“I did not say we left Stirling. As a matter of fact we left the small village of Doune some miles to the north of it, and at that time had heard nothing either of Malcolm or his boat.”
“Hum,” ejaculated the laird, rummaging among his papers on the table. The king glancing in the direction of MacLeod’s hands saw spread out the charter which he himself had signed, giving MacLeod tenure of his land, and beside it, as if this island magnate had been comparing the signatures was the recent draft of the proclamation commending Malcolm MacLeod’s boat. This document Dunvegan passed to the Guidman of Ballengeich.
“You know the king’s writing perhaps? Will you tell me whether this is, as I suspect, a forgery?”
James wrinkled his brows and examined the signature with minute care. “I have seen the writing of his majesty,” he said at last, “but MacDonald here knows it better than I. What do you think of it, Jamie?” he continued, passing on the parchment to his friend. “Is this the real Mackay, or is it not?”
“It is,” said MacDonald shortly and definitely.
“You say that is the actual signature of the king?” inquired MacLeod.
“I could swear it is as genuine as the one on your charter,” replied MacDonald.
“Well, now,” said MacLeod leaning back in his chair, “will you resolve a mystery for me? How is it likely that James Fifth ever heard of Malcolm MacLeod’s boat? and if he did, do you consider it probable that an august monarch would compliment a Highland cateran’s skill with the axe?”
“James is a douce body,” said the king, “and knows more of what is going on in his realm than folk who think themselves wiser might imagine.”
“You hint, then,” said MacLeod, drawing down his black brows, “that his majesty may have spies in Skye?”