The Renegade(8)

“Good beast!” the boy on its back cried in Gaelic, clapping his hand on its neck appreciatively. The animal arched its neck and snorted, stamping its feet again as its rider turned to grin at the man who had been waiting for him on the hilltop.

The man dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. “It took you long enough. I thought for a minute there I was going to have to come looking for you.” The liquid, rippling Gaelic rolled off his tongue, its lilt perfectly capturing the raillery implied in the comment.

“I’m here, am I not?”

“Aye, you are. And you did well, that last wee bit. You could have taken the easy way.”

“Why would I do that? You didn’t,” the boy answered. “I saw where you came up.”

“Aye … ” His companion’s voice faded away, and he sat straight-backed, his narrowed eyes moving constantly as he scanned the bleak landscape of the moor that stretched around them on all sides. “But then I’m a man grown. You’re just a wee boy.”

“I am not.” There was just the slightest tinge of protest in the boy’s voice. “I’ll be ten tomorrow. That’s more than halfway to being a man grown.”

The beginnings of a smile flickered at the edges of the other’s mouth. “Right enough, I suppose. But you still have a way to go along that path. Still, you show promise. Faint, mind you, faint, but there none the less.”

“Where are we going, anyway, Uncle Nicol?”

The man turned in his saddle, his smile widening until it made his eyes crinkle. “Well now, I was hoping you could tell me that, seeing that you’re nearly a man and all. Where do you think we’re going?”

The boy sat straighter, his face turning thoughtful. He twisted to one side and then the other, looking back the way he had come and then gazing at the hills of the western horizon. “To the coast, I know,” he said, almost to himself. Then, in a louder, more confident tone, “We left Dalmellington at daybreak and we’ve been riding ever since. That’s more than four hours, so we’ve come nigh on twenty miles, heading west the whole way. Maybole’s to the north, so we must have passed that already and … ” He hesitated. “And we’re heading southwest now, so we can’t be going to Turnberry. We’re going to Girvan.”

“There,” his uncle grunted. “I knew you would tell me. And you’re nearly right. We’re going close to Girvan, to the north of it, to a place I know.”

“What for?” No answer was forthcoming, so the boy persisted. “Uncle Nicol? Why are we going to this place that you know?”

“To meet a man, a friend of mine, though in truth he was a friend of my brother, your grandfather, God rest his soul.” Nicol’s grin had vanished, his face now wearing his normal expression of calm thoughtfulness, and even the tone of his voice changed, as the tenor of his Gaelic words became more reverent. “His name is MacDonald, Angus Mohr MacDonald, and he calls himself the Lord of Islay.”

“Is he old, then?”

“Old enough, I suppose, but don’t ever let him think you think that. He’s far from being a doddering old fool. His lineage stretches back forever and he wields great power in the west, especially since Haakon, the King o’ Norway, quit the Western Isles after the sea fight at Largs thirty years ago and withdrew to Orkney. There have been great changes in the Isles ever since then, with the Scots from the mainland takin’ over more and more from the few Norsemen still there. Old Somerled, who ruled Skye a hundred and more years ago, was Norse, and one of his line married John, chief of Clan Donald, who called himself the first Lord of Islay and was Angus Mohr’s father. And now Angus rules there.” Nicol smiled, his voice changing again. “And as far as I know, he has never met a Bruce in all his life. Nor any other Englishman, for that matter. It will be interesting to see how he reacts to you.”

The boy’s eyes went wide with outrage. “I am no Englishman! I’m a Scot, born and bred right here in Carrick.”

“Aye, but Angus is a Gael, and his folk have been here since before the Romans came. And mayhap you are a Scot, as you claim, but there’s more accident than intent in that. Your mother has the blood, God knows, but your father and all his folk are English by descent, though they will argue that their ancestors were Norman and French, with not a Saxon Englishman among them. To Gaels like myself and Angus Mohr, though, they are all alike. Ill-bred foreigners to a man, stumbling and mumbling in their awkward, illsounding tongues. And those of them who do have the grace to speak the Gaelic have been fortunate to be born here and thereby be gifted with the Tongue.” He scanned the horizon again. “Anyway, as I said, it will be interesting to see how Angus reacts to meeting you. I will introduce you as my kin, of course—my great-nephew, son of my brother Niall’s daughter—but he will see you immediately for what you are. I might name you, for the folly of it, plain Rob MacDuncan, but Angus Mohr will not heed that for a moment when it’s clear to his eyes that you are an incomer, young Robert Bruce of the House of de Brus.”