The Chief

by Monica McCarty

  MacRuairi moved to help her down, but the lady—in this case a countess—gave him a contemptuous look and hopped down without taking his hand. The dark look on his face chilled Christina’s blood. Sweeping regally past the menacing Highlander, the countess rushed toward the king, coming to kneel before him. The hood of her cloak slipped back, revealing long white-blond hair, a paradox of softness compared to the steely determination on her strong features. She was young, Christina realized, perhaps only a handful of years older than herself, with bold features more striking than beautiful.

  “Your grace,” she said, her voice husky and proud. “I came as soon as I could. I hope I am not too late?”

  Bruce gave her such a warm smile that Christina wondered whether there was truth to the rumors of a prior liaison between them. “Nay, Bella, not too late. Never too late. Not when you have risked so much to come here.”

  Bruce was not alone in his awe of the young countess’s bravery. Lady Isabella MacDuff had defied both a husband and a king to be there. For she was not just the sister to the Earl of Fife, but also the wife of the Earl of Buchan, John Comyn—the Red Comyn’s cousin and a loyal supporter of King Edward. If Edward got the chance, Christina did not doubt he would make her pay for this day.

  For the second time in as many days, she watched as Robert Bruce was crowned King of Scotland, but this time the circlet of gold was placed on his head by Lady Isabella. “Beannachd De Righ Alban,” the countess said when she was done. God bless the King of Scotland.

  The rebel countess was whisked away afterward to join Bruce’s wife and sisters at the palace. Isabella MacDuff had made her choice by riding to Bruce and could not return to her husband or the young daughter she’d left behind. Unconsciously, Christina put her hand on her stomach, unable to imagine that kind of sacrifice. She’d had her suspicions confirmed only a few days ago, but already felt a deep attachment to the child she was carrying.

  At last, it was time for the ceremony she’d been waiting for.

  One by one, the warriors of Bruce’s elite Highland Guard stepped forward. Even in the daylight they were a fearsome sight. If she hadn’t come to know them all in the past two months, Christina would have thought them unreal—a figment of myth or fantasy. All in black, their identities masked by their darkened nasal helms, the secret warriors were called out by their code names to kneel below Bruce’s great sword. MacSorley was dubbed “Hawk,” MacRuairi “Viper,” MacKay “Saint,” Boyd “Raider,” Lamont “Hunter,” MacLe an “Striker,” MacGregor “Arrow,” Seton “Dragon,” and Gordon “Templar.”

  The last warrior to be called out was the one she’d been waiting for. The men had refused to tell her the name they’d decided on for her husband.

  “Chief,” Bruce called out.

  Her chest squeezed, moved by the great honor the men had bestowed on her husband. They might have come from different clans, but Tor had bound them together into a new one: MacLeomhann. Son of the Lion. A clan based not on kinship, but on a common purpose: freedom, and, as the new lion rampant tattoo on her husband’s arm signified, the restoration of Scotland’s crown to a Scot.

  She could see her husband’s eyes bright beneath the steel of his helm and knew the name had affected him, too.

  Heart in her throat, Christina watched as her husband moved forward to kneel before his king. Never had she been more proud of him. She knew the danger, but what he and these men were about to embark on would change history. Keeping his involvement secret would be difficult, but they were fortunate that he had a twin brother to help cover for him when he was away.

  Away. They would both sacrifice for this war.

  But when Tor bowed his head, and the blade of Bruce’s sword touched his shoulder, Christina knew that she’d found something far better than the knight of her dreams. She’d found the Highlander of her heart and a love that would last a lifetime.

  The ten warriors formed a circle around their king. Swords raised above his head, they cried out, “Airson an Leomhann!” For the Lion. A cry that would come to strike fear in men’s hearts.

  Operation Lion Rampant had begun.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Most of the main characters in the novel are loosely based on actual historical figures. “Tor” was the first chief and progenitor of Clan MacLeod (and great grandfather six times over of Rory MacLeod from Highlander Untamed). In the early fourteenth century, however, the clans as we think of them today were in their infancy. Even the term “Highlander” is probably anachronistic—the Oxford English Dictionary’s first “highlandman” citation is c.1425—but both fiction (Nigel Tranter) and nonfiction (G.W.S. Barrow) authors use the term for the period. I assume they found, like I did, that there really isn’t a good alternative. Besides, what fun is it to read a Scottish romance without a “Highlander”?

  The two branches of Clan MacLeod, the MacLeods of Harris and MacLeods of Lewis, are known as “Siol Thormoid” and “Siol Thorcuil,” respectively—literally the seed of Tormod and seed of Torquil. New work on MacLeod genealogy contravenes the previously accepted genealogy of Tormod and Torquil as brothers, instead suggesting Torquil might have been his grandson (the son of Murdoch). Seven hundred years after the fact, it is impossible to ascertain the genealogy for certain. I decided to use the traditional version, both for simplicity and because it’s the one still used by the current Chief of MacLeod on the Dunvegan website. Similarly, Tor’s patrilineage in Chapter One from the King of Norway and the King of Man is also greatly simplified and disputed.

  Most genealogists agree that Tor was married twice and that his second wife was Christina Fraser, the sister of Alexander (a close cohort of Bruce, who later marries his sister Mary) and Simon, the first Lord Lovat. Christina’s father was a prisoner in England for a time, but unlike in the story his family accompanied him. Presumably, Christina and her brothers would have spent some time at the English court.

  Tor’s marriage alliances are a perfect illustration of the shift that is taking place in the Western Isles during the period, from independent sea kingdom to Scottish fiefdom. His first marriage is with an important family on the western seaboard, his second with the daughter of a Scottish noble.

  The raid on Skye by the Earl of Ross actually occurred a couple of decades earlier than I suggested, in 1262. It was as brutal as I described, including the killing of children. The death of Tor’s parents during the raid, however, is fiction.

  According to some traditions, Torquil MacLeod received his lands in Lewis by killing all the male members of the Nicolson clan (by drowning them in the Minch) and then marrying the heiress daughter. I thought that was perhaps a little harsh for most readers’ taste and decided to put a more romantic spin on the story.

  The politics surrounding the First War of Scottish Independence are, to put it mildly, extremely complicated. For those interested in delving deeper into the period, I highly recommend G.W.S. Barrow’s Robert Bruce (Edinburgh University Press, 2005). For an entertaining historical fiction account, Nigel Tranter’s The Bruce Trilogy (Hodder Headline, 1985) is a classic.

  The relationship between Bruce and Wallace was much more complex than I’ve made it. They both wanted the English out of Scotland, but Wallace wanted the Balliol family restored to the crown while Bruce wanted the crown for himself. As suggested by Tor’s criticism of him in Chapter One, Bruce did flip-flop back and forth between the “patriot” side and the English. Bruce’s actions can usually be explained by looking at whom the Balliols/Comyns supported—usually you’ll find him on the other side.

  I glossed over what is probably the low point of Bruce’s life: the murder of his rival Red Comyn before the altar at the Greyfriars church. The accounts of events leading up to the murder are greatly disputed. One of the “romantic” versions (now discredited) is of a pact with Comyn and intercepted messengers carrying evidence of Bruce’s treason to Edward. I decided to use the story, as it fit in nicely with my learned heroine, but also because I had the same problem as
many early chroniclers of Bruce had: how to explain the decidedly unheroic act of a great hero. Clearly, Comyn stood between Bruce and the throne, but even if removing him was “necessary,” the murder of a rival just doesn’t play well. Killing him in a church and violating sanctuary made it much worse. For the act, Bruce was excommunicated for nearly twenty years. Scotland was placed under interdict for a time as well.

  The attack on Dumfries Castle actually occurred immediately after Bruce killed Comyn, not before, as I have it. The taking of Dumfries was Bruce’s first act of rebellion against King Edward. The constable of the castle at the time was Sir Richard Siward, not Seagrave. But Seagrave did serve in Scotland for years.

  One of the biggest holes in my knowledge of history in this period was of the importance of the descendants of King Somerled, namely the MacDonalds (Lords of Islay), the MacRuairis (Lords of Garmoran), and the MacDougalls (Lords of Argyll). “MacSorley” is the collective name for the descendents of Somerled. I knew about the importance of the MacDonalds (later the Lords of the Isles), but I was completely unaware of the MacRuairis and the MacDougalls. The MacDougalls were probably the most powerful clan at the time, but they would see their fortunes fall during the Wars of Independence. Our old friends the Campbells would be the principal beneficiaries of their demise. The MacRuairis would disappear a few decades later.

  Did Bruce really have a “Special Forces” Highland guard as his personal army? The short answer is no, but there are some interesting parallels. The Special Forces aspect is fictional, but Bruce did have a “meinie” or personal retinue, which included Robert Boyd, and close cohorts like Christopher Seton, Alexander Fraser (Christina’s brother), Thomas Randolf, Edward Bruce, and Neil Campbell. Neil Campbell, Alexander Seton, and Thomas Hay signed a bond to defend and support Bruce to the end. And in one of those cool “serendipity” moments, I found a mention of “Donald,” son of Alistair (the inspiration for MacSorley), who led a chosen group of Highlanders (a “warband of Islemen;” see clanmacalistersociety.org) at the bequest of Angus Og to help and protect Bruce in 1306. How about that!

  What is clear is that early on, Bruce recognized the importance of the West Highlands. At the seminal battle of Bannockburn in 1314, Bruce led a division of Highlanders and Islesmen against the English. Many of my “Highland Guard” were said to have fought alongside him (including Tor). And when Bruce was faced with the most desperate time in his quest for the crown, it was the Highlanders and Islanders who came to his rescue. But that is the next story.

  To Jami and Nyree, who first heard this idea almost eight years ago and helped to get me to the place where I could write it. Thank you for all of your brilliance, encouragement, and friendship. What would I do without you guys (other than spend much less time on the phone)? Go Cardinals (and the SSRW)!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to the usual suspects for their help in getting this series off the ground: Kate Collins (my fabulous editor), Andrea Cirillo and Annelise Robey (my equally fabulous agents), the entire Ballantine team, and Emily Cotler and Claire Anderson at Wax Creative.

  No doctors to thank in this book (maybe next time Nora and Sean), but I do want to thank Scottish historian and fellow author Sharron Gunn for her help with some of the Gaelic translations.

  And finally, to Dave, Reid, and Maxine: Your support means so much to me (even if it’s sometimes reluctantly given). And for the record, when I tell you not to bother Mommy because she’s busy, what I really mean is I love you.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Hawk

  by Monica McCarty

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Rathlin Sound, off the North Coast of Ireland

  Candlemas, February 2, 1307

  Erik MacSorley never could resist a challenge, even an unspoken one. One glimpse at the fishing boat being pursued by the English galley, and he knew tonight would be no different.

  What he should do was ignore it and continue on his mission, slipping undetected past the English patrol ship on his way to Dunluce Castle to meet with the Irish mercenaries.

  But what fun would there be in that?

  After four months of hiding and hopping from island to island with nothing more than a brief foray to the mainland to collect Bruce’s rents and the occasional reconnaissance mission, Erik and his men deserved a wee bit of excitement.

  He’d been as good as a monk at Lent, (except for the lasses, but Erik sure as hell hadn’t taken a vow of chastity when he joined Bruce’s Highland Guard) staying out of trouble and exercising unnatural restraint the few times he’d been called to action since the storm and their escape from Dunaverty. But with Devil’s Point within pissing distance, a high tide, and a strong wind at his back, it was too tempting an opportunity to let go by.

  At nine and twenty, Erik had yet to meet a wind he could not harness, a man who could best him on or in the water, a boat he could not outmaneuver, or, he thought with a satisfied grin, a woman who could resist him.

  Tonight would be no different. The heavy mist made it a perfect night for a race, especially since he could navigate the treacherous coast of Antrim blind.

  They’d just skirted around the northwest corner of Rathlin Island on their way south to Dunluce Castle on the northern coast of Ireland, when they caught sight of the patrol boat near Ballentoy Head. Ever since the English had taken Dunaverty castle earlier this month and realized Bruce had fled Scotland, the English fleet had increased their patrols in the North Channel looking for the fugitive king.

  But Erik didn’t like seeing a patrol boat this close to his destination. The best way to ensure the English didn’t interfere with his plans was to put them someplace they couldn’t give him any trouble. Besides, from the looks of it, the fishermen could use a little help.

  English bastards. The treacherous murder of MacLeod’s clansmen was still fresh in his mind. And they called him a pirate.

  He gave the order to raise the sail.

  “What are you doing?” Sir Thomas Randolph sputtered in a hushed voice. “They’ll see us.”

  Erik sighed and shook his head. Bruce owed him. Acting nursemaid to the king’s pompous nephew was not what he’d signed up for. The king might have to add a castle or two to the land in Kintyre he’d promised to restore to him, when Bruce reclaimed his crown and kicked Edward’s longshanks back to England.

  Randolph was so steeped in the code of chivalry and his knightly “duties” that he made Alex Seton—the sole knight (and Englishman) among the elite Highland Guard—seem lax. After two months of “training” Randolph, Erik had new respect for Seton’s partner Robbie Boyd. Erik had heard enough about rules and honor to last him a bloody lifetime. Randolph was beginning to wear on even his notoriously easy going nature.

  Erik arched a brow with exaggerated laziness. “That’s rather the point if we’re going to draw them away.”

  “But damn it, Hawk, what if they catch us?” Randolph said, calling Erik by his nom de guerre—his war name.

  When on a mission, war names were used to protect the identities of the Highland Guard, but as a seafarer Erik had no choice but to involve others. He needed men to man the oars and with the other members of the Highland Guard scattered, he’d turned to his own MacSorley clansmen. The handful of men who’d accompanied Erik on this secret mission were his most trusted kinsmen and members of his personal retinue. They would keep his secret.

  Thus far, the infamous “Hawk” sail had not been connected with the rumors spreading across the countryside of Bruce’s phantom army, but he knew that could change at any moment.

  The oarsmen in hearing distance of Randolph laughed outright at the absurdity.

  “I haven’t lost a race in…” Erik turned questioningly to his second-in-command, Domnall, who shrugged.

  “Hell if I know, Captain.”

  “See there,” Erik said to Randolph with an easy grin. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But what about the gold?”
the young knight said stubbornly. “We can’t risk the English getting their hands on it.”

  The gold that they carried was needed to secure the mercenaries. It had been collected over the winter months from Bruce’s rents in Scotland by small scouting parties led by Gregor MacGregor, a member of the Highland Guard known as “Arrow” for his extraordinary prowess with a bow. The nighttime forays had only added to the growing rumors of Bruce’s phantom guard. MacSorley and some of other guardsmen had been able to slip in and out of Scotland undetected thanks to key intelligence leaked from the enemy camp. Erik suspected he knew the source.

  Bruce hoped to triple the size of his force with mercenaries. Without the additional forces the king would be unable to mount an attack on the English garrisons occupying Scotland’s castles and take back his kingdom.

  Last month, MacLean and Lamont—two members of the Highland Guard—had been sent to Ireland with two of Bruce’s four brothers to begin recruiting soldiers. Erik had stayed with MacLeod and MacGregor to protect the king. But now, with the night of the attack approaching, Bruce was counting on him to secure the mercenaries and get them past the English fleet to Arran by mid-February.

  “Relax, Tommy, lad,” Erik said, knowing full well that the nobleman with the sword firmly wedged up his arse would only be antagonized further by the admonition. “You sound like an old woman. The only thing they’ll catch is our wake.”

  Randolph’s mouth pursed so tightly his lips turned white, in stark contrast to his flushed face. “It’s Thomas,” he growled, “Sir Thomas, as you bloody well know. Our orders were to secure the mercenaries and arrange for them to join my uncle, without alerting the English patrols to our presence.”

  It wasn’t quite that simple, but only a handful of people knew the entire plan.