“Duncan, watch where you’re going!”  Connor growled over his shoulder in annoyance as his companion trod on his heels for the second time in the last ten minutes.  When he got no answer, he turned to look, and had to stop and go back, tugging on his clansman’s sleeve to get his attention.  Duncan ignored him, his face almost slack with awe as street acrobats balanced three high on each other’s shoulders, the third one managing to juggle three balls as he swayed precariously high above the crowd while a hawker passed through with a hat, extolling the acrobats’ antics and collecting coins from the more generous, or gullible, passersby.

Connor grabbed an elbow and yanked when he saw his student reach into his sporran for one of the few coins the lad had to his name, and at last Duncan stumbled after him, casting longing looks back at the spectacle.  “Hurry along, Duncan.  If we don’t reach the inn soon, they will have let all their rooms and we’ll end up sleeping in an alleyway.  And believe me, in this city that is a sure way to loose your purse, or worse.”

“Did you see that?” Duncan asked, eyes wide with excitement.  “How do they do that?  Wouldn’t it be grand to make a living like that?”  Ever since they had reached the outskirts of Edinburgh, his young companion had been making almost non-stop commentary, asking questions so fast that Connor could not possibly keep up with any answers.  It was exhausting.

The fall day was crisp and clear, fortunately.  Otherwise the hard-packed dirt under their feet would be a morass of horse dung and mud.  Connor’s nose had gotten accustomed to the clean, clear air of the countryside over the past year and a half, and even without the rain, the assault of manure, sewage, unwashed bodies, rancid food and the fumes of strong liquor that rolled out of every tavern they passed threatened to sour his stomach.  Fortunately, his companion seemed too occupied to notice as he strained his head this way and that, trying to see every detail of Edinburgh’s Royal Mile in their struggle through the crowd toward a small inn Connor had come to know well over the decades.

“You’re a little clumsy to be an acrobat,” Connor snapped, his temper wearing thin.  It had been amusing at first, watching his student’s first encounter with life in a real city.  Duncan had visited some of the larger villages of the Highlands, and even went with his father once to the seat of the MacLeod High Chief on the Isle of Skye, but nothing he had seen to date could compare with the hustle and bustle of Edinburgh.  “And while you will have ample opportunity to pursue whatever occupation you wish, street performers are only one step above beggars.”

Duncan harrumphed, obviously unconvinced.  “That man said they performed for the Royal Court at the Palace.  Is there a Palace here?  I’ve never seen a palace, unless you count Dunvegan, which surely looked like a palace to me, but they called it a castle, so I guess it wasn’t a palace.  Was he talking about that Castle up on the hill there?  Oh, look, they’re selling swords and dirks!  We should stop and…”

“No!” Connor grabbed his kinsman’s arm before he could wander off again.  “He’s probably talking about Hollyroodhouse, there back at the end of the street,” Connor pointed down the hill. 

Duncan strained his neck and stretched up, looking over the heads of the crowd.  “Oh, aye,” he agreed.  “‘Tis a verra grand house, to be sure.  Have you ever been there?”

“A couple of times,” Connor answered, finally turning onto a side street and heading down some stone steps into a narrow, covered walkway.  “The new king will doubtless be crowned there, provided he ever bothers to come to Scotland.” The narrow wynd leading down from the Royal Mile was formed of steep stairs, worn and uneven, but at least Connor didn’t feel like he had to keep one hand on his sporran and the other on his dirk all the time.  The city was rife with beggars and cutpurses.  While any thief trying to steal from two Immortals in a dark alley might get a rude surprise, Connor had ended more than one trip through a city crowd with his money in someone else’s pocket.

Connor had been putting off this trip for several months, despite his growing need to see to his investments.  Taking a new Immortal into a crowded city made his skin prickle with unease.  It was unlikely they would meet another of their kind, but if they did, Duncan was just brash enough and arrogant enough to try to take a challenge.  If so, he might lose his young friend all too soon, and that thought was enough to keep him away until he felt he was at risk of losing decades of investment efforts.

He had even considered leaving Duncan behind, but his clansman would not hear of it, and Connor’s own memory of returning to the glen to find Ramirez’ headless body was enough to sway him.  And it had to happen sometime.  Eventually, they would leave Scotland, and eventually young Duncan would have to face another Immortal in battle.  The thought gave Connor nightmares.  Had he trained him well enough?  Had he forced enough knowledge and caution into that thick Scottish skull to give his student even a little sense of his vulnerability?  It wasn’t a matter of intelligence, certainly.  The lad was fast and strong and eminently teachable, voraciously absorbing everything Connor taught about swordsmanship and strategy.  Duncan’s weakness was his inexperience, along with his pride and naiveté in his belief that others would act with the same sense of honor that the clan chieftain’s son wore like a suit of protective armor. 

Well, he would get his business done as quickly as he could, and get his student back to the safety of their isolated croft.  Duncan may think he was ready for the great, wide world, but the more time passed, the more his teacher got a sick feeling in his stomach every time he considered letting Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod loose from the tight leash with which he had tethered the lad. 

Duncan was being unusually silent, and Connor glanced back.  Duncan had stopped at the last landing and was craning his neck upwards.  “Duncan!” Connor was exasperated.  “What now?”

Huge dark eyes turned to him.  “People live up there?  How can they build up so high?  It must be seven or eight houses piled on top of one another.”

Connor glanced upward, and realized that one of Edinburgh’s most distinctive trademarks – the many-layered buildings constructed in the steep streets down the hill from Edinburgh Castle – were not immediately apparent from the main road, and were something utterly foreign to his young protégé. 

“There are many buildings taller than that in London and in Paris, and they even build grand palaces right on the water in Venice,” he kept descending the worn stone stairs, grateful again it wasn’t raining.  These steep side streets were the devil to negotiate when they were wet. 

Duncan laughed and followed, closing the distance between them, trotting down the steep stairs with the carefree grace of a child.  “Oh, aye, and I suppose the beds are stacked one on top of the other, as well, like sacks of oats, eh?”

Connor didn’t bother to answer, having found the low doorway to the Queen’s Arms Inn, a small establishment he had frequented off and on for half a century or more.  The woman who led them up the stairs to their tiny room didn’t recognize his name, for which Connor was grateful.  It had been over a decade since he had last been to Edinburgh, and he never stayed long.  But this place was clean and out of the way of the noisy streets above.

The room was barely large enough to contain the bed, which was barely large enough to hold two men of any substantial size.  Duncan eyed the small bed dubiously.  “I might do better on the floor, especially given the way you snore,” he commented.

“I do not snore,” Connor snapped, prompting a derisive snort from his companion.  “You, however, definitely snore loud enough to shake the rafters.”

“Aye, well,” Duncan looked up at the beams of a ceiling barely high enough for him to stand upright, “that might be a problem in here, for certain.”

A meal in a tavern completed their day, and Connor enjoyed watching his clansman exude charm and charisma like most people breathe, eat and drink.  Within an hour, Duncan knew all the barmaids and half the patrons by their first names, and rarely had to pay for his own drink, which Connor appreciated, given the current unknown state of his finances.

The next morning, the two MacLeods set out for the Royal Mile again, until Connor led them to a small shop with thick-paned glass windows that had George Heriot & Sons gilded in elaborate script across them.

“What’s this place?” Duncan asked.

Connor belatedly realized that his young student’s literary ignorance, which had not been much of an issue in the Highlands, would be more of a handicap in the wider world.  Connor shoved the thought away to consider another time.  He had enough on his hands just pounding basic survival skills in the lad’s stubborn skull. 

“I’ve known George Heriot for half a century.  He was an excellent goldsmith, the only one in Scotland, so far as I know.  But he was also a man I trusted with my financial matters.  He moved to London a couple of decades ago, and now that he is dead and gone, his nephews have taken over the firm.”  Since Duncan couldn’t read the sign, at least Connor didn’t have to explain that the “& Sons” was just wishful thinking on George’s part.

A small bell announced their arrival, but it was still a moment before a tall, lean man with a decided stoop to his shoulders pushed past the curtain from a back room, and cocked his head at them.

“May I be of assistance?” 

“Aye, that you may,” Connor smiled.  “I believe you have some correspondence for me.  My name is Connor MacLeod.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows rose.  “Oh, aye?  Connor MacLeod, is it?  And how would I be knowing that?”

Connor felt Duncan tense and start to push forward, but Connor restrained him with a hand on his arm.  “You’d be knowing that because I would be giving you the information your uncle sent to you to confirm my identity.”

The man smiled, showing stained, uneven teeth.  “Would you now?”  He sat at a large oak desk in the corner of the small front room, and turned up the lamp to cast a slightly brighter light in the otherwise heavily shadowed room.  Turning to the warren of cubby holes built into the shelves behind him, he pulled out a thick ledger, opened it and thumbed thoughtfully through the pages, running his finger down long rows of entries, then turning a leaf, and repeating the action.  Connor sat in a deep wingback chair while Duncan paced impatiently back and forth behind him.

As he searched, eying the long columns down his thin nose, Heriot murmured, “I certainly recognize the name.  My uncle has dealt with a Connor MacLeod for half a century or more.  That would be your father, perhaps?  Or your grandfather?”

“My uncle, actually,” Connor answered casually.  “He knew old Mr. Heriot before he moved to London.”

“Did he, now?  Ah, here it is.  It arrived almost four months ago.”  He rose, closed the book, meticulously put it away and disappeared into the back.  Connor waited in patient silence while Duncan restlessly continued to pace the floor.  At last Heriot emerged, holding a packet tied in oilcloth.  In another hand, he held a small envelope, which he opened with irritatingly slow care, then looked up at his customer curiously.  “My uncle has a description here, and it is almost sufficient for identification, for you must mightily resemble your uncle.  But I am told to ask the question, “Where is Heather?”  Heriot looked up expectantly.

Connor lowered his head and took a breath, then placed his hand over his heart.  “Right here,” he said softly.  “With me, always.”

With a nod, Heriot left the two men alone, and Connor opened and read the letters carefully, then folded them back up neatly and tied the packet closed.  “Mr. Heriot!” he called at last, and the man immediately poked his head through the dividing curtain.  “I believe my agent in Ravenna sent you a letter of credit.  I would like to draw out 50 pounds, please.”

The transaction took only a few moments, and Connor left the small office feeling weighted down with news and more coinage than he was comfortable carrying, but there was nothing to be done for it.  He stopped at a small paper shop, purchasing paper, ink and several quills, and then he and Duncan stopped at an out of the way tavern where they could get some breakfast and Connor could compose some letters.  Duncan had been remarkably patient throughout, observing Connor’s actions quietly.

“Is that how fortunes are made, then?” Duncan finally asked as they waited for a trough of porridge at the tavern. “You just learn who to ask for it?”

Connor inspected his student, ready for a sharp retort, but realized Duncan was teasing him by the quirk of a smile on his lips and in his eyes.  “It takes a long time for a man like you or me, starting from nothing, to accumulate wealth, Duncan.  Over the decades I’ve been a blacksmith, a hired mercenary, a sea captain, done my share of smuggling, and…oh, don’t look at me like that.  Smuggling has been an honored Scottish tradition long before even either of us was born.  Do you think your father did not hide income from the King’s tax collectors?”

Duncan looked scandalized.  “O’ course!  If we did not, there would’na have been enough to feed the village come winter.  But that was about the good of the people we were supposed to care for, not about our own wealth.  Father barely managed to keep everyone alive from year to year what with drought one year, and sickness the next, and some war chief calling up all the men the next.”  Duncan shook his head.  “T’was a hard, thankless job to be village chieftain, for certain.  And certainly wasn’t done to gain any riches.”

“Well, smuggling is a hard, thankless job, as well, but it has a few more rewards.  And the King will hardly miss a few shillings from the fine whiskey made in the Highlands that I ferried to France, and the villagers who profited from it were able to feed their families a little more bread, and I was able to save a few pounds in the process.  Wealth, Duncan, breeds more wealth, for without funds, you cannot invest, and without investment, you cannot acquire any more wealth.”

“So if I have no money, then I can make no money?”  Duncan snorted.  “Sounds like the Scots’ way, for certain.”

“It’s the way of the world, Duncan.  Money begets power, and power begets money.  The more you have of either, the more likely you are to get more of both.  It has taken me half my life to acquire a small bit of wealth, and it takes diligence to make sure it does not slip away.  I had invested in a load of silk and spices shipped overland from the Far East, and was planning to captain a vessel myself, from Morocco to Italy and France, but…”

“But you came here, instead,” Duncan offered with a frown.

“Aye,” Connor admitted.  “I left the arranging of transport in the hands of one of us.  One thing about doing business with Immortals, Duncan, they know the price of betrayal is very high, and that time is not a factor.  Anyway, Hamza wrote me six months ago to say the caravan had arrived with the goods virtually intact, and that the load would be on its way within two months, captained by a man I know well.  It should have arrived by now, and its last stop was London, where the captain was to contact Heriot and send me the proceeds of the sale of the goods, after deducting expenses.” 

“And?” Duncan prompted, now digging into the bowl of thick buttermilk-laced porridge that had been placed in front of him.

“And,” Connor sighed, “It seems the captain wanted to use another agent, other than Heriot, and the message is that I am to contact Lord Huntly.”

Duncan stared at him for a moment before commenting.  “Huntly?  Now there’s a man I would’na trust with my slop pot, much less my fortune, for all that he’s one of the few openly Catholic lairds.”

Connor snorted.  “I’d hardly call him a laird, given his hatred of the clans.  The Mackays may have been forced to swear fealty, but none else will, no matter their titles or their power.  But how did you know of the Gordons?”

Duncan looked mildly insulted.  “The scheming and fighting among the clans is mother’s milk to any Highland son.  I listen in the taverns, I ask questions, I pay attention.  I know that Huntly tried to oust the MacLeods from the islands, and sent some 500 hired swords to do the job, only to be turned back.  I know King James hated his own people, thought us all barbarians and bloodthirsty savages, that he proscribed the Gregors and encouraged Argyle and Huntly and others like them to wipe them and anyone else who wears a plaid from the face of the earth.  I know Huntly is a greedy, malicious bastard who by rights shouldn’a even be called a Scot.  I know…”

“All right, all right,” Connor lifted his hand to placate his clansman, who was working himself up into a righteous lather.  “But Huntly is back in open favor with the new king, and the person I will have to go see if I am to receive the proceeds from the shipment.  If things went as planned, it will be enough to live on for years, so it will not do to deliberately insult the man.”

Duncan made a low noise in the back of his throat that aptly conveyed his opinion of George Gordon, 6th Earl of Huntly.  “Then you’d best not wear your plaid, for I hear the man fancies himself an English gentleman,” Duncan advised with a disgusted lilt and a mockingly effeminate wave of his hand.

Connor smiled.  “I think I can manage to impersonate a gentleman, for a few moments, at least.  You, however…”

“I have no desire to impersonate anyone, Connor MacLeod.  Certainly not an English gentleman.  And if you expect me to bend a leg to some…”

Connor laughed, and Duncan narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his teacher.  “What?” Duncan asked.

“Don’t worry, I won’t try to dress you up in doublet and hose – yet.  But it is an amusing concept.”

“I’ll amuse you,” Duncan snarled as a playful threat, but the humor in his eyes conveyed that he knew he was being teased.

The letter requesting an appointment with the 6th Earl of Huntly had been sent to Holyroodhouse, where, by the King’s Grace, his Lordship was currently housed.  A response had been received in only a couple of days, but it took that long for Connor to make certain his best suit – the same doublet and cape he had worn when Duncan had first seen him at Glen Fruin – was cleaned and repaired, and that Duncan was outfitted in a fresh plaid and a nice linen shirt, complete with lace jabot.  The dangling lace bothered his kinsman until Connor had to slap his hands to keep him from constantly tugging at it.  He had also gotten the lad a much-needed new leather baldrick, cloak and knee-high boots.

Duncan paced the small room in his new finery while Connor pulled on his hose and doublet and carefully tied his cape.  He put on his hat, but Duncan frowned at him, reached out to cock it at a slightly different angle, then stepped back.  “Well, you look like an damned fool, but I guess that’s the point, aye?”

Connor couldn’t help but grin at his student.  Duncan’s disdain for ‘gentlemen’ was partly born from his upbringing and partly from a fear of being put in a situation where he would be ridiculed.  And Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had only his name and his pride to which he could claim true ownership.

“You are to look the part of the fierce clansman.  You need do naught but stand at my back and look threatening.”

 “Aye, well I suppose I can do that well enough,” Duncan agreed with a grin.

“And don’t say a word,” Connor looked threateningly up into Duncan’s dark eyes.   Duncan met his glare for a minute, but then his gaze shifted away.

“And what would I have to say to the likes of the Earl of Huntly?” Duncan pronounced the title with a waggle of his head and a casting of his eyes to the ceiling. 

“Yes, well,” Connor looked Duncan up and down, dubiously.  He wasn’t certain taking Duncan with him was a good idea, but it would be a learning experience, and if the Earl, who was not known for being a man of particular honor or honesty, thought Connor was backed by a little family muscle, well it could do no harm.  And Duncan cleaned up nicely, he decided.

The liveried guard only gave them a cursory look as they entered the large foyer to Holyroodhouse.  The large hall, with its decorated plaster ceiling and heavy crystal chandeliers, was filled with milling courtiers awaiting an audience with various representatives of their Scots-born King – a fledgling monarch, raised in the English royal court, an ardent Episcopalian who had yet to make it to the land of his birth since his father’s demise.  Instead, he had delegated favors and titles to various members of the nobility who shared his distaste for the ‘bloody, barbaric Gaels.’

With few exceptions, most of the great houses of Scotland were ardently Protestant, if not Calvinist, and viewed the Episcopal Church as only one step removed from popery.  The new king’s Episcopal leanings not only offended their religious sensibilities, but if Charles revoked the current system of land grants, as every Scottish King was expected to do at the age of 25, and replaced it with one that took control of the tiends, or religious tithing, out of the hands of the Protestant nobility, there could very well be a revolt.  And Scots were not known for their restraint when it came to bloodletting.

Navigating the murky, turbulent waters of royal, religious and clan politics was a dangerous enterprise, Connor mused as he felt Duncan’s looming presence one pace behind his left shoulder, instinctively guarding his weak side.  Eyes turned at their entrance to the Grand Gallery, voices lowered slightly and the several women present lifted their fans in a noticeable flutter of movement.  Connor felt a bit of a fool, despite his assurances to his clansman.  Most of the men here were dressed in European high fashion, and after spending a year in rough woven wool and well-used leather, all the silks and satins, the wigs, the perfumes and the exaggerated manners and subtle innuendoes of court intrigue were simultaneously ridiculous and daunting.

“Connor?  Connor MacLeod, is that you?” a young voice called, and Connor turned, to see a handsome young man, fair of hair and face, dressed in a bronze colored doublet shot through with tiny gold threads, making it almost sparkle in the light from the high windows that lined one side of the long room.  A wide, silk collar, edged with fine lace, framed the young man’s face, which was, itself, edged with a carefully groomed mustache and goatee, although the youth looked hardly old enough to sprout enough facial hair to manage it.

“My Lord Montrose,” Connor bowed over his leg, managing to sharply elbow his student in the gesture, hoping that Duncan might manage to bend his stiff, proud neck.  “You made it safely back from Vienna, I see.”

“With the assistance of your good offices, yes, I did.  The arrangements you made for our transport were splendid.”  The nobleman turned to the young woman at his side, her dark curls framing a round, pretty face and big, green eyes.  She hardly looked a day over fifteen, but the artful use of her fan and the twinkle in her eyes bespoke of a sophisticated familiarity with the courtship rituals of the nobility.  Her eyes kept wandering to somewhere over Connor’s left shoulder, and he suspected that, once again, his kinsman was going to create trouble with no effort at all.

“And this is your lovely bride?” Connor asked, bowing more deeply.  “You are indeed a fortunate man, my Lord.”

“Yes.  My dear, this is Connor MacLeod.  I told you about him.  The man I hired as guide, translator and personal guard during my travels in Italy.  He got me into…and out of, several close calls, as I remember.” 

“Ah, it seems our memories differ slightly in some respects, my Lord.  The incident at the Doges’ Palace in Venice was none of my doing.”

“But you were the one who introduced me to…,” Lord Montrose’s eyes darted towards his new wife, and his face colored.  “Perhaps you are right, Connor.  In any event, we had a grand time, eh?  I’m headed back to the Continent in a few months.  Perhaps you would consider joining my party?”

“With respect and regret, my Lord,” Connor inclined his head with a smile.  “I must decline.  My kinsman and I are in the midst of dealing with a…complex inheritance matter in the Highlands which requires our presence.”

“Ah, this is your kinsman, then?” Lady Montrose finally spoke, her fan fluttering across her bosom.

Connor felt his smile stiffen slightly, wondering how much damage control would be required as a result of his student’s first encounter with nobility, and a flirtatious female at that, but he nodded and stepped aside.  “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, I have the honor of introducing James Graham, Earl of Montrose and his lovely wife…” Connor paused, waiting for the Earl to supply a name.  Instead, the lady in question stepped forward and offered her hand.

“Magdalene Carnegie Graham,” she supplied in a low tone, “of Kinnaird.  Are you from the Isle of Skye then, sir?” she asked Duncan. “I visited Dunvegan Castle a couple of times with my father, and I am certain I would recall had I seen you there.”

Connor’s jaw clenched at the child’s open flirtation, but the Earl seemed only amused at his young wife’s actions.  Even so, Connor was tempted to close his eyes, and found himself holding his breath as Duncan was confronted with the beautifully gowned and bejeweled young woman with the forward manners.  But a startled look quickly disappeared behind lowered eyes as Duncan took her hand and bowed over it as gracefully as any seasoned courtier.  “Nay, my Lady.  My origins are far more humble, though nonetheless deserving.”

The Earl of Montrose chuckled.  “Well spoken, my friend.  You will forgive my lady.  She is famous for being forward, especially when confronted by a bra’ Highland warrior so well turned out in full regalia, whatever the current court fashions.”

Lady Montrose cast an affectionate glance at her husband.  “The ladies at court may all titter at a nicely stitched doublet and well-filled silk hose, but I believe our Highland men are certainly fine specimens of manhood, especially…well, let’s just say I’m delighted to see you at Holyroodhouse, Mr. MacLeod,” she said as she tapped Duncan gently on the chest with her fan, her eyes bright with a flirtatious smile.

“I am honored,” Duncan stammered slightly, then stepped back, his cheeks flaming, his lowered eyes darting to Connor with a silent plea for rescue.  While the lad had a way with barmaids and Highland lasses, dealing with the innuendoes of a teenaged wife of an Earl clearly was beyond his ken.

Connor barely controlled a small smile before he once again stepped up and engaged the Earl in earnest conversation about the current favorites and outcasts among the various factions in both Edinburgh and London, again feeling Duncan silently trail behind, albeit slightly further away than before.  Despite the Earl’s youth, he was quite knowledgeable about court politics and Connor soon confided in him about his appointment. 

“The Earl of Huntly?” the Earl frowned.  His hands were folded behind him and he thoughtfully led Connor away from the small clusters of men who had formed near the doorway to the palace’s inner apartments.  “Well, he’s back in favor with the new King, after being in exile in his lands in the north for a number of years.  He is, like many of us, cash poor, which is why he must have gotten involved in brokering imports and exports. Your captain must be Catholic, and mistrusting of Heriot’s Calvinist connections.  I can think of no other reason he would trust your affairs to that man.”

“I agree, my Lord.  But the letters of agreement regarding the shipment, and the instructions regarding its disposal, and the allotment of expenses and profits, is very clear,” Connor supplied.  “He would be eligible for the usual fee, but no more.”

“Unless he simply lies about how much the goods brought.  And if you keep calling me, ‘my Lord,’ I’ll have to cuff you, you know.  You haven’t called me that since you pulled me out of those disgusting canals of Venice.”

Connor smiled down at his friend.  “We are in public, Jamie,” he said quietly.  “And you were always less mindful than you should be of your station.”

Montrose made a rude noise.  “Somehow, I doubt your kinsman is too impressed with my station,” he observed, watching over Connor’s shoulder with an amused smile.

Connor turned to see Duncan surrounded by a gaggle of fan-fluttering young women, clearly led by Jamie’s young wife, who clung possessively to Duncan’s arm.  His student looked like he was uncertain whether he should be flattered or terrified as he murmured polite responses to the battery of questions, comments and seductive laughter that floated around him.  Connor cocked his head back at the young Lord, who returned his questioning look with a laugh.

“My Magda loves to flirt, but I’ve never doubted her loyalty or love.  I am a very fortunate man, MacLeod.  While our marriage was approved by our parents, we have been friends since childhood.  And as soon as I saw your young clansman stride in, full of pride, dressed in his finest philabeg, I knew he would be too tasty a morsel not to show off to her friends.”  Jamie shook his head with a small frown.  “Court life does not suit me, Connor.  I’m afraid ever since James VI became King of both Scotland and England, Edinburgh has become infested with Sassenachs and their manners, their religion, and their attire.  Personally, I’d prefer a nice boar hunt, or a night of drink down at the tavern over a royal court ball.”

“I recall a few nights in taverns in Rome, my Lord, that…”

“Your memory was always remarkable, given your capacity for drink, Connor MacLeod, but there are some misadventures I would as soon not recall.”

Just then, the door to the inner apartments opened and a servant announced, “His Lordship will see Connor MacLeod!”

With a slight bow to the Earl, Connor stepped up, and somehow Duncan managed to disengage himself from the ladies’ clutches in time to accompany him through the carved oak door to the inner chamber, where they found the Earl of Huntly reading several pages of correspondence by the light streaming in from a high window.  The view looked out over a carefully manicured lawn, complete with paths winding through bushes and flowerbeds laid out in intricate designs that mimicked the great gardens of Versailles.

A fire crackled in a huge marble fireplace, but provided little warmth to the large room.  The Earl turned to them, then crossed to an ornately carved desk and let the papers flutter to its surface.

Connor stopped halfway into the room and made the proper bow.  “My Lord,” he acknowledged.  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

The earl was dressed in a long, heavily embroidered waistcoat of soft blue, with matching silk hose.  He was in his mid-fifties, at least, and his face was hard and laced with deep lines around his nose and mouth.  He had affected a long wig of dark brown curls that cascaded over his shoulders.  Lace frothed at his neck and wrists, and emphasized his gesture that Connor take a seat in front of the desk.  Connor took a quick look back, and noted with approval that Duncan had taken a wide-legged stance some distance behind Connor’s chair.

“I am pleased to see you, actually.  I received correspondence from your Captain O’Brien over six months ago, and was becoming concerned that you had met with a misadventure in the Highlands.  They can be very dangerous, as we both know.”

Indeed.  Connor smiled tightly.  Huntly’s lands in the far north were held by main force, and against the wishes of local clan chiefs.  There were a number of stories of the extremes Huntly had gone to in his quest to secure, or even expand, his holdings.  “I am touched by your concern, my Lord.  However, I have never feared for my safety, as I have the loyalty of my clansmen to call upon, should the need arise.”

Huntly’s eyes flickered briefly to the large, muscular fighter stationed at Connor’s back.  “No doubt,” he smiled tightly, showing short, ragged teeth.  “But the shipment made it safely to its destination, and your captain secured decent prices in Lisbon, Le Havre and London.  His accounting is complete, I believe.”  Huntly handed over the sheaf of papers he had been examining upon their entry.

It would be rude to examine them in the Earl’s presence, so Connor folded them carefully and slipped them into his pocket.  “O’Brien is a good man,” Connor agreed.  “I have worked with him several times in the past and he has always proven reliable.  If you will forgive me, my Lord, what is your connection with him?”

Huntly smiled, and the showing of his uneven teeth was slightly disconcerting.  “I purchased the note on his ship last year, and part of our agreement with regard to repayment was that I was to be the agent for his future transactions.”

“I see.  But this particular transaction was contracted well over a year ago,” Connor smiled back at his host, also showing his teeth.

“It seemed…easier to just assume that all Captain O’Brien’s business would be transacted through me.  I assure you that the terms of the agreement will remain the same.”

Connor didn’t like it, but hardly had any grounds for objection.  “I assume then, that the proceeds from the sale, less the stipulated commission for Captain O’Brien, and your own fee, will be made available…say tomorrow?”

The Earl stood, prompting Connor to stand, as well.  “Tomorrow it is, then, Mr. MacLeod.  I believe 3 o’clock will be most convenient.  Oh, and Mr. MacLeod?” Huntly added with another feral smile, “It is unnecessary to bring a bodyguard into the Palace.  You are in a civilized city, not among unwashed barbarians.”

Connor met the Earl’s cold gaze with one of his own.  “Are we?” he asked.  “I have found many a barbarian walking palace halls, dressed in fine silks, just as I have found more nobility in the Highlands than I have found…” he glanced around the finely furnished room.  “…elsewhere.  Good day to you, my Lord.”  He bowed, wanting to say more, but the disadvantage of dealing with nobility made that impractical.  He pivoted around and left without a backward glance, trusting that Duncan would follow.  He didn’t slow until they were outside the gates of Holyroodhouse, and among the crowds at the bottom of the Royal Mile.

“That Huntly’s a nasty, pompous ass,” Duncan growled at his shoulder.

Connor glanced at his kinsman.  In his preoccupation of trying to figure out what the Earl’s hidden agenda might be, he had almost forgotten Duncan’s presence. 

“Aye, well, best to stay out of his way, if we can,” he answered.

“But surely he is…” Duncan waved his hands in frustration, unable to determine exactly what the man was trying to do.

“Yes, he surely is,” Connor smiled, then clapped his kinsman on the shoulder.  “I need a drink, my friend, and you must tell me about your conversation with all those lovely young ladies.”

Inspecting all the taverns along the Royal Mile appeared to have become Duncan’s current goal in life, so Connor was content to trail along with his outgoing student, sampling each publican’s special brew until they all seemed to blur together.  It was getting late, he was getting tired and ready to head to their rooms, but Duncan was still going strong, when he felt a nudge at his elbow.  He turned to see Jamie Graham, Earl of Montrose, dressed in a simple kilt and coat, take a place by him on the bench.

“Jamie! Out for a night on the town, eh?  You might want to join Duncan,” he added with a smile as the large group in the corner of the tavern broke into a bawdy song.  Duncan and Jamie were not that far apart in age, and the two of them were alike in many ways.  The young Earl was forthright, honest, a natural leader who was easy and comfortable with commoners and enjoyed the company of his guards more than that of the court toadies that bowed and scraped every time he entered a room.

“He looks like he’s having a good time,” Jamie noted as he poured himself a mugful of ale from the pitcher on the table.  “But that’s not what I came for.  I’ve been looking for you all evening.  One of my men had a chat with Huntly’s clerk, and I think I may know what the man is up to, and it is’na good.”

“Perhaps we better talk somewhere where there are fewer listening ears,” Connor replied softly, and led his friend out of the pub and into the dark street, where they slipped into a side alley.  “What is it, Jamie?” he asked, once they had both peered around the shadows to make certain they were alone.

“The clerk said Huntly had bought up several notes of various ships hauling goods.  Then Huntly investigated each of the primary merchants, and insisted that he handle the disposition for several of them.  It seems that each of them is unmarried, and without issue or heir.  Actually, I should say ‘was,’” Jamie corrected himself.  “For each met up with a mysterious death before the proceeds of sale could be distributed.  The funds are then left in the control of the middle man until heirs are found, but if there are no heirs…,” Jamie shrugged.

“The murdering bastard!” Connor hissed.

“I have several men with me,” Jamie added quickly.  “They are absolutely loyal to me and will keep you safe until you have your proceeds.”

“No,” Connor shook his head.  “Everyone knows who your men are, and you do not want to make an enemy of Huntly.  You are a natural leader, Jamie, and a good man.  Scotland needs you, and you need to stay clear of all this intrigue so long as Huntly is a favorite of Charles.  But here.”  Connor took his purse out from under his doublet cape, and extracted only a few coins.  “I would consider it a favor if you would hold onto this for me.”

“Dammit, Connor, I will not let Huntly murder you for the sake of a few pounds.  The man should be hanged for what he is doing!”

“And you know as well as I that without proof, nothing will be done, and that murders and disappearances are common enough that pure coincidence isn’t enough.  But if you get in the man’s way you might just step straight into the path of a dirk in the ribs.  No, Jamie, do not fear for me.  You know I can take care of myself.”

“You are as fine a swordsman as I have ever known, Connor, and as wily a fighter as I ever hope to see, but…”

Connor clapped his friend on the shoulder.  “Just bring me back my purse tomorrow night, and you can buy me a drink in celebration, eh?”

“Connor, please reconsider…”

“No, Jamie.  I want you and your men to stay far out of this.  I have my own plans to deal with the Earl.  Trust me.”

The Earl of Montrose gave him a long look, then sighed and shook his head.  “You have never let me down Connor MacLeod, and if you ask me to trust you, that must be what I will do.  Tomorrow night then.  Here, at sunset?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Duncan, time to go.”  Connor pulled at his student’s elbow.

“But, ‘tis hardly late, and…”

“Don’t argue with me.”

His student studied him, eyes slightly unfocused, but evidently recognizing both the urgent tone and the look.  Somehow, Duncan refrained from whatever protest he had planned, and lurched up, calling goodnight to his new-found friends and following Connor out into the cool darkness.

“Wha’s the matter?” Duncan asked once they were out in the street.  Dim light from a few taverns spotted the night, and a few lanterns were lit at street corners, so Connor kept towards the middle of the street and away from the dark shadows and alleys.

“How drunk are you?”

“What does that mean?” Duncan sounded mildly insulted.  “I’m not drunk.”

“Act drunk, then,” Connor ordered.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Duncan was sounding more sober with each word.

“We are going to be attacked on the way back to our rooms.  You are drunk, unable to defend yourself, and you are to let them kill you, do you hear me?” Connor whispered harshly.

“Wha…let them kill me?”

“Hush!  Yes.  Just do as I say, and for God’s sake try not to hurt anyone too badly!” Connor snapped as they turned off the Royal Mile to the steep, dark wynd that led to their rooms.

“But…”

A dark shadow swished by at the edge of Connor’s vision, and he swirled, drawing his blade.  He felt Duncan do the same, and the two men were back to back without ever discussing or planning their defense.  They were in a narrow, dark street, with several hooded men in front of them, and behind them.  Connor lunged and swept his blade in a broad arc as their attackers closed in.  He would do what was necessary to defend them until Duncan was down.

But Duncan didn’t want to go down, and he heard a cry of pain and a body hit the cobblestones.  “Duncan!” he yelled.  “Remember what I told you.”

“Dammit, Connor…!” But during the next few frantic moments of defending himself against too many opponents, he heard Duncan gasp in pain, and smelled the coppery scent of blood.  “Connor,” Duncan choked, his voice strained and hoarse, and Connor wanted to take back his instructions, his anger automatically rising in defense of his injured student, and he struck out at the half-dozen shadows that circled him.  With a last lunge, Duncan hit the ground hard and didn’t stir.  Only then did Connor act.  He swirled his lighter blade, cutting through the air with twice the speed of his attackers, spinning to make sure he cut each and every one of the cowardly assassins who hunted in a pack, then he backed up, standing over Duncan’s body as they closed in en mass, and felt at least three blades enter him at once, in his side, his shoulder and through his chest.  Blood bubbled up into his throat, and he pulled his precious katana into his body and crumpled protectively over Duncan’s still form.

“Connor!”

“Dammit, Connor, answer me!”

Duncan’s voice was tense with anxiety, and Connor would have answered, but he was too busy swallowing the blood in his throat and breathing through the intense, sharp pain that speared his chest.  Duncan shook him, which only made the pain worse.  “Enough,” he managed to choke out, flailing with his hand to get Duncan to stop poking and prodding at him.

“You’re alive!” Duncan breathed with a sigh of relief.

“Of course I’m alive, ya sheep-brained bastard, and I’ll stay alive a lot longer if you’ll stop poking at me like I was a sack of grain!”  Connor managed to push himself to sitting, looking around to make certain his blade was still in his possession.  Fortunately, the assassins had left that, which showed a certain amount of sense, since it was a unique blade that could easily be traced back to his ‘murderers.’  The small number of coins he had kept back from his pouch were, however, gone.

“What the hell did you want them to kill us for?” Duncan insisted.  “I ruined my new shirt!  Look at this, it’s got a right bloody hole in it now, and it was the only nice shirt I had, even if it does have all this stupid lace on it.  And they stole your money.  Why did you let them do that, when we could have…”

“Shut up, Duncan,” Connor sighed tiredly, as he let the man help him to his feet, staggering slightly with the loss of blood, an impressive pool of which now stained the stairs of the wynd.

By the time of Connor’s three o’clock appointment with the Earl of Huntly the following day, he had explained the situation to his student, who did not take the news particularly well.  Duncan thought they should have killed all the assassins, dumped their bodies on the steps of Holyroodhouse, and hung the Earl from the nearest tall tree.  The fact that doing so would have probably resulted in their execution, possibly involving a beheading, did not seem to dent Duncan’s bloodlust in the slightest.

He managed to mollify Duncan’s ire somewhat by buying him a new shirt, this time without all the lace.  Of course, he had to buy himself a new suit, as well.  It was fortunate he still had some credit at Heriot’s.

They arrived at Holyroodhouse at the appointed hour, and gave their name to Huntly’s clerk, who had gone stark white as soon as he looked up from his desk.  The clerk coughed into his handkerchief until Connor thought the man was going to expire, then rose and scurried into the Earl’s inner chamber.

Connor and Duncan waited in the foyer, mingling among the various sycophants and petitioners until well past the hour of their appointment, but at last they were escorted in.  This time, the Earl was seated at his desk, carefully studying the documents in front of him.  It was several minutes after Connor had bowed perfunctorily before the Earl looked up, his expression carefully neutral.

“Good afternoon, Mr. MacLeod,” he said smoothly, and gestured to the chair in front of his desk.  “I’ll be with you in a moment.”  Huntly dipped a quill into an inkwell and signed several of the papers, blotting them, then scattering sand over the drying ink.  “I take it you had an opportunity to examine the accounting your captain provided?”

“Aye,” Connor acknowledged, admiring the man’s external control.  His hands had only been shaking slightly as he affixed his signature to the papers.  “It seems to be in order.  As I said, Captain O’Brien is a good man.  I certainly trust that he has not met with any misadventures since I saw him last.  We live in treacherous times, after all.”

Huntly’s eyes flickered up to meet his, briefly, then went back to his papers.  “I see you brought your…kinsman…with you once more.  Surely, you do not feel threatened in these halls, Mr. MacLeod.  That would imply a lack of trust.”  At last the Earl looked up and met Connor’s gaze fully, a smile delicately painting his lips.

“My kinsman has this odd notion that someone might wish me harm,” Connor replied.  “I know it is silly of him, here in the great city of Edinburgh, but even so we were attacked last night, most viciously.”

“Really?  Shocking, absolutely shocking.  Cutpurses and beggars, no doubt, and no challenge for swordsmen such as you?”

“There were a large number of them, but as you can see,” Connor opened his hands, “MacLeods are difficult to kill.  Some even say we come back from the dead to smite our enemies.”

Huntly smiled tightly, paling even more, but said nothing.

“But,” Connor shifted in his seat and crossed his legs, “I believe we have a transaction to conduct?”

The Earl cleared his throat, shuffled his papers a few times, his jaw clenched tightly.  “Yes, well…”

“I believe the terms are clear, and, as you said, the accounting is satisfactory.”

The Earl’s hands slowly closed into fists, and Connor could hear a small shift of weight from the man standing behind him.

“I do have an appointment later, my Lord, and I believe my kinsman is getting restless.  If you cannot handle providing the proceeds from the transaction, then perhaps you would like to hand over the issue to Heriot’s?”

“No.”  The reply was slightly strangled, but at last the Earl reached into a lower drawer and drew out a pouch of coins.  “That is all the coinage I have available at this time.  It is 500 pounds.”

Connor heard Duncan’s sharp intake of breath behind him.  The lad undoubtedly had never imagined that much money even existed in one place before.  “And the rest?” Connor asked.

The Earl folded one of the papers he had just signed and put it into an envelope.  “This is my letter of mark for the remaining proceeds.”  He tossed it to the edge of his desk in a gesture of disdain.  “You are dismissed,” he added with a wave of his hand, then rose and turned to the window.

Connor stood, picked up the envelope, opened it, and carefully inspected the contents, nodding thoughtfully.  “‘Tis a pleasure doing business with you, my Lord.”  The man at the window was studiously silent, and Connor turned, with Duncan again trailing behind him.  As he neared the door, he paused and turned when the Earl called his name.

“Be…careful, Mr. MacLeod.  ‘Tis said there are evil spirits about in the streets at night.”

“I am always careful, my Lord, and evil spirits should always be wary of a righteous man, should they not?” Connor smiled, careful to show his teeth before he turned his back on the Earl, and left the room.

The two MacLeods returned to the tavern where the Earl of Montrose had found them the evening before, but only after Connor had stopped off at Heriot’s to repay the credit he had withdrawn, and to deposit most of the coins and the letter of mark from the Earl of Huntly.  Heriot had looked up as he read Huntly’s letter, one gray eyebrow crawling up a broad forehead, but the goldsmith and money-lender had said nothing.  He gave receipts for Connor’s deposits, and assured Connor that a record of the transaction would be sent to their offices in London and to affiliated offices in Paris and Rome.

Duncan was in a jubilant mood, but Connor was still nervous about Huntly’s assassins, and was anxious to get back to Glencoe as soon as possible.  Jamie was waiting for them at the tavern, and greeted Connor with a shout and a hug.   “Damnation, Connor MacLeod, but I hadn’t thought to see you alive again!  Rumors were all over the streets last night that two men had been murdered by a gang of a dozen or more, who had left them dead in an alley.”

Connor laughed, and pulled his friend onto a bench.  “Hush yourself, Jamie.  People will think you tell tall tales to frighten them.  Did anyone find these murdered men?  No, of course not.”

Montrose studied him, then looked over to Duncan, who was watching the other two men with a carefully neutral expression.  “Then tell me what happened, Connor.”

“Well, Huntly closed the deal, of course,” Connor replied evenly, signaling for a drink to the nearest barmaid.

“That cannot be all there is to it,” Montrose said softly, leaning close.  “I heard a half dozen of Huntly’s men, battered and wounded, were sent back to his estates in the north.”

“Really?” Connor leaned back with a look of shocked innocence.  “Whatever can they have gotten up to, do you think?”  The barmaid set a full pitcher of ale in front of them, along with three empty tankards.  As she started away, Duncan caught her hand and pulled her down into his lap.

“Och, you are terrible, Duncan MacLeod!” the girl protested with a grin, as Duncan kissed her boldly on the cheek.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Jamie inserted.  “The ladies at Holyroodhouse, including my own wife, are all quite besotted with the lad.  I should probably be offended.” 

“Aye,” Connor admitted ruefully as he filled the three tankards from the pitcher. “But even so, you were going to pay for our drinks tonight, eh, my Lord?”

Jamie took Connor’s purse out of his jacket and dropped it on the table.  “Oh, aye. I’ve got the money right here.”  The two men shared a grin as Duncan swept the barmaid up in his arms amidst a screech of giggles.  “It looks to me, Connor MacLeod, like your kinsman has all the fun around here, and most of the good women.”

Another attractive serving woman squeezed by their table, and Connor reached for her.  She slapped his hand away with a practiced gesture, but then turned and winked at him. 

“Later, my lad!” she called.

Connor leaned back towards Jamie, shouting loudly enough to be heard over the noisy crowd.  “But not all of them, my friend.  Not all.”