d come here, and set the stage to see his mission done. Once he was rid of his competition for Hugh’s lands, and Hugh, as well, then he would go to Lyons-la-Foret and claim his prize.
Smiling, despite the fact that they’d lost nearly everything save the clothes upon their backs—poor dumb Highlanders—the clansmen all ate, drank and made merry, kicking up their heels and singing obnoxiously to the accompaniment of the pipes.
Oblivious.
Obnoxious.
Obligors.
Once they heard the news, all else would pale in the face of it. Music would end in a discordant note. The skies would darken with the dimming of hope. The air would chill with heralding fate…Henry Beuclerc was dead—poisoned some might say.
Upon the king’s death raged the winds of war. Agents had been disbursed at once, like a sickness transmitted unto the lands. All pawns were now in place, and everyone who’d sworn fealty to Henry’s shrewish daughter Matilda would mete their makers one by one—including the man who’d impregnated his mother.
Even this very instant, the King’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, was moving to seize the English throne and David of Scotia—Henry’s ally in the north—would needst fight to hold all he owned. No Davidian supporter would be allowed to assume control in Normandy, and that included the baronetcy of Aldergh. No one was left but Hugh’s estranged daughter who might take his place, and Stephen would never endorse a woman.
On the other hand, were Henry’s daughter to sit her arse upon England’s throne, she’d no doubt sanction Page’s claim. Albeit, if Page were dead, and the baronetcy forfeit after her father’s death, that would weaken Matilda’s claim in Normandy, and most conveniently ’twould leave control of Aldergh… perhaps to someone who’d facilitated its end.
Thinking of all the things he would change once returning to Aldergh, Afric tamped his foot merrily as the bride and groom came dancing near. None of Hugh’s men would even think to question him when he came to seize control, for Hugh was stingy and mean and one good turn with these Highlanders would hardly buy him indulgences.
“Long life to ye,” he shouted at the happy couple, raising a toast to the pair. Little did they realize it was a flout in their faces.
“Thank ye kind sir!” exclaimed the bride. She rushed over to kiss Afric upon the cheek, her breath warm and sweet.
All too easy,he thought to himself. How fortuitous this would be… in one fell swoop he would rid himself of father and daughter both.
“’Tis a bonny pair they make, dinna ye think?”
Careful to hide his accent—for his mother had been a Frankish maid—Afric nodded to the man who’d spoken—the Montgomerie laird, he surmised, for he wore the Lion-head livery beneath his blue tartan cloak. His lovely wife stood at his side, unmistakable in her beauty, her face the inspiration for bard’s tales for leagues around.
Some day, Afric could have a wife like that—bought and paid for with his father’s gold.
Piers de Montgomery stared at him a bit too long and Afric realized he was waiting for him to speak. “Indeed,” replied Afric. “To you and yours, sir.” He raised another toast.
Lyon Montgomery smiled uncomfortably and so did Afric as he took a heaping swig of hisuisge—the only good thing to come out of these Highlands. Although he must be careful not to drink over much, or he’d end up again in a pile of limbs. Moving slowly away from Lyon Montgomerie, he watched and waited for the opportunity to strike…
* * *
Amid laughter and drink, Malcom’s warnings were already forgotten, though he wasn’t so much angry as he was frustrated. He did realize his Da had reason to question his intuition, but he had good cause to feel the way he did…
He had very nearly become a prisoner of a cold war. That he was a free man now was in no small part due to the piggishness of Page’s Da, who’d valued his king over the love he’d born his own flesh and blood.
His father so often said, “If ye’re no’ fighting for the ones you love, who the devil would ye be fighting for, son?”
Even so, not once had Page ever spoken a cross word about her father, despite that Malcom had spent enough time at Aldergh to know how her father had valued her—which was to say, not at all. The oaf had ignored Page, leaving her to sup at the lower tables in the great hall. In fact, he’d sometimes give Malcom a seat at the high table—the son of his enemy—sharing his trencher, whilst his daughter scraped her morsels from the bottom of the pot.
All in all, Hugh FitzSimon had treated his daughter more like the daughter of a servant, leaving her to wander free without aim. Even at the tender age of six, Malcom had felt sorry for Page.
Peering over his shoulder, he watched as his father took her now by the hand, luring her away from the celebration.
A tentative smile returned to his lips, pleased to see them happy, even after all these years. But more to the point, with his father’s attention now on Page, Malcom was free to follow his gut… he didn’t need his father’s men. He could search the woodlands alone.
It might have simply been rotten luck—the direction of the wind and the trail of kindling that had been so conveniently left between huts, but something about the fire raised Malcom’s hackles. Coincidentally—or perhaps not so coincidentally at all—the flames had remained clear of the woodlands. Had the fire but swept the other way, there would have been far more to lose, for it would have burned through the lands of three adjoining clans—the MacLeans, the Brodies and Montgomeries. Yet it left the woods untouched, despite them being so near, and that was rather fortuitous, Malcom thought, although his suspicions were not so much drawn toward the neighboring clans. Nay, for they were at peace now, had been so for more than ten years. It was more the fact that it left a perfect hiding space in full view of their village. Yesterday he’d examined the burn line, and the fire seemed to have halted in a perfectly straight line, as though its boundaries had been set beforehand. This, and something about the quality of the air left Malcom ill at ease. No matter what his Da believed, it had little to do with the company they were keeping—strangers though many might be.
Something was amiss.
With or without his father’s blessings, Malcom intended to discover what it was. At twilight, when the darkening sky descended into the treetops and the fire’s glow swallowed the light of the sun, he slipped into the woods, leaving the sound of music and laughter in his wake. As Glenna had said he must do, he let intuition be his guide…
