****
Rarely had Alan felt less prepared for an encounter. Aye, his father held regular meetings with locals or, indeed, men such as these two who turned their heads to regard him as he entered the lofty chamber. Most often—barring holidays—he was excluded.
Evan was the one, always, to be summoned to the exalted company.
Now, however, Evan was nowhere to be found.
Och, but that did not explain the request forhispresence. Or why the footmen had been sent out through the rain to find him.
Feeling very ill at ease, he faced the men, both dressed in grave, dark clothing and with somber, careful expressions. He recognized them as Erskine—Earl of Mar—and Cunningham, Earl of Glencairn, both very high up and both rampantly Protestant.
Schemers against the Queen? Without a doubt.
Father sprang to his feet as Alan entered. “Ah, here he is now. My son—Alan.”
Alan shot a measuring look at his father, catching something in his eye that asked—ordered—compliance.
“Alan, ye will remember Earl Alexander Cunningham and Earl John Erskine, to be sure.”
Alan did not think—being a second son—he’d ever been formally introduced to the two men. But he said, “Aye.”
“Come, Laird Alan, pray,” said Glencairn, “and sit. We discuss matters o’ the most grave importance and wish to include ye in the talk.”
“Me?” Alan could not help but question.
Father avoided his gaze when he said, “In your brother’s stead, ye understand.”
“Ah.”
Alan removed his sopping cloak and laid it over the bench by the fire. There was not much he could do about the drenched clothing beneath, or his dripping hair.
“Excuse my appearance, gentlemen. I was awa’ when my father’s message reached me.”
Erskine cleared his throat. “By all means.”
“I ha’ explained to the gentlemen your brother’s illness,” said Father, still avoiding Alan’s gaze as Alan joined the men at the table. “And my conviction that he will no’ be able to fulfill his familial duties in the future.”
“Eh?” Alan said.
“Ye,” said Cunningham, fixing him with a hard stare, “are now to all intents and purposes your father’s heir.”
Alan froze in the act of reaching for the flask that stood at the center of the table. Was he? Och, nay—that must be but a tale Father fed these two, in a panic to save face.
An act of desperation and a lie.
He struggled to keep his expression blank as he finished reaching for the flask and poured himself a draught.
Wine, not the ale he would have preferred. But nay, plain brown ale would not do for these illustrious guests.
Father sent him another pleading look.
John Erskine spoke. “We need to be careful, ye see, Laird MacKallan. These are desperate and dangerous times. Ones during which we must be certain—verra certain—o’ our allies.”
Alan inspected both the men in turn. Of a type they were, keen-willed and well-fed, confident in their positions and not easily led. Aye, well, if they schemed against the crown and chose what ultimately proved to be the wrong side, they could pay with their heads—and with the confiscation of their estates, which might almost prove the more important to them.
Why would Father involve himself in such risky business? For the same reason he’d sought a marriage alliance with a family of Catholics. ’Twas wise to keep a foot in either camp when one did not know which way the wind might blow.
“We need,” Cunningham took it up, “to be very certain wi’ whom we deal. And of the man who will follow him. We mak’ a bargain, now, for the ages.”
