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Their grandfather’s dramatic pose, right hand soulfully pressed to his chest, was diminished when a gust snatched his ratty tam from his head. Graeme barely managed to catch it before it flew into the water.
He handed it back. “You were saying?”
Angus crammed it on and resumed his pose. “Our laird, chief of Clan Kendrick, is the only power I need hear and obey.”
Royal practically doubled over with laughter, while Graeme shook his head in disbelief. “Grandda, you hardlyeverdo anything Nick asks. Usually you do the opposite.”
“Ye exaggerate, lad. And sometimes I do ken what’s best, whether Nick kens it or not.”
“Like you did this morning, when you tried to get him to boycott the Regalia Ceremony?” Royal choked out.
The Regalia Ceremony was the first major event to mark the king’s visit. The Scottish crown, scepter, and sword of state, which had been tucked away in an old trunk and essentially forgotten since the Act of Union, were being moved in procession from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace. Sir Walter Scott had instructed the clan chiefs to provide regiments of “well-dressed Highlanders” to march in the parade. In some cases, that garb consisted of highly inaccurate versions of Highland attire.
“Fah,” Angus said. “That bloody Walter Scott deserves to be shot, along with the rest of those no-nothing ninnies running aboot in fancy dress. Silly poofs.”
Graeme yanked his outraged grandfather out of the way of two dockhands, who were rushing to prepare for the ship’s arrival.
“Fortunately, you were neither forced to attend nor forced to dress like a silly poof,” he said. “And also, fortunately, the packet is about to dock. I want to see that cargo unloaded and stowed as quickly as possible.”
“At least that jinglebrains of a parade will be over by then,” Angus said. “I well nigh shot that idiot Glengarry when I spotted him in the procession from the castle. If I see him again, I just might.”
The chief of Glengarry, who fancied himself an exemplar of Highland tradition, had all but forced himself to the front of Scott’s carefully planned procession, wearing a highly colorful interpretation of clan garb. Angus had practically climbed out the carriage window, ready to challenge the man for his mockery of the old traditions. Graeme had hauled Angus back in, while Royal had patiently explained that since almosteverythingabout the king’s visit would make an unintentional mockery of the old traditions, there was little point in getting fashed about it.
“Glengarry’s a disgrace in more ways than one,” Royal said. “Acting like a bloody throwback to Robert the Bruce, all while clearing the tenants off his lands.”
“Hypocrite.” Angus leaned over to spit in the water.
“He’s not the only one engaging in Clearances,” Graeme said as he watched the packet slip into its berth. Dockhands deftly untied the massive ropes from the bollards, waiting to tie the boat off.
An alarming number of landowners were emptying out the glens, driving tenant farmers from their homes. The appalling practice upended a social order based on clan ties and traditions that had stood for centuries. After all the English had done over the years to degrade the Highland way of life, some Scottish lords and ladies were now doing the rest, essentially destroying the old ways. Money drove their decisions, since sheep and cattle were now more profitable than people. Left with nowhere to go, many crofters and tenants had moved to the cities or departed for America, hoping for a fresh start.
It made Graeme ashamed to call himself a Scotsman.
“If yer lookin’ for reasons to knock off King Fathead, the Clearances would be it,” Angus said in a thoughtful tone.
“Yes, it’s an excellent motive for assassination,” Graeme replied. “But of the king? The Clearances don’t really have anything to do with George.”
Royal thoughtfully stroked a gloved hand under his chin. “Is Aden truly sure the king is the target?”
Graeme threw Royal a startled glance. “Why would you doubt that?”
“If the Clearances are a motive, it stands to reason the target might be a Scottish lord who is close to the king, or in his retinue for these events. After all, the rumors are about an attempt in Scotland, not England.”
Graeme scowled down at the wooden planks under his feet. That there were rumors of a plot involving the visit here was certain. But even Aden had admitted the rumors were frustratingly vague. That was why Graeme had been sent to Scotland in the first place.
Maybe they’d gotten the wrong end of the stick, after all.
“I don’t know nearly enough,” he finally replied, “despite practically living in the stews this last week and shaking down every damn criminal in Edinburgh. All I can do is keep searching, and make sure the king and his entourage are protected.”
“Then best keep yer mind on the task and forget the folderol.” Angus pointed at the boat. “Looks like they’re startin’ to unload.”
“Thank God,” Graeme muttered. He was sick of standing around, playing nursemaid.
They moved down the pier to keep an eye on the astounding amount of cargo coming off the boat.
“Good God,” Royal said as the dockhands lugged crates and trunks off the boat and loaded them onto waiting carriages. “Is the king intending to take up permanent residence here?”
“King Fat—er, King George is bringing his own household goods, along with a considerable amount of special clothing for each occasion,” Graeme replied.
