Why was Mary Bruce imprisoned in a cage when the others weren’t? I don’t know, nor was I able to find an explanation for why she might have been singled out among the others for such cruel punishment. At the time, she was probably only thirteen or fourteen.
Mary was released in 1309, but the rest of the women were not returned to Scotland until after the end of the war in 1314. Mary married the much older Neil Campbell (Arthur’s brother in The Ranger) and then, after his death, Alexander Fraser (Christina’s brother in The Chief).
For more, please visit my website at www.monicamccarty.com.
Read on for an excerpt from
THE SAINT
by Monica McCarty
Published by Ballantine Books
Inverbreakie Castle, Ross, Scottish Highlands, August 1305
Magnus MacKay caught the movement out of the corner of his swollen eye, but it was too late. He couldn’t get the studded leather targe around in time to shield himself, and the war hammer landed with full, bone-crushing force across his left side, sending him careening headfirst into the dirt. Again. Albeit this time with at least a few broken ribs.
Behind his own grunt of pain, he heard the collective gasp of the crowd, followed by the anxious silence as they waited for his next move. If he had one.
A broad shadow fell across him, blocking out the bright sunlight. He gazed up into the menacing visage of his enemy.
“Had enough?” the Sutherland henchman taunted.
Every inch of him had had enough. Magnus hurt in places he didn’t know he could hurt. He’d been bruised, battered, and hammered to a bloody pulp, but he wouldn’t give up. Not this time. For five years he’d suffered defeat at the hands of Donald Munro, the Sutherland champion. But not today. Today he fought for something too important.
Magnus spit the dirt out of his mouth, wiped the blood and sweat from his eyes, and gritted his teeth against the pain, as he dragged himself back to his feet. He wobbled, but through sheer force of will steadied and shook the stars clear from his vision. “Never.”
A cheer went up from the crowd. Or half the crowd, that is. Like the rest of Scotland, the clans gathered to watch the Highland Games were divided. But it wasn’t Robert Bruce and John Comyn that men took sides with today (though both of Scotland’s claimants to the throne were present), but between an even older and bloodier feud: the MacKays and the Sutherlands.
“Stubborn whelp,” the other man said.
Magnus didn’t necessarily disagree. He lifted his targe in one hand and his hammer in the other and prepared for the next blow.
It came. Again and again. Like a battering ram. Munro was relentless.
But so was Magnus. Every time the fierce warrior knocked him down, he got up. He refused to give up. He’d be damned if he’d come in second to the braggart again.
The Sutherland henchman had been a thorn in his side since the first Games Magnus had competed in five years before. He’d been only eight and ten and besting the heralded champion, who was five years older and already in the prime of his manhood, had seemed an impossible task.
Then.
But Magnus was no longer a stripling lad. In the last year, he’d added considerable bulk and strength to his lean, muscular build. At a handful of inches over Munro’s six feet, Magnus had the advantage in height. The scales were no longer so unbalanced.
He’d already acquitted himself well at these Games, winning the footrace and sword challenges—although the best swordsman in the Highlands, Tor MacLeod, was absent—and placing among the top three in the other competitions with the exception of swimming, which was to be expected. Magnus hailed from the mountains of Northern Scotland, and the Islanders—Erik MacSorley in particular—dominated the water events.
But this was the challenge Magnus had to win. The hammer event belonged to Munro. He’d dominated it for nearly ten years. It was his pride and dominion. And wresting the crown from his nemesis’s head to claim victory for the MacKays would make it all the more satisfying. Hatred ran deep between the two clans, but Munro’s arrogance and disdain had made it personal.
But it was more than hatred and clan pride fueling Magnus’s determination to win. He was deeply conscious of one set of eyes on him. One big and crystal blue set of eyes. Helen. The girl—nay, woman (she was finally eighteen)—he intended to marry. The thought of losing to Munro in front of her …
He couldn’t. Damn it. He wouldn’t. How could he ask her to marry a man who came in second? Victory would be a sign that the time was right.
He blocked another powerful blow with his shield, his muscles flexing to absorb the shock. Steeling himself against the burning in his side, he took the full weight of his opponent’s momentum on the shield and managed a swing of his own hammer. Munro twisted away, but the blow that Magnus landed on his shoulder was more than glancing.
It was the first crack. The look of fury on his opponent’s face couldn’t mask the frustration. Munro was tiring. The fierce attack and repeated swings of the heavy weapon had taken their toll.
This was it. The opening he’d been waiting for.
Magnus caught the scent of something that revived his aching body like nothing else: victory. With a sudden, inexplicable burst of strength from the very bowels of his determination, he took the offensive. Pummeling with his hammer and thrusting with his targe, he drove his surprised opponent back.
Munro stumbled, and Magnus seized the advantage, wrapping his foot around the henchman’s ankle to knock him completely to the ground. Kneeling on his chest, he thrust his shield against his enemy’s throat and lifted the hammer high above his head.
“Yield,” he bit out forcefully, his words carrying across the silent arena. The stunning reversal had struck the crowd dumb.
Munro tried to fight back, but Magnus was in control. He dug the edge of the targe deeper, crushing his throat and cutting off his breath.
“Yield,” he repeated. Rage surged through his veins, the brutality of the fight having taken its toll. The urge to finish it rose up hard inside him. But these were the Highland Games, not the life-and-death games of the gladiator.
For one long heartbeat, however, it might have come to that. Munro refused to yield and Magnus refused to let him go until he did. Despite the temporary truce of the Games, the hatred raging between the two proud Highlanders threatened to destroy it.
Fortunately, the decision was taken from their hands.
“Victory to MacKay,” a man’s voice rang out. Baron Innes. The holder of Inverbreakie Castle and the host of these games.
A cheer rang out. Magnus lowered his hammer, pulled back his targe, and released Munro. Standing, he thrust his arms out wide, basking in the cheers and savoring the rush of victory.
He’d done it. He’d won. Helen.
A swarm of people gathered round him. His father, younger siblings, friends, and a fair number of pretty young lasses.
But none were the lass he most wanted to see. Helen couldn’t come to him. And as much as he wanted to see her right now, he dare not seek out her gaze.
For his Helen was none other than Helen of Moray, the daughter of his greatest enemy, the Earl of Sutherland.
* * *
Thank God it was over! Helen didn’t think she could bear another minute. Sitting there, watching Magnus get beaten to within an inch of his life, and not being able to react, being forced to smother every flinch, every gasp of horror, every whispered prayer for him not to get up, as the man who was like a brother to her pummeled him to the ground, had been pure agony.
Magnus was too tough for his own good. The stubborn ox didn’t know when to give up!
She was going to kill him herself for putting her through that. Magnus knew she didn’t enjoy the violent competitions in the Highland Games—why men beat each other senseless in the name of sport, she would never understand—but for some reason he’d made her promise to be there.
“Are you all right?”
Helen tried to force her heart back
down to her chest, but it seemed lodged permanently in her throat. She turned mutely to her brother.
Kenneth frowned, his gaze flickering over her face and down to her hands, which were still clenched in the soft wool folds of her skirts. “You seem distressed. I thought you were going to faint for a moment.”
Her pulse quickened. He was far too observant. She was distressed, but she dared no let him suspect the reason. Her hot-tempered brother despised the MacKays, and Magnus most of all. The two were of age, but Magnus had gotten the best of him in the competitions since they were lads. If Kenneth found out about them …
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“I didn’t expect it to be so … intense,” she said, which was the truth. “And of course, I’m disappointed.” Belatedly she recalled her family loyalty.
He eyed her suspiciously, as if he didn’t quite believe that was all to it. She held her breath, but then the crowd roared again, distracting him. His face darkened as he took in the glee of the Mackays. “I can’t believe he won.” He shook his head with disgust. “Father is going to be furious.”
A different kind of alarm shot through her. “Perhaps it would be best if we did not tell him? Not right away, at least.”
Kenneth’s eyes met hers, his expression suddenly grim. “Is it that bad?”
“He will be fine,” she said firmly. Of course he would. It was the only possibility she would consider. “But I do not want to distract him. He needs all his strength to fight the illness.”
But each time the lung ailment came back it seemed worse. She probably shouldn’t have come, but Magnus had made her promise. And the thought of not seeing him for another year with the threat of war swirling all around them …
She couldn’t stay away.
It was only a week. Her father would be fine without her for a week. She’d left precise instructions for Beth, the serving lass who helped her care for her father, and Muriel had promised to check on him. It was she who’d taught Helen everything she knew about healing.
Kenneth’s jaw hardened, his expression grim. “Then perhaps you are right.” He took her elbow and nodded in the direction of their fallen champion. “Come, you’d best see to Munro. Although it appears it’s mostly our champion’s pride that has taken a beating.” A wry smile turned his mouth. “Perhaps he will learn a little humility.”
If her brother didn’t sound all together displeased at their champion’s loss, Helen didn’t wonder why. He’d suffered many defeats at the hand of their champion.
As soon as her brother looked away, Helen stole one last glance toward Magnus. But he was surrounded, lost in the crowd of cheering admirers, his enemy’s daughter undoubtedly far from his mind.
She sighed. Soon he’d have crowds of ladies following him about like Gregor MacGregor and Robbie Boyd. The famed archer with the face of Apollo and the strongest man in Scotland had taken on a God-like status at the Games and had a bevy of starry-eyed young women hanging on their every move.
She followed her brother and pretended not to let it bother her. But it did. She wasn’t jealous—not really. Well, perhaps more jealous of the freedom the women had to talk with him in public than of the women themselves. Although the curvaceous blond attached to his arm had been quite pretty, she recalled with a pang.
Why did everything have to be so complicated?
The first time they’d met, she’d never given a second thought about sneaking away to meet him. The feud hadn’t mattered to her. All she’d been thinking about was that she liked him. That for the first time she’d met someone who seemed to understand her.
When she was with him she felt unique, not different. He didn’t care that she didn’t like sewing or playing the lute. That she dozed during Father Gerald’s sermons and didn’t pray as much as she should. He didn’t care that she’d rather wear a simple woolen kirtle (more often than not tied up between her legs) than a fancy court gown. He hadn’t even laughed the one spring she’d decided to cut her hair because it kept getting in her eyes.
But the constraints of the feud had begun to chafe. Stolen moments a couple times a year—sometimes only once—were no longer enough. She wanted more. She wanted to be able to stand by his side and have him smile down at her the way he did that made her insides melt.
If a little voice in the back of her head that sounded like her father said, “Perhaps you should have thought of this in the beginning, Helen lass?” she quieted it. It would be fine. Somehow they would make it work.
She loved him, and he loved her.
She gnawed on her lower lip. She was almost certain of it. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? It didn’t matter that barely had their lips touched and her heart finished slamming into her chest, when he’d set her harshly away from him.
Part of her sensed his feelings ran just as deeply and passionately as hers. And despite the danger, despite the knowledge that her family would consider her actions a betrayal, she couldn’t stay away. It was foolish—impossible. But also exciting. When she was with Magnus, she felt freer than she’d ever felt in her life.
How could she not take what they had and hold on tight? As Horace said, “Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.” Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future. She might not have been much of a student when her father had brought in tutors for her, but she remembered that. The words had resonated.
It seemed to take forever to tend Donald’s wounds, if not his tattered pride, but at the first opportunity she snuck away and waited for Magnus to find her. It didn’t take him long. Usually making him work to find her was part of the fun. But she was so anxious to see him, she made it easy on him.
The snap of a twig was the only warning she had before two big hands circled her waist from behind and snatched her down off her perch.
She gasped as her back met the hard planes of his chest. Her cheeks flushed with heat. By saints, he was strong. The lean frame of youth was now stacked with layer upon layer of hard, steely muscle. The changes in him had not gone unnoticed and being plastered so intimately against those changes sent a strange warmth shimmering over her and a flutter of awareness low in her belly. Her heart quickened.
He spun her around to face him. “I thought we agreed no more climbing trees?”
Agreed? Ordered was more like it. She wrinkled her nose. Sometimes he could be just as bossy and overprotective as her brothers. “Ah, Helen,” they’d say with an indulgent sigh. “What have you gone and done now?” They meant well, but they’d never understood her. Not like Magnus did.
Helen ignored his frown and gasped as she gazed up into the familiar, handsome face. The boyishly strong, even features had been bruised and battered almost beyond recognition. He’d bathed and made some attempt to tend his wounds, but there was no washing away the big red and purple mass covering his jaw, split lip, broken nose, and large cut near his eye. She traced the area around it lightly with her fingers, seeing that someone had already tended it. “Does it hurt horribly?”
He shook his head, capturing her hand in his to draw it away. “Nay.”
“Liar.” She pushed him away, hearing the grunt of pain and realizing she’d forgotten about the ribs. She put her hands on her hips. “It’s no more than you deserve after what you did.”
His brows furrowed in befuddlement. “I won.”
“I don’t care if you won, he nearly killed you!”
He folded his arms across his chest, a decidedly cocky grin on his face. For a moment her gaze snagged on the bulging display of muscle in his arms. Lately it seemed she was always noticing things like that at the most inopportune times. It flustered her. He flustered her. Which was disconcerting, since from the first she’d always been comfortable around him.
“But he didn’t,” he said.
The arrogance of his pronouncement distracted her from her distraction. Her eyes narrowed. Men and their pride. Nay, Highlanders and their pride. They were a special breed of proud and stubborn. “You don’t have to sou
nd so pleased with yourself.”
He frowned. “Aren’t you pleased for me?”
Helen nearly threw her hands up. “Of course I am.”
The frown deepened. “Then why are you so upset?”
Were all men obtuse? “Because I don’t like seeing you get hurt.”
He grinned again, snagging her around the waist as she tried to spin away from him. It was a playful move—something he’d done many times before—but there was something different this time when he dragged her up against the long length of his powerful body. Something hot and dangerous crackled in the air between them.
She gasped at the contact, feeling every solid inch of the steely chest and legs plastered to hers.
He looked down at her, his warm, golden-brown eyes darkening. “But I have you to take care of me, don’t I?”
The huskiness in his voice sent a shiver running through her. She blinked up at him, surprised at the change that had come over him. He never flirted with her like this. It was strange, exciting, and a little intimidating. He was a man, and suddenly she was achingly aware of it. A warrior, a champion, not the tall, lanky lad she’d first met.
She tilted her head back, her lips parting in some instinctive response. She could see the desire swimming in his eyes and sucked in her breath in anticipation.
He was going to kiss her. God, he was really going to kiss her.
Finally!
Her heart hammered in her ears, as he lowered his head. She could feel his muscles tighten around her. Feel the pounding of his heart against hers and sensed the passion surging inside him. Her knees weakened as desire shot through her in a wave of melting heat.
The Viper Page 37
