Page 11 of The Speed of Lightning
The king raised a trembling hand. “Please, all of you—take a seat.”
Hector accepted a steaming cup of milk from a maid. “My King, I trust my dispatch reached you?”
John was seized by a rattling cough before answering. “It has—only yesterday.” He gestured toward a guard standing in the shadows of the drapery, his tartan plaid of bright red, green, and blue blending with the heavy wool hangings.
“You know the head of my guard, Commander Rory MacDonald?”
At the name—and the sight of his auld adversary—Calum felt his spine stiffen.
“Yes,” Hector said evenly. “I remember Rory from his fostering with Lachlan. What was that—eight, nine years ago?”
Calum’s jaw set.Ten.
Rory’s thin black mustache curled into a grin, his slickness only deepening. “We were all inexperienced striplings then, weren’t we? Iain, Murdoch…and young Calum.”
Murdoch gave a slow nod. “Aye. I was nineteen. Calum only sixteen.”
Rory made a derisive snort. “Sixteen—indecent and stripped naked to his braies, marked and bloody like a Pictish savage. Head half-shaved and twisted with an animal bone. A Juran mongrel.”
Heat surged up Calum’s chest, the warhound straining angrily against the barest of tethers. But he stayed seated, hands gripping the arms of his chair, outwardly calm, tame and under control.
Léo leaned forward, throwing Calum an uneasy glance. “You were positioned off the coast of Galloway last we heard.”
Rory’s smile spread. “It is because of my time in Galloway that I stand here today.”
King John scanned the room, his head sinking back against the pillows. “Aye. We’ll come to that. But first—tell me, is the Wolf still contained on the Isle of Man?”
The team answered in unison. “Aye.”
Hector took a measured sip from his cup, expression stony. “What about a meeting of the war council? Can we call a vote to form a battle plan? With the full strength of our armies we could drive the Stewarts back to Scone. The time is now to endthe war, while he’s pinned on Man. Already, several clans have withdrawn their guardsmen, believing the war as good as won.”
Dómhnall gave a sharp snort. “That is because there is no threat—not from Stewart. He’s lost all taste for island land. Have you spared any thought of how Scotland will respond if you murder the king’s son while he remains at peace?”
Hector seemed to swell before their eyes, looming like some dark loch-monster. “There is no threat, Dómhnall, because my team has spent twelve long months running missions on and around Man. We cannae hold him off forever. Every attempt he’s made to leave Peel Castle, we’ve thwarted. Every supply line, cut by the MacLeod blockade. Your Grace, you know as well as I do—the time to end this is now. We must act.”
The king closed his eyes and reclined into his cushions. For several minutes Calum wondered if he had drifted to sleep. Then John’s lids lifted, and his gaze sharpened with thought. “If we do not proceed with caution, matters with Scotland may unravel. I know this frustrates you, Hector, but I believe a brief stay in any attack—to renegotiate first—would be prudent.”
Hector’s jaw hardened. “But Your Grace?—”
The king held up a quieting hand. “John Mór has devised a plan that may circumvent any repercussions from an inevitable attack.”
John Mór inclined his head. “Appeal to King Robert directly. We’ve not tried in three years.”
David bristled. “Robert’s attention has been fixed on England since their invasion last year. He cares nothing for what his son does in the Isles.”
John Mór did not flinch. “His brothers care. They do not wish to inherit the ruin Stewart has sown in the Isles and Highlands when Robert passes. If we press hard in the Scottish court while the Wolf is contained, it may be the swiftest way to end this war—with little bloodshed.”
A violent tremor passed through King John as he strained to remain alert, his breathing shallow and unsteady. “I will send him as my emissary to Scone—this very night.”
Léo’s eyes flicked between Hector and John Mór. “And how long will that take? Will you reach him before…”
John Mór rubbed a hand over his bald head, considering. “Perhaps two months—to allow for the journey and time to make inroads with the Stewarts and the privy council.”
The king turned to Hector, one brow arched. “Can you hold the Wolf on Man for two months?”
Hector released an agitated sigh. “Aye.”
“Then I shall endeavor to live.”
