The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(5)

Murdoch, his henchman and captain of his guard, stepped forward, the first of his men to speak. It was not fear that kept the guardsmen silent, but respect for Tor’s judgment. Judgment he rendered alone.

“I’ll find him, ri tuath. Most likely he’ll have gone to Ireland or the Isle of Man.”

Tor had come to much the same conclusion himself. His brother—like the rest of them—had spent a large portion of the past twenty years as a gallowglass mercenary in Ireland. Sending fighting men to Ireland was one of the ways Tor had been able to restore the fortunes of his clan. He and his men knew Ireland almost as well as they knew Skye.

He nodded. “Take as many men as you need.” He gave Murdoch a meaningful look. “My brother had best hope you find him before Nicolson does.”

“And if he objects to returning?” Murdoch asked bluntly.

No one would question him if he authorized deadly force—despite Torquil’s popularity among the men. The chief’s word was law. His mouth fell in a hard line, tempted to do just that. But as always, he kept his thoughts to himself. “Tell him it’s a direct order from his chief.” Something not even his pig-headed brother would refuse.

He wished he’d thought to forbid him. After the trouble caused by their sister Muriel’s abduction, he’d assumed Torquil would know better. But he should have anticipated something when the negotiations fell through, and Nicolson announced a betrothal between his daughter and MacDougall’s son instead.

Hell. MacDougall would have to be recompensed, and knowing the greedy bastard, it was going to cost him.

Tor tossed the balled letter into the fire in the middle of the hall and dismissed the clerk with a curt wave of his hand. Though the churchman looked anxious to scamper away and retreat to the safety of his books and papers, he didn’t move—other than to shift back and forth on his feet anxiously.

The clerk’s temerity had begun to grate. “If you’ve something else to say, say it or return to your duties.”

“Yes, Chief. I’m sorry, Chief.” The clerk retrieved a folded piece of parchment from the pouch he wore tied around his brown woolen robes. “This came only a short while ago.” He handed it over to Tor for his inspection.

Tor examined the wax and took immediate note of the seal with the familiar four men in a birlinn. Angus Og MacDonald, Ri Innse Gall. He lifted a brow, amused. MacDonald was a bold one, using the old title of King of the Isles instead of Lord of Islay. A title with which King Edward just might disagree.

What did the “King of the Isles” want with him?

He broke the seal, scanned the letter, and handed it back to the young churchman. Though he could read some Gaelic, he did not have the proficiency of the clerk. Like most of the West Highland chiefs, he employed men for such tasks.

The clerk began to read. It took him a while to get through the extended greeting—Tormod son of the same, son of Leod, son of Olaf the Black, King of Man, son of Harald Hardrada, King of Norway—but eventually it became clear that MacDonald was sending out a summons to the island chiefs to attend a council at Finlaggan, his stronghold on Islay.

What wasn’t clear was why he’d summoned Tor. He didn’t answer to MacDonald. Skye had never been part of MacDonald’s dominion. Blood every bit as royal as MacDonald’s flowed through Tor’s veins. Not since his uncle Magnus, the last King of Man, had sat upon the throne had the MacLeods bowed to anyone.

Hell, Innse Gall—the Western Isles—had been part of Scotland for only forty years. Technically, he owed fealty to Edward as King of Scotland, but he’d not been called upon to give it. Nor would he.

So why would MacDonald summon him? He suspected it had something to do with the growing unrest in Scotland under King Edward’s ever-tightening grip.

The last thing Tor wanted was to be drawn into the distant squabbles of Scotland’s kings. He’d been very careful to avoid the appearance of taking sides—not just between an English king and a Scottish one but also between the MacDonalds and MacDougalls. In the Western Isles it was the struggle for power between these two branches of Somerled’s descendants that dominated the political seascape.

The clerk stopped and frowned. “There’s an additional note at the bottom written in a different hand. It reads, ‘I have a proposition for you, an opportunity you won’t want to miss.’”

Tor didn’t bite. If MacDonald thought to entice him with vagaries, he’d miscalculated. Whatever proposition Angus Og had for him, it did not interest him. He had more pressing concerns. Nicolson, for one.

He opened his mouth to instruct the clerk to pen a gracious but clear refusal when it struck him: Nicolson would be there.

Unlike the MacLeods, clan Nicolson, with their vast lands in Assynt, had been under the dominion of the King of the Isles. The Nicolson chief would answer the summons to Finlaggan, and that would give Tor an opportunity to attempt to clean up this mess before a costly war. Even if his first instinct was to fight, as chief he owed it to his clan to try to avoid it.

He relaxed back in his chair and eyed his men. “Ready the birlinns for the morrow.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “It seems I have been summoned.”

The clerk gave him a perplexed look, but the guardsmen chuckled, understanding the jest. If they were journeying to Finlaggan, his men knew it wasn’t because he’d been summoned.