The Chief Read Free Page A

was new, Tor would forgive him the offense. This time. “Stop shaking, man,” he snapped. “I’m not going to cut out your tongue for being the bearer of ill news.”
    Rather than looking reassured, however, the clerk seemed to turn an even sicklier shade of gray. Churchmen, Tor thought with disgust. For all their learning, they were delicatecreatures. But he had no patience for subtlety. The clerk had best toughen his hide. And if he didn’t, he could be replaced.
    “Where is my brother now?”
    The clerk shook his head, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t know, Chief. The messenger left before anyone could question him.”
    If Torquil had one wit of sense he had taken his stolen bride and sailed to perdition—which was about the only place Tor would not follow him.
    Murdoch, his henchman and captain of his guard, stepped forward, the first of his men to speak. It was not fear that kept the guardsmen silent, but respect for Tor’s judgment. Judgment he rendered alone.
    “I’ll find him,
ri tuath
. Most likely he’ll have gone to Ireland or the Isle of Man.”
    Tor had come to much the same conclusion himself. His brother—like the rest of them—had spent a large portion of the past twenty years as a gallowglass mercenary in Ireland. Sending fighting men to Ireland was one of the ways Tor had been able to restore the fortunes of his clan. He and his men knew Ireland almost as well as they knew Skye.
    He nodded. “Take as many men as you need.” He gave Murdoch a meaningful look. “My brother had best hope you find him before Nicolson does.”
    “And if he objects to returning?” Murdoch asked bluntly.
    No one would question him if he authorized deadly force—despite Torquil’s popularity among the men. The chief’s word was law. His mouth fell in a hard line, tempted to do just that. But as always, he kept his thoughts to himself. “Tell him it’s a direct order from his chief.” Something not even his pig-headed brother would refuse.
    He wished he’d thought to forbid him. After the trouble caused by their sister Muriel’s abduction, he’d assumedTorquil would know better. But he should have anticipated something when the negotiations fell through, and Nicolson announced a betrothal between his daughter and MacDougall’s son instead.
    Hell
. MacDougall would have to be recompensed, and knowing the greedy bastard, it was going to cost him.
    Tor tossed the balled letter into the fire in the middle of the hall and dismissed the clerk with a curt wave of his hand. Though the churchman looked anxious to scamper away and retreat to the safety of his books and papers, he didn’t move—other than to shift back and forth on his feet anxiously.
    The clerk’s temerity had begun to grate. “If you’ve something else to say, say it or return to your duties.”
    “Yes, Chief. I’m sorry, Chief.” The clerk retrieved a folded piece of parchment from the pouch he wore tied around his brown woolen robes. “This came only a short while ago.” He handed it over to Tor for his inspection.
    Tor examined the wax and took immediate note of the seal with the familiar four men in a
birlinn
. Angus Og MacDonald,
Ri Innse Gall
. He lifted a brow, amused. MacDonald was a bold one, using the old title of King of the Isles instead of Lord of Islay. A title with which King Edward just might disagree.
    What did the “King of the Isles” want with him?
    He broke the seal, scanned the letter, and handed it back to the young churchman. Though he could read some Gaelic, he did not have the proficiency of the clerk. Like most of the West Highland chiefs, he employed men for such tasks.
    The clerk began to read. It took him a while to get through the extended greeting—Tormod son of the same, son of Leod, son of Olaf the Black, King of Man, son of Harald Hardrada, King of Norway—but eventually it became clear that MacDonald was sending out a summons to the island chiefs to attend a council at Finlaggan,