Lord of Legend

by Charlene Cross

  Devin stumbled to a halt. Clutching the pitted limestone, he gulped in volumes of air, trying to catch his breath. Chandra’s concern grew. Her mind commanded her feet to stop, but their momentum carried her beyond the jutting rocks, down a steep embankment, and out onto the flat plain.

  The loud neigh of a horse filled her ears; Chandra spun round to see its great, black hooves pummeling the air scant inches above her. A virulent curse shot upward as its rider tried to regain control with a harsh tug of the reins. Eyes rolling, the frightened beast obeyed the command; its forelegs struck the ground less than a yard from her.

  Over the stallion’s bobbing head, blue eyes immediately crucified blue. “Wench,” the man gritted through his teeth, “do you have so little regard for your life that you dash aimlessly about these miserable hills with no thought to your safety? You could have been trampled!”

  Sassenach! Chandra’s mind screamed in Gaelic. Her gaze fired past the Englishman who’d spoken to view the legion behind him. Mother of God! Invaders have descended upon us! What was she to do?

  “Answer me, wench!” the leader’s voice boomed. “Or are you a simpleton? If so, that would explain your indifference to your existence.” He appraised her wealth of lustrous red hair, now freed of its plaid covering, then surveyed her perfect features. Finally, his eyes raked her womanly form to linger with masculine interest on the shapely curves of her bare legs. “Though I don’t know how anything can survive in this scarred and dreary land.”

  Several snickers rose up from the men behind him; his own lips cracked into a wide, even grin. The devil, he was, Chandra thought, though unable to deny his attractiveness.

  Swathed in leather, he was broad of shoulder and lean of hip. And very tall. Or so she imagined. Atop his noble head, thick black hair shone like ebony, even in the gloominess of the day. His chiseled features, including the dimples set in each cheek, appeared to have been sculpted by the hands of a master. He was possibly even more handsome than the evil Lucifer himself.

  Chandra was tempted to cross herself, but wisely she held back. Fear him she did, but she’d not show her alarm. Then, as she stared at the man who had maligned her and her homeland, the wind whipped around them all. The first few drops of rain pelted the earth.

  It was Chandra’s turn to smile as she watched the man shiver. Cursing, he fixed his helm on his head and pulled his heavy cloak around him.

  “I am no simpleton,” she responded, her voice low and even, her shoulders squared. “Being a Morgan, I run these hills at will, as do all the clan Morgan. ’Tis you, Sassenach, who have little regard for your own life, and the lives of those who follow you. Unless you leave here, and leave here quickly, you will remain forever in this ‘scarred and dreary land.’ Be gone, or the scavengers will soon be picking your bones clean.”

  A dark brow arched as Aleck looked down at the young woman who’d threatened his life, and the lives of his men. What harm she alone could cause any of them, he was unable to say, but he felt certain it was minor at best. Intrigued by her courage, false as it was, captured by her beauty, its quality unmatched, he thought that if he must remain in this hellish land for very long, he would gladly spar with a high-spirited lass such as her. Only her, he corrected silently, knowing he’d happily take her to his bed.

  His interested gaze tracked along her smooth legs once more, and he imagined their satiny length wrapped around his waist, her slender hips undulating beneath his own. In this dismal clime, he would welcome a soft, willing body beside him, keeping him warm the night through. In truth, though she was obviously of peasant stock, the ripe young creature standing only a few feet away fascinated him greatly. As for the woman he’d left behind, what was kept secret from Felicia would in no way upset her.

  He leaned an arm across the pommel of his saddle. “I’m sorry, lass, but the scavengers will have to find another offering to dine on, for neither I nor my men will become their banquet. Nor can I leave these lands. Not until I’ve finished with the king’s business. Tell me, is the Lady Lochlaigh in the castle proper?”

  “What do you want with her?” Chandra asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “’Tis the king’s business, as I’ve said. The Lady Lochlaigh must learn of it first. But after I’ve informed her of my mission, I’d very much like to renew our own acquaintance. What is your name, lass?”

  Knowing chuckles rumbled forth from the men nearest him; Chandra stiffened. English swine! she silently deemed them all, glaring her hatred. “Morgan,” she snapped finally.

  Aleck’s lips twitched. “Morgan Morgan—an interesting name, but not very creative.”

  “But it is hers,” Devin said as he stepped into view. Slowly he made his way down the small incline to stand beside his cousin. “’Tis mine as well. What is yours, Sassenach?”

  Their gazes locked, masculine eyes momentarily assessing one another. Then the newcomer placed a protective arm around the young beauty’s shoulders. To Aleck, the gesture proclaimed that the two were wedded, or at least betrothed. Inexplicably, his disappointment soared. He viewed the smaller man again. His challenging look dared Aleck to trespass. Aleck knew he could easily defeat him, stealing the lass away, but other matters were far more pressing.

  “Forgive my bad manners,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I’m the king’s servant, the Earl of Montbourne. These good gentlemen are the king’s men. Now, if you will excuse us, we ride to the castle to see the Lady Lochlaigh.”

  “But she will not see you!” Chandra exclaimed.

  “Then we shall wait in the hall and feast on her food until she grants an audience. Good day to you.”

  Chandra surveyed the procession of men as they slowly trailed past Devin and herself. At a command from the one who called himself Montbourne, the line of mounts uniformly struck a quick cadence up the barren hillside. The abrupt change of pace, she realized, served to display their fearlessness. Audacious they might be, but they were also fools, for Chandra was certain her uncle watched the whole from the battlement. One false move and they would all be dead. “We’d best get to the castle,” she heard Devin say.

  “Aye,” she responded, not taking her eyes from the man who had pronounced himself James’s emissary. The sporadic drops of rain grew in number. “Come, there is work to do.”

  A steady rain had begun to fall by the time Chandra and Devin slipped inside the secret passageway, its entry hidden behind a pile of boulders. The corridor exited into the cellars of the north tower, its spiral stone staircase carrying them up through the castle’s outer wall. “Take yourself to your quarters and change into some dry clothing,” Chandra ordered, dodging the stores of grain and supplies warehoused there while moving toward the door that led to the inner ward.

  “What do you plan to do about the Sassenach and those who ride with him?” Devin asked.

  “I go to find Cedric. Surely he will have the answer.”

  “If he has not already killed them,” Devin interjected. “Take care, Chandra. Do not let him persuade you to act in haste.”

  “I won’t,” she said, noting his cautioning look. Although she often sought her uncle’s counsel, she did not always heed Cedric’s advice, despite what Devin assumed. What her cousin deemed a lack of confidence was actually her need to be prudent in all that she did. If she ever lost her temper with Devin, it was because she was weary of being caught between her cousin and her uncle, the two standing in constant opposition to the other, and not because she favored Cedric, as Devin thought. Knowing all too well how her uncle felt about the English, she would weigh his words carefully. Only then would she act. “Just pray I am not too late.”

  Her plaid safeguarding her head from the rain, she lifted her skirt, now untucked from her waistband, and scurried out the heavy wooden door at the tower’s base into the inner ward. Reaching the stone steps leading to the battlement, she ran them to the top, then walked swiftly to where her uncle stood. Red-faced, he shouted at the English rabble who waited not f
ar from the gate. Keeping herself from the view of those below, she listened to the exchange.

  “The Lady Lochlaigh does not wish to see you,” Cedric stated hotly. “Take your English hides back across the border while you still have the chance.”

  “It amazes me, sir,” Aleck called upward, “that you would know what is in the Lady Lochlaigh’s mind when you have not left the spot where you stand since I rode up this hill. I am here on the king’s calling to deliver a letter from James to The Morgan of that ilk. Only she may see it first. Therefore, I suggest you find your chieftain and tell her I have urgent business with her.”

  “If it is so urgent, mayhap you will consider entering the castle alone. I would be most happy to carry the missive to my chieftain personally.”

  Aleck assessed the man who appeared to be no more than four or five years older than himself. Should Aleck enter the Morgan stronghold alone, he was positive he’d never leave the place alive. In his mind’s eye, he saw James’s letter riding high on a silver platter, alongside Aleck’s head. His short burst of laughter rose through the heavy mists. “It is not that urgent,” he said, a cool smile on his lips. “If I enter, so do my men. Now, find your lady and give her my message. I will not leave these heathen lands until I see her.”

  “Damn your English eyes!” Cedric shouted, sounding even more incensed. “I said begone with you!” James’s emissary remained fixed, as did his men. Cedric slipped his claymore from the scabbard resting along the length of his back. The blade rose high and a band of archers rushed to the battlement. Bows and arrows ready, they awaited the command to let their deadly missiles fly. “Prepare to die!” Cedric bellowed.

  Chandra’s eyes widened. She wanted the Englishman and his soldiers away from her lands, but she did not want them dead. If Montbourne was truly James’s emissary and the clan Morgan murdered him, then woe unto them all. Much like the clan Gregor, who, by James’s orders, had been stripped of its lands, homes burned, its name declared extinct—all because of its disobedience to the Crown; she feared the Morgans would suffer a similar fate. That she could not allow. Not after her father had sworn fealty to their king.

  “Uncle!” she cried softly, not wanting her voice to carry below. “Cease these hostilities.”

  Cedric turned her way. Beneath his harsh frown, his dark eyes examined her, then he waved off his men. Striding across the wet stones, he faced her. “Niece, they trespass and refuse to leave. There is only one way to deal with them. They’ll all be buried by nightfall.”

  “The one at the fore says he was sent by James. If so, Uncle, we risk severe punishment should we kill him. We could not defend ourselves against the avenging army that would be sure to follow him. I do not wish to see my clansmen slaughtered, all because of one man.”

  “’Tis more like fifty!”

  “One or fifty, it does not matter. They were sent by James.”

  Cedric’s jaw clenched. “Then what is it you want me to do?”

  Seeing his anger, Chandra knew he thirsted for blood, for he hated the English, hated James, but she would not allow her uncle’s abhorrence to destroy them all. “Tell him that you go in search of the Lady Lochlaigh and will request an audience. Let him sit in the rain until dusk, then allow the whole into the castle. Feed them cakes and gruel. Give them no wine, only water. When the time is right, I will make my appearance as the Lady Lochlaigh.”

  “If that is your wish, so be it, but our own men will be armed and ready. Should even one Englishman make a false move, they’ll all be slain.”

  “Arm the men, but temper yourself, Uncle. I do not want bloodshed, if it can be avoided. Those are my orders.”

  “And I will attest that she gave them,” Devin said from behind her.

  Over Chandra’s head, the men’s gazes collided with animosity; then Cedric strode to the wall. Following Chandra’s instructions, he informed the Englishman that the Lady Lochlaigh would be sought out, an audience requested. However, until a response came from her lips, the one-and-fifty men were to remain outside the castle gates.

  “Your hospitality is unmatched,” Aleck called up to his adversary, a distinctive edge to his voice. He blinked the water droplets from his eyes. “Cannot you at least offer us shelter from these cold rains?”

  “If you do not desire to wait, England is that way,” Cedric snapped, pointing to the south. “Otherwise, keep your positions.” His orders fulfilled, Chandra’s uncle turned away from the wall. Motioning the archers from their posts, he again strode toward his niece. “The sentries will keep an eye on the swine,” he said, his lip curling. “It may come to pass, Niece, that you’ll regret we did not finish them off while we had the chance. By your own resolve, you have put us all in jeopardy. Will you not reconsider?”

  “No, Uncle. I stand by my decision.”

  “Then whatever follows lies solely upon your shoulders,” he said, loud enough for those nearest them to hear. Obviously, he wanted his clansmen to know he stood in opposition to her. “To make certain none of us comes to a quick end, I go to order the men ready.”

  Chandra watched her uncle descend the stone steps. As she fretted over her decision to admit the men into the castle, her teeth worried her bottom lip. Cedric was displeased with her, she knew. But, under the circumstances, she’d had no other choice. She’d not spur James’s ire.

  “Do not let his words upset you.” Devin’s gentle hands settled on her shoulders. “More than two hundred people, Morgans all, reside inside these walls. The Sassenach has only one-quarter that many with him outside. There is no cause for alarm.”

  “Except that they will eventually be inside with the rest of us. That, Devin, is what worries me. Should Cedric react too swiftly to anything this Montbourne says or does, I fear a great slaughter will result.”

  Her cousin frowned. “Aye,” he said. “Knowing your uncle, the English will all be dead.”

  “So will we,” Chandra stated, again thinking of James. “It might be best that I remind Cedric—the others, also—to contain his anger.”

  Her foot hit the first step, and Devin followed. “What of the Sassenach?” he asked. “If he’s kept waiting, isn’t his own anger bound to grow?”

  “I’m certain of it, Devin. Especially since he has such an exceptional opinion of the Highlands. A stint in the elements will undoubtedly make him even more desirous of his beloved England. Good fortune may have it that when we finally open the gates, he will already have departed.”

  “But he might not.”

  “That is a chance I shall take.”

  At dusk, the rustic gates leading into Lochlaigh Castle slowly creaked open. Having sat for hours in the cold rain, looking at naught but the gray stone fortress or the equally colorless landscape surrounding him, Aleck watched as a squat little man slipped from inside the ancient stronghold. Bare legs bowed beneath his stout trunk, his hips and thighs draped in what Aleck assumed was the Morgan plaid—a weave of green, yellow, and red—the man dodged the puddles that lay like miniature lakes on the soggy ground, striding toward the waiting troop.

  “The Morgan apologizes for the delay and bids ye welcome now,” he said, stopping before Aleck. “A meal awaits ye and yer men in the hall.”

  Now. The word exploded inside Aleck’s head, and he gritted his teeth. Contempt shone in his eyes as he stared down at the man, for he could barely control his temper. His clothes were sodden, while rivulets of moisture trickled down his back; he was chilled to the bone. His already low opinion of the Highlanders had deteriorated even further. Crude, moss-headed provincials, he thought in irritation, deciding each one needed to be taught the meaning of civility.

  Taking hold of his emotions, for he refused to behave as discourteously as did the clan Morgan, Aleck smiled politely. “Thank you, my good man. Please, if you would, lead the way.”

  The stout little Scotsman spun on his heel and signaled to the guards at the gatehouse. The scarred panels swung wide. Following the man as he again dodged the puddles
, Aleck and the troop of fifty soon passed under the portcullis, into the upper bailey. As the line of men advanced through another set of gates into the lower bailey, Aleck was aware that no fewer than a hundred sets of eyes watched the procession. Their owners stood along the battlements and on the stone stairs leading to the former’s heights, as well as around the perimeter of the yard itself. Heavily armed, each man kept to his post, his hand positioned on his weapon. The entire scene boded ill for Aleck and his men.

  The riders halted near the stables. Remaining vigilant, Aleck and the others cautiously dismounted, then twenty-five warriors followed him to the entrance of the hall, the rest staying behind to attend the horses. When he’d passed through the aged doors, Aleck noted that the place stood strangely empty, but he imagined that he and his men were being closely watched, just as they were outside. His gaze swept the hall anew, observing that it was clean. The appointments, however, could at best be described as paltry.

  Along the drab stone walls ranged long trestle tables, not a length of damask covering their exposed tops. Wooden benches sat beside them, their rough boards looking dangerously harsh. Briefly Aleck thought of the hoard of bare-legged men who occupied this place, their plaids the only protection they wore. A quiet chuckle escaped him. Undoubtedly their legs and rumps were scarred from the trove of splinters that greeted them each time they sat down to eat.

  The tableware was no better than the furnishings. Instead of pewter or silver, the trestles were set with stained wooden bowls and cracked wooden spoons, not a morsel of food to be seen. Like his men, Aleck was tired, wet, and hungry, yet it did not surprise him to see there was no provender awaiting them. Where bad manners were shown in one area, they were bound to extend to another, and Aleck’s conceptions about the Scots were quickly reaffirmed: They were and always would be an uncouth lot.

  “Take yerself a place at one of the tables,” said the man who’d escorted them into the castle. “Yer food will be here shortly.”