Chapter Twenty-Seven #3
The words died, as well as his breath, as they stepped out onto the front steps, and then went out farther onto the grass, as the number of English soldiers coming from behind them pushed them out.
The door shut, loudly, and there was a sound of a bolt being drawn.
Langston stood on the steps, folded his arms, and waited while both the captain and the duke, and those men who were sober enough to be with them, took in the sea of Highlanders facing them, and filling the castle grounds in perfect rows and with perfect precision.
Each division had a banner held high that had a golden lion passant at the center of green, while the only difference was the color or design of the ribbon clasped in its claws.
On perfect signal, and in perfect unison, the pipers, standing two hundred deep, started the skirl of their pipes, while the drums all about the edge of the courtyard started in, thumping a beat that felt like it went across the turf and climbed into every man’s back.
“I don’t understand, Monteith. These are Highlanders…and they play the pipes, and they’re armed, and they’re in kilts! Captain?”
The duke’s voice was gaining in volume, and then there was a general sound of noise and confusion coming from the sides of his courtyard as English soldiers appeared, all carrying muskets and all looking like they’d just as soon bed down and sleep it off.
Langston nodded, and a thunder of noise started filling the enclosure until it echoed off the walls and reverberated into the sky. One by one every crenellation in every bit of every wall filled with the round barrel of cannon and they were all pointed directly down at the courtyard before them.
“Monteith!”
Langston nodded again, and there was a sound of windows being opened. He didn’t have to look up to see how every window in every portion of his home was filling with a musket or a crossbow, and they were also pointing at each and every Englishman in the enclosure.
“You have an explanation of this?”
Cumberland was trying to ask it over the drums and the pipes and Langston lifted his arm for a silence that, when it fell, seemed to make the very sounds of their sweat breaking out on their bodies audible.
“Of course I have an explanation,” he said slowly and distinctly. “I am a Highlander, born and bred. Forever.”
“You are a bloody, conniving, barbaric bastard!”
That was Captain Barton, and he was spitting between the words, with anger that was turning him red.
“True,” Langston replied loudly. “Now, what are you going to do about it? The answer has to be, not much. In point of fact, I’d ask you to lay down your weapon, but you’re na’ even wearing one, so it would be a moot request.”
“What do you want?” The duke asked it, perfectly sober-sounding and lethal. He was cunning. He’d just kept it well hidden.
“To negotiate, of course.”
“Speak up.”
“Not with you. You’re but a pawn. I want to speak with your father.”
“The king doesn’t speak with rabble.”
“Oh…I think he will. You see, I have something of his. I think he’ll want it back. Especially if I sweeten the pot and keep it quiet.”
“You’re holding me for ransom?”
“Na’ exactly. I’m holding you for peace. I’m even paying the ransom to get rid of you.”
“What?”
“I’ve got something King George will want back. He’s got something that I want back.”
“What is that?”
Langston sighed heavily. “I have prepared my dower house for you and Captain Barton, and even the Highland Rangers to use. You’re to be my guests, enjoying my hospitality. There will be meals served, ales, wines; you’ll want for nothing, and there will be nothing spared for your comfort.”
“How long are we going to be your…guests?”
“That will depend on how amenable your father is. I imagine he’s hearing about this just about now, and I daresay he’ll want this little episode closed rather quickly, because otherwise he has to face the embarrassment of how easily it was to kidnap his favored son in a country he thought subdued.”
“He knows already?”
“I sent my emissary a sennight past. I doona’ wish to be your host for an overlong period. I’d prefer it to be brief.”
“What do you want?”
“I already told you. I doona’ negotiate with pawns. Only kings.”
“I’ll not stand by and allow you to—!”
Langston swiveled to glare at the captain.
“Barton, please. I already had to weigh heavily on if it was worth keeping your sorry neck unsliced for the duration of the negotiations. I doona’ think you are worth much.
But then, I had a thought. There might actually be someone out there that thinks you have some worth.
Every man has to have a mother, at least. Do you think she’ll pay much for your return? ”
“You miserable, low bastard!”
There was a sword to the captain’s throat before he finished, and it was Angus MacHugh holding it. Langston watched as the old warrior looked the man up and down and then turned toward him.
“You want me to slice him for you, my laird?” he asked.
“Nae. Na’ yet.”
“Langston.” Captain Barton had a bit of trouble talking with a blade against his throat. It sounded in the way the word choked out.
“Aye?” Langston replied.
“What…do you want?”
“From you?”
Barton nodded, although it scraped his skin against the blade, starting a small trickle of blood he probably couldn’t even feel.
“Saladin.”
Langston turned and went back into the house, and waited until the sound of the large, heavy doors were shutting before he was running up the stairs like life and joy depended on it.