Chapter 18

He just walked straight in.

With no fanfare, or introduction, Malcolm entered the Duncan keep, the chill gusts of winter blowing him in.

The wind conspired with them, pushing their horses and blowing them closer. Dismounting, Malcolm cast a long glance at his childhood home. A shiver ran through him.

"Nae going back now," said James, cheerfully. But in the back of his voice there was caution.

Malcolm nodded, as they went to the doors.

Amazingly, they just walked right in. The gate posts were quiet. Just a sleepy guard on duty, who nodded them in through the drive. He believed, without question, they were chapmen, making a circuit with their wares.

Passing through the entrance, Malcolm checked himself. There was no one. The doors creaked back, letting in light to the shut up hall.

James peered uncertainly around the heavy doors and sneezed. Then did Malcolm, and a ton of cobwebs collapsed on top of them, sending dust all around.

"I heard it was run down, but I nae expected anything this bad!" said Malcolm, as James gawped.

Heart thumping, Malcolm looked at the walls and the corridors that had been his home. It was so different. The heart of the place was gone. The sconces were weedy and barely lit. Most of the candles were missing, and, by the look of things, so were the servants.

But, as they neared the great hall, he heard a jangling. Someone was approaching. In a snap, Malcolm turned.

"Halt there! Who goes here?" A man"s voice came at them, through the dark.

Malcolm stopped in the corridor. It was almost a relief to be approached. He waited, silently, as the servant - or guard - it was impossible to tell in the dark- caught up to them.

"Sir, what want ye?"

The man"s question was bold, but Malcolm did not falter.

"We"re here to see the laird. He is expecting us. We have quite a load!"

Malcolm tapped his travel bag, nudging to James to do the same. The servant"s eyes went greedily to Malcolm"s sack, and then back again.

Nodding, James concurred. "Aye, muckle bonny trinkets, an" whatnots," he said, slipping the guard a wink. "Plenty for the lasses! Some bonny ribbons for yer sweeting!" Malcolm smiled.

The slender guard appeared nervous. For the first time Malcolm saw his features, he was young, and small.

"Och," he said, taken aback. Slyly, his eyes strayed to James" bag, bulging with unknown wares. James grinned, pulling out a single string of jewels. The lad gasped.

"I...I"ll go an" fetch him," said the guard, before turning and promptly tripping over the unlit candelabra stationed beneath his feet.

Malcolm held a grin, as the lad faltered, scraping the metal against the floor as he pushed it away. When he was gone, he looked about. James saw him, and pondered.

"Well, that was easy," said James, watchfully. His eyes flitted about on high alert.

Malcolm contented himself with doing a tour of the hall - starting at the dusty edge and moving along the center. It had seen better days. On the walls were still the portraits, but they had faded with age. In the poor light, it was hard to make much out, but as he stood there he could hear the sounds of feet outside.

Voices murmuring in the corridors alerted him. Clearly there were still some folk around. Bit by bit, people were coming. Footsteps down the hallway became louder. Then, the hall door opened.

In walked a servant. Coming closer, Malcolm could see it was a different man than before. This one was taller, and older, and far more richly dressed. Judging by his demeanor, he was an advisor, or maybe a steward, Malcolm wasn"t sure.

One thing was for certain, he was important, as he came bustling into the main hall to meet them. "Hoo, come hither, the laird requests to ken who ye are,"

The man came shortly toward them, looking them up and down with his nose in the air. Malcolm eyed him closely. He seemed well-attired, and, not stupid. His thick black hair curled around him, half-disguising a quiet pair of eyes, watching them with care.

"We are here to show oor wares," said James, before Malcolm could fully open his mouth. The steward - or whomever - almost tutted.

"Well then, ye are to go into the chambers, where he will await ye. Or a servant will assist ye..."

He shot his comments through with a look of suspicion, as if they were somehow not respectable. Perhaps it was not surprising.

After ten years at sea, they did look a little bedraggled, but smartening himself down, Malcolm did not think he was any worse than a regular hawker who sold such goods.

"Sir, I have...," Malcolm asserted himself, opening a pouch in his bag. He didn"t get to finish this.

Over the top of his head, a shadow stretched deep. The hall door was opening, casting a draft into the already cold hall. Malcolm and James looked up, as a figure entered. Walking in slowly, the man came around to the top of the hall.

"An" who are these?"

Malcolm knew that voice anywhere. Instantly, he gave a start. Bruce!

"Sir, tis just some itinerant chapman," said the steward, dismissively. He looked at them as if he might shoo them away. "He says he has wares to show ye, but..."

Bruce walked nearer. He entered from the front of the hall, in the shadows, to stand before them. Quickly, he was followed by some servants, one carrying a lit candelabra. Finally, some light trickled into the dark and drafty room.

"Och, let me see, it cannae hurt," said Bruce, his voice slurring and vague. Malcolm held his breath. He was drunk, he was certain. Before he could even see him, he smelt the whiskey coming off Bruce.

Malcolm all but recoiled. Shuffling into view, came a stooping figure. From his gait, Malcolm would have put his age at over fifty.

Behind him, others came, some servants, standing in waiting, those who looked like locals, come to view the wares of the chapman. Malcolm waited, as scores appeared, filling the benches of the hall.

He had not expected an audience! But perhaps he might, a visit from the chapman was an event. Word had spread, and now women from the village were lined up, jostling to get a look at their pocketbook. Malcolm felt a slight twinge of guilt for the doughty fishwives, all waiting.

How disappointed they would be to find no lace trimming on offer!

"Come now, laddie," said Bruce, indulgently. He indicated to them to come over. Glancing at him, James looked warily, as Malcolm grabbed their bags, and made his way over.

Soon, they were seated, by the side of the grand chair. Taking their place, Malcolm had a sudden pang for his father. This was his seat! Who the hell was Bruce to take it from him!

A low whirl of anger burned in him, but he kept it in. Instead, he turned to greet his brother.

"Let"s see what ye"ve got, eh?" said Bruce, slurring slightly. He gave a slight hiccup and spread himself back in the seat.

James looked at Malcolm; blootered oot o" his skull, his eyes said.

Malcolm barely acknowledged him. He was too busy watching for Bruce to emerge from the shadows. With a low murmur of the crowd behind him, Bruce stared directly into Malcolm.

For the first time, Malcolm saw his face. With a gasp, he recoiled. The last ten years had hit him like a shoal of off fish.

He had not aged well. His greasy hair straggled everywhere, like an unwashed sheep. His eyes were heavy, with the toll of whiskey upon them, and his jaw, slantern and weak. But when he turned his face to Mal, it was clear he did not recognize him.

Instead, Bruce pawed the knapsack greedily, his thick fingers struggling with the fastenings. Taking it from him, Malcolm smiled.

"Allow me," he said, unfastening the roughly hewn sacking. Out of the knapsack, he produced a necklace - a beautiful string of beads. This kept Bruce happy, and for a few minutes he eyed it avidly, before handing it back.

"Tis bonny, how much for it?"

Malcolm paused. "Yer lairdship," he said, thoughtfully. Bruce glared like he was insane, then, he stopped and laughed.

But Malcolm stopped him. "Nae," he said, sullenly. He saw the face that Bruce was making, and shook his head. "I am nae jesting... I nae joke about such things..."

"T'would be too great a price," said Bruce, still smiling. He was quizzical, but not yet skeptical.

"Well then, I"ve got some other wee trinket... that would be more suited, for the price," said Malcolm, sitting down to unpick his bag..

A low murmur went through the crowds. They seemed to be growing. Out of nowhere, it seemed, people had arrived. Now they all watched, as Malcolm pulled a small sack from the bag.

Watching him also, Bruce. His gray-brown eyebrows arched amusedly. "So then, show us what ye have got, wee man..."

Bruce gave a low laugh, and Malcolm stirred, at Bruce"s calling him wee man. The crowd fell dead. Perhaps they sensed something.

"Naething," said Malcolm, suddenly serious. "Just this..."

He produced the black clan ring. He shoved it under Bruce"s nose and waited. Quickly, his eyes flitted to James. He followed Bruce watchfully, with his gaze.

Malcolm waited. He watched, as Bruce"s eyes roundened with recognition. Then, he switched.

"Where did ye get this?" he snatched the ring greedily out of Malcolm"s hand.

Malcolm stood up. He reached to take the ring from Bruce, but he refused.

"Nae," said Bruce. He stood defiant, but Malcolm squared up. Behind him, James pressed closer. "Nae until ye tell me where ye got it!"

Malcolm"s eyes flashed. He swiped the ring straight from Bruce"s hand. Bruce came at him, but then, with a smile, backed down.

"Och," he said, stepping back. His low, gray eyes danced between Malcolm and James. "Nae fash, I just want to ken how ye got it. That is stolen property, an" I willnae pay for it. Instead, I will take it from ye... or toss ye in the dungeons!"

Malcolm felt his patience crumble. "Tis nae stolen, Bruce, for father gave it to me!" his eyes gleamed, as he fixed them at Bruce.

The whole room fell so silent, it was as if the crowd were not there. Bruce stood still. Malcolm walked around him, staring.

For several minutes, Bruce was unresponsive. Finally, he lifted his colorless eyes to Malcolm.

"Nae," he said, but as he looked, his eyes told another story. "Nae," he said again, and then he stopped. A strange light came into him. "It cannae be..."

"Ye thought I was dead?" said Malcolm, his temper heating up. Instinctively his hands went to his sword. He did not draw it yet. Patting it, he felt it secure inside its scabbard.

Bruce"s eyes rushed around. He looked panicked.

"Aye, convenient for ye, that, Bruce," said Malcolm, pressing closer to where Bruce stood.

A murmur from the guards rippled. Swiftly, the dark-haired steward pushed forward. "Sir," he said, swiftly. He shoved himself physically in between Malcolm and Bruce. He was about to drag him back, when Bruce waved his hand.

"Nae fash," slurred Bruce. "I want to hear this..."

Bruce"s eyes went to Malcolm, then to James. He looked them up and down. In the background, the steward, and a couple of his men, drew their weapons slowly. With a nod, Malcolm acknowledged them.

"There"s naething to tell, Bruce. Father gave me the ring, an" ye sold me as a slave, for ten years..."

Malcolm stared, without moving. He refused to budge his eyes. Bruce, starting slowly, began to shuffle about.

"Nae, nae, tis lies," he said, but Malcolm noted it was more for the crowd than him. When Bruce looked him in the eyes, he knew.

Malcolm stood his ground. "Ye ken the truth, Bruce," he said. James straightened up behind them. "James kens the truth, how ye sold me to the highest bidder!"

Bruce"s eyes shifted from James, to the crowd, now noisily murmuring round and round. Edgily, Bruce tried to regain himself.

"Pish an" tish, I had to pay them to take ye!" he scoffed. He laughed along, but no-one else did, not even the dark-haired steward, watching closely from behind. "I mean, um, I would have had to pay for them to take ye...! Ye were the one who left the clan..."

Malcolm"s eyes narrowed. He had forgotten just how slippery Bruce was. But he knew him of old. He would never admit to what he had done.

It didn"t matter, because suddenly riled, Malcolm had the notion to break him, there and then.

"I nae left the clan! I was transported - away from the clan, away from my father...," Malcolm"s heart shot through with bitter pain. He paused as he collected himself awhile.

"The father ye killed..."

So many feelings were whizzing through he could hardly begin. It was not just his father that Bruce had deprived him of, it was her.

Ainslee.

For the full ten years he had been away, he had missed her. The feeling had gnawed and kept him alive. Never once had he forgotten though.

But finally, Bruce was reacting. Off from his seat, he walked around, swishing his embroidered robes importantly as he went.

"How dare ye insinuate I deliberately hurt oor father!" said Bruce, his pallid eyes darting anywhere but at Malcolm. Malcolm wondered how he could even keep his composure.

"My father," Malcolm corrected. "He wasnae yers... Ye are nae even my mother"s bairn. Face it, yer a cuckoo in a nest, an" tis aboot time someone pushed ye oot!"

Malcolm raised his voice. As he did so, the steward and a posse of men pushed through towards him. They were about to grab him, when Bruce motioned them to stop.

"Nae," he said, abruptly. "Let the wee runt have his say..."

Bruce"s eyes glared, and Malcolm felt his temper race. Behind him, James took a step nearer, baring his sword. Reluctantly, the steward stepped away, leaving Malcolm and Bruce head to head. Eventually, Bruce shook his head and sighed.

"So then, ye think ye can beat me, well, all I can say sonny, is come an" try to!"

Bruce"s pale eyes twinkled, he was serious. But then, as an aside, he added; "Remember, the last man who thought that ended up dead!"

Fury took him. Malcolm almost lunged right at Bruce.

"Ye murdering half-wit, ye have nae right to sit here, pretending to be laird!"

It was not Malcolm"s voice. Both of them turned, in surprise. There was James, his dagger drawn, and face trained straight on Bruce.

"Och," said Bruce, with a look of faux outrage. "Ye think ye could do better do ye?"

He pulled a face, sending Malcolm into spasms of rage. Struggling to gain his self-control, Malcolm stopped himself from shoving Bruce"s face into the dirt, but only just.

"So, what is it? All talk an" nae fight?" Bruce said, eyeing him, superciliously. He shooed the waiting guards away.

Malcolm straightened up.

"Aye, I challenge ye, for the seat o" this clan... if ye win, ye get it all. If ye lose, ye leave an" nae come back!"

"Accepted!" snarled Malcolm. Before he could make a move, Bruce dived right at him, tackling him to the ground.

Surprised, Malcolm shook him off, with not too much drama. He had gotten free before Bruce even flexed a muscle. Dusting himself down, Malcolm watched Bruce stagger back to his feet.

Then, he turned his attention to the guards.

"Together, just the two o" us, nae one else," said Malcolm, carefully. Bruce nodded, but Malcolm knew he could not trust him.

A deep, soporific silence opened up. Malcolm did not waste time. Quickly, he reached for his dagger, grasping it tight.

Swiftly, he wielded the clan blade, pointing it straight at Bruce. It had a pleasing quality to it - heavy and well weighted, it felt right in his hands. The hilt was decorated ornately with gemstones, which sparkled provocatively in every possible hue.

Squeezing it between his hands, Malcolm felt emotional. So, he had his father"s sword - but he did not yet have his authority. Perhaps Bruce recognized it, because as Mal held it to his neck, he gawped. He glanced up at his step brother.

"Enough!" he snapped, but Malcolm did not falter. There was a low murmur, but no immediate reaction from the crowd.

Smiling angrily, Malcolm pressed the tip of the knife straight into his flesh. "Now what, Bruce, now what?"