The Lion (Clan Ross of the Hebrides Book 1) by Hildie McQueen (ereader for android .TXT) 📕

Confused the men looked at one another. Finally, one replied. “From the miller in the village, like everyone else.”

“Ye both have plenty of butter because ye have milk from cows. I presume ye have chickens and sheep as well.”

Both nodded.

“Why is everyone around ye hungry?”

His nose had stopped bleeding, so the man looked Darach in the eyes. “I am the provider of meat and milk for the laird. It is I that has had the honor to ensure yer family is well-fed, my laird.” The man made a show of bowing.

“What about ye?” Darach asked the other man. “Ye have the same privileges, I presume.”

“I do not, my laird,” the man replied. “Unlike him.” He glared at the other man. “I am an honest man. I am not called to serve my laird, except to provide a yearly tax. I ensure that I feed the families of those that work for me.”

Darach looked about the room. “How many here raise livestock?”

A smattering of hands rose and Darach motioned for them to approach. Once the men were lined up, he noted that unlike the two who’d been fighting, the rest of the men were not as plump.

“Every month a different man will provide for the keep and will be paid for it.” The men exchanged excited looks. “As far as schedule, ye will meet with my brother Gideon to be assigned a time.” Darach hesitated for a beat. “Those in dire need will go first.”

The man with the cut above his eye waved his arms. “My laird, if I may be so bold. There are fourteen of us. That means two of us cannot serve ye.”

“Neither of ye will serve me for a year,” he told the two well-fed men.

The men stared at him with identical gaping wide mouths and eyes, and the wife of one of them swooned.

It was late in the day before the crowd in the room had finally thinned enough for last meal to be served.

People had been sent home with enough food and grain to last them for a few weeks. Herders were instructed to gift each family with a goat, sheep, or cow so that they could have milk. Chickens were also distributed.

The council would be discussing how to ensure the clan’s homes would be fortified enough for the upcoming cold weather of winter.

Darach stood and stretched. “I need to go for a walk before last meal.” Without waiting for anyone to remind him there were still matters that needed to be heard and things which needed to be discussed, he stalked across the room and out the front door.

In the courtyard, people climbed on wagons, and horseback riders mounted. Other clans people walked to and from a makeshift table where his scribe noted who had been provided with what.

Down the side of the house, there were steps that led to a lower area. Darach descended the slope and continued down until reaching the shoreline of a loch. At the water’s edge, hidden from sight, he lowered to his knees and bent forward covering his face with both hands.

It wasn’t as much to pray, but an effort to seek the fortitude to continue. At becoming laird, he’d not been aware of the magnitude of the issues he would face.

Upon his father’s death, the truth had come to light of how horrible a leader his father had been. People hadn’t come to seek help or guidance for fear of repercussions. Those who had not been in his father’s favor now openly complained; the grievances ringing of truth and injustice.

How had he been so blind? Somehow his father had been so controlling of the people that they’d forced smiles and never showed any kind of discord. Now he learned that they were under threat of death for any misdeed his father considered treasonous.

How had it come to be that to ask for food or help was viewed as treason, and therefore, people were on the verge of starvation and death? Those that had livestock and those who grew crops were not allowed to share in case the laird had need of it.

While food rotted in the keep’s storehouses, people outside the gates starved.

Fury filled him to the point that screams caught in his throat. Even the soft lapping of the water did little to soothe him.

Senses overwhelmed; all he could do was to take deep breaths and expel them. When his hound caught up with him and lowered to its hunches, Darach reached over and scratched its head. Seeming reassured all was well, the animal rose and began running along the shoreline, picking up a stick and playing.

He watched the dog, jealous over its lack of concern. He’d originally named the black hound Abyss, but in truth, the name did no justice as the animal had a friendly jovial nature. So now he called him Albie.

The cold air swept across the surface of the water bringing with it the smell of the nearby sea. Realizing it had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to just be, he took a deep breath of the salty air.

Stuart, who was the closest to him out of his six siblings, called to him, “Darach, what are ye doing?”

By the way Stuart neared and then followed his line of sight to the loch, his brother needed no explanation.

“Why was Father so cruel to his people?” Darach asked.

“Perhaps he didn’t see it as cruelty, but as a way to manage everyone.”

Darach studied Stuart. His brother’s dark brown hair blowing across the chiseled serious face. “I cannot believe that. We have only to listen to them. To see them. To know how horribly they’ve been treated.”

Stuart straightened his shoulders and held his head high. “We can argue every point of how things have been done in the past. It will not help those people now,” he said, motioning toward the house. “What matters right now is that we help them. Set a new standard.