Heart of Ashes (Hearts of the Highlands Book 1)

by Paula Quinn

  Heart of Ashes

  Hearts of the Highlands

  Book One

  Paula Quinn

  Copyright © 2019 by Paula Quinn

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Books from Dragonblade Publishing

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Prologue

  Bannockburn, Scotland

  The Year of Our Lord 1314

  Cainnech MacPherson, second Highland commander to King Robert the Bruce, smashed his shield into an English soldier’s chest, knocking him to the ground. Cainnech dropped his shield, put his boot on the soldier’s belly, and lifted his spear in both hands.

  He looked down into the eyes of his enemy. His stomach should have twisted at what he saw. But it didn’t. He’d seen it thousands of times before. Killing another man was a nasty task that took its toll on the soul. One either learned to live with it or hesitate and die.

  He brought down his pike into the soldier’s chest.

  A warm breeze passed over him. It reeked of blood and piss and purpose. Comforted by the familiarity of it, he yanked his spear free of bone and chainmail and freed his axe from his belt. He swung it upward while he turned on another soldier coming up behind him. His axe caught the soldier under the chin, splashing blood across Cain’s face and giving deeper color to the glacial blue of his eyes. His gaze raked over the battle going on around him. The English forces were dwindling. Their cavalry was trying to make their way toward the hill.

  He left his axe where it had landed and bent to take the dead soldier’s sword from the man’s fingers. He used it to hack several more men out of his way until he had a clear line of vision to Father Timothy waiting in the mist.

  He followed the priest’s gaze across the ferocious melee from whence he’d just come, toward the woods where Thomas Randolph, the king’s nephew, brought his schiltron, or shield wall, out of the trees.

  Cain took a moment to appreciate their perfect formation and to enjoy the surprise on the faces of the English as the Scots hemmed them in.

  He took it all in, glad to be a part of it. He’d waited long enough. It was time to win Scotland’s ind
ependence…and his own.

  He picked up a shield and pounded his sword against it, then shouted for his men to make formation.

  They fell in smoothly, killing everyone in their way, and formed an impenetrable wall, weapons pointed at the English.

  Cain took his place in the front line, eager to fight, to show the English the monsters they’d unleashed.

  Pushing his shoulder against his shield, he prepared to give the order to move when he saw Father Timothy shoving his way to the front.

  “What the hell are ye doin’ here?” Cain demanded.

  “I am here to help,” the small, bald-headed priest replied calmly against his shield.

  It was the same thing he’d said sixteen years ago when he’d found a seven-year-old Cain huddled against the tree from which he was tied.

  “I dinna need yer help, old man. Now get back to the—”

  “Ye should give the order to move now, Commander,” the priest offered in a softer tone. “The men are waitin’.”

  Cain scowled, knowing the priest was correct. This wasn’t the time to argue. His men were ready and awaiting his order. “Move!” he shouted. “On them! On the English! Ye!” He turned to Father Timothy. “Go back! Dinna let me see ye here again.”

  He didn’t wait to see if the priest obeyed him or not. Every man in his regiment obeyed him. They trusted him with their lives—and somehow he’d always managed to keep them alive.

  They charged as one living, moving entity, four hundred strong, decimating Edward’s infantry.

  Cain yanked his sword free from over two dozen men before he found a moment to turn to the one who would likely get him killed.

  “What d’ye mean by disobeyin’ me, Father? I told ye to go back!”

  “I obey the good Lord. Not ye, Cainnech,” the priest answered, unruffled by a glare that was said to stop the hearts of the English.

  “Oh?” Cain asked, tightlipped. “And the good Lord wants ye to fight? To kill?”

  Father Timothy’s brown eyes were large as he smiled, exposing old, yellowing, but straight teeth. “Some are called to carry out His judgment.”

  Hell! Again, this wasn’t the time to argue with the old fool! Cain respected King Robert and he’d give his life in battle for any one of his men. But he’d cared deeply for only one person in the last sixteen years. He wasn’t about to let Father Timothy put his life into the hands of something or someone Cain could not see.

  Without wasting another moment, Cain went to Father Timothy, grasped him by the back of his robes, and pulled him into the fray. He made certain nothing came too close to the priest while he swung his sword and hacked away at the English with one hand.

  Covered in the blood of his enemies and dragging a sword-wielding priest behind him, he set his course toward the hill and joined forces with Thomas Randolph’s men to drive the English cavalry into the marshes. The Bruce’s regiment took the English from the south, where the English king retreated.

  “Aye, run!” Father Timothy shouted. “If ye know what’s best fer ye, ye will never come back!”

  Cain glanced at him and then continued on toward a clearing in which to collapse without falling on a body—or into the marshes.

  They’d won. They’d beaten the English before, but nothing like today. Cain hoped England’s King Edward was watching when King Robert brought down his battle axe on Sir Henry de Bohun’s helmeted head, striking him dead.

  Cain smiled, and not for the first time that day. Robert fought like a savage and Cain was proud to call him teacher.

  But hell, he was exhausted. He just wanted to rest for a wee bit.

  “God has given us victory!” the priest rejoiced.

  Cain shook his head and held up his axe.

  “What d’ye think ’twill be like tomorrow?” Father Timothy came up beside him and asked excitedly.

  “I’ll let ye know when ’tis over.”

  “Come on now, Cainnech.” The priest joined him sitting in the grass.

  Father Timothy never called him Cain. He claimed the weight of such a name created its own beast. Cain disagreed. Being raised in the English army, by the men who’d killed his family, had created it.

  “This is it. We’re close to independence. I want to be a part of the victory.”

  “Ye are already a part of it,” Cain assured him. “Ye advise the king. Who else d’ye know who can say such a thing?”

  “Ye,” the priest told him. “Ye advise him, as does the king’s brother, his nephew, the—”

  “All right,” Cain held up his hand. “Never mind any of it. I have a few moments to rest and ye’re interruptin’. Let me put this to ye bluntly, Father. Ye willna be joinin’ me, or any of the men on the field tomorrow. I will tie ye to a tree if I must. I willna have ye fightin’. If anythin’ were to…I consider ye my…”

  “Son,” the priest said softly, taking pity on Cain’s stumbling tongue. “Tomorrow is goin’ to be an historic day. God has shown me.”

  “Ye see?” Cain yawned and closed his eyes. “Historic days usually involve many dyin’.”

  “We will not die, Cainnech. I must help ye find her first.”

  Cain opened his eyes and looked up at his friend’s filthy face. “What are ye talkin’ aboot?” He leaned up on his tired elbows. “Her who?”

  “God has not revealed her name but we must find her.”

  Cain scowled at him. “Why?”

  Father Timothy shrugged. “Somethin’ to do with love, I suppose.”

  For a moment, Cain thought his friend was trying to be humorous. But when the priest remained sober, Cain blew out a short chuckle and shook his head. Love? Never. He wasn’t meant to love. He was born to fight, to kill. He was brought up on the battlefield, unperturbed by the blood of Englishmen drying on his skin. From a young age, he’d watched the blood of loyal Scotsmen pouring out into the dark grass. He’d wanted to fight with them, for them. It fueled the only passion left in him. To kill.

  “Are ye and yer God mad?” He lay back in the grass and closed his eyes. “What place is there in the ashes fer love?”

  Chapter One

  Northumberland

  Four years later

  The wail of bagpipes dragged across the shallow strath and carried along the crisp night breeze to the battlements of Lismoor Castle.

  Aleysia d’Argentan closed her eyes and pulled her cloak closer around her in an effort to drive out the cold. But it was no use. The Scots were coming. They would be here by first light.

  She’d always known it was only a matter of time before Robert the Bruce sent his men to the village of Rothbury. She had forfeited her brother’s estate for not acknowledging the Bruce’s kingship. She never would, even if it meant giving up her life. Robert the Bruce and his savage army were murderers and nothing more. They killed her dear brother, Giles, at Bannockburn. She hoped they all burned in hell.

  But first, they were raining terror down on most of Northern England. Most recently, they’d besieged and blockaded the town of Berwick, one of King Edward’s most strategic locations.

  They’d waited like snakes in the grass for the right moment to attack Berwick Castle a pair of months ago, securing lands and villages around it while they waited, killing anyone who opposed them. They didn’t fight like civilized soldiers, and poor Edward didn’t know how to combat them.

  She opened her eyes. The bagpipes had stopped. She dragged her gaze across her land. It was dark. Almost the midnight hour. To the south, she could just make out the ribbon line of the River Coquet dappled in the silvery light.

  To the west, the village was bathed in moonlight, its inhabitants gone from their homes. She’d met with them all over the last several weeks to discuss her plans and to have them swear by her brother’s good name not to stay and try to fight the enemy. They were to leave that to her.

  Eyes fastened on the dark land before her, she didn’t breathe off rhythm when she heard the light fall of footsteps behind her.

  “Is ev
eryone out?” she asked softly without turning.

  “Yes, my lady,” a man’s voice sounded behind her. “Matilda and Miss Elizabeth left after much weeping.”

  Aleysia sighed into the wind. She had wept over losing them, too. The people of Lismoor and the villagers were the only family she’d had since Giles brought her here along the English border twelve years ago from Normandy. But the time for weeping was over.

  “All of the staff are gone,” the man continued.

  “And the guards?”

  “They have reluctantly left, my lady.”

  She pried her fingers off the edge of the stone wall and turned to her dear friend and one of the six older guardsmen who’d first served her father in Normandy.

  “And what are you still doing here, Sir Richard?”

  He bowed his head, illuminating his crown of silver hair in the moonlight. “Forgive me, my lady, but I promised your brother I would always protect you. A few Scots will not change that.”

  Oh, she would not smile at him. She must remain strong and resolute to her task. Of all her father’s knights, she loved Richard the most. But she could only do this alone. She’d been training for the last four years, and long before that when the great Sir Giles trained his men and she watched and practiced everything he taught in secret. If her friend remained behind because of her and perished, she could never live with herself.

  “My dear Sir Richard,” she said, her voice imbued with the tenderness she felt for him, “we have been through this more times than either of us can count. You know my wishes. You also know that I can do this—”

  “With respect, my lady, some traps set in the woods and surrounding grounds will not be enough to keep them out. I will not—”

  “You forget the skill you and the others have taught me?” she cut him off. Her green eyes sparked with pride. “I am an expert archer. You said so yourself. I can protect myself with a shield and defend myself with a sword. Besides, if they manage to get inside, I have planted weapons throughout and have poisoned all the wine and grain in the kitchen.” She knew she couldn’t fight a battle with hardened warriors and win. But there were other ways to kill a man.

  “Aleysia,” the old knight blurted. “I never agreed to you doing this alone! ’Tis madness! I must insist that you leave with me.”