Page 3 of Bound By Honor
Angus had heard his father speak of Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster, many times. A Norman, he was a friend of England’s King Edward called Longshanks for his long legs.
The Lord of Annandale beckoned to two men with dark hair standing nearby. “Angus, you have met my son, the Earl of Carrick, before. And my other son, Richard, who is most often with King Edward.”
“Aye”, said Angus’ father, holding out his hand to Annandale’s sons, first one and then the other. Angus wondered if Richard Bruce kept the King of England informed of this meeting. Doubtless the English king would have insisted upon it.
As he studied Annandale’s two sons, Angus thought neither had the presence of their powerful father, unlike his own brother. As a small lad, Alex had been a hostage of King Alexander for their father’s good behavior after the Battle of Largs. More than a decade separated him and Angus. He respected Alex as the acknowledged heir who would one day take their father’s place as Lord of the Isles.
When Angus was born, his sisters, Mary and Mora were grown and already married. So when his younger brother, John, came along, they became friends.
Robert the Noble then introduced another man who Angus judged to be in his seventh decade. His eyes were blue and his hair and beard full gray and wiry. “Patrick, Earl of Dunbar, has come from Lothian with three of his sons, Patrick, John and Alexander.” The sons, somewhere in their fourth decade, dipped their heads to the Lord of the Isles.
“We were glad to hear you were coming,” said the Earl of Dunbar, his deep voice resonating about the hall.
“I would never fail to heed Annandale’s call,” said Angus’ father, directing a grin at their host. “The Macdonalds stand with the Bruces.”
The face of the eldest Robert Bruce softened with a pleased expression as he continued, “I believe you also know Walter Stewart, Earl of Menteith and sheriff of Dumbarton, but you may not know his two sons, Alexander and John.” The earl, who looked to be in his fifth decade, had a prominent nose and dark brows to go with his dark hair. The two sons were of similar appearance and, in age, somewhere between Angus and his brother.
“Aye, Walter and I are well known to each other,” said Angus’ father, offering his hand to the earl. “It is a pleasure to finally greet your sons.”
“Walter’s nephews, James Stewart, High Steward of Scotland, and most recently one of the Guardians, and his brother, John, have come, too,” said their host.
Angus was aware that the Stewarts’ father, Alexander, had just died, which was why, he assumed, the two sons were here in his stead. If a Guardian, James would be one of the new ones appointed to tend the affairs of Scotland since the country now lacked a king.
Both Stewarts, somewhere in their twenties, possessed the look of warriors. Thin-faced, they wore their brown hair long and their beards short.
“I am sorry for the loss of your father,” said the Lord of the Isles to the two men.
“Thank you, Lord Angus,” said James.
In all this, Angus was virtually ignored and his brother merely acknowledged with a dip of heads. It was their father to whom the nobles and their sons paid tribute. It came to Angus then that Angus Mor Macdonald truly was a magnate of Scotland, respected by all. There was something these men wanted from him, something only he could supply.
“Finally,” said the Lord of Annandale, “another has come from Ireland, Thomas de Clare, Lord of Thomond.” De Clare was fair of coloring and his eyes light but his face was browned as if he spent most of his time in the sun. About forty in age, he carried himself like a soldier though he was dressed as a peer.
The Lord of Thomond chuckled. “By the King of England’s grant, I have lands in Ireland and my lady wife and I are often there, but to find peace, we have recently been sojourning in England with our children.”
“Ah, yes,” said the Red Earl, “and that brings us to my reason for our meeting.”
“And to mine,” said their host. “But first a toast to this day!” The Lord of Annandale ordered wine to be poured for the newcomers.
A liveried servant entered and whispered to their host, who beckoned Angus to him. “My grandson, Robert, awaits you outside the castle, Young Angus.”
Angus bowed. “Thank you, my lord.” And with a glance at his father, he followed the servant out of the hall.
Outside, the servant pointed to a patch of green where a lad of an age with Angus stood staring out to sea, his hands clasped behind him as if contemplating a weighty matter. His chin-length russet hair blew about in the wind. Angus wondered if he had been made to change his clothing for his surcoat was of dark green wool and his hosen a madder red, not the clothing of a boy who had been at play when called. At his side was a man’s sword much like the one Angus wore.
Angus strode forward and the boy turned.
“I am Angus Og Macdonald.”
“They told me who you were. I am Robert Bruce, the seventh of that name.” His eyes were the same gray as his father’s, but with a spark his sire’s eyes did not possess. Angus and this Bruce were of the same height, tall for their age. They met each other’s gaze unflinching.
Angus reached out his hand and they clasped forearms in fulsome manner. “Are you, too, barred from the meeting of the lords?”
“Aye,” said the younger Robert. “But it saddens me not. I expect their conversation will be quite dull.”
“Not I,” said Angus. “I have never seen so many nobles from Scotland and Ireland gathered together in one place. Are you not curious as to why?”
“Not really.” He shrugged. “My grandfather is always meeting with some noble or other, especially since King Alexander fell off his horse and died.” His look said he had no respect for a man who could not keep his seat. Sliding his sword from its sheath, and facing the sea, he brandished it about. “Besides, I will soon leave to become a squire.”
