uncle Glengarry is failing,” Sinclair said, peering at Ranulf through only one eye, since the other was swollen completely shut.
They’d taken a drubbing and no mistake. Still, there had once been a time when Lord Glengarry could have disrupted the beating of his son-in-law with just his own hard fists. This time, the old man had to call on some of the onlookers to come to his aid while he broke up the gang attack on William Douglas.
“Ye’ll get your chance soon, Ranulf,” Ainsley MacTavish piped up. He was a bit of a brownnoser, but it pleased Ranulf to surround himself with MacTavish’s brand of uncritical devotion. “Another fit like the one he had last year will carry his lairdship off to his reward, like as not.”
“Not fast enough to suit me,” Ranulf said sullenly. “Glengarry deserves a young hand on the reins.”
As the old laird’s nephew, Ranulf was not a natural choice for purists who liked to ape English sensibilities and held to niceties like bloodlines. His mother, God rot her miserable, neglectful soul, was only Laird Glengarry’s sister, after all. Ranulf was brutal when he needed to be. Benevolent when it suited him. Both traits he shared with his mother, now that he thought on it.
But more importantly, he knew how to rally men to his side—the all-important quality for a leader.
“But what about the laird’s heir?” Always the pessimist, Hugh Murray had to bring up the obvious flaw in Ranulf’s plans.
“Donald?” Ranulf waved away his rival with a flick of his hand. “He’s mincing about at court with the rest of the fops. He knows how to bow and scrape and how to pick a French wine. I know the men of Glengarry.”
“So when the time comes, what do ye intend, Ranulf?” MacTavish asked.
He rose and paced the length of the solar. “When the time comes, when the times comes,” he repeated. “Ye know, I’m sick of waiting.” Besides, a tough old boot like Lord Glengarry could linger for years yet, even if he had another bad spell or two. And in that time, Donald might come to his senses and come home for good. “I’m thinking we ought to make our move before there’s need to be concerned about the succession.”
“What have ye in mind?” Gordon asked. “I know ye’ve gathered a good bit of support among the laird’s men who are unhappy over Donald’s absence, but we canna start a melee within these walls. The laird still holds the advantage, and many a man who’s shared a horn with ye and spoken of being dissatisfied will turn back to aid his laird in a pinch. They did take an oath, ye ken.”
Ranulf shrugged his massive shoulders. “So did we all. But a man canna be tied to an oath to a doddering old tyrant. Besides, who said anything about starting a ruckus here? It’s Christmastide, ye heathen.” He smacked Gordon on the back of the head and continued pacing the room.
“Hold a moment,” Sinclair said. Of the four of them, Ranulf judged Sinclair to be packing the heaviest load of brains, so he stopped prowling long enough to listen. “Since no one would expect ye to move against the earl before Twelfth Night, would that not be the canny thing to do?”
Ranulf settled into one of the heavy chairs and stroked his beard. “Even so, I’d not stoop to taking what’s mine from the inside like a thief. I’ll take it like a man. I can put a hundred and twenty fighting men in the field at a call. How many will each of you pledge?”
After much hemming and hawing, between them all, they figured they could rally nearly three hundred men.
“Which doesna do us much good,” Murray said. “Glengarry has stout walls and a source of water inside the bailey that’ll never run dry. It’s never been taken from without and canna be.”
“That’s only because the right people havena tried it yet. Besides, I have a surprise or two I’m saving for when the time is ripe.”
Last winter, he’d stumbled across the remains of something he didn’t recognize at
They’d taken a drubbing and no mistake. Still, there had once been a time when Lord Glengarry could have disrupted the beating of his son-in-law with just his own hard fists. This time, the old man had to call on some of the onlookers to come to his aid while he broke up the gang attack on William Douglas.
“Ye’ll get your chance soon, Ranulf,” Ainsley MacTavish piped up. He was a bit of a brownnoser, but it pleased Ranulf to surround himself with MacTavish’s brand of uncritical devotion. “Another fit like the one he had last year will carry his lairdship off to his reward, like as not.”
“Not fast enough to suit me,” Ranulf said sullenly. “Glengarry deserves a young hand on the reins.”
As the old laird’s nephew, Ranulf was not a natural choice for purists who liked to ape English sensibilities and held to niceties like bloodlines. His mother, God rot her miserable, neglectful soul, was only Laird Glengarry’s sister, after all. Ranulf was brutal when he needed to be. Benevolent when it suited him. Both traits he shared with his mother, now that he thought on it.
But more importantly, he knew how to rally men to his side—the all-important quality for a leader.
“But what about the laird’s heir?” Always the pessimist, Hugh Murray had to bring up the obvious flaw in Ranulf’s plans.
“Donald?” Ranulf waved away his rival with a flick of his hand. “He’s mincing about at court with the rest of the fops. He knows how to bow and scrape and how to pick a French wine. I know the men of Glengarry.”
“So when the time comes, what do ye intend, Ranulf?” MacTavish asked.
He rose and paced the length of the solar. “When the time comes, when the times comes,” he repeated. “Ye know, I’m sick of waiting.” Besides, a tough old boot like Lord Glengarry could linger for years yet, even if he had another bad spell or two. And in that time, Donald might come to his senses and come home for good. “I’m thinking we ought to make our move before there’s need to be concerned about the succession.”
“What have ye in mind?” Gordon asked. “I know ye’ve gathered a good bit of support among the laird’s men who are unhappy over Donald’s absence, but we canna start a melee within these walls. The laird still holds the advantage, and many a man who’s shared a horn with ye and spoken of being dissatisfied will turn back to aid his laird in a pinch. They did take an oath, ye ken.”
Ranulf shrugged his massive shoulders. “So did we all. But a man canna be tied to an oath to a doddering old tyrant. Besides, who said anything about starting a ruckus here? It’s Christmastide, ye heathen.” He smacked Gordon on the back of the head and continued pacing the room.
“Hold a moment,” Sinclair said. Of the four of them, Ranulf judged Sinclair to be packing the heaviest load of brains, so he stopped prowling long enough to listen. “Since no one would expect ye to move against the earl before Twelfth Night, would that not be the canny thing to do?”
Ranulf settled into one of the heavy chairs and stroked his beard. “Even so, I’d not stoop to taking what’s mine from the inside like a thief. I’ll take it like a man. I can put a hundred and twenty fighting men in the field at a call. How many will each of you pledge?”
After much hemming and hawing, between them all, they figured they could rally nearly three hundred men.
“Which doesna do us much good,” Murray said. “Glengarry has stout walls and a source of water inside the bailey that’ll never run dry. It’s never been taken from without and canna be.”
“That’s only because the right people havena tried it yet. Besides, I have a surprise or two I’m saving for when the time is ripe.”
Last winter, he’d stumbled across the remains of something he didn’t recognize at
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