The Highlander's Promise

by Heather Grothaus

  “I doona know,” Lachlan said, securing the tail with a piece of leather and then rocking his hatchet free from the doorframe and returning it to his belt. “But if it’s nae someone’s death, it soon will be.”

  “Aye, and go see to it, Blair,” Searrach cooed, and his eyes shot to her, his frown quirking despite himself at the woman’s pandering allusion to the fact that Lachlan would soon be clan chief.

  Lachlan wrenched open the door and stepped out into the bright light of midday. It seemed as though the whole of the town was gathered on the green before his grandfather’s longhouse, clustered in a wary circle around a mounted rider who seemed as out of place in the fresh green Highland spring as a dagger clutched in the hand of a newborn babe.

  The stranger was clad all in black, from his long, queued hair to his fine boots, nearly invisible against the flank of his equally black mount. He made no outward effort to control the beast crowded so by the obviously curious villagers, as there was no need; the man’s horse stood as still as any mountain boulder, but its head was up, alert, and Lachlan had the impression that should any from the town attempt to lay a hand upon either the horse or its master, they would be stomped into the green in a blink.

  The rider carried a long sword strapped across his back for transport, but the man was certainly armed well enough without it, as even from across the green Lachlan could spy no fewer than four blades of varying lengths, as well as a bow fixed in a tidy bundle across the back of the man’s saddle. The rider’s profile looked more out of place than even his fine mount, his long, pale face with its bony prominences seeming cold and detached here in the lush, humid green.

  The townsfolk turned wary, frowning faces toward Lachlan as he neared, revealing the stooped and robed figure of Archibald Blair, Lachlan’s grandfather, in their midst. Lachlan felt rather than saw the stranger’s gaze fall upon him, but he would not dignify the man’s presence with his attention as of yet.

  “Is aught amiss?” Lachlan called out in an easy tone.

  The old man was clearly distressed, the long, dirty-gray hair he was so proud of quivering and swaying like fluffy fleece over the shoulder of his long tunic, cut in the old fashion, his ancient shawl fastened over his concave chest.

  “A stranger,” he lisped, and jerked his head toward the black-clad man. “Englishman with wont to speak before the fine.”

  Lachlan stopped on the fringe of the group and at last turned up his face toward the man on the dark horse. He met the stranger’s gaze, icy-blue and without the least hint of concern for his own safety in the midst of so many wary Highlanders.

  He was either an idiot or the devil himself.

  “We doona gather council upon the command of foreigners,” Lachlan said.

  The man raised a thin, black eyebrow in his pale face, as if amused, then dismissed Lachlan without a word, turning to look at his grandfather once more instead. “I bring news from the south that may be of great import to your clan. The fine will no doubt wish to—”

  “I said,” Lachlan interrupted, his ire rising at the blatant disregard of the cool man, “we doona gather council at the command of a foreigner.”

  The rider didn’t so much as glance at Lachlan as he continued. “Very well. If you give me leave to dismount, Blair, I will convey the word to you privately, and then you shall do with the information what you will. My only duty is to impart the facts as I have been given them.”

  “You doona have my leave,” Archibald hissed. “Ennathin’ you have to say to me, you can do it from your sack-of-bones horse and then take yer leave from this vale, lest ’tis yer hope never to see England again. That is my grandson ye offend.”

  At this, the man turned his head to Lachlan once more, his expression changed, his gaze now bright and earnest.

  “You are Archibald Blair’s grandson?” he asked, looking Lachlan up and down as if he were some animal at market. “Aged approximately one score, eight? Your mother was called Edna?”

  “Aye,” Lachlan said, feeling his head draw back slightly at both the accuracy of the information and the sound of his mother’s name issuing from the man’s lips; it had been so long since Lachlan had heard it spoken aloud. “I should think I know my own mother’s name. Who are you to know of her?”

  But before the stranger could reply, Archibald Blair seemed to erupt with anger, raising his arm to point a crooked finger at the man. “Ye get out of here! We doona wish to hear ennathin’ from yer lyin’ English lips! Go on, then!”

  This time it was Archibald Blair the rider in black dismissed as he answered Lachlan’s question. “I am Sir Lucan Montague, knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter of His Majesty King Henry of England. Your name, sir?”

  “Doona say ennathin’!” Archibald shouted, holding both hands skyward now as Lachlan glanced over at him. His grandfather’s face had reddened, his yellowed eyes bulging. “You canna trust a bloody Englishman! Hah, geddout!” Archibald stepped toward Lucan Montague’s mount, as if to shy the horse from the green, but the animal stood as if made from stone.

  “I am Lachlan Blair, and aye, I am the only child of my mother Edna,” Lachlan supplied calmly, his curiosity piqued despite his grandfather’s distress.

  “Is your mother present in the town, Master Blair?” the knight inquired in his crisp, southern accent.

  “Master Blair now, is it?” Lachlan laughed. “My mother’s been dead for a score and five. And as you’re too young to have known her, I’d be answered as to your purpose at Town Blair.”

  “My condolences on your loss,” Lucan Montague said with a slight bow in his saddle. “It is true that I claim no acquaintance with your mother; it is on your father’s behalf that I travel.”

  “Tommy?” a townsman hidden within the crowd called out hesitantly, a faint reverence in the word that straightened Lachlan’s spine. And yet he still found himself scanning the sea of faces for sight of Marcas or Dand as the gathered folk leaned their heads together, their murmurs rippling around the green.

  “Ye get out of here now, I said!” Archibald shouted hoarsely, whipping his dagger from his belt and staggering forward so quickly that he tripped and would have fallen onto the horse had it not been for the men around him, catching the chief and struggling to assist him while he swung at them and cursed. “He canna be trusted! He canna be—” His words wheezed to a halt as Lachlan’s grandfather clutched at his chest and closed his eyes, sagging within the grips of the two braw townsmen who supported him.

  One of the men, Lachlan’s friend Cordon Blair, met his eyes with a look of concern. Archibald’s health had been failing for months, and the curious disquiet this English stranger was causing was a clear threat to the Blair chief.

  “If by ‘Tommy’ you refer to Thomas Annesley,” Lucan Montague called out over the din, “then yes; your father, Tommy.”

  Lachlan looked back up into the calm face of the stranger, who seemed not at all bothered by Archibald Blair’s distress. “Perhaps you’d best say what you mean outright, Montague. You’ve caused my grandfather a great upset and I do find myself agreeing with his measure of your honesty: You are too young to have known my father either, for he, too, died many years ago. Before I was even born.”

  The knight inclined his head ever so slightly. “Forgive my disagreement, but that is not so, sir. I spoke at length with the man myself little more than a month ago in London.”

  The murmur of the crowd increased to a mumble and Lachlan felt his brows drawing together in a frown for the second time that day. He glanced at his grandfather and saw that Archibald’s rheumy gaze was fixed determinedly on the ground before his feet as he continued to sag in the townsmen’s arms. Lachlan thought he saw his grandfather’s head shake ever so slightly. Nay.

  Lachlan looked back to the knight. “Disagree all you like, but you have been played false. What would make you certain enough of an imposter’s claim
to make such a long and dangerous journey?”

  “Thomas himself wasn’t certain of your existence, true,” Montague allowed. “But he wished for me to seek out Town Blair, and Edna Blair in particular, so that if he had indeed left issue behind, I could convey the truth to her.”

  “My father died in battle. Before I was born,” Lachlan reiterated calmly, but a strange feeling sank into his guts with long, sharp spikes and Lachlan couldn’t fathom why. “He sacrificed himself in order to save our town from an attacking clan. That is truth all here well know.”

  “Fabricated,” Montague rejoined crisply. “Thomas Annesley deserted the Blairs’ fight against the Clan Carson and has only just been hanged in London for murder.”

  Lachlan’s breath caught in his chest as the air of the green filled with the ringing hiss of steel being withdrawn from sheaths. “Take care what you say about my father in the presence of his clan, stranger.”

  Lucan Montague quirked his brow again as he glanced around at the scores of weapons being pointed at him. Now, at last, his mount seemed wary, alert. The knight calmly reached inside his quilted doublet, then withdrew his hand slowly.

  “Only a parchment,” he announced, holding a square packet between his fingers so that those threatening him might see. He held it out toward Lachlan. “I am but a messenger, and a scribe of sorts. Here it is, put down in his own hand, meant for the Blair fine. But as your grandfather has refused to summon his council to order, I suppose…”

  “Give it to me, then, ye bloody bastard,” Archibald demanded hoarsely.

  But Lachlan stepped forward as if in a dream, taking the wax-sealed packet into his own hands. It was smooth and warmed through from being held so long against the English knight’s heart. The sounds of the spring day, the crowd around him, faded away, and even the warm breeze that blew his tail of hair over his shoulder seemed removed from Lachlan as he stood staring at the red wax seal.

  “Council,” his grandfather wheezed, breaking the spell of the parchment. “I call the council. Harrell, Harrell, where be ye? Turn me loose, Cordon. I must find—”

  “Aye, Blair, I’m here.” Searrach’s father stepped to the old man’s side, from where, Lachlan knew not. He leaned his ear near Archibald’s head, listening. Then Searrach’s father nodded and strode to Lachlan, holding out his hand. “Give it over, lad.”

  Lachlan looked at the older man and felt his fingers tighten on the smooth, waxy packet. Beyond Harrell’s shoulder, Archibald was being helped away from the green—half-carried, half-dragged—toward his own door.

  “It’s meant for the fine,” Harrell reiterated, and then plucked the parchment from Lachlan’s reluctant grasp.

  “You canna call a fine; Marcas hasna returned from the hunt.”

  “I’ll send a runner,” Harrell said, and then turned away from Lachlan to speak to the knight. “You’ve leave to dismount. See to yer horse in the chief’s stable, then he’ll hear ye.”

  Lachlan stood as if frozen for a moment, his hand still suspended as when it had gripped the square of parchment, as Montague swung down from his horse. Then he shook himself and marched toward his grandfather’s longhouse after Harrell. He was about to duck through the doorway when the man turned and placed his hand against Lachlan’s chest.

  “Let me pass, Harrell,” Lachlan said. “I’ve every right of the fine.”

  Searrach’s father shook his head. “Nae this time, lad,” he said solemnly. “The Blair’s word.”

  Lachlan looked deeper into the long, dark room, his eyes straining to penetrate the gloom. Cordon Blair was lowering Archibald onto a pallet near the central fire, and Lachlan could see that his grandfather’s face was now the same color as his fleecy hair. The Blair raised his hooded eyes to meet Lachlan’s own for the briefest moment before his gaze skittered toward the banked coals.

  Pressure on Lachlan’s chest drew his attention once more to the man who would soon be his family in marriage, as Harrell pressed him back from the doorway. Lachlan had the sudden urge to break off the man’s hand at the wrist. A black shape brushed by Lachlan’s left, and he realized it was Montague. Although lean even in his black-quilted gambeson, the knight was taller than Lachlan would have guessed, besting his own height by half a hand, and it further increased Lachlan’s already growing anger.

  Montague paused in the doorway to meet his gaze boldly. “You have my apologies.”

  Lachlan huffed as a young boy dashed from the longhouse between the two men—Harrell’s runner. “What care have I for the empty courtesies of a scurfy Englishman?”

  The knight’s face was solemn, and Lachlan had the faint and ominous suspicion that he was missing a point of great importance.

  “You have them any matter.” Lucan Montague entered into the Blair’s longhouse fully, and the last thing Lachlan saw was Harrell’s grave face as he shut the door.

  Lachlan turned back to the green and was startled to realize that the majority of the town was still gathered on the grassy lawn, some of the men still gripping the weapons they had readied at the insult to the name of Lachlan’s legendary sire. They’d all witnessed his barring from the council and now seemed to be waiting for some explanation.

  “Go on,” Lachlan said in a voice full of bluster. “It’s like as nae only a bit of political nonsense from the south. I’ll keep watch for Marcas.”

  It wasn’t entirely untrue, but it brought about his desired result of dispersing the curious crowd whose stares seemed to penetrate Lachlan. It wasn’t as though he was unused to being the center of attention; as the son of the man who had managed to turn back the entire Carson clan single-handedly and saved Town Blair from massacre, Lachlan was accustomed to admiration.

  But just now, the scrutiny made him feel uneasy, as if there was a hint of something…less than deferential in their gazes; questions and doubts in their eyes that Lachlan himself didn’t understand.

  He stood to the side of the door, resting his back against the sun-warmed wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes darted from the wall of woods surrounding the basin of valley this north side of the loch to the alleys of the town that led to the water’s edge, watching for signs of Marcas or Dand.

  The sun grew ripe, orange, burnishing the low roofs with a golden glow, and the wall at his back fell into cold shadow. Lachlan slid to a squat, keeping his posture even when his feet tingled and the townsfolk went about their evening chores. He didn’t rise until he at last saw the awkward shapes shudder free from the edge of the forest—his foster brother, Dand, followed closely by Marcas and the runner.

  They disappeared for a moment as they drew near the town and were hidden by the houses, but a moment later, Dand’s stormy expression was clear even from across the green, his pale face closed down in a glower, his red, curling lock falling over his forehead. Lachlan’s junior by eight years, Dand hadn’t even taken the time to unstring his bow as he charged across the common area, head lowered like a young bull.

  “Is there an Englishman here?” he demanded incredulously as Lachlan rose to his feet on legs that felt showered with sparks from a fire. “Has he been given place over ye in the fine, Lach?”

  “What took you so long?” Lachlan asked, not trusting himself to answer his brother’s question without betraying the foreign humiliation he felt. “Harrell sent for you hours ago.”

  “We were way back.” Dand panted, reaching Lachlan at last. “Da had to string up a buck.” Dand nodded toward the closed door, then looked back at Lachlan with eyes still full of his fiery questions.

  But Lachlan turned his gaze instead to the older man now nearing the longhouse with the runner. Marcas Blair was three score, his once rich, chestnut hair now gone white like Archibald’s, but unlike the clan chief, Lachlan’s foster father kept its length tamed from his face in a long braid. His features were solemn, like the side of Ben Nevis itself with his tall forehead and wide c
heekbones below bright blue eyes. His hands swung free at his sides, stained a bloody brown, his sleeves rolled to his elbows; his shawl twisted around his waist, revealing the dampness of his light-colored shirt. Marcas had hurried to Lachlan’s side, of that there could be no doubt.

  And doubted him Lachlan seldom had, in all the years since he had come to live in Marcas’s longhouse.

  “I’ll sort it,” was all Marcas said in his low, calm voice as he passed Lachlan. He pushed open the door and paused, looking over his shoulder at Dand.

  Dand shook his head, his chin raised. “I’ll wait with Lach.”

  Marcas nodded once and ducked inside, the young runner fast on his heels.

  But Lachlan would only be pushed so far. “Nae ye doon, ye schemin’—” he reached out and grabbed the runner’s arm and swung him back from the door as it closed, shoving him toward the green. The boy gave Lachlan a sheepish grin before slumping off toward the maze of houses.

  “Why are they barring you, Lach?” Dand pressed. “Who’s the Englishman is said to’ve come?”

  “A knight,” Lachlan said grudgingly at last, sliding back down the wall again, this time to sit on the dirt, one leg stretched out before him. “He’s brought a message to the fine.”

  Dand mimicked the posture. “From the English king?”

  Lachlan shrugged. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to repeat the blasphemous words Lucan Montague had said about Thomas Annesley. They were lies, any matter. ’Twould do no good to ire Dand further.

  “But why would they bar you from—”

  “Would ye shut up your blatherin’, Dand?” Lachlan barked. “If I knew, d’ye think I’d be sitting here in the dooryard like some hound awaitin’ his scraps?”

  Dand didn’t seem to take offense to the rebuke, crossing his arms over his chest, his bow still hooked over his shoulder. “You’re nae hound, Lach, that’s for certain. Tommy’s own blood in yer veins. The wolf of Clan Blair. And my own brother.”