A CHRISTMAS WISH

Chapter 3: The Laird

CHAPTER 3:

THE LAIRD

Year 1213, Scone, Scotland

"I will not marry an English woman!"

Those resolutely spoken words had an undercurrent of menace laced through every single syllable. Most men quaked in their shoes when they heard that particular tone. For the person who had spoken those words was at his most dangerous when he seemed to be perfectly calm. Famed as the greatest warlord in the Highlands, Iain McLaughlin, was a man to be reckoned with. Few men had tangled with him and lived to tell the tale.

Looking at him now, standing tall, surrounded by several important nobles of the Fine and other highland Lairds it was easy to see why he was called the Black Wolf. All of the men watching this muscular giant looked at him with wary respect, both ally and foe alike. They weren't fooled by his calm demeanor though, they knew of the tempest that raged within.

The Laird had ice running through his veins but his deep grey eyes sparkled with a crescent of silvery fire, the jagged white scar which ran down the left side of his face from temple to square jaw pulsed ever so slightly, an unmistakable sign of the churning emotions held barely in check. Even now, standing absolutely still his huge muscled body looked like it was primed for an attack. Many of the nobles gathered there leaned back in their chairs fearing the silence before the storm.

"You will do as you are told," William the king of the Scots bellowed, rising ominously from his seat, a thunderous scowl on his bearded face and dull red blotches of color marring his ruddy cheeks.

The king had in recent years succumbed to illness, he was a mere shadow of the red-haired giant he had once been. The treaty of Norham with the English King John had served to further exacerbate his decline. Nevertheless he was still undisputed King of the Scots and as such unfamiliar with disobedience let alone open defiance,

"You know the consequences if you disobey."

Several of the king’s soldiers standing discreetly at the back of the hall took a few noisy steps forward, weapons drawn.

Instead of showing any signs of backing down the hard lines of the Laird’s mouth actually relaxed in a half smile.

The hall filled with a collective gasp, as the tension rose to a fever pitch, the air was thick and heavy with it, and every man there feared the worst. The Laird on the other hand casually surveyed the soldiers around him with a feral gleam in his eyes causing every single one of them to back up a step. Battle hardened they may be but even they weren't immune to the glint in the Wolf's eye.

The king on the other hand almost exploded with frustrated wrath. The situation was getting out of hand; neither man looked like he was going to back down. This particular impasse had only one inevitable conclusion, one that would certainly end in bloodshed.

Fortunately someone in that hall understood the Laird. Hugh, Laird of the McKinley clan was both old and canny. He was also a relative. Iain had been fostered in his household as a young lad and as such Hugh was probably the only man alive who could argue with the Wolf without fear of having his head chopped off.

Iain was a supreme warrior, even now surrounded by six nervous soldiers Hugh had little doubt that the boy could strike all of them down without breaking a sweat but the clever old man also knew that the Laird of the McLaughlin clan, although harsh, was above all else a reasonable man. Contrary to popular belief he wasn't a blood crazed monster. In fact the Laird was one of the very few warriors who took the time to think before he acted. Hugh knew it was that particular quality instead of brute strength which had catapulted Iain to an elevated position of power as the undisputed leader of one of the most powerful clans in the Highlands. And it was exactly that quality which Hugh was planning to manipulate.