Amanda Scott Read Online Free Page A

were admitted at half-past ten, shortly before the laird’s suppertime, their arrival stirred a buzz of
     conversation. But the buzz ended abruptly when the laird’s porter banged his staff of office on the stone floor, demanding
     silence before he announced the name of the visiting chieftain.
    Then in stentorian tones, he said, “Sir Finlay Mackenzie, Laird o’ Kintail, declares that he has business wi’ Mackinnon o’
     Dunakin.”
    “Welcome t’ Dunakin, Kintail,” Mackinnon said affably. “We’ll be setting aside any business till ye’ve taken your supper,
     though. A man should eat well afore he takes up matters of import. Call in your lads and find places at yon tables.”
    Stepping forward instead, Fin said, “I have brought no others with me, sir. An it please you, my business will not take long.”
    “Aye, sure, but what will please me most is t’ take my supper first, and in peace,” Mackinnon said less affably than before.
     “Sit ye down, Kintail, as I bade ye—ye and your lads—and enjoy your meal whilst I enjoy mine. There be naught ye could say
     that can be more important than food, lest ye’ve come t’ beg urgent assistance against a common enemy. Will it be battle,
     then?”
    “Nay sir, ’tis naught o’ the sort.”
    “Then sit down, man, sit down. We’ve salmon and fresh lamb roasted whole on the spit, and I’ve a hunger on me grand enough
     to eat it all m’self.”
    Left with no other choice, Fin and his men sat down and took supper with the laird and his household. But although Mackinnon’s
     servants offered them much food and drink, the six ate sparingly and drank less, speaking civilly when addressed but otherwise
     remaining silent.
    Fin noted that his grizzled host watched him through narrowed eyes and doubtless noted his impatience, but when the servants
     had set fruit and sweets on the tables, instead of permitting him to state his business, Mackinnon called for one of the Dunakin
     men to give them a tune on the pipes. When that was done, he called on another to tell them a tale. Then one of her ladyship’s
     women took up a small harp and played a tune while servants bustled about, clearing tables and beginning to dismantle the
     trestles in the center of the hall. The high table remained as it was.
    Fin, sitting on the hard bench and watching the table before him be taken apart, had to exert stern control to suppress his
     growing frustration. Only the suspicion that Mackinnon hoped he would press again to have his business heard, and would then
     counsel more patience, kept him silent. Exerting patience of any sort was foreign to his nature.
    The hour had advanced considerably before at last the laird made a slight gesture and said, “Step forward, Kintail, and state
     your business. Ye be Sir Ranald Mackenzie’s lad, be ye not, the one they call Wild Fin?”
    “I was called so before my father’s death,” Fin admitted in a commendably calm but carrying voice as he stood up. He saw no
     reason to add that many who knew him still referred to him by that appellation.
    Mackinnon nodded somberly. “ ’Twas sorry I were t’ learn o’ his passing.”
    “It was a sad day,” Fin said curtly. Taking the roll of parchment that Patrick MacRae held out to him, he added, “With respect,
     sir, I have come not to speak of past events but to present this document to you and to collect what is mine.”
    “What sort o’ document would that be?”
    “’Tis a writ of wardship and marriage from King James, sir, vacating an earlier writ of the same nature, granted a dozen years
     ago to Donald of Sleat.”
    “Indeed?”
    “Aye.”
    “Then it seems t’ me that it is t’ Sleat that ye should present your document.”
    “As to that—”
    Cutting him off with a gesture, Mackinnon said, “I expect I can guess the ward named in this writ of yours, Kintail, but ye’d
     best tell me all the same.”
    “One Mary Gordon, sir, known also as the Maid of Dunsithe.”
    A