“I can but t’would be a lie. T’was like a knife to the heart. Then I got angry. And because I was so verra angry, I started stomping about and threatening to go to his keep and drop Roban on his head.” She nodded when the men winced. “I should probably nay send him this reply.” She removed a rolled up letter from where she had tucked it into her sleeve. “One should ne’er write letters while angry.”
Harcourt snatched the letter from her hand, unrolled it, and read, “Sir William MacQueen, self-proclaimed laird of Duncraoch: I thank ye for your prompt response to your promise to respond in your first response to my grave concerns about your son. Ye may have considered waiting until your attack of bile had receded, however. I am a very truthful widow, which ye would have discovered had ye ever visited us here at Glencullaich and ever actually spoken to me since David died. My son, David’s son, has been accepted by both Crown and Church as his heir. And, nay, ye will not have Glencullaich. Ever. I would also like to remind you that I am not David. My husband was a kind man, always prepared to help when ye arrived with your wagons and your hands out. The laird of Glencullaich filled your larders, your purses, and your stables many times. The laird is now a boy of not yet five years of age and will do as his mother bids him. As said, I am not my husband, sir. Ye and all your kin will no longer feed off the charity of Glencullaich. Your wagons will always be turned away unless your clan’s children are close to dying of starvation in the street. If that dire circumstance comes to pass, I will assist them by sending precisely what they need to precisely where they need it as I am most weary of finding goods my husband gave you when ye cried poor being sold for a profit in a market. As for your son, Sir Adam, whom ye refuse to rein in, he now prepares to attack Glencullaich. He will not ever get Glencullaich, even if I must burn it to the ground, salt the fields, and taint the water. There is still time for you to call him back from his folly but, if ye choose to remain ignorant in this matter, then I have but one more thing to say to you. I hope you have more than one son. Cordially yours, the whore, Lady Annys Helen Stuart Chisholm MacQueen, widow of the late Sir David William MacQueen, a victim of Sir Adam MacQueen’s greed.”
The laughter of the men did lift her spirits and she was pleased it had dimmed some of the terrible anger that had gripped them. “See? Something I most certainly shouldnae actually send to him.”
“Och, aye, my love, ye most certainly should,” said Harcourt and he called for Gavin.
Annys tried to stop him, but he easily held the letter out of her reach. The moment Gavin appeared in the doorway, Harcourt took him the letter. Annys looked across the table and found Callum and Gybbon grinning at her.
“I just needed to spit all that anger out. I ne’er intended to send it to him,” she said.
“Oh, but it must be sent,” said Callum.
“Aye,” agreed Gybbon, the other four men nodding their agreement. “After what he wrote to you, ye deserve to spit it out, all over him.”
“Perhaps, but when dealing with a mon who could e’en write such a letter, I am nay certain it does much good.” She shrugged. “Then, too, what matter if I spit? ’Tis nay as if being polite, mayhap e’en pleading gently for him to come to his senses, will make any difference at all.”
“Nay, I am thinking the moment he kenned what his son was about, heard that ’tis naught but a woman and child ruling here, a keep monned by ones who have ne’er fought a battle, and where there are but six or seven men he and his son might consider of any worth, he lost all reason.”
“Greed stole his wits and his honor.”
Gybbon silently toasted her with a raise of his tankard and then took a drink.
When Harcourt returned and sat down beside her, Annys asked, “Is it safe for Gavin to leave Glencullaich now? Ye told me the area round here fair crawled with Sir Adam’s spies and that none of us should wander verra far.”
“True but Gavin is marked as a messenger,” Harcourt said. “I dinnae think e’en Sir Adam would harm the boy. ’Tis a thing that would blacken his name, his clan’s name, so deeply he might ne’er wash it away. Messengers are usually left alone. The worst Sir Adam might do is read the message if he stopped Gavin on his way. And, as Sir William’s son, could e’en accept it in his stead.”
He would not tell her yet about the added message he had sent. Although he did not like to boast, this time he had made a point of naming himself, every well-set, powerful relative he had, and named his companions in arms. It should have the effect of making Gavin as untouchable as a leper. If nothing else the very size of his family, the number of their allies through marriage or treaty, should make Sir William certain that his threat held the sting of truth. When a man with a clan the size of his, one with so many allies, told you that you would be made to regret any and every bruise on a lad, you made certain that boy stayed safe if you had any sense at all.
“Welcome back you two,” Annys said as she looked at the MacFingals. “I beg your pardon for being so consumed by my own troubles that I didnae say it the moment I arrived.”