by Cathy MacRae
The familiar excitement of battle raced through Phillipe as he waited. Closer, wait, wait. His motley band of archers needed no prompting. Either through obedience or fright, they remained motionless as the enemy drew near.
“Now.” His single command released four bolts. Two struck true, felling the pirates in the lead. Two struck the cliffs on either side and ricocheted through the crowd, inflicting damage. With a bellow, Hugh MacDonnell ordered his men back.
Excitement raced through the archers. The pirates, anticipating closer combat, were armed only with swords and daggers.
A swift conversation took place, then a handful of pirates disappeared down the path. Silence stretched. Phillipe knew they likely sought a path over the low cliffs. The way was difficult but not impassable. Though they must pass the men stationed at the watch fires at the overlooks first.
Had he placed enough men there? Could they defend themselves against the pirates? He waited impatiently for one of the drums—newly made with cured seal skins stretched over a rough frame—to sound, indicating siting of the Mar.
“Look!” Maggie touched his arm.
He glanced through the aperture. Something glowed on the trail, rapidly approaching.
“They think to burn us out.”
“Fils de . . ..” He gestured to the archers. “Do not let them close. Spare your bolts for sure hits. Shoot only as commanded.”
He and Balgair took up positions on either end, adding to the archers’ numbers. A mark blazed on the stone on either side of the cliffs.
“Steady. As they pass the mark . . ..”
Four bolts sped down the path. One struck the lead pirate, three thudded the path at their feet. The archers stepped back to reload their bows, the others moving into place.
The sequence became a deadly dance. Shoot. Retreat. Reload. Over and over. Pirates fell, but more replaced them. They built a fire on the path, fueling it with the brands from the bonfire on the beach. As it flamed, green shrubs were added and smoke built along the trail and wafted toward the wooden barbican.
Phillipe’s eyes began to water. He tore a strip from his tunic and tied it about his nose and lower face, commanding the others to do the same.
A boom echoed faintly. The drums! The archers glanced at each other. Excitement lit their faces above their masks. The Mar had been sighted!
The pirates hesitated.
Breathless, Maggie peered through the bolt holes. “They’ve turned back!”
Narfi and his archers cheered, fists pumping the air.
“Give them space,” Phillipe ordered. His eyes crinkled betraying the grin beneath his mask. “I’d like to chase them back to their ship, but they still out-number us. Do not be hasty.”
Maggie’s fingers lightly tapped the stock of her crossbow, impatient. Another boom reverberated. The Mar was in the harbor.
“The path is as deadly for us as it was for the pirates, should they conspire to trap us at the far end,” Phillipe cautioned. “Balgair and I will go first. Follow at a measured distance.”
Maggie nodded, though anticipation rose with cold fingers up her spine. Phillipe exited the barbican and repeated his instructions to the warriors guarding the gate. He disengaged the latch then led his force toward the beach. Callan and Dawe walked before and after Maggie, lending their swords to her protection.
They reached the top of the rise which opened to the harbor below. Men fled across the beach, heading for the MacDonnell ship. Maggie and the others raced in their wake, skidding to a halt at the shore. The Mar rocked on the gentle swells, a length from the pier.
A man stood at the bow, black hair waving in the wind.
“Lady MacLean! How may we help?”
Maggie grinned, recognizing Alex’s voice. “Ye’ve been a great help already. Many thanks, Sir!”
“The might of Clan MacLean is ever at yer service.”
Mirth bubbled up inside Maggie. “Send them on their way. We dinnae need the likes of them scouring our isle.”
Obligingly, the Mar tacked in the small space, giving way before the birlinn.
“MacDonnell!” Alex shouted. “This is MacLean land, held by Maggie MacLean. Dinnae forget it.”
There was no reply as the birlinn slid oars into the water and pulled out of the bay.
Alex met Maggie and Phillipe at the pier once the other ship gained open water.
“He willnae be happy about his defeat here. Da has sent warriors and will supply a warship to guard the harbor until we are certain Lord MacDonnell has regained his senses.” His sharp gaze slid from Maggie to Phillipe. “Ye have sustained nae lasting harm?”
“Nae,” Phillipe replied. “Though my head would not object to a few hours’ sleep.”
Asatrus stepped to the pier. He inclined his head. “Our thanks, m’lords, m’lady. We are in yer debt.”
“There is nae debt,” Maggie said. “Ye are our family, now, and we protect our own. As soon as the threat has diminished, we will recall most of the warriors and mayhap leave only a small ship in the harbor to remind any who come here with malice that ye and yer families are much valued. We will see ye are left in peace to grow yer orchard and brew yer mead.”
Others joined them on and around the dock, faces wiped clear of worry, filled with wonder and relief.
Maggie surveyed the small crowd. “Ye fought well today. Not just the pirates, but yer own fears. I am proud of ye.”
Cheers rang out. Phillipe turned Maggie to him and kissed her soundly.
The roar of approval rose. After a long moment, Maggie raised her hands. The noise subsided.
“Let us feast and toast our victories!”
Epilogue
April 1226
Ardnamurchan Peninsula
The Saorsa sailed north along the edge of the Ardnamurchan Peninsula where the westernmost lands of Scotland stretched into the sea, welcoming them with vivid blue waters and white sands. Rocky crags skipped from the shore into deeper water and tufts of wiry grasses waved in the wind. Low, grassy plains dotted with early spring flowers swept up from the beaches to the mountains.
Porpoises breached the waters on either side of the Saorsa, leaping playfully in the froth parting beneath the bow. Otters floated near the shores.
Serkan raised his paws to the rail, tail wagging gently. Nose to the air, he sniffed, then barked.
Maggie leaned over the bow. “Look! Puffins!”
The cheeky birds waddled on bright orange feet over the rocks and grass. Some dove into the sea, others taking wing to soar over the water in search of fish.
“Excited?” Phillipe grinned broadly, eyes shining.
Maggie bumped her shoulder against his arm. “Aye.”
He hugged her against his side. “It has not been quite a year since we chose the site for the castle and approved the design. Though ’twill be many more months before ’tis completed, I am looking forward to seeing how it progresses.”
“I could live on the ground floor for now,” Maggie commented with a sigh.
“Tired of being a guest at MacLean Castle?”
“Mmmm. A bit. Though having the leisure to spend time with ye is lovely. I know demands will increase once we have our own demesne to oversee.” She gave a wistful smile. “But I am ready for our home.”
The coast undulated off the starboard bow, each cove seemingly more beautiful than the last. They finally reached the bay which sheltered a hidden harbor between a sweeping, narrow peninsula to the west, and a broad curve of sandy beach to the south and east. Waves crashed against a skerry of black stone a short distance to the north, making entry into the harbor dangerous under all but fair weather.
Two small birlinns, built for hauling merchandise—or, in this case, tools and men for building the new castle—wallowed gently as waves rushed beneath their hulls to sweep against the shore. A stone pier had been built for ease of off-loading supplies. A cluster of tents and other, more stable housing filled the space between the sandy beach and the slope to t
he foot of the mountain, housing the many artisans and craftsmen.
They disembarked amid shouted greetings. Phillipe waved the men back to work, a smile on his face. Maggie stepped ashore as Serkan loped past, nose to the grass. He made a wide arc through the field then returned, sitting at Maggie’s feet as she absently patted his head.
Her awed gaze was drawn to the fortress sweeping up from the rocky crag as if it had been carved there when the earth began. The curtain wall, towering some thirty feet above the harbor, rose and dipped with the land. Two sides neared completion—the north wall and the one facing the sea. In the center stood the keep, scaffolding soaring above the vaulted ground floor, walls raised to the third storey. Piles of wood, stone, and mortar lay on the ground, the ring of chisels answered by the creak of ropes and pulleys.
“It rides the ridge, powerful and—och! I have the name. Donansgeir. ’Tis Norse for Donan’s rock.”
Phillipe gazed at her solemnly. “Donansgeir Castle. In honor of the priest whose articles we found in the caves. ’Tis a fine name ye give our home, mon coeur.”
Maggie nodded and fingered the neckline of her gown, bringing to mind the brooch still in Uilleam’s possession. “A fitting place for the reliquary someday.” She smiled, serene. “Da is better.”
Phillipe dropped a kiss to her forehead. “Thanks to the relic, your stubborn brother, and the healer who became God’s hands.”
Maggie swallowed back a sigh. She wasn’t ready to lose a parent.
Phillipe tugged her hand. “Come.”
Eagerly, she climbed the road to the castle, pausing twice to catch her breath. “Too much easy living,” she remarked with a smile when Phillipe voiced concern. His eyes narrowed, but he waited without comment until she was able to continue. She placed a hand on the slight curve of her belly once his attention was engaged with the activity at the castle.
’Tis been nearly a year. I dinnae believe . . ..
Warmth swept through her. She would need to stop. To think. To count. She could not remember her last courses. Had it been two, even three months ago? Why had she not noticed? The possibility she was pregnant left her speechless.
Phillipe called to her from the entry to the keep. “The stairs reach our chambers. Come! Look at what’s been done!”
His excitement was irresistible and she abandoned her thoughts as she hurried to join him. Two doors made of boards eight feet long and almost two inches thick, crossed with iron bands a hand’s width apart, lay propped against the wall, waiting to be installed. The massive hinges protruded from the door frames, built into the rock.
“Look up,” he urged. “What do ye see?”
Maggie leaned her head back to stare up the wall. “’Tis nae finished. A section is missing. They’ve another storey and the roof before they’re finished.”
Phillipe grinned. “Let me show ye.”
They climbed the spiral staircase at the far corner of the great hall to the third storey. Sunlight lit the entire floor, the ceiling naught but beams set in place to support the next level. Phillipe led her to the front wall where stones rose on either side of a wide aperture.
“What do ye see? Beyond the keep.”
She peered over the wall. In the distance, the sea swept into the harbor in jeweled colors ranging from cobalt to turquoise, rolling green and white upon the sands. Birds wheeled overhead. The flower-filled machair spilled at her feet.
“’Tis beautiful,” she whispered. “I believe I might see Hola from here. On a clear day,” she amended.
“We will place a window in this wall.” Phillipe motioned to the edges of the open space. “’Twill be divided into three parts, each arched at the top and set with pierced stone. The view will be spectacular!”
Maggie opened her mouth but formed no words. Could anything be more splendid? “I dinnae know what to say. I never imagined . . .. Phillipe, ’tis wonderful!”
His gaze met hers. One corner of his mouth tilted up. “I wanted to surprise ye. I hope ye like it.”
Maggie’s breath hitched and she fell in love with him all over again. She took his hand and placed it on her belly. “My love, I believe I have a surprise, as well.”
The End
MORE BOOKS by Cathy MacRae
The Highlander’s Bride series
The Highlander’s Accidental Bride (book 1)
The Highlander’s Reluctant Bride (book 2)
The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride (book 3)
The Highlander’s Outlaw Bride (book 4)
The Highlander’s French Bride (book 5)
De Wolfe Pack Connected World
The Saint:
The Penitent
The Cursed
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor series
(with LL Muir, Diane Darcy, Jo Jones, and Melissa Mayhue)
Adam
Malcolm
MacLeod
Patrick
The Hardy Heroine series
(with DD MacRae)
Highland Escape (book 1)
The Highlander’s Viking Bride (book 2)
The Highlander’s Crusader Bride (book 3)
The Highlander’s Norse Bride, a Novella (book 4)
The Highlander’s Welsh Bride (book 5)
The Prince’s Highland Bride (book 6)
About the Authors
Cathy MacRae lives on the sunny side of the Arbuckle Mountains where she and her husband read, write, and tend the garden—with the help of the dogs, of course.
You can visit with her on Facebook, or read her blogs and learn about her books at www.cathymacraeauthor.com. Drop her a line—she loves to hear from readers!
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DD MacRae enjoys bringing history to life and considers research one of the best things about writing a story! With more than 35 years of martial arts training, DD also brings breath-taking action to the tales.
You can connect with DD through www.cathymacraeauthor.com. It’s always exciting to hear from readers!
A Note from the Authors
We sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed this inventive re-telling of Phillipe of Antioch and how he and Maggie found their happy-ever-afters. As always, we strive to bring you the best mix of history and fiction. If you’re interested, we’ve included some of our notes for The Prince’s Highland Bride below.
Phillipe of Antioch: As you may realize, the real Phillipe shows up in Wiki and elsewhere as having died of poisoning after marrying Isabella, the child-queen of Cilicia (or Little Armenia), and falling into disfavor with the people. That’s the short version, and one we took as solid truth until we uncovered a nugget of information suggesting he was well-loved by his young bride who genuinely grieved his death and refused to remarry (though she was eventually brought to heel and forced to marry Baron Konstantin’s son, Hethum. She reportedly refused to consummate the marriage for many years—she was, still, a child when they wed—but appears to have eventually borne eight children to Hethum). Her actions didn’t sound like those of a queen disenchanted with a consort she hadn’t chosen, so we dug deeper.
All sources agreed Phillipe made a good initial impression on his subjects, even hailed him as a savior in troubled times after winning a victory over the attacking Turks (the original reason the queen’s regent, Baron Konstantin, sought an alliance with Phillipe’s father, the powerful Bohemond IV of Antioch), and bringing peace to the beleaguered country. However, he soon fell into disfavor when he refused to adhere to the rites of the Armenian Church and was seen as spending too much time in Antioch. His time in Antioch was possibly the more dangerous of his actions, as he was young and very much influenced by his father. The nobles of Cilicia feared their country would soon become a mere
outpost for Antioch. Their differences with the Roman Catholic church also kept them at odds with the ‘intolerable’ situation with their young king.
A conspiracy soon formed among the high dignitaries of Cilicia, led by Konstantin of Barbaron. They realized they’d lost their power when Phillipe and Isabell (Zabel) married and became rulers of Cilicia despite her young age (she was six or seven at the time). Faced with the loss of their influence, they decided to put an end to Phillipe’s reign by the most expedient way possible—death. One source suggested Phillipe was joined by Zabel on many of his trips to Antioch (causing even more strife, for if both king and queen became enamored of Antioch’s ways, Cilicia was, indeed, doomed), and suggested he was arrested as he and Zabel traveled by night to Antioch—making a case that they were fleeing Cilicia at this point. He was accused of stealing the crown jewels of Cilicia. Was this code for the young queen? Were they actually accusing him of stealing her or her affections away from Cilicia? Or was he accused of stealing a king’s ransom in stones and gold?
Whatever the truth, Phillipe was imprisoned in the fortress of Partzerpert, near Sis, the Cilician capital, where he remained for several months while his father appealed to Baron Konstantin. Bohemond’s petitions were in vain, however, and Phillipe was poisoned in prison in 1225. Bohemond was enraged, but his plan to avenge his son was thwarted when his ally, the Sultan of Rum—who had raided Cilicia in 1225—switched to the side of the Armenians.
We decided Phillipe had been dealt a bad lot. He’d been portrayed as an arrogant, overbearing man who had married Zabel strictly for political reasons, and who despised the Armenian people. But Zabel’s actions both before and after his death suggested otherwise, and soon we wondered, what if . . .?
