“I don’t want to be tacksman.” Robert enunciated every word, his voice rising. “I don’t want your job, bowing obsequiously to the stinking laird and his despicable sons. I won’t do it.” “Ye will.” Lytton’s voice, steel-edged. “I won’t. Don’t you see, Da? Soon there won’t be any tacksmen. Year by year, they’re being replaced …