Chapter Two
Laird Malcom Fergusson’s head pounded, and his heart raced. He paced in front of the hearth in his chamber, glancing every few seconds at the door through which his steward should arrive at any moment.
“Where is he?” Malcom growled aloud.
An instant later, Thane threw open the door, his chest heaving, sweat beading down the silver hair at his temples. His round face, boyish despite his forty years, was crimson, his cheeks puffing as he fought to catch his breath. “My...my laird, Captain William has just arrived.”
“What has he to report?”
“Laird Stewart continues his advance.”
“Blast,” Malcom cursed, clenching his fists. “And Baron Wharncliffe?”
Thane shook his head grimly. “He still leads the march.”
Malcom raked his hand through his hair. “How much time do we have?”
“William witnessed the enemy crest Toonan Hill before he raced back to the keep to warn us of their proximity.”
Malcom closed his eyes against the news and turned away, not wanting his clansman to see his despair. Taking a deep breath, he turned back, locking eyes once more with his most trusted adviser. “We have one hour before they reach our gates, maybe less.”
“There’s more,” Thane blurted.
Malcom took a deep breath, bracing himself for further ill tidings.
“William also reported that Baron Wharncliffe’s cavalry is fully armored.”
“But why?” Malcom exclaimed, unable to contain his fury. “What have we done to incur his wrath?”
“I’m not certain, my laird, but ye did refuse Laird Stewart’s offer to betroth Josselyn to his eldest son.”
Malcom shook his head. “I cannot believe the Stewart marches on Toonan Castle now for something that happened more than a year ago. And what concern is the alliance of two lowland clans to an English lord?”
“I do not ken, my laird.”
Malcom renewed his pacing. “We are a humble clan, brought lower still by our poor harvest this season. Baron Wharncliffe can have no reason to march against us. Unless...” He stopped in his tracks, his heart suddenly racing.
Turning his back on Thane, he pressed his fist to his lips.
“Could it be?” he muttered under his breath.
“I did not hear ye, my laird.”
“’Tis nothing,” Malcom snapped, again turning to face his steward. “There must be something we’ve missed.”
Thane’s cheeks puffed out before he released his breath in a long stream. At length he said, “Laird Stewart has rejected the Bruce, aligning himself with King Edward. The English have made gains throughout our region. Mayhap yer continued loyalty to the Scottish king draws them to Toonan.”
Malcom shook his head. “Then why did Wharncliffe’s men pass through Ross territory on their way to Stewart castle without incident? Ross is still loyal to the Bruce.”
Thane ran his hand through his thinning hair. “I know not why they march on Toonan, my laird.”
Malcom’s nostrils flared. He pressed his lips into a grim line. “Damnation,” he whispered, turning back to gaze into the hearth at the hungry flames. Again, he searched his mind for answers, struggling to find another explanation, anything but what he feared most.
“We have but one certitude. Neither Laird Stewart nor Baron Wharncliffe are after our coffers.”
“Certainly, the West Lowlands boast far wealthier clans than ours,” Thane agreed.
“Not that we’re destitute,” Malcom said, quick to defend his own. “None among our number have ever gone hungry. My people are content, this I do not doubt.”
“They are, indeed, my laird. If not our coffers, then mayhap the temptation is our fine borders?” Thane suggested.
Malcom drummed his fingers on the mantle while he considered this.
Fergusson territory abutted Stewart territory to the east, but to the west, Fergusson land stretched clear to the coast. Certainly, Lorne, the self-serving leader of Clan Stewart, would not turn his nose up at expanding his territory, but Malcom shook his head.
“If Lorne acted alone, then ye might be right, but Fergusson territory could never tempt a lord as powerful as Baron Wharncliffe.”
Malcom could deny the truth no longer.
He turned and locked eyes with Thane. “There is only one reason an army led by one of King Edward’s most trusted advisers marches this way.”
“What are ye suggesting, my laird?”
Malcom gripped the mantle, his knuckles whitening under the strain. “I’ve been betrayed,” he hissed before pushing away from the hearth and storming from his chamber.
Torch fire blurred into orange streaks as Malcom barreled through the corridor to his solar. Throwing open the door with Thane following just behind, he crossed to the table laden with maps, missives, and accounting records and sat down, scrubbing a hand over his face.
Looking bewildered, Thane moved to stand in front of him, his arms hanging limp at his sides. “What has happened, my laird?”
“They must know,” Malcom hissed, his fist coming down hard on the table.
“Know what?” Thane asked, but then his eyes widened, and Malcom knew his steward had put the pieces together for himself. “They couldn’t...why...that’s impossible!”
“Trust me,” Malcom growled, fighting to maintain control. He took a steadying breath. “Baron Wharncliffe leads his army with the support of the treacherous Stewart onto Fergusson soil for one purpose alone...to reclaim the king’s treasure.”
Two years ago, Bishop Lamberton, Scotland’s great defender, had entrusted Malcom with secreting away a vast treasure, a portion of which had been stolen from Westminster Abbey by Scottish rebels.
Thane moved closer. “How do they know ye’re the keeper?”
Malcom shook his head. “I ken not.” He stood up and crossed to the chess set on a table near the fireplace. Idly picking up the queen, he tossed it in his hand. “I confided my possession of the treasure to so few,” he muttered.
Then he set the queen down and began to pace.
“I took Laird Munroe and Captain Angus Grant into my confidence, but neither man would have betrayed me, or Scotland for that matter. Laird Monroe fought by my side at Dunbar after the sacking of Berwick, and Angus was godfather to my daughter. For pity’s sake, they both died this summer at Methven.
Men do not betray their country, then willingly die for it. ”
Thane nodded resolutely. “I do not doubt their loyalty, my laird, but...” His voice trailed off.
Malcom stared impatiently at his servant. “But what, man? Speak up!”
“’Tis possible that they each might have confided the knowledge to someone they trusted wholeheartedly who, in turn, told someone else and so on.”
Malcom fisted his hands, his nails biting into his palms. “The folly of men,” he growled.
Expelling a long breath, he dropped his arms to his sides and hung his head.
“And my own folly. I never should have spoken of it.” He circled around his table and sat down before continuing, “but when Bishop Lamberton was arrested, I feared what might happen to the treasure if I, too, was imprisoned or died in battle.”
“Ye only meant to do what was right for yer people and for Scotland,” Thane offered.
“Do not placate me. Save yer comfort for the families who may be hurt by my actions.” Fury once more coursed through him. He couldn’t let his people suffer. “Damnation,” he roared, dragging his arms across the table, sending the contents crashing to the floor.
Chest heaving, he sat back in his chair and gazed at the tapestries lining the walls as he fought for calm. Each one told the story of a Scottish king from the very first to be crowned on the Stone of Destiny, Kenneth MacAlpin, to the last, Alexander the third.
What would the great kings of ol’ do in his stead?
It was not the first time Malcom had wished the deceased leaders could step down from the wall hangings to advise him, but as always, the weight of his next move rested on his shoulders alone. At least, he had prepared for the worst, although he had prayed he’d never have to carry out his plans.
Inhaling deeply, he pressed his hands on the table and stood up, looking Thane hard in the eye. “’Tis done. We cannot change the past.”
Malcolm circled around the table and hastened across the room to an ornately carved chest. Opening it with a key he kept loosely tied around his neck, he seized one of three bags of coin.
“If I may be so bold, my laird, mayhap take just a small portion of the treasure—”
Malcom whirled around. “An army breathes down my neck. The hour for building our defenses or replenishing our stores has passed. And even if we did have time, as I’ve told ye before, we cannot use the treasure.”
“Indeed, the hour is late for preparations, but mayhap ye could use a portion to bribe our enemies—”
“For the last time, Thane, the treasure cannot be used, not by my hand. Enough talk. We must act before we run out of time. Tell the captain to stand down all defenses.”
Thane’s eyes widened. “But, my laird, our enemy will certainly take the keep.”
“They will take Toonan no matter what we do. Our warriors are no match for such a force, nor can our stores outlast theirs.”
“But...but...” Thane stammered. “Ye cannot mean to open the gates and invite him into slaughter yer people.”
“They will not attack if we do not fight. They’re not after Toonan. They’re after me.”
“If they take ye prisoner, what will ye tell them?”
“Nothing. The men who march here may know that the treasure is in my possession, but no man knows where I’ve hidden it.”
“They’ll hurt ye, my laird!”
“I understood the risks when I agreed to conceal the treasure for the bishop.”
Thane, drawing his stomach in and puffing his chest out, declared, “Ye cannot do this, my laird. Do not surrender!”
“What would ye have me do? If I don’t surrender myself, blood will be spilled.”
“Yer people have the right to defend their laird!”
Malcom shook his head. “These are dark enough times as it is. The Bruce has been defeated. Even now he hides in the Hebrides, not only from the English King, but from his Scottish enemies, too. ‘Tis only a matter of time before Edward’s fury is felt this far north. I would rather surrender myself so that my people might live to fight another day.”
“What other day?” Thane snapped before quickly bowing his head. “Forgive me, my laird, but what day do ye speak of? This might be the last fight.”
Malcom shook his head. “The Bruce will rise to power again. Scotland’s fight is not over.” He expelled a long breath. “But mine is.” Handing the bag of coin to Thane, he said, “Take my family far from here. I entrust them into yer care.”
Thane refused to take the coin. “Surely, Lady Clara and Lady Josselyn will be safer at Toonan. Ye just said that ye intend to surrender yerself.”
Malcom pushed the bag into his steward’s chest. “Take the coin,” he hissed. “Lead them west to the Hebrides or east to the Orkney Isles, some place far from the greedy reaches of King Edward.”
Thane clutched the bag, tears glistening in his eyes. “Does such a haven exist?” Shaking his head furiously, he set the coin on a table. “Send someone else, my laird. Do not ask me to abandon ye now, in this yer darkest hour.”
Malcom shook his head. “Do this for me, old friend. There is no one else I can trust. Vow to me now that ye’ll keep my family safe.”
Thane cast his gaze to the ground. “This I vow, my laird.”
“Come,” Malcom urged. “We have to move quickly.”