Blood Feud: A Dark Ages Scottish Romance (The Warrior Brothers of Skye Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  Looking into his sister’s blazing gaze, Loc realized there would be no reasoning with her—instead her continued defiance forced him to be harsh.

  “You will wed Galan mac Muin,” he growled. “Even if I have to drag you into his bed myself.”

  Tea reeled back as if he had struck her, nearly colliding with Eithni who was sitting upon a stool behind her, winding wool onto a wooden spindle. Tea’s younger sister cried out, toppling off her stool onto the rushes. However, Tea was so incensed that she did not even notice.

  “You’re a disgrace to his line,” she snarled. “I’m ashamed to call you my brother.”

  Then she spat on the rushes between them and stormed off to her alcove, the goat-skin hanging swishing shut behind her.

  Tea was sitting upon a pile of furs inside her alcove, staring blankly at the pitted stone wall, when Eithni poked her head inside.

  “Can I come in?”

  Her sister’s face was pale and pinched, her hazel-green eyes wide with fright. Tea felt a rare pang of remorse. Tea and Loc’s fights of late had reduced Eithni to tears more than once, and although Tea had no intention of relenting she was sorry to see her sister so upset.

  “Aye,” Tea replied, her voice husky from shouting. Now that her anger had burned itself out, she felt exhausted, drained.

  Eithni stepped into the alcove and let the hanging fall shut behind her. Then she padded across to Tea and sat down on the furs next to her. Wordlessly, she reached out and took Tea’s hand.

  Tears prickled Tea’s eyelids. Her sister’s gentleness was disarming. She squeezed Eithni’s hand in silent thanks.

  After a few moments her sister spoke. “Please don’t fight Loc any longer,” she murmured. “It will not change things—it will only make you hate each other.”

  “I don’t hate him,” Tea replied, “but I can’t let him do this to me—to us.”

  She glanced over at Eithni and saw that she was watching her steadily. They were so different—Tea was like a tempest, Eithni a summer breeze—and yet they had always been close. Tea kept herself apart emotionally from most people. She only let her brother and sister into her private world, and now that Loc had betrayed her Tea was starting to feel as if no one but Eithni cared what happened to her.

  Eithni held her gaze, her own calm and resolute. “I can make it easier for you,” she said softly.

  Tea frowned, not understanding her sister’s meaning. When she did not respond, Eithni continued. “I can make you a special potion—one that will soothe your nerves and make the handfasting easier to bear.”

  Tea stared at Eithni, swallowing the hysteria that bubbled within her. She had not even thought that far ahead, for in her mind she still refused the match outright. Yet her sister’s words reminded her of what lay ahead. She would wed this enemy, would have to lie with him as his wife, and bear his whelps. Eithni had not meant to alarm her, but she had.

  Her sister was a healer. Since girlhood, she had helped old Maud, the cunning woman who tended the ill at Dun Ardtreck. Maud had died last winter and now Eithni had taken over as healer. Tea knew Eithni took her role seriously—however, her skills could not mend what ailed her sister.

  Tea removed her hand from Eithni’s and stood up. She then began to pace the narrow space, her bare feet sinking into the thick furs that covered the floor of the alcove. Panic made it hard to breathe.

  “Give me something to stop my heart,” she choked out the words. “Prevent this handfasting from ever taking place. That’s the only thing that can help me.”

  “I won’t do that.” Eithni jumped to her feet and grasped Tea by the arm, forcing her to turn and face her. Despite her small frame, she had a surprisingly firm grip. “I’d take my own life before I’d ever harm you.” Eithni’s eyes glittered with tears. “Please stop fighting this, Tea. Whether you wish it or not, Loc will insist you wed The Eagle chieftain. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be—don’t ruin the few days we all have left together.”

  Tea stared at her. If Loc had spoken those words, she might have lashed out at him. Yet she would never do so with Eithni—and her sister knew it. Eithni was only trying to help her, only trying to mend things between Tea and Loc. But she did not understand that some rifts could not be bridged. Some wounds cut too deep.

  Tea’s throat constricted and she felt tears sting her eyelids. “For your sake, I’ll stop raging,” she agreed finally, “but it changes nothing. I’ll not pretend to welcome this union, and I’ll not forgive Loc for giving me to the enemy.”

  Chapter Three

  The Gathering at the Pools

  Galan mac Muin reined in his pony and glanced up at the darkening sky. He did not like the look of those roiling purple clouds to the east, or the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance. However, the bleak crags of the mountains, the Black Cuillins, loomed overhead, telling him that their destination was near.

  Glancing over his shoulder, his gaze slid over the procession behind him. Only a few of them—him, his brothers and his proven warriors—rode on horseback. The rest of his band travelled on foot. It took half a day to reach the gathering place, the half-way point between Dun Ardtreck and Dun Ringill. They had been climbing for a while now, crossing rivers, peat moor and rocky hills covered in heather, to reach the sacred pools.

  Behind Galan, his brother Tarl met his eye. “I can hear the first waterfall,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Your bride is near.”

  Galan cocked his head. He too could hear the low roar of water tumbling down from a great height. His chest tightened slightly in response—suddenly this was becoming real. When a warrior had arrived from Dun Ardtreck a month earlier with word that The Wolf chieftain wished to make peace, Galan had been initially suspicious. However, Loc mac Domech’s emissary was an articulate woman, who put forward a strong, convincing argument—and Galan was of a mind to believe her.

  Now that they were just a short distance from their destination, Galan’s suspicions rose once more.

  I hope I have not brought my people into a trap.

  The youngest of the three brothers, Donnel, drew up alongside Tarl then. His wife, Luana, pregnant with their first child, rode double with Donnel, her slender arms wrapped around his waist.

  The sight of Luana gave Galan a pang of misgiving. Donnel’s wife had insisted on accompanying them—but what if they were riding into an ambush?

  “Why have we stopped,” Donnel asked, his face troubled. “Is something wrong?”

  Tarl grinned at his younger brother. “Looks like Galan’s having second-thoughts.”

  Donnel smirked. “Bit late for that now.”

  Ignoring them both, Galan swung down from Faileas—‘Shadow’—the shaggy, heavy-set stallion that had carried him here. “We go on foot from here,” he announced.

  Ignoring his brothers’ grins, Galan turned and led the way up the rocky incline. The path was steep and rough but his pony managed to pick its way up the hillside. Finally, the first waterfall hove into view; a frothing column of water thundering down from craggy grey rocks.

  Mist from the fall drifted across the path and caressed Galan’s face. He inhaled deeply. The air smelled perfumed here. He had not been to the pools in a long while, but this place touched him, as it had on his last visit.

  He turned then to Tarl, who stepped up beside him. His brother’s teasing expression had been replaced by one of wonder. His gaze travelled over the waterfall for a few moments before it flicked to Galan.

  “Are you sure this place is as sacred to them as it is to us. What if they’ve laid a trap?”

  Galan gave a tight smile. “The Lochans of the Fair Folk are revered by us all,” he reminded his brother quietly with more confidence than he actually felt. “They will not shed blood here.”

  Tarl snorted. “You have more trust in them than me.”

  Galan favored his brother with a long look. “To forge peace, I must.” He paused here, his gaze shifting to the column behind him. Trust was one thing,
stupidity another. “Tell everyone to have their weapons within easy reach though … just in case Loc mac Domech turns out not to be a man of his word.”

  They continued on their way farther up the hill, alongside the River Brittle to the remaining lochans—pools—beyond. Their destination was a large, clear blue pool framed by a natural stone arch. Known as the Wishing Pool, it was a favorite spot for handfastings among the four tribes that lived upon The Winged Isle. It also was a place favored by the Fair Folk—the Aos Sí—the fickle, magical creatures that cohabited the same earth as men. As such, it was wise to treat this spot with respect.

  As they approached the Wishing Pool, Galan spied a cluster of hide tents pitched on the hill above it. A row of figures stood there, their dark, cloaked figures outlined against the stormy sky, watching the party approach.

  Galan’s body tensed at the sight of them. He had faced these people in battle countless times but this meeting would be different. The daughter of his people’s enemy awaited.

  He could not imagine she was looking forward to this union.

  Not that Galan was either. He did not like the idea of wedding a woman he had never met. She might look like the rear end of a goat or have a shrewish temper and a voice that could shred a man’s nerves to dust. However, this was a sacrifice he was ready to make.

  The memory of his father, screaming as he tried to push his entrails back inside his body, still haunted his dreams. Despite his father’s death, The Eagle had won that day—but for Galan it had been a hollow victory. That was why he had let the rest of the enemy war party flee with their lives. The price had been too high. Too much blood had been spilled, too much hate had festered between the tribes for decades now.

  Galan was ready for peace.

  He led Faileas up the hill toward The Wolf camp. Ahead, a group of men came out to greet the newcomers. Galan was aware that his brothers now flanked him. He stole a glance behind to see that his four most trusted warriors—Ru, Namet, Lutrin and Cal—had ridden up to the head of the column. Their faces were stern, their gazes watchful.

  Despite that he had agreed to this meeting, Galan shared some of their tension. This was the first peaceful meeting between The Wolf and The Eagle for at least two decades. It felt strange—almost unnatural—to approach without his sword unsheathed and ready for battle.

  A man stepped forward from the crowd at the crest of the hill, and strode down to meet him.

  Galan recognized Loc mac Domech immediately. He had seen him during their last skirmish; the pair of them had fought at different ends of the rocky ravine where their war parties had met, yet even then Galan had known him to be the chieftain’s son.

  Tall and lean, with a shock of black hair and piercing dark-blue eyes, The Wolf chieftain’s face was stern as he approached. Galan sensed his wariness but hardly blamed him; this meeting was new territory for them both.

  Since The Wolf chieftain was walking toward him alone and unarmed, Galan decided to pay him the same courtesy. He passed Faileas’s reins to Tarl and walked forward to meet Loc.

  The two men halted about two feet apart.

  “Good day,” Galan greeted him.

  Loc favored him with a tight smile. “You came—I’m glad.”

  Galan smiled back, a little of his own tension easing as he realized that Loc mac Domech was indeed sincere. “Aye—I gave my word.”

  Loc’s mouth quirked slightly before his gaze flicked to Galan’s escort waiting a few yards behind him. “I won’t lie to you, Galan. Many of my people are against this union. I hope yours took the news better than mine did.”

  Galan’s gave a humorless laugh. “No—they didn’t.”

  “And your brothers?”

  “Tarl and Donnel are more skeptical than me, but they will accept the new way of things in time. We are all tired of war.”

  Loc nodded. “As are we. This feud has gone on for so long, none of us know why we hate each other, only that we do.”

  Galan inclined his head slightly, studying Loc. Here was a man who would make a great leader. A man who understood the price of war on his people. Galan was glad Loc had sent word to him, and glad that he had agreed to forge peace between their tribes.

  “And what of your sister?” Galan did not want to ask the question but knew he must. “Does she hate my people?”

  Loc’s mouth thinned, giving Galan his answer. “I wish I could say she is of the same mind as me,” he admitted, “but she is too much like her father to let the past go so easily.”

  “Yet she has agreed to wed me?”

  Loc gave a bitter smile. “Aye—under duress.”

  This news did not please Galan, although he had not expected any different. He did not want to share the furs with a hissing and spitting she-cat. Still, it could not be helped—at least she understood her duty to her people.

  Galan’s gaze slid over the crowd amassed behind Loc. “Where is my bride?”

  “Getting ready for her handfasting,” Loc replied, “as must you. Come—we have ale, wine and mead to share with you and your people.”

  Galan nodded before turning back to where his brothers and warriors stood. He beckoned them forward and then followed Loc up the slope to the tents. It looked as if the People of The Wolf had arrived here at least a day earlier; the grass underfoot was crushed and slightly muddy in places, and a village of hide tents now covered the hillside.

  The aroma of roasting venison, no doubt for the handfasting feast, wafted through the camp. It was a delicious aroma but Galan found he was not hungry; he was too tense to think about food.

  “Here.” Loc poured Galan a cup of frothy ale and passed it to him, before holding up a cup of his own for a toast. “To lasting peace.”

  Galan was aware of hostility around them—from the men and women of his own band, and from Loc’s. There were two hulking warriors standing a few feet behind Loc, who did not look friendly. Galan did not like the cold, assessing way the men’s gazes moved over him and his escort. Loc mac Domech may have been ready to make peace but some of his warriors clearly were not.

  Casting a look behind him, at where Tarl and Donnel were accepting cups of ale, Galan noted their hard faces and narrowed gazes. Things were not so different in his own camp—it had taken a while to convince his brothers to come here. Behind Tarl and Donnel, some of Galan’s warriors looked uncomfortable. He had bid them to leave their weapons with the ponies but they clearly were not pleased to be facing the People of The Wolf without a sword, axe or spear grasped in their hands.

  Galan stepped close to his brothers, his own brow furrowing.

  “Would the pair of you try smiling?” he growled. “I don’t want a fight breaking out before I wed.”

  Tarl snorted, glancing over at where the big warriors still stood eyeballing them. “If those bastards stop staring at me, I might.”

  “Ignore them.”

  Donnel rolled his eyes and raised the cup of ale to his lips. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Chapter Four

  The Potion

  Tea sat in stony silence as her sister washed her feet.

  It was a ritual before handfasting, for the bride to have her feet washed so she could step out onto the path before her with confidence and make a clean start to her new life.

  Tea’s heart pounded throughout the rite, her body rigid like a doe ready to flee.

  She had fought Loc, but in the end he had gotten his way. Brother and sister were equal rulers at Dun Ardtreck, and both respected by their people. Yet when it came to marriage alliances, Loc commanded. After many ugly scenes—and tears from Eithni—she had finally submitted to her brother’s will. Tea knew that many at Dun Ardtreck sided with her; to see the chieftain’s sister wed to an Eagle would be hard to stomach. However, Loc had refused to change his mind.

  She hated Loc for it—she would never forgive him.

  Sensing her sister’s tension, Eithni glanced up, her face creasing with concern. They were alone inside the te
nt. The Eagles had arrived and Loc was welcoming them while Tea prepared for her handfasting.

  Eithni gestured to the low wooden table beside them, where a cup sat next to a clay vial. “Tea … I’ve prepared a drink for you.”

  “I’m not thirsty,” Tea replied stiffly.

  “It’s All-Heal,” Eithni explained with a tense smile. “Remember I said I’d fix you a potion. The calming herb should make the ceremony easier. I’ve added a few extra herbs of my own; it should soothe you.”

  Tea swallowed her rising nausea and forced a smile. She appreciated the gesture—Eithni was only trying to help.

  Eithni finished washing Tea’s feet before drying them with a strip of linen. “Will you wear mother’s necklace?” she asked.

  Tea nodded. “It’s over there.” She gestured to where the leather pack she had carried from Dun Ardtreck sat.

  Eithni rose to her feet and crossed to it. She began rummaging through the pack. While her sister’s back was turned Tea looked down at the cup Eithni had handed her. All-Heal was not dangerous—but she was not sure she would be able to get through the coming ceremony without it. Her instincts told her to leap to her feet and run—yet Eithni’s potion was the only chance she had, if she was not going to shame her kin.

  Bile filled Tea’s mouth. I shouldn’t worry over shaming them. Loc’s shamed us all with this truce.

  Still, it had to be done. Tea lifted the cup to her lips and drank deeply.

  Eithni returned to her, carrying the heavy, gilded necklace. It was an elegant coil, resembling a curled serpent. Tea’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of it. She remembered her mother wearing the necklace at feast days, the gilded surface gleaming in the firelight as she laughed and sang at Domech’s side.

  “Here.” Eithni knelt before her and slid the coil around her neck. Her eyes glistened as she gazed at it. “It suits you,” she said softly.