Another silence followed. Rob heard it clearly, as if in a waking dream. Sharp-edged yet less profound than the one before, it was disturbed by the shuffling of rapidly moving feet. All the men were moving quickly now, splitting into two groups and baring weapons, readying themselves to die if need be, crouching and sidling, searching for weaknesses among the others facing them. He heard his uncle shout in protest and felt himself pushed strongly back as Nicol stepped past him.
But the voice that stopped all movement was not Nicol MacDuncan’s. It was a roar of outrage, voiced by Angus Mohr MacDonald himself as the newly named Lord of the Isles strode into the gap between the opposing groups. He was closely followed by another Gaelic chief—defined as such by his dress and bearing— whom Rob had never seen.
Weaponless, MacDonald held his arms high, the look of fury on his face defying any to ignore him or challenge him, and the unexpected sight of him, appearing at that spot and in that moment, froze every man there. He was dressed splendidly, as he had been earlier that day when meeting with the King of Scots, in a bright, belted tunic of buff-coloured leather over a high-necked bright green shirt, with leather boots and leggings dyed to match. He looked every bit the Lord of the Isles, and no man there would meet his eye as he stood, arms raised, glaring around at the carnage.
“What started this?” His voice emerged now as a deep, angry growl, and no one answered it. He looked directly at one of the men in the forefront. “You, Donuil Dhu. What happened here?”
The man addressed, Black Donald in the English tongue, shifted from foot to foot, gripping his bared dirk, his eyes cast down before his leader. He muttered something to the ground.
Angus Mohr’s next words cracked like a thunderclap. “Look at me, man, and use the voice God gave you!”
Donuil Dhu drew himself erect and looked at his chief. “They had words,” he said. “Fergus and the Macdougall … Ill words.”
“Ill words … Ill words, you say?” The MacDonald scanned the crowd, and even from where he stood watching, Rob saw the fury in him, marked the bitter scorn that changed his voice. “Four dead men, over ill words?”
What he said brought frowns of perplexity to every face in the crowd, for all of them could see that the dead men numbered only three.
The thoughts of young Rob Bruce, though, had abruptly snatched his attention elsewhere. They had words … Fergus and the Macdougall. Suddenly Rob understood the bloodied corpses on the ground to be a mere consequence of who and what these people were. The MacDonalds of Islay and the Macdougalls of Argyll and Lorn were ancient enemies, goaded by mutual hatred bred and fed through generations of fear and well-deserved distrust. He had always known that; he had heard it spoken of throughout his life. The Macdougall lands lay to the north, largely on the western mainland bordering the MacDonald holdings in the Isles, and their people were a folk who, for a hundred years and more, had defended their long sea lochs against incursion and usurpation by MacDonald Islesmen. He knew that this spilling of blood was far from being the first such, but he nevertheless saw it as oddly inappropriate—the notion of irony lay years in the future for the boy—that this eruption should occur here in the neutrality of his mother’s Turnberry, and on such an occasion.
He sensed movement by his side and saw that Angus Og had moved closer, standing right beside him.
“Are you going to be sick?” Angus asked in a whisper, sounding both concerned for Rob and awestruck by what they had seen.
“No,” Rob answered, somewhat surprised that this was true. “Are you?” he whispered.
“No.”
“Who’s the chief with your da?”
“I’m not sure, but I think he’s the Macdougall.”
Of course he is, Rob thought. Alexander Macdougall was the King’s sheriff of Argyll and Lorn. And a strong Macdougall contingent had arrived with King Alexander’s party, that he knew. Since then, Macdougall’s followers and those of Angus Mohr had avoided each other. But it was clear to Rob now that the two rival chiefs must have been conversing close by when this fight broke out, and in apparent amity, since neither one was armed. And that explained how the rival parties had ended up together—each group was nearby as escort to its chief.
Angus Mohr’s voice suddenly rose again. “Hear me, all of you!” They were all watching him, not a man stirring, and he waved towards the bodies at his feet. “This is the worst kind of madness.”
Someone at the rear of the crowd dared to speak, muttering what sounded to Rob like an imprecation.
Angus Mohr stiffened, and his eyes sought among the crowd for the speaker. “Say that again.” His tone was reasonable enough, but Rob sensed pent-up anger lying beneath it. “Come, then. Speak up.”