A Highlander Born From Chaos (Highlanders 0f Kirklinton Book 2)

by Kenna Kendrick

  Chapter Two

  It had been cruel to separate Lena from the child, but my mother was embittered by the fact she had failed to conceive a healthy child, blinded from kindness by a desire for revenge on the woman who had so violated the sacred union she held with my father. But if Fraser had remained with his mother, it was unlikely that either would have survived, so harsh and unforgiving was the world which they inhabited.

  The old maid nursed the baby until he was strong enough to be sent away, and a family was found in a nearby village, who were desperate for a child of their own. The MacGinns were blacksmiths, peasants of a respectable sort who kept to themselves. They never ventured far from the little village of Lochrutton, which was nestled in a valley some miles from the castle at Kirklinton, a pretty place, though ever under threat of raid and pillage.

  My father did not even see the baby before he was sent away, and when the old maid told him of where she had taken him, he showed little interest. Fraser was better off being sent away; he had no love for the child — it was merely an inconvenience, a mistake from the past, which he had no desire to be reminded of. My mother, too, was pleased, and she told the old maid to see to it that the baby never knew of his true lineage.

  Thus, Fraser Elliott became Fraser MacGinn, and the peasant family was pleased that, at last, they had a child to call their own. He grew up strong and healthy, believing that the kindly man and woman who took care of him were the same as had conceived him, never knowing the truth of who he was. But what of my father’s desire for an heir? Wasn’t my mother barren? If so, however did I come to be her daughter?

  Chapter Three

  Both my parents desperately wanted a child, but as the years went by, such hope was dashed. My mother resigned herself to a childless existence, much to my father’s anger. War often came to the borderlands, and despite the truces which existed, a single spark could soon ignite the conflicts of the past. Thus, it was some two years after the birth of Fraser when the Elliotts had ridden out to war with the Armstrongs, a neighbor and the family of my birth. Sir Percy Musgrave had mounted a raid across the border, and several of the Armstrong farms were burning. The smoke rising over the countryside was a grim reminder of the lawless times in which they lived.

  The two clans charged across the marches, their swords drawn and cries of war coming from their lips. At their head was the man I call my father, Alistair Elliott, and his close friend Stewart Armstrong, who I suppose I should call my true father, brothers-in-arms, and determined to avenge themselves upon the Musgraves and deal them a bloody blow. But, as they came face to face with their foe, it was clear that they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered by the English, whose vastly superior forces would surely decimate them.

  The Musgraves charged them down and surrounded my father’s forces. From every side came English soldiers, who showed no mercy and above, atop a hill, seated on his steed, looking down in grim satisfaction, was Sir Percy Musgrave himself. He gave the order to rout their enemies and see to it that no man was left alive.

  Both my fathers fought bravely, but they could never hope to defeat the forces of the Musgraves, and in the battle, Stewart Armstrong was cruelly cut down, a man I have no memory of, except a name and a deed of valor. He had found himself surrounded, cut off from his men in a dell of trees, as his opponents felled him from his horse and saw to it that this would be his last breath, a sword driven through his heart by an English captain.

  My father did his best to rally the remaining men, but there was no hope, except to flee, and in the chaos of the battlefield, only a handful made it out alive. But Sir Percy Musgrave was determined to deal a lasting blow to the clans across the border, and he charged after the fleeing Scots, making for the Armstrongs’ home and laying waste to it.

  The fire could be seen burning for several days upon the horizon, and all inside perished, except for one, the daughter of Stewart Armstrong, a wee lass named Isla, the woman now telling you this tale. I had been hidden away from the danger by my nursemaid, and as the fires ravaged our home, I was all that was left of that once-proud clan.

  My father was devastated by the loss of his friend and by the routing of such a noble and ancient name as Armstrong. But what to do with me? I was without mother or father, alone in the world, except for my loyal nursemaid. The answer seemed simple, and in testimony to the friendship between the two lairds, my father and mother took me in, raising me as their own and it was only later I began to learn something of the truth about my lineage, setting my heart against the Musgraves and vowing to have my revenge.

  Chapter Four

  Scottish Border 1545

  Isla Armstrong was looking across the borders from her chambers at the top of the castle at Kirklinton, where she had lived since that fateful day all those years ago when her parents had been so cruelly cut down. It was a wild day; the rain having battered the borderlands these past three days, storm clouds sitting thick and foreboding above.

  Across the valley, the trees were swaying in the wind, and she could see the waterfall of the Beck, which cascaded into Lochrutton some miles across the marshes. It was a wild and lonely scene, and she shivered a little, turning back into the room and warming herself by the fire, which burned merrily in the grate — a contrast to the blackening skies outside.

  She had been looking for her father, who had ridden to one of the outlying crofts, where trouble had recently been reported. Isla was used to that word; it was one she often heard, the trouble with the English, the trouble with other clans. Trouble meant danger, and her life had been fraught with danger since its beginning.

  There was no sign of her father for the rest of the day, but he returned after nightfall, demanding food and a place by the fire. Isla sat in the hall of the castle, a large room with a heavy door and wide hearth, where many a tale had been told, victories celebrated, and defeats commiserated. It was there that she was often told to stay, while trouble brewed outside, or her father rode off to deal with yet another incursion or threat. Such was their way of life, and, as Alistair Elliott entered the room, he had a grave expression on his face.

  “Were ye successful, father?” Isla asked, as Alistair slumped before the fire, fondling the heads of the two dogs, who had run to him as he entered the room.

  “Successful?” he replied, shaking his head, “too late more like. Those English fiends did what they always dae: cross the border like cowards and set fire to the croft. Before we can retaliate, they are gone, ‘tis the same every time.”

  “Was anyone harmed? Did they make off with anythin’?” Isla replied, shaking her head at the sad tale her father was recounting.

  “Aye, they took cattle, but none of the folks were harmed, just left scared and confused. Too long has it been like this, there are times I think we have the upper hand, and others when I fear we shall nae even hold this place, let alone protect our folks,” he said, spitting into the fire.

  Isla was silent for a moment; she had grown up listening to tales of English brutality, and she had seen enough violence in her short life to last a lifetime. Her father had done his best to shield her from the worst, determined to see no harm come to her, the memory of her family’s demise all too fresh. But Isla Armstrong was the daughter of lairds, brave and determined, and she had a desire to fight for her clan, and to see her parents avenged. She had often asked to accompany her father on his rides out, but the answer had always been no. She must remain at the castle, safe from the wicked English, who would show no mercy to a Scottish lass on the battlefield.

  They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling in the hearth, the dogs lying sleepily before it. Outside, the storm was now blowing up again, raging across the borderlands and causing the wind to whistle around the castle.

  “Dae ye think another attack will come soon, father?” Isla eventually asked. Alistair Elliott raised his sad face to her and shook his head.

  “Sooner rather than later, lass. The English are regrouping, and that Percy Musgrav
e will stop at nothin’ until every Scot along the border is cut down, ye mark my words. Especially now that his son is of age,” he replied.

  It was with a heavy heart that Isla ate her supper that night, knowing that all around them, danger lurked, waiting to pounce. How she longed to join her father on the battlefield and face the enemy in war. She had heard many tales of bravery and valor and watched from afar as her fellow clansmen sacrificed themselves for her safety. She was determined to have revenge, whether her father allowed her to fight or not, and she knew that soon the time would come when a lass would prove herself just as much a warrior as any lad of the clan.

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  About the Author

  Kenna Kendrick is an American based author of Historical Scottish Romance living in Austin Texas with her husband and three children. Her more than 25-year-old experience as an English Teacher has brought her close to the literary world, growing her love for fictional stories.

  Her love for literature was also strong because of her father John who used to write crime-stories. While she tried following on her father's footsteps, a trip to Scotland sealed the deal for as she fell in love with the Celtic myths and the bleak Highlands.

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