Margaret Moore - Bride of Lochbarr

Adair and Roban exchanged knowing smirks. “Aye,” Adair said, making no effort to speak softly. “A Scot would have to be all of twelve years old to beat him.”

“For God’s sake, hold yer tongue, Adair,” Lachlann warned. “Did ye not hear what Father said?”

“Aye, I did, and I’ll make no trouble, but that doesnae mean I care if that bastard knows wha’ I think of him or not,” Adair answered. “And it’s not as if the man can understand a word we say anyway.”

“Aye, it’s no secret what Adair thinks of Normans,” Roban repeated. “Unless Sir Nicholas is deaf or a complete gomeral, he’ll already know.”

“You make that sound like a good thing,” Lachlann snapped. “But it’s never good to let your enemy know your thoughts. You’ve got to learn to guard your tongue, Adair. And whatever happens, don’t lose your temper.”

Adair regarded his slender, dark-haired brother with mock indignation, as if such a thing had never happened before. “Who, me, lose my temper with a lying, thieving Norman knight who comes to Scotland and steals our land by stealth?”

“This land was given to him by Alexander and you ought to remember that before you go charging the man with theft.”

“I’m not going to charge him with theft. That’ll be for Father to do.”

Another man spoke from within the group of Scots. “The Norman’s not the only one thinking he deserves to rule the world.”

Adair didn’t have to guess who it was, and he answered without looking over his shoulder. “Not the world, Cormag. Just our clan, as the heir chosen by my father and our clansmen.”

Cormag didn’t reply, and how could he? That was the truth, and the whole clan knew it. Nobody had ever considered Cormag Mac Taran suitable for taking Seamus Mac Taran’s place as chieftain of the clan and thane of Lochbarr, except Cormag himself.

“I’ll try not to curse the man outright,” Adair said to his brother as they trotted up the steps of the massive stone hall. “Will that content you?”

“I suppose it’ll have to,” Lachlann grudgingly conceded as they followed the Norman and their chieftain toward a dais at the end of the hall, past the central hearth. The chamber was full of people, including several foot soldiers, armed and armored.

There were also large, scarred trestle tables leaning against the walls, with benches in front of them, and rushes sprinkled with rosemary and fleabane covering the stone floor, muffling their footsteps and lightly scenting the air. Hounds skulked about, studying the newcomers warily, just as the soldiers at the gate had.

King Alexander must have paid the Norman with more than land for his services, or else the mercenary Sir Nicholas had come from a more wealthy family than they knew.

“The rest of us will have to stand like servants,” Adair noted under his breath when they reached the dais, where two large and ornately carved chairs stood.

“I feel like one wi’out my claimh mor,” Roban said, rolling his brawny shoulders as if seeking the huge sword’s comfortable weight on his back, where he usually carried it.

“If it comes to a fight, you won’t need it. You could probably take half this lot with your bare hands,” Adair replied, eyeing his friend who was six foot tall, and weighed fifteen stone after a day’s fasting.

“With a dirk, you could likely take them all without breaking a sweat,” Roban replied with a chortle.

“’Twas right to leave our claimh mors at the gate, since we come in peace,” Lachlann said under his breath. “Now be quiet, the pair of you. I want to hear what Father and the Norman say to each other without you muttering in my ear.”

“Welcome to my hall, Seamus Mac Taran,” Sir Nicholas said in French as the chieftain took his seat.

Then the Norman overlord barked out an order for wine. A female servant, young and pretty, with light-brown hair and green eyes and a mole on her right breast, nodded and scurried away like a frightened mouse, clearly terrified of her master.

Sir Nicholas was obviously fast with a blow or a kick if a servant didn’t move quickly enough to suit him, Adair thought, his disgust mounting. And perhaps he used his female servants to serve other needs as well.

The loathsome lout. Any man who forced a woman was no man at all, but a foul beast, and deserved to be treated like one.

“What brings you to call at Beauxville today?”

Adair’s lip curled. His father had been a warrior and clan chieftain for thirty years, yet this Norman addressed him as if he were a child. And this place was Dunkeathe, not Beauxville.

“A dozen cattle are missing from the south meadow of our land,” Seamus said.

And you and your men have stolen them, Adair silently added.

“How unfortunate,” the Norman calmly replied. “Outlaws are everywhere these days.”

Including right in front of me.

“Indeed they are,” Seamus agreed just as calmly. “But no Scot would steal from the Mac Tarans. They know if they are hungry, they have but to come to my hall and they’ll be fed. We Scots understand hospitality.”

That honest answer and sly rebuke brought a smile to Adair’s lips. But the Norman, dolt that he was, didn’t comprehend. Or if he did, he felt no proper shame.

“What did yer father say?” Roban asked in a whisper. Adair and Lachlann knew French, their father having insisted they learn it, but the rest of their clansmen did not.

“He told the bastard about Scots’ hospitality,” Adair explained.

“So you don’t suspect your fellow countrymen of this alleged crime?” Sir Nicholas inquired of the chieftain.

Adair’s temper rose even more at the man’s tone, as if Scots should, of course, be the first to be suspected, although it was the Normans who were coming to Scotland and taking everything they could.

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Seamus said with a shrug. Then he smiled in a way that had chilled many an enemy’s bones in days gone by. “But the Scots also know that the Mac Tarans will punish those who steal from them.”

“I’ve heard you people take the law into your own hands,” the Norman replied.

At last Adair saw a spark of anger in his father’s eyes.

“As a thane with a charter from the king, and chieftain of the clan, I have the right to uphold the law.”

“You have a charter?” The Norman sounded surprised. “I thought you Scots didn’t hold with such legal documents, that the clan held the land in community.”

“I hold the charter for the clan, because if I did not, there would be nothing to prevent a foreigner from getting our lands.”

“Your own king gives charters. Is that not his right?”

“Of course it is,” Seamus said, his voice placid once again. “He gave me our charter, as he gave you your reward. I merely point out that I have it, and because I do, I have the right to punish offenders who steal from me and my clan. So I will, when they are caught.”

The servant with the mole on her breast reappeared, carrying a tray bearing two goblets. She offered one first to Sir Nicholas, who frowned and gestured at Seamus.

Her hands, already shaking, could barely hold the tray steady as she turned toward the Scots chieftain. She probably feared a beating for this mistake.

Adair hurried forward and grabbed the tray out of the startled woman’s hands. “It’s a Scots tradition that a guest serve the first drink in his host’s hall,” he lied, trusting to the Norman’s ignorance of local customs as he handed a goblet to Sir Nicholas.

Who was, judging by his unexpectedly shrewd expression after his initial surprise had passed, perhaps not so ignorant of Scots ways as Adair had assumed. Nevertheless, the Norman accepted the goblet without comment. So did Seamus, who regarded his son with a warning eye.