Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
The air in the stone solar of Glen Cannich smelled of damp moss, sour ale, and smoke from a chimney that refused to draw properly.
Robert Cameron stood by the narrow arrow slit, his fingers white where they gripped the cold stone ledge. Below in the courtyard, two dozen men were sharpening blades on a whetstone, the steady, rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh grinding against his nerves like iron on bone.
Behind him, the heavy oak door creaked open.
Malcolm stepped into the dim room, his wet plaid dripping rain onto the floorboards. He didn't offer a greeting. He pulled a rolled parchment from his belt and tossed it onto the heavy trestle table, where a half-eaten loaf of bread and a pair of iron sconces sat.
"It’s done," Malcolm said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual booming authority. "The priest signed the register yesterday at noon. Fearchar and Nandag were wed in the chapel before the whole Council."
Robert didn't turn around. His gaze remained fixed on the courtyard below. "And the elders?"
"They stood fer it," Malcolm replied, stepping closer to the hearth and spreading his broad hands toward the dying embers.
"Old Alasdair declared the Accord satisfied. By nightfall, the news had reached the lower village. The blacksmiths were drinking tae the new laird’s health before the taverns closed. "
A terrible, suffocating silence fell over the room.
Robert’s chest expanded slowly, a ragged, hitching breath drawing into his lungs. The lower village. The smiths. The very men whose fathers had sworn oaths to his line were now raising tankards to a Chisholm invader who had marched into Strathglass and stolen what was rightfully his.
Fearchar.
The name tasted like ash.
Robert turned from the window. His movement was not fast; it was deliberate, heavy, and terrifyingly silent. His dark eyes swept over the parchment lying on the table—the document that effectively stripped him of his claim, his bride, and his standing under royal decree.
"They drink tae him," Robert whispered.
"The clan follows the paper, Robert," Malcolm said gruffly, not looking up from the fire. "And right now, Fearchar holds the paper, the bride, and the King's seal."
Something inside Robert snapped.
With a guttural roar that echoed off the vaulted stone rafters, Robert lunged forward.
His broad hand swept across the trestle table with terrifying force.
The pewter tankards, the iron sconces, the inkwell, and the half-eaten bread flew across the room, crashing violently against the opposite wall.
Ink splattered like fresh blood across the pale stone. The iron sconce clattered and bounced across the floorboards, gouging deep tracks into the wood.
"The paper means naething!" Robert shrieked, his face flushing dark red, the veins in his neck bulging against his collar.
He kicked the heavy oak chair beneath the table, sending it tumbling backward into the stone hearth, where it smashed against the iron grate, showering sparks and grey ash across the floor.
He grabbed the edge of the trestle table itself, his knuckles turning blue as he lifted the heavy timber and flipped it onto its side with a deafening crash that shook the floorboards.
Outside in the corridor, two guards drew their dirks, peering cautiously through the doorway before freezing at the sight of his fury.
Robert stood in the center of the ruined room, his shoulders heaving, his dark hair falling in tangled, sweat-dampened locks across his forehead. He panted in short, ragged gasps, his hands twitching violently at his sides as he stared at the shattered timber and scattered ink.
Malcolm hadn't moved from the hearth. He merely wiped a speck of flying ash from his cheek, his sharp eyes watching the younger man with cold, calculating patience.
"Have ye finished?" Malcolm asked quietly. "Because the men downstairs can hear ye breaking chairs, and they dinnae march tae Glen Cannich tae follow a boy throwing tantrums."
The words hit Robert like a bucket of ice water.
He froze. Slowly, his hands stopped shaking.
He closed his eyes, taking three deep, controlled breaths, forcing the hot, wild rage back down into the dark, cold cellar of his mind.
When he opened his eyes again, the crimson flush had drained from his face, leaving his skin pale and smooth as marble.
He reached up, calmly smoothing his hair back from his brow, his posture stiffening back into that of a commander.
He stepped over a broken table leg, his leather boots crunching over bits of dried peat and spilled ink and stood before Malcolm.
"Fearchar thinks he won because he put a ring on the secondborn’s finger; he thinks his wife has taken Mòrag's place and that he is now entitled tae the Farquharson inheritance," Robert said, his voice dropping into a low, icy whisper that was far more dangerous than his shouting had been.
"He thinks the clan is a prize ye take in a chapel. "
"The elders accept him," Malcolm reminded him sharply. "They see peace in him."
"Then I will tear that peace out by the roots," Robert spat, a thin, cruel smile touching the corner of his mouth.
"Elders are old men, Malcolm. Old men are cautious, greedy, and easily frightened.
They accepted Fearchar because they think he brings the Crown's protection.
But the Crown is in Edinburgh, three weeks' ride away. I am here."
He walked toward the narrow window again, looking down at the handful of loyal men gathered in the courtyard.
"We dinnae march on the castle," Robert said, his mind working with swift, merciless precision. "We dinnae waste steel against Fearchar's broadsword while he stands behind stone walls. We win this clan the way me faither won it, one house at a time."
Malcolm’s brow furrowed slightly. "Explain."
"We go tae the minor houses, the elders" Robert murmured, turning back to face the room.
"Tae the MacRaes on the western ridge, tae the Frasers in the glen. We remind them who fed them during the winter rot. We remind them that Fearchar is a Chisholm, an outsider whose blood never mixed with Strathglass until three days ago. We drop words in their ears until every elder sitting Alasdair’s table begins to wonder when the Chisholm laird will sell their land tae his own kin. "
Malcolm listened, a slow, approving nod beginning to break across his stern features. "Poison the water before he can drink it."
"Aye," Robert said, his eyes glinting with a dark, ruthless light. "Fearchar may have the chapel, and he may have the King's seal. But a contract is only as strong as the men who enforce it. When the elders turn their backs on him, that parchment willnae save him."
He kicked a piece of shattered chair leg out of his path and stepped toward the heavy oak door. He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder at the ink-stained floor and the ruined solar.
"Tell the men to saddle the horses," Robert commanded, his voice cold. "Fearchar Chisholm can play the proud husband all he likes. But mark me, Malcolm, he will never keep either the bride or the clan."
The afternoon light had turned a dull, heavy amber by the time Fearchar dipped his quill into the dark oak-gall ink.
The solar was quiet, save for the scratch of metal nib against thick parchment and the crackle of dry birch logs in the hearth.
Fearchar sat behind the heavy oak desk, his shoulders broad and square against the carved wooden chair back.
His plaid was pinned securely at his shoulder with the silver Chisholm brooch, his sleeves rolled back past his forearms to reveal the pale, crisscrossed scars from his years in the Western wars.
He wrote carefully, his hand steady despite the fatigue lingering behind his eyes.
Tae His Grace, James, King of Scots, England, and Ireland.
It is declared herein that the Marriage Accord of 1597, established under Royal Seal tae secure the peace of the Glen and the succession of Clan Farquharson, stands fulfilled.
The eldest eligible heir of the line, Nandag Farquharson, was lawfully wed to Fearchar Chisholm, Laird of Strathglass, in the chapel of Castle Strathglass before the altar and the assembled council.
He paused, watching the wet black ink glisten against the pale sheepskin.
He didn't write of Robert Cameron’s threats, nor of the broken tables in Glen Cannich, nor of the three hundred men gathering under a rogue banner in the south.
King James had little patience for Highland feuds, but he had endless appetite for obedience to his royal decrees.
Fearchar dragged his quill down to sign his name—a bold, sweeping Fearchar Chisholm, Laird—and laid the feather down beside the inkwell.
"It’s a fine hand fer a man who spent years swinging a broadsword," a quiet voice said from the doorway.
Duncan stood by the heavy lintel, his tall, lean frame shadowed by the hallway torches. He carried a heavy leather pouch and a brass sconce holding a thick stick of dark crimson sealing wax.
"Me grandfaither made sure I could read a treaty before he let me hold a dirk," Fearchar replied, his voice a low, steady rumble in the quiet room. "He said a man who cannae read what he signs usually ends up dying fer another man's words."
Duncan stepped into the room, setting the brass sconce on the corner of the desk. He held the stick of wax over the small candle flame until the crimson bead melted, fat and dark, dripping onto the folded edge of the parchment.
Fearchar pulled his signet ring from his index finger—the heavy silver band bearing the boar’s head of Chisholm—and pressed the cold metal flat into the soft wax.
He held it firm for three slow breaths, feeling the heat dissipate through the silver, before lifting it away.
The royal crown and boar were stamped sharp and clean into the crimson seal.