Page 20 of Bound By Honor
“Aye, he is, nearly three decades in office but not too old to affix his seal.”
As they continued up the stairs, Angus recalled that four years ago, his father had affixed his galley seal to the document that bound the Macdonalds to the Bruces, the Earl of Ulster and other nobles in a common purpose. Now his brother would bring his seal to the grant of the Kintyre church.
At the top of the stairs, Angus stepped into the great hall, which was just as he remembered it: the familiar aroma of herbed rushes, the paneled oak walls and the Bruce banners and tapestries. Windows at one end cast a soft light around the room.
Angus handed his damp cloak to a waiting servant and looked longingly toward the fire blazing in the stone fireplace. Before he could step in that direction, however, his attention was drawn to the other end of the hall where a group of black-robed clergy and well-dressed nobles turned to see who was joining their number. He was glad he’d worn his best clothing, a woad blue tunic embroidered in silver and his sword belt, though worn with good use, was well made.
Recognizing his brother, Angus crossed the hall to him. For the occasion, Alex, too, had taken pains with his appearance. His dark brown hair fell in neat waves to his shoulders and his cinnamon tunic was of fine wool. A new leather belt held his sword.
Angus’ weapons were not so new but in Tirconnell, they had proven their worth.
The smile on Alexander’s face was genuine. “’Tis a surprise to see you here, younger brother.”
“Father’s idea.” With an amused grin, he added in a low voice, “He thinks it time I learned some statecraft from you.”
“Aye, you might learn something here,” said Alex in the manner of an older brother counseling a younger one.
In a louder voice, Angus said, “I bring Patrick, one of our clerks on Kintyre.”
Alex greeted Patrick before turning to the others. “At our father’s request, my brother, Angus, joins us with Patrick, a clerk from Kintyre.”
“Welcome, Patrick,” said Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick. “We will surely have need of your skills. And greetings to you, Angus. I recall the last time you were among us. Of course, you know my son.”
Appearing from behind a cleric to stand next to his father was Angus’ friend, Rob. The gray eyes were the same but he looked older, his russet hair more auburn in color and shorter. His face displayed the beginnings of a dark brown beard.
Rob smiled and so did Angus. “Aye, we are friends,” said Angus.
Rob offered his hand, the smile in his eyes telling Angus he was glad to see him. “I was hoping you might come.”
The earl began to make the introductions. Patrick had been correct in the list of clergy who would attend, including the old Bishop of Argyll with his white tonsured hair and beard and deeply wrinkled face. Much deference was paid him by the others.
Angus greeted each one as his station required, including Sir Maurice, the vicar of Arran, who had just arrived. As soon as the greetings were dispensed with, he again found Rob.
“You must stay the night so we can bridge the years,” said the youngest of the Robert Bruces.
“Over a game of chess mayhap?” asked Angus, realizing he had decided to accept the invitation, which would make him delayed in rejoining his cousin.
Rob smiled. “That, too.”
The clerk then read the charter granting to Paisley Abbey the kirk of St. Queran. The formalities involved in the grant were as dull an affair as Angus had expected, though one day such duties as witnessing charters and bestowing them would be his and thus he followed carefully the details and listened to every word his brother spoke. Alex impressed him with his easy manner among the dour clerics and the respect they paid him.
The Macdonalds had long been in the business of establishing abbeys and endowing monasteries. Somerled, his ancestor, had contributed St. Oran’s Chapel to Iona and conceived the idea of Saddell Abbey on Kintyre. His son, Ranald, carried through with his father’s dream. Watching the somber-faced men of the church in their ecclesiastical black and white finery, Angus knew with a certainty he could never be one of them and was glad his father had not destined him for the church.
Had that been a part of his father’s purpose in sending him here? In showing him what he was not, the Lord of the Isles had revealed more clearly what Angus was—an Isleman born to ship and sea and the people who were his responsibility, whose freedom he must ever secure. Too, his father might have wanted him to understand the responsibility they had to support the Church, as they did on the Isle of Iona, constructing and maintaining the great abbey there.
In the end, Alex affixed his seal “as son and heir of Angus, Lord of the Isles,” for all to remember. “So that this grant does not sink into blind oblivion,” he said, “Laurence, Bishop of Argyll, and Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, have agreed to witness the grant and affix their seals as well.”
The business of the day concluded, the men raised goblets of wine in tribute to a task well done and, afterwards, lingered in small groups to speak of the affairs of the day.
Angus and Rob stood to one side, listening. “They speculate about who will next wear Scotland’s crown,” said Angus.
“Aye, and my grandfather’s chances of wearing it.”
“Which are good, one would suppose,” said Angus.
Rob shrugged. “My grandfather thinks so but John Balliol and the Comyns will resist. To avoid war, there is talk that King Edward will be asked by the Guardians to decide among the many claimants.”
Angus tried to imagine such a process and failed. “That will be a messy business.”
