When Fate Dictates

by Elizabeth Marshall

  When

  Fate

  Dictates

  Book 1 of the Highland Secret Series

  By

  Elizabeth Marshall

  ******

  Published by Deborah-Ann Brown at Smashwords

  Copyright 2012 Deborah-Ann Brown

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  ******

  DEDICATION

  With all my love, I dedicate this book to my family: Andrew, Sean, Kelly, Steve, David, George, Emma and Rose, my mother Patricia, my mother-in-law Joyce and my father-in-law George, who sadly passed away on 21st of June 2011.

  God bless you all for everything.

  ******

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Charisse Sayers my editor and dear friend who held my hand through writers’ block, pushed us both to make this book the best it can be, and has become the most precious friend a writer could ever wish to have. You really are an incredible lady with an amazing talent.

  My love and thanks for everything you have done for me.

  www.charisse-sayers.com

  www.twitter.com/@Charisse_Sayers

  www.facebook.com/charisse.sayers

  Mollie Hopkins, my crazy, adorable and dear friend, who was the first person to ever read this manuscript. Mollie I will always be grateful to you for the advice you gave me when this book was little more than a draft. But you did more than just read a manuscript, much more than that, you believed enough in this project to introduce me to Charisse and for that I am eternally grateful.

  To the best public house in York, ‘Ye Olde Starre Inne’ you are absolutely, one hundred percent, responsible for my passion for ancient pubs, which is of course why I have chosen to use ‘Ye Olde Starre Inne’ as a key location in the ‘Highland Secret Series’. Thank you for putting up with my endless questions and for providing the perfect retreat from a hard day’s writing.

  Here’s to Friday nights and your wonderful pub.

  The Glencoe Visitors’ Centre and all the staff – for their kind and warm welcome, and the inspiration for this story – very many thanks to all of you.

  To Barley Hall and all the staff – for bringing history alive and for your tireless patience in answering my endless questions – I thank you all kindly.

  The Isles of Glencoe hotel, Ballachulish and all the staff – for their patience and unrivaled hospitality during my research – I thank you gratefully.

  Four very precious and special friends, Terri Giuliano Long, Eva Coppersmith,

  Jimmy McIver and Paul Anthony – there are no words that could possibly express my thanks and appreciation for your kindness and support. I cherish our friendship more than you could ever know and thank you all dearly for everything.

  Kel, Ste, Dave, Sean, Emma, George, Andy and Rose – my precious and dear family. We did this!

  Every minute of every day you have been there – holding my hand, supporting me through this. You have been my proofreaders, researchers, managers, critics, inspiration, plot developers, graphic designers, IT experts and trailer directors but most of all you have been my friends.

  No one could be prouder or love you more than I do.

  Thank you, my Kel, Ste, Dave, Sean, Emma, George Andy and Rose.

  You are my world. x

  ******

  In the writing of this book the author seeks to tell a tale; a story of fantasy, mystery and intrigue. For the purpose of the tale, which is set in a real world at a real point in time, it has been necessary to include some historical facts and bias. However, it was never the author’s intent to write a book of historical fact or to reflect personal or political opinion in any way.

  ******

  FOREWORD

  For the purpose of my story, I chose not to include the events that led up to the massacre in the content of the story. However, for those who may be interested in some background, I have added this brief and basic historical explanation.

  In 1688, the Protestant William III and Mary II deposed the Roman Catholic King of Britain, James II. The English, whilst not ecstatic about their new monarch, were content. The Highlands of Scotland however were still very much in support of the deposed King James II and proved, at best, difficult to appease. Finally, in 1691, in an attempt to gain control and peace in the Highlands, King William negotiated an amnesty scheme with the clan leaders of the Highlands. A requirement of the scheme was that all clan chieftains take an oath of allegiance to William and Mary before the 1st January 1692. A lot of clan chiefs left taking the oath until the last minute, yet despite this, all but one, MacDonald of Glencoe, made the deadline. A combination of bad luck and a fierce snowstorm prevented MacDonald from taking the oath on time. Nevertheless, MacDonald returned to Glencoe, believing his oath legal and his clan safe.

  However, the authorities chose to make an example of the MacDonald clan and declared the oath invalid. They ordered a military force of Campbells, loyal supporters of the crown, under the command of Robert Campbell into Glencoe. Under the guise of friendship the Campbells convinced the MacDonalds that they had come in peace. The MacDonalds welcomed their old adversaries into their homes, they entertained, fed and shared their food and clothes with them.

  Very early on the morning of February 13th 1692 the following order was issued to Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon.

  ‘You are hereby ordered to fall upon the Rebels, the MacDonalds of Glencoe, and put all to the sword under 70. You are to have especial care, that the Old Fox and his Sons do upon no account escape your Hands, you are to secure all the avenues that no man can escape: this you are to put in Execution at five a Clock in the Morning precisely, and by that time or very shortly after it, I’ll strive to be at you with a stronger party. If I do not come at five, you are not to tarry for me but fall on. This is by the King’s Special command, for the good and safety of the country, that these miscreants may be cut off root and branch. See that this be put in execution without Feud or Favor, else you may expect to be treated as not true to the King or Government nor a man fit to carry Commission in the King’s Service. Expecting you will not fail in the fulfilling hereof as you love yourself, I subscribed these with my hand...’

  [signed] Robert Duncanson

  For Their Majesties Service

  To Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon

  In the context of my story, Corran is a MacDonald; a highlander, born and raised by her grandmother on the fertile farmland of Glencoe. The MacDonalds were no saints themselves; personally responsible for a great many atrocities against the Campbells they had spilled their fair share of blood in the name of clan rivalry. However, what made the events of February 13th 1692 so heinous was the matter of ‘murder under trust’.

  Simon is a Campbell of Glenlyon, a highlander, serving as a soldier for the English king, as did many Campbells. I have tried to show, through Simon, how many of the Campbell soldiers were repulsed by the orders they had been given. Indeed it is questionable whether the soldiers, garrisoned with the MacDonalds for eleven days, had any knowledge of the job they had been sent to do, prior to the morning of February 13th 1692.

  The Campbells, although politica
lly astute and supporters of the English king, were still Highlanders, bound like any other Highlander to their Highland code. The events of February 13th 1692 broke that code in the worst possible way and I sincerely doubt this would have been done willingly, if at all, by many.

  ******

  CHAPTER 1

  February 13th 1692

  In my sleep I heard her; softly she whispered my name. Like a hazy fog, her voice hovered above me. Gently enticing, she sought to draw me from sleep. In my dream, I raised my hand toward the voice and touched my grandmother’s cheek. She bent toward me, lightly brushing her lips across my forehead. Something was wrong. The sickly, metallic copper stink of fresh blood and death hung in the air of my dream. My throat contracted as I choked on smothering fumes. In the distance I heard the terrifying crackle of flames.

  I woke in a rush of panic, clinging pathetically to my covers. The burning smoke hung thick and heavy around me. I retched uncontrollably as it scorched my throat and lungs. Stumbling from my bed, and calling her name, I crawled toward the elderly woman on the other side of the room. I grappled in the dark, smoky room for the tiny frail body of my grandmother and placed my hand upon her chest. It did not rise and fall with the slow rhythmic pattern of life. A pitiful, piercing wail penetrated the room as I wept with despair, loss and fear. From outside the cries of panic and terror were much the same as my own. I could hear the thudding of my pulse in my ears; I felt the cold stone floor beneath my hands and knees as I crawled toward the wooden door of the cottage.

  'Let me live, please, dear God let me live' I thought as I burst through the door. I blinked, trying to clear my streaming eyes. The icy wind pounded me with snow as I coughed and choked, desperate to empty my lungs. As my eyes cleared, and I stumbled into the light of burning thatch, I saw a blaze of musket fire. Bodies lay upon the snow-covered street ahead of me. The sulfurous smell of a fired gun hung in the air. I turned as a flicker of moonlight on a polished musket barrel caught my eye and then I watched helplessly as reddened bayonets sliced mercilessly through the heart of my world.

  Men, women and children screamed in terror, withering against pain as they fell bludgeoned to death by men of the army. I knew some of them! A tall, thin, wiry man with hair so dark red it could have been copper. Another had a scar from his eye to his chin. I gawped at our guests, horrified by their bloody betrayal.

  With the quick thinking and strength of desperation, I stumbled in shock and fear away from the terror, realizing that my glen had fallen forever on a bloodstained carpet of snow. With every step taken in urgent terror-filled panic, I started to run through the blizzard toward the mountains. The air pierced my skin like a blade and my feet burnt with the pain of the frozen ground. There was little shelter as I plunged through the bitter wall of snow and fog. I knew as sure as the daylight that crept through the misty blizzard that I had to find shelter soon. I struggled for breath, my feet and hands numbed; tiredness crept into every muscle and bone of my body.

  ******

  Corran’s exhausted body crumpled to the frozen ground, claimed by the piercing sword of the icy wind. Snow whipped the mountain face, as the sun rose slowly in the morning sky. Tiny flickers of warming rays danced through the morning mist, seeking her motionless form, coming to settle on her sunken, lifeless face. The tiny rays of light began to grow and spread across her, moving slowly, like a gentle running stream to blanket her lifeless form in a glow that shimmered and danced with brilliant tones of orange and yellow. Slowly, the light began to warm the melting snow and ice to leave Corran lying in a gloriously warm pool of gently bubbling water. Above her fragile body came a shimmering dome of colors, emanating a glowing rainbow of sparkling light. A single stag appeared through the freezing mist. Bending slowly it pierced the bubble of light with its silver antlers, gently lowering its head through the magical rays of light to nuzzle the tip of its nose against Corran’s face.

  ******

  A light of the most magnificent colors shone around me and illuminated a stag with silver antlers. Perhaps I imagined the stag, for it was winter and the stags had lost their antlers, besides, when I looked again it was no longer there. The light above me was warm, like the rays of the sun on a summer afternoon in the glen. I could touch this light: it shimmered and glittered above me like nothing I had ever seen before. I could see the snow-covered ground outside my cocoon. I remembered that I had fled my home, where my grandmother lay dead, but my last conscious memory was of death. With shock I concluded that I must be in heaven for I had surely died. So I rose from my warm pool of water, noticing that the pod of shimmering light had vanished. I wondered what my God wanted me to do. There appeared to be no obvious clue or signal so, on instinct, I turned and headed back down the mountain.

  Confused and afraid I made my journey from the mighty peaks that guard the entrance to the glen. The wind was vengeful and cruel; the snow powdery and deep. I pulled my plaid tighter around me, wondering absently when I had acquired it. Trudging, mindlessly through the snow, numbed by pain and sadness, I stumbled on the corpse of an old man, his body already partially eaten by scavengers. I knelt on the icy ground beside him and closed his lifeless, staring eyes.

  “There but for the grace of God go I,” I whispered, crossing myself and, as I stood and turned from the body, I realized that I must in fact be alive.

  Coming through the final pass, into the narrow sweeping valley of the glen, I found myself overcome by loneliness and panic. The damp, smoky stink of smoldering cinders hung heavily in the mist that clouded my path. The old wood to the side of the path no longer hummed its enchanting lure; instead it whispered hauntingly to me of terror and fear. My heart pounded as I drew closer to the village. Catching my foot on a protruding rock, I gasped in fright and stumbled sideways, steadying myself against the trunk of an ancient tree. Tearing myself from its reassuring warmth, I continued my walk along the desolate path to our valley, to the remains of the houses that had once been the homes of my friends; fields where our cattle had once grazed, now an empty reminder.

  Traveling through the twists and turns of the path, the mist began to lift and I saw for the first time the true horror and cowardice of the King of England’s orders and the savage scar of eternal shame they had left gouged across this majestic place I used to call home.

  I had no time for further thought as, some distance away, I spotted the Red Coats. There were three or four of them but the hazy remnants of the morning mist made a definite headcount impossible. I was breathing hard and fast, my head pounding. I fled, off the path and into the forest. Branches tore at my face and arms. I stumbled blindly over rocks and crevices, running for my life.

  Somewhere behind me, a musket fired. I felt the force of the shot, my body slumped heavily to the ground, the forest swam around me and then I saw a light, a magnificent, beautiful light. Gracefully poised in front of the light was the stag with the silver antlers. It glided toward me, lowering its head and nudging me gently. Peace and calm swept over me as I closed my eyes and allowed darkness to descend.

  ******

  CHAPTER 2

  I awoke, bewildered and confused, crumpled on the floor of a small crevice in a hillside. A thin line of light shone through the entrance, affording enough illumination to make out the stone walls of the shelter. I slowly moved my hand to my throbbing head, groaning as a stabbing pain pierced my back. I felt the drying blood from my wounds and understood vaguely that I had been hurt.

  With effort, I pulled myself up but slumped sideways against the cold stone wall, too exhausted to stand. The light was dimming and I realized that nightfall was approaching. I wondered how I had got into the cave and where the Red Coats were. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, filling my lungs with much-needed air. Slowly I raised my eyelids, squinting to adjust to the diminishing light.

  I did not see him at first, and then, slowly, he was in front of me; standing tall and sturdy, his long powerful legs slightly apart, looking down at my slumped, helpless fo
rm on the floor. Shaking violently, I shuffled backwards. My back jarred as it hit the cold rock face behind me. I flinched, catching my breath as I realized my captor was now positioned between me and the opening to the crevice. My eyes darted from side to side, frantically seeking safety. I caught a glimmer of the shiny metal of his dirk. Cautiously I traced my eyes over his fisted right hand as the full shape of the weapon came into focus. His hold on the polished mountain ash handle was relaxed, the tip of the blade facing the floor. Glancing up, above his hand, to the arm by his side I noticed for the first time that this was a soldier of the English King. Knowing I must meet his eyes, I raised my head to the recognition of a Campbell. I recoiled in panic as he lowered himself in front of me, his lightly tanned face inches from mine, framed either side by heavy curtains of black wavy hair. I held the look of his dark staring eyes and screamed.

  “Don’t be afraid, lass, I won’t hurt you. Mind, there are some that wouldn’t think twice of doing so.” With his left hand he held out a leather flask and laid it on the floor next to my trembling hand. I stared at the dark stranger. “You are hurt,” he said, casting a glance over my face and arms, his eyes wandering to the bloody stains on the front of my shift. I lifted my hands gently to my breasts, feeling the crust of the stain. “I found you in the forest face down in the snow and covered in blood. I thought you were dead for sure,” he said.