by Jayne Castel
WARRIOR’S WRATH
A Dark Ages Scottish Romance
The Pict Wars
Book Three
JAYNE CASTEL
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Historical Romance by Jayne Castel
DARK AGES BRITAIN
The Kingdom of the East Angles series
Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)
Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)
The Deepening Night (Book Three)
The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Mercia series
The Breaking Dawn (Book One)
Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)
Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Mercia: The Complete Series
The Kingdom of Northumbria series
The Whispering Wind (Book One)
Wind Song (Book Two)
Lord of the North Wind (Book Three)
The Kingdom of Northumbria: The Complete Series
DARK AGES SCOTLAND
The Warrior Brothers of Skye series
Blood Feud (Book One)
Barbarian Slave (Book Two)
Battle Eagle (Book Three)
The Warrior Brothers of Skye: The Complete Series
The Pict Wars series
Warrior’s Heart (Book One)
Warrior’s Secret (Book Two)
Warrior’s Wrath (Book Three)
Novellas
Winter’s Promise
MEDIEVAL SCOTLAND
The Brides of Skye series
The Beast’s Bride (Book One)
The Outlaw’s Bride (Book Two)
The Rogue’s Bride (Book Three)
The Brides of Skye: The Complete Series
The Sisters of Kilbride series
Unforgotten (Book One)
Epic Fantasy Romance by Jayne Castel
The Light and Darkness series
Ruled by Shadows (Book One)
The Lost Swallow (Book Two)
Path of the Dark (Book Three)
Light and Darkness: The Complete Series
A warrior driven by wrath. A woman willing to sacrifice herself for peace. A destiny neither can escape. Revenge and fated love in Ancient Scotland.
Talor mac Donnel wants revenge. Consumed by hate, he goes into occupied territory seeking vengeance for his slain sister. But Talor’s plan goes awry when, instead of killing the man responsible for his sister’s death, he is taken captive.
Mor is tired of war. Her people have swept across The Winged Isle, leaving carnage behind them. Mor is a warrior, yet all she wants now is to lay down her weapons and live in peace. And when a crazed enemy warrior breaks into their broch and tries to slay her father, she makes a decision that will change everything between their people.
The instant Talor locks gazes with his enemy’s proud daughter, Mor, everything he thought he believed about life and love starts to unravel. Together, they have the chance to bring peace to their war-torn isle—but only if he is able to let go of the past.
All characters and situations in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
Warrior’s Wrath by Jayne Castel
Copyright © 2020 by Jayne Castel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.
Published by Winter Mist Press.
Edited by Tim Burton
Cover photography courtesy of www.shutterstock.com
Eagle image courtesy of www.pixabay.com
Map of ‘The Winged Isle’ by Jayne Castel
Visit Jayne’s website: www.jaynecastel.com
Follow Jayne on Twitter: @JayneCastel
***
To my husband, Tim. With all my love.
***
Contents
Maps of Scotland and The Winged Isle
Prologue
Sleep Well My Brothers
Chapter One
It Must Be Done
Chapter Two
Mor’s Slight
Chapter Three
Captured
Chapter Four
I’ll Not Die a Traitor
Chapter Five
Games
Chapter Six
Standing Together
Chapter Seven
Worse Ways to Die
Chapter Eight
Not Dead Yet
Chapter Nine
Lead the Way
Chapter Ten
A Crossroads
Chapter Eleven
Keeping Oaths
Chapter Twelve
What Must Be Done
Chapter Thirteen
A Warrior’s Death
Chapter Fourteen
Making Choices
Chapter Fifteen
Stubborn
Chapter Sixteen
A Friend of Yours
Chapter Seventeen
That is My Fate
Chapter Eighteen
Poor Timing
Chapter Nineteen
Moving Out
Chapter Twenty
No Daughter of Mine
Chapter Twenty-one
The Siege Begins
Chapter Twenty-two
With My Help
Chapter Twenty-three
Bravery Turns into Madness
Chapter Twenty-four
Freedom or Death
Chapter Twenty-five
Patience
Chapter Twenty-six
Repaid in Blood
Chapter Twenty-seven
Twisting the Blade
Chapter Twenty-eight
What is Written is Written
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Bloodshed Ends Today
Chapter Thirty
A Second Chance
Chapter Thirty-one
That’s How Fate Works
Epilogue
A Fine Place to Call Home
From the author
Historical and background notes
for WARRIOR’S WRATH
Maps of Scotland and The Winged Isle
Your feet will bring you to where your heart is.
~ Irish Proverb.
Prologue
Sleep Well My Brothers
Mid-Winter Fire—389 AD
Dun Ringill—Territory of The Serpent
The Winged Isle (The Isle of Skye)
SHE LEFT THE fort alone, without telling anyone of her destination.
An icy wind blew in from the north, bringing a sprinkle of snowflakes with it—the first of the winter. Noting the turn in the weather, Mor momentarily questioned her decision to ride out this afternoon. Reining up her shaggy grey pony, she cast a glance over her shoulder at the squat bulk of Dun Ringill behind her, dark against the choppy waters of Loch Slapin. The sky to the south was still clear, although it would not likely stay that way.
This won’t take long, she reassured herself. I’ll be home by nightfall.
Mor’s mouth thinned as her gaze lingered upon the broch and the high stone walls protecting it. Home. Would she ever feel that way about this place? She had to admit The Winged Isle possessed a wild beauty. Her father professed to love it, yet Dun Ringill had come at a high price.
Mor’s chest constricted. There are so few of us left now.
Turning away from Dun Ringill, she urged the pony on, squeezing her calves a
gainst its flanks, and the beast broke into a choppy canter. The wind caught at the fur-lined hood protecting Mor’s head, tearing it back. Her thick auburn hair flew free, and the wind stung her cheeks, yet Mor paid it no mind.
She had delayed this trip, but would not wait any longer. Mid-Winter Fire was upon them now, and the Long Night was the right time to lay her brothers to rest. There had been no burial for either Dunchadh or Tamhas mac Cathal, for their bodies had never been recovered. As such, Mor had not had the chance to bid either of them farewell properly, to see them safely to the Otherworld. But this afternoon she would.
Mor rode north-east, cutting across a sea of undulating grassy hills toward the outlines of great peaks that thrust into the darkening sky. An oak wood lay under the shadow of the nearest mountain, nestled in a valley between two steep hills. Her people’s bandruí—seer—Old Murdina had told Mor of the forest, for she had traveled there to collect herbs. Oak woods were sacred places; there had been one near the village where her people once dwelt upon the mainland. As children, Mor and her brothers had played there.
Slowing her pony to a walk, Mor entered the woods. The snow was starting to fall in earnest now, and the weather had closed in, obscuring the bulk of the mountain looming above her.
She rode amongst the trees. The oaks had lost the last of their autumn cloaks, the leaves forming a rotting carpet beneath her pony’s feet. Even so, the trees provided a barrier from the wind and snow, and Mor breathed in the tranquility.
How she missed the forests of the mainland. Most of The Winged Isle was bleak and barren with vast moorlands and jagged mountains. However, there were pockets, like this one, of oak, hazel, birch, and pine hidden in valleys throughout—you just had to know where to look.
Mor traveled deep into the valley, to where the oaks were the oldest, finally drawing her pony up before the biggest of them: a huge spreading tree that sat near the banks of a trickling burn.
A smile tugged at Mor’s mouth at the sight of the great oak, penetrating the mantle of sadness that had cloaked her of late. Her people called this a ‘mother oak’—one that had lived many lifetimes of men and would stand to see many more. It lightened her heart to set eyes on such a tree again.
“Old Murdina was right,” she murmured as her gaze rested upon it. “You are magnificent.”
The seer had told her that such a tree dwelt in the heart of this valley. A ‘mother oak’ was a place where bandruís consulted with the Gods and waited for divine inspiration.
It was the perfect place to lay her brothers’ spirits to rest.
Tearing her attention from the tree, Mor opened the satchel that she wore slung across her front and reached inside. She withdrew two objects—the only things that remained of Dunchadh and Tamhas.
The first was a small bone-handled knife. Dunchadh had made it for Mor years earlier and had carved a serpent into the handle. It was one of her favorite knives. Although too small for throwing, she used it for eating or preparing food. The second object was a squat figurine of The Mother. She was the Goddess of enlightenment and feminine energy—the bringer of change. Tamhas had kept the figurine in his alcove and prayed to it every evening.
Staring down at the two objects, Mor’s vision blurred. This was all she had of her brothers. What had happened to them after they had fallen? No doubt the enemy had burned their corpses; they would not have been buried in cairns like their forefathers had, and the thought made her throat ache.
Dunchadh was three winters Mor’s elder. Strong, bold, and charismatic, he had dominated any space he entered. Tamhas was the youngest of the three of them. He’d had a quieter, more intense character than Dunchadh and had forever dwelt in his brother’s shadow.
Both of them had fallen at Balintur, a fortified village half a day’s journey north of Dun Ringill—although not during the same battles. Dunchadh had been slain when the army of the united tribes had attacked in late summer, taking back the village, and Tamhas had died barely a month earlier when their people had laid siege to Balintur.
Mor approached the tree and knelt before it. Reaching out, she placed a palm upon the rough bark of the wide trunk and closed her eyes.
An ache rose under her breast bone, crushing in its intensity.
Gods how she missed her brothers.
She longed to hear Dunchadh’s booming laugh, or to watch Tamhas favor her with one of his enigmatic smiles. They had left the mainland together and fought side-by-side through a number of campaigns.
But now, they had left her alone, and Mor felt like a tree stripped of all its leaves without them.
Opening her eyes, Mor laid the knife and the figurine at the roots of the oak.
I should have brought Da with me, she thought suddenly, guilt filtering through her. With a sigh, Mor sat back on her heels. Aye, she could have, although a dark cloud dogged Cathal mac Calum’s steps these days. He suffered from a constant ill-temper ever since Tamhas’s death.
He gnashed his teeth and raged about revenge, swore that he would make every last warrior of the united tribes suffer for robbing him of his sons. And he had expected Mor to share his rage—yet she did not.
A hollowness had settled within her after the disaster at Balintur. They had returned to Dun Ringill, defeated, their numbers decimated, and she had begun to wonder what the point to all of this was.
Even if they turned things around now, Dunchadh and Tamhas were not here to share their victory.
War. It suddenly seemed pointless. Mor was a warrior. Like her mother before her, she had been raised to wield a pike and a sword. She knew how to throw knives, how to bring down a warrior with a bow and arrow. Those skills had served her well over the years, had kept her alive. But now, as she lowered her gaze to the knife and figurine, she wondered at the value of those abilities.
“I know you died warriors’ deaths,” she whispered to her brothers. “But I miss you all the same.” Tears trickled down her cheeks, yet Mor did not brush them away. “Da is set on avenging you, but that doesn’t feel right to me.” The words seemed traitorous, although there was no one here to listen but the ‘mother oak’. “I wish we could live in peace with the people of this isle.” Mor’s voice caught as she said these words. “Is that wrong?”
Only the whine of the wind answered her. Mor craned her neck up, looking through the bare branches above at the sky. She had barely noticed that the snow fell heavily now, penetrating the canopy of oaks and settling upon the shoulders of her fur cloak. It was time to return to Dun Ringill.
Blinking away the tears that continued to flow, Mor rose to her feet. She did not want to leave this oak thicket; if the weather had been mild, she would have lingered a while. But night fell early this time of year, and she did not want her father to worry.
Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, Mor reached out and placed her hand once more on the oak trunk. She could feel the tree’s age and strength vibrating against her palm. “Sleep well my brothers,” she murmured.
Chapter One
It Must Be Done
Winter—390 AD
Territory of The Eagle
One month later …
IT WAS A journey he would never return from.
Each footstep took him farther from his family, farther from his friends. The knowledge that he would never see any of them again felt like a boulder in his gut, but Talor did not look back, did not take his eyes from the southern horizon.
Snow fluttered down from the darkening sky. It had already formed a thick white crust over the ground. His pony sank up to its feathery fetlocks in the drifts. Soon night would fall, obscuring the land even further. Yet Talor carried a torch aloft, and he knew this land as well as the lines on his father’s face. He could find his way to Dun Ringill blind-folded and drunk.
Still, only a lackwit would set out on a journey on an eve like this.
A lackwit—or a man consumed by revenge.
Talor mac Donnel had thought of nothing else over the past two moons. Thought
s of his fallen sister had plagued every waking moment, as had fantasies of what he would do to the man who had slain her: Cathal mac Calum, the chieftain of The Serpent tribe.
Cathal’s warriors had attacked the village of Balintur, had nearly brought Talor’s people to their knees. Fortunately, help had arrived before that had happened. But it hadn’t been soon enough for Bonnie.
The memory of his half-sister, fighting valiantly amongst the mob of men and women twice her size, rose unbidden. She had been small but fierce, the quickest of them all. But the moment he had seen a huge auburn-haired man stride toward her, sword swinging, Talor had known brave Bonnie was doomed.
Cathal had enjoyed it too. Till his dying day, Talor would never forget the grimace of wild joy on the warrior’s face as he cut Bonnie down.
Blinking hard to dislodge the snowflakes settling on his eyelashes, Talor gave his head a shake and focused on his surroundings once more. He needed to keep his wits about him. Despite the snow, The Serpent would have scouts out as he neared Dun Ringill. To avoid them, he had taken a longer, more difficult route, along the coast rather than the more common path over softly undulating hills.
The snow swirled in, thicker now, and Talor breathed a soft curse. In many ways the snow was his ally, for it hid him from view, yet at the same time he didn’t want to accidentally ride off the clifftop. His pony, a heavyset, dappled grey stallion he had named Luath—Ash—blended in with the surroundings this evening. The pony plodded forward doggedly, head lowered, although its furry ears flicked around. Like Talor, the pony was taking in its surroundings, senses attuned to anything amiss.
