Footsteps sounded outside the room, followed by the door opening and closing. Lochlan and Alexander exchanged puzzled frowns.
It was far too late for company.
An old servant entered the hall with a youth behind him. The boy hadn’t quite reached his majority.
Dressed in rags, the boy carried a satchel.
“Forgive me, my lord,” the servant said to Alexander. “The lad said he had news of Lysander.”
Alexander motioned the boy to come forward. “Is there a problem?”
The boy hesitated, then shrank back. He looked at the servant then to Lochlan.
“Speak, lad. No one will harm you.”
“I have word, my lord. This man came to our village and he told me I was to bring this to you.” The boy rushed forward, dropped the satchel on the table, then ran back to a safe distance.
Lochlan frowned at his fearful actions.
Alexander ran his hand over the worn leather. “Is this Lysander’s?”
“I know not, my lord. I was only told to give it you and to not open it.”
By the pallor of the boy’s face, Lochlan could surmise the child hadn’t listened.
“Who gave you this?” Lochlan asked.
The youth scratched his neck nervously. “He said there was a letter for Lord Alexander inside and...and to tell his lordship that next time you should hire yourself someone better than a French knight.” The boy was shaking. “Can I go home now, please my lord?”
Alexander nodded.
The boy shot from the room as if Lucifer’s hounds were after him.
Alexander studied the bag. “How very strange.”
“Aye,” Lochlan said, leaning forward to look at it as well. “It is indeed.”
Alexander opened the satchel and dumped its contents onto the table.
Lochlan stood up the instant he saw the green and black plaid that their father had commissioned years ago for his sons. He’d never known anyone other than he and his brothers to have it.
His blood went cold.
Alexander opened a small piece of parchment while Lochlan pulled the plaid closer to examine it.
“Canmore,” he read, “I don’t like being made a fool of. You can tell the gypsies that they are next on our list. You should have never told the king about us. Had you stayed quiet, your daughter might have lived. Now we’ll be coming for her and the rest of the MacAllisters.”
Alexander’s hands shook and his face turned dark with rage. “It’s signed Graham MacKaid.”
Lochlan barely heard the words. He was too fixated by the initials embroidered in the corner of the tattered and worn plaid.
K.M.
Kieran MacAllister.
But how?
Who would have had his brother’s plaid?
