Highland Legend

by Kathryn Le Veque

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2021 by Kathryn Le Veque

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Allan Davey

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Sacramentum

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Three

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Cum Gratiarum Actione (with thanks)

  With thanks to the very first romance reader I ever knew—my grandmother, Hester. Though she has long since left us, I can still see her, sitting in her living room with a dog-eared Harlequin or Dorothy Garlock novel in her hands. She sure loved those books. Little did she know what she would inspire in her eldest granddaughter.

  Thank you, Gramma, for giving me a glimpse of what joy a romance novel can give. I’ll imagine you with a dog-eared Kathryn Le Veque novel in your hands from now on…

  It is the Year of Our Lord 1453, and Sir Clegg de Lave, a battle-scarred English knight, begins his search for a life that will bring him glory and riches…

  After years as a mercenary in France, Spain, and the Holy Roman Empire, Clegg returns to Scotland to establish the most powerful and profitable gambling guild the world had ever seen, modeled on the gladiatorial schools of ancient Rome.

  The Ludus Caledonia quickly becomes the center of battles for entertainment, but also for opportunity—if a warrior wins, a lord may offer him a lucrative military position.

  The lure of money and position makes men from all walks of life into fighters and some into winners, and only a rare few find something beyond the love of a fight.

  The love of a good woman.

  This rare few who will know their happily ever after.

  This is the world of the Ludus Caledonia…and business is booming.

  The Sacramentum

  I faithfully swear to do all that is commanded of me,

  All that is required of me,

  And all that is asked of me.

  May I live both to fight and to protect my brethren.

  May God smile upon me and grant me courage

  So that I may not fail myself nor those around me.

  Thus it is spoken, thus it shall be done.

  —Fionnadh Fuil (Blood Oath) of the Ludus Caledonia

  Part One

  VADE AD VICTOR SPOLIA

  (TO THE VICTOR GO THE SPOILS)

  Chapter One

  Edinburgh, Scotland—The Ludus Caledonia

  The Month of August

  Year of Our Lord 1488

  He could see his opponent across the arena floor, through a haze of dust that seemed to conceal just how badly injured his opponent was.

  But no amount of dust could dampen his bloodlust.

  It was time to go in for the kill.

  His heart always started pumping in a moment like this. It had been a long, drawn-out fight with a hairy brute from Saxony known as der Bär, or the Bear. He’d been brought to the Ludus Caledonia, the premier fight guild of Scotland, by an arrogant Saxon lord who was positive he could make a wagonful of money on the fights.

  His warrior against a tertiarius—the Cal’s top warrior.

  Magnus Stewart was that warrior. Known as the Eagle, he watched the Bear pace on the other side of the arena known as the Fields of Mars. He could hear the roar of the crowd, men who also had bloodlust now that they knew the Bear was wounded. A wounded bear could be a dangerous thing, but Magnus was confident he could deliver a blow that would end this match.

  Truth be told, he was becoming weary.

  But not weary enough.

  He was going to skin that bear.

  The field marshals had checked upon the condition of the Bear to ensure he could continue and were satisfied that the man could withstand more pounding. On the opposite side of the arena, Magnus was pacing, anxious to move, anxious to win yet one more fight in a long line of fights that had seen him emerge the victor.

  And to the victor went the spoils.

  He was ready.

  The field marshals signaled for the bout to continue. It was a surprisingly warm August afternoon. As the last vestiges of golden rays beat upon Magnus’s bronzed skin, he approached his injured opponent. He began to circle the man, preparing to deliver what was his signature move.

  A kick to the side of the head.

  One blow to the Bear’s already damaged skull and the man would be no more.

  The Bear, however, wasn’t stupid. He tracked Magnus as the man skirted him, walking circles around him, then reversing course in an attempt to disorient him. Magnus had the ability to block out the world around him when focused on a target, one of the gifts that made him such a great warrior. He was a true hunter. Even now, all he could see in this vast arena full of people was the man in front of him.

  It was time to end this.

  The Bear roared and the crowd roared along with him. Magnus used that moment to make his charge, knowing that the Bear would hear the roar of the crowd and more than likely be distracted by it. He rushed the man as fast as he could run, and that was very fast, indeed. His feet were light, his muscular legs pumping, and as he got within about ten feet of the Bear, he suddenly went airborne.

  The Bear, who ha
d been expecting a head-on charge, was unprepared when Magnus used the man’s own chest as leverage against a vicious kick to the skull.

  The Bear fell like a stone.

  The crowd in the arena went mad. They cheered their champion as Magnus threw up his arms, signifying his victory. Money began to rain down into the arena as people threw coins to signify their appreciation. Since this happened frequently, Magnus had two servants he trusted who would run out onto the field and collect the money that had been thrown at him. They would collect every last coin for him and he would give them a cut.

  Tonight’s haul would be a big one.

  The crowd screamed and cheered for him for at least five minutes, which only fed his indomitable pride. His record for the longest cheering was twelve minutes, but tonight he didn’t feel like soaking up their adoration for too long. He had already had three bouts today, ending with the Bear, so he was ready for some good food, some good wine, and hopefully some good companionship.

  He knew that particular kind of companionship, the female kind, was already clamoring for him at the gates that led from the public area into the staging area because that was where the wealthy matrons gathered.

  He expected a long line and much bidding tonight.

  Waving to the crowd one last time, he made his way to the exit of the arena floor, where other fight-guild warriors were applauding him. He did not acknowledge them because, frankly, they were not of his class. The only ones he really respected were men he considered his equal, and those were few. But he could see those men standing just inside the staging area, and they were not cheering.

  They were laughing at him.

  Lor Careston, a doctores, or trainer, was the first one Magnus made eye contact with. Big, blond, and a brilliant tactical fighter, Lor simply stood there and shook his head.

  “Do ye ever do anything different?” he asked drolly. “Is it always yer finishing move tae kick a man where he thinks?”

  “Of course it is,” Magnus said, untying the leather gloves on his hands. “By the time I kick him there, he is thinking about kicking me, so I must deliver the death blow.”

  Lor was a quiet one for the most part, but he loved to poke holes in Magnus’s pride. It was in good-natured fun, however. Magnus knew he had Lor’s admiration and friendship. The man standing next to Lor was another matter because at one time, Magnus and the man were both colleagues and opponents.

  Magnus made eye contact with Bane Morgan. Muscular, handsome Bane used to be competition for the ladies’ attention until he married last year. Women still looked at him and cheered for him, but there was no woman for Bane except his wife, which made Magnus appreciate him all the more.

  Less competition for women’s attention.

  “And what does the great Highland Defender have tae say about my bout?” Magnus demanded. “Did ye not see how perfect it was?”

  Bane, whose fight-guild nickname was the Highland Defender, knew the man was looking to have his ego stroked.

  He would not oblige.

  “It was decent,” he said.

  Magnus was insulted. “Better than anything ye’ve fought in yer life,” he said. “’Tis understandable for ye tae be envious of me. ’Tis all right, lad. Someday, ye may fight as well as I do.”

  Bane started laughing, looking to Lor and rolling his eyes. Bane and Magnus had been on many tandem teams because, surprisingly, they worked well together and they were undefeated before Bane retired to become a doctores. Still, Magnus liked to poke at Bane, as brothers would roast each other.

  And it was most definitely a brotherhood.

  The last of the trio of men was another doctores who had Magnus’s respect, although he’d rather die than admit it. Galan de Lara and Magnus had suffered their share of bouts with each other, and Magnus had the edge on victories. Unlike Lor and Bane, Galan was English. That meant he was the butt of insults, more than most, and he greatly frustrated Magnus from time to time.

  Even so, their bond was strong.

  “And ye, Sassenach,” he said to Galan. “Tell me how great I am. I would hear yer praise.”

  Galan sighed heavily. Like Lor and Bane, he found great annoyance with Magnus, but the man was pure greatness. They all knew it. Magnus knew it. It was a game between them after nearly every bout, with Magnus demanding recognition and the doctores refusing to give it to him.

  But tonight was different.

  They had a little surprise for him.

  “You were magnificent,” Galan said. “In fact, you were so magnificent that Lor and Bane and I have chosen the most beautiful woman in the arena for you tonight.”

  Magnus looked at them in surprise. “Is this true?” he asked. “Where is she?”

  Galan pointed into the holding area, where a three-story structure comprised the north wall of the area. The bottom levels were for the competitors, while the very top level, complete with a large stone balcony, was the private viewing apartment of the owner of the Ludus Caledonia, Clegg de Lave.

  Clegg, however, was away from the Ludus Caledonia this night. He and one of his senior doctores, Luther Eddleston, were off visiting other fight guilds. That left his private rooms empty, but not for long.

  That’s where the doctores had the surprise waiting.

  “There,” Galan said. “In Clegg’s apartment. Take the private stairs so the women waiting at the gates overlooking the holding area do not see you.”

  Magnus’s emerald gaze looked up at the third floor of the building, envisioning the beauty who would surely be waiting for him. A seductive smile crossed his lips, but he refused to heed their advice about taking the private stairs.

  He paraded across the holding-area floor for all to see.

  Women were screaming at him from above, since the holding area was down below, sunk into the same hillside that the arena had been carved out of. Magnus looked up at the throng, blowing kisses, flexing his biceps, and he had women fainting at the sight.

  Behind him, Lor and Bane and Galan followed, watching the spectacle with the greatest amusement. Magnus was great; he knew he was great. He wanted to make sure everyone else knew that he was great, so the man never did anything subtly or secretively.

  It was part of his charm.

  And then came the garments.

  It was usual every time Magnus pranced around after a bout. Women started throwing pieces of clothing over the iron fence that separated them from the holding area. Scarves would come raining down in a flutter of perfumed material. They almost always smelled heavily of perfume.

  Next came the hose—fine silk hose would hit the floor of the holding area with a thud because women had stuffed coins into them. Magnus pointed to some of the warriors standing around to pick up the hose, snapping at them when they wanted to keep the money. He would snatch the hose and the money away from them.

  Holding his booty of coin-filled hose, Magnus looked up at the women lining the fence to see that half were screaming and half were crying. That was usual. He paused, blowing more kisses up to the crowd, and one young woman was so overcome that she vomited. Chunks of the stuff fell through the fence and landed near Magnus, who eyed it with some disgust and decided to end his cavalcade of worship. If the crowd was beginning to spew in excitement, it was time for him to exit.

  Until the next time.

  He decided to take the private stairs after all.

  Leaving his friends down in the holding area, Magnus took the steps two at a time. He was sweaty and dirty from his bouts in the arena, but he knew that Clegg’s private apartment had a bathing area. The viewing rooms had floor-to-ceiling doors that opened to a private balcony, the same balcony that the stairs led up to. As he hit the balcony, he was quite curious to see the woman his friends had chosen.

  Beautiful, they’d said.

  He might even permit her to bathe him.

  When
he reached the top of the steps, the door into the private rooms was open. He stepped in, his dirty sandals slapping against the tile floor that Clegg had brought all the way from Rome. In fact, everything at the Ludus Caledonia reflected the Romans and their architecture, all the way down to the beautiful robes that Clegg wore, like a great patriarch.

  Even the chamber itself reflected that love of ancient Rome—beautiful columns, tile, glass. It was lovely. There were tapestries on the walls, silks on the cushioned couches, and great bowls of incense that burned all day and all night. Magnus expected that the woman would be waiting for him, but he didn’t see anyone as he entered. He was halfway into the chamber when he saw movement on one of the couches.

  “Ye must be Magnus.”

  Magnus froze. The voice was low and raspy, not at all sweet and delicate-sounding, and he turned his head to see a pile of silk moving on one of the couches. A delicate, age-worn hand came up, removing the veil from a head that was covered in soft, white hair.

  The woman revealed herself fully. She wasn’t simply old; she was ancient. He could see that she’d been lovely in her day, but that had been long ago. She wasn’t exactly the raging young beauty that his friends had lauded.

  And they’d known it all along.

  Magnus knew in an instant that he’d been fooled.

  “So ye’re tae be my companion this evening?” he asked evenly. “Ye must have paid a high price.”

  The woman nodded as she sat up. She was well dressed, in velvet and perfume, and he could smell the sweet scent where he stood. There was something graceful about her, in fact, in the way she moved. In her time, she must have been most alluring.

  But it didn’t change the fact that she was old enough to be his grandmother.

  “I did,” she said. “I paid the ianista handsomely. I can see it was worth every penny.”

  Had Magnus not been so shocked at his rather ancient company, the situation would have been laughable. His gaze drifted over the woman, her fine clothing and surprisingly shapely figure for her age. But her statement made him realize that not only were his friends in on the joke, but so was the manager of the Ludus Caledonia, Axel von Rossau.