by Mary Morgan
Shaking his head to rid himself of the past, Adam blinked, casting his sight once again on the rainbow.
“Ye always understood in the magic of these colors, my Meggie.” His voice shook with emotion as he fought a familiar wave of despair.
Feeling the prod on his shoulder, Adam looked over his shoulder. “Aye, Ciar, ye foul smelling beast. I ken ye have had your fill of my miserable mood. Ye should ken I would have felt the pain of her loss more keenly here.”
His warhorse snickered softly and pawed the ground with its hoof.
Clutching his cross once again, Adam lifted his head to the rainbow. “I pray there are many rainbows for ye to gaze upon in Heaven, Meggie.”
With a heavy sigh, he mounted his horse and moved along toward Castle Leomhann.
Hours later, Adam passed over the bridge to his former home. Pausing briefly at the gates, he chose to remain silent and waited until one of the guards recognized him. This was not the return of the honored brother—only one who wished to make his peace and leave this place filled with ghosts, as quickly as possible. He did not favor a welcome of rousing cheers, so when the guard, Ross, came to the gate, Adam showed his clan colors. The old guard knew him well and waved him onward.
Adam’s mount ambled along slowly through the bailey, onward to the stables. As he dismounted, a young lad of no more than ten came rushing forward.
“Are ye the MacFhearguis they are searching for?” The lad’s eyes went wide as he gazed at Adam and back to his great warhorse.
“Searching? Who would search for me?” His response was almost a growl, and the boy took a few steps back.
“’Tis your…br…brothers,” stammered the boy.
Closing his eyes, Adam tempered the anger beginning to rise. It was always thus when he was around his kin. He was the youngest brother. His voice—his opinion never important enough for Michael, the oldest, to hear. His laird always deemed it best for him to remain silent. Aye, his other brothers, Alex and Patrick, may have listened to Adam, but there were times when they urged him not to argue with their laird.
“And where might I find my brothers?” Adam asked in a much calmer tone.
“They have not returned,” interjected Calum walking up alongside the young lad. He placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Why don’t ye take Adam’s horse into the stables, Donald.”
Adam meant to object to the boy taking his horse, however, Calum gave him a stern look of warning before he could utter a retort. “Be wary of his right side, for he cannae see well out of his eye.”
“Was he injured in battle?” asked Donald as he gripped the reins.
“Aye, one too many.” He watched the young boy slowly lead Ciar away, all the while whistling a soft tune.
“Dinnae fear. The lad has a way with the animals. It reminds me of another young boy from long ago.” The man Adam had ken since childhood spoke again.
“I am no longer that boy.”
Calum shifted slightly. “Nae. He died many moons ago.” The old man sighed heavily and clasped Adam’s shoulder. “’Tis good to have ye back home. Now, go wash the muck from your travels and eat. I will look after Ciar. Ye both have the look of hell hounds after a battle.” Giving Adam a small smile, he walked away.
Adam rubbed a hand over his weary face, stopping to scratch at a beard that sorely needed to come off. As he strode toward the entrance of the castle, many paused in their duties to give him a nod, smile, or salute. Grateful that none engaged him in conversation, his steps quickened, and he hastily made it inside and up the stairs. Upon reaching his chambers, Adam entered and bolted the door behind him. Glancing around, he noticed that all was the same as he remembered the last day before he left for the Crusades with Father Belton.
Dust and cobwebs hung near the windows, and the dampness of the room matched his mood within. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to breathe evenly. What were ye thinking coming back here? The memories are rife of times with her. Ye should have fled north to the Isles. Upon those thoughts came another. Why was his room not clean? He had been gone for several years.
Pounding the wall with his fist, Adam moved toward the window. Swiping at the wispy cobwebs, he cast his gaze out to the hills. Sunlight danced off the wet trees, yet dark clouds loomed nearby. He knew what lay beyond—the standing stones. A place where he would bury the past. Say one last good-bye and never return.
The standing stones called out to him along with Meggie’s ghost.
He leaned against the cold wall for support. “I cannae live in a place where your laughter surrounds me, or where your face is what I see in the soft grasses waving in a nearby meadow. Nae. I must leave ye here. I beg ye will forgive me, my bonny Meggie.”
Hearing a soft rap on his door, Adam moved away from the wall and his misery. Upon opening the door, the steward, Drostan, entered carrying several tunics and trews. No sooner did he cross the threshold than a young woman brought in a pitcher and a number of mugs. She placed them on his table and quickly departed the room.
The older man smiled warmly. “Your brothers will be pleased to ken ye have returned home. I shall fetch someone to clean and light a fire in your chamber.” Placing the clothing on the bed, he gave Adam a slight nod. “Anice has heard of your presence and is preparing your favorite foods. Ye should see all the bustling about in the kitchens. The tub off the kitchens is being filled for your bath.”
Adam grimaced. “I thank ye for bringing me fresh clothing, but ye did not have to do so. My brothers may rejoice in my return, but I shall not be staying long.”
Drostan frowned in confusion. “They have been distraught over your absence. Many moons have we all seen their anguish. They searched the Highlands for some time looking for ye.”
“Humph!” Moving to the table, Adam filled his mug. “How is the laird these days?”
“Ye have not heard the news?” asked a stunned Drostan.
“What? Did he finally marry?” Intent on quenching his thirst, he barely heard Drostan’s next response.
“Your brother, Michael, is dead.”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Adam stumbled to the chair by the hearth. Drostan fetched the pitcher and refilled the mug Adam still held.
“When?”
“Och, twelve moons.”
“Sweet Mother Mary,” he rasped out. He may have disliked his older brother—his laird, but he was his kin. Blood of the same blood, and the blow of this knowledge left an ache within his heart. Adam glanced up at the steward. “How?”
Drostan’s lips thinned, and he moved to the table, setting the pitcher down. “Ye should speak with your brothers when they return. They will be here on the morrow.”
Adam stood slowly. “But I am asking ye.”
“There is much ye dinnae understand. ’Tis not my place to tell ye. Your brothers will tell ye all.”
“Ye cannae expect me to hear such news and not give me an account of my brother’s death. If ye choose not to tell me, I shall find another to recount the details.” Adam glared at the man, trying to keep his fury in check.
“By the hand of Alastair MacKay.”
Adam flung his mug across the room. “Is the MacKay dead, as well? Did my brothers avenge his death?”
“He lives, but Michael’s death was justified.”
“Justified?” roared Adam. “By all that’s holy, what in the hell do ye mean? The MacKays should all be dead! The very air they breathe is tainted by their infernal lives.”
Drostan shook his head slowly. “Again, there is much ye need to hear from your brothers. The MacKays were not to blame.”
Fisting his hands on his hips, Adam looked at the steward as if he had lost his mind. “Can ye not explain further?”
“Nae, I will not.” Without giving Adam a chance to respond, Drostan left the chamber.
“Is everyone mad?” he shouted. He walked over and retrieved his mug off the floor. Reaching for the pitcher, he filled it to the brim and drank deeply. Ad
ams’s hand shook, his rage so great. “All the MacKays should rot in the fires of hell,” he growled.
Taking the pitcher with him, he left his chambers and ascended the narrow passageway leading to the parapet. He had no desire to be around the others. He feared he would lash out with words or worse a blade.
Pushing open the massive oak door, he was greeted once again with an icy, brittle rain. And Adam embraced the sting of torment.
Chapter Two
“If you hear the call of the raven, be wary of her song of war.”
Screams filled his head as he blocked another blow from the enemy. They were without mercy as they swung their blades, hacking at anyone who dared to cross their path. Dust and smoke clouded his vision, while he searched for the other Templar Knights. He tried in vain, screaming out in Latin and French, so that they may ken help was near, but stifling heat made it difficult to breathe, and his words came out garbled. Adam shouted once again—this time in his own language, so his friends would ken it was him and not the enemy.
Yet, when he moved forward, slashing his way through the enemy, he stumbled upon the slaughtered bodies of the men he called friends. Heads severed from their shoulders and clothing shredded from their corpses. The blood pooled around them in a grisly river of red. “Nae!” he roared, clutching his head and stumbling away. The stench of death filled him. His stomach lurched, and he emptied what little he had in it against the wall.
Groaning, Adam opened his eyes and blinked in confusion—pushing aside the remnants of the nightmare from his mind. His last thoughts were of sitting on the cold stone at the parapet and drinking far too much on an empty belly. Clutching at the furs, he attempted to sit. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered. The room spun, and he clenched his eyes shut. He could not recall how he managed to make it back to his room last evening. Taking deep calming breaths, he slowly opened his eyes once more.
“Welcome home, Adam,” greeted Patrick, sitting across from him.
Adam stared at his brother for a few moments and then made to stand. Patrick was there in two strides to help steady him. He waited until the dizziness passed and then shrugged out of his brother’s embrace. Stumbling toward the table, he braced his arms on the rough wood. Seeing the trencher of meat and cheese, he shoved it aside and sniffed at the contents of the pitcher. Relieved to find it held only water, he lifted and drank deeply.
“Did ye bring me back to my chambers?” he asked as he glanced over his shoulder at Patrick.
“Aye, along with Alex. Upon hearing how ye spoke with Drostan, we figured ye went up to the parapet. Ye often went there to brood.”
Adam could see the wariness etched across his brother’s face. Lines of worry creased his brow, and his hands were clasped behind his back. Remembering Drostan’s words that his brothers had searched the Highlands for him, guilt haunted Adam. He gave his brother a slight nod as he took a piece of bread and cheese. Walking over to the hearth, he chewed the food slowly. So many questions filled him, but only one burned within his mind.
“Why have ye returned, if your plans will have ye leaving?” Patrick asked, not giving time for Adam to blurt out his one question.
Adam sighed and gazed into the flames. Finishing the last bite of bread, he wiped the crumbs from his face. Turning to face Patrick, he replied, “To close the door on the past—to forge a new life away from the pain. A final pilgrimage.”
Patrick unclasped his hands and went to Adam. “Ye will always carry the pain of losing her. Ye cannae think that in another land away from Scotland ye would fare better. This is your home.”
Adam realized part of his brother’s words rang true. “Aye, the pain traveled with me—even to the distant lands I journeyed during my time away, but here”—he waved his hand about—“she dwelt and her spirit lingers. ’Tis stronger, the pain of her loss.”
“There is much we need to discuss before ye depart once again.” Patrick’s tone waxed curt.
“Aye, like how our brother, Michael, died by the hand of a MacKay—the verra one who still lives! Pray tell me why, Patrick? Have ye and Alex gone soft?”
“We—your new laird and I, will account all that has happened in your absence. Then, if ye deem ye need to depart, I will open the gates myself. Ye return two years later, not the man who left. Where did your travels take ye that harden your heart and tongue further?”
“To the Holy Lands with the Templar Knights,” stated Adam, seeing the shock mar his brother’s face.
Patrick grasped his shoulders. “By the hounds! Your travels took ye that far? Why would ye take up with them? They are with the new religion.”
“I believe in the new religion, and the pilgrimage was an attempt to wash the blood of Meggie’s death from my soul. In truth, I will never find peace, and the Crusades are one I dinnae wish to discuss.”
Releasing him, Patrick stared in obvious alarm. “I do not ken who ye are.” He turned and started for the door, but hesitated. “The tub has been filled—again. When ye have bathed, seek us out in the laird’s chambers.”
When the door closed, Adam rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes. The weight of his travels crushed him body and soul. He gave no care for Patrick’s outburst, nor did he worry what Alex thought about his beliefs. He would hear their account and then he would leave. “One last journey,” he whispered.
****
An hour later, Adam entered Alex’s chambers without knocking. Patrick turned from the window and gave him a pointed look, but Alex walked forward and embraced him.
“Ye have been sorely missed, Adam. ’Tis good to see ye have returned home.”
Adam felt like an outsider, unable to welcome the greeting from his brother.
Alex took a step back. “So ye have traveled far and with the Templars. I would like to hear of your time across these vast lands.”
His brothers could not begin to fathom. “The road was filled with blood. Naught to share.”
Shrugging, Alex went and poured some ale into several mugs. He handed one to Patrick and the other to Adam. Holding his cup high, he said, “Regardless of the past, ye have ventured back home—”
As Adam started to object and let his brother know his stay was not a long one, Alex held up his hand to halt his words.
“It does not matter how long. We shall embrace this time.” He motioned for Adam to take a chair.
Nodding slowly, Adam sat and took a sip of the ale.
“Have ye broken your fast?” asked Alex, as he moved to his desk.
“Aye. Anice made sure I ate all before leaving the hall.”
Patrick snorted, and Alex rubbed his hand across his face in an attempt to hide the smile.
“Ye do look like ye could add a stone or two on ye,” stated his older brother. “Travels can make a man thin.”
Adam looked at Alex across the rim of his cup for a few moments. He would make a far better laird for the clan than Michael. Setting his mug down, he folded his arms across his chest. “What happened to Michael?”
“Our brother—our laird had slowly been losing his wits. Do ye remember the druid, Lachlan?” Alex refilled his mug and took a deep swallow.
“Aye. I never cared for the man. There was something odd about him, and Michael always listened to his counsel.”
Patrick pointed a finger at Alex. “See! I was not the only one who thought the druid was vile. So did Adam. And let us not forget, the MacKays thought the druid was dead.”
Adam unfolded his arms. “Ye speak as if the MacKays are allies. Why are we not at war with them?”
“They are now our friends,” stated Alex quietly. He glanced at Patrick. “Sit down and stop glaring at me. I had my suspicions but held back from stating them to ye.”
“Humph!” Refilling his mug, Patrick took a seat across from Adam. “Continue, my laird.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “As I was saying, our brother’s mind was not all here.” He tapped his head to get his point across. “Lachlan was…controlling him through magic.”<
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“Magic?” hissed Adam. The very word had him reeling.
“Aye. With each new moon, Michael became more wild—uncontrolled. One day, he came upon Alastair MacKay and his woman. He kidnapped both. Tortured Alastair and almost raped his woman. Fortunately, Patrick interrupted them before the deed was done. Ever since ye have left, Michael was steadfast in claiming the relics of the Dragon Knights. His intent was to bleed Alastair to assume the power.”
“’Tis madness,” whispered Adam. “How did he die? I can only fathom that Alastair escaped and took out his revenge against Michael.”
Patrick shifted in his chair. “I helped Alastair and his lady escape. I took them to Urquhart lands and Michael followed. Alastair spared his life after they fought. Nevertheless, it was Michael who tossed his dagger at the departing MacKay. In the end, Alastair reacted as a trained warrior and killed Michael.”
“Why would this bring about a bond of alliance?” asked Adam, confused and wary.
“We have been helping the MacKays with this evil that has spread across the lands. Patrick and I have witnessed the destructive power of Lachlan when he first challenged Duncan MacKay—”
“Duncan MacKay?” roared Adam, clenching his fists. “His sword was the one that took the life of Margaret! I would have stepped aside and let Lachlan destroy him.”
“And let evil win?” Alex shook his head sadly. “Nae. Ye have not been here to see how he wields the dark magic. Since your absence, the darkness has grown.”
Adam glanced at Patrick and then back to Alex. “’Tis a strange place I have returned to, where enemies stand together.”
“The MacKays are no longer our enemies,” protested the new laird. “We have battled side by side with them. Death has come to many on our lands. The druids believe Lachlan wove his foul magic before the night that claimed Margaret. He used the Dragon Knights in much the same as Michael. Lachlan is verra powerful, and his force strengthens with each passing moon.”
His gut twisted at the continued mentioning of magic and druids. Standing, Adam walked to the window. “Magic and druids. Their time is coming to an end.”
