Highland Avenger

by Julie Johnstone

  The knight turned nearly purple as his comrades guffawed. Eve smiled at Darius. “You will keep your word, yes, and allow the gypsy her freedom?”

  Darius nodded. “Unhand the wench,” he ordered his comrade, who immediately did so.

  The gypsy woman staggered away from the man and turned to run, but then she glanced over her shoulder. “Ye have my eternal gratitude, Sister Mary,” the woman said.

  Eve inclined her head in acceptance. “Flee now, madam.”

  “Marianna,” the gypsy supplied.

  “Marianna, only God knows how long a promise, once given, truly lasts.”

  The woman nodded, turned, and ran down the same side street the knight had intended to drag her down. Eve focused her attention once more on Darius. “I’ll lower my blade now, but if you think to harm me, I vow God will strike you down.”

  With that, she threw the sword at the man’s feet and made the sign of the cross while narrowing her gaze upon him. Darius’s face twisted with his rage. Eve bit her lip on the desire to laugh, and clutching her skirts, she stalked around the knight, and strode back toward the market and the road that led to the nunnery. As she passed the crowd that had gathered, they cheered for her. Grinning, she exited the market, the sweet, high-pitched voice of the bard singing about the dangerous, violet-eyed nun floating on the wind.

  She laughed as she rounded the corner to the dirt road, but when the convent came into sight a few minutes later, her grin faded. Clara was going to be so upset when she heard of the day’s event. Eve slowed her steps as she considered what to say. Clara worried because she loved her, Eve knew that. So she would simply tell Clara that there was no need to fret that their enemies might hear the story of a nun named Mary with strange-colored eyes and associate it with Eve. Besides, her uncle had explained carefully in his letters that he’d allowed everyone to think she and Clara had drowned on that fateful day eight years earlier. Clara worried unnecessarily, but even if Clara’s caution was not unfounded, Eve would soon be gone from this place.

  Eve entered the convent and hurried down the corridor toward the nuns’ small bedchambers. She paused in front of Clara’s door and inhaled a deep breath to steady her mind. It was time for them to return to Linlithian, and Clara needed to see that, too, because Eve could never leave the woman behind. She was like a mother to Eve.

  Eve knocked and waited, but when Clara did not answer, Eve opened the door to the tiny, windowless bedchamber and went inside. The room was only large enough for a small bed, table, and chair, so Eve pulled out the chair and sat, determined to wait. Papers strewed the desk, and as Clara was the tidiest person Eve knew, her old lady’s maid must have been called to help in the convent and had not had time to straighten up. Considering that she wanted Clara’s undivided attention when she returned to the bedchamber, Eve began to gather papers and stack them, but as she did so, she spotted the letter she had given Clara to send to Frederick a sennight ago.

  Eve picked up the parchment and ran her finger over her signature and seal, frowning. Clara must have forgotten to send someone with the letter. Eve stood and made her way out of the room, and to the abbess’s chambers. She would ask Sister Mary Margaret to send someone with her letter today, as her uncle needed to know she was returning to her home.

  Before she could even knock on the abbess’s door, it swung open, and the tiny, spritely woman blinked in surprise. Her gray eyes, which matched the color of her short hair, crinkled affectionately at the corners. “Eve, what can I do for you?”

  Eve held the letter out to the abbess, glad she could speak plainly with Sister Mary Margaret. The woman had known the truth about Eve and Clara since the day they had come to the convent seeking shelter.

  “Clara forgot to give you my regular letter to my uncle to be taken to Linlithian.”

  Sister Mary Margaret’s silver eyebrows dipped together, and two extra lines appeared on her wrinkled forehead. “I know I’m aging, but I don’t know what you are talking about. In all the years you and Clara have been here, she’s never given me a letter to take to anyone, from you or her.”

  “Never?” Eve said, her breath hitching. An odd hollow feeling filled her stomach. That was impossible! She had been writing to her uncle for years—and he’d responded!

  Sister Mary Margaret shook her head. “Child, I’m happy to have our man ride the letter there, but I must ask… Is this prudent? I know you have reached eighteen summers, but you need to pick a husband. Last I spoke with Clara, she believed another year was needed for you to make a wise choice of a husband. And then, of course, we will need to discreetly make inquiries of candidates and—”

  Eve held up a hand, and the abbess stopped mid-sentence. The two of them stood facing each other in silence. The corridor seemed to grow smaller, the space more confined, hotter. Sweat beaded on Eve’s lip, and her underarms grew damp. “Where—” The word cracked under the weight of her trepidation, and she had to swallow before forcing the rest of the question out. “Where is Clara?”

  “She’s in the chapel,” the abbess responded, giving Eve a concerned look.

  Eve nodded absently, her mind whirling with questions. Surely, the abbess was wrong and confused. She was old. Eve’s stomach roiled as she took in Sister Mary Margaret’s paper-thin skin, the lines around her eyes, her sagging neck, and weathered hands. She was very old. That’s all it is. Forgetfulness.

  Eve would speak with Clara the moment the woman was finished in chapel. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her head fairly spinning. She did not wait for a reply. She turned on her heel and made her way back to Clara’s bedchamber to wait. She sat at the desk once more, Sister Mary Margaret’s words playing repeatedly in her mind.

  Wise choice of a husband… Never given me a letter…

  A horrible suspicion began to niggle at Eve, and she found herself scanning Clara’s bedchamber. If Clara was going to hide Eve’s letters—assuming they’d been hidden and not destroyed—where would she do so? Eve looked to the cluttered desk as a numbness settled over her. Trembling, she started to sift through papers and open the desk drawers. With each one she opened, her stomach grew tighter and her heart pounded harder. When she came to the last drawer, she had trouble grasping the handle because she was shaking so terribly. The tiny drawer opened with the scrape of wood upon wood, revealing nothing more than green hair ribbons that Eve was positive must be a gift for her from Clara, likely for Eve’s birthday. Clara never wore ribbons, and green was Eve’s favorite color.

  Eve touched the silky edge of the ribbon, and a wave of guilt flushed her. She hurriedly closed the drawer and sucked in a deep breath. She had no right snooping through Clara’s private things. There had to be a simple explanation. Eve shoved up from the desk, deciding it was best to simply go speak with Clara. Eve hated to interrupt her in chapel, but the sooner this could be sorted out, the better.

  She started toward the door, but the tip of her slipper caught the edge of a small rug, and she lurched forward, catching herself on her hands as she fell to her knees with a painful thud. Rolling to her side, tears blurred her vision and her knees throbbed. She lay huddled that way for a long moment before putting her palms down to push herself into an upright position. When she did, the wood beneath her fingers gave a loud creak, and it felt as if the boards were bending forward slightly. Eve frowned and looked down at her hands, then at the spot where the rug had been pulled back. She gave the wood a hard push. The board was loose.

  That same terrible suspicion overwhelmed her. Scrambling to her knees, she hooked her fingernails under the rough edge of the plank and pulled. The board moved easily, and she peered into the hole, her lips parting with a sharp intake of breath. Pain stabbed at her chest as her gaze traveled over a bundle of letters. A choked, desperate cry escaped her, and she reached for the letters as tremors of betrayal and rage coursed through her.

  Slowly, she brought out the bundle, some of the paper yellowed from years of being hidden, and hot tears trickled down h
er cheeks. Nauseating, sinking despair threatened to engulf her, but she made herself open the letter on top, just to be certain they were hers. She had only to read the first line for the confirmation she did not want:

  My dearest Uncle Frederick,

  A bellow burst from her, and she slammed the letters onto the wood and beat her fists on top of them. Her lungs burned, her stomach ached, and her head pounded as she beat at the paper, trying to obliterate the betrayal which was impossible to destroy.

  She stilled at the sound of the door opening and clutched at the letters scattered in front of her until she had a bundle in both her hands.

  “Oh, Eve!” Clara cried out, the dismay evident in her voice.

  Eve raised her head, shoving her hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’ve been lying to me!” Eve shook the letters at Clara, the woman who had long ago saved her, the woman who had taken her mother’s place after her mother had been killed.

  Eve expected tears, or denials, or pleas of forgiveness, and she clenched her teeth, prepared to ignore it all. But Clara merely folded her hands in front of her, and a determined look settled on the older woman’s soft, wrinkled face and hardened her gaze. “Yes, I have. To protect you.”

  “Protect me?” Eve shouted, still waving the letters about as she rose to her feet. “Protect me from whom? My uncle? He is my kin, my blood!”

  “Yes,” Clara said with a nod. “Because I cannot say for certain that he was not the one to betray your father…”

  It was too much. Eve could not listen. Going home was all she had wanted, all she had to look forward to. If she could not even trust her uncle, she had nowhere to go. No home. “I don’t believe you!” Eve sobbed and threw the letters at Clara. “I won’t believe you! You’re a liar!” With that, she shoved past Clara and fled.

  Chapter Three

  The buzz of the distant crowd gathered around London Bridge hummed in Grant’s ears as he and Ross crouched behind some trees in the woods. He skimmed the throng of people, looking for guards surrounding a prisoner. For two days, Grant and Ross had tracked Simon from where they’d left him in Scotland to here, and the last English knight they had come upon and coerced into giving them information told them that Simon had been taken to London to be tried as a traitor.

  They had to hurry, to get to Simon before it was too late. But time was Grant’s enemy. It had always been his enemy. He’d not had enough time to rescue his mother, nor enough time to say goodbye to his father. He could not let time best him again.

  Where the devil was Simon?

  Grant rose slightly from his crouched position to get a better view, but Ross’s hand came to Grant’s shoulder and pulled him back down. Ross motioned to two Englishmen walking nearby, whom Grant had not noticed in his distracted state.

  He nodded to Ross in understanding. As the two strangers drew closer, he and Ross both moved backward, deeper into the underbrush.

  “I always said Simon Fraser was a spy for the damned Scots,” one man said.

  Was. The word hit Grant in the gut, making him wince. The distinct sound of someone relieving himself filled the momentary lapse in conversation.

  “Well, King Edward having the MacDougalls behead the traitor should send a message to any Scots thinking to rise against our king.” The man had the gall to chuckle.

  Grant fisted his hands in the cold dirt as his stomach twisted. His head pounded, and the ground seemed to tilt underneath him for moment. Ross’s hand came to his shoulder again, gripping him. Grant could not even acknowledge his friend. He had to direct all his concentration to not rising to kill the men urinating in front of him. Such an act would not only get himself killed but get Ross killed, too, surrounded as they were by the English.

  Dead. The word was heavy, final, and suffocating. Disbelief stopped the world around him. Simon could not be dead. But as the men departed, Grant forced himself to rise until he could see the crowd once more. English knights were marching toward the end of London Bridge with the MacDougalls by their side. At the front of the line was Laird MacDougall and fisted in his right hand was Simon’s head.

  Grant leaned to the right and retched, then fell to the ground to press his forehead into the cold dirt. It was not Simon. It was not Simon. He kept repeating the mantra, but the truth of what he’d seen hammered at him. He gulped in deep breaths and pushed his hands against the soil to shove back to his feet. Ross’s hand came to his arm, but Grant shoved him off.

  “Dunnae look,” Ross said in a pained whisper.

  Grant felt as if he might retch again, but he swallowed until the feeling faded, and then he peered out from their cover and stared at his brother’s decapitated head now impaled on a spike on London Bridge. Bile rose from his stomach, burning his throat, but he did not turn his gaze. He looked so that he would never forget what the MacDougalls and the English had done. He looked so that he would never again forget that time was not his friend. He looked so that he would remember how he had failed his brother. He would need the image to carry him through the battle, he was certain.

  Rage coursed through his veins. He was going to hunt down the MacDougall laird and everyone who had aided him in killing Simon. He was going to behead them, just as they had beheaded Simon.

  The treachery of the MacDougalls singed Grant’s soul so that he felt it wither under the blaze of his fierce hatred. Many Scots had betrayed their homeland since the war with the King of England had started. Men had betrayed Scotland out of fear for their lives, their homes, the well-being of their wives and children. Those men he could never trust again, but he could understand their decisions. He could even forgive the weakness. But the MacDougalls had betrayed Scotland, had betrayed the sworn oath of allegiance to Simon as the laird of the Fraser clan, because of their greed and consuming thirst for power.

  “What do ye want to do?” Ross asked.

  Grant just continued to stare at his brother’s head. His face was gray, his mouth hung open, and his eyes bulged. Grant’s throat tightened with the need to scream—for the loss of his brother, for the fact that he had died alone, for not returning in time to save him.

  Finally, he inhaled the putrid London air and turned to Ross. Their eyes locked. “I want to kill Laird MacDougall, his son, and all the men who aided in murdering my brother,” Grant said. “I want to hunt them down and put their heads on spikes along the trail to my home so any who dare to cross a Fraser again will ken the revenge that will be exacted upon them. Any man who dares to kill a Fraser will die in the very manner they inflicted.”

  Ross nodded. “Bruce would surely agree with this.”

  “Ye should return to Bruce,” Grant said, thinking of the fledgling king, who at this moment was fleeing toward the Atholl mountains to find more forces and gather support.

  “Nay,” Ross said, setting a hand on Grant’s shoulder and squeezing it. “Ye heard the king yerself. He ordered me to aid ye in ensuring Simon made it back to Scotland alive, and we failed. The king would wish me to aid ye in taking vengeance upon the MacDougalls.”

  Grant opened his mouth to protest, but Ross’s words were true. Bruce had ordered it, as well as insisted that Thomas and Allisdair make their way to the safety of the Fraser holding instead of accompanying Grant and Ross to aid Simon. The young boys had sputtered their protests about being sent away, but they had obeyed with a look of warning from Bruce. He was a truly good man and king. He strove to put Scotland and its people above himself always, which was why many nobles did not like him. He put more stock in ruling for the common people than the lairds. That was the heart of why the MacDougalls had turned against Bruce when he’d seized his rightful throne and killed John Comyn—the man who had tried to murder Bruce to gain a throne that was not his.

  MacDougall was supporting King Edward over Bruce not because MacDougall was related by marriage to Comyn, but because the man wanted all the power and land in the Highlands, and he could not have that if Bruce became king. Bruce would rule Scotland fairl
y and give power and lands equally, not just to the rich.

  Grant stared toward the now-dispersing crowd as he tried to focus enough to consider what to do. It was hard, so very hard. Disbelief pounded relentlessly at him and sorrow muddled his thoughts. His insides tightened into a hard ball.

  “Grant, words are nae enough to tell ye my sorrow.”

  The pain in Ross’s voice cut through Grant’s haze. “Dunnae be sorry.” He took one long last look at his brother’s head before he faced Ross and formed a plan even as he spoke. “Be like a shadow. We will capture the MacDougall and take him to my home for his reckoning. I am certain Aros will follow once he kens we have his father. Are ye with me? It will be dangerous.”

  “Fear of danger is for the weak,” Ross said, quoting words Simon had taught them both. Grant turned his head when his eyes watered, blinked several times, and faced Ross once more. The time to grieve would have to come later. Now was the time for vengeance.

  Grant focused his gaze on the men who had departed the bridge and come near the woods to urinate. They stood not so very far from the woods and were set far enough away from the bridge that Grant and Ross could likely relieve them of their clothing without drawing notice. “We must become Englishmen and move through the darkness to take my enemy.”

  “Our enemy,” Ross corrected. “We are brothers in our fight for Scotland’s freedom.”

  Grant answered by motioning to the two English knights. They were laughing and talking like fools, heedless of the dangers that awaited them. “They kinnae make a sound,” Grant warned.

  Ross grinned, his teeth flashing white in the rapidly growing darkness. “Mine will nae,” he vowed, his tone ominous. And then, as if in mutual, unspoken agreement, Grant and Ross moved through the shadows, careful to keep to the edge of the woods, until the two knights were within arm’s reach. The thuds of their dagger hilts meeting the knights’ skulls blended into the night and the not-too-distant sounds coming from the taverns beyond the bridge. Before the knights even fell fully to the ground, Grant and Ross were dragging the men back into the edge of the woods that faced London Bridge.