The Chief Read Online Free PDF

large circular table in the council chamber of Finlaggan—MacDonald’s stronghold on Islay and the ancient center of the Kingdom of the Isles.
    The round table was not a democratic allusion to Britain’s famous hero, but a practical solution to best take advantage of the shape of the room. Instead of enjoying the luxury of MacDonald’s new tower house, they were gathered in the ancient roundhouse beside it. The dark and drafty crude stone building was said to have been built before the time of Somerled—the great king from whom the MacDonalds, MacDougalls, MacSorleys, and MacRuairis were all descended—and used by the kings of the Isles for centuries. His host knew well the power of tradition. At Finlaggan, round table or not, Angus Og MacDonald, descendant of the mighty Somerled, reigned supreme.
    For a typical war council, the room would be packed with chiefs, chieftains, and their large retinues. But not today. In addition to his host, only four other men were present: William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews; Sir AndrewFraser, a Scot nobleman familiar to him in name if not in person; Erik MacSorley, Angus Og’s kinsman and
Gille-coise
henchman, reputed to be the best seafarer in the isles; and Sir Neil Campbell, MacDonald’s uncle and a kinsman to Bruce, from a clan of growing importance with lands near Loch Awe.
    The man behind the proposition, Robert Bruce, was being watched by Edward too closely to attend in person.
    Lamberton and MacDonald exchanged glances after Tor’s pronouncement, with the bishop apparently deciding to take a turn to attempt to persuade him. “Perhaps you don’t understand—”
    “I understand completely,” Tor said, cutting off what was sure to be a long-winded explanation. “You want me to train and lead a secret, highly specialized killing team to aid Bruce in a treasonous rebellion against Edward.”
    The prelate shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t put it exactly like that. The team will be used for many purposes—reconnaissance, intelligence, strategy, and special missions.”
    “Aye, the most dangerous ones,” Tor said dryly, amused by the bishop’s attempt to prevaricate. “But you mistake my objection. It’s not the killing or the danger that prevents me from accepting your offer”—He’d made his name for exactly those reasons, which he knew was why they’d come to him—“it’s because it’s not my war and I have no interest in making it so.”
    Otherwise, he might be tempted. The idea was just outlandish enough to intrigue him. The most elite warriors in the Highlands and Isles all together in one guard? They would be unstoppable. Nearly invincible.
    “But it
is
your war,” Lamberton insisted. “The Isles are part of Scotland now, and you are Scottish subjects, despite what some of you may choose to think.” The bishop’s sly observation earned a few chuckles around the table. Most of the local men felt as Tor did—he was an Islander, not a Scot. Lamberton gave him a pointed look. “Eventually, you will have to pick a side.”
    Tor lifted a brow. “Whereas you and Bruce change sides so frequently it’s hard to keep up.”
    The bishop prickled, his round face growing flush with indignation. “I fight for Scotland.”
    “Aye, and Bruce fights for whatever side Comyn does not, and MacDonald here fights for whatever side MacDougall does not. I understand the intricacies of Scottish politics well enough. What I don’t see is any benefit or reason for
my
clan to choose sides right now. Nor is it clear—despite your secret army—that your side would not be the losing one.” He ignored the burst of angry rumbling that followed. With the treasonous journey these men were about to embark on, they needed to hear the truth. “I’ve no love of the English king or John MacDougall, but they make powerful enemies.”
    “Aye,” MacDonald agreed. “And getting more powerful by the minute.” He leaned toward Tor, his goblet coming down hard on the