Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(52)

“Lachlan’s half-brother, the boy Fingal.”

Lachlan froze.

“Fingal?” Angus said, his tone an echo of Lachlan’s own shock. “But that boy can’t be ten or—”

“He’s fifteen,” Callum corrected. “He’s the image of his father, but an idealist, a true believer in man’s basic goodness.”

An image came to Lachlan’s mind of young Fingal clutching a wooden model of a galley that Lachlan had carved for him, complete with oars. Fingal had spent the last years fostered with the MacGilchrists, so Lachlan hadn’t seen him since he’d been sent off at the age of nine. He struggled to imagine that his half-brother had grown so much that much older, more experienced men would bow before him.

“Fingal deferred the offer,” Callum continued, amid the sound of a knife tapping against pewter. “I thought it a wise thing, at the time. His father’s death was fresh, there were murmurings of treachery, and the rumors about Lachlan being lost at sea were just that—rumors. Fingal insisted on delaying the council until Lachlan’s death could be confirmed.”

“And then?”

“Then the raids began. Cattle stolen, huts burned, crofters killed—”

“Callum, Callum,” Angus said, “what made this different from any other day in Loch Fyfe?”

“It does seem like it has always been like this, though that is far from the truth.” Callum sighed. “This time, every sept suffered by these raids. So when the second council convened, the calls for Fingal to be named as The MacEgan intensified.”

Angus cleared his throat. “Why were you not nominated, Callum? You would have crushed the reivers, brought order—”

“—I was put forth as a likely candidate, as was The MacGilchrist, and the usual motley collection of ambitious thanes supported by their men-at-arms. But Fingal had much support from his mother’s allies, as well as others, like myself, determined to honor Fergus’s wishes.”

Lachlan closed his eyes, trying to imagine his pug-nosed half-brother with the flop of hair across his brow sitting on the dolmen stone amid a circle of warriors, wearing a fur mantle and a white rod clutched in his hand. In his mind, Fingal was still a boy dressing up to play king of the mountain.

Then he thought about the support Fingal might be getting from his mother’s people, Stuarts from the mainland. A strong, ambitious clan. Lachlan frowned as his suspicions darkened. When his stepmother had married his father, she’d never taken easily to the fact that The MacEgan already had an heir. His father’s young Stuart bride had shot Lachlan many an acid look, especially after the birth of her son.

He turned his attention back to the conversation, which had become more difficult to hear as the gathered men finished their meals and consumed more mead.

“…have you spoken to the boy,” Angus said, “to advise him?”

“I have not spoken to Fingal except during the council meetings, when it is difficult to be heard above so many others. And, with the roads so dangerous, I couldn’t ride to him between meetings. Bringing a dozen well-armed guards through the gates at Loch Fyfe might be misconstrued to the point of bloodshed.”

“Fergus was right.” Angus said in a voice that rippled with regret. “He made Lachlan his heir to avoid all this bartering for kingship. Why did the boy delay the ruling of the council for the second time?”

“I like to believe that the lad sensed there was mischief afoot. But it’s more likely that he still believed that his brother would come back from the dead.”

“The boy was right.” Angus planted his pewter cup on the wooden table. “I’ve seen Lachlan with my own eyes, living and breathing.”

“And Lachlan knows his assassin?”

“They were hired men. He was stabbed in the dark of night and thrown overboard in a storm.”

“Where is he?”

Lachlan ducked deeper under his cowl as if someone had just brought a torch to hold over him.

“Come, old friend.” Angus made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Lachlan is safer if no one but me knows his whereabouts.”

“Are you not dining in my own castle? Did I not just break my daughter’s betrothal to a Lamont on the strength of your word?”

“Yes, the betrothal,” Angus said, and misgiving swelled in his voice. “Why the Lamonts, Callum?”

Callum went mute for so long that Lachlan turned his head a fraction, just enough to see the older man’s profile from beyond the edge of his hood. He watched the old chieftain raise his tankard to his lips, then, when he settled it on the table, bow over it as if contemplating the dregs.

“It’s complicated.” Callum’s face crumpled in deep thought. “From what I’ve seen of him, Fingal is a good young man, but he’s inexperienced. Whilst enemies still swarm in secret, such a youth cannot hold the center of this clan.”

Angus harrumphed. “Good advisors can compensate for—”

“And who is going to advise him? Me? I can’t get close to the boy. The MacGilchrist? That idiot has a daughter of Fingal’s age, and he has already sought a marriage alliance for his son with the Campbells.”

“As you sought one with the Lamonts.”

“Better the enemy you know,” Callum said, “than the enemy you can’t even see.”