Page 2

The Earl of Ross and Euphemia sat at the table of honor, and the priest took his seat by William’s side, opening a thick book on an empty page. He had a quill and a jar with ink at the ready.

“We prepared a feast in yer honor,” William said. “But before we begin eating, I do believe we have the matter of tribute to settle, aye?”

Angus’s stomach churned. Laomann cleared his throat and exchanged a glance with him. The pouch containing two hundred and fifty pounds weighed on Angus’s belt. It was the equivalent of paying the yearly wages of fifteen knights or building three farmhouses. The Mackenzies needed the latter the most, though they might wish for the former if the Earl of Ross responded badly.

What would the Earl of Ross do once he found out how much of their tribute was missing? The glistening swords and the charged crossbows might provide the answer soon.

Willing the tremor in his fingers to stop, Angus unfastened the heavy pouch on his belt and handed it to Laomann. If they were robbed on the long journey here, Laomann as the laird would most likely be attacked, so Angus had carried the silver.

The Earl of Ross took the purse, his hand sinking with the weight of it. He spilled the coins on the table and carefully counted the tribute. His blue eyes, as hard as rocks, met Laomann’s.

“Is this a jest?” William said.

Just as though they were both lads again and stood in front of their father, Laomann shrank and Angus stepped forward, shielding him.

Angus replied, “The tribute is high, and we lost many men who fought for our king.” Their eyes locked at that. Angus meant Robert the Bruce, while everyone knew the Earl of Ross had been loyal to the King of England.

Angus continued, “We lack people to farm the land, and therefore, bring rent.”

The Earl of Ross leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms on his chest, his chin high.

“We will pay ye next year,” Angus pressed and, hating himself, added, “Please, my lord.”

He was ready to plead or do anything he must to shield his clan, to take any harm that came their way on himself.

“We could take Kintail.” Euphemia’s voice was so calm, as though she suggested having the leftovers of a roasted chicken.

“What?” Laomann croaked. “My lady, there’s nae need to—”

“Kintail belongs to clan Mackenzie,” Angus said through gritted teeth. “’Tis our land. Our home. Our father, Kenneth Og Mackenzie, sinned much. But he did one thing right. He protected the clan lands and kept them. They’re rightfully ours.”

Euphemia arched one elegant eyebrow. “Rightfully yers?” She chuckled. “Just as Bruce’s throne is rightfully his because he killed Red John Comyn and proclaimed himself king?”

“He has the right to the throne by blood,” Angus said.

“So did the Comyn.”

“Euphemia…” the Earl of Ross said, his voice a weak warning.

But she waved her hand. “New king, new rules,” she said. “Ye owe us tribute. We could take Kintail back.”

Silence hung heavy and thick like a cloud of fog. Angus’s blood felt as if it had been replaced by the coldest waters from the depth of a loch.

“We need to discuss this. Isna it much, Euphem—” William began.

“Shut up, William,” she snapped. She gazed at Angus like a bird of prey and tilted her head. “We could take Kintail,” she repeated slowly.

Aye, they could. Despite the fact that the Earl of Ross had submitted to Bruce last year, probably because he knew he’d be obliterated if he hadn’t, they did have a significant force compared to the Mackenzies. Fifty years ago, when their grandfather, Angus Crom Mackenzie, fought William I of Ross, he’d had to secure the support of five other clans to stand any kind of chance. Now, with the wars still going on and their allied clans having lost many men, who would stand by the Mackenzies’ side? And even if some would, they’d never gather a force that could protect against such a powerful clan as Ross.

Their father had died six years ago, and Laomann had just gotten a bairn. Angus couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to his nephew. And Laomann. And Catrìona. And even Raghnall, who would come to their rescue from his wanderings the moment he learned of their trouble.

Suddenly, Euphemia’s face relaxed, and she looked at William. “We’re being bad hosts, brother,” she said. “Tribute questions can wait. We have much time to discuss it, dinna we?” She smiled a sly smile as she held Angus in her gaze—a smile that made him wish he had a dagger in his hand. “Please, Lord Angus, Lord Laomann, and Lady Catrìona. Take yer seats. Let’s eat and drink, and I’m sure we will find a solution. Nae everything should be decided with swords and axes.”

William was still frowning at her. “Aye, she’s right,” he said finally. “Please. Let us eat and drink.”

Angus, Laomann, and Catrìona exchanged long glances. William gestured at the chairs around him. The priest moved, allowing Laomann to take a seat by William’s side. Angus had no choice but to sit between the Earl of Ross and his sister, while Catrìona took a place on the other side of Euphemia.

The Mackenzie men filled the tables, and so did the Ross men. Voices hummed quietly, the men from the opposite clans still not trusting one another. Servants came to pour ale, but Angus covered his cup with his hand.