The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection
Page 116
“Do you know why?” Connor abandoned the stables to fall into step beside his friend as they returned to the fort. God, he hoped the king didn’t have another imminent battle plan in mind. He’d die for his king, but he’d like a short respite first. The thought of returning to the killing fields without so much as a week of peace knotted his guts.
Treacherous thoughts. Ones he would never utter. But still they polluted his mind.
Ewan shrugged and looked as grim as Connor felt. “Can’t be the Vikings back already. Probably the Picts this time.”
Slaves were clearing the great hall of the remnants of the previous night’s feast, and a couple of dogs fought a bloody battle under the high table as he and Ewan passed through on their way to the king’s inner sanctum. A couple of older warriors, eyes hard, expressions of stone, emerged from the sanctum as Connor and Ewan approached. An aura of secrecy and intrigue clung to them as palpable as the mist that obscured the hilltops at dawn.
Through the open door, their king waved them in. As Connor went down on one knee and bowed his head, he knew he wouldn’t be returning this day to the place he called home. The war room vibrated with scarcely concealed anticipation.
“Connor. Ewan.” Kenneth MacAlpin, King of the Scots, flicked his hand in an impatient gesture, ordering them to rise. Four of the king’s advisers flanked him, staring at Connor and Ewan as if they were cockroaches they’d like to crush beneath their heels.
They probably would. None of them had forgotten that, until four years ago, both Connor’s and Ewan’s fathers had been MacAlpin’s most trusted of intimates. But along with so many others during that bloodied battle of ’39, their lives had been lost defending their king. And their noble positions had been filled with those less scrupulous.
The king folded his arms and leaned back against his heavy timber desk. “If we want continued success against the Vikings, we need the Picts’ allegiance.”
Connor refrained from glancing at Ewan, but only just. Of all the things he’d expected the king to say, it hadn’t been this.
“I can’t see them deferring to a Scot.” Especially since they didn’t even formally recognize MacAlpin’s kingship of Dal Riada. “Why should they offer us their trust?”
“Wrad is dead,” the king said.
Connor waited, but it appeared MacAlpin considered that explanation enough.
“Why does the death of their high king affect us?” Ewan said, clearly as much in the dark as Connor. “Their heathen tribes will only fight among themselves again until they elevate another to the position.”
The king bared his teeth in a feral smile. “They won’t. Because in accordance with their customs of inheritance, the kingship of Fortriu now belongs to me.”
This time Connor did catch Ewan’s eye. “I can’t see the Picts agreeing without bloodshed.”
“They don’t have a choice.” The king strolled around his desk and glanced at the map that covered its surface. “My birthright is unchallenged through the bloodline of my royal mother.”
“And claiming Fortriu will secure the loyalty of all the Pictish clans?” Ewan didn’t sound convinced and Connor agreed. While there had been intermittent peace between the two peoples over the last three hundred years, trust had never taken root. And to mean anything, loyalty had to be freely given not extracted by brutality.
He caught the guarded look that passed among the king’s advisers. As if they knew how the king intended to exact such loyalty. Connor’s gaze sharpened on the king, who appeared absorbed in studying the borderlines of the seven Pictish kingdoms that swallowed up the land northeast of Dal Riada.
There was more at stake here than the claiming of a matrilineal heritage.
“Marriage will claim their loyalty.” The king finally looked up, iron purpose glinting in his eyes. “Their daughters and our warriors. And a Scot ruling the supreme kingdom uncontested.”
Aye, he could see that working. In theory. In practice he doubted the Picts would so easily give up their royal daughters. “But what if they don’t want such an alliance?”
The king tapped his finger on the map and Connor and Ewan dutifully stepped forward. “The northernmost clans are most affected by the Vikings. Fidach is weak and relies on the neighboring Ce.” He jabbed his finger at the relevant clan territories. “Rex Bredei mac Lutin of Ce has at least two if not more daughters. He’s the one we need as our ally. Assure him of our undivided support against the barbaric Norsemen in return for political favor. Once we’ve secured his eldest daughter in marriage, our hold on the north strengthens.”
“Who does my liege consider worthy of such marriage?”
“A man,” the king said, “who will beget heirs without delay.”
Unease trickled along Connor’s spine at the piercing glare MacAlpin arrowed his way. Surely the king wasn’t suggesting he was to be married to this foreign princess? Connor’s ties to the king were absolute, by virtue of his heritage and personal actions.
But he didn’t possess royal blood. Why would any Pict king agree to such a union for his daughter?
“It’s a pity,” the king said, never taking his eyes from Connor, “the eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce has a reputation as a cantankerous shrew. She’s also reclusive and, I fear, has the countenance of a belligerent hag.”
And MacAlpin expected him to impregnate her?
The king continued, apparently deriving perverse pleasure from cataloging every possible fault he could, “It’s likely her first husband welcomed death with open arms as a chance to escape her scolding tongue.”
“How old is the princess?” Ewan sounded horrified, as if convinced he might be the recipient of such a foul bedfellow.
The king gestured and one of his advisers stepped forward. “She’s no longer young. She’s been widowed many years now. But our sources reliably inform us she is not yet past childbearing.”
The information didn’t alleviate the unsavory image forming in Connor’s mind. His own lady mother was not yet past childbearing age.
“As two of my most trusted warriors,” the king said, “I charge you with the task of delivering this proposition to mac Lutin.” He held out his hand and an adviser passed him a scroll, the scarlet wax proudly displaying the elaborate royal seal. “It’s doubtful whether he can read, but he’ll recognize the authenticity of my credential.”
Connor took the proffered scroll. “If mac Lutin accepts the terms.” And of course he would accept the terms. What man wouldn’t want to rid himself of a daughter past her prime, a daughter with a reputation that would repel most suitors? A daughter who, far from spending the rest of her life as a drain on his resources, would give him legitimate reason to call on the Scots as allies in time of war? “Do you want the marriage undertaken at Ce?”
Among heathens. But since he had nothing but loyalty for his king invested in this marriage, what did it matter where the ceremony took place?
A frown slashed the king’s brow. “How the hell can it be undertaken in Ce? Your task is to win mac Lutin’s favor, secure the princess as our bride and bring the entire royal family back with you. I’ll not trust the Picts to supervise a marriage of this import.”
“The entire royal family?”
“Aye.” The king’s sharp-eyed gaze bored into him. “We’ll be celebrating more than a wedding. It will also be the ideal opportunity to discuss my coronation at Fortriu. I doubt any of the minor kings will want to miss that.”
A politically sensitive wedding, a potentially contentious coronation and obviously MacAlpin was inviting the other Pictish royal clans as witnesses. A suffocating weight compressed his lungs. Far from serving out the remainder of his days fighting for his country’s freedom and receiving comfort from the arms of an undemanding mistress, he was to become a stud for his king’s machinations.
“When do you want us to leave?” He hoped his revulsion wasn’t apparent in either his expression or voice but the king’s eyes narrowed.
“You disappr
ove the plan?”
“No, my liege.” Just because he personally found it abhorrent didn’t blind him to the potential gains they could make in forging such strong connections with the mighty clan of Ce. “In principle we stand to gain a great deal by such an alliance.” And then he chanced voicing his dissent. “But I have reservations the King of Ce will accept my offer.”
Seconds passed, the air thick with distrust. Then the king’s frown faded and he laughed, a short bark of amusement that appeared to flummox his advisers as much as Connor.
“God Almighty, boy,” the king said, flattening his palms on the map and leaning across the desk. “You didn’t think I had you in mind for this marriage, did you?”
It had been many years since anyone had dared call Connor boy without risking a bloodied nose. MacAlpin might be seventeen years his senior but that hardly qualified him to utter such term of abuse.
His status, however, gave him the authority to say whatever he wished.
Connor mentally gritted his teeth and ignored the scarcely concealed sneers crawling across the advisers’ smug faces. His king was above censure. The same couldn’t be said for the fawning minions he now surrounded himself with.
“So that was the reason for your reticence.” It wasn’t a question. It sounded like a revelation, and a welcome one at that. Connor glowered, yet instead of striking him for such insolence it only made the king laugh again. “And what of you, Ewan?” The king finally transferred his attention to the other man. “Did you think you might have been chosen for a royal bride?”
Connor didn’t have to look at his friend to know compressed anger simmered beneath his surface. He could feel it vibrating in tightly repressed waves.
“My liege,” Ewan said. It sounded as though he forced the words between gritted teeth.
The king shoved himself upright. “I have no doubt either one of you could charm even Princess Devorgilla into your bed if you so much as smiled at her. Alas, it takes more than the famed Scots charm and a hard warrior body to tempt a king to part with a daughter.” Again amusement flared across his face. Amusement and…something else. Something so fleeting, so bizarre he had to be mistaken.
Relief?
“To hook a king,” MacAlpin said, “we have to offer royal blood.” Once more his attention focused on Connor. “Your half brother, Fergus.”
“Fergus?” He’d watched his brother escape matrimony countless times over the years. But no amount of charm or bargaining would release him from this duty.
His brother could be a bastard but he didn’t deserve to be shackled to a heathen shrew. Then again, Fergus didn’t believe in fidelity. It was unlikely this marriage would change his mind.
“His mother’s connection to me through our grandfather gives him enough royal prestige.” The king let out a breath. “And by God, he’s sired enough bastards to prove his virility.”
Connor ignored the dull ache that knotted his chest at the king’s careless comment. Fergus produced brats as easily as he changed bed partners, and didn’t give a shit about any of them.
If nothing else, he would soon ensure the Pictish princess was with child.
Her Savage Scot - The Highland Warrior Chronicles 1
Her Vengeful Scot - The Highland Warrior Chronicles 2
About the Author
Christina Phillips is an ex-pat Brit who now lives in sunny Western Australia with her high school sweetheart and their family. She enjoys writing paranormal, historical and contemporary romance where the stories sizzle and the heroine brings her hero to his knees.
She is addicted to good coffee, expensive chocolate and bad boy heroes. She is also owned by three gorgeous cats who are convinced the universe revolves around their needs. They are not wrong.
Also by Christina Phillips
The Highland Warrior Chronicles - Also in KU
Her Savage Scot
Her Vengeful Scot
* * *
Bloodlust Denied
Foretaste of Forever
Touch of the Demon
* * *
“Taken” Box Sets - Also in KU
Taken by the Sheikh
Taken by the Billionaire
Taken by the Desert Sheikh
Also by Christina Phillips
Contemporary Romance
British Bad Boys
Cinderella and the Geek
Once Upon a Player
Not So Happily Ever After
* * *
Viking Bastards MC
Hooked
Payback
Burned
* * *
Grayson Brothers
Hold Me Until Midnight
Hold Me Until Morning
Hold Me Until Forever
* * *
Every Breath You Take
* * *
Secret Confessions: Willow