Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Only when they made the turn north did he dare to look behind him, only to be met by an incoming tide of men on horseback tearing after him. Jamison was fairly certain he could outrun them because he had enough of a lead, but that didn’t stop the creeping anxiety. He wasn’t so much worried for himself as he was for Robert, who was grunting and bleeding all over the horse. He had no idea just how bad his brother was really hurt but he couldn’t stop to analyze it. He had to make it home. Then, if his brother wasn’t too badly injured, he planned to beat the man within an inch of his life for doing something so stupid. Not with Eva; he didn’t even care about that. But for charging Connell when there had been no need. That had been the stupid part. He’d been forced to kill the man when it hadn’t been necessary.

  Strangely enough, George Munro the Elder seemed to think that both of his sons were rather stupid when they told him why a hundred MacKenzie warriors were at their gate, trying to tear the place down. They soon came to discover that it wasn’t Robert they wanted.

  It was Jamison.

  *

  The next day

  “I have tae send ye away. I have nae choice.”

  Jamison was sitting at the great, worn table in his father’s feasting hall. It was a big room, with a massive table down the center of the room that had seen many a year and many a man eating at it. Scuffed, with pockmarks in it where dirks had been slammed into the wood, the table was part of the family and had a tendency to bring about fond memories of days gone by when there had been love and laughter and humor.

  But not today. Today, the table was part of the judge and jury over Jamison as he sat next to the wounded Robert, listening to their father’s decision on how to best handle the MacKenzie anger. Neither man liked what they were hearing, most especially Jamison.

  “But why?” he demanded. “Why would ye send me away when ye need me the most? With the MacKenzie intending tae wage war, why would ye send yer best warrior away?”

  George looked at his second-born son, a lad he was more proud of than any of the others. That was because Jamison was different than the others – in skill, in character, in everything. George, his eldest, was weak, Robert was a fool, and Hector, the youngest, was still learning. He would be a good warrior when he grew older, but he was far too young. He idolized Jamison. George the father idolized him, too, which made this decision that much more heart wrenching.

  “They want tae wage war because ye killed Connell,” George pointed out. “If ye go, their anger will cool, but as long as ye remain, they have something here within Foulis tae fight fer. Dunna ye see? Ye’ve got tae leave, Jamie, at least until their sense of vengeance is forgotten.”

  Jamison’s red eyebrows lifted. “Until it’s forgotten?” he repeated. Then, he shook his head in exasperation. “That could take years, Da. I must go away for years?”

  George was a level-headed man and he nodded his head to his son’s question. “I would rather have ye alive and away from here than dead and buried in the churchyard,” he said sincerely. “That is what this will come tae, Jamie. They want yer head and I willna let them have it. If ye stay, ye bring war upon us and ye’ll get us all killed.”

  Jamison was having a difficult time believing that his presence would instigate an all-out war with the MacKenzies, but on the other hand, Connell had been the clan’s heir apparent. He was to become chief upon the death of his father. Frustrated at the turn the situation had taken, Jamison stood up from the table, meandering towards the enormous hearth that was spitting smoke and sparks into the room. The dogs around the fire had been hit more than once with flying embers, forcing them to move out of the firing range. Jamison shoved a big mutt aside as he went to stand by his father.

  “Mayhap I should talk tae them,” he said quietly. “Men respect my word, Da. Let me apologize for what happened and explain the circumstances. Mayhap they will listen. None of them much liked Connell as it ’twas. A few of them may even thank me for what happened.”

  George simply shook his head. “They’d kill ye before ye could get a word out of yer mouth,” he said, holding up a hand to prevent further argument. “’Tis a matter of pride with them now – ye killed the next chief and whether or not they liked the man isna the issue. Me mind is set, lad. Tonight, ye ride to Alness and from there, take one of me boats south tae Edinburgh. From there, ye’ll go south, tae the very south of England. Ye’ll go back tae de Lohr.”

  Lioncross Abbey Castle. That was where Jamison had fostered, where he’d learned his skills, from the best trainers of knights in all of England. In fact, he’d spent several years there before his master, a de Lohr brother, took him to France where they’d faced battle together for a few more years. After they’d returned home, it was the earl himself, Chris de Lohr, who had knighted him and presented him with his golden spurs.

  In that respect, Lioncross Abbey was more home to him than his own, but he still didn’t want to leave Foulis Castle. It had taken him many years to return here, to come home where his family was. He had been a wanderer, learning something other than the Highland ways as his father had wished it. But now that he was returned, he didn’t want to leave. Squaring his broad shoulders, he took a stand against his stubborn father.

  “So ye send me away tae make it look as if I fled like a coward?” he asked. “Then every man will say that I ran rather than face the MacKenzie. That is not how I wish tae be remembered. Nay, Da. I willna go.”

  “Ye will.”

  A soft, female voice came from the darkened entry of the hall and they turned to see Ainsley Munro make her way into the room. Mother of the four Munro lads, Ainsley had the same red hair that her sons, Jamison and Hector, also bore. She had been a beauty in her day but as of late, her health hadn’t been good and her face had developed care-worn lines. She shuffled when she walked, wrapped in heavy woolen garments, but her eyes, pale blue, were focused on her big, burly son. There was nothing weak or fragile in that gaze as she bore down on him.

  “Ye’ll go now,” she told Jamison. “I dunna intend tae bury all of me sons and me own husband because of ye. Yer pride isna worth their lives, Jamison. MacKenzie is demandin’ satisfaction and if ye’re not here, they canna have it. I’ll not let ye cost us peace, lad. Ye’re goin’ tae de Lohr as yer father tells ye and if ye argue wid me, I’ll take a stick tae ye.”

  Jamison knew he was sunk. He could often get the upper hand with his father but never with his mother. She was a woman of an iron all wrapped up in soft skin and delicate health, and she was not to be trifled with. Once her mind was set, there was no changing it. The more he looked at her, the more he realized the situation had already been decided.

  He had to go.

  Sighing heavily, Jamison turned away from his mother and his father but not before catching sight of Robert sitting at the table. When their eyes met, Robert lowered his gaze, ashamed at what he had caused.

  “Ye’d better look away from me,” Jamison growled at him. “Do ye see what yer lust has cost? It has cost me, Robbie, not ye. Yer lack of control and idiocy will cost me life in more ways than one. Now I go back tae England all because ye had tae taste a woman. Ye’re a fool and I’m ashamed tae call ye me brother.”

  Robert was looking at his hands. The stab wounds in his torso would heal but he wasn’t sure his relationship with Jamison ever would after this. He may have ruined everything between them and he felt just as bad as he possibly could about all of it.

  “I am sorry, Jamie,” he said quietly. “There’s nothin’ more I can say except I’m sorry. I never meant that ye should take the brunt o’ the situation. Ye know that.”

  Jamison was struggling to control his rage. “Do I?” he demanded. “What did ye think would happen when ye dragged me tae the MacKenzie home so I could watch out for Connell and his men while ye seduced the man’s sister? By Christ’s Bleeding Soles, I shoulda let them have ye!”

  “Enough,” Ainsley said quietly as she sat, heavily, at the table. It was cold and damp this day,
which made her bones hurt. “Robbie is leavin’, too.”

  Both Jamison and Robert looked at their mother in surprise. “Where am I goin’?” Robert asked anxiously.

  Ainsley didn’t look at him. Her attention was drawn to her husband, who cleared his throat softly. “Robbie is goin’ tae Castle Questing in Northumberland,” George said. “Me mother was a Scott and the Scotts are tied tae Castle Questing. He’ll be safe there until the MacKenzie blood hunger has blown over. Connell’s younger brother, Padraig, is now his father’s heir and Padraig is a far more reasonable man. Mayhap, ye’ll both be able tae come home by the summer.”

  Jamison wasn’t so sure. By now, he was flustered and frustrated and disappointed. He utterly disagreed with his parents’ decision and he was obvious about it. “The memories of the MacKenzies are not so short, Da,” he said, doom in his voice. “If I leave now, it will take years tae mend what has been damaged. But if I face them as a man would, then they will know the truth of what has happened. I did nothing wrong.”

  George wasn’t going to argue with him about what he felt was best. He’d already stated his case but Jamison wasn’t so apt to run; that was the problem with him. He was brave beyond measure and believed that every situation was negotiable. He had a gift for talk that had given him that confidence. But George shook his head.

  “Not this time, Jamie,” he muttered. “Ye will leave. I’ll send ye word when it ’tis safe tae return.”

  There was nothing more that Jamison or Robert could say on the matter. It was clear that their parents had decided everything and now it was simply a matter of the execution of the plans – Jamison to the boat that would take him down the coast and away from the rabid MacKenzies and Robert to be spirited away under darkness, taken far south to the borders and the mighty stronghold of Castle Questing. The Lords of de Wolfe held the castle and no Scot would dare move against it. Jamison knew, deep down, that his father was just trying to keep them safe and alive. But he still saw it as fleeing like a coward.

  “Very well,” Jamison finally muttered. “I’ll be back in the summer. I’ve spent too many years away from home tae want tae stay away any longer.”

  Ainsley lifted her head, her eyes fixed on her Jamison. He was her shining star, her proudest achievement. She wanted him alive and she didn’t care if the means to the end appeared cowardly. All she cared about was the fact that he survived the MacKenzie rage.

  “Go, now,” she said. “Pack what ye must and go. The boat is a-waitin’ for ye even now. Get tae it before the MacKenzies are wise tae what we are doin’.”

  Jamison knew that. He knew they were watching Foulis so to escape would be tricky, but it could be done. With nothing more to say, he simply went to his mother, kissed her on the forehead, and quit the great hall, heading up the wooden stairs that were more like a ladder than actual stairs to his section of the open second floor where he slept. Only the exterior of Foulis was stone; the interior was completely wooden, making it susceptible to fire. They’d had a few of them in his lifetime.

  As he walked, he dragged his hand along the stone wall, thinking how much he was going to miss the place. But he’d done without it for almost twenty years. He supposed a few more months weren’t going to break him.

  It was with great sadness that Jamison departed at twilight, when a great bank of fog was rolling in from the North Sea, using it to his advantage as he made his way on foot to the town to the north of them, Alness, where one of his father’s cogs await. His father often did business with clans across the Firth of Moray, transporting sheep, among other goods, so the man had a fleet of small cogs that he used. It was one of these very simple boats with a single sail that made way as darkness fell, sailing along the coast until the fog lifted and the captain was better able to plot a course.

  As dawn began to glow on the horizon, Jamison felt it was a little like a new day was dawning for him as well. He was going back to England, and back to Lioncross Abbey, back into the hell of English politics that he was so familiar with.

  A new day was dawning, indeed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  *

  Lions of the Highlands

  *

  October

  They had been waiting for him.

  George Munro the Younger, having studied Religion and Latin and Literature in France at Notre Dame and Sainte-Chapelle, among others, made a weekly pilgrimage to Fortrose Cathedral, one of the oldest churches in all of Scotland. Even though George was slated to be the next chief of Clan Munro, he very much wanted to be a priest, much to his father’s displeasure. But the truth was that he was very pious and wished to serve God.

  George had tried to learn the ways of the clans, of battles and politics and fighting, but he simply wasn’t very good at it. He didn’t even say anything when his father betrothed him to a local heiress, the daughter of an ally. But the truth was that he didn’t much care about any of it. He didn’t want to marry and he didn’t want to assume the mantle of his clan. His younger brother, Jamison, would make the perfect clan chief, although Jamison had never expressed any interest in such a thing. George was to be the next chief and Jamison had been very supportive and respectful of that role in life.

  George missed Jamison a great deal these days but knew why he’d been forced to go south. With Robert also gone, it was just George and Hector at home dealing with the fallout of Connell’s death at the hands of Jamison. George the Elder had tried to placate the MacKenzie, even apologizing for the “mishap” and offering one hundred of his prized cattle to compensate the man. But that wasn’t enough for the MacKenzie.

  They were out for blood.

  George the Elder knew this. So did young Hector, who was much as Jamison had been at that age – cocky, brash, arrogant, and brilliant. Even Ainsley Munro knew it wasn’t safe outside of the walls of Foulis Castle these days but the only person who ignored that danger was George the Younger. He knew that the MacKenzie was a threat, in theory, but it wasn’t going to stand in the way of him making his weekly pilgrimage to Fortrose. Surely, they wouldn’t target a man with no weapons and no interest in war.

  Therefore, before dawn on a cold, foggy Friday morning nearly three months after Jamison and Robert had fled Munro lands, George slipped from Foulis Castle on his own and without an escort, and began his twenty-mile trek to Fortrose.

  And that’s when the MacKenzies had been waiting.

  They knew of the heir’s weekly pilgrimage; he never varied. On that icy morning, George the Younger never even made it out of his family’s territory. The MacKenzies ambushed him when he was just out of sight of the castle, knocking him from his horse and then proceeding to run their horses all over him, killing the man by crushing him. It had been a terrible and painful way to die. When they were sure George was dead, they tied a rope around his feet and dragged him all the way back to Foulis, dumping his battered body within sight of the gate. Because of the fog, the Munro sentries never even saw the body until well into morning when the fog lifted.

  Hector was the first one to see his brother’s battered corpse. Sickened, he had vomited several times before going to summon his father, who gazed down at his heir without much surprise in his expression. Somehow, he knew it would come to this. He knew the MacKenzies would seek an eye for an eye in the death of Connell but he was still devastated to realize that fear had come to fruition. Shrugging off all offers of help, George the Elder had picked up the crushed, bloodied body of his son and carried the man, all by himself, back into the fold of Foulis Castle.

  He wept the entire way.

  The days after that were filled with sorrow. George Munro the Younger, also known as Lord Bayne because it was the title held by all firstborn males of the clan chief, was laid to rest in his beloved Fortrose Cathedral in the churchyard where generations of his ancestors were also buried. It was a small mass given the circumstances of George’s death, so only the family and close allies were in attendance along with about two hundred armed Munro men in case
the MacKenzies tried to attack a gathering of Munros. George the Elder and his wife were well protected by Hector and a huge armed contingent, but they weren’t the only men who were armed. The allies had come armed as well.

  In this case, there were three particular young men George the Elder had summoned the night of his son’s murder. They had brought men and weapons of their own. These three were close friends of Jamison’s. They had all fostered together at Lioncross Abbey Castle at the request of Henry III.

  These three young men were all soon to be the chief of their own clans upon the death of their fathers but, for now, they were heavily involved in Scotland’s politics and in the welfare of their people. When George had sent them all individual missives, informing them of what had happened and asking for them to attend the burial, they had come without question.

  Even though the burial of George the Younger had been attended by just a few at the graveside, the clans spread out for mass outside of the churchyard. They gathered in groups under gray skies and cold sea winds as the Munro heir was laid to rest. When the mass was finally over and Ainsley was left weeping over the death of her eldest child, George the Elder approached the three wool-clad young warriors standing off together inside the wall of the churchyard, respectfully observing the burial from a distance.

  As George approached, he drank in the sight of Jamison’s friends, perhaps the most powerful young men in the north of Scotland and certainly some of the most noble and trusted. They were men determined to make Scotland a better place because in this goal, they understood what some Scots didn’t – that if one wanted to live in peace, then one had to learn to work with the English. They weren’t going to go away and so long as the Scots continued to resist, there would be continued heartbreak and death.