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“Thank ye,” Ian said. “And I’ll see ye tomorrow.”
Neacal waved. “God bless, lord.”
Ian visited other tenants after that to invite them to the wake. Back in Dundail, the large manor still didn’t feel like home. He’d picked up some of the household chores, painfully aware of how much older Cadha and Manning had become. He didn’t mind cleaning and washing his own clothes, repairing the tools, and doing some work in the smithy. Actually, simple labor brought him relief. Physical work made him feel like he was getting in touch with his land, and his house, and his people.
The day of the wake, the great hall was clean. Pastries, pies, bread, and cheese stood on the tables, roasted chickens already sliced, and cooked vegetables. The room didn’t smell like desolation anymore.
His father’s tenants and tacksmen, the rent collectors, began coming in. The men talked and drank somberly. The wives scolded running children and chatted with one another. Most people, he didn’t remember.
There were claps on the shoulder and mournful faces and murmurs of condolence. People visited the body and said their goodbyes. Then they settled at the tables with their food and drinks. The hall was no longer silent and empty. It was filled with the quiet sound of voices.
A big, stout man with a bushy beard and long black hair came up to him. “I canna express how sorry I am, lord,” he said. “I am Alan Ciar, yer tacksman in Benlochy.”
Ian nodded. “I thank ye.”
“Yer father was a good man. He’ll be sorely missed. By everyone.”
“Aye.”
They stood in silence for a while. Ian had an uneasy sense that the man hadn’t yet said what he’d come to say.
“’Tis a sad day to say goodbye to him,” Alan said. “But a joyous day to see ye alive. We all thought ye were killed by the MacDougalls. I am certain ye will be as good a lord as he was.”
Ian’s jaws tightened.
“Gladly will I swear my oath to ye,” Alan said.
Ian’s shoulders stiffened as hard as rocks. No one should swear anything to him. If they knew…
“I canna think yet of that,” he said. “But I thank ye for yer loyalty.”
“Aye. Glad to. And I want ye to ken. I havna been stealing from yer father like the other tacksmen.”
Ian frowned and looked around the room. “Stealing?”
“Aye. I suppose ye wouldna have kent. But why do ye think yer father didna do so well in the recent years? Why do ye think yer house is in this condition? ’Tis because after yer death… I mean, disappearance, yer father became a different man. He mourned ye so much he didna pay attention to what was goin’ on around him nae more. So some of his tacksmen used him and kept part of the collected rent to themselves.”
He straightened his back and corrected the belt on his big stomach. “Never I. I have always been loyal and honest and always gave all the rent and taxes collected.”
“Hm,” Ian said.
The man’s dark eyes glistened. Ian studied him. Alan didn’t look away or blink. He resembled a bull about to attack.
“Ye should ask around, lord,” Alan pressed. “Ye should check. And they should face consequences.”
Ian nodded. “I thank ye, Alan.”
He gestured at the tables inviting the man to join the others.
“One more thing, lord,” Alan said. “The English have been seen around. Knights and warriors. ’Tis good we have our lord back, a warrior who will protect us.” He paused and frowned. “Ye will, aye?”
The weight of a mountain landed on Ian.
The enemy was knocking at their door, but Ian could not raise a sword again. He couldn’t imagine what he would do once the English came.
Ian looked at his feet. “Alan, please honor my father’s memory by eating some of the food.”
As the burly tacksman nodded slowly and walked away to the table, Ian couldn’t shake the feeling of betraying his people.
