BLACK WOLF
Somewhere in the far north of the Highlands,
where mountains shear the sky and dense
forests darken in the full light of day,
they tell of the Black Wolf, known
by his golden eyes.
Some say he is a manas any other.
Yet, when the full moon's pale light
shadows the night and howls carry
from the woods across mottled
moors on the wind's raspy tongue, they
say the Black Wolf roams free and the
man and the wolf are one.
Chapter One
1512
It was over. Kolyn MacGregor understood that. No more clash of steel on steel. No shrill battle cries. All was silent, though she could sense an eerie song, the notes of sadness where time meets death. Kolyn took a deep breath. Then she stepped into the tiny hut where her father had been taken. When her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she saw her father's men gathered about the pallet where he lay, his death bed a blood-soaked straw mattress on the dirt floor.
She thought it sad that her father should die in such a dismal place, that the dead and dying were in a shack unfit to shelter pigs. She wanted to cry. No, she needed to cry, to ease the tightness in her throat and the pain in her heart. Her gaze moved to her brother's body, his plaid covering him. Neither tears nor begging had convinced Gilles of his foolishness, or that of their father.
She regretted not watching the challenge. Her own stubbornness had kept her at Gregor Castle. She was unwilling to watch another brother die needlessly. If she had been there, perhaps she could have stopped the MacGregor from attacking the Black Wolf after Gilles had fallen. Then her father would not be dying as well. Kolyn forced herself to turn away, to stop torturing herself and give her attention to Douglas MacGregor while he still lived.
"Father."
All eyes turned to her.
"Kolyn."
Dwight MacDougal, her uncle, crossed the hut and took her hand in his. She noticed how small her hand felt enclosed in his massive one.
"Come, Douglas has not long t' live. We dared not take him t' the keep."
Licking the dryness from her lips, Kolyn raised her gaze to meet her uncle's, his hazel eyes filled with sadness and pain. Still, he squared his shoulders, and his courage helped Kolyn step forward.
"Father." She took the MacGregor's bloodied hand and held it to her heart. "I'm here."
The MacGregor's eyes fluttered open, his faded green gaze meeting hers. For the briefest moment, something flickered in them, like memories of long ago. "Katherine," he mumbled, barely loud enough for Kolyn to hear.
"Father, it's Kolyn."
Recognition showed on his pale face. "Kolyn." He drew a shaky breath. "'Tis damned uncanny how much you look like your mother. All that red hair . . . those emerald eyes." Kolyn tried to smile, but failed. She bit her lip to stop it from quivering. "We will get you well, then"
He raised his hand, pressing his fingers to her lips and silencing her. "I'll not be gettin' well this time, daughter. Death, 'tis near." He waved his hand to his men. "Leave us. I wish a moment in private with my daughter." Then MacGregor called to his half-brother, who was following the men outside. "Dwight, you and Father McCloud will stay. You shall bear witness to my daughter's oath."
"No," Kolyn cried out in surprise. She turned back to her father and whispered. "I'll not be a part of this."
For five years she had struggled to remain apart from the madness, the hate, the feud. The MacGregor had no more sons there could be no more challenges. This must be the end. The MacGregor's face became a stern mask, anger bringing a temporary fire to his eyes.
"You are my daughter. You will do as honor demands." Most would not dare to oppose the man, but Kolyn understood only the fierceness inside her that overrode her qualms. "Honor?" "Aye." The MacGregor's tone spoke his fury. He struggled to raise up, but weakness held him down. "Aye, honor. You are just like your mother." "Aye, I am." Kolyn stood firm. "And I'll not let you touch me with your madness, Father. I won't let you."
"Madness, you say. What do women ken of revenge?"
"Revenge." The disgust she felt colored her voice, years of violence and grief crystallized within the single word. "It's hatred that has driven you." "Aye, lass. Hatred does fill me. Hatred for a single man who has killed and crippled my sons, and now I be dyin' from his sword. He has seen to it the MacGregor Clan will not live on. Your words are blasphemous. The clan's honor has not been regained, and revenge must be taken by the last of my kin."
The blood drained from her face. This would not be the end. Her father meant for her to continue in his place. "You cannot ask this of me." Kolyn had never felt such desperation. She thought she could not breathe again, the air remaining still within her chest. The MacGregor just watched her, and she knew he was thinking. It wasn't until a sudden pain seemed to shoot through him that he turned away.
Finally, when he was able to speak, he asked, "How can you deny me, daughter? To dishonor the clan means banishment, child. Would you risk this? Would you let me die with shame in my heart?" These questions did not come out so fiercely as the previous words he had bellowed at her. Still, she did not back down. But neither would the MacGregor.
"Dwight," the MacGregor called out. "Get my men."
Once they had gathered within, the MacGregor spoke for all to hear, but his eyes remained on Kolyn. "You're the last of my children. All before you are dead, excepting Emmett, who lies dead inside a crippled body." The impact of his words left her silent, grief returning to attack her bravado and strength. The MacGregor went on. "You will take my place, lead the clan. You are the MacGregor now, Kolyn." Shock replaced sadness. A woman had never been named MacGregor. "Father! I cannot. 'Tis not done."
"It matters little to me what has been done or not. You will obey my decision. 'Tis your duty, Kolyn. I will not hear denials of who you are again."
Feelings of shame swept through her. "I understand, and I'll not fail you." Kolyn prayed it be all he asked.
Contentment flooded his expression before another grimace twisted his features. "I must be askin' for a promise, a promise you'll keep or die." Fear pricked the back of her mind, but Kolyn ignored it. "The Black Wolf, he must die . . ." Pain snatched his words. He moaned. Then he grabbed her hand. "He is the Devil, and he must die. Promise me," he demanded, his voice shaking.
Emotions warred within her. She couldn't. She wouldn't. She opened her mouth, but no words came. Her father pushed his bloodied sword at her, his eyes telling her more than his words. "Swear it, upon my sword." She could not move. Her father's eyes widened from his exertion, his disappointment in her hesitation apparent in their depths. He leaned forward and whispered, "You cannot shame me, daughter. Will you kill this man for the sake of your clan? Is your love for your people strong enough?"
Again she tried, but no words formed in her dry mouth. She felt the eyes of her father's men bearing down upon her, questioning her sense of honor. How could she promise such a thing? It went against everything she believed in. She abhorred the hate, the killing, and now this was expected of her. This was her duty as the chief of the clan MacGregor. The promise lay unspoken in her mouth. But, how could she deny him? To deny her father, the MacGregor, would mean banishment. No one would take in someone who brought shame upon her clan. And what of Andrew? She must take care of her son.
Out of all the conflicting emotions rising like a whirlpool inside her, one dominated. The desire to protect and provide for her son rushed forth so fiercely, her decision was made without distinct thought. Kolyn drew her shoulders back and stood proud, stilling the terror and apprehension she felt. She placed her hand upon the hilt of the claymore. The word
s fell from her tongue, empty of the feelings she carried within her heart.
"Upon all that is holy, I shall see the Black Wolf dead. That I promise you, my father." "You have your mother's blood, but mine as well."
The MacGregor motioned for his brother to come close, his words for his ears only. "Kolyn cannot fail . . ."
His words trailed off, choked by weakness and the tears that suddenly gathered in his eyes. "'Tis Kolyn who must regain the honor of the MacGregor clan. Watch over her, Dwight, as I cannot." Dwight nodded, then stepped away. He did not meet Kolyn's gaze. Once again, fear rested heavy upon her heart. When she looked back to her father, it was too late. No more was to be said. The weakest of smiles curved the MacGregor's mouth, then stilled, as did the rise and fall of his chest. With a strange calmness, Kolyn closed his eyes and laid his hand down. She removed the ring from his littlest finger and placed it upon her own. When she turned to leave, her father's men dropped down onto one knee, showing respect to their new chieftain.
Kolyn turned to her uncle, but he bowed his head before she could read the message in his eyes. As brief as the contact was, it made her uneasy. Kolyn left the dimness of the old hut and walked out into the sunshine. She crossed the field where the challenge had taken place, but pushed the event from her mind. The men who saw her knew instinctively the MacGregor was dead. None offered her sympathy. She would grieve alone.
Kolyn was numb. Soon the smell of death and the taste of battle were left behind. She continued on toward the castle, neither thinking nor feeling. The grounds were quiet, too quiet. The knife grinder's wheel was silent, as was the bellows at the forge. No one drew water from the well. No one milled about at all.
She continued on to the equally deserted village. Shops were closed. The vendors were silent. Only the occasional sound of a barking dog drifted to her ears. When she came to a quiet meadow, beyond the village and just before the wall of forest, she stopped. Heather bloomed in the knee-high grass, and a gentle breeze caused it to sway rhythmically. She knew it was beautiful, but its glory was lost to her, its sweet smell only faintly noted.
Dry-eyed, she looked down at her father's ring, heavy and strange on her hand. She touched it, as if reading its meaning with her fingertips and memorizing its form. She felt a great pain rip her heart, allowing her grief to flow.
"Why?" she asked the emptiness about her. She was alone now, except for Emmett and Andrew. And she couldn't understand why. For five years they had been fighting, the MacGregors and Blackstone. Her father's hatred had possessed him, causing him to send his sons to challenge the Black Wolf. Gilles had fallen beneath Blackstone's sword this day. In disbelief and anger, her father had attacked and been struck down, leaving her now the clan's leader. She was the MacGregor.
She felt the great weight of her father's hatred descend upon her. She had accepted the cross of the MacGregor and she must serve the clan. Still, deep inside, Kolyn knew she had sacrificed her own beliefs and conscience upon this cross.
"Why?" Kolyn screamed to the darkening sky, raising her hands up, as if reaching for an answer. Slowly, she sank down to her knees. Finally, the tears came.
The Black Wolf sat upon his giant steed, watching the woman in the meadow. A plaid covered her head and face so he could not see her clearly. Nor could he hear her cries, the wind carrying them in the opposite direction. But he understood her grief.
Ian Blackstone allowed the coolness of the oncoming night to steal away the heat of battle that still ran through his blood. In time, it eased from him. The freshness of the air relieved the smell of death that clung in his nostrils, and the quietness about him calmed the clamor of broadswords that echoed in his head. Yet he could not rid himself so easily of the pain that lingered within his heart.
The forest's lengthening shadows kept him well hidden from any probing eyes. He knew he should go, but something kept him in place, watching the woman. His gaze never left her as she slumped down in the tall grass, almost disappearing in its lush greenness. Absently, he massaged his wounded shoulder, the pain no longer a concern. He thought of other things. Darkness fell. Still, he remained.
"Why," he asked himself. Ian looked down at the blood on his hand. Some of his own stained his flesh, but mostly it was that of others, of his enemy. He recalled the image of the MacGregor as his own hand dealt the wound that felled the big man from his mount. He'd known the chieftain would not survive. This had been his last battle. Ian clenched his open palm into a fist. When would the MacGregor clan stop this madness? It was another question he had no answer to. There was no one left to lead the clan. Perhaps, he dared to hope, this would be the end of it.
Ian shook his head to rid himself of the strange melancholy mood that had descended upon him. Then, with something akin to a growl, he spurred his mount and rode straight into the blackness of the dense forest. Only the slightest rustle of the trees marked his passing. Ian paused when the wolf suddenly appeared. The animal's ebony coat blended into the dark shadows as the glimmer of golden eyes reflected the moon's light. Then it turned and vanished into the trees, swallowed by the night. Ian moved on and, faithfully, the wolf followed its master along the thickly wooded path, never far off.
Stonehaven castle towered above the cluster of cottages like a giant guardian. Ian rode his black war-horse down the cobblestone streets, the clopping of hooves against stone echoing in the quiet night. The tavern snuggled into the edge of the village. The sign that bore the name of the tavern swung back and forth in the breeze, rusty hinges calling out, much like the sound of the raven carved upon it.
Ian dismounted and ducked to get under the door jamb, closing the door behind him. He stepped into the crowded room, filled mostly by his own men. The smells of strong ale, smoke, and bodies welcomed Ian, just as the warm greetings did.
"Ian, I was beginnin' to think you would not be comin". The man who spoke rose from a table near the fire, then crossed the room to where Ian stood. Geoffrey's frame was as large as Ian's, but his height did not measure up to Ian's six feet, five inches.
"I've not much to celebrate, Geoff." Geoffrey slapped Ian on the back and led him to his seat.
"I dinna ken your thinkin', Ian. The last of the MacGregors fell today. You're free of their cursed feud."
Geoffrey put a mug in Ian's hand and sat. "'Tis a drink you're needin'." "Aye." Ian drank the dark ale down, then sat on the rough-hewn bench across from his friend. The fire snapped, spewing hot embers out onto the wood floor, where the red glow faded, then died, leaving only black soot. His empty flagon was filled, by whom he didn't notice, his mind on the day's events.
Ian felt Geoffrey's gaze and turned his attention to him. "The old man was a fool to attack after his son fell. Served no purpose but to kill himself as well," Geoffrey offered.
"He carried a lot of hatred in his heart." Geoffrey nodded. "Aye. His hatred drove him to his end."
"The MacGregor men died honorably. I faced them in challenge, and they fought bravely. It's not their ghosts that haunt me."
"'Tis time you laid the child's ghost to rest, Ian. 'Tis time to put the past behind you." Ian growled in answer.
Geoffrey did not seem put off by it. "You dinna ken Blair was with child. You cannot go through life blamin' yourself." "'Tis none of your business, Geoff." Just as Geoffrey started to reply, the tavern maid leaned over the table between them, her posture allowing Ian full view of her ample bosom.
"Will you be needin' anythin' else, Ian?"
Ian tried to still his reflex, wincing at Leslie's use of his name. It wasn't so much the familiarity of his Christian name, but the way she said it, suggesting more intimacy between them than existed. "Will you see that a room is fixed for me, Leslie. A bath would be appreciated too." Leslie smiled, a seductive look lighting her pale blue eyes. She tossed back her long, blond hair. ''I'll tend to it myself, Ian."
Again she leaned low, her lips almost touching Ian's ear as she whispered, "I'll wash your back, my Lord. An' whatever" Ian stopped her.
"The bath is all I need tonight, lass." Her lower lip pouted out. "Whatever you say."
Geoffrey pulled Leslie to him. "You can come to my bed when you're done, Leslie, my love." He brushed his lips over the roundness of her breast outlined by the fabric of her bodice pulled tightly against her. This caused her to giggle and pull away in pretended coyness, the swing of her hips as she walked away serving as her reply to Geoffrey. Geoffrey laughed warmly, his gaze admiring her ample curves. When he turned his attention back to Ian he shook his head and gave another short chuckle. "You'd think the lass would ken by now that you prefer to be alone than with her."
"It's not any fault of hers. She's quite lovely."
"'Tis bonnie enough, Ian, but I know what lies in your heart. You long for a wife to love, a woman to mother your children and be beside you till death. Not just a warm body to ease your longings for a night." It surprised Ian that his life-long friend knew his hidden desires so well. Perhaps even bette than he understood them himself.
"Your arm is strong," Ian said. "Your strength guards and protects my back. But it's your friendship I value, Geoff. I could not have endured these past years without you standing by me." Geoffrey turned away from Ian's praise. "'Tis your English blood that makes you sentimental." He turned dark eyes back to Ian's, a look of faith and trust lighting them. "But I'd give my life for the Scotsman in you. 'Tis him I follow."
The Black Wolf Page 1