Highland Scandal

by Mageela Troche

  Patches of brown earth broke through the snow and bare trees dotted the vista. The land stretched out before them.

  “Ma, you’re makin’ me shake.” He laughed between the chatter of his teeth.

  His little body felt much warmer. A cold settled in her chest and deep within her bones. Her limbs were heavy, but she forced them to wrap around Kenny. Her palfrey moved along the drover trail that was a scant wider than an animal trail.

  The snow glittered from the light broke and cast outreaching shadows of bare branches. The wind rushed from her right, stirring the crisp scents of decaying fauna and damp earth made sharp by the cold. The horse shied, whining as its ears twitched. She tightened the reins before her mount sprinted away. Then she heard it. Wolves.

  A streak of gray caught her eye. On the edge of the trail a wolf stood, watching her. The beast was thin with matted fur. Its slanted, yellow eyes met her own. Two more trotted forward. Their hackles rose. The low growl rumbled as they bared fangs.

  “Ma.” She hushed him as he clutched her and a handful of her flesh.

  From behind her, a throaty rumbling snarl vibrated. Slowly, she turned her head while trying to keep an eye on the others. Two wolves prowled closer. She inhaled a sharp breath at the largest one, the alpha male. The beast was the size of a small boy and as thick as a young man. His head was low. Its hackles were high. White circled the yellow eyes, which were made more frightening by the trim of black fur about its thick head. It snarled, revealing its sharp teeth and red gums. With shaking hands, she wrapped her fingers around her bow. She hooked two fingers around the loop of her quiver.

  The alpha leapt onto the horse’s flank. Her palfrey reared up. She fell. She tightened her hold on Kenny’s and twisted so she landed with him atop her. The air flew out her chest. Her head slammed against the frozen earth. Kenny’s cries blended with the snarls of the wolves. Dazed, she hurried to her feet. A mother’s instinct to protect her child gave her strength.

  She tucked Kenny behind her. These beasts were hungry and though they might make a meal of her horse, they weren’t feasting on the flesh of her and her son. She hadn’t risked their lives to be a meal and have their bones pick clean the animal’s fangs. Under the watchful glare of the pack, she reached out a hand and grabbed an arrow from her quiver. She fumbled, from fear and lack of strength, to notch the bow. She grimaced as she primed the arrow. Her arms shook. She unfurled her fingers letting the arrow fly. It landed at the alpha’s front paws.

  Its yellow eyes landed on it. His hackles rose. She had enraged him. That was fine. Beneath the layer of her icy fear, she was enraged, too. She groped for another one. She shot.

  The arrow embedded in the eye. It wasn’t the alpha. The small one had leapt over its leader and now lain strewn in the center of the trail. The alpha leapt over its fallen pack member and prowled forward.

  She used the distraction to grab her quiver and looped it on her shoulder.

  Calmer, she notched another one. “Hold tight to me and start backing away.” She took a step back. Her senses primed. Around the scent of blood, fur and fear was as the thick cold. Her hairs on her nape crackled. Though, her skin was covered in goose bumps, sweat broke out along her hairline. Kenny gripped and pulled on her leine. His childish footsteps crunched snow and blended with his cries. The wolves’ claws scraped the snow and ice as they prowled closer. Her bottom lip trembled. Her blood pounded around her skull.

  A grey blur burst from the corner of her eye. She swung toward it and shot the wolf. Not bothering to look, she heard the injured whelp’s cries. She primed another one and shot at another wolf. She notched and shot. Time again. Until only her, Kenny, and two wolves remained.

  She reached for another arrow. She felt nothing. There were no more.

  Chapter Six

  The journey had been uneventful and mostly dull. The boat trip up from MacLean lands to the firth had been the worse. He couldn’t find a place to himself. Semias was always at his side, telling him every detail of Clan Gordon. Lachlan had thought of throwing the auld man into the loch. That seemed rude. Instead, Lachlan aimed his gaze on the scenery and made grunting sounds of agreement. He was starting to regret being Laird.

  “Do you remember anything about your time here?”

  “Nay.”

  Semias frowned, drawing down the leathery skin of his face. A suspicion nagged at Lachlan. Semias appeared wounded at his lack of memory. Truth was he did everything within his power to forget that place and that life.

  “Perhaps when I arrive at the castle some might return.” What? For some tender and useless reason, Lachlan felt as if he owed the man, to protect his feelings. He shook his head.

  “What can you tell me?” He motioned with a wave of his hand to the land.

  “You know nothing about your—the clan?”

  “I know I was not welcomed.”

  “Have you not kept up with the clan news?”

  “Semias, I heard, of course, but I never bothered to listen, so why don’t you tell me.”

  He nodded. “The harvests are very plentiful since the land is lush. The best uisge beatha is produced here.” He pursed his lips and his nostrils flared, making his long, sharp nose appear larger on his thin face.

  “Speak, Semias.”

  He turned his watery gaze to the men riding behind them. “I understand your…distaste for the clan however, I wish you will not be mistreating your followers.”

  “I may be a bastard. I have cut men without a care for my soul. However, I am not a cruel man.”

  “No insult, Laird. However, I have more years than you and anger has a way of festering. Do not bring it to your leadership. There is unrest among the clan as it is.”

  “Unrest?”

  “Your father’s murderer must be dealt with. You must secure your position. Your cousin Jonty has split the clan. Some men have gone to follow him and he plans to usurp you from your position.”

  “I have a cousin. I doubt he considers me in such kindred terms.”

  “His words to describe you have not been so genial.”

  “Good. I would not want to think the Gordons are softening. Tell me of this Jonty. Shh.” He held up his finger. His horse tossed back his head. Wulver’s nostrils flared, catching the scent of danger that Lachlan failed to detect. A palfrey galloped by.

  A child’s cry carried on the rushing wind racing through the glen. The snarl of wolves chased behind it.

  He loosened his seat and set off toward the sound. A plaid-cloaked figure struggled to flee the two beasts on his heels. Lachlan drew his claymore.

  “Behind me,” he screamed. He gave his horse his head. Wulver lengthened his stride, ready for a fight. Lachlan swung his sword in an arc and chopped the beast in mid-hurl. The other one skidded to a halt and turned around running with its tail tucked between its legs.

  Pulling up his mount, he leapt from his saddle. The figure had crumpled to the ground and hunched over, seemingly buried his face in the snow.

  “Are you harmed?” He craned his neck to see beyond the furs covering his head.

  The furs shook and a face looked up. He fell to his knees. “Rowen.”

  Cold had burned her skin, turning her creamy hue to a blistered red but for the tip of her chin and nose, which was bloodless. Tears had frozen on her lashes. Her lips were cracked and blood froze in their cuts.

  The furs moved and a muffled grunt came from it. Then a dark haired boy—her son—appeared from the nestle of furs Tears tracks marred his round cheeks. He appeared in better health than Rowen, but not by much.

  “Help me.” She crumbled in the snow.

  He scooped her and her son into his arms. A rush of cold permeated the layers of fur, plaid and linen. He hissed as it spread across his flesh. Gordon men formed a half-circle behind him. One man held his horse. He hadn’t even realized he had walked by him.

  “Is she harmed?” Semias peered down at Rowen.

  “I do not believe so, but she is in dan
ger. Hurry to the castle.”

  Reluctantly, he handed Rowen over while he mounted. “Have the lad ride with you.”

  Her son screamed and clutched at Rowen, grabbing her hair, her leine and anything he could wrap his tiny fingers around. “Nay, Ma! Ma! Stay with my ma!”

  “Son, you have to ride with Aindrea. We must hurry and get her cared for. I will not allow anything to befall her.”

  He blinked up at him and sniffled. He released her. “You take care of my ma or I’ll run you through.”

  “I shall.”

  He already felt as though he had been sliced from throat to groin and the claymore caught in his ballocks. He galloped away, leaving the others to follow. Semias called out to him. He gave no response, not even a glance. He had never wanted to get to Gordon lands more than now.

  “Rowen, do not die.”

  “I won’t.” Her eyes fluttered. A sliver of white peeked out from her near-white lashes before they fell and rested against the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

  Wulver hooves flew over the earth as it galloped across the land, not losing his long held stamina that was the envy of every man. The drumming beat was slower than his heart rate. The thump-thump of his blood notched his impatience. He hugged Rowen tightly to him to share his heat with her, and not because for the first time in years, he felt an ease within his soul.

  At the meeting of the two lochs, Gordon Castle stood guard over the strath. Morning sunlight cut through the cloud cover and danced over the motte castle before flitting away across the strath. The stone tower rose from the mound and was surrounded by a thick defensive stonewall.

  He charged into the courtyard. The drum of a dozen hooves heralded his arrival. Stillness came over the space. With no help, Lachlan dismounted. “See to my horse,” he ordered over his shoulder.

  He took the stairs two at a time to the great hall. A young servant girl was on her knees, cleaning the floors. She gaped up at him.

  “Get me a healer and set water to boil.” He rushed by her to the Laird’s Chamber at the other end of the hall. He kicked open the iron-banded door. He laid Rowen in the center of the bed. She mumbled and curled onto her side. He threw off his fur then he added more peat to the small fire.

  He wiped his hands on his plaid and perched on the bed. He grasped her hand and rubbed it between his own. He never felt the cold like a true highlander. He rubbed and rubbed, scraping her flesh so warmth returned to her bones.

  “Who ye be?”

  He turned his attention to the woman glaring at him from the threshold. “Where is the healer?”

  She blinked and stepped from Semias’ way.

  “Laird,” Semias said as he crept into the room. “Mistress Cullen is the healer. However, Mistress Murray should be brought to another chamber.”

  Lachlan rose with achingly slowness that he had no time to squander. “This is still the Laird’s Chamber?” At Semias’s nod, he asked, “The best chamber in this place?” Another nod and Lachlan said, “Then this is where she shall stay.”

  A bellow for his mother reached Lachlan’s ear. The wee lad pushed between their legs. “Come here, lad.”

  The boy ran to him and skidded to a stop. Lachlan rested a hand on the boy’s stiff shoulder, feeling tremors racking his little body. “Your mother is ill and requires care. Can you be a brave lad for her?”

  “Aye.” He straightened and threw his shoulders back, appearing very much a MacKenzie warrior but for his coloring.

  “Go see your mother.”

  The boy leapt on the bed. “Ma, Ma.” He shook her shoulder.

  Lachlan looked away, swallowing back the knot in his throat. “Get the lad food, dry clothing and prepare a space for us.”

  “Kenny.” The croaky whisper sent chills down his spine. “We are safe.” She curled her arm around her son and hugged him to her. Over his head, she looked at Lachlan.

  He moved forward, pulled by her. Her limpid, blue eyes were glazed with fever.

  “Protect him. Don’t let him kill him…”

  She struggled to stay awake and failed.

  “I won’t.”

  She wasn’t safe yet. Not from him…

  * * * *

  Rowen struggled to turn away from the fire. The flames licked at her skin, devouring her from the inside out. An oppressive weight pressed on her. She couldn’t flee. Her arms were pinned to her side. She peeled apart her lips. A faintly metallic taste touched her taste buds. Her tongue darted out but her mouth was too dry to give her any relief.

  Cool liquid flooded her mouth. She drank greedily, only for it to be taken away. She groaned. The croak flayed the tender flesh of her throat.

  “I know it delicious, but you can’t have too much.”

  “Lach…lan.”

  She felt a cool, firm touch on her brow. Her eyes felt sealed. With all her will, she forced them open. A blurred face hovered above her. Slowly, the face cleared. She struggled to smile.

  “All well,” she mumbled as she lost the fight to stay up.

  She was pulled down into a wooly, watery world. Oddly enough, she never cooled. Then she heard howling wolves. The cries blared in her ears as if their claws ripped at her. There was nothing but blackness. She tried to run. A black mire seized her legs. She tugged and tugged, twisting, and she sank deeper. She knew not to struggle, but some instinct in her bowels forced her to fight.

  “Ma…Ma.” Kenny’s fearful tone broke up the howling. The blackness hid him. She stretched out her hands to find him. Had the wolves gotten him?

  She opened her mouth to call out to him. There was no sound. She opened her mouth again. Her neck muscles strained. Her lungs pulled, drawing all the air from its sacs. A hand clapped over her mouth.

  Laird Murray sprung at her. He grasped her by the neck. His fingers pinched her and cut off her breath. His dull, blond hair hung in greasy stalks over his face. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. The vein in the center of his heavily creased forehead pulsated. He bellowed. She couldn’t hear him above the rapid drum echoing in her ears.

  “I killed him. Fed him to the wolves.” He held out his hands. Soft, rounded limbs rested in the center of his palms. Blood dripped. Ping. Ping. He let them fall. The bones rattled as if striking stones. He reached behind him and held up a chopped off head. Kenny’s. Where his true brown eyes were to be, there was nothing but empty sockets. His flesh fell from his face.

  Rowen dropped down and struggled to pick up the pieces to put him back together. But the pieces melted away.

  Arms grabbed at her. Kenny’s hiccupping cries surrounded her. She screamed for him.

  “You have killed him.” Eacharn peeled away from the blackness and raised a fleshless finger at her.

  “Nay, I tried to save him.” She held out her hands palms up. “I had him in my arms. I never betrayed you.”

  “Your betrayal killed my son.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  A wolf leaped over him and sank his fangs into her neck. She clutched handfuls of fur. A female cry rent the air.

  * * * *

  Lachlan pulled her fingers free from his hair. “I knew you still had fight in you.” He rubbed his head, sending a few ripped-out strands flying.

  “Ma.” Kenny climbed atop her. He lay upon her chest, curling up and appearing very much the wee lad he was, though he had acted brave. He sniffled and his mouth trembled. “Wake up, Ma.”

  “Kenny, she’ll wake soon once the fever breaks. Come away and let…” He glanced at the servant girl, silently asking her name.

  “Ceiteag.”

  “Ceiteag feed her the broth.” He scooped up the boy. Kenny weighed nothing, but was solid in his arms. He looked nothing like his father or his mother. His hair was brown and the torchlight gleamed off his fine strands and turned them a burnished red. His eyes were brown with hints of yellow and ambers. His skin was darker than Rowen’s flawless, pearlescent coloring. True, the MacKenzies held dark coloring in their family. Yet he lacked the bl
ack hair and eyes of this boy’s uncle Magnus. He must favor the Murray line.

  “Sit with me and tell me about yourself.” Lachlan set him on a stool and leaned against the wall.

  Kenny turned his red-rimmed eyes to the floor. Through the strands hanging over half his face, Kenny peeked up at him. He nibbled the corner of his lower lip. Lachlan pulled up a stool and settled beside the lad.

  “I am a friend of your uncle Caelen. We were fostered together under the auld Laird MacLean.”

  “Really? He’s the Viking Highlander.” His childish voice stumbled over Viking.

  Lachlan grinned. “That he is. I would not want to be on the sharp end of his sword.”

  “Ma says he is the finest warrior in all the lands. She said I am tall like him.”

  Lachlan took stock of the lad. He straightened under Lachlan’s gaze, holding his head high. “Aye, she is right.”

  “Is he as tall as you?”

  Lachlan looked down at his legs stretched out before him. “He is taller than me, but not by much.”

  “Ma says I shall be as great a warrior as he.”

  “Aye, it’s in your blood. You are a MacKenzie.”

  “Seanathair says I’m a Murray. I am to be laird.”

  His grandfather was wrong. This boy held none of the Murray traits. The lad was not short and barrel-shaped. This lad was tall and straight. But for his coloring, Lachlan might think he was looking at a young Caelen.

  “Do you wish you were home?”

  He rolled up his right shoulder so the bone brushed against his ear. “Ma dinna like it since Da died. Seanathair told her she’d go home to MacKenzie.”

  “What about you?”

  “I go wit Ma.”

  Lachlan doubted that. He would not say it to the lad. Though he belonged to Rowen until he came of age to be fostered, he fell under the rule of his mother. Laird Murray must have other plans for the boy, plans excluding his mother.

  He peered over his shoulder to the woman who had haunted him these years. There were nights he awoke with his seed sticky on his thigh and coated with a fine sheen of sweat. Sometimes, he heard her call for him. He would spin around to find her only to shake off the shiver charging down his spine. Or the days he felt broken, the pain cramping within him. He even laid his hand over his heart, unsure of what stormed within him.