Page 3 of Laird of Flint
“Considering?”
“I’m sure you know about the king’s…friendliness…with Henry.”
Hew grunted. Scotland’s King Malcolm had become far too genial of late with Scotland’s foe, the English King Henry. Malcolm had taken Scottish soldiers to Toulouse, forcing them to fight alongside their sworn enemy, England, and against their old ally, France.
Most of the clans were deeply unhappy with the situation. It strained their loyalty and made them doubt the king’s wisdom.
The Rivenloch clan had been fortunate. Since soldiers were always needed to defend the Scottish border, they hadn’t been called upon to join the battle in Toulouse. Yet.
“Deirdre’s not planning to send soldiers to France?” It would be a particular insult to clans like Rivenloch—clans that had held the border against the invading English for centuries—to be suddenly forced to join their ranks.
“On the contrary.” She lowered her voice. “She’s looking to protect the clan from Malcolm’s…childish ideas.”
Childish. That was accurate. The king was barely a man. He was two years younger than
Hew. Malcolm had been but twelve years of age when he assumed the throne.
Hew shook his head. He’d heard the rumors about Malcolm’s latest childishly romantic notion. “You mean the one where he wishes to be knighted by the English king.”
“Vanity is a poor excuse for destroying an ancient alliance.”
Hew agreed. “So if Laird Deirdre is not sending Rivenloch men to war…”
“She fears Malcolm may try to forge an alliance with the English another way.”
“How?”
“Through marriage.”
“The king might marry an Englishwoman?” The idea soured his stomach.
“Not the king. He’s not quitethatfoolish. All his lairds would revolt.”
Hew hoped so. Scotland had fought hard for its sovereignty. For Malcolm to reverse the gains of his forefathers was like a gauntlet blow to the face of Scotland.
“Who then?” he asked.
She didn’t have to answer him. Her smoldering green eyes said everything.
“His most loyal vassals,” he guessed. Then his already cracked heart plunged to the bottom of his belly. “Not me?”
“Not yet. But Rivenloch will doubtless be foremost in his sights. Deirdre is already planning to send your cousin away.”
“Gellir?”
She nodded. “’Tis the curse of all his fame and fortune on the tournament circuit. Gellir’s winning all his battles. Earning prizes. Gaining glory. He might as well carry a banner that says ‘Most Eligible Knight.’ If the king does indeed begin to marry off his vassals, Gellir will be the first one to catch his eye.”
That was likely. Gellir was not only an illustrious tournament champion. He was the first son of one of the most powerful lairds in Scotland. And he was of marriageable age.
But Hew was the same age as Gellir. How long would it be before the king sought an English bride forhim?He shuddered at the thought.
“Where will Gellir go?” he asked.
“To Darragh, I think. ’Tis remote enough that your cousin Feiyan can keep him out from under the king’s nose.”
“So what’s this to do with me?”
“I think we’d be wise to follow Deirdre’s counsel. Sooner rather than later.”
