Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  Birdsong drifted on the breeze. It was hard to imagine so much had changed in so short a time when all around her the mountains and valleys remained as they had for years without number.

  Slowly she reached out her hand and flattened her palm against the ancient carvings. Show me what I must do, Bride. She held her breath, tensed her muscles, but her goddess sent no message.

  She frowned, trailed her fingers over the sacred symbols. Why wouldn’t Bride show her the future? Why wouldn’t she give her a sign, warn her of what was to come?

  A shiver scuttled over her arms and her fingers stilled against the stone. Warnings. As if a torch had been lit inside her brain, illumination flooded through her.

  The massacre she had foreseen had not been a useless, empty vision. Its purpose had not been for her to rage against what could not be altered.

  It had been a warning. And instinctively she had utilized that warning by ensuring her mother and sister did not travel to Dal Riada. How much worse would this be, if Finella had seen their father’s murder? If Finella and their queen had also been taken hostage?

  Her breath rushed from her lungs and she pressed her forehead against the stone. The world was changing. As the new God’s religion spread, the old gods fought for survival. Acolytes born with the gift dwindled with each passing generation. When there was no one left alive to remember the gods of antiquity, would they die?

  “Aila.”

  She turned, still leaning against the stone, and saw her mother and grandmother approaching, surrounded by their ladies and guards. She pushed herself upright, finally understanding the power and fragility of her gift. The legacy of her forebears and, she now hoped, one she might pass on to her descendants.

  For a moment the three of them looked at each other in silence. Then her mother took her hand.

  “Connor MacKenzie left for Fidach at dawn.”

  “What?” She snatched her hand back, glared at her mother. “Why didn’t you allow him to stay? Fidach?” Why would Connor travel north into Fidach? It made no sense.

  “I left him in no doubt he was welcome to our hospitality. But he declined the offer of sharing your chamber and insisted he and his men would depart at first light.” Her mother glanced at the dowager queen before adding, “He asked me to ensure you were made aware of his deepest regard.”

  His regard? She didn’t want his regard.

  “Aila,” her grandmother said. “He will return to you.”

  “Yes,” her mother said. “He did say he would return to Ce before continuing back to Dal Riada.”

  Was this the real reason for Connor’s journey? Was he, unknown to her, on a mission for MacAlpin in Fidach and he’d decided to bring her along so she might see her kin?

  It made sense. Yet she didn’t believe it.

  “Very well.” She began to march back toward the palace, her mother and grandmother hurrying to keep up. “But he needn’t think I’m going to be waiting here patiently until he deigns to return. I shall meet with him in Fidach.”

  “You will do no such thing.” Her mother sounded scandalized. “You will remain here where you’re safe.”

  “I shall be safe enough in Fi-eviot.” The palace of Fi-eviot, royal stronghold of Fidach and childhood home of Onuist. If Connor was traveling to Fidach, where else would he go but to the king?

  * * * * *

  It was the following midmorning before Aila and her small contingent of warriors arrived at the palace of Fi-eviot. Her mother hadn’t stood a chance of keeping her in Ce-eviot, especially when her grandmother had tacitly taken her side.

  There was, she was starting to realize, much power in her adult status as a Chosen One of Bride.

  Onuist’s kin greeted her with great warmth. Yet she saw no Scot warriors. But surely Connor had intended to come here? Where else would he go? The Pictish nobles she’d stayed with last night knew nothing of the Scots’ journey, but that hadn’t concerned her. After all, Connor was not hindered by a weak stomach or the need to travel at a sedate pace. He had likely reached his destination before night fell and had no need to detour to any hill fort enroute.

  Finally she was alone with Onuist’s eldest sister and her husband, the King of Fidach. Due to a hunting injury, he’d been unable to travel to Dal Riada and as such was the only Pictish king not held hostage or murdered in Dunadd.

  “You have heard of my marriage to Connor MacKenzie.” It was not a question. News traveled fast in the Highlands. “I had reason to believe he was traveling this way.” She tried not to let her panic show. Because if Connor hadn’t come this way, where else could she look? She would have to return to Ce and await him there. And somehow, that outcome scraped along her nerves.

  “He did.” The king’s tone was harsh and panic of another sort entirely flooded through her. “Bastard had the audacity to pay us his respects.” The king narrowed his gaze. “Forgive me. He is your husband. But under duress, I know.”

  Aila looked at Onuist’s sister then back at the king. These people had once been her kin through marriage and would forever hold a place in her heart. But she would allow no one to scorn Connor.

  “He is my husband. But not under duress. And yes, he is a Scot but know this. I will defend his honor with my last breath.”

  Silence reverberated around the chamber. Eventually Onuist’s sister spoke.

  “I hope he deserves your loyalty, Aila. But we fear his king plans to betray us yet further. Why else would MacKenzie plan on meeting with the Vikings in the north of our kingdom?”

  “The Vikings?” That couldn’t be true. They were mistaken. Why would Connor enter Viking territory? She would not believe he planned on betraying this alliance. However much she despised MacAlpin, she knew he wanted this alliance between Pict and Scot to flourish.

  “However,” there was grim amusement in the king’s voice, “we’ve negotiated a tenuous truce with the jarl over the last few years. Olafsson sent word scarcely an hour ago that he would hold the Scots hostage if that is our desire.”

  She was not ignorant of politics. She’d known Thorstein Olafsson was now jarl of the lands the Vikings had annexed from Fidach nine years ago. She knew of the truce. Knew also how easily it could be broken, should the Viking kings decide they wanted more of Pictland for their own.

  “Have you replied?” Despite her best intentions, terror threaded through every word. She didn’t believe Connor was here on his king’s orders. She was the reason he had traveled north and while she couldn’t fathom why he had continued into Olafsson’s territory, if he was taken hostage why would MacAlpin have any inclination to preserve Connor’s life?

  “Not yet.” The king regarded her then looked at his wife.

  “We thought you might be able to enlighten us as to his mission,” the queen said. “But as you cannot, all we can rely upon is your word that MacKenzie can be trusted.”

  “And there is something else.” The king sounded reluctant. “Even if we tell Olafsson we don’t require the Scots to be taken there’s always the possibility the Vikings will hold them regardless. You know what they’re like.”

  Yes, she knew what they were like. They could come upon a battle that had nothing to do with them and join the losing side. Simply to vanquish the presumed victors for no other reason than they could.

  She blanked the image of his dripping broadsword from her mind and tried, with less success, to push aside the panic that clawed her. She focused on what she had to say. “Olafsson is an honorable man, for all that he’s a Viking. If you asked for the Scots’ release, surely he would honor your request?”

  “I imagine,” the queen said with a hint of frost, “that would depend not only on his mood at the time but how persuasive the request was. And I fear, Aila, that should Olafsson not be in a particularly accommodating frame of mind, we may not possess adequate methods of persuasion.”

  Do what you know in your heart is right.

  Horror gripped her as her grandmother’s words, the message from B
ride, echoed in her mind.

  She couldn’t face going back there. Not to the place where Onuist had died. Where she had lost the innocence of her youth in that blood-soaked hell.

  There had to be another solution. But there was no other solution. No one else in Fidach cared if Connor lived or died. They were only concerned for the welfare of the Pictish hostages MacAlpin held. That was the reason Connor could travel with relative safety throughout Pictland. But if Connor was here without his king’s knowledge then would the Scot upstart be mindful of Connor’s safety? And if not, why should the King of Fidach negotiate for the release of Viking-held hostages?

  MacAlpin was single-minded in his determination to exert the full extent of his power. She had no doubt he would sacrifice Connor if it suited him, as a warning to others not to go against his will.

  She had lost too much. She would not lose Connor as well. She would follow him into hell if it could help secure his release, because what would her life be but hell without him? Before the fear could fully claim her and render her immobile, she stood. “I will personally ask Olafsson for the Scots’ release.”

  “Absolutely not,” the king said. He spoke as though she was still fifteen years old, when she had been a young bride and in awe of her husband’s brother-through-marriage.

  But she was no longer a girl who could be dictated to. She was Connor MacKenzie’s wife, she nurtured his child in her womb and she was a priestess of Bride.

  A strange calm washed through her as she accepted her destiny. And it was only that destiny that would sway the king’s mind.

  “My lord,” she said, “the goddess is with me.”

  Neither king nor queen moved, but there was a subtle shift in the balance of power in the chamber. They both knew of her gift. Both also knew how she had repudiated it nine years ago. But as they looked at her, she saw the dawning realization on their faces. That she spoke the truth.

  Even a king could not easily dismiss a direct imperative from a goddess.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The face of Connor MacKenzie was scorched into Thorstein Olafsson’s mind. How could it not be, when the Scot had claimed the broadsword of his ancestors in that bloody battle four years ago?

  And now the Scot was here, in Thorstein’s territory, requesting an audience. The temptation to hold him hostage, in return for his sword, was great. But irrelevant. MacKenzie had won the sword that day and for that, and his prowess in battle, he had Thorstein’s respect.

  It hadn’t stopped him sending a message to the Fidach king though. He knew of an alliance between Pict and Scot, but it would be interesting to discover how loyal Fidach was to MacAlpin’s men when they were so far from Dal Riada.

  Standing outside his longhouse, he fingered the hilt of his personal broadsword. It was of top quality, as befit his status, and had decapitated more than one man who had dared challenge his right to rule the clan. But it wasn’t the sword of his forefathers. And the loss was a constant thorn in his heart.

  He narrowed his eyes as he surveyed his considerable estate. Some distance to the southeast the Scots were camped, awaiting his response. And while he’d very much like to make them wait a lot longer, his own curiosity as to what had brought MacKenzie into his domain refused to be ignored.

  “Hakon.” He jerked his head at the warrior who was like a brother to him. “Have MacKenzie sent to me in the hall.”

  Thorstein sat on the only chair in the hall as the Scot, flanked by Norse, entered. Curious eyes followed their passage along the length of the building. It appeared the entire populace of his estate had found a reason to be inside at this particular moment.

  MacKenzie, devoid of weapons, extended formal greetings in stilted Norse. Thorstein returned them with equal respect in somewhat more fluent Gaelic.

  And then he got straight to the heart of the matter. “What message do you bring from your king, MacKenzie?”

  “None,” MacKenzie said, reverting to his own language. “I’m here on my own mission. And therefore of no use as a hostage to my king’s favor.”

  Thorstein kept his face impassive while his brain analyzed that intriguing information. If one of his own warriors went into Dunadd without direct orders, Thorstein might consider it treason.

  “For what purpose do you enter my territories?” He spoke in Gaelic. It offered a degree of privacy since only a few of those present understood the language.

  “A matter of honor.” MacKenzie hesitated, clearly irked by the crowded hall. Thorstein waited. The Scot would not dictate the conditions under which they conversed. “Regarding an incident that occurred here nine years ago. Involving the eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce.”

  He held the Scot’s unwavering gaze as he plunged back nine years in time. To his first raid, when he’d been a raw boy of fifteen. It should have been straightforward, a claiming of windswept land without undue bloodshed.

  The scarce inhabitants had not put up much resistance. But a royal presence had proved an unexpected obstacle, although eventually defeated.

  MacKenzie did not refer to the raid. Nor the slaughter of the royal guard. He referred to the young girl Thorstein had stumbled across, being violently raped by two of his own countrymen.

  She’d reminded him of his younger sister. Rage and disgust had turned his stomach. This wasn’t a raid for plunder and enslaving. They wanted this land to settle and farm.

  That was the day he had, unknown to most present, first earned the nickname he was now known by.

  Thorstein the Beheader.

  He stood. Gestured. His people, with clear reluctance, began to leave the hall until only Hakon and a few of his most trusted warriors remained.

  He turned to Connor MacKenzie and using the knowledge gleaned from his spies made an educated guess. “The princess of Ce is your wife?”

  “Aye.” MacKenzie’s voice was uncompromising. “For what happened that day I owe you a debt of honor.”

  By Thor. This wasn’t merely a marriage to unite Pict and Scot against the Norse. MacKenzie loved his princess.

  Loved her enough to defy his king and enter enemy lands.

  “Have no doubt,” he said, “that one day I shall claim that debt.”

  “I have a proposition,” the Scot said, as if they were on equal footing and he was not in a precarious position both politically and geographically. He would, Thorstein conceded, make a worthy Norseman. “And a request.”

  “Name them. I make no promises.”

  “I possess something I’m willing to return to its rightful owner.” MacKenzie’s gaze did not waver. “As full discharge for my debt. And in exchange for something of equal value in your possession.”

  MacKenzie was offering to return his broadsword. The chances were high he had brought it north with him. He could order his warriors to ransack the Scots’ camp until it was found. And risk great bloodshed on both sides.

  Or he could negotiate.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Nine years ago, you took something of great personal value from the princess. In exchange for your broadsword, I request the return of the Columba casket.”

  Silence thundered in the charged air. He’d taken that casket as a trophy, recognizing its great antiquity. And while he could have exchanged it for untold treasures, he’d held on to it. It intrigued him. It was exquisitely crafted yet something was missing. And while he knew the chances of ever reuniting the two pieces of the casket was remote, he had refused to sell.

  But compared to the return of the sword of his ancestors its value was of no consequence.

  “You took a great risk, Connor MacKenzie, entering my lands with such a proposition. There’s nothing to stop me running you through and claiming what is mine by force.”

  MacKenzie didn’t move a muscle. “Only your honor, Thorstein Olafsson. Even enemies on the battlefield can recognize such in their opponent.”

  Thorstein took a step toward his enemy. A man who, under other circumstances, he would welcome
as a friend.

  “I will exchange the casket in return for my sword. All debts are repaid.” He’d even let the Scots leave. Too bad if the King of Fidach wanted them kept as hostage. The Princess of Ce was MacKenzie’s wife and he, Thorstein Olafsson, would not be responsible for keeping the man who loved her from her side.

  Before MacKenzie could adequately express his gratitude, the great door opened and a warrior strode up the hall toward him. Thorstein glared. He didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

  “My lord,” the warrior said. “Forgive me.” He stood some distance from MacKenzie and clearly wanted Thorstein to go to him so he could speak with a degree of privacy.

  “This,” Thorstein said so only the warrior could hear, “had better be good.”

  “It is.” The warrior glanced at MacKenzie. “The eldest princess of Ce has just arrived and requests audience with you.”

  Odin’s balls. This day was turning into an entertaining saga.

  “Have her taken to my private domain.” He glanced at the Scot and pitched his voice low. “Keep MacKenzie in here for now. I don’t want him knowing his princess has arrived.”

  Accompanied by one disarmed warrior from Ce, Aila followed one of the Vikings who had accosted her party before they had reached the Scots’ camp. He showed her into a small room at the rear of the long building and informed her, with surprising civility, that the jarl would be with her shortly.

  She tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in the pit of her stomach. Since leaving Fidach yesterday afternoon she had existed in a cocoon of calm but now, when she needed it most, it was starting to crack.

  The door swung open and in strode an enormous blond Viking. For a second, terror paralyzed her as that long-ago day flooded back. But this was not the boy who had loomed over her with fury etched on his young face.

  This was a full-grown man, a seasoned warrior with whom Connor had fought, and although both facts should serve to increase her fear, oddly they managed to calm her.

  “Princess, I welcome you.” He gave a formal bow.