“They are the King’s terms.” Sir Walter’s voice was impervious. “Be assured the Camerons and the Mackintoshes will receive the same warning.”
Catriona heard the terrible words through a buzzing in her ears. Her head was beginning to pound, but she wouldn’t show weakness by pressing her hands to her temples. She did flash a glance at her brother. Like every other MacDonald in the hall, he looked ready to whip out his sword and run the King’s man through.
If she weren’t a woman, she’d pull her own steel.
As it was, she suppressed a shudder and chose her words with care. “I missed the reading of your tidings, Sir Walter.” His name tasted like ash on her tongue. “Perhaps you will repeat them for me?
“And”—she tilted her chin—“his reasons for placing us under his vaunted regard?”
“With pleasure, my lady.” Sir Walter took her hand, lowering his head over her knuckles in an air kiss that jellied her knees in an icy, unpleasant way. “The King’s will is that a trial of combat—a fight to the death—should be held in the glen. King Robert proposes within a fortnight.”
He looked into her eyes. “Thirty champions from each of the three clans of the glen must face each other. They shall fight stripped of all but their plaids and armed with swords, dirks, axes. A bow with three arrows per man shall be allowed, and a shield. But no quarter may be given.
“Spectators will attend, and specially dispatched royal guards will assure that no man leaves the field.” His gaze narrowed on her, his mien hardening. “At the trial’s end, the clan with the most champions standing will be the one who wins your glen.”
Catriona went hot and cold. “The Glen of Many Legends already is ours, the MacDonalds’. Robert Bruce granted it to my great-great-grandfather in tribute to our support at Bannockburn. Our men should not have to spill blood for what they fought and won with such honor.”
“She speaks the truth, by God!” Alasdair banged his fist on a table. “Would your King see the good King Robert’s charter undone?”
“King Robert Stewart would see an end to the strife in his realm.” Sir Walter’s voice was clipped. “The unrest and lawlessness in these parts—”
“Lawlessness?” Alasdair’s face darkened. “What do you, a Lowlander, know of—”
“Do you deny the murders of three Mackintoshes this past summer?” Sir Walter examined his fingernails, flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Innocent men killed in cold blood not far from these very walls?”
“They were stealing our cattle!” The redheaded youth next to Catriona stepped forward. “They chose to stand and face us when we caught them. It was a fair fight, no’ murder.”
Sir Walter’s face remained cold. “Clan Mackintosh made a formal complaint to the court. Their chief informed us they were taking cattle to replace revenue tolls they lost because you menaced and threatened wayfarers trying to use the mountain pass above their stronghold.”
“Aye, and what if we did?” Catriona began to shake with fury. “Every time our drovers attempt to use that pass to drive our beasts to the cattle trysts, the Mackintoshes block the way, barring passage to us. Even”—she drew a hot breath—“when we offered them double their toll.”
“They cost us revenue!” The shout came from the back of the hall. A clansman riled by such absurdity. “They’ve been blocking that pass to us for years. We tired of it.”
“The Mackintoshes are troublemakers.” Catriona could scarce speak for anger. “Clan Cameron is worse.”
A shiver ripped through her on the name, her heart pumping furiously as the insolent face of the dread clan’s chief flashed across her mind. Worse than the devil, James Cameron ridiculed her every time their paths crossed. There were few men she reviled more. Though just now she’d almost prefer his bold gaze and taunts to Sir Walter’s superior stare.
Eyes narrowed, she fixed him with her own frostiest air. “Camerons cannot breathe without spewing insults.” She tossed back her hair, knew her face was coloring. “They are an ancient line of Satan-spawned—”
“Ahhh…” Sir Walter spread his hands. “With so many transgressors afoot, you surely see why the King’s intervention is necessary?”
“Necessary a pig’s eye!” someone yelled near the hearth fire.
Catriona agreed.
Though, with Sir Walter harping on the past summer’s squabble with the Mackintoshes, she could imagine that an overblown account of the incident might have reached the King’s royal ear.