Read Online MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol by Tanya Anne Crosby - Free Book Online
Authors: Tanya Anne Crosby
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come…
Afric smiled.
The fire had been a ruse, a means to draw his prey out into the open. If, in fact, it had been his intent to devastate the entire clan beyond restitution, he would have killed them all whilst they’d slept in their beds. But nay, he already had a long list of souls he wouldst need make amends for, and he had no desire to add to that list unnecessarily.
Earlier, as he’d stood inside the hall—a stranger in their midst—listening to the laird’s son attempt to convince his father that there must be foul play at hand, Afric worried his opportunities would all be lost. But then the MacKinnon dismissed the lad, and here they were, none the wiser.
Celebrating like filthy Pagans, no one appeared to care that flames destroyed half the village little less than a week before. In his arrogance, the MacKinnon had ordered yet another bonfire, one that was even bigger than the last.
Of course, it was easy enough to believe all was right with the world, when neighboring clans all came together this way.
For an instant, it left Afric with a guilty pang…
For only an instant.
These were not his people. Given the opportunity, they would mete him the same fate. Survival depended upon which side you were on—and Afric was most assuredly not on theirs. Neither was he on Hugh’s—stupid bag of wind.
Did Page truly believe their father’s apathy was reserved only for her?
Nay. He treated Afric as he did all his bastards—with very little regard, ordering him about like a common servant. He couldn’t even be bothered to read his own letters—a fact for which Afric would be eternally grateful, because he still had not heard the news…
Everything was going according to plan.
It was simple enough to hide amidst so many faces, old and new. Afric could come and go as he pleased. No one had the first notion who he was, or whence he hailed.
Not even Hugh had yet to spy him. His father was a doddering old fool, far too easily deceived. Whilst he’d run about gathering supplies and men for the journey north, Afric had ridden ahead, under the pretense of racing toward France. Instead, he’d come here, and set the stage to see his mission done. Once he was rid of his competition for Hugh’s lands, and Hugh, as well, then he would go to Lyons-la-Foret and claim his prize.
Smiling, despite the fact that they’d lost nearly everything save the clothes upon their backs—poor dumb Highlanders—the clansmen all ate, drank and made merry, kicking up their heels and singing obnoxiously to the accompaniment of the pipes.
Oblivious.
Obnoxious.
Obligors.
Once they heard the news, all else would pale in the face of it. Music would end in a discordant note. The skies would darken with the dimming of hope. The air would chill with heralding fate… Henry Beuclerc was dead—poisoned some might say.
Upon the king’s death raged the winds of war. Agents had been disbursed at once, like a sickness transmitted unto the lands. All pawns were now in place, and everyone who’d sworn fealty to Henry’s shrewish daughter Matilda would mete their makers one by one—including the man who’d impregnated his mother.
Even this very instant, the King’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, was moving to seize the English throne and David of Scotia—Henry’s ally in the north—would needst fight to hold all he owned. No Davidian supporter would be allowed to assume control in Normandy, and that included the baronetcy of Aldergh. No one was left but Hugh’s estranged daughter who might take his place, and Stephen would never endorse a woman.
On the other hand, were Henry’s daughter to sit her arse upon England’s throne, she’d no doubt sanction Page’s claim. Albeit, if Page were dead, and the baronetcy forfeit after her father’s death, that would weaken Matilda’s claim in Normandy, and most conveniently ’twould leave control of Aldergh… perhaps to someone who’d facilitated its end.
Thinking of all the things he
Afric smiled.
The fire had been a ruse, a means to draw his prey out into the open. If, in fact, it had been his intent to devastate the entire clan beyond restitution, he would have killed them all whilst they’d slept in their beds. But nay, he already had a long list of souls he wouldst need make amends for, and he had no desire to add to that list unnecessarily.
Earlier, as he’d stood inside the hall—a stranger in their midst—listening to the laird’s son attempt to convince his father that there must be foul play at hand, Afric worried his opportunities would all be lost. But then the MacKinnon dismissed the lad, and here they were, none the wiser.
Celebrating like filthy Pagans, no one appeared to care that flames destroyed half the village little less than a week before. In his arrogance, the MacKinnon had ordered yet another bonfire, one that was even bigger than the last.
Of course, it was easy enough to believe all was right with the world, when neighboring clans all came together this way.
For an instant, it left Afric with a guilty pang…
For only an instant.
These were not his people. Given the opportunity, they would mete him the same fate. Survival depended upon which side you were on—and Afric was most assuredly not on theirs. Neither was he on Hugh’s—stupid bag of wind.
Did Page truly believe their father’s apathy was reserved only for her?
Nay. He treated Afric as he did all his bastards—with very little regard, ordering him about like a common servant. He couldn’t even be bothered to read his own letters—a fact for which Afric would be eternally grateful, because he still had not heard the news…
Everything was going according to plan.
It was simple enough to hide amidst so many faces, old and new. Afric could come and go as he pleased. No one had the first notion who he was, or whence he hailed.
Not even Hugh had yet to spy him. His father was a doddering old fool, far too easily deceived. Whilst he’d run about gathering supplies and men for the journey north, Afric had ridden ahead, under the pretense of racing toward France. Instead, he’d come here, and set the stage to see his mission done. Once he was rid of his competition for Hugh’s lands, and Hugh, as well, then he would go to Lyons-la-Foret and claim his prize.
Smiling, despite the fact that they’d lost nearly everything save the clothes upon their backs—poor dumb Highlanders—the clansmen all ate, drank and made merry, kicking up their heels and singing obnoxiously to the accompaniment of the pipes.
Oblivious.
Obnoxious.
Obligors.
Once they heard the news, all else would pale in the face of it. Music would end in a discordant note. The skies would darken with the dimming of hope. The air would chill with heralding fate… Henry Beuclerc was dead—poisoned some might say.
Upon the king’s death raged the winds of war. Agents had been disbursed at once, like a sickness transmitted unto the lands. All pawns were now in place, and everyone who’d sworn fealty to Henry’s shrewish daughter Matilda would mete their makers one by one—including the man who’d impregnated his mother.
Even this very instant, the King’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, was moving to seize the English throne and David of Scotia—Henry’s ally in the north—would needst fight to hold all he owned. No Davidian supporter would be allowed to assume control in Normandy, and that included the baronetcy of Aldergh. No one was left but Hugh’s estranged daughter who might take his place, and Stephen would never endorse a woman.
On the other hand, were Henry’s daughter to sit her arse upon England’s throne, she’d no doubt sanction Page’s claim. Albeit, if Page were dead, and the baronetcy forfeit after her father’s death, that would weaken Matilda’s claim in Normandy, and most conveniently ’twould leave control of Aldergh… perhaps to someone who’d facilitated its end.
Thinking of all the things he
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