There were many approving nods.
“Are ye keeping Cora Mackenzie as yer wife?”
The question gave birth to another round of whispers. Faolan waited a moment before he answered.
“I have no taste for dishonesty,” Faolan said. “The union is not consummated.”
There were nods in response.
“But an alliance with the Mackenzie would be advantageous for the McKay,” Yestin remarked. “A laird must marry, and the lass is here.”
“She is unbridled.” It was Gilmor who spoke up. “What need have we of a hellion?”
The hall filled with hushed arguments as the McKay debated the issue.
“Cora Mackenzie is strong,” Yestin made his position clear. “A child gets half its blood from the mother. Faolan is strong enough to get a saddle on her.”
There were more grumblings in response. But Yestin was looking straight at Faolan. The senior captain’s gaze made it plain he was set on making sure Faolan bent to his demand.
“Noreen Grant has two unwed younger sisters,” Gilmor spoke up. “And we know for sure the Grants want to be in an alliance with us. The Mackenzies might consider themselves well rid of their unbridled wench.”
“Oh, aye,” Yestin agreed. “Four sisters in all. That bloodline has plenty of female offspring.”
Faolan ground his teeth. His frustration was high, but the laird’s marriage was a matter for the clan to discuss.
“I have never made becoming laird me purpose,” Faolan said. “Yet, I will not shrink from the place I was born into. Cast yer vote according to yer conscience in relation to me.”
At the fount of the hall, there were two buckets. One held dark stones. The other had white ones. Two of the Retainers lifted them high and poured them into a single trough. An old basket with a broken handle was placed over the top of it. One of the men used a knife to cut a hole in the basket. Just a small one, which would allow each man to drop a rock into the bucket without showing the color to anyone else. The McKay Retainers stood and gathered on the far side of the hall. A row of benches was lined up down the center. After each man cast his vote, he would go to the other side of the hall.
The three priests stood near the back. They would be the witnesses who watched to ensure no man voted twice. Once the votes were cast, the priests would turn the bucket over and count the stones in front of everyone.
The final move was for Faolan and the captains to leave the high ground where the laird’s table was. The senior captains sat there with their laird for meals. Now, they used the stairs on either side to descend to the ground level so they might not see what color stone any man took.
The voting didn’t take very long. Faolan watched as the priests separated the stones. It wasn’t the clearly larger pile of white stones that drew his attention. No, Faolan found himself pondering the pile of dark stones.
A third of the clan was against him.
His mother would have told him not to spare them a thought.
Malcolm would have surely informed Faolan that he was soft for caring at all.
Fate had somehow delivered him to the position his mother had always claimed was his by right.
And that he could keep Cora if he pleased.
*
Orla wasn’t going to budge a bit.
The Head-of-House met Cora in the passageway outside the kitchens.
“Ye are no’ the mistress,” she declared firmly.
“What I am is not lazy,” Cora countered. “So, I will be doing something of worth.”
Orla raised an eyebrow. There was a flicker of something in her eyes which might have been approval, but it was cut short by the way the Head-of-House narrowed her eyes.
“What would a pampered daughter of a laird know about being useful?” Orla demanded.
“A Head-of-House worth anything would know how to test me,” Cora boldly challenged the woman.
There were a dozen women straining to get a look at the confrontation. Cora kept her gaze on Orla as those women stared.
“I’ll not see the men of the McKay suffering a poor supper due to yer lack of skill.” Orla shook her head “And ye will no’ be setting eyes on the books of the McKay until ye are the lady of the house.”
Orla’s lips curved as she decided on a chore to assign Cora.
“The proper place to test out any worth ye might have is the laundry. If ye can nae see to the cleaning, well, ye do nae know very much about running a house.”
It was a lowly task, and yet, Orla wasn’t necessarily wrong about how important it was. Disease spread through a dirty house. So those who cleaned it were essential.
Cora sent the Head-of-House a smile. Orla’s confidence wavered just a bit in the face of Cora’s confidence. Of course, it was going to cost Cora. Ahead of her was a long day of scrubbing with lye. The skin on her hands would peel, and her eyes burn.
But there was no way she was going to cry quarter.
*
Being laird meant adopting the art of negotiation.
Balance would be a key factor.
Faolan found himself faced with his first challenge as he stared down Malcolm’s captains. Dismissing them all would be a tactical error. But failing to keep some of his own men would leave him unable to sleep because he would be waiting to see who snuck into his chambers to slit his throat.
“Every one of ye has served the McKay well,” Faolan began. “I would not discredit yer service. Yet, I would include me own men among the number of captains.”
“We understand yer need to have one of yer own among our ranks, Laird,” Yestin remarked. “The matter can be simplified by having Gilmor step back down. As the youngest among us, he’ll have the opportunity to rise back up in time.”
Gilmor wasn’t in agreement. But the rest of the captains nodded because it preserved their own places. Faolan tempered his impulse to dismiss them all. Aye, they’d all stood silent why he was banished, but the truth was, getting away from Noreen had pleased him greatly. Perhaps some of them had held their tongues because they understood how deeply their former mistress had sliced him.
“That’s sound thinking,” Gainor said. “And Gilmor, lad, ye need no’ worry about feeling slighted. Yer time will come again.”
The rest of the captains nodded in agreement. As far as a first act as laird, it seemed smooth enough. But Faolan felt a tingle on his nape. There wasn’t time to act on it, though. Gilmor left the room that served as the laird’s private office, and the captains immediately brought forward matters waiting for his attention.
There were defenses to consider and winter supplies to check. Investments and rents all had to be managed while keeping in touch with the outside world. Sealed letters were waiting to be opened and discussed, while the towers he’d so recently called his own needed another man to be assigned the task of building and defending.
Faolan threw himself into the effort. For so many years, he’d been unable to control the circumstances of his own life. Now, Fate had handed him a gift he’d never expected. He’d never joined the struggle for power, but he fully intended to be the laird needed to protect his clan.
*
His time would come again…
Gilmor fought back his rage.
Not because he thought he was wrong, but because he needed to think clearly enough to form a plan. Yestin had left him to rot. So, his future was going to be won solely by his own actions.