The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  Enya wrapped a lock of hair around her finger. “Well, she didn’t exactly see me.”

  Robert tugged on Enya’s arm and pulled her behind him. He pointed his sword at the Highlander’s heart. “You stay away from her.”

  Bran stood his ground, his face dark, as if he might issue a deathly blow at any moment. He didn’t say a word. Robert took another step back and Bran’s eyes shot to her. His features relaxed as if the sun had burst through a gathering of clouds. He blinked an unspoken thanks.

  Enya pulled her arm away from Robert’s grasp. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Sir Bran. I hope you will dance with me after the tournament.”

  As Robert marched her to Halkhead House, Bran’s gaze seared into her back. She wanted to slap her brother. For heaven’s sakes, all she had done was talk, and Bran had been a perfect gentleman—aside from when he snatched her in his arms and turned her knees to mush. Barbarian? There’s nothing barbaric about Sir Bran. He’s skilled in so very many things. Look how gentle he is with Griffon.

  For pity’s sake, Highlanders live only a day’s ride from Renfrewshire, yet everyone on this side of the Great Divide considers himself superior.

  She eyed her brother, who looked like he could blow steam out his ears. “He did nothing to incite your ire.”

  “He looked at you. For that I could have killed him.”

  “Except you would be dead, not him.”

  “Pardon me? What are you saying?”

  “Did you have a look at him? He’s enormous. He’s a henchman.”

  Robert stopped and balled his fists, his face turning as red as an overripe tomato. “That’s exactly why you should not keep company with a bloody barbarian. We asked them here for one purpose, and that’s the only thing they’re good for.”

  “War? Fighting?”

  “Aye.”

  “You’re wrong.” Enya marched ahead.

  “I’d better not catch you speaking to him again,” Robert yelled as she disappeared inside.

  Enya stomped up the stairs to her chamber. How dare her brother interfere? Could she not talk to someone without her entire family having kittens? She pushed through her door and tossed her bow and quiver onto the bed. She would speak to whomever she pleased. Meddling Robert would have no say in it.

  She would dance with Sir Bran and show Robert how civilized Highlanders could be. Catching her reflection in the mirror, Enya steepled her hands to her lips. Claud Hamilton would be there. She let out a sigh. It would be expected she would mostly partner with him. Heaven help me.

  Chapter Four

  The clans gathered on the estate grounds in anticipation of the day’s events. Bran stood beside Calum and assessed his competition. Lord Ross had assembled an impressive collection of warriors. Rewan glanced his way and raised his chin. Bran’s gut clenched. He’d like to best the arrogant bastard, even if he was kin—besides, he was a most distant relation, if the generations even counted at this point.

  Riding a white steed, Lord Ross cantered up to the fancy podium, festooned with pennants and draped with blue and white striped cloth. His full coat of armor glistened so brightly in the sunlight, Bran had to squint to look at him.

  Ross strode up the steps and held out his hands to the crowd, requesting silence. “Warriors of Scotland, it is with a heavy heart I commence these games.”

  Calum leaned in and whispered. “Here it comes.”

  “As you are aware, Queen Mary has been wrongly incarcerated at Lochleven Castle under orders of the usurper, self-appointed Regent Moray. This is a travesty against Scotland and against all of us. As you take part in this tournament to find the greatest warriors in Scotland, look into your hearts. Will you sit back while the true queen suffers in her prison?”

  “But the queen conspired with Bothwell in the plot to kill Darnley,” a voice hollered from the side.

  Ross drew his dirk and pointed it at the outspoken warrior. “There was no evidence upon which to convict her.” The man opened his mouth to rebuke, but Ross sliced his knife through the air. “We are not here to debate our sovereign’s innocence. When these games are over and we have determined the victor, I ask you to weigh your conscience and decide if you will stand beside me and take up arms, or if you will turn your heads and succumb to the edicts of the bastard usurper, Moray.”

  Lord Ross looked beyond the crowd as if searching for something, and then smiled. He beckoned with his hand and Enya trotted up to the podium on a high stepping white Galloway mare with yellow ribbons woven through her mane. Enya wore a sunflower yellow gown with ample skirts that fluttered across the beast’s rump. “My daughter has come of age and will soon wed…”

  Bran’s heart lurched in his chest. Would the winner of the tournament have a chance at her hand?

  “…and her mother and I will be left with no children at home. I have asked Enya to cut the ribbon to commence the games.”

  Lord Ross nodded to a man at the front of the crowd. Craning his neck, Bran caught a glimpse of Claud Hamilton’s smirk. As he’d guessed last eve, Lord Ross would be seeking a highborn heir for his daughter. What chance does a henchman have at winning the hand of a lassie like Miss Enya?

  None.

  Enya accepted the shears from her father and held them up. As if she knew where he was standing, her gaze snapped straight to Bran. She smiled, making his insides churn with pent-up nervousness. In a heartbeat, her eyes dropped and she cut the ribbon to the roars of raucous cheers.

  Calum slapped his hand against Bran’s back. “Do me proud, laddie.”

  “Och. ’Tis no’ today I’m worried about.”

  “The joust?” Calum hung his thumbs on his belt. “How hard could it be to knock a man off his horse with a pole?”

  “I dunna ken why they canna stick to Highland games.”

  “Because Lowlanders have their noses up English arses.”

  Bran scowled. “The sooner these games are over, the sooner we’ll be back in Raasay.”

  ***

  Rodney took a seat on the bench beside Enya. She eyed him with surprise. “Why are you not helping Robert?”

  “He said he doesn’t need me during the archery.”

  “Humph.” Enya tugged on her tatted lace gloves. “I should be down there.”

  “Aye. That would be a sight in all your finery.” Rodney gave her an elbow in the ribcage. “I think you’re a better shot than your brother.”

  “If Father wouldn’t lock me in my chamber for life, I’d hit the bull’s-eye while galloping my horse.”

  “Why do you not?”

  Enya folded her hands in her lap. “I promised to behave myself.”

  Rodney flicked the silk wimple that covered everything but Enya’s face. “I’m glad I’m not you.”

  Enya watched the archery tournament unfold, and as she expected, Bran made it to the final elimination. It quite surprised her that his opponent was Lord Hamilton. She sat forward with her spine straight.

  “I see Lord Claud has made a fine effort,” her father said from his red upholstered chair across the aisle—Enya always thought it looked more like a throne.

  “I’m not sure he’s a match for the Highlander.” Enya enjoyed watching the crease that formed between her father’s thick eyebrows. “He hasn’t missed the bull’s-eye yet.”

  “And whom, may I ask, are you for, my dear?”

  “For?” Enya pushed an errant strand of hair under the silk. “Why, the best archer, my lord. Is this not a contest of skill?”

  “You always seek to raise my ire. You know very well what I mean.”

  Lord Claud fired his arrow and hit clean, on the outside edge of center. Enya leaned into Rodney and whispered, “The Highlander will best that shot.”

  The lad tapped her with his elbow. “You want to place a wager?”

  “Ladies do not place wagers.”

  “Aye, and ladies don’t beat their brothers at archery either.”

  Bran stepped up to the mark.

  Enya
couldn’t resist. “A farthing.”

  “Two.”

  “Agreed.”

  Enya held her breath. Her bow fingers tensely pulled back in concert with the Highlander’s. She jolted in her seat as Bran’s arrow snapped from his bow and skewered the bull’s-eye exactly in the middle. Enya clapped, but when she caught her father’s frown, her fingers immediately resumed their folded position in her lap. Rodney reached in his pocket, and Enya gave him a nudge. “Not here. Father will murder me if he discovers we made a wager—especially one against the venerated Lord Claud Hamilton.”

  “The way you say it, I’d think you didn’t like him.”

  Enya thumped the top of Rodney’s woolen bonnet. “’Tis not a question of like or dislike. I simply do not care to be used as a pawn to increase the holdings of men.”

  Rodney’s eyes glazed and he stood. “I’d best see to Sir Robert. He may need a drying cloth for the swimming competition.”

  By the end of the day, Bran had won the lot, with Rewan MacLeod of Lewis taking second in everything except the archery. Enya was indeed impressed—and to think, early this morning, she’d shared a brief contest of her own with the rugged victor.

  Lord Ross grasped his daughter’s elbow. “The Highlanders may have come out ahead today, but tomorrow will be an entirely different matter.”

  Enya curtseyed. “Yes, Father, but I should like to dance with the victor. After all, we ought to show our support for his efforts.”

  “One dance, aye. That would be diplomatic. But I fully expect you to flourish your attentions on Lord Hamilton. He will sup at our table this eve.”

  ***

  Reclining in Ross’s solar, Claud Hamilton sat across the writing table from his future father-in-law. “What else do the Highlanders have to do but flex their muscles? ’Tis why we brought them here.”

  “Yes, but I expected more of a showing from our men.” Lord Ross eyed him beneath thick beetle brows. “And I expected more from you.”

  “Tomorrow will be our day.” Claud waved his hand through the air. “Highlanders don’t joust, and since you invited men from the Hebrides, their horse skills will be lacking. They’re seafarers.”

  “You had better be right. I want that sword kept in the family. Do you know how much it cost me?”

  Claud admired the sword in its brass scabbard, resting on the sideboard. Hewn with a hammered, blackened iron hilt with a glistening golden pommel, the sword would be impressive on any man’s belt. But he hadn’t come to Ross’s solar to discuss the tournament. Two things occupied his mind—both grave, though the first he believed could be settled quickly. “I sense Miss Enya’s interest in our union to be tepid.”

  “Aye? And what would you expect from a young lass?” Ross stood and poured two tots of whisky, then handed one to Claud. “I’ve married off five daughters, and all were fickle at first. ’Tis your job to charm her. Enya is as shrewd as she is adventuresome. I wouldn’t expect her to swoon over your handsome face.”

  Unconvinced, Claud accepted the cup. “You believe her not to be indifferent?”

  “I believe she is terrified.”

  Claud tossed back the drink and savored the bite. “I saw her watching one of the Highlanders.”

  “Is that surprising to you? Those men are quite beastly looking. I would expect her to assess them with curiosity.”

  Though Ross’s argument had merit, Claud’s gut burned. “I would prefer it if she would not.”

  Ross grasped the back of his chair. “Hamilton, are you a man or a blubbering nitwit?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but I do not wish for my intended to shamelessly gawk at commoners.”

  “My daughter did not gawk.”

  His gut twisted tighter. “Apologies.” This conversation had turned down a path Claud preferred not to pursue. He would win Enya’s heart and he would do it without the assistance of her father or his insults. “We must discuss a more pressing matter.”

  Ross resumed his seat. “You’ve news of the queen?”

  “Yes. As we thought, she’s won George Douglas’s affection.”

  “Is he on board to spirit her away from Lochleven?”

  “Preparations are underway. Lord Seaton is seeing to it.” Claud examined his impeccably groomed fingernails. “When this tournament charade is over, I must return to Rutherglen. In addition to my five hundred foot soldiers, I have fifty elite cavalry men primed and ready to march against Regent Moray, and I expect you to prepare to follow with the same.”

  “The Ross army will be there, fortified by our Highland neighbors.”

  Claud stifled his shudder. He’d just as soon the Highlanders march back from whence they came, but then they had their purpose. “I’d expect no less. I shall send word as soon as we know the time and place.”

  “The queen will want a treaty.”

  “I doubt she’ll receive one. This is a battle that must be won by force.” Claud stood and bowed. “God save the queen and restore her to her rightful throne.”

  Once outside Lord Ross’s solar, Claud adjusted his sword belt. Above all things, Claud was a Hamilton, an aged and revered Scottish family, a family that needed to push aside the Stuart line and claim their royal lineage. Claud and his army would first see Mary, Queen of Scots regained her throne, and then they would ensure their line of succession claimed superiority over all others.

  ***

  Naked, Bran poured water into a wooden bowl provided by Ross’s hospitality. He held his bar of cinnamon-scented soap to his nose and inhaled. Cinnamon. Once rare on Raasay, but no more—not since they’d hauled back a cache of it from Tortuga.

  Calum pushed through the flap of the tent door. “Cleaning up for the gathering, are ye?”

  Bran pulled a pieced of green slime from his hair and held it up. “Aye. I think the loch had more lake weed than water.”

  “The swimming competition wasn’t only cold, aye?”

  Bran poured the chilly water over his head and let it dribble into the bowl. “Did ye think more on Ross’s call to arms?”

  “The chieftains met. We agreed to lend Ross our henchmen, but we’re no’ bound to him to provide armies of men. We all have keeps to defend. Dunvegan’s in the midst of a blood feud with the MacDonalds, and ye ken as well as I, Raasay’s a target with the riches we’ve built.”

  Bran stood while water streamed down his torso. “Ye mean to leave me here?”

  “Ye say it like ye’re a lad pining for his ma.” Calum swatted him on the back. “Train with Ross’s men. It will be good for ye to taste a bit of battle with the Lowlanders.”

  Bran didn’t like it. He bent over and rinsed out the soap. “I’ve no business in these parts. Me life is with ye and the clan. How am I to protect ye if I’m here and ye’re home at Brochel Castle?”

  “Ye think I canna watch me own back for a time?” Calum gave him a stern, fatherly look that told Bran not to argue. “I seem to recall many a year where I watched out for yer bony arse.”

  Bran ran his cloth over the offending body part. “Aye, but ’tis anything but bony now.”

  “No argument there.” Calum chuckled. “It has been decided. Ye’ll return to Raasay once the queen is back on her throne.”

  Bran balled the cloth in his fist and scrubbed under his arms with a bit more vigor than needed. Train with Ross’s scrawny men? Ride into battle to support a queen who existed more as a fairytale than as his sovereign?

  He ran the drying cloth across his groin. He stopped. If he were to stay in Renfrewshire, he’d most likely see Enya. Frequently. Boar’s ballocks, I need to stay away from the likes of her.

  ***

  Enya tried to listen while Claud carried on about his endless responsibilities. Honestly, he put more importance on collecting the rents from a parcel of poor crofters than reasonable. She’d rather talk about the events from the day. After all, this was the first such event held at Halkhead House, and it had been quite an extraordinary display.

  Seated beside
her, Claud grasped the handle of his tankard. “The next crofter who pays me with rabbits will see them thrown back in his face.”

  “Aye, but at least they’re paying something,” Lord Ross said.

  Enya raised her eating knife. “Today’s tournament was quite an impressive exhibition of skill, would you not agree?”

  Lord Hamilton sniffed. “A display of brutish talents, I suppose.”

  “Are you brutish, Lord Claud? I couldn’t help but notice you scored quite highly in most of the day’s contests.” Aside from the caber toss, which took unimaginable strength, and at which the Highlanders bested every single man in her father’s guard as well as Lord Hamilton himself.

  Claud ran his finger around the inside of his oversized ruff and stretched his neck. “Tomorrow will be more favorable for the Renfrewshire men.”

  Enya lifted her goblet. “You’re more skilled at knocking a man off his horse, then?”

  “Jousting.” Claud met her gaze then dipped his eyes to the flesh swelling just over her square neckline. “’Tis a gentleman’s sport of unprecedented skill.”

  Enya chuckled into her wine. Oh, how she would dearly love to take that remark and mention the civility of riding at breakneck speed and ramming a ten-foot lance into your opponent’s chest. All while trying to stay mounted on your terrified horse, laden with ten stone of armor—the animal hardly able to huff its way to the far end of the arena. “I’m sure tomorrow’s activities will be quite invigorating.”

  “I will do my best to ensure you are entertained.” Claud’s knee brushed against hers beneath the table.

  Enya crossed her ankles away from him. “Gratitude, my lord.” She bowed her head to appease him, however. “Perhaps tomorrow will be as amusing as this day’s activities.”

  Enya’s gaze strayed to the dour frown stretching her father’s jowls. She knew her conversation bordered on impoliteness. Lord Ross was giving her a warning. She’d seen that look hundreds of times. Curses, why did I have to be the daughter born with a sharp tongue? Why not Grisel or Jean? What would Alison do? Enya drummed her fingers. Alison would keep her mouth shut and fixate upon Claud’s every word as if he were sermonizing during Sunday mass. How utterly dull.