Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  If ever you’ve helped me, do so now.

  Catriona clutched her amber necklace, silently repeating the words as she stood at the edge of the battling field two days after returning home from Castle Nought. She’d scream her plea, shouting to God, the Auld Ones, and any others who might be listening, if only she didn’t want anyone to see her dread.

  MacDonalds were fearless, always.

  And just now, every MacDonald in the glen pressed close to the wooden barricade separating them from the still-empty field on the other side of the barrier. Only early morning mist swirled there now, rippling threads of gray that slithered across the grass. But soon the vast open space would be slick with blood and covered with the bodies of dead and dying warriors. Yet not a single of her kinsmen showed a flicker of emotion except fierce pride.

  Even Geordie, Alasdair’s ancient dog held his gray head high. He leaned into her, heavily, and she could feel the tremors that shook him now and then. His unblinking gaze was fixed on the field, as if he knew Alasdair would soon appear, taking his place in the battle line.

  “Good lad….” She reached down, curling her fingers into the rough fur at his shoulders. It worried her that he was there, but she welcomed the comfort he brought her. In earlier times, Geordie always accompanied Alasdair on warring forays, ever at his master’s side. This morn, he’d joined the whole clan, trailing quietly after them, until one of her young cousins - a strapping lad, but too tender in years to fight – lifted the dog into his arms, carrying him the rest of the way.

  “Dia, Geordie.” The dog’s devotion brought her close to doing what she never did, shedding tears. Instead, she drew a tight breath, willing calm. She moved her hand to Geordie’s neck, stroking him gently, feeling the pulse of his terror and trying to soothe him. She prayed he wouldn’t have to watch Alasdair die.

  She blinked hard, hoping none of them would.

  Hoped not a single MacDonald would fall.

  She swallowed against the burning thickness in her throat, vowing that James would also leave the field whole. Not victorious, as she did want MacDonalds to win. But she wished him alive and unharmed.

  He couldn’t die.

  For now, she didn’t want a single raven circling over him. She only wanted the chance to kiss him again. She refused to think of more. Doing so would steal her reason. Though if her wish was granted and he lived to kiss her, she might still bite his tongue.

  She’d nip hard, if only to punish him for putting her through this agony.

  She couldn’t bear to see him slain.

  And the waiting to find out if he would survive was killing her.

  But already the eastern sky was beginning to lighten and the jostling crush of Lowland spectators was worsening by the moment. They were everywhere, pushing and shoving to reach the front of the barricades. The more privileged ones – the King’s invited lofties – showed no more restraint, scrambling and crawling over each other as they fought for the best seats in the tiered viewing platforms.

  Catriona raised her chin, glaring at them.

  She might not allow herself to show fear, but she would show her contempt.

  The Lowlanders’ clamoring eagerness to see men die offended her.

  As did the celebratory air that hung over the confusion, a chaos made worse by the hordes of roving hawkers, tumblers, and light-skirted women looking to turn a coin. The food and ale stalls from the tented encampment had been moved closer to the battling ground, each stand already doing a rousing trade even though the sun had barely crested the hills. Smoke from cooking pits drifted on the wind, stinging eyes and bringing the smell of whole roasted oxen. From somewhere came a waft of fresh-baked bread. And not far from where Catriona stood, a barrel of salt herring had burst open, spilling its reeking contents onto the ground.

  She shuddered, wrinkling her nose. “A plague on the Lowlanders,” she scolded, not caring who heard her. “They itch me worse than a thousand fleas.”

  “Here – drink this.”

  Catriona started. Maili stood at her side, offering her a beaker of uisge beatha, Highland water of life. The most-times cheerful laundress’s usually saucy appearance was dimmed by her dark gray cloak and the angry jut of her chin, the fierce glint in her eye.

  “I’ve had two gulps myself.” Maili pressed the small wooden cup into Catriona’s hand. “I’m thinking you’ll not mind, not this morn.”

  “I wouldn’t ever mind – you know that.” Catriona took the whisky, gratefully draining the cup. “I just wish we could pour rivers of uisge beatha down the throats of the Lowlanders and then sink them into a bog as they slept. Though” – she wiped her mouth – “such an end would be too painless. I’d sooner see them skewered with an eel spear. Or gelded with a dull and rusted meat knife.”

  “Many of the men would have done it.” Maili’s eyes flashed as if she would’ve gladly helped. “Now it is too late. We can only hope our warriors’ sword strength is great and that if fate is against them, their ends will be swift.”

  “I am hoping none will die.” Catriona tossed aside the empty beaker and fisted her hands, willing it to be so. I have heard the King is a fair man. He is also old….” She paused, trying to recall his age. “I believe he is over fifty. And it is said that he is weak and ailing. Perhaps if our champions stand long enough, he will weary and call an end before too many men are cut down.

  “Alasdair spent an hour on his knees in the chapel last night, praying. Then” – Catriona leaned close to her friend, lowering her voice – “he went up into the hills to ask the Auld Ones for their blessing as well. He was gone until after midnight. I’m hoping he asked for a similar miracle and that the gods will grant us one.”

  “I wish it, too. But….” Maili tugged her cloak tighter against the wind. “Destiny is everything, my lady. If our men are to return to Blackshore with us, alive and hale, they shall. If it is their fate to do so.”

  Catriona glanced at the mist still rolling across the empty field. On the far side of the grass, Clan Cameron lined the barrier railing. The Mackintoshes were gathered not too far from them. Both clans already had a piper strutting up and down in front of their ranks.

  Looking back at Maili, Catriona tried not to hear the challenging skirls of the other clans’ pipes. Alasdair had vowed that no MacDonald pipes would scream until he and his men took the field.

  “You think destiny has brought us here?” Catriona couldn’t see the good of it, if so.

  Maili shrugged. “I’ve always believed the like. That is why” – she glanced at her stubby-nailed, work-reddened fingers, and then reached for one of Catriona’s slender, smooth-white hands, lifting it in comparison – “I am a laundress and you are a great lady.

  “We all walk the path the fates choose for us. But” – she released Catriona’s hand – “we can decide how we travel that path. Either we make the journey with our head high, content and accepting. Or we are ever resentful and unhappy.”

  “Pschaw!” Catriona frowned.

  Inside, she also believed destinies were writ long before a first breath was drawn. Just now, she didn’t care for the notion.

  She wanted to swim among the ice floes with James.

  If fate meant to keep them from plunging into those cold, dark waters again, she needed to do some destiny-weaving of her own.

  It was a reason she kept reaching for her ambers.

  “Even if what you say is so” – she looked at Maili – “there’s also Highland magic. Alasdair will be carrying his heirloom sword onto the field. Its amber pommel stone comes from the same treasure stash as the ambers of my necklace.” She touched them again now, wondering at their coolness, hoping the stones’ calm was a good portent. “The blade is charmed and will protect him.”

  Maili didn’t look so sure. “The sword didn’t save his grandfather when he was cut down wielding it.”

  Catriona tightened her lips. She’d forgotten that her grandsire had been killed in an affray with Mackintoshes, the amber
-headed sword in his hand.

  “The sword was good to my father.” She felt better, remembering her father’s affection for the sword called Mist-Chaser, so named because it was believed that even the mist drew back in respect when the sword’s master swung the glittering blade.

  “Your father’s destiny was to die of a fever in his bed.” Maili’s voice was matter-of-fact. “You can’t say the sword had anything to do with his death.”

  “I didn’t.” Catriona blew a curl off her forehead. Her friend was beginning to annoy her. “I said Mist-Chaser was good to him. And she was-”

  A loud flourish of trumpets sounded, cutting her off as a great stir rose at the far end of the battling ground. Everywhere men fell to their knees, some even prostrating themselves on the cold, trampled grass. All cheered, the noise deafening as the trumpet blasts grew louder. Then a herald’s voice rose above the din, commanding silence and obeisance as he announced the arrival of King Robert III and his son, Earl David, prince of the realm.

  “All here, bow down before Robert, High King of Scots, by God’s good grace, and his valiant and noble son, David, Earl of Carrick and High Steward of Scotland!”

  There followed a lengthy rendering of praise as the King entered the field, Queen Annabella at his side, their son David with them. A train of richly-dressed courtiers followed in their wake, each one more glittering that the other. Sir Walter strode in their midst, his nose higher than most. But the array made slow progress across the tourney ground for the King was lame and walked with difficulty. Even so, he held himself with as much dignity as his frail body allowed. And although his face showed strain and weariness, he didn’t look unkind.

  Catriona stared. King Robert Stewart, great-grandson of Scotland’s Hero King Robert Bruce, wasn’t anything like she’d expected, even having heard of his infirmities and melancholy disposition.

  “He looks more like priest than a king.” She edged closer to Maili, whispering in her ear. “Stoop-backed and with all that white hair, the white beard-”

  “But see his son.” Maili was looking at Earl David, her gaze speculative.

  Fair-haired and with remarkably beautiful eyes, the young prince walked proudly alongside his parents. Tall, slender, and as straight as his father was bent, he looked just as Catriona had always imagined the princes in the romantic chansons sung by minstrels.

  He also looked so out of place against the backdrop of the Glen of Many Legends wild and rugged hills that Catriona almost felt as if she were trapped in a dream.

  That she might waken in her bed at Blackshore any moment and find the last few weeks hadn’t happened.

  That she’d dreamt everything.

  She started to say so, but the trumpets gave another fanfare, signaling that the King’s entourage was nearing the canopied royal loge. A brightly painted pavilion-like structure topped with streaming banners, most notably the King’s own Lion Rampant of Scotland, red and gold against the dark morning sky. And his son’s red and white standard of the earldom of Carrick. Other banners flew there, too, each one snapping in the wind, the colors brilliant.

  The royal viewing platform held two tall, heavily-carved thrones, meant for the King and Queen. Velvet-draped courtiers’ benches flanked the high-backed, gold-enameled chairs. Earl David, it was known, would stand as he would umpire the trial of combat.

  And seeing him and his royal parents now reach their loge, set the earth to tilting beneath Catriona’s feet. Because, she knew, as soon as the King and his party took their seats, the battle would begin.

  At the prince’s signal, horns would blast, summoning the three groups of champions. To the skirl of pipes, the warriors would march onto the field, each clan group shouting their war cries, beating weapons on their shields, and then drawing their steel, preparing to kill or die.

  Again, James’ face rose in her mind and she saw his dark eyes looking into hers, reaching deep inside her, ripping her soul bare so that the truth burned across her heart. If he fell, she’d never be the same.

  For sure, she’d never let another man touch her.

  How could she? Now that he’d ruined her for all others?

  She lifted her chin, her pulse beating hard in her throat. He’d surely run her mad. How else could she stand here, on such day, thinking of him, when her mind should be on her fighting kinsmen and no one else?

  Truth was, she could hardly breathe for worry what might happen to him now.

  Any moment…

  Maili grabbed Catriona’s hand then, gripping hard. “They’re sitting, look.” Her voice was urgent, her gaze on the royal loge where King Robert and his Queen claimed their golden chairs. Earl David and a gray-bearded, impressively tabarded man moved to the front of the platform. “That must be the King’s senior herald.”

  “The Lyon King of Arms,” Catriona agreed, watching Earl David incline his head to the man, signaling the herald to open the trial by arms.

  At the prince’s nod, the crowd hushed. Men stood on toes, heads craning to see the herald turn and make a deep bow to the King. When he straightened, trumpets blasted long and triumphantly until the Lyon King of Arms raised a hand, silencing the fanfare.

  “The time is come.” Catriona drew herself up straighter, lacing her fingers tight with her friend’s. She lifted her other hand to touch her ambers, silently asking them to protect James, too. Then she released the stones and reached down to slip her hand around Geordie’s neck, drawing the trembling dog closer against her. “I’m here, laddie. And Alasdair will be with you again soon. He’ll be feeding you meat ribs before the sun sets this e’en.”

  Geordie glanced up at her, his rheumy eyes rimmed white.

  She rubbed his ears when he returned his attention to the field. If the gods were Highlanders – she figured they could be, for no greater race lived – then she hadn’t just lied to her brother’s dog.

  From the royal loge, the herald’s voice rang loud. “All men, by the King’s good grace and command, I inform you that a trial by arms between the Clans Donald, Cameron, and Mackintosh, shall now commence. This contest of strength will resolve the long years of dispute and unrest amongst these clans, settling at last, and to the King’s most fervent wishes, the troubling claims to possession of the Glen of Many Legends.

  “Thirty champions from each of the three clans of the glen must face each other.” He paused, lifting a hand when cheers rolled through the crowd. “These men shall fight with swords, dirks, and axes. A bow with three arrows per man is also granted. They may bear no shield larger than a targe and no quarter may be given.”

  Beside Catriona, Geordie whined, startling her as the old dog hadn’t made a sound in years. She looked down at him, kneading his bony shoulders as he pressed harder into her legs. He was quiet again – she might have mistaken the wind for his whimper - but he trembled badly, as if he understood the herald’s grim words.

  “This is a combat to the death.” The Lyon’s voice swelled, exultant as he continued to shout the contest’s rules. “The clan with the most men left standing will be pronounced as victors, unless” – he drew a long breath – “two of the clans cede defeat before the fighting has ended, thus forfeiting their claim to the glen.

  “If any man, of any one of the three clan groups, leaves the field before the fighting has ended, all three clans shall be stripped of their land, titles, and rights. They shall be sent by the King’s ships to the Isle of Lewis” - he raised his voice above the outcry from the clans – “where they will take up swords against the natives there, quelling the unrest and rebellion that trouble the King so sorely. If they are successful, they will be granted new lands and titles on Lewis, never to return to mainland Scotland.”

  “They can’t do that.” Maili’s voice was an angry hiss.

  “You know they can.” Catriona didn’t take her gaze off the herald. “But they won’t have the chance.” Pride swept her, heating her skin despite the cold wind. “No Highlander runs from a fight.”

  “If
the King’s rules and terms are not broken” - the Lyon looked out over the tourney ground, his voice booming – “the winning clan will hold sway over these lands from this day onward, the two defeated clans accepting their possession and authority without quarrel.”

  The words spoken, the herald turned to Earl David who nodded to a solemn-faced guard standing at the edge of the canopied loge. This man bowed low to the King and then swept back a curtain, allowing Alasdair, James, and Kendrew to stride out before the platform.

  Catriona’s breath caught when James looked towards the MacDonalds at the railing, his gaze finding her at once, his dark eyes blazing with an emotion that sent hot shivers spilling all through her.

  She didn’t know what emotion it was, but she knew he was telling her something.

  Before she could puzzle what it was, the herald droned on – she didn’t catch his words for the loud roar of her blood in her ears – and then James was no longer staring at her, his full attention on the Lyon herald as he and the other two chieftains moved to stand directly beneath the King and Queen.

  Hard-faced, proud, and already bearing their weapons, they made their bows to King Robert and Queen Annabella before turning to Earl David and the herald. Each chieftain stood tall, appearing as if carved of stone. They’d strapped their great swords at their backs rather than at their hips, and the hilts rose from behind their shoulders, so much quicker to grasp than at a man’s side. Dirks and axes thrust beneath their belts. And their Highland shields, round leather-covered targes, were already in place on their left arms. They carried hunting crossbows in their right hands, the sight of them making Catriona’s blood chill. The three arrows carried by each warrior would be the first weapons used, the first to taste blood. Or, she shivered, claim lives.

  None of the chieftains wore body armor and Kendrew Mackintosh was bare to the waist. Half-naked, and with his wild red hair and beard, he looked more savage than Alasdair and James. And – Catriona stared – strange blue marks covered his powerfully-muscled arms and chest.

  “Dear God….” Catriona glanced at Maili. “Mackintosh has painted himself.”