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than the rest? She stamped on a
shower of sparks that arced onto the floor from an exploding log. And thought of Hugh. Eldest he might be and with a temper to match his flaming hair, but pray God she could convince him to halt
the madness.
    She didn’t know how, or in what fashion, to communicate their father’s murder to her brothers and in the end sent word to George in London, as the nearest, charging him with the task
of informing the others in Europe. Then there was nothing to do but wait, first for the bodies, then for her brothers, her father’s funeral delayed till their return. For the rest, they would
bury them together: a single stone to tell the horror.

Chapter Three
    Munro was in an alehouse half way up Stirling’s High Street, rehearsing his frustration at the enforced stay at court to a pair of lurchers sprawling by the turf fire.
Their coats were dull and matted, their eyes oozing, though whether from the smoke or infection it was impossible to tell. One scratched sporadically at a bald patch behind his ear, likely the
result of a tick. The Cunninghames had been five days at court, and had, as far as Munro could gauge, accomplished little, barring Glencairn’s small satisfaction as James cried Eglintoun for
his tardiness, a satisfaction quickly dissipated as news of the murder came from Ardrossan, forcing him to busy himself professing outrage at the deaths.
    Munro was not drunk, nor even nearly so, but boredom and forced inactivity weighed heavy on him and drove him to a moment of carelessness. He shook his head at the dogs. ‘. . . Who
believes him?’
    One, the younger by a good margin, thumped his tale in response.
    ‘You’re right.’ Munro glanced round – dangerous talk. Fortunate that all attention was focused on a dwarf of a man with wild hair that sprouted in random tufts of brown
and white, who was perched on a table-top near to the door, gabbling. Interested in anything that might relieve the tedium, Munro swung on his stool, prepared to be amused; but catching the name
‘Montgomerie’, buried his head again in his tankard, an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He forced himself to call for another drink and downed it as if he had the whole day to
waste, watching and listening to the man’s tale with every appearance of appreciation. The kernel of it, that someone had been careless and word was everywhere about that blame for the
Montgomerie murders lay at Glencairn’s door.
    Afterwards, he headed straight for the Cunninghame lodgings. And found John. ‘Where’s Glencairn? Have you heard the news?’
    John was matter of fact. ‘Gone to James to make claim that some distant connection has over-reached themselves.’
    ‘I know now how Peter must have felt at the High Priest’s fire. It was all I could do not to react when I heard the clack. I was waiting for the challenge: ‘Aren’t you
with the Cunninghames?’ Then, as John’s words penetrated, ‘How distant?’
    ‘Far enough to pass you by.’ John injected a note of reassurance into his voice. ‘Besides, you were here with us. We may both have reason to be grateful for the care that was
taken to ensure our timely arrival was noted.’
    ‘I was thinking of asking leave to go home.’
    ‘I wouldn’t advise it.’ John poked his toe at the fire that sputtered in the hearth. ‘If, that is, you want to reach it in one piece. Worse news will come and when it
does, I for one will be glad to linger. There is nowhere safer than close to the King.’
    He was right. By the end of the fortnight, word of other atrocities came almost by the hour, until the number of Cunninghames, fallen or fled, surpassed that of Montgomeries killed at the ford.
Munro, directed by Glencairn, dipped in and out of the alehouses and taverns that clustered below the castle precincts, reporting daily the grim tally. Few of those gathered at Kilmaurs before the
ambush had escaped.
    He brought word of Robertland, one of Glencairn’s