Hot anger coursed through his old frame, and he straightened up, eyes bright with the sudden fury. This man had stolen his daughter, and now he was trying to steal her memory away as well. Archie would not stand for that. Not at all. He would get the painting back if it was the last thing he did.
But how?
He fought down a sudden tide of defeatism. Something would surely turn up...
"Archie!" a voice suddenly called, in an all-too-familiar strong Scottish accent. Spinning round as fast as he old bones would allow, Archie found himself looking at Henry of Scotland, who was grinning like a loon and brandishing his claymore. Behind him, crammed into the painting's frame and spilling out into the two beside it (quite squashing out the painting's rightful occupants, two elegant Tudor ladies), was a jostling mass of painted figures, many of them heavily armed.
"I've got ye an army," Henry said cheerfully, waving an arm at the crowd. "Where would ye like 'em?"
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