The Warrior

by Margaret Mallory

  Ian and Alex had joined them, rounding out the foursome.

  “Well, Connor, ’tis obvious to the rest of us what ye ought to do,” Alex said, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. “’Tis time ye found a fine lass to take that dreary look off your face.”

  “As chieftain, you’re slacking in your duty to produce heirs,” Ian added.

  “If you’ve forgotten,” Alex said, “the activity we’re talking about is a good deal more enjoyable with a partner.”

  Connor’s laugh was strained. “The times are still too unsettled for me to know which marriage alliance will be best for the clan.”

  He went on about the rebellion and court factions fighting, but they had heard Connor’s reasons for waiting before, and none of them was listening.

  “There’s nothing that says that when ye choose a wife,” Ian said, slapping Connor on the back, “ye can’t serve the clan and please yourself.”

  “My father and grandfather pleased themselves, and look what that did,” Connor said.

  The prior chieftains’ relations with multiple women had caused the clan endless strife and grief. Connor was determined not to follow the same path.

  “I believe I won our wager,” Connor went on, changing the subject. “Pay up, lads.”

  “’Tis hardly fair when ye told Duncan when to wed,” Alex said.

  “One of the few advantages of being chieftain,” Connor said, and held his hand out.

  Duncan was pleased to see Connor’s humor returning.

  “I don’t know what made ye bring Sarah with ye, since ye didn’t know that she is Duncan’s sister,” Moira said, and rested her hand on her brother’s arm. “But I’m so glad ye did.”

  “’Tis hard to say nay to that wee lass,” Connor said, shaking his head. “Sarah wailed and wept until I gave in.”

  Duncan expected there would be shouting at times between Moira and Sarah, as they were both strong-willed and Sarah was unaccustomed to a mother’s firm hand. But he was equally certain that there would be plenty of love between them as well to smooth their way.

  “The wedding feast is ready,” Ilysa said, after coming up quietly behind them. “Everyone is waiting for ye to take your seats.”

  Duncan was starving.

  “Ilysa intends to go to Trotternish and set up Connor’s household there,” Moira whispered to Duncan as they made their way to the high table.

  “I won’t permit it!” When Moira dug her fingers into his arm, Duncan lowered his voice. “If she’s running the chieftain’s household without her own family there, everyone will think she’s his mistress.”

  “Finding her a husband will solve the problem,” Moira said in a low voice.

  “Hmmph. I’ll leave that to you,” Duncan said. “I must help Connor choose a reliable man to be the new captain of his guard. Tait is loyal and a good fighter, but he’s no leader.”

  Duncan did not like the idea of Connor sitting up there at Trotternish Castle surrounded by MacLeods. And then there was Hugh, who was as intent as ever on murdering him. Alex had brought word that Hugh was already gathering more men in the outer isles with promises of plunder—and there was even a rumor that Rhona was with him.

  Tomorrow, the four of them would discuss Hugh and how to force the MacLeods off the lands they had stolen. But today was Duncan’s wedding day, and it was a glorious day.

  “Let’s sit down and enjoy our wedding feast,” Moira said, smiling up at him.

  It was a grand meal, with a good deal of toasting and laughter.

  “I’m lucky to have a husband with a voracious appetite,” Moira said and gave him a wink as he speared another slab of roasted pork.

  He squeezed her thigh under the table and wished it was time for the bedding part of the wedding. But after the food was cleared away, there was music and dancing.

  Before Caitlin MacCrimmon would agree to dance with Niall, she insisted on lifting his tunic to make certain his wound had healed well enough. As the wound was quite high on Niall’s thigh, this caused a bit of a stir.

  “All three of the MacNeil lasses look disappointed,” Moira said in Duncan’s ear after the girls’ mother scolded them for staring and dragged them away.

  Duncan waited impatiently through a few tunes before he caught Uilleam MacCrimmon’s eye. Uilleam nodded and then stepped into the center of the hall playing his pipes. When he had everyone’s attention, he stopped playing and announced, “The groom has a song to sing to his bride.”

  Duncan stood where he was and sang unaccompanied.

  Black is the color of my true love’s hair

  Her lips are like some roses fair

  He took Moira’s hand and helped her to her feet. Then he lifted her in his arms and continued singing as he carried her around the hall. Moira’s cheeks turned pink, but she was laughing and enjoying herself.

  She has got the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands

  And I love the ground whereon she stands

  When the people in the hall realized Duncan was carrying her to the bedchamber, they clapped and cheered.

  I love my love and well she knows

  I love the ground whereon she goes

  Duncan kicked the door shut behind him. The bedchamber was hardly recognizable from when it was Connor’s. Moira and Ilysa had decorated the entire room with holly and other greenery, and the grand chieftain’s furniture and tapestries had been returned to it.

  Duncan’s bride looked up at him with violet eyes that were full of love. He had waited until he and Moira were alone to sing the final lines of his song to her.

  Now the day has finally come

  When you and I will live as one

  Duncan felt as if he had waited his whole life to become one with Moira. After loving her for so long, she was his at last and forever.

  Epilogue

  Moira heard her husband’s voice coming through the window from the courtyard below and paused to listen.

  “Have ye paid no mind to what I’ve been teaching ye?” Duncan said. “You’d let yourself get killed over a wee bit of rain in your eyes?”

  That was odd. While Moira could well imagine Duncan using those words as he trained the men, his tone was soft and reasonable.

  Moira stuck her head out the window, wondering if the faeries had stolen her warrior-husband. When she saw he was with Ragnall and Sarah, she smiled. The two children were squinting up at Duncan through the rain and holding their wooden swords in front of them. Duncan held a wooden sword as well, which, with his size, made him look a trifle ridiculous.

  “Do ye think the MacLeods will wait for a dry day to attack us?” Duncan asked them as he crossed swords with first one and then the other. “Or the MacKinnons? Or the Macleans? Or the—”

  “Duncan,” Moira called down, “it is raining a bit hard now.”

  Duncan looked up at her and broke into a smile. “I suppose it is.”

  “Can I wipe the rain out of my eyes now, Da?” Sarah asked with a sour expression on her face.

  Sarah had decided to call them Mother and Father, which seemed right to them. While Duncan was bound to spoil Sarah and their future daughters in other ways, they were both determined that their girls would learn the skills to defend themselves. They lived in dangerous times in a dangerous world. Should the girls ever need to, they would know how to steal a boat and use a dirk.

  “Let me help,” Duncan said to Sarah and wiped her face with his sleeve.

  Moira patted Sàr next to her. Duncan was like the wolfhound—profoundly loyal and gentle with his family and the fiercest of warriors in protecting them.

  “Ye both did well today.” Duncan scooped up a child in each arm and rubbed noses with them in turn. “What do ye say we meet your mother in the kitchen and find ourselves a treat?”

  Moira ran down the stairs with the wolfhound on her heels. A short time later, she and Duncan stood in the kitchen doorway watching the children eat honeyed nuts and chat with the cooks. Every time Ragnall smiled
at something one of them said, Moira’s heart felt lighter. He would always have a more serious nature than Sarah, but the dark cloud that had hung over him was gone.

  “I have a different kind of treat in mind for us.” Duncan’s warm breath tickled her ear as he leaned down and whispered to her. “What do ye say to sneaking off to your cottage with me, princess?”

  “Ye know that if ye sing to me first,” she whispered into his ear, “ye can get me to do anything.”

  Much later, Moira lay in her warrior’s arms, thinking of all her blessings.

  “Teàrlag told me our new babe will be another boy,” she said, resting her hand over the new life inside her, “and the next one will be a girl.”

  “Then it must be true,” Duncan said and cupped her face with his hand. “I have great faith in the old seer, for she’s the one who told me that trusting in a woman’s love would change my fate.”

  Moira smiled into his eyes. Her husband had a true heart she could always depend upon. He had promised her everything would be better once they had wed, and he was a man who kept his promises.

  Historical Note

  I always have “aha!” moments when I do my research for a book. Usually, this happens when I come across a colorful historical character I can use to add an intriguing twist to my plot. With this book, my great finds were a dog and a song.

  Once I decided to include a dog in this story, I looked for a breed that existed in Scotland in the early 1500s. I considered making him a Scottish deerhound until I stumbled across its cousin, the Irish wolfhound, which I could have my heroine acquire in Ireland. I did not know much about the breed, so I met with a local woman who owns three. What amazing dogs! The owner told me they are aptly described by the phrase Gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked. The wolfhound’s quiet devotion, fighting prowess, and huge size made it seem like a canine version of my hero, Duncan. I named him Sàr, which means “warrior” in Gaelic.

  Duncan was musical in the previous books, but I had not planned to have him sing until I heard the words to “Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair,” a traditional song from Appalachia that is believed to have originated in Scotland. The man’s longing and the description of the woman made this a perfect song for Duncan. Continuing in the folk tradition, I did change a few words.

  Meticulous readers may remember that Duncan’s whistle was made out of metal in The Guardian. I’ve learned since that was a mistake and consequently changed it to bone in this story.

  I apologize to connoisseurs of Scottish “whisky” for using the spelling whiskey, which is more familiar to most American readers.

  As I portrayed in this book, the Highland clans of the Western Isles had close cultural and kinship ties to northern Ireland. The Irish MacQuillans were on-and-off allies with the MacDonalds of Dunivaig and the Glens, a branch of the MacDonalds that had lands in both Scotland and Ireland. Sean and his brother Colla, however, are pure fiction.

  As I have mentioned before, researching clan histories of five hundred years ago presents both challenges and opportunities for the fiction writer. For my story, I assumed that the MacCrimmons were already serving as the hereditary pipers to the MacLeods and that they were just starting their famous school, but I am not certain when either actually occurred.

  The MacLeods of Dunvegan and the MacDonalds of Sleat had a long and bloody rivalry. I confess that I moved their fight over the Trotternish Peninsula forward by several years. And so far as I can tell, the MacDonalds did not take the castle on Trotternish before taking the rest of the peninsula.

  Finally, I changed the name of this castle from Duntulm to Trotternish Castle to make it easier for the reader to distinguish it from Dunvegan, Dunscaith, and all the other castles that begin with Dun. The castle is in ruins, but the site is gorgeous. The day my daughter and I visited, the sun was out, and it seemed as if we could see forever from the ruins on top of the bluff. (I have photos on my website, www.margaretmallory.com.)

  The MacLeod chieftain, Alastair Crotach, married late and lived a remarkably long life. I hope readers find this real historical character as fascinating as I do, because you will see more of him in The Chieftain.

  Look for the conclusion of this sizzling series featuring fearless Highlanders!

  *

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  The CHIEFTAIN

  Prologue

  DUNSCAITH CASTLE

  ISLE OF SKYE, SCOTLAND

  1496

  Fornicator, philanderer, liar,” Connor’s mother called out as she circled the crackling fire dragging a stick behind her through the sand. “Mo mhallachd ort!” My curse on you!

  Connor hugged his knees to his chest as he watched her long, unbound hair swirl about her in the night wind like black snakes.

  “May your seed dry up, Donald Gallach, chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat,” she said in a high, quavering voice as she circled the fire a second time, “so that no woman shall bear you another child.”

  Connor wished his friend Duncan or his cousins were here, instead of asleep in the castle hall with his father’s warriors, as he should be. His father said a seven-year-old who slept on a pallet next to his mother’s bed would never be a great warrior and had forbidden it. But his father was away, and Connor had been afraid something bad would happen to his mother if he did not stay close to her.

  “May your sons already born by other women die young,” his mother said as she raked her stick around the fire again.

  She had been weeping and tearing at her hair for days. She was like that sometimes. Other times, she was like sunshine that was so bright it hurt your eyes.

  But she had never done this before.

  “Three times ’round, and the spell is bound.” His mother straightened and raised her stick in the air. “And may ye know it was I, your wife, who cursed you!”

  Connor heard running feet coming through the darkness just before a familiar voice called, “No, Catriona!”

  Connor’s heart lifted when Duncan’s mother, Anna, appeared next to his mother. Her soft voice and kind words could sometimes soothe his mother. But if Anna saw him, she would send him back to the castle. While her attention was on his mother, Connor crawled through the beach grass until he was safely out of the firelight.

  “Please, ye mustn’t do this,” Anna said. “An evil spell that’s unwarranted can come back on ye.”

  “Donald Gallach deserves every evil wish,” his mother spat out. “With passion and sweet promises of eternal love, he persuaded me to leave a man who adored me. And now, I discover he’s been keeping a woman up at Trotternish Castle—and she’s borne him a son!”

  “Men have done far worse.” Anna put her arm around his mother’s shoulders. “I beg ye, take back this curse before it’s too late.”

  “It was too late the moment he took another woman to his bed,” his mother said and pushed Anna away. “I swear I will make that man regret what he’s done to me for the rest of his days.”

  “I’m certain you’re the only one the chieftain loves,” Anna said, brushing his mother’s wild tangles back from her face. “Please, return to the castle and rest.”

  “If he believes I will accept this and remain here, a dutiful wife, he has forgotten who I am.” His mother stared into the fire and smiled in a way that frightened Connor. “How he will rage when I leave him for another man.”

  “Ye can’t mean to do that,” Anna said. “What about your children?”

  Connor held his breath, trying not to cry, as he waited for her answer.

  “Ye know very well that Highland children—especially a chieftain’s children—belong to their father,” she said.

  “But they need their mother,” Anna said, gripping her arm again. “And young Connor adores ye.”

  “You’re better at mothering them than I am, and I know you’d never let Donald Gallach touch you,” his mother said. “Promise you’ll take care of Connor and Moira after I leave.”

  “
I will, but—”

  “Don’t go!” Connor ran to his mother and buried his face in her skirts. As always, she smelled of rose petals.

  “My sweet, serious lad.” His mother dropped to her knee and embraced him, then she leaned away from him and asked, “Ye want your mother to be happy, don’t ye?”

  Connor nodded. If she were happy, she would stay.

  “You were begat of fiery passion, when I owned your father’s heart,” she said, holding his face between her hands. “Every time your father looks at you, he will remember how it was between us then and regret what he’s lost.”

  * * *

  One night, Connor slept too soundly, and his mother disappeared.

  When he awoke, a storm raged outside, and the castle was in an uproar. His father had returned after weeks away and was bellowing at everyone.

  “Ye follow your mother about like a dog.” His father lifted Connor off his feet, shook him, and shouted in his face. “Ye must have seen her with someone. Who did she leave with? Tell me!”

  His father’s fingers dug into his arms, but Connor did not say a word. Even if he had known where his mother was, he would never betray her. And if he was very good, she might come back for him.

  His father sent his galleys in every direction, despite the storm. By the next day, an eerie calm had settled over the sea. Connor was outside with Ragnall, his father’s son by his first wife, when one of the boats returned. As soon as he saw a warrior carrying his mother from the boat, her limbs and long black hair swaying with his long strides, Connor starting running.

  “No, Connor!” Ragnall shouted.

  He darted out of his brother’s reach and scrambled down to the beach. But Ragnall was ten years older, a grown man, and he caught Connor before he reached her.

  Ragnall neither chastised nor tried to soothe him, but simply held Connor against his solid frame, heavily muscled from constant training. Connor strained to see his mother through the warriors who had crowded around her.