Oath of a Warrior (Legends of the Fenian Warriors Book 2)

by Mary Morgan

  A cold knot formed in her stomach, and the man’s grip tightened. She clenched her hand until her nails bit into her palm. “What do ye want?”

  “Ye are to be brought forth for your crimes.”

  She swallowed, trying to loosen the lump of fear in her throat. “Nae,” she mumbled.

  “Cease this!” Brother Michael ordered.

  Sinclair again leveled the tip of his blade against the monk’s throat. “If ye speak another word, I will be forced to remove your tongue.”

  Erina shook her head at her friend, pleading with him to remain silent. Lifting her chin in defiance, she said, “Then let me meet my accuser.”

  The man’s laugh was sinister. “Trust me, ye shall meet them all.”

  As he shoved her forward, Erina’s heart constricted with terror.

  ****

  Clasping his hands firmly behind his back, Rory waited patiently for Graham to speak. He had spoken his heart to Erina’s brother, telling him he would protect and cherish her always. At first, the man glared daggers at him when he professed his undying love, but as he continued pouring out his soul, the man’s features softened. Never in his entire existence did Rory sense an unsteady path or future. He needed the assurance and blessing from Graham.

  Yet, within his heart, he held fast to the one truth—his love for Erina.

  If Graham prohibited the union, he worried what risk he would dare to take to persuade her to leave this part of her home. They might have to flee to Ireland—live among the lush hills near Tara. His mind sought to find another solution, since a life without his beloved was not an option.

  Graham braced his hands on the window ledge. “What will ye do for coin? How will ye survive?”

  “I can work the land. Furthermore, I can build a smithy away from the cottage.”

  The man snorted and pushed away from the ledge. “Why would anyone seek ye out? There is already one here at Kileburn.”

  “Currently, ye are without a blacksmith,” countered Rory. He moved toward the table and picked up the leather sheath containing a sword. Striding back, he presented the blade to Graham. “I have fashioned this for ye. It has been forged by the fires and waters from Kileburn. ’Tis my gift to ye.”

  Taking the sword, Graham unsheathed the blade and held it up to the light. “Magnificent. Where did ye find the stone?” Bringing it closer for inspection, he ran a finger over the gem on the hilt.

  “A token from my home. I considered it wise to bind the union with a blending of both families.”

  Graham nodded slowly and returned the blade to its sheath. Securing it against his side, he beamed with pleasure. “Ye honor me, MacGregor. Nevertheless, I do have my concerns with this marriage.”

  Rory started to interject, but Graham held up a hand to stay his words.

  He grasped Rory’s shoulder. “Ewan has shared how his family gave protection to yours centuries ago. In addition, he declared how ye have always been loyal to the MacGregor clan—a quality I admire. Therefore, if my sister is truly in love with ye, I can find nae more objections. Ye ken I must speak with her?”

  The tension he had been holding in check eased and Rory smiled. “There is nae argument from me.”

  “Good.” Releasing his hold, Graham went to a cabinet. “Would ye care for a dram of uisge beatha?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “’Tis a fine bottle from Ewan.” After pouring some into two cups, Graham handed one to him.

  “Then it will be one worth tasting,” Rory commented.

  “He has not shared it with ye before?”

  Rory took a sip, savoring the amber liquid as it slipped down his throat. “Aye, aye.”

  Soft knocking interrupted any further discussion and Graham moved to the door. Rory listened as one of his men handed him a missive. He waited as Graham opened and read the note. After giving thanks to the messenger, Graham closed the door and tossed the letter on a nearby table.

  “Apparently, Erina’s healing remedies are required from one of the villagers.”

  Rory tossed back the rest of the drink. “She is a gifted healer.”

  Graham looked at him skeptically. “Did ye ken they have given her the name of White Healer?”

  A flash of memory entered his mind. He recalled someone calling her thus. Rubbing a hand over his brow, he tried to bring forth the person, but with little success. “Nae,” he lied.

  “I cannot find fault in what she does for the people, but the land is rife with fear over the old beliefs.” Graham refilled his glass and held the bottle outward. “More?”

  Nodding, Rory strode over and placed his cup on the table. “There has been strife over religious beliefs since the beginning of time.”

  “How true,” murmured Graham. “There are times when I worry they will come after her.”

  Rory retrieved his cup and leaned against the table. “Never, while I breathe.”

  Graham pointed a finger at him. “On that we can concur. Nevertheless, ye may want to consider lands farther north. I have nae desire to see Erina leave her home, but I deem she’ll be safer there.”

  “Or in Ireland,” suggested Rory, draining his cup.

  “Do ye honestly reckon the situation less volatile over there?”

  There was one place Rory once considered taking Erina. Yet, his own world was forbidden to humans. And now, to him as well. Placing the cup back down, he walked to the hearth and gazed into the flames. “Regardless of the conflict, life shall go on. Seasons pass, crops flourish, and people continue to dwell, be it in harmony or turmoil.”

  “Ye sound like Brother Michael.”

  Or a druid. Rory glanced over his shoulder and shrugged.

  “Care to join me in the lists?” Graham started for the door.

  Rory turned around. “Are ye sure ye can take the force of my blows after a few drinks?”

  Graham roared with laughter as he opened the door. “’Tis fire for the battle.”

  Shaking his head in mirth, he followed the man. “Your confidence will be your undoing, MacIntyre.”

  When the man remained silent, Rory continued, “I have often heard such words from—”

  As he came to a halt in the corridor, his eyes blazed with fury when a blade was swiftly leveled against his side. Another man held a dirk to his friend’s throat and another stood off to the side.

  “What do ye want?” demanded Graham.

  “Move,” ordered one of their captors.

  Rory clenched his fingers, waiting for the opportunity to take down his foe. The blade dug into his backside as they steadily made their way along the corridor. As they entered another section of the castle, he frowned, unsure of where they were going.

  “Again, I ask, what do ye want?”

  “Silence,” hissed the man behind Rory.

  As they approached a narrow archway, another man stepped forth and opened the steel door.

  “Ye seem to ken your way around my home.” Graham’s voice grated harshly.

  They descended a stone path, which was dimly lit. Ducking under an archway, Rory grumbled a curse as he looked around the dank place.

  “Welcome to the dungeons of Kileburn,” snapped one of the men. He removed the sword from Graham’s side and flung it across the stone floor.

  Their captors shoved them inside and slammed the iron gate. The sound reverberated all around them, and Rory fought the wave of power. He could not risk Graham witnessing who he was, and tried to center himself.

  One of the bastards moved forward. “Ye are hereby ordered to remain locked inside here.”

  “Whom do ye take your orders from?” demanded Graham. “Surely, ye are not their leader.”

  The man smacked his blade against the bars. “Laird Sinclair and Bishop Stewart.”

  Graham gripped the bars. “Roger Sinclair has just signed his death warrant. But I cannot fathom why the bishop is involved with capturing me and my friend.”

  “We aim to cleanse the land of the evil and heathen p
ractices. Some would claim ye give sanctuary to them.” Turning, the man made to leave.

  “Ye are a dead man. Heed my words!” shouted Graham.

  Rory swept his gaze over each of them as he braced his hands on the cold steel. His lips curled in disgust, and he committed to memory every detail of their pathetic features. For when the time came, Rory would see them all die.

  As the main dungeon door slammed on them, Rory glanced sideways at Graham. “Where exactly is Erina?”

  His friend wiped a hand over his brow. “Not far enough.” He let out a bark of nervous laughter. “Though for once, I’m grateful she’s outside the grounds of Kileburn.”

  “We need to find her and quickly.”

  “Aye, agreed. But first, we must free ourselves,” stated Graham.

  In that silent moment, Rory made a solemn vow the past would not repeat itself. He would do all in his power to make sure his beloved came to no harm.

  This was his pledge as a Fenian Warrior.

  His oath as a Fae.

  His right as her future husband.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “The light of a Fae’s love can alter the stars.”

  ~Chronicles of the Fae

  “For the love of God, I beg ye to let the lady ride one of your horses,” pleaded Brother Michael.

  Erina shook her head. “Dinnae waste your words on the man. He cares nothing for me.”

  “Your shoes will be in tatters soon. This is an outrage. I have nae objection to being pulled along by a horse over the rough terrain, but ye are a woman.”

  “Regardless, if ye continue to lash out with words, the man has threatened to remove your tongue. I have nae desire to see ye come to harm.”

  Her friend fumed and gave her a curt nod. “Be warned, the moment I come upon this Bishop Stewart, I shall state my grievances. By what right does he fetch a lady from her home? Ye are nae more a witch than I am. They continue to fear those who have the healing ways. Instead of learning from them, they would rather banish them.”

  Erina stumbled over a tree root, but quickly righted herself. “Do ye ken this bishop?” She tried to keep her focus on the road ahead of them.

  “Nae. He might be new to the area. In truth, many are appointed to oversee these rash accusations by the villagers. Dinnae fear, I tend to object to any who accuse ye of being a witch.”

  An ache of despair wove a thread inside Erina. As much as she felt comforted by the monk’s words, there was doubt any would listen to him. If Laird Sinclair did not believe him, why would a bishop? How did her life turn upside down in one day? The day had bloomed with hope and love and now looked to end in fear and anguish. A lump of sadness settled in her throat, and tears misted her eyes. The wind slapped at her, ripping away the fragile threads of hope Erina was desperately struggling to keep close to her heart.

  She lifted her head to the stark bleak sky. Hear me Goddess. Send out my plea for help to the man who holds my heart. Let Rory come to my aid. I deem ye can send this message. Bring him to me as the man I love.

  Once again, she tripped, and this time fell to the ground. The horse and rider continued to drag her along the arduous path. Erina struggled to stand, but the effort proved futile.

  “Stop! I beg ye!” Brother Michael shouted and yanked on his bindings.

  Sinclair held up his hand to halt their progress. Giving a quick glance over his shoulder, he barked out orders to help Erina.

  One of the younger guards dismounted and came to her rescue. “Are ye hurt, Lady Erina?”

  She wanted to scream at the man, but held back when she noted concern in his eyes and voice. “Nae, I shall be fine.”

  The man helped her to standing, and she winced. “Ye are in pain.”

  She wiggled her foot, trying to ease the discomfort. “These shoes are not meant for walking over rough land.”

  Brother Michael stood near her. “Unless ye are prepared to drag her to the bishop, I suggest ye place her on a horse, Sinclair.”

  The man glowered at them. Pointing a sword at the guard, Sinclair ordered, “She can ride your horse and ye can walk.”

  “Aye,” mumbled the guard.

  As the man started to remove his dirk, Sinclair yelled, “Nae! Undo the rope from the saddle, but keep her hands bound together.”

  After quickly complying, the guard led Erina over to his horse. Taking a hold of the pommel, he eased her onto his animal and made sure the rope was secure.

  “What is your horse’s name?” she asked.

  He assessed her before answering. Stroking the nose of the animal, he replied, “Ryden.”

  “A good Norse name. And yours?”

  The guard swiftly looked away. “I reckon it would do nae harm, but I have been ordered to give ye none.”

  “Can we proceed?” Sinclair bellowed, and gestured for the group to continue onward.

  Giving her a slight bow, the guard moved away.

  Brother Michael approached from the side. “Apparently, Sinclair has put in them the terror of even speaking their names to ye.”

  Erina snorted in disgust. “What a foolish man. I have nae magic over a name.” Biting back her next words, she recalled the love charm she wove for Betty and Mairi. Did she not utter the names of each, along with the men they desired over the herbs? Aye, she had. Did that make her a witch? “Nae,” she mumbled.

  “Dinnae worry, Erina. Your brother and Rory will find us. Rest assured, they will come to our aid, and God help these men when they do.”

  His words did little to comfort her. Time receded as they continued on their journey. Hours had already bled away. How would they know where to begin their search? And what if harm had come to Graham back at Kileburn—or even to Rory.

  As if hearing her unspoken words, Brother Michael said, “If I ken your brother, he has already plotted out a plan of escape. They cannot keep a MacIntyre secure for verra long, and they said nothing about Rory. Therefore, I’m confident help is arriving soon.”

  She tried to remain hopeful and gave him a weak smile.

  As they trudged along the road, Erina noted their surroundings. When they emerged from the wooded area, her last tendril of hope faded away. In the distance, the imposing stone cathedral loomed before them. A place where only a few years ago, several women and men were burned at the stake for witchcraft in the courtyard. She was not a seer, nor a witch, but the signs were there for her to witness.

  “Calder Cathedral,” she uttered softly. “It will be my place of death.”

  Lightning splintered the gray sky, and the first drop of rain slashed across Erina’s face.

  ****

  Rory paced their small prison in an effort to calm his fury. With all the power at his fingertips, he was duty-bound not to use magic to free himself or Graham. Precious hours had slipped by and yet, his friend remained composed on the cold stone floor.

  “I do wish ye would take a seat,” suggested Graham.

  Coming to a halt before him, Rory fisted his hands on his hips. “Ye seem mighty calm for what has transpired.”

  The man shrugged. “I am merely counting down the minutes until we can depart.”

  Rory dropped his hands. “Would ye care to share this grand scheme of how we can break free?” If ye don’t, I shall break down the walls of this prison, regardless the cost of revealing who I am to ye.

  Standing, Graham went to the far back wall and pointed upward. “Do ye see the lion’s head?”

  Narrowing his eyes, Rory angled his head. A sliver of light bounced off the wall, reflecting the carved animal embedded on the stone. “Aye.”

  “If ye push on his mouth, the wall will open.”

  He snapped his gaze to the man. “Then why did we have to wait? We could have fled hours ago.”

  Graham rubbed a hand down the back of his neck. “The passageway leads to the Great Hall, and I judged it best to give our captors time to search for Erina. I did not want to risk entering the hall surrounded by more of the enemy.” He tapped a f
inger to the wall. “My great-great-grandfather had them build this passageway after he was imprisoned by a raiding clan.” Chuckling softly, he added, “He vowed never to be imprisoned in his own dungeon again.”

  “Ye have many secret corridors within Kileburn.” Rory surveyed the man.

  Graham’s features hardened. “Explain.”

  “There is one in your kitchens, the wolf marks the entrance.”

  “Which leads to my chambers,” snapped Graham.

  Rory gave him a cool regard. “If ye must ken, I was assisting Erina on the day we both found the passageway. She had fallen into the river on the day Ewan and Catherine arrived. She did not want to arrive the way she looked and bring disgrace on ye.” He moved away from the intense gaze of Graham. “We did not remain long inside your chambers.”

  “Any other ones ye have found?” Graham’s tone almost a growl.

  I have nae desire to have my head served on a platter, if ye knew Erina and I had been using them to go back and forth between our chambers. Pressing his palm onto the lion’s mouth, Rory replied, “Nae, but I am confident there are many more.” The wall opened with a groan, revealing a dank, dark cavern. “And yet, another obstacle.”

  Graham pushed him aside. “God’s blood! How are we going to make our way through?”

  “With cautious steps,” suggested Rory and peered over his shoulder. “Let me lead the way.”

  “If ye stumble and break a limb, Erina will take my head.”

  “And if ye break your neck, your sister will never forgive me. Trust me, I can see well in darkened surroundings. I am used to traveling at night.”

  After finally relenting, Graham gestured him forward.

  Rory stepped inside the narrow entry and let his eyes adjust magically. He swept the surrounding area. The walls glistened with moisture and rats scurried out of his way. As he extended his eyesight beyond the walls and corridor, he came upon the Great Hall. The path curved and dipped, but nothing hazardous to mar their way out of the prison.