The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  So far the danger had been minimal. But King Edward was moving on Scotland again. War would find them soon enough. But first the king had given them a few days to visit her family, and she intended to enjoy every minute of the time, grumpy husband or not.

  Muriel and Will were in the barmkin, waiting to greet them as they rode in. After hugging her brother and new sister-in-law, she glanced down at the curious set of eyes peering from behind Muriel’s skirts.

  Helen’s heart constricted. At her wedding, Muriel had shared with her the tragedy of her past. She knew how much this child who’d come into their life so unexpectedly must mean to them both.

  She bent down. “And who is this?”

  Gently, Muriel eased the little redheaded child out from behind her. “This is Meggie. Meggie, say hello to your aunt and uncle.”

  Her brother made a choking sound at the reminder of Magnus’s place in the family, and Helen glared up at him sharply before turning her attention back to the shy child.

  The lass was three years old and had been left an orphan after both her parents were stricken by a fever. The little girl had nearly died as well, but Muriel had nursed her back to health. With no relatives willing to take the child in, Muriel and Will had welcomed her into their home and into their hearts. Her austere, formidable brother … who would have thought?

  “You have hair just like mine,” the little girl said, reaching out to clasp a handful between her chubby fingers.

  Will groaned again, and Magnus laughed with far too much pleasure at his expense.

  Ignoring them both, Helen smiled at the little girl and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Only the luckiest little girls have red hair, you know. It means the faeries have blessed you.”

  “Have they blessed you, m’lady?”

  Helen gazed up at her husband, meeting his gaze. “Aye, very much.”

  She had everything she wanted. She’d found her more.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The earliest record of the great, long-running feud between the MacKays and Sutherlands was in the late fourteenth century, when a Sutherland chieftain was said to have murdered two MacKay chieftains at Dingwall Castle. But given the two clans’ neighboring lands—and the conflict that seems to always cause—it doesn’t seem unreasonable to suspect that it began earlier.

  Magnus, the Chief of MacKay, who was said to have fought alongside Bruce at Bannockburn in 1314, was the son of Martin, who was killed at Keanloch-Eylk in Lochaber. But by whose hand, and on what date he fell, it is not recorded. One of the MacKay clan sites (www.mackaycountry.com) referred to the MacKays as “a mountain race of people,” which made his skill in my Highland Guard easy. The real Bruce must have had a number of scouts and guides by his side to help him navigate the difficult and treacherous terrain of the Scottish “high lands.” I loved the idea of the proud, tough “quintessential” Highlander.

  Magnus had two sons, Morgan and Farquhar, but the name of his wife is not recorded. Helen is a fictional daughter of William, the second Earl of Sutherland. Her brothers William and Kenneth, however, are based on the third and fourth earls, respectively. Kenneth became chief on the death of his brother William in 1333, who died without an heir—the inspiration for William and Muriel’s fictional relationship. Kenneth’s son, also (shockingly!) named William, married Bruce’s daughter Margaret. Their son John was briefly designated heir to his uncle King David II of Scotland, but unfortunately, he died of the plague.

  A recurring theme in my author’s note is the problem with names—repeat names, choice of names, et cetera. Given that surnames and clan names were not firmly established in this period, it is often difficult to decide what to call a character. For ease, I typically use modern clan names rather than the patronymic byname (Magnus “mac”—son of—Martin) or locative byname (William of Moray/de Moravia). There is some evidence that Sutherland (“south land”) might have been used as a surname at this time. It appears that when the two branches of the Sutherland lines broke off in the mid-thirteenth century, the northern (senior) branch took Sutherland and the other line became Murrays (from de Moravia/Moray, which to my surprise is pronounced “Murray”). At some point, the Earls of Sutherland dropped the “of Moray,” “de Moravia” designation, probably with William and Kenneth’s grandfather, but it’s unclear exactly when this happened. I went back and forth, and ultimately decided to use Kenneth Sutherland of Moray and Helen Sutherland of Moray to make it less confusing.

  The Sutherlands came over to Bruce’s side sometime in 1309. Given their ties to the Earl of Ross—they were allies at the time and William Sutherland was said to have been his ward—it made sense to me to tie the timing to Ross’s submission.

  William Gordon is the fictional nephew of Sir Adam Gordon, who did have an uncle William who fought in the Eighth Crusade (1270)—the inspiration for “Templar’s” black powder. Sir Adam was loyal to the exiled King John Balliol, and thus sided against Bruce with the English until the relatively late date of 1313.

  The battle where my William dies combines a few events. Edward Bruce actually deserves credit (along with James Douglas, Robert Boyd, and Angus MacDonald’s Hebridean forces) for the cover-of-mist attack. With a force of about fifty men, Edward Bruce planned to use the mist to hide his surprise attack of a force of fifteen hundred English soldiers under the command of Aymer St. John. When the mist suddenly rose, Edward found his small force exposed. Instead of retreating, he boldly attacked the flank of the English cavalry and created such surprise and confusion that the English forces broke. It’s one of those great David and Goliath apocryphal stories that seem to permeate the cult of the Bruce. Whether true or not, you can decide.

  There were actually two battles fought in the area around this time by Edward Bruce against the English. The first was along the banks of the River Dee, where the English fled and took refuge in Threave Castle, which Edward eventually took and destroyed (at the time it was probably a wooden castle, not a stone one as I suggested). The second battle was along the River Cree when the English fled to Buittle Castle, which Edward was unable to take at that time.

  The place of Robert the Bruce’s first parliament is generally believed to have been St. Andrews on March 6, 1309. However, some sources claim that Bruce had an earlier council or meeting at Ardchattan Priory, which is said to have been the last Scottish parliament in Gaelic.

  Bruce did indeed make a royal progress to thank the Highland chiefs who had come to his aid during those dark days after Methven. It made sense to me that he might have also used the progress to check up on some of his new allies. The progress probably occurred the following spring (March 1310), but as Bruce was in Loch Broom around August 1309, it could have been earlier.

  Duncan MacAulay held the oft-photographed castle of Eileen Donan for the MacKenzie chief. His castle on Loch Broom, however, is not named. I thought Dun Lagaidh, located on a key defensive position overlooking the sea loch, a possibility. The ancient dun was thought to have been converted to use as a castle during the medieval period (see: http://www.rcahms.gov.uk/).

  Although the “killing team” sent after Bruce is my invention, at this time there would have been plenty of enemies and resistance to a Bruce kingship—even in the part of Scotland he controlled north of the Tay. The factions and blood feuds had been going on for years, and the supporters of the MacDougalls and Comyns would not have given up so easily. Indeed, as I alluded to in the book, John of Lorn was still causing trouble out west and trying to make a return to Scotland.

  The inspiration for Bruce’s axe-in-the-forehead injury was taken from a dent over the left brow found in a cast made of what is believed to be his skull.

  Whether the recurring illness that first struck Bruce in the winter of 1307 on his campaign north was scurvy, leprosy, or something else (syphilis is also hypothesized) is all conjecture. But there is some support for leprosy—which might have been contracted at a later date—found in facial anomalies of the skull.

  The insp
iration for Gregor MacGregor’s arrow was Henry V, who at the age of sixteen was said to have had an arrowhead removed from just below his eye at a depth of six inches(!) by a presumably highly skilled medieval surgeon.

  The derivation of “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” is unknown, although it is sometimes attributed to an ancient Chinese general.

  A few minor notes: Dun Raith is my made-up name for the unnamed ancient Norse structure that predated what is now Castle Leod, and Loch Glascarnoch, where the royal party camps, is actually a later-date man-made loch.

  As always, please visit www.monicamccarty.com for picture books of some of the places mentioned in this book, extended Author’s Notes, deleted scenes, and more.

  “Ginger” hair doesn’t necessarily bode trouble.

  Right, Maxine (my soon-to-be-teenage daughter)?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A huge thank you to my editor, Kate Collins, who should be the poster girl for quick feedback. Of the eight (!) books we’ve worked on together, I think she’s batting a two- or three-day average response time. Pretty impressive—especially given her workload. As an author, I can’t tell you how wonderful it is not to sit on pins and needles waiting. And as always, thank you for helping me make my stories so much better with your insightful, thoughtful comments.

  Where would I be without Junessa Viloria, “gatekeeper” extraordinaire? Thank you for keeping everything running so smoothly. You are the best!

  To the entire Ballantine team for taking my manuscript from raw to polished in a gorgeous cover sitting prominently on shelves everywhere. Especially to Lynn Andreozzi and the Art Department for not one but two covers! I appreciate how hard you all work to get this done so quickly. Thank you.

  To my wonderful agents, Annelise Robey and Andrea Cirillo, for the constant and unwavering support. Annelise, I still smile when I think about the message you left for me after reading this book. Wish we still had answering machines so I could hit replay when I need a pep talk!

  Emily Cotler, Estella Tse, and the entire team at Wax Creative, thank you for keeping my website beautiful and up-to-date.

  I’m fortunate to have a large group of writer friends who are always ready to brainstorm, talk industry, and meet for lunch. Bella Andre, Barbara Freethy, Carol Grace, Anne Mallory, Tracy Grant, travel-buddy and fellow “Onica,” Veronica Wolff, and Jami Alden, who goes above and beyond the call of duty as my alpha (never beta) reader.

  Finally, to my husband, Dave, who has become quite good with the grill and has even been called on to pinch hit on the stove. Necessity is indeed the mother of invention. And to Reid and Maxine who prove the point: if they’re hungry enough, they’ll eat.

  BY MONICA MCCARTY

  The Saint

  The Viper

  The Ranger

  The Hawk

  The Chief

  Highland Warrior

  Highland Outlaw

  Highland Scoundrel

  Highlander Untamed

  Highlander Unmasked

  Highlander Unchained

  Read on for an excerpt from

  THE RECRUIT

  by Monica McCarty

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Kenneth was in his element, enjoying every minute of his moment in the sun. He’d been born for this. Fighting. Competing. Winning. Aye, most of all winning.

  It had taken him years of hard work, determination, and pulling himself out of the mud more times than he wanted to remember, but he was on the cusp of achieving what he’d wanted: to be the best.

  One more event to go and a place in Bruce’s secret army would be his. He was going to do this, he could feel it. He exulted in the cheers of the crowd, knowing they could feel it too. Fate and destiny had joined forces behind him, and nothing was going to stand in his way. For the first time, there would be no one in front of him. Tomorrow, after the wrestling event, he would be named champion.

  He’d already achieved something no man had ever done before, winning all five weapon events. In one more sign that fate was with him, he’d won the archery contest. It had taken the shot of his life to defeat John MacGregor, but he’d done so by less than a quarter of an inch.

  He wished he could have seen MacKay’s face. After tomorrow there would be no doubt that he deserved to take his place among the best warriors in Scotland in Bruce’s secret army, and his former rival wasn’t going to be able to do a damned thing to stop it.

  Kenneth glanced up to the king’s pavilion, pleased to see Bruce clapping along with the rest.

  That’s when he saw her. His wee voyeur.

  He’d found himself looking for her more than once over the past few days—four, he realized—and had begun to wonder whether he’d imagined her. But nay, there she was, sitting serenely and inauspiciously at the end of the king’s platform with Alexander MacKenzie and his wife. Was she one of Lady Margaret’s attendants, then?

  Solving the mystery should have been enough to put the matter behind him. Right now he should only be thinking of one thing: tomorrow’s contest. He shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like to be the one to cut those too-tight laces of hers and release some of the passion she had bottled up tightly beneath the austere facade.

  Hell, he knew there were men who fantasized about debauching a nun, he just hadn’t thought he was one of them. But he couldn’t deny the fierce hum that ran through his veins when he thought about ripping off that shapeless black gown that she donned like armor to reveal the wanton he’d glimpsed hiding beneath that fade-into-the background facade.

  He wanted to make her gasp. Wanted to see her lips part and color flood to her cheeks when he touched her. He wanted to be the one to make her shatter for the first time.

  To his surprise, when he caught her gaze, he found himself nodding to her. Acknowledging in some way that he hadn’t forgotten her. He’d never singled out a woman so publicly—or done anything that could be construed as romantic—and the gesture took him aback.

  Although he doubted anyone else had noticed, she did. He could have seen her eyes widen from halfway across Scotland, let alone the fifty or so paces that separated them. He was more amused than surprised when she immediately ducked behind the man in front of her. But if she thought she could escape him so easily, she was mistaken.

  He amended his earlier decision. Hell, he’d worked hard. He could afford to relax and enjoy a little pre-victory celebration. He wanted her, and waiting no longer seemed necessary.

  He started toward her, but he’d barely exited the arena before he found his path blocked by the first of many well-wishers. He heard some form of “Sir Kenneth, you were magnificent” from the female contingent, and “Bloody impressive fighting, Sutherland” from the male.

  After working so hard to get here, he should have been savoring every minute of this; it was what he’d always wanted. But instead he found himself impatiently scanning the platform and stairs where he’d last seen the lass. But the crowd was too thick and the lass too small for him to pick her out.

  He finally managed to extract himself. Threading his way to the base of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of black in the sea of colorful silk moving away from him. He smiled, thinking it ironic that her plain clothing, which he suspected was meant to hide, was what identified her.

  He would have gone after her, but Lady Moira caught him first. “Congratulations, Sir Kenneth, on yet another victory. Were you by chance looking for someone?” she batted her eyelashes so aggressively that he was tempted to ask whether she had something in her eye. Normally, such coquetry amused him, but right now he found it vaguely annoying.

  His mouth tightened as he saw his prey slipping away.

  Moira stood with Lady Elizabeth Lindsay, who seemed amused by her companion’s efforts. Lady Elizabeth was reputed to be devoted to her husband, and nothing Kenneth had seen suggested the contrary. She was friendly and polite, but nothing more. Which suited him just fine. Although she was a beautiful woman, she was shrewd, stu
bborn, and opinionated. He didn’t envy Lindsay the headache. Challenges were for the battlefield, not the bedchamber.

  “We are all trying to figure it out,” Lady Elizabeth said.

  “Figure what out?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder, trying to keep his eye on her.

  “Who the nod was for,” Lady Elizabeth said.

  He looked at her, barely hiding his surprise. “Nod?”

  “Aye, it created quite a stir. The ladies seated around me were all quite sure you were nodding to them,” Lady Elizabeth said with a smile.

  Ah hell, he guessed it had been more noticeable than he realized. Kenneth hid his reaction behind a wicked smile. “I was,” he said.

  Lady Moira nearly yelped with pleasure, clapping her hands together. “I knew it, to whom?”

  “I’ll leave that to you to find out,” he said with a playful wink. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I see my sister, and I need to have her patch me up so I’ll be ready for tomorrow’s competition.”

  It was only partially a lie. The blow he’d taken across the ribs was starting to throb beneath his habergeon. The shirt of mail offered scant protection against the impact of steel on bone. He suspected he had a fairly nasty bruise brewing. He would see Helen to fix it up, but after he caught up with his little nun, who was weaving her way through the crowd at nearly a run in her effort to avoid him.

  She was only running from the inevitable. Almost as certain as he was that he would win tomorrow, Kenneth was certain that before the night was out, he would have her under him. Or perhaps on top of him.

  He felt a pleasant tightening in his groin just thinking about it.

  She’d just passed through the gate into the castle when he saw her stop and turn.

  “Mary, wait!” he heard someone—a woman—say. He turned, recognizing the speaker as Lady Margaret MacKenzie. “Where are you going in such a rush?”