“Lady.” The stranger inclined his head, his dark eyes unblinking. “I greet you.”
She refrained from asking who greeted her. His rich garments and jewels had already marked him as a fat-pursed, well-positioned noble. Not that such loftiness counted here, deep in the Highlands, where a man’s deeds and honor mattered so much more than glitter and gold.
As if he read her mind and knew she was about to say so, her brother cleared his throat. “This, Catriona” – he indicated the Lowlander – “is Sir Walter Lindsay, the King’s man. He’s brought tidings from court. A writ from the King, expressing his royal will.”
Catriona bent a chilly look upon the man. The churning in her stomach became a tight, hard knot.
Somehow she managed to dip in a semblance of a curtsy. “Good sir, welcome to Blackshore Castle.” She couldn’t bring herself to say my lord. “We’ve never before greeted such a noble guest to our glen.”
Sir Walter’s brow lifted. He said nothing, but a slight flaring of his nostrils showed he knew she wished she weren’t forced to greet him now.
“It is because of the glen that he’s here.” Alasdair’s words made her heart go still. “The King wishes that-”
“What does our glen have to do with the King?” She didn’t want to know.
“The crown is greatly interested in this glen, my lady.” Sir Walter rested his hand lightly on the sword at his hip. “Your King would see peace in these hills. He is weary of the endless provocations between your clan and the other two who share this land. I am here to inform you that” – his gaze went to Alasdair – “he orders a trial of combat to ensure his will is met.”
“Highland men keep their own peace,” someone called from near the hearth.
Other voices rose in agreement and Catriona’s heart leapt. Surely the men of the clan would send Sir Walter on his way, King’s courier or not. But Alasdair only strode to the high table and snatched up a rolled parchment, its red wax seals dangling and broken. When he turned back to the hall, his face was darker than ever, the writ clenched in a tight, white-knuckled grip.
“There are many here, Sir Walter, who would say this” - he raised his hand, shaking the scroll – “has too much blood on it to be worth any peace. We of this glen have our own ways of handling trouble.
“Even so, you’ll no’ see a single MacDonald refuse the King’s challenge.” Slapping the scroll back onto the table, he dusted his hands, demonstrably. “No’ under the terms set before us.”
The kinsman standing closest to Catriona, a young lad built like a steer and with hair as flame-bright as her own, spat onto the floor rushes. “Threatening to banish us from the glen be no terms!”
“They are the King’s terms.” Sir Walter’s voice was impervious. “Be assured the Camerons and the Mackintoshes will receive the same warning.”
Catriona heard the terrible words through a buzzing in her ears. Her head was beginning to pound, but she wouldn’t show weakness by pressing her hands to her temples. She did flash a glance at her brother. Like every other MacDonald in the hall, he looked ready to whip out his sword and run the King’s man through.
If she weren’t a woman, she’d pull her own steel.
As it was, she suppressed a shudder and chose her words with care. “I missed the reading of your tidings, Sir Walter.” His name tasted like ash on her tongue. “Perhaps you will repeat them for me?
“And” – she tilted her chin – “his reasons for placing us under his vaunted regard?”
“With pleasure, my lady.” Sir Walter took her hand, lowering his head over her knuckles in an air kiss that jellied her knees in an icy, unpleasant way. “The King’s will is that a trial of combat – a fight to the death – should be held in the glen. King Robert proposes within a fortnight.”
He looked into her eyes. “Thirty champions from each of the three clans of the glen must face each other. They shall fight stripped of all but their plaids and armed with swords, dirks, axes. A bow with three arrows per man shall be allowed, and a shield. But no quarter may be given.
“Spectators will attend and specially dispatched royal guards will assure that no man leaves the field.” His gaze narrowed on her, his mien hardening. “At the trial’s end, the clan with the most champions standing will be the one who wins your glen.”
Catriona went hot and cold. “The Glen of Many Legends already is ours. Robert Bruce granted it to my great-great-grandfather in tribute to our support at Bannockburn. Our men should not have to spill blood for what they fought and won with such honor.”
“She speaks the truth, by God!” Alasdair banged his fist on a table. “Would your King see the good King Robert’s charter undone?”
“King Robert Stewart would see an end to the strife in his realm.” Sir Walter’s voice was clipped. “The unrest and lawlessness in these parts-”
“Lawlessness?” Alasdair’s face darkened. “What do you, a Lowlander, know of-”
“Do you deny the murders of three Mackintoshes this past summer?” Sir Walter examined his fingernails, flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Innocent men killed in cold blood not far from these very walls?”
“They were stealing our cattle!” The red-headed youth next to Catriona stepped forward. “They chose to stand and face us when we caught them. It was a fair fight, no’ murder.”
Sir Walter’s face remained cold. “Clan Mackintosh made a formal complaint to the court. Their chief informed us they were taking cattle to replace revenue tolls they lost because you menaced and threatened wayfarers trying to use the mountain pass above their stronghold.”
“Aye, and what if we did?” Catriona began to shake with fury. “Every time our drovers attempt to use that pass to drive our beasts to the cattle trysts, the Mackintoshes block the way, barring passage to us. Even” – she drew a hot breath – “when we offered them double their toll.”
“They cost us revenue!” The shout came from the back of the hall. A clansman riled by such absurdity. “They’ve been blocking that pass to us for years. We tired of it.”
“The Mackintoshes are troublemakers.” Catriona could scarce speak for anger. “Clan Cameron is worse.” A shiver ripped through her on the name, her heart pumping furiously as the insolent face of dread clan’s chief flashed across her mind. Worse than the devil, James Cameron ridiculed her every time their paths crossed. There were few men she reviled more. Though just now she’d almost prefer his bold gaze and taunts to Sir Walter’s superior stare.
Eyes narrowed, she fixed him with her own frostiest air. “Camerons cannot breathe without spewing insults.” She tossed back her hair, knew her face was coloring. “They are an ancient line of Satan-spawned-”
“Ahhh….” Sir Walter spread his hands. “With so many transgressors afoot, you surely see why the King’s intervention is necessary?”
“Necessary a pig’s eye!” someone yelled near the hearth fire.
Catriona agreed.
Though, with Sir Walter harping on the past summer’s squabble with the Mackintoshes, she could imagine that an overblown account of the incident may have reached the King’s royal ear.
“Are the Mackintoshes behind this?” She could believe it. The cloven-footed trumpet-blasters wasted no opportunity to shout their claim to the glen. “Did they send another complaint to court? Asking for the crown’s interference?”
Sir Walter’s mouth jerked, proving they had. “They did send a petition in recent days, yes.”
Catriona flushed. “I knew it!”
“They weren’t alone. Clan Cameron also sent an appeal, if you’d hear the whole of it.” Sir Walter’s tone was smooth. The glint in his eye showed that he enjoyed her distress. “Indeed” – he actually smiled – “it surprised us that we did not hear from your brother, considering.”
“Considering what?” Catriona’s belly clenched again.
Sir Walter’s smile vanished. “Perhaps you should ask your brother.”
Catriona turned to Alas
dair, but when he fisted his hands and his mouth flattened into a hard, tight line, her heart dropped.
Whatever it was that she didn’t yet know was grim.
“Lady Edina has passed.” Alasdair spoke at last. “She did not leave a testament. Nor, according to the abbess at St. Bride’s” – he drew a deep breath – “did she ever make her wishes known to anyone.”
Catriona swallowed. Guilt swept her.
She hadn’t thought of the old woman in years. She’d been little more than a babe in swaddling when Lady Edina went, by choice, into a Hebridean nunnery. At the time – or so clan elders claimed – she’d desired a life of serenity and solitude behind cloistered walls.
But Edina MacDonald was hereditary heiress to the Glen of Many Legends.
She was also twice-widowed. Her first husband – Catriona’s heart seized with the horror of it – had been a Cameron and her second, a Mackintosh.
And now Lady Edina was dead.
Catriona wheeled to face Sir Walter. “This is the true meaning of your visit. Now that Lady Edina is gone, and without a will, the King means to take our lands.”
Again, shouts and curses rose in the hall as MacDonalds everywhere agreed. Men stamped feet and pounded the trestles with their fists. The castle dogs joined in, their barks and howls, deafening.
Even Geordie, a half-lamed beast so ancient he rarely barked at all, lent his protest from his tattered plaid bed beside the hearth fire.
Sir Walter stood unmoved. “These lands are the King’s, by any right, as even you must know. Be glad he wishes only to bring you peace,” he said, his weasel-smooth voice somehow cutting through the din. “When he received petitions from both the Camerons and the Mackintoshes claiming their due as Lady Edina’s heirs, he knew strong measures would be needed to settle this glen. He wishes to see these hills held by the clan most worthy.”
Alasdair made a sound that could only be called a growl. His face turned purple.
Catriona’s ambers blazed against her neck, the stones’ pulsing heat warning her of danger. She took a deep breath, drawing herself up until the disturbing prickles receded and her necklace cooled.
“How did the Camerons and Mackintoshes know of Lady Edina’s death?” She looked at the Lowlander. “Why weren’t we informed as well?”
“You know better than me how swiftly – or erroneously – word travels in these parts.” Sir Walter shrugged. “Perhaps a missive meant for you went astray? Either way-”
“You mean to see good men slaughtered.” Catriona felt bile rise in her throat. “Men who-”
“Men who fight, yes, until only one remains standing.” Sir Walter set his hand on his sword again, his fingers curling around the hilt. “If they do not” – his voice chilled – “you must face the consequences. Banishment from this glen to parts even wilder. Resettlement, if you will, in places where the crown can make use of men with ready sword arms and women adept at breeding.”
The words spoken, he folded his arms. “The choice is yours.”
Across the hall, Geordie barked.
Out of the corner of her eye, Catriona thought she saw the dog struggling to rise. She wasn’t sure because the hall was spinning, going black and white before her eyes. Around her, her kinsmen shouted and cursed, the noise hurting her ears. Even more alarming, something whirled and burned inside her. It was a horrible, swelling heat that filled her chest until she couldn’t breathe.
Slowly, she felt down and along the folds of her skirts, seeking the lady dirk hidden there. But she caught herself in time, clasping her hands tightly before her just before her fingers closed on the blade.
Ramming a dagger into the King’s man would bring even more grief to her clan.
But she was tempted.
Fighting the urge, she looked from the Lowlander to Alasdair and back again. “I believe, Sir Walter, that my brother has given you our choice. MacDonalds won’t be driven from their land. These hills were our own before ever a Stewart called himself a king. If our men must take up arms to avoid the Stewart wrongfully banishing us from a glen we’ve held for centuries, so be it.”
A curt nod was Sir Walter’s reply.
Returning it, Catriona dipped another curtsy and then showed him her back. She needed all her dignity, but she kept her spine straight as she strode to one of the hall’s tall, arch-topped windows. Once there, she stared out at the sea loch, not surprised to see its smooth gray surface pitted with a light, drizzly rain. Dark clouds crouched low on the hills and thin tendrils of mist slid down the braes, sure portents that even more rain was coming.
The Glen of Many Legends was crying.
But she would not.
She wouldn’t break even if the Lowland King and his minions ripped the heart right out of her. Highlanders were the proudest, most stoic of men. And MacDonalds were the best of Highlanders.
So she stepped closer to the window, welcoming the cold, damp air on her cheeks. Countless MacDonald women before her had stood at this same window embrasure. In a fortnight’s passing, her brother and cousins would ensure that they would continue to do so in years to come. It was just unthinkable that they were being forced to do so with their lives.
Incomprehensible and – she knew deep inside – quite possibly more than she could bear.
When Geordie bumped her hand, leaning into her and whimpering, she knew she had to try. But even as she dug her fingers into the old dog’s shaggy coat, the sea loch and the hills blurred before her. She blinked hard, unable to bring her world back into focus. The stinging heat pricking her eyes only worsened, though she did keep her tears from falling.
On the day of the battle she’d do the same. She’d stand tall and look on with pride, doing her name honor.
Somehow she’d endure.
Whatever it cost her.
Nearly a fortnight later, James Cameron stood atop the battlements of Castle Haven and glared down at the worst folly to ever darken the Glen of Many Legends. Wherever he looked, Lowlanders bustled about the fine vale beneath the castle’s proud walls. A different sort than the lofty souls gorging themselves on good Cameron beef in his great hall, these scrambling intruders were workmen. Minions brought along to do the nobles’ bidding, their busy hands erected viewing platforms while their hurrying feet flattened the sweetest grass in the glen.
Already, they’d caused scars.
Deep pits had been gouged into the fertile earth. Ugly, black gashes surely meant to hold cook fires. Or – James’ throat filled with bile – the bodies of the slain.
On the hills, naked swaths showed where tall Scots pines had been carelessly felled to provide wood. Jagged bits of the living, weeping trees littered the ground.
“Christ God!” James blew out a hot breath, the destruction searing him with an anger so heated he wondered his fury didn’t blister the air.
He went taut, his every muscle stiff with rage.
Beside him, his cousin, Colin, wrapped his hands around his sword belt. “They haven’t wasted a breath of time,” he vowed, eyeing the stout barricades already marking the battling ground where so many men would die.
A circular enclosure better suited to contain cattle than proud and fearless men.
James narrowed his gaze on the pen, unable to think of it as aught else. “Only witless peacocks wouldn’t know that such barricading isn’t necessary.”
Colin flashed a look at him, one brow raised in scorn. “Perhaps they do not know that Highland men never run from a fight?”
“They shall learn our measure soon enough.” James rolled his shoulders, keen to fight now. “Though” – he threw a glance at the men working on the nearest viewing platform – “I might be tempted to flee their hammering!”
Half serious, he resisted the urge to clamp his hands to his ears. But he couldn’t keep an outraged snarl from rumbling in his throat. The din was infernal. Any moment his head would burst from the noise. Each echoing bang was an ungodly smear on the quiet of the glen, most especially here, in th
is most beauteous stretch of the Glen of Many Legends.
Equally damning, the MacDonald wench once again stood at the edge of the chaos. On seeing her, he felt an even hotter flare of irritation. He stepped closer to the walling, hoping he erred. Unfortunately, he hadn’t. She was truly there, hands on her hips and looking haughty as she glared at the Lowland workmen.
Joining him at the wall, Colin gave a low whistle. “She’s Catriona MacDonald, the chief’s sister. Word is she’s the wildest of that heathenish lot.”
“I know who she is.” James glared at his cousin, not liking the speculative gleam in his eye. “And she is wild - so prickly some say she sleeps in a bed of nettles.”
Colin laughed. “She’s bonnie all the same.”
“So is the deep blue sea until you sink in its depths and drown.” James scowled at the lass.
Pure trouble, she’d clearly come to show her wrath. As she’d done every day since the Lowlanders began setting up their gaudy tents and seating. If Colin hadn’t noticed her before now, he had. He always noticed her, rot his soul. And just now, she was especially hard to miss with the sun picking out the bright copper strands in her hair and her back so straight she might have swallowed a steel rod. And if he didn’t want to lose his temper in front of workmen who – he knew - were only following orders, he would’ve marched down to the field days ago and chased her away.
He’d done so once, running her off Cameron land years ago, when he’d been too young and hot-headed to know better than thrusting his hand into a wasp nest.
She’d stung him badly that day. And the memory still haunted him. At times, sneaking into his dreams and twisting his recollections so that, instead of sprinting away from him, she’d be on her back beneath him, opening her arms in welcome, tempting him to fall upon her and indulge in the basest, most lascivious sins.
Furious that she stirred him even now, he tore his gaze from her and frowned at the long rows of colorful awnings, the triumphal pennons snapping in the wind. The festive display shot seething anger through his veins. Truth be told, if one of the King’s worthies appeared on the battlements, he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself.
Once Upon a Highland Christmas (Highland Warriors Book 3) Page 14