Page 139 of Laird of Steel
Damn it. He was too far away. If the earls turned on Adam, Gellir would never be able to get to him in time.
Finally, reaching the end of his decree, Adam lowered the parchment.
Gellir held his breath, praying no one would attack the messenger.
Much heated discussion followed.
The earls wagged their fingers.
The king raised his hands, silencing them.
The advisors consulted with the king.
The earls shook their heads.
The king held up a finger.
The advisors scratched their heads.
The earls rubbed their chins.
The king nodded.
And then, miraculously, the earls began clapping each other on the shoulder and grinning at Malcolm.
Gellir was too astounded to move. Even when the warriors around him realized they’d won—laughing and shouting and dancing in victory—he stood with his jaw agape.
Had Merraid done it? Had a maidservant made peace between the king and a pack of angry earls? How?
All he could imagine was she’d somehow managed to appeal to the young king’s love of chivalry and his religious devotion.
Gellir looked up to see the earls returning. Their faces were wreathed in self-satisfied smiles.
Behind them came Adam in his monk’s robes. Gellir dared not acknowledge his cousin, lest he reveal his guise. So as he passed, Gellir exchanged neither word nor glance, but furtively slipped the satchel into Adam’s hands.
Behind Adam came the king with his entourage of advisors.
It had been a long while since Gellir had seen the young monarch. Though Malcolm was nearly Gellir’s age, with his sweet face and weak stature, he always seemed somehow less a man and more a child.
Still, he was Gellir’s king. As he approached, Gellir lowered his head in reverence.
Malcolm stopped before him. “Is this the man who fought so bravely on our behalf?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Aye, Your Grace,” Fertech said. “’Tis Sir Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch.”
“Grim Gellir!” the king said in delight. “We should have known.”
Gellir, like most Scots, squirmed at his use of the royal “we,” meaning “God and I.” Malcolm had doubtless learned that from the English monarch, who believed in the divine right of kings.
“The greatest warrior in all Scotland they’ve dubbed you,” the king said. “And the very flower of chivalry.” Gellir flushed at the praise. “But where is your companion? The wee one with the curious fighting style?”
Gellir opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t very well tell the king the truth—that he’d bound and gagged her and sent her away in a haycart.
“Here, Your Grace!”
The familiar cry made Gellir whip his head around.
Merraid?
