by K. E. Saxon
“‘Tis glad I am that you did not attempt such, Angus, else you’d surely have forfeited your life.” Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Daniel placed his arm behind Angus’s back and said hoarsely, “I need to bind your chest wound now; can you sit up a bit?”
Angus nodded, wincing and grunting as he straightened away from the headboard. While his godson wrapped his chest in long strips of linen, Angus continued sadly, “I wish I could tell you that your grandfather and your dear mother died quickly and painlessly, but alas, ‘twas not so.” A tear fell in a lonely rivulet down his cheek and stopped, hanging like a crystalline drop on his timeworn, gray-bristled chin. His voice cracked as he said angrily, “Their deaths were horrible…and merciless, lad.”
Daniel pressed his lips together in a grim line and closed his eyes, nodding jerkily. “Aye. I know,” he said harshly. “I’ve seen the result of the fiends’ violence.” Forcing his sight back to his task, he quickly tied off the ends of the dressing and sat back down on the stool beside the bed.
Angus reached out a comforting hand, placing it firmly on Daniel’s forearm. “Lad, I must tell you…the foul knave who led this mad rampage….” He took a deep breath and released it slowly, shaking his head.
“Aye?” Daniel asked anxiously.
Angus remained silent, but tightened his grip on Daniel’s arm.
Daniel placed his own hand lightly over his godfather’s, prompting once more, “Aye?”
“He’s…. God’s Bones!” Angus threw his head back and closed his eyes. “How it pains me to give you these tidings!”
Daniel sat forward, squeezing the older man’s hand in a tight grip. “Aye? Tell me, Angus!”
Angus settled his eyes once more on Daniel’s countenance. “He is your father, lad,” he said at last, his voice gruff. “Jamison Maclean.”
Daniel sucked in a sharp breath and, rearing back, jerked his arm away. “Nay!” he roared. “My father is valiant and honorable.”
Angus slowly shook his head. “Nay, lad. ‘Twas Jamison Maclean that lead this rampage today, I’ve no doubt of it.”
Daniel’s mouth went dry, but still he argued: “’Twas a pretender, it had to be!” He sat forward once more, this new conviction firing his words, “Aye, ‘tis truth, it must be! ‘Twas the work of the MacPhersons or one of their allies!”
“Daniel, lad, I only wish it were so, for then our task would be simple and our method of vengeance direct, but alas, ‘tis not so. “Twas Jamison Maclean who did this deed—no other.”
Daniel’s shoulders drooped. “How can this be?” He drilled Angus with a steady glare. “How are you so certain? Grandfather said he was in the Holy Lands on crusade—is that not thousands of miles away?
“Aye, but he has returned. I heard him tell your grandfather that his ventures in that place were not as profitable as he’d expected. In his twisted mind, he believes that his lack of success—his lack of fortune—is due to your grandfather and your mother. He returned to exact revenge.”
Daniel, his eyes wide, shook his head in disbelief. “But why? Why would he believe such, Angus? And how could he be so ruthless in his revenge? He acted in no way according to the codes of chivalry. He invaded our keep and murdered my family and clansmen, giving my grandfather no prior notice of his intention to lay siege, nor the choice of honorable surrender with no bloodshed.”
Angus sighed wearily. “‘Tis time and past that you have the full truth of it, lad. Jamison Maclean is not the honorable knight your mother allowed you to believe. Nay, he is a black-souled devil, heartless, cruel—as his deeds this day prove. ‘Tis why your mother refused to speak of him to you.”
“How could she have wed such a man as he? Was theirs not a love match?” Daniel shook his head bemusedly. “I thought ‘twas sadness at his absence that kept her from speaking of him.”
Angus shook his head. “Nay, lad, she merely hoped to spare you this tale until you were a bit older. And, aye, in the beginning she did love him—at least ‘twas what she told your grandfather—but her love was destroyed by the man’s violence toward her. Your father began to beat your mother not long after they spoke their vows. And the last time he did so, he threw her out—tossed her into the bitter, cold night without a cloak. She ran away then, escaped—I was never told by what means—and returned home to her father for protection.” He shrugged, then winced and sucked in a breath at the sharp pain the movement caused. “Your father attempted to retrieve his wayward bride, but your grandfather and his men chased Jamison off of this holding. I doubt not that he would have continued in his endeavors, were it not for the fact that he was soon banished from his clan and had no coin, no men, no means of support to follow through on those plans.”
Daniel was utterly still, rendered mute by this newest shock of learning that the father he’d always fancied as being some noble, daring knight, was in reality the horrid, evil man who’d laughingly tossed the head of Daniel’s brave and just grandfather into the loch earlier that day. And was the same villain who’d allowed those filthy, blood-covered blue devils to violate his gentle, kind mother—and the sweet, innocent, lovely Janice—and, oh, God, the old cook as well! A new, even more terrible thought struck Daniel: The demon had no doubt also participated in the foul acts against the women. Daniel’s gut began to churn with disgust—and something more—pure loathing. The sound of his godfather’s cough followed by the clearing of his throat brought Daniel out of his gloomful reverie.
“He departed for the Holy Land not a fortnight later,” Angus continued. “‘Tis clear he’d heard the tales of those who made their fortune there, and expected to do the same. When he was disappointed in his pursuit, he turned his blame, his wrath once more on your mother—and her father—not looking to the flaws in his own character as reason for his lack of success. He invaded this keep with violent force this day because he hated your grandfather for allowing your mother sanctuary after she broke their handfast marriage covenant—and because he hated your mother for her part in his banishment.”
Sweat sat in a line of clear beads above Daniel’s upper lip and along his forehead. His breathing harsh, he said hoarsely, “I cannot believe I share blood with such a demon.” Pressing the base of his palms against his burning eyes, he gritted his teeth and swallowed hard. An image of the man swam in his mind. The devil’s hair was the same color as his own—and his eyes—had they not been a pale green, just as his own were? Godamercy, did they share the same nature as well? Daniel shuddered.
Angus patted his ward’s knee. “Ease yourself, lad. What your father did, he did of his own will and not due to some taint in his blood, if that be your thinkin’. You were raised as a MacLaurin and you have more of the MacLaurin in you than you ever will have of Jamison Maclean.
Daniel prayed that Angus spoke the truth. When he began to stand up, his godfather stayed his motion by placing his hand on his shoulder and pressing down. “Have I broken your heart then, with this tale of evil at the hands of the man you believed to be a brave knight on Our Lord’s quest?” Angus asked.
“Nay!” Daniel growled through gritted teeth. “‘Tis truth, my heart is filled more with hate for this stranger, this man who did naught more than sire me, this villain who broke into my home and laid waste to my family. Nay, he was not my father—he, oh, God! He…butchered the man who was father to me.” His earlier resolve forgotten, he said, “I must hunt the vile man down in all haste. This savagery must not go unpunished.” Daniel tried to break the older man’s grip on his shoulder without causing him more injury.
Angus held firm.
“Let me rise, Angus.”
“Nay, I shall not. You are not ready for such doings. Christ’s Bones, lad! Even your voice has not yet dropped in timbre.” Seeing by the lad’s set expression that his words were not penetrating his ward’s stubborn resolve, Angus said anxiously, “He knows not that he has a son. We must keep you safe, for I fear he would do you grave harm if your existence became known to him. And you do
not yet have the skills—nor the strength—to rival him.”
“I will not hide myself away like a wee lass,” Daniel said determinedly, “while you and my grandfather’s men avenge this atrocity.” Shaking his fist in the air, he said angrily, “And I care not that the devil will learn of my existence. In truth, I look forward to presenting him with the fact.”
“I understand your need for vengeance, lad, but ‘tis folly to attempt such now before you have been properly trained—and there is not time to train you well enough to meet your father. ‘Twill take many years for you to reach his level of skill, and you need to surpass it if you wish to win the day.” Angus sighed. “Nay, ‘tis best if the older, more seasoned warriors avenge these murders.”
Daniel stared into the older man’s eyes, in a silent battle of wills. After a moment, his shoulders slumped in defeat and he sighed loudly. Nodding slowly, he said, “Aye, I will not attempt to battle my wicked sire now. But know you this: I shall train—night and day if need be—with you and with any of the other warriors you choose for me to face, and I will quickly win against all of you. For I will not let it be long until my father knows well the sharp-edged blade of my MacLaurin justice.” Daniel leaned forward, pressing his fist into the mattress next to Angus’s side. “I must have your oath, Angus, that my sire’s fate will be left to me.”
Angus studied his godson for a moment, mentally debating the prudence of giving the lad such an oath. From the lad’s set jaw and the wrathful fire in his sea-green eyes, Angus realized the lad would attempt this thing on his own if he did not receive Angus’s oath, and his assistance. Reluctantly, he nodded, slowly dropping his hand from his charge’s shoulder. “Aye, you have my oath.”
Daniel relaxed back onto his seat once more. “My thanks, Angus. I shall begin my training as soon as the other men in my grandfather’s guard arrive back to the fortress.”
Angus settled back against the headboard and closed his eyes a moment. ‘Twas evident that a change had come about in his godson in the past hours. Where only that morn had been a bright and carefree lad, now sat before him a darkly resolute young man. The newfound mettle would serve him well in the coming moons as he was put through the brutal training trials he would need in order to defeat his father. “They are your men now, Daniel,” Angus reminded him. “You are the new laird and chieftain of this clan.”
Daniel rose and began to pace, crossing his arms over his chest. “How can I lead this clan? I know naught of those duties!”
Angus opened his eyes and watched his godson’s agitated movements. “Nay, but you will soon enough, I trow.
Daniel turned, a question in his countenance.
“You are my godson, my ward, and I shall guide you as best I can, fear not.”
Daniel nodded and recommenced pacing the floor, his thoughts returning to his father and how best to deal with him. After a moment, he said, “We shall make a plan to fortify our holding against my father and let him know that his deeds are known to us. Then, when I am ready, I shall find him and, I vow, I shall not come back until I have his head hanging from my saddle.” Daniel stopped and turned, piercing Angus with a searing look. “The others may be tracked down and killed. ‘Tis only the man who sired me I must face.”
The older man sighed, nodding as he closed his eyes once more. “Aye, ‘tis a good plan,” he said weakly.
“I have one more query, Angus, and then I must allow you some rest. I noticed that my father’s men spoke the tongue of the Gaels, but in a cadence unfamiliar to me. Do you know from whence they came?”
“They are mercenaries from the holy wars.” Opening his eyes, Angus looked at his godson. “They must have been taught enough of our native tongue to allow them to journey more easily through the Highlands. I doubt not that your father told the ruthless curs that this holding was a rich one and promised them that a good deal of coin and possessions would be theirs in exchange for their murderous help.”
Daniel nodded grimly. “Rest you awhile, Angus,” he said after a moment. Moving toward the entrance to the bedchamber, he looked over his shoulder and added, “I will await our other clansmen in the guard tower.” Before shutting the door behind him, he turned once more to his godfather and vowed, “We will rebuild, Angus, and naught like this will ever happen again. You shall see. This shall be the strongest, most impenetrable stronghold ever built.”
“Aye,” Angus said, “I believe you, lad.”
*
As the moons passed, Daniel’s voice grew deeper as his stature increased. In no time, he’d reached a height of well over six feet, ultimately towering over all his other clansmen. He gained weight as he built sinew and strength, until his torso was at last in proportion to his long legs.
His godfather became his mentor, not only regarding clan affairs, but also as a much-needed guide in his accelerated pursuit of his warrior skills. Daniel concentrated on his training with a single-minded purpose until he was as strong and expert a warrior as he had sworn to become that day of the massacre.
One bright morn, fifteen moons to the day after his family’s murders, Daniel departed on his hunt.
PART TWO
The Meeting
“Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.”
Twelfth Night (Act II, Scene iii)
“Better three hours too soon than a minute too late”
Merry Wives of Windsor (Act II, scene ii)
CHAPTER 1
The Highlands, Scotland 1192
“Laird, a man on horseback approaches,” Laird Lachlan Donald’s lieutenant said as he stepped further into the great hall. “He’s near to a furlong out and has no escort. ‘Tis likely the MacLaurin chieftain you’ve been expecting these past days.”
“Good. Good. Tell me when he reaches the gate,” Laird Donald replied and watched his lieutenant depart the hall before settling on a bench at the table and taking a long pull on his ale. The MacLaurins were not well known to him. He only knew that they were a clan whose property was much further to the north than his own and whose laird was a young man of about sixteen summers.
A messenger had come a sennight past with a missive from the young laird requesting an audience with him, and Laird Donald had sent word back that he would be welcomed.
‘Twas rumored that the MacLaurin had inherited the title at a very young age, after a bloody massacre had killed the old laird, his grandfather, as well as the lad’s mother and a small number of MacLaurin warriors. He’d also heard the lad’s father was behind the murders and that the lad had later killed his father and avenged their deaths.
An all-too familiar scuffling sound came from the doorway leading to the kitchens. With a sigh of resignation, Laird Donald turned toward the sound, forcing a smile of good will upon his countenance. “Ah, Cook. Is there aught amiss?”
“Aye, Laird, and well you know its cause I’ll wager. ‘Tis the bairn. She wills not to know her place, laird. She’s all the time lurkin’ about my kitchens and gettin’ underfoot as I work. ‘Tis not fittin’ for the lass to be runnin’ ‘round with the kitchen maids.”
Giving his prized cook his best look of contrition, Laird Lachlan Donald let out a loud sigh. “’My sister swore that my daughter would quit her wild ways and settle into more ladylike behavior by her sixth summer, but clearly, ‘tis not come to pass. I shall speak to the lass forthwith. She shall be banished from the kitchens.”
Maryn lay on her stomach with her cinnamon curls dancing as she wiggled and squirmed in an effort to keep her grip on her barnyard prize. The pet was her new best friend. Being the only bairn at the holding, Maryn’s friends tended to be of the four-legged sort. As she held the thing more securely against her chest, her fidgety pet tickled her neck with its long, scratchy fingers. Maryn snickered, then clamped her hand over her mouth.
The musical sound of his daughter’s glee echoed faintly around Laird Donald. Smiling indulgently at the delightful tremolo, he looked around the hall for
his wayward bairn. He’d have to chasten her for her sneakiness again, but he could not bring himself to be truly upset with her antics. For she was such a curious lass, and that was the cause of her mischief-making, he was sure. Tho’ ‘twas clear now that he’d need to rein her in a bit more, else his cook would surely revolt.
Maryn’s pet tried to leap out of her hands again. “Nay,” she chided in a loud whisper, “you must not let Papa know we are here.”
“Ah!” Laird Donald said as he craned his neck to look under his table. “‘Tis my wayward daughter that twitters so prettily! I was sure wee brownies had invaded my fortress.”
Maryn giggled. “Papa, you are so silly. The brownies only come out at night!”
The cook turned on her heel and stormed toward the entrance to the hall, muttering just loud enough for her laird to hear. “The lass is bein’ spoiled an’ needs to be taken in hand, she does.”
Laird Donald cleared his throat, taking the not-so-subtle hint. “Maryn, attend me now. ‘Twas not good of you to eavesdrop. And stay out of Cook’s kitchen.”
“But, Papa—!”
“Nay, heed me, daughter,” her papa admonished. “I know the lure of the kitchen is a great one, but Cook has little patience for wee lasses who get underfoot.”
“But, Papa…!” she tried again.
“Nay, lass, hear me well. She’ll quit me for sure and return to her clan—your dear mother’s clan—if you do not mind your papa and stay out of her way. And she is the best cook in the whole of the Highlands—‘twould not please me to lose her.”
Maryn’s shoulders drooped as she bowed her head in defeat. “Aye, Papa.” Brightening, she lifted her eyes to her papa’s countenance. “But might I help the other maids when Cook is not about?”
