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 a 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 dreamed 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’s 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 a 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 had rarely 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 toward 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.”
“Nae, my lady.” Maili’s gaze didn’t leave the loge. “He bears those marks always.” She leaned close, her voice low. “He etches them into his skin to celebrate each man he’s killed in battle.”
Catriona stared at her friend. “How do you know that?”
Maili glanced at her, a pink tinge blooming on her face. “He was once in Glasgow when I accompanied our men on a supply trip. He was supping in the common room of an inn where we’d stopped for the night. And—”
“I don’t want to hear.” Catriona shivered, remembering the man’s ferocity. “He is—”
“… and you, Alasdair MacDonald, Lord of Blackshore?” The herald’s mention of Alasdair’s name drew Catriona’s gaze back to the loge. The Lyon Herald stood looking down on the three chieftains, his hawklike gaze fixed on them, haughtily. “My lords”—he spoke the title as if the courtesy soured his tongue—“are you agreed to abide by the King’s terms, accepting the consequences, however they fall?”
“We do.” The three chiefs bowed, answering as one.
Once more, James’s glance flickered to her.
Or, at least, she told herself he’d looked her way. But when she leaned over the railing, trying to make sure, he’d already glanced away.
On the loge, the herald nodded once, curtly. Then he looked to the King, before turning to Earl David. “These men have sworn to accept and keep the King’s terms and wishes. Are you, my Lord Carrick, agreed that we may proceed?”
Earl David inclined his head. “I am.”
Behind him, the King also nodded, his face showing no emotion. His arms rested on the heavily carved sides of his chair, and, on his acquiescence, Queen Annabella placed her hand over his.
Bowing to them, the Lyon herald turned again to face the crowd. He didn’t even glance at the three chieftains, still standing side by side before the platform. But the guardsman who’d whipped back the curtain with such relish moments before now stepped forward again. This time he ushered Alasdair, James, and Kendrew away from the loge.
“Good men, hear me!” The herald flung his arm in the air the instant the chieftains vanished behind the curtain. “By God’s will and the King’s grace, and before all these witnesses, I hereby declare the trial by combat to commence!”
A great roar went up from the crowd, the cheers and shouts deafening. The privileged Lowlanders in the long rows of tiered seating leapt to their feet. And along the barricades at the tourney ground’s edge, common Lowland folk and the people of the clans surged forward, pressing close to the stout wooden railing as all vied for a better view.
“Dia!” Catriona’s heart thundered wildly, her mouth suddenly ash dry.
Someone bumped hard against her, trying to shove between her and Geordie to get to the railing, and she whipped around to glare at the man. “Be gone,” she scolded him—a Lowland hawker by the look of him—“lest you, too, wish to feel the bite of Highland steel!”
She whipped out her lady’s dagger, meaning to frighten him by aiming its tip at his belly, or lower, but the man gave a shriek and spun about, disappearing into the crush as quickly as he’d appeared.
Then, even as she turned back to the railing, there was a commotion near the King’s royal loge as the three groups of warriors took the field. Alasdair, James, and Kendrew marched forward together, striding side by side as they led their warriors to the center of the tourney ground. A score of pipers pranced and strutted before them, men from each clan, bound by the scream of their pipes. The pipers blew with gusto, the skirls and wails echoing across the hills in rousing, heart-stopping challenge.
The Auld Ones are on our side. A voice, very like the raven-haired beauty at Castle Haven, whispered the words at Catriona’s ear.
But when she whipped around, it was Maili who hovered so near. “Look!” The laundress’s eyes were round, the color draining from her face as she pointed to the middle of the field where the pipers were retreating. They now strutted toward their respective clans, where they’d parade back and forth along the railings, rallying their clanfolk during the fighting.
Maili’s gaze wasn’t on the pipers.
She was pointing at the warriors. “They’re already drawing swords—”
“They can’t be.” Catriona stared, confused. “They have to use the crossbows first.”
Yet Alasdair, James, and all the other champions were whipping out their blades. And they made grand flourishes with them, flashing their swords from side to side or windmilling them in showy figure-eight circles. Some men tossed their blades high in the air, letting them twirl and spin, before catching them by the hilts as they fell.
The bright steel of the blades glinted in the pale sun and made dreadful hissing sounds as the men slashed them through the cold morning air.
“Mother Alba save us if the King calls a breach of rules.” Catriona felt her heart knocking against her ribs. “I heard the terms when Alasdair spoke of them with his men, often enough. The rules are that the three arrows were to be loosed before any sword cut flesh.”
“I know…” Maili pressed a hand to her throat.
Catriona gripped the railing, leaning forward, trying to catch her brother’s eye, or James’, reminding them…“I can’t believe Alasdair, James—”
“The Cameron?” Maili shot her a look.
A suspicious look.
Catriona stood straighter, brushing her skirts. “Alasdair, James, or any of them.” She emphasized the last few words, not wanting her friend to know how James consumed her. “I can’t believe they’d risk having the King—” She broke off when she saw Alasdair and the other two chieftains exchange a quick, fierce-eyed glance.
As one, they stilled their blades, lowering them.
Their men did the same; the sword-twirling, tossing, and mad, quick-as-lightning lunges stopped at once. But none of the warriors put away their swords. They kept them in their hands, tips pointed downward but still at the ready.
Catriona felt a thin trickle of cold sweat slip between her breasts.
“Dear saints, Maili.” She glanced at her friend, keenly aware that her palms were damp against the cold, hard wood of the rail. “I think they’re about to attack each other.”
But when the warriors raised their steel again, it wasn’t to swing them.
Shouting their war cries, they all thrust their swords high in the air and then lowered them, striking the hilts and steel blades against the wood of their targes. Then they began marching, slowly circling the field as they rhythmically beat their swords on the shields. The noise was terrible and frightening, worse than the screaming pipes. A nightmarish thunder that swelled and grew, striking terror into hearts, and all the more horrible because of the portent of the shield clashing.
When it stopped, the fighting would begin.
The warriors weren’t breaking the King’s terms.
They were readying themselves for battle.
* * *
On the field, about halfway between the royal loge and the shield-beating warriors, Scandia flittered along beside the Cameron champions, shimmying brightly. But it was so hard to keep pace with the marching men. From old habit, she hitched up her filmy skirts, determined to do her best. She also slid a curious glance at the MacDonald lass as the warriors neared the MacDonald spectators.
Scandia’s heart squeezed, aching for her.
Catriona stood where she’d been all morning, gripping the barricade railing, surrounded by her kin. But she’d lost a good deal of her high color, and her eyes were troubled and stormy. She looked as if
she knew someone were about to pull the world from under her, and she agonized because she couldn’t stop them.
Scandia pressed a hand to her breast, wishing Catriona knew she understood, sympathized.
And she did, more than anyone knew.
She’d flit over to her—she’d stood with the girl earlier, trying to let her know there were some here this day who meant her well—but just now Scandia needed to march with her kinsmen. Even if her shimmying wasn’t anything like a proper marching gait, it was important to her to show support.
She couldn’t help the men, but she could do that.
She also cast another look in the MacDonalds’ direction, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Maker of Dreams crone, Grizel, and her enchanted white stag, Rannoch. They were about there, Scandia knew. She’d seen them several times since daybreak, though none of the tournament spectators appeared to have noticed the pair’s passing.
Even she couldn’t see them now.
But the last time she had, Grizel was stroking the stag’s neck and whispering into his ear. Then she’d stepped back, sending Rannoch alone into the thick of the MacDonalds lining their stretch of barricade. The MacDonalds parted for Rannoch, each man he neared stepping or jumping aside to clear the way. Though, Scandia knew, those men surely thought they were simply jostling about and had no idea they were freeing a path at Grizel’s behest.
And for a powerfully magical creature they couldn’t see.
Scandia had looked on excitedly, pleased when Rannoch reached the MacDonald maid and planted himself behind her and her dog.
Then Rannoch had vanished before her eyes, too. But she was certain he was still there. That even she could no longer see him had to mean that his magic would be particularly potent this morn.
She dearly hoped so.
Not just for the good of her clan and the weal of the glen, but because young James and the MacDonald maid were so passionately drawn to each other. Scandia could feel their attraction sizzle in the air each time their gazes met. And if they were close, she even sensed the rapid thunder of their hearts, the heat that would then sweep them, flooding them with awareness and quickening their pulses.
Sins of a Highland Devil Page 22
