The Renegade(30)
“Aye, lord, we did.”
“And have you readied torches against the dark?”
“We have.”
“Stir up the flames, then, and bring us some light, for soon we won’t be able to see a thing out here.”
As the guardsman hurried away to fetch the torches, Angus Mohr turned back towards the Macdougall chief, but stopped, catching sight of Nicol MacDuncan, who was still standing close by him, not having moved since the moment Angus Mohr arrived to stop the fighting. “Nicol,” he said. “How long have you been here? Come and join us. We may have need of an impartial witness.”
Rob felt a swelling of relief, for he had been worried that at this point—a natural end to one thing and the start of another—Nicol might remember that he and Angus Og were there and hustle them away to bed. Now, watching his uncle clasp his hands at his back and lean forward to listen to the two chiefs speaking quietly between themselves, he tugged at Angus Og’s sleeve, and they moved back quietly to disappear around the small grove of stunted hawthorn trees at the base of the hill, where Rob found a place for them to sit beneath the low-sweeping branches. No grown man would follow them in there, he knew. They would be safe enough, and still close enough to hear what Angus Mohr would say.
“Your da’s a brave man,” Rob said.
The other boy looked at him. “I know,” he said.
“D’you think he knew you were watching?”
Even in the dark beneath the trees there was sufficient light for Rob to see the small grin that twisted his friend’s mouth. “He scarce knows I’m alive. My da has too many grand affairs to tend to, to take notice of an ungrown, unimportant son. Don’t fret about my da seeing me. Look to your own father.”
While the boys were whispering, Donuil Dhu had returned with others, bearing lit torches that were quickly distributed. Now Angus Mohr MacDonald stepped among them again, taking his place this time within the half circle of flickering brands, his back to the boys. The others’ talk died away. Nicol MacDuncan, Rob noted, was no longer with them.
“Alexander Macdougall has asked me to tell you what he and I have spoken about today,” Angus Mohr began. “And I will. But first I must speak to you about yourselves.” He waited, hearing the curiosity in their silence. “You were hand-picked for this,” he continued. “Every man of you. By the two of us, Alexander of Argyll and Angus of Islay. That means we trusted you, above your fellows, to look to our safety while we talked.” He was speaking more quietly this time, so Rob had some difficulty hearing him, but he could clearly see what none of the others could see: the tendon-taut clenching and unclenching of the big man’s fists behind his back, concealed from everyone as he fought to control … What? Rob wondered. Anger?
“You were all with us this day when we met with the Scots King. You witnessed what we undertook, even if you did not understand all the words of it. I took up a new responsibility this day, to work with Alexander Macdougall who is sheriff of Argyll and Lorn, and I undertook it willingly, with an eye to your well-being and your families’. Between the two of us we swore to see to the peaceful governance of our lands in the west and northwest, Islay and Bute, Kintyre and Mull, Skye and Barra, Argyll and Lorn.” Rob could sense him looking each man in the eye, one after another. “On this day I, Angus MacDonald of Islay, was named Lord of the Isles by the King of Scots.” He took a step forward, closer to his clansmen. “I accepted the rank for the same reasons the Macdougall accepted his—honouring and being honoured by the King of Scots, who rules his people from Dunfermline. And I took up the responsibilities that accompany that title.”
Still the fingers flexed and clenched at his back. Macdougall of Argyll stood motionless beside him.
“Do any of you know what those responsibilities are? Or do you think, perhaps, that titles like Lord of the Isles and Sheriff of Argyll and Lorn come without any duties? Do you think me free of all obligation, now that I have a fine new title, or Alexander of Argyll? If you do, you are bigger fools than this day’s slaughter would make you appear.
“Your task here was to guard our privacy while we talked—not to fight among yourselves like diseased wildcats in some Highland cave.” Those hands at his back still flexing, kneading. “We had much to talk about, the Macdougall and I—still have—and little of it, you must know, for your ears and tongues to ken of. But we were speaking of an end to the warfare that has plagued our people for countless years. An end to hatred and needless, wasteful killing like this killing here. You wonder that I was angry when I saw it? Thank God instead that I was here to stop it before all of you lay bleeding.” He looked around at all of them, the Macdougalls as well as his own, and bellowed, “This folly, this madness, ends now! This minute! There will be no more of it, on pain of death. From this time forth, any fighting between the sons of Donald and of Dougall—any fighting—will bring death to the men involved. Do you hear that? Is it clear to you?”