by Amy Jarecki
The Highland Henchman
~ Book Two: Highland Force Series ~
by
Amy Jarecki
Rapture Books
Copyright © 2014, Amy Jarecki
Jarecki, Amy
The Highland Henchman
ISBN:
AISN:
First Release: April, 2014
Book Cover Design by: Kim Killion
All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
To Bob. I’m glad we’re together.
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Excerpt from Amy’s Next Release
Chapter One
The Firth of Clyde, Scotland ~ 1st April, 1568
The activity on deck stilled when the ship turned east and sailed into the Firth of Clyde. All eyes cast to the inlet. Entering Lowland waters always bore a risk.
A golden eagle perched on his shoulder, Bran scanned the waterway with the bronze spyglass. “Ruairi’s galley sails ahead.” He strained to identify pennants on the ships beyond. “MacNeil of Barra and MacLeod of Harris as well.”
Laird Calum MacLeod grasped the ship’s rail beside him. “Do ye see the MacDonald pennant?”
To allay all doubt, Bran surveyed the Firth waters one more time. “Nay.”
“Cannons stand down,” Calum bellowed, and circled his hand above his head. “Continue on, Master John.”
Bran turned and leaned his backside against the galleon’s hull. “I never considered I’d become a knight.”
Calum smoothed his hand over the eagle’s brown feathers. “A Highland henchman needs a title to garner respect in the Lowlands.”
Knighted by the Highland chieftain only a few hours prior, some might view the honor as contrived, but Bran’s chest swelled. He owed his life to Calum. With his father dead, the clan had considered Bran an outcast, until he turned twelve and the laird took him under his wing. Now one and twenty, Bran’s dedication to the clan had been rewarded.
Griffon’s claws clamped into Bran’s shoulder harness as the eagle stretched his back. Bran chuckled. “I aim to win the tournament and show all the might of Raasay.”
Calum’s weatherworn hands grasped the rail beside him. “’Tis what I like to hear. I didna train ye to be me henchman for naught.”
“How many contestants do ye think there’ll be?”
“We’ll find out soon enough. Lord Ross invited all the Hebridean clans. I’m sure there’ll be quite a gathering.”
“Why do ye think he’s holding the tournament?” Bran slipped a piece of bully beef into Griffon’s beak. “Lowlanders hate Highlanders.”
The salty wind picked up and Calum tugged his feathered bonnet lower on his brow. “Me guess is he’s up to something.”
“Then why’d we come?”
“And miss a chance to gain respect for me clan?” Calum shook his head. “Never. Besides, Lord Ross would have anarchy on his hands if he lifted a blade against us. He wants something, mark me.”
“Are ye inclined to give it—ye ken, what he wants?”
“Have I taught ye nothing since yer father passed? Ye never give something for naught, lad.”
“I’d consider no less. Ye have me sword, on that there will nay be a question.”
The ruddy chieftain leaned in, his warm breath skimming Bran’s cheek. “Stay close. Keep yer eyes open. The tournament will be over soon enough and we’ll be back in Raasay with Anne and the boys.”
“Drop anchor,” shouted John Urquhart, Calum’s quartermaster and right-hand man. With John on Calum’s right, Bran now occupied the left—a fearsome trio they made.
Bran counted the galleys moored at the estuary of the River Clyde, which flowed into the firth from the town of Glasgow—six boats, all laden with cannon, but none as impressive as Calum’s The Golden Sun. With eighteen guns, the galleon and crew would lie in wait should any skullduggery arise.
Once the skiff had been lowered, Bran stood behind his laird with Griffon perched on his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around the basket-weave pattern of his hilt, scanning the sea and shore for suspicious activity. Instructions were to gather with Sir George Maxwell at Newark. Horses would be provided for the short ride to Halkhead House in Renfrewshire.
Bran didn’t like it. Though every Hebride chief was accompanied by his henchman, they were leaving their greatest weapons behind. The Golden Sun’s cannons would be of no use ten miles inland.
***
Enya squinted at the target. Pulling the string of the longbow even with her ear, she held her breath. The string rolled to the tips of her gloved fingers. She released.
A quick flutter of her heart accompanied her grin. “Spot on the middle.”
With his breeches a tad too small and his new boots oversized for his body, Rodney ran up to the target and yanked out the arrow. “Hells bells, you should’ve been born a lad.”
Enya walked up and stuck her finger in the hole. “Wouldn’t that have been something? Instead of picking fabric for fancy dresses, I’d be on a ship sailing for the South Seas right now.”
The young squire’s eyes popped. “And miss the tournament?”
“Well, perhaps after the tournament. I would never be able to resist an opportunity to show up a gathering of brawny knights.”
Rodney flexed his muscles. “Do you think I’ll be a knight one day?”
“Of course you will. ’Tis why Robert named you squire.” She squeezed the lad’s scrawny arm. “You have strong bones, and at two and ten, you’re nearly as tall as me, I’ll say.”
“But not as dead-on with a bow as you.”
“Yet.”
Together they walked back fifty paces, and Enya held out the bow. “Your turn. Let me see your best.”
Rodney concentrated on the target. White lines strained around his lips as he let his arrow fly. It hit the target inches below the bull’s-eye.
“Not bad.” She pulled another arrow from her quiver and handed it to him. “Try again, and this time, keep your fist even with the top of your ear.”
He grinned and followed her instruction. How long will the young laddie listen to the likes of me—a mere woman? Soon he’d be off patrolling the borders with her brother, Robert, and she’d be left behind at Halkhead while her father arranged her marriage. Oh, what a wretched parcel of miserable affairs I have
to look forward to.
Enya wanted to patrol the borders—see the world, or Scotland at least. She loved to listen to tales of Robert’s travels. She dreamt of riding a white steed and saving the poor from starvation. But she was stuck at Halkhead House, the youngest of Lord Ross’s six daughters.
Her mother always berated Enya for daydreaming. “You must take more interest in your embroidery, dear,” Mother scolded endlessly while tearing out Enya’s horrific mistakes. Embroidery. Bah.
“Did you see that?” Rodney asked.
Enya snapped her head toward the target. Rodney’s arrow stuck in the bull’s-eye—not in the middle like hers had, but close. “Excellent. See? All it takes is a little adjustment and you’ll hit your mark every time.”
The muffled rumble of horse hooves echoed in the distance. Rodney gaped at her as if it were Christmas morn. “They’re coming.”
Enya grabbed his hand and headed through the copse of trees. “Let’s watch from atop the hill. They’ll not see us up there.”
Nearly out of breath, they reached the crest just as the long line of horses carrying robust Highlanders ambled into view. Large men rode toward them with plaids draped across their shoulders, helms on their heads, targes in one hand and pikes with deadly spearheads in the other. Some had their claymores strapped to their backs and others carried the large swords in scabbards on their belts.
“They all look so…inexplicably tough,” Enya said.
Rodney peeked out from behind an enormous oak. “They look like a mob of heathens if you ask me.”
With their long hair and massive exposed legs, Enya could see his point. Lowland men would never be caught baring their knees or wearing kilts. But a basal stirring swirled deep inside. These sturdy men were proud, strong and focused.
Enya watched an imposing warrior ride directly beneath her hiding place. Unable to look away, her breath caught. He was even bigger than the others, and his chestnut hair curled out from under his helm. On his broad shoulder perched a great golden eagle. She’d seen falconers before, but never one with a bird as impressive as an eagle.
He grasped the reins easily, as if he were holding a thread of wool. His plaid covered his thigh just above the knee, leading to a powerful calve that rested against the horse’s barrel. Gaping at the warrior’s exquisitely muscular frame, Enya covered her open mouth with her palm.
He rode beside a man with an ornate breastplate, and Enya guessed the warrior was An Gille-coise—a henchman paid to protect his laird and his clan. His gaze flicked across the scene like a hunter, or the hunted. Simply looking at him made her stomach tense.
His eyes darted up the hill. Enya froze. Crouching behind the clump of gorse in full yellow bloom, no one should have seen her, but the warrior’s gaze fixed on her as if she were waving a torch. In the flicker of a heartbeat, time slowed. Her mouth went dry as their eyes met. His jaw tensed and his line of sight trailed to the bow in her hand.
“That’s got to be the biggest man in the entire world.” Rodney’s amazed voice broke through her trance.
Enya’s hand flew to her chest to quash her pounding heart. “You think so?” Taking a deep breath, she wouldn’t let on the warrior had affected her in any way. But her fingers trembled as she watched the parade proceed through the heavy iron gates of Halkhead House—until he turned and regarded her over his shoulder. Does he think I’m going to pull out an arrow and shoot him in the back? Perhaps he does.
Rodney yanked her hand. “Come. Let’s go watch.”
Enya hesitated and stared down at her olive-green kirtle. A plain day dress, her hem was caked with mud. She ran her hands over the simple white coif she’d slapped on top of her head that morning. She looked frightful and knew it. “You go. I’ll spirit round the back. If Mother sees me like this, she’ll have one of her spells.”
Rodney shrugged. “Och, you look fine.”
Enya feigned a smile. “You ken Mother. She ordered all that fabric for me.”
The lad blew a raspberry and raced down the hill without her. A long breath whistled through Enya’s lips. At eight and ten, she’d been to court on a number of occasions. Mother had always made her put on a show of finery, but she didn’t care for it. She preferred simple kirtles allowing her more freedom of movement for things like archery and horseback riding.
However, that brawny warrior’s eyes raking across her face and fixating on her longbow made her cheeks burn. She didn’t want him or anyone else gawking at her dirty gown. Besides, Enya’s mother would be furious if she raced into the courtyard with a bow and quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. A folly to use the secret entrance in daylight, she’d skirt through the woods, head around back, go in through the kitchen and tiptoe up to her chamber.
Edging around the woods proved the easy part, but once she hit the rear side of the manse, her brother, Robert, popped in front of her. “There you are.”
Caught. Enya snapped her hands to her hips and challenged him. “Why are you not in the courtyard greeting our guests with Father?”
“Why aren’t you?”
“I am not the heir.”
“Touché.” Robert raked his hand through his hair. Enya was well aware he didn’t approve of her father’s reasons for holding the tournament. “Actually, I heard the horses and was heading there now. Must welcome the barbarians, you know.”
“Don’t let Father hear you say that.”
“And why not? He feels the same.”
“Not when we’re asking them for help.”
“Very well.” He licked his finger and rubbed Enya’s cheek. “How do you manage to turn into a guttersnipe every time you venture outside?”
Her hands flew to her cheeks. “Really?”
“You’d best not let Mother see you.”
“I was just heading in to clean up.”
“Hurry. Father wants us all in the great hall for supper. The Hamiltons will be here. You dare not be late.”
Enya cast her gaze skyward and headed for the door. She wanted to forget about Lord Claud Hamilton and his supposed interest in her. The few times she’d seen him, he’d reminded her of a rooster strutting amongst a gaggle of hens.
***
Heather shook her finger under Enya’s nose. “I’ve no idea how we’ll turn you into a beauty by supper. Your mother will take it out of my hide for certain.”
Enya wrapped her hands around the accusing finger and kissed it. “You worry far too much.”
Though she adored Heather almost as if she were a second mother, Enya hated to be doted upon. She looked at the torturous fine-toothed comb in her serving maid’s hand and took her seat at the vanity. Heather started at the ends and yanked the comb through Enya’s red tresses. “You should have put your hair in a snood before you went out this morning. There wouldn’t be half the knots. How you manage to mess my handiwork as soon as you leave the chamber is a mystery to me.” She let out a noisy sigh. “You should have been born a boy.”
“That’s what Rodney said when my arrow hit the bull’s-eye.” Enya flashed a challenging grin in the looking glass. “Wouldn’t that have been a boon? I’d be free to travel, see the world.” She swung her arm through the air with an imaginary sword. “Fight duels, and win this fanciful tournament.”
Heather groaned and jerked the comb harder.
“Ow.”
“You’d do very well to stop your dreaming and face the fact you are a lass, and a grown one at that.”
Enya folded her arms and glared at her reflection. It wasn’t that she didn’t like being female, but it was so limiting. One by one, she’d watched her five sisters marry. Her father was close to negotiating her betrothal to the pompous Claud Hamilton—heir to an earldom. She should be overjoyed. At least that was what her mother said.
Enya hardly knew Claud. Friends with William, he hadn’t been to Halkhead since her closest brother left for his fostering a few years ago. Father had invited Claud to the tournament, just as he had every other able-bodied knight
who sympathized with Queen Mary. Enya blinked at her reflection. She’d best give the young lord a chance. Besides, she was curious to see him after so much time had passed. She fidgeted with her skirt. Of course she wanted to see how he’d changed. Perhaps with time to mature, he wouldn’t be so full of self-importance. After all, she might have no choice but to spend eternity with him.
Saints preserve me.
Heather pulled a small clump of hair from Enya’s temple and started braiding. Nice. She loved it when Heather wove her hair through her bronze tiara. Though unpretentious, it was her favorite piece of jewelry. Enya glanced over to the bed. Heather had set out her gown. It was beautiful. Mother had picked the emerald damask to match Enya’s eyes. She bit the inside of her cheek. If she was to see her future husband this night, she should look her best.
Chapter Two
Bran rested his fingers on the pommel of his sword, his gaze darting across the great hall. Thus far, the whole affair seemed like the mustering of a flock of sheep—or several unrelated flocks of varying breeds. When he spied the line of “black sheep” Lowlanders in their finery across the room, his fingers tightened. “Look at the peacocks in their ruffled collars and fancy breeches.”
Calum leaned close and mumbled in his ear. “What did ye expect? Ross is a bloody Lowlander himself.”
“At least he had the sense not to invite the MacDonalds. A blood feud would erupt before the tournament began.”
“Aye, ye have that right.” Calum elbowed him in the ribs. “If I’d seen the MacDonald pennant, I’d have turned the ship around and headed back to Raasay.”
They moved toward the dais, where Ross sat beside his wife and a retinue of his highest-ranking men. A line of tables had been prepared for the visiting Highland chiefs, and facing it was a similar table for Lowland lairds.
Calum sauntered up to his brother, Ruairi, Chief of Lewis. “What do ye think of all this?”
Ruairi wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulders and kept his voice low. Bran strained to listen. “Regent Moray still has Mary, Queen of Scots locked away in Lochleven. My bet is Ross is suckering us into siding with the Marian Party.”