But that thought had very much to do with English conditioning. That very factor had been the brilliance of King Henry in brokering the transfer of the Highlander sons far to the south so they would learn from the English – and what the lads were taught was a broader view of the world. It taught them that to live in peace, one must understand one’s enemy and understand when compromise was called for as opposed to drawing a sword. Those young men, Jamison included, understood that message better than most and petty fights like the one between the MacKenzies and the Munros were foolish and a waste of time in their view. Instead of the clans squabbling, they needed to unite. George the Younger’s death had been an utter waste of a life and quite unnecessary in their view.
That was why the sons of the chiefs, known as the Lions of the Highlands, had come to the Fortrose churchyard at George’s summoning – to help make tomorrow better for all of them.
George needed their help.
Beaux MacKay was the first man George made eye contact with as he approached the group. A big, burly young man with crown of curly blonde hair, Beaux was a handsome man with a gentle manner about him that belied the deadliness of his sword. He had a dirk he always wore, given to him by his grandfather, and the hilt of it was carved into the head of a dragon. The White Dragon was the moniker Beaux had earned because of it. Fair-skinned, gentle-mannered but deadly, the name suited him.
Standing next to Beaux was a tall, sinewy young man with a crown of graying dark hair and a silver beard. His hair had turned color early in his life and the young man was often referred to as The Gray Fox, not simply for his hair color, but also because he was cunning, silent, and swift in battle. Kendrick Sutherland was the only son of his father, chief of Clan Sutherland, and a great ally of the Munros.
Rounding out the three proud warriors was the heir to Clan Ross, Caspian Ross. A fearsome warrior who traveled with a nasty collection of dirks strapped to his body, Caspian was a man to be both feared and respected. He was bulky and muscular, and as strong as an ox. He tended to use his dirks with little provocation. Talons, men called them, and coupled with his black hair and dark eyes, Caspian was known to friend and foe alike as The Black Falcon. And this falcon’s talons were quite deadly.
Three powerful young warriors soon to head three of the largest clans in the Highlands. Jamison was part of this group even though he hadn’t been heir to the Munro until a few days ago. Still, Jamison transcended that position in life; he was The Red Lion, the man they considered their leader. He was a great warrior without the trappings of titles because something in Jamison went beyond titles and lands and birthrights. Something in his soul made him a natural leader and men naturally flocked to him.
George knew all this, which is why he had summoned them. They loved Jamison and Jamison would need their help, now more than ever. He was now the Munro heir and with the MacKenzie still out to make trouble for him, George didn’t want to take any chances.
“Beaux,” George said, relief in his voice as he greeted the young man. Reaching out a hand, he grasped Beaux’s hand tightly. “Praise God ye have come. Praise God ye have all come.”
George moved to Kendrick and Caspian in turn, shaking their hands and finally hugging Caspian, who was gruff with his affections and squeezed George so hard that the man grunted. Rubbing his ribs, George grinned weakly at the group.
“It has been a very long time since we last met, lads,” he said. Then, his smile faded. “I have buried me eldest today. Ye have shared that sorrow wit’ me.”
Beaux spoke, his voice soft but firm. There was a deadly edge to the quiet tone. “The MacKenzies did this to ye,” he said. “But why? Yer missive said nothing about their motives. Why would they do such a thing?”
George sighed heavily. “It started wit’ a foolish thing Robbie did,” he muttered, both ashamed and sickened by it. “He went tae MacKenzie lands tae seduce Eva MacKenzie and Jamie went with him tae keep him out of trouble, tae keep watch for Connell MacKenzie. Ye know how the brothers protect that girl.”
The three young warriors snorted. “Eva MacKenzie,” Kendrick grumbled. “The woman has the morals of a bitch in heat. She moans and any man in earshot comes running. So she lured Robbie this time, did she?”
George shrugged. “He was willin’,” he admitted. “Connell caught them together and when he stabbed Robbie, Jamison killed him. I sent Jamison south tae Lioncross Abbey and Robbie off tae Northumberland tae get the away from the MacKenzies’ anger. But the MacKenzies killed Georgie, instead.”
Beaux grunted, hanging his head in disbelief now that the entire story was coming evident, as Kendrick and Caspian looked at each other, knowingly. George the Younger’s death wasn’t a simple killing. It was clear that it was much more than that. This situation was as bad as they could have imagined.
It was a blood feud.
“’Tis a message tae Jamie,” Caspian said quietly. “He took Connell and the MacKenzie took Georgie.”
“But they want Jamie,” Kendrick put in, eyeing both Beaux and Caspian. “Georgie’s death is tae lure Jamie home. Ye know that, don’t ye?”
George nodded. “I do,” he said. “’Tis why I called ye here. Ye must go to Jamie and tell him what has happened. Georgie is dead and now he is me heir. I sent him away tae get him clear of the MacKenzies’ rage but it was the wrong thing tae do. He begged me not tae send him away but I thought it was for the best. He thought they would think him a coward, that the Munros are weak. They knew that killin’ Georgie would bring him home because I’d have no choice but tae tell him. Now… now they will trap him as they did Georgie.”
Beaux shook his head. “They havena sent a trap for him yet,” he said firmly. “As long as there be breath in me body, they willna have him. But I agree that he needs tae know what has happened. What about Robbie?”
George shook his head. “As long as he remains in Northumberland, he is safe,” he said. “’Tis Jamie the MacKenzie is after, not Robbie.”
A soft wailing could suddenly be heard, drifting upon the moist sea breeze, and the four of them looked over to see Ainsley at her son’s graveside, now being helped to her feet by a few women. As George watched his wife’s grief, his face seemed to age ten years. The lines were deeper, more careworn, becoming the marks of a man who had outlived a child. His heart was heavy with anguish.
“I can weather the loss of Georgie but, God forgive me, I willna weather the loss of Jamie,” he hissed as he turned back to the young men around him. “I know he will want tae return home after this and it is me biggest fear – the MacKenzies will be waiting for him and he’ll want tae face them. He will feel responsible for Georgie’s death and he’ll demand vengeance.”
Beaux, Kendrick, and Caspian watched George struggle with his grief, not only for one son but really for two. It was a complex situation made more complex by the fact that Jamison would do exactly as his father said he would – he would avenge his brother’s death, which meant this feud, this war with the MacKenzies, would become something massive and unmanageable. There were more far-reaching implications than simply a man killing another man because now that incident had resulted in another death. More would come if it wasn’t stopped now before it could get out of hand. Otherwise, it could quite possibly divide the Highlands.
Beaux turned to glance at his two companions before looking over his shoulder at the hundreds of Highland warriors standing outside of the churchyard, clad in their wools and tunics, bearing their short-blade swords and dirks. They were fighting men, loyal to the core, and unwilling to surrender until death claimed them.
That was the heart of the Highlander.
“Jamie will return and declare war on the MacKenzies,” Beaux said, his gaze lingering on the Highlanders standing beneath the stormy sky. “More than that, he could quite possibly bring Sassenach soldiers with him, de Lohr men and knights, and destroy the MacKenzie completely. If he does that, their allies – the MacRaes, the MacIntoshes, the Mathesons – will rally their men.
This will be bigger than we can imagine if Jamison moves tae crush the MacKenzies and punish them for Georgie’s murder. I dunna think any of us wants that.”
George was already shaking his head fervently. “I do not,” he said firmly. “Mayhap with the three of ye, he will see reason. He will understand he canna return and tear the Highlands apart with his vengeance. But there somethin’ more ye should know, something that may cast a different light on such things.”
The young men were curious. “What ’tis it?” Kendrick asked, interested.
George’s gaze moved to the churchyard and the sea beyond, watching as the streams of light through the storm clouds glistened upon the waters. This was the land he loved, the land he lived and died for. The wind whipped around him, tossing his hair about as he pondered his reply.
“Georgie was betrothed tae Agnes MacLennan,” he said. “She is a young girl that has seen fourteen summers, but her father has no heir. Only Agnes. Georgie was tae marry the girl next summer to unite our clans but now that Georgie is dead, it is Jamison’s duty tae marry the girl and it ’tis a duty he’ll not take kindly to.”
Beaux’s brow furrowed. “MacLennan,” he repeated. “They are kin tae the MacKenzies.”
George looked the man in the eye. “Aye, they are,” he said. “When I made the contract, we were not at odds with the MacKenzies. Now that we are, I intend tae marry Jamison tae the MacLennan lass as soon as he returns. That makes us kin tae the MacKenzies when he marries her. We canna war with kin.”
Beaux sighed heavily, glancing at Kendrick and Caspian as he did so. “Ye’re correct,” he said. “Jamie’ll not take kindly tae marrying a bairn, especially since she’s kin tae the MacKenzie. ’Twill stoke the flame that feeds his vengeance. ’Twill not stop him if he truly intends tae seek retribution for Georgie’s death.”
George looked at the three young men, seeing the doubt in their expressions. “I am still the Munro,” he said in a voice that discouraged any argument. “Jamison will do as I say. He’ll have no choice. As long as there is breath in me body, this situation will be settled as peacefully as it can be because I’ll not lose one more son tae a foolish feud. Of that, I vow. Now, go tae Lioncross and tell my son what has become of his family. When ye bring him home, ye will protect him wit’ yer lives. The MacKenzies will be watchin’ fer him and if they kill him, I’ll kill each and every one of ye meself.”
No one took offense because it was his passion speaking, not some sense of wicked subversion. George was vastly protective of Jamison but he was also determined to control his son’s reaction to the situation when the truth was that he couldn’t control it at all. Jamison would do as he felt necessary regardless of what his father wished.
Sense of vengeance aside, the marriage was nearly as undesirable because a marriage to a young heiress in an attempt to end a blood feud was complicated at best. It was a complicated situation in general, but one that needed to be dealt with as soon as possible because the MacKenzies were on the hunt. With George the Younger dead, there was the distinct possibility that the MacKenzie wouldn’t stop until George the Elder and Hector and possibly even Ainsley were dead and buried. Then, there would be no stopping Jamison in his quest for vengeance.
The situation was more volatile than they could possibly imagine.
“Aye,” Beaux finally said, looking at Kendrick and Caspian, both of whom were nodding in agreement to George’s request. “We’ll ride tae Lioncross and retrieve yer son. Shall I leave some of me men wit’ ye for protection? How many men do ye have, George?”
George almost declined to answer but catching a glimpse of the weeping Ainsley out of the corner of his eye made him reconsider. What they did to George, they could easily do to the rest of them. It was a difficult thing to swallow his pride and admit he needed help, but his wife’s safety was of paramount importance.
“A little over two hundred men do I have,” he said quietly. “I’ll be in yer debt if ye leave a few of yer own.”
“I’ll leave some of mine, also,” Kendrick said. “Me da has more men than he knows what to do with. Ye put them to good use.”
“How many?” George asked.
Kendrick turned to point to the groups of Highlanders standing on the moor outside of the churchyard. “I brought one hundred wit’ me,” he said. “They belong tae ye now.”
That bolstered George’s numbers significantly and the old man smiled weakly, thanking the young men for their loyalty and friendship, and feeling better than he had in days. The situation had turned out as he’d hoped with the young lions. Everything was not lost, after all.
Now, they would go to Jamison and bring the man home to face the storm that had raged in the wake of his disappearance into England. Even though George wanted Jamison safe, he had to admit that he was pleased with the thought of his son returning home. Shouldering the burden of everything that had happened was nearly too much for the old man to bear. Everything would be resolved when Jamison returned, or so he hoped. He had to hold on to that hope.
The alternative was something he couldn’t stomach.
CHAPTER TWO
*
“Sweet Jesú,
what am I even doing here….”
*
Four Crosses Castle, the southern Welsh Marches
Four months later
It was a hellish battle.
In pouring down rain and mud up to the knees, the enormous army from Lioncross Abbey had been summoned to quell yet another Welsh uprising. This particular castle had been wrested back and forth between the English and the Welsh for decades. At this particular time, it happened to belong to the English as an outpost for the great de Lohr empire at the northernmost area of de Lohr territory. On a hill overlooking the River Einion, Four Crosses Castle was a very big place with tall walls, no moat, and an enormous gatehouse. It was both imposing and strategic.
The garrison commander, Roald de Llion, a vassal to de Lohr, was part Welsh through his family lineage; but the truth was that he was English to the bone and the Welsh knew that. Therefore, they took issue with the man commanding an English castle on Welsh soil. This latest attack had been one of many in recent months, each one damaging Four Crosses before de Lohr could repair the damage from the previous attack. Little by little, the castle was falling to pieces.
It was all part of the Madog ap Llywelyn’s master plan.
Jamison knew that the last of the great Welsh princes was behind all of this as he stood in mud that came to his mid-calf, soaking through his mail and breeches, attaching itself to his pale skin. He could feel the cold, slimy embrace, uncomfortable at best, but he was used to it because it seemed as if he’d been wet and muddy for an eternity. He couldn’t remember ever being dry and warm. He was here to prevent this attack from being the last one by the Welsh but, as things were going, that might not be the case. The battle was getting dirtier and uglier by the hour. Reinforcements had come. Chaos was ensuing.
Sweet Jesú, what am I even doing here?
Rain pounded from overhead, hitting Jamison all over his body but he was quite certain most of it was aimed at his head. He wore a bascinet, a particular style of helm that was of the latest technology. The House of de Lohr and their war machine was always on the cutting edge of armor and weapons, so Jamison wore a sleek new helm with a visor attached that could actually lift on hinges. The visor was up at this point, water pouring down his face through the ventilation holes, as he and about five hundred de Lohr men were positioned at the gatehouse of Four Crosses. They were the last line of defense between the Welsh and those inside the castle.
The Welsh didn’t have the castle, not yet, but with more Welsh coming to reinforce the exhausted, it was only a matter of time. Three days of non-stop bombardment from the Welsh, who were using Scots battle tactics at times, had the castle bottled up as the de Lohr army made a perimeter around the base of the castle walls to hold off the natives. There had been sporadic attacks at the perimeter by the Welsh, trying t
o weaken the lines, but this was where Jamison had been invaluable. Having the virtue of both English and Highlander training, he recognized the Highlander tactics and was able to help counter them.
It was odd to see the Welsh using tactics from Scotland but it also told Jamison, as well as the high command of the de Lohr army, that these Welsh weren’t simply wild savages. Someone in their ranks had training and skill, which made them particularly dangerous. One particular tactic was blatantly Scots – the Welsh, in small groups, would attack part of the perimeter with small, sharp daggers to invite hand-to-hand combat. The English would engage simply to protect themselves but the Welsh would run off to invite a chase.
It was an obvious ruse and many an English soldier had to be called off from following. When that tactic hadn’t worked after two days of harassment, the Welsh came back with something new and distracting, another tactic that involved a mounted attack on a light and swift horse. The animal was called a hobelar and Jamison had seen such things in Scotland, in raids against other clans and also against the English.
A swift and light mount against heavily-armored warhorses and warriors had seen the English at a disadvantage simply because the horses and men couldn’t move as fast. It was meant to throw them off-balance and, at the moment, the Welsh were doing a decent job of that. In fact, he’d just fended off such an attack only minutes earlier, one that had given him a fairly decent gash on his left forearm when a wily Welsh on a wet brown horse had managed to land a lucky strike with a spear tip. Now, he was bleeding and exhausted, refusing to seek treatment for his wound. As he stood in the mud and watched the Welsh disappear into a heavily forested area, he heard someone calling his name.
“Jamie!”
Jamison turned in the direction of the shout, seeing a big knight in rusting armor heading in his direction. The man was only wearing his hauberk, with no helm, and the links of the iron mail were rusting all around his face, rubbing off that red-rust color on his cheeks. The man, handsome and blue-eyed, smiled weakly.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II Page 62
