The Beast of Clan Kincaid

by Lily Blackwood

  Several of the other older men came closer, squeezing Niall’s arms and examining his face, which he suffered patiently, as a tidal wave of emotion moved through him. Joy. Pride. Sadness. Though his recollection was fragmented and altered by time, he … remembered some of their faces, though from the perspective of a boy. Aye, he was angry too, to have been denied the company of these men—his clansmen—for the past seventeen years.

  The armless man moved to stand beside Deargh, and smiled. “He looks more like his mother’s sire, the dark chief they called Fitheach, aye, his hair as dark as a raven’s wing.” He said to the others. “And I min’ ye too, Deargh, even underneath all that.” He wiggled his fingers at his tattoos. “He was chosen by the Kincaid that night to do exactly what he has done. I trust that he would not present us with an imposter.” With his good arm, he clapped a hand on Deargh’s shoulder.

  Deargh nodded at him in thanks, his eyes damp and bright.

  “I am still nae convinced,” said the younger warrior. “You are old and sometimes addlepated.”

  “Addlepated!” The old man pushed toward him. “I’ll show you addlepated.”

  Murdoch shuffled between them, eyes wide and unseeing, and held up his hands.

  “There is only one way tae ken for certain. A way only Osgar and I ken.”

  “And what way would that be?” someone exclaimed.

  A hunch-shouldered old man, apparently Osgar, came forward and pointed at Niall. “You must come here, behind the tree, where the others cannot see.”

  A round of complaints went up.

  “Behind the tree?”

  “What is it that we cannot all see?”

  Niall looked at Deargh and scowled.

  Deargh shrugged. “I do not know. But they knew your father. Osgar, there, was on his council. I suggest you go with them.”

  Behind the tree, Murdoch reached out and touched Niall’s chest. Feeling his way to the side, he grasped Niall’s right arm and held it aloft.

  “Look there. High up, under his arm, nearly tae the shoulder.”

  Osgar bent, looking underneath. He squinted, and tilted his head.

  “Do y’ see it?” Murdoch questioned impatiently.

  “I see lots of things,” Osgar snapped. “The man’s got a lot of ink on his skin.”

  “Well, look harder,” insisted the bard.

  Osgar grew still. His expression went blank.

  Looking up at Niall, he said in a hushed voice, “Aye, it is him.” He stepped back, a look of reverence overtaking his aged features. “This man is the true son of our chief. Niall Braewick, the rightful laird of Kincaid.”

  “What did you see there?” said Niall, lifting his arm.

  Murdoch grinned. “When y’ were born, your father had a mark put on you—a wolf with a green eye. It matched one he himself was given at the time of his birth, and his father before him. I remember when they took the needle to y’. Ye squalled like a lass.”

  Niall could not help but smile at that, but his chest ached with grief. Any story from his past held such meaning. Knowing that his father had marked him as his son, in such a way that he would carry the mark with him through life … that he held such pride in his sons, touched him deeply, to his soul.

  “Did my brothers receive the same mark?”

  “Aye.” Osgar shouldered between them. “So y’ must not tell anyone y’ see. There be those who would go out and get the same mark and present themselves here, telling everyone they were the Kincaid’s sons. It doesn’t mean much now, but if y’ do what you say you’re going tae do, it will mean quite a lot soon enough.”

  Niall nodded, knowing they were right.

  “Murdoch,” he asked. “How is it that the MacClaren allowed you to be his bard?”

  “Me?” Murdoch answered. “I am just a blind old man. What threat can I be to him?” He leaned forward, leaning on his staff and grinned. “He does not know how carefully I listen, to learn their weaknesses. That I have waited for a day such as this, and when the time comes I will do my part, just as surely as any Kincaid who wields a sword.”

  “I know you will,” Niall answered.

  They emerged from behind the tree.

  All the men stood there looking at them.

  “Well, wot is it?” one demanded.

  “It’s his crom-odhar, isn’t it?” Another chuckled. “Like the rest of us Kincaids, it’s ten feet long.”

  They all laughed heartily.

  “No, but it is something just as remarkable,” Murdoch answered. “There are reasons why the proof cannot be shared, so you must accept our sworn testimony. This man is true to his word. He is the Kincaid’s eldest son, and you must give him your fealty and follow him—and even die for him, if need be—from this moment on.”

  The men’s gazes grew sharper, and they all stood taller.

  “As your laird,” Niall said in a low voice, meeting each pair of eyes as his gaze moved over them, “I command it of you. What say you, will you share these lands with me again, my Kincaid brothers? My clansmen? Will you share in my vengeance?”

  “Aye, laird.”

  “We will stand with ye.”

  “We have waited for this day for so long.”

  “As have I,” he answered solemnly … before he smiled. “There is so much I wish to know. The MacClarens speak of you as savages, you know.”

  “Aye, it’s a pleasure to harry them, and we do it as often as we can.”

  “So I heard. One story in particular. Which of you has Donald MacClaren’s daughter?”

  The scarred young man’s eyebrow went up. “That would be me.”

  “What is your name?” Niall asked, recognizing power and prowess in the young man’s shoulders and confident stance, and surmised he would prove a formidable warrior at his side.

  “Brochan, laird.”

  “Does she remain with you by her own will?”

  “Oh, aye.” He grinned a roguish smile. “She took a wee bit of persuading at first, but…”

  Laughter sounded all around.

  “A wee bit,” someone said with a chuckle.

  “But now she’s my wife—”

  “Because—” Niall asked.

  “Because I asked her, and she said yes,” he answered more softly. More seriously. “We’ll have our first bairn come spring.”

  A bairn. He thought of Elpeth then, and wondered if they would have children. Daughters and sons.

  “Kincaid,” said Brochan, looking pensive. “As devoted as we are to our cause, our numbers are small compared to theirs. We have little more than … forty able-bodied warriors.” He looked around, and others nodded back at him. “Without a doubt our women will take up arms as well, if we should call upon them, but what is our strategy?”

  Niall lifted a hand. “I have more men, traveling here even now, and more important, I have allies. I also have a plan. For now, I ask only that you stand ready until I call for you. Make my presence known to any Kincaids in Inverhaven and all surrounding lands, so that they will be ready, but only if you are certain of their loyalty. When the time comes, and it will come soon, I vow to you, my kinsmen, that you will have the greatest place of honor at my side, when the MacClaren is defeated.”

  “Wot of the Alwyn?” asked Osgar. “He must be held accountable too.”

  “He will not escape our justice. Once we have taken control here, we will tend to him.”

  “Very good!” Murdoch exclaimed.

  “Aye!” agreed Brochan.

  All the men gathered round, placing their hands on his shoulders. Tears shone in some of their eyes—including Deargh’s, whom Niall had never once seen in his life, show such emotion. Niall’s heart beat with pride, and in anticipation of the long-awaited reckoning to come.

  Osgar looked at him steadily. “We have something t’ show you now. Can ye come w’ us?”

  He agreed. But rather than riding into the hills toward a hidden settlement, as Niall had expected, a boy was left to mind his and D
eargh’s horses, while they were led on foot straight back across the valley and deep into the shadowed woods behind the castle. Traveling there, he saw firsthand how the Kincaids moved about unseen and unheard, their skill at doing so a disciplined practice, making use of the lay of the land to remain obscured, down to the colors they wore, the grays and greens of stone, lichen, and grass. At last, they arrived at a small clearing.

  “Why have you brought me here?” Niall asked.

  They all looked at him solemnly.

  Osgar stepped forward. “Come with me.”

  He set off across the grassy field, dotted with patches of fern, and the others followed. When he reached a certain spot, he searched intently, pushing aside the overgrowth with his wrinkled, knobby-knuckled hands.

  “Here,” he said, resting his hand on a large flat stone. “The Kincaid sword is buried here, with other items of clan importance, waiting to be returned to their rightful place in the castle.”

  Niall’s throat tightened with emotion. “I remember that night, the sword being taken away. I feared it had been destroyed or thrown in a bog, forever lost.”

  “We just need to know how fast you need us to dig them up.”

  “Less a fortnight,” he answered.

  “That soon? You’re certain?”

  “I am, and you should be too.”

  They all laughed, but their laughter faded, and they looked at him with peculiar intensity.

  “What is it?” he asked, his senses suddenly gone keen.

  Osgar’s voice took a tone of reverence. “There’s something else we must show you now.”

  “Show me then.”

  He again followed Osgar to the distant edge of the clearing. Everyone else fell away, trailing behind until only he followed, and Deargh at a short distance.

  Osgar bent, and pushed aside a fern, to reveal—

  A stone cross laid flat on the ground.

  Niall’s heart stopped beating, and the earth seemed to disappear from under his feet. He knew what Osgar would say.

  “This here”—the old man said softly, stepping back—“is where your father lays. Your mother is there…” He pointed. “On that side.”

  Osgar gestured to the ground beyond, and walking there, pushed aside the groundcover on one side and the other where smaller crosses spread across the earth like stones.

  “These are all the others,” Osgar said. “Buried together, as well as we could manage. We brought a priest. The ground is consecrated, and he spoke the necessary words over them.”

  Niall blinked, exhaling. Taken, in an instant, back to that night.

  The drums. The fear. The loss.

  He had existed ever since with a low, simmering rage ever constant in his thoughts, in his blood—but seeing his parents’ graves awakened something blacker and more dangerous inside him. For some reason, in that moment, he thought of Elspeth—saw her face in his mind—as if his soul sought comfort from her. But just as quickly her features blurred, as did his feelings for her … all becoming indistinct and obscured by the shadows of hate that filled his mind.

  “My brothers…” he asked in a hollow voice.

  Osgar shook his head. “We never knew what happened to you, nor them. We do not know if they lived or died.”

  “Do you know who killed my mother and father, and these Kincaids? Who murdered them? Which man—specifically, is responsible, all or one?”

  “No, Kincaid,” Osgar answered quietly. “I was there, but in the melee and darkness, I did not see. They all held the sword, as far as we are concerned. The MacClaren. The Alwyn. And that king, all the way down in his lowland castle, whether he knew what would happen or no, because he emboldened them and then after, looked the other way.”

  With that, Osgar backed away, and turning, rejoined his companions, who held vigil, watching from a distance in silence.

  For the first time in his life, Niall found it difficult to stand. He had lived with the weight of what happened that night on his shoulders for so long, but being here … among the graves … made his loss infinitely more real. His grief for the loved ones he had lost—and the hatred for the men responsible—eclipsed every other thought. His heart—to whatever degree Elspeth had thawed it—now blackened completely, consumed by ice.

  Kneeling, he pressed his hand on the cross that lay between his parents’ graves, remembering their faces in his mind.

  He whispered, “I am here.”

  Deargh clasped a hand to his shoulder, and knelt beside him. “Aye, my laird. Do you see? At long last, your son has come home.”

  * * *

  That evening, Elspeth dressed carefully, wanting to look especially nice because she knew she would see Niall at the evening meal, and that even if they did not speak, they would at least see each other.

  Today had been wonderful. She’d had the joy of her sisters’ company, and all the women of the castle and village she adored so much. And then there had been Niall’s surprising and passionate kiss underneath the waterfall that she would never, for as long as she lived, forget.

  Because of those things, for a brief time the responsibilities her future held had faded to the back of her mind. But the day was over, and it seemed that with each beat of her heart, she was more and more aware of the bittersweet passing of time.

  In just two days, the MacClaren caravan would leave Inverhaven for the Cearcal Festival. She had only these few nights left in which to spend time with Niall before she was betrothed, or even married to another man. It was possible she would not even return to Inverhaven from the festival, but be sent straightaway to her new home.

  She was torn over what to do. Should she seek him out, for one last, farewell kiss? Should she tell him how much he meant to her? Or would she only be inflicting more pain on herself, and him, when they were forced to part?

  In truth, she did not know how she felt about him. Everything had happened so quickly between them, she feared to confess any depth of feeling for him, even to herself. Did she love him? She did not know. How could she even consider the idea, when she was not free to do so?

  Elspeth crossed to the window and looked out over the valley. Perhaps it would be better if she stayed away from him completely. Whenever they were alone their attraction got so quickly out of hand, and she had already come so close to losing her virtue to him. But wasn’t it more than attraction between them?

  As for actual words, he had not declared any feelings for her, other than those spoken in his quarters, which had seemed heartfelt and honest … but guarded. He had remained so cool and clearheaded about the forces that kept them apart. On one hand she understood that it must be very difficult for him to share his feelings easily, given the life of solitude he had lived. On the other, it was completely possible he did not feel as deeply for her as she did for him.

  She sighed, turning back to the room, her heart aching and heavy. She felt such confusion. She did not know what to do. She only knew she missed him already, and fantasized every other moment about running away with him, promising her love and the rest of her life to him, though in her heart of hearts she knew that even if he asked her to do so, she would never abandon her duty to the family and clan she loved.

  At least she told herself that. But what would she do if he told her he loved her? If he asked her to go with him? She did not know, because it had not happened. The difficult truth was that they had run out of time. There was nothing left to do but to say good-bye.

  However, that night Niall did not come into the great hall as he normally did, though Deargh was there, sitting shoulder to shoulder among the MacClaren men. Later, alone in bed, she could not sleep, wondering where he had been and knowing his absence left her with just one last day, one night, to say good-bye.

  She saw him nowhere the next day. Nor did he appear the next night.

  “To be young again!” exclaimed Fiona, who at Elspeth’s invitation had come up from the village to spend one last evening together. The meal had long since concluded, a
nd though Elspeth had eaten her meal in the company of her father, Bridget, and the council, she now sat in the shadows along the wall, at a table with Fiona and Ina and her sisters. Nearby, the bard Murdoch sang about a vengeful ghost warrior who took the form of a wolf to slip into the camp of his sleeping enemy.

  The old woman smiled, remembering. “I went to the Cearcal myself, to attend to you and your mother. It is an exciting time, with many handsome, very notable young men looking for suitable brides. I know God will lead you to the right choice.”

  Fiona’s hand closed over Elspeth’s. The older woman had been kind and discreet enough not to ask her about Niall, and Elspeth hoped that none of her anxiety over him showed.

  “Anyone is better than your original two choices,” Ina whispered, eyebrows raised.

  They all three laughed—though Elspeth remained almost feverishly distracted by the lateness of the hour, and the understanding that Niall again would not appear.

  Had he forgotten that she would leave tomorrow? What if she never saw him again? Was it that he did not care? Or was he too, trying to spare himself the pain of saying good-bye to her? The possibilities were so disparate that they were utterly maddening, when combined with the heartbreak of saying good-bye to her loved ones, including her father, who was ill, and her sisters, who would grow up and go their own ways. Things would never be the same again.

  “Speaking of my age,” said Fiona. “It is time for me to give you a kiss, and return home.”

  “I will walk you there,” Elspeth insisted, not wanting the woman who had been so much like a mother to her after her own mother’s death, to be sent off alone into the night.

  Perhaps she would also see Niall out in the courtyard, and be able to say a brief but satisfactory farewell there.

  Yet Ina stood as well. “I will go with you.”

  All the better, so that if she saw him, they would not be alone other than for a few words.

  As they meandered through the crowded hall, Elspeth stopped to be kissed on the cheek and embraced by others wishing her the best in finding a match that would make her happy as well as advantage them all as a clan. When they neared the door, a voice called out to her. It was her father, who followed after her. He breathed heavily, as if the walk across the room had fatigued him.