Free Jennifer Roberson by Lady of the Glen Page B

barred from such things; Parliament, for now, looks the other way. But he is unpopular with those men who prefer to retain what power they carved out of the Commonwealth.”
    Glenlyon frowned incomprehension.
    In brief digression, the earl wondered if it was a natural inclination for his kinsman to be ignorant of such matters, or if perhaps the whisky had rotted his brain. Patiently, he said, “James was permitted to inherit the throne despite his faith because his brother, Charles, sired no children on his barren queen . . . and after the turbulence of Cromwell’s interregnum, no man desired political upheaval. Thus Protestant England inherited Catholic James and his equally Catholic wife . . . but there are those who now desire the sister in place of the brother. Mary.”
    He waited for comment. Glenlyon offered none. It has rotted his brain! With precise diction, he clarified further. “Mary is Protestant. Her brother defies the Church of England . . . but Mary is of the proper faith, and she had the foresight and good sense to marry a Protestant, albeit a Calvinist: the Dutchman, William of Orange.” He waited again. “Do you understand?”
    “What has this to do with Scotland?” Glenlyon asked peevishly.
    It took immense patience not to shout. “ All things have to do with Scotland. Mary is a Stuart, aye? Her husband is not. He is a Dutchman. His interests are different, his priorities otherwise.”
    “Good Christ—d’ye think this matters to me?” Glenlyon was clearly out of his depth, and frustrated by ignorance. “James. Mary. What is the difference?”
    “The difference is power , Robin. Until Argyll’s downfall, Clan Campbell was the most powerful in all Scotland. Our position is precarious, now . . . there are MacDonalds to contend with.”
    He paused. He wondered briefly if his ignorant, bankrupt cousin comprehended any measure of what the Earl of Breadalbane hinted. One man might call it treason.
    I call it survival. “Folly, aye?” Breadalbane sipped whisky; smiled across the liquor at his befuddled kinsman as he spoke of treason. “To put all our faith in a king who may be removed within a year?”
    Glenlyon was silent. Rain rattled the latch on mullioned windows. Outside, the glow from lamps in Holyrood were wan blots against the darkness. The earl did not know if Glenlyon contemplated the magnitude of what he suggested, or cared little enough about any of the repercussions that would alter the shape of his country. But then Highlanders, for the most part, cared more for cattle than politics.
    Breadalbane took up the folded paper and replaced it in the leather casket. He closed the lid, fastened the hasp, then looked once more at his kinsman. Commitment was his to make, his sacrifice. Or Glenlyon would commit nothing to Breadalbane when the earl most needed it. “I supported Charles during and after the Restoration,” he said. “I supported James against Argyll’s folly by keeping half of Clan Campbell home from the most recent hostilities. But I am convinced the days of our present monarch are numbered, Robin—and I am not a man who desires to see his clan fall on hardship because of policies determined by the Sassenachs in London.”
    Two spots of color burned high in Glenlyon’s face. “You willna support James now?”
    “True power lies in supporting the man most likely to keep the throne. James will lose it, I think . . . and a woman shall inherit it from him. But William of Orange is no fool; he will make his own decisions. England will answer first, and Scotland shall follow.” Breadalbane’s gaze was unwavering. “I prefer to lead.”
    Glenlyon sat very still. Then he stirred, like a dog newly roused, and pulled himself upright. He looked at the casket on Breadalbane’s desk. “Comhairl’taigh. ”
    “Indeed.” The earl spread his right hand over the domed lid. “If I am to succeed in maintaining Clan Campbell’s preeminence, I will require the support of Breadalbane