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Abner shook his head as his father came over and slugged him in the face with a beefy fist, turning rapidly to Malcolm and driving his knuckles into the lad’s stomach. Gasping and aching, the young men tried to regain their feet.

“They have gone and defied the clans,” Dunbar ranted. “Northwood and her allies have pledged to support Langton agin us. Can ye believe it? The Goddamn Sassenachs are supporting Langton.”

He broke a few more things but didn’t punch them anymore. They regained their senses and watched him as he calmed moment by moment, pacing and cursing until he finally came to rest on his bed. The twisted, torn message was still clutched in one hand, but he was shaking and white with fury.

Abner and Malcolm watched him warily, wishing they could run from the room but not daring to move.

“Send missives, lad,” Dunbar said hoarsely. “Send them to all of the clan chiefs and tell them to ride for McKenna Keep as soon as they can. We must respond to the traitors that are among us.”

Abner nodded and, gratefully, left the room. Malcolm was terrified when Dunbar looked up at him, knowing that it was his kin who were the traitors.

“The Scotts will be destroyed,” Dunbar promised confidently. “We will descend on them like a plague of locust and wipe out every one of them. We will stand for no traitors on the border, lad. When they are gone, we will move to mighty Northwood and raze her as well. Then the Sassenachs will see that our clans are not to be trifled with, and the border will be ours.”

Malcolm watched the big, smelly man in his rage. Uncle Thomas was not a man to be bullied, but bully they did until they virtually gave him no choice. Even Malcolm knew Thomas was a man of principles. The attempted attack had failed, Jordan’s murder had failed, and now Dunbar had the excuse he needed to completely wipe out the Scotts and their alliance with the English. The refusal of Thomas to break the English alliance was certainly not an event to be taken lightly, but by refusing the clans, he had played right into Dunbar’s hand.

It was odd, Malcolm thought as he watched the heavy man, that Dunbar seemed so intent on destroying Uncle Thomas. And it seemed that there was no particular reason for it; he was looking for any excuse to desolate the man, and when one failed he simply invented another. There was so much hatred in Dunbar for Thomas Scott; Malcolm wondered why.

This wasn’t just about the English alliance, he was sure of that. And the plan about controlling the border was just a convenient excuse to back Thomas into a corner so that he would have to come out fighting. True, Dunbar liked the growing power he governed, now that the clans were listening to him and not to Thomas, but there was more to it than that. The bottom line seemed to be that he wanted Thomas and Langton destroyed at any cost, for any reason.

None of that much mattered to Malcolm. He had virtually no use for his kin anyway and was pleased to be able to assist Dunbar. The man may have cursed at him and hit him, but he still paid Malcolm more attention than his own father. And acceptance and attention was the very thing Malcolm lacked within his own family, although his conscience, deep down, was reluctant to help Dunbar wipe out his kin.

But no matter. Malcolm squared his shoulders and bravely approached Dunbar.

“What would ye have me do, my lord?” he asked.

Dunbar looked up at him for a moment. “Go back to Langton, lad,” he said. “I shall need ye there.”

“Why?” Malcolm asked, disappointed.

“Because someone needs to open the gates when the army approaches,” Dunbar explained with limited patience. “Ye do me more good inside the fortress than wi’ me, lad. I am depending on ye.”

Malcolm nodded hesitantly, realizing that he would be the man to deliver the fate of Langton into the clan’s waiting arms. Dunbar had this all thought out already, he could see it was as if he already knew what Thomas’ answer would be. Or he had been planning it all along, regardless.

Stomach twisting with nerves, he fled McKenna Keep and into the black Scot night.

Part 2

London

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

January, Year of our Lord 1233 A.D.

It had been six months since William had left Northwood to join the king’s service. Six long months. As he sat in his opulent rooms in Windsor Castle, he found he had never been so lonely.

Henry had not been jesting when he said he wanted William to lead his armies into Wales. Since the day of his arrival William had been doing just that, subduing border skirmishes. He would come back to London only to be forced back into service again. He had probably spent a total of two whole weeks in London and he was exhausted for home and his wife. Although being the king’s champion had its perks, it definitely had its drawbacks as well.

When English border barons requested military assistance from the crown, William was again whipped into action. He led the king’s three-thousand-man force, when and where needed, and of late that was to Hereford and Worcester. Since his brother’s fortress was near Worcester, he had seen Robert three times.

William had written Jordan only once a month since his arrival, something he apologized to her profusely for. He, on the other hand, had only received one carefully worded missive from de Longley. The man spoke of a tentatively calm border, a little of Jordan, and naught much else. William had been hungry for news of his wife and burned the missive in anger.

Not all news was good. It had been difficult to write de Longley of Kieran’s accident. The third month into service and in the midst of a horrific battle, Kieran had received a terrible blow to his neck that had nearly killed him. Had his neck not been so muscular or had he been any less healthy, it would have been a mortal wound. Kieran was fully recovered, except for some numbness in his shoulder, but William and Deinwald had been terrified that they were going to lose him.

He was sure Jemma had gone insane over the news. William could just picture her hysterics as Jordan and Paris tried to comfort her. God only knew how he would have felt in the same situation. Hell, he had been nearly hysterical and he had actually been with Kieran.

Kieran and Deinwald both had been remarkable. Kieran took to second-in-command as if born into it. With Paris always at William’s side, he’d never fully had the chance to prove himself, and after six months of service William, would have been hard-pressed to decide who was a better second; Paris or Kieran. They were both powerful, intuitive, and uncannily intelligent.

Deinwald, too, had blossomed with his new power. Still surly and arrogant, he had also grown a heart somewhere in the process, and the soldiers loved him almost as much as they loved The Wolf. On pure reputation alone, William had their undying loyalty from the start, before he had ever drawn his sword in Wales.