It would be a shame when the young King Malcolm came of age, he thought ruefully, for he could become used to being in charge. But Malcolm was not yet sixteen, he thought idly, and showed none of the leadership prowess that his uncle, King David I, had been renowned for. At the moment, the young king was easy to control, easy to influence, a situation that gave Ferchar immense satisfaction.The fire burned low in the grate, a heap of smouldering embers that spit and crackled occasionally. Many of the castle occupants had gone to sleep; those with no chamber allocated to them rolled up in their cloaks on the floor of the great hall. Cleared of food and dirty plates, the long trestle tables had been scrubbed down and pushed back against the walls to gain more floor space. Every now and again, a cough broke the silence, or the wavering rumble of a snore.Malcolm stuck his head around the side door leading from the dais. ‘What happened?’ he enquired querulously.Ferchar opened one eye, looked over to him in irritation.
