The Chieftain

by Margaret Mallory

  the mother of my future children

  the faery lass who weaves magic in my nights and

  the woman who makes me whole,

  You are everything I ever longed for and every woman I will ever need.

  Connor turned then to present his bride to his clan, and the hall erupted into wild cheers of approval. This chieftain’s wife was beloved by her clan. With Ilysa at his side, he would be the man and chieftain she believed he could be.

  EPILOGUE

  1525

  Children, stay here with your father,” Ilysa said. After kissing Connor, she left them to throw stones in the pond while she carried her new babe to meet the man waiting beyond the next hill.

  When she reached her grandfather, she embraced him warmly and put her new babe in his arms.

  “This one looks like you,” he said, after they sat down on the log. “What’s her name?”

  “Teàrlag,” she said. “We named her for the old seer who died the night she was born.”

  The seer had foretold that the child’s gift of The Sight would rival her own, and the babe was born at midnight on a full moon. Ilysa sighed. She missed the old seer.

  “The other children have grown,” he said, watching them from between the hills. “The lads are tall—they take after the MacLeod side.”

  Ilysa refrained from mentioning that the boys had Connor’s fine looks as well as his height. After they had talked at length about the children, she had business to discuss with him.

  “My husband received another summons to appear before the regent to settle the dispute between the two of ye over Trotternish.”

  “I received one as well,” the MacLeod said, “same as last year and the year before.”

  “Connor would prefer to ignore it, if you’re willing to do the same.”

  “Ach, ’tis always perilous to go to court,” the MacLeod said. “I intend to stay home.”

  “He’ll be grateful, as am I.” She kissed his weathered cheek.

  They had kept this secret pact for years now. Except for the time the MacDonalds had helped Torquil reclaim Lewis, her clan had lived in peace since her marriage.

  Ilysa handed her grandfather the pot of salve she had made for him and took her babe from his arms. “I’ll see ye next year.”

  It was hard to see him so rarely. She embraced him one more time before returning to where her family waited.

  Connor had already built the fire. Before they left, she made the protective circle for her family and her clan, as she did each year.

  “…May ye live to be an old man.”

  When she came to this part of the chant, she conjured her beloved as a handsome old man with deep lines and snowy white hair. Unlike the first time, she saw herself as an old, happy woman beside him.

  “May your children be bonded to each other by great affection,” she said as she circled the fire the third time, “and may ye have grandchildren who bring ye joy.”

  When she finished, Connor wrapped his arms around her.

  “Come, mo rùin,” he said in her ear, “let’s go home and make another kind of magic.”

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Most of the scenes in this book are set in actual places on the Isle of Skye that I visited on a trip I took with my daughter. (Readers can find photos on my website.) I envisioned the cliff scene as taking place on Skye’s famed Kilt Rock, but I changed the name because—I really hate to tell you this—Highlanders did not yet wear kilts in the early 1500s. For simplicity, I also changed the name of Duntulm Castle to Trotternish. The castle is in ruins, but the site is gorgeous. One of the ghost stories associated with this castle is about a nursemaid who was cast out to sea after accidentally dropping the chieftain’s baby out the window to its death.

  My daughter and I were lucky to discover, despite the lack of signs and our terrible sense of direction, the faery glen near Uig and the ancient graveyard on Saint Columba’s Island in the Snizort River. The faery glen truly does feel magical with its odd, conical hills. Though the sheep looked bored, I found it delightfully eerie. Saint Columba is an incredibly lovely and peaceful spot. All the same, it was unnerving to walk over the uneven ground knowing that we were probably stepping on ancient graves. Despite their beauty, I would not want to be in either place after dark—which of course is what led me to put my characters there at night.

  As usual, I incorporated several real historical characters into this book and filled in their personalities based on the facts I could find and the needs of my story. The historical figures include Alexander MacDonald of Dunivaig and the Glens, John MacIain, Margaret Tudor, Archibald Douglas, and the wonderful Alastair Crotach (“Hunchback”) MacLeod. I did, however, invent some of the chieftain’s children, including Alastair’s “natural” son.

  Connor MacDonald is a fictional character, but most of his family members were real people. Hugh, the first MacDonald of Sleat, had six sons all by different highborn women. I changed details, but the conflict among these six half brothers led to two generations of murder within the family. To create Connor, I borrowed bits from the lives of Hugh’s son Donald Gallach, and his grandson, Donald Graumach, both of whom served as chieftains. Donald Graumach drove the MacLeods of Dunvegan and Harris from Trotternish with the help of his half brother, the MacLeod of Lewis. Years later, Donald returned the favor by helping his half brother take possession of his lands on the isle of Lewis.

  The MacDonalds of Sleat and the MacLeods of Dunvegan and Harris were bitter rivals. Since they appeared to commit atrocities against each other with regularity, I was intrigued when I came across an unexplained break in the bloodletting, which occurred after the MacDonalds re-took the Trotternish Peninsula from the MacLeods. During these years of relative peace, the two chieftains ignored royal summons to appear at court to resolve their dispute over Trotternish, which added to the mystery. I saw this as an opportunity for a story and made up a wholly fictional explanation.

  I moved their fight for Trotternish several years forward and changed many details to suit my story. The key battle did take place near the Snizort River, and the victorious MacDonalds supposedly floated MacLeod heads (it’s unclear to me whether they were attached to their bodies) down the river, where they collected in a pool called Cauldron of the Heads.

  As I’ve noted before, researching clan histories of five hundred years ago is challenging, and I apologize for any inadvertent mistakes I may have made.

  Discover how it all began—in the first book of this sizzling series featuring fearless Highlanders!

  *

  Please turn this page for a preview of

  The GUARDIAN.

  THE DUNGEON IN DUART CASTLEISLE OF MULLOCTOBER 1513

  Damnable vermin! The straw is alive with the wee critters.” Ian got to his feet and scratched his arms. “I hate to say it, but the Maclean hospitality is sadly lacking.”

  “’Tis the Maclean vermin on two legs that concern me,” Duncan said. “Ye know they are upstairs debating what to do with us—and I’ve no faith they’ll chose mercy.”

  Connor rubbed his temples. “After five years of fighting in France, to be taken by the Macleans the day we set foot in Scotland…”

  Ian felt the humiliation as keenly as his cousin. And they were needed at home. They had left France as soon as the news reached them of the disastrous loss to the English at Flodden.

  “’Tis time we made our escape,” Ian told the others. “I expect even the Macleans will show us the courtesy of feeding us dinner before they kill us. We must take our chance then.”

  “Aye.” Connor came to stand beside him and peered through the iron grate into the darkness beyond. “As soon as the guard opens this door, we’ll—”

  “Ach, there’s no need for violence, cousin,” Alex said, speaking for the first time. He lay with his long legs stretched out on the filthy straw, untroubled by what crawled there.

  “And why is that?” Ian asked, giving Alex a kick with his boot.

  “I
’m no saying it is a bad plan,” Alex said, “just that we won’t be needing it.”

  Ian crossed his arms, amused in spite of himself. “Will ye be calling on the faeries to open the door for us?”

  Alex was a master storyteller and let the silence grow to be sure he had their full attention before he spoke. “When they took me up for my turn at being questioned, they got a bit rough. The chieftain’s wife happened to come in, and she insisted on seeing to my wounds.”

  Connor groaned. “Alex, tell me ye didn’t…”

  “Well, she stripped me bare and applied a sweet-smelling salve to every scratch from head to toe. The lady was impressed with my battle scars—and ye know how I like that in a woman,” Alex said, lifting one hand, palm up. “It was all rather excitin’ for both of us. To make a long story short—”

  “Ye fooked the wife of the man who’s holding us? What is wrong with ye?” Duncan shouted. “We’d best be ready, lads, for I expect the debate on whether to kill us will be a short one.”

  “Now there is gratitude, after I sacrificed my virtue to set ye free,” Alex said. “The lady’s no going to tell her husband what we done, and she swore she could get us out.”

  “So when’s she going to do it?” Ian didn’t question whether the lady would come; women were always doing unlikely things for Alex.

  “Tonight,” Alex said. “And it wasn’t just my pretty face, lads, that persuaded her to help us. The lady is a Campbell. Shaggy Maclean wed her to make peace between their two clans. She hates him, of course, and does her best to thwart him at every turn.”

  “Ha!” Ian said, pointing his finger at Connor. “Let that be a lesson to ye, when you go choosing a wife among our enemies.”

  Connor rubbed his forehead. As their chieftain’s son, he would be expected to make a marriage alliance with one of the other clans. With so many men dead after Flodden, a number of clans would be looking to negotiate such a match.

  “Interesting that ye should be giving advice on wives,” Alex said, raising his eyebrows at Ian. “When it doesn’t appear ye know what to do with yours.”

  “I have no wife,” Ian said with a deliberate warning in his voice. “So long as it hasn’t been consummated, it’s no a marriage.”

  While in France, Ian had done his best to forget his marriage vows. But now that he was returning home to Skye, he would put an end to his false marriage.

  Alex sat up. “Anyone willing to make a wager on it? My money says our lad will no escape this marriage.”

  Duncan grabbed Ian before he could beat the smile off Alex’s face.

  “That’s enough, Alex,” Connor said.

  “Ye are a sorry lot,” Alex said, getting to his feet and stretching. “Ian, married but doesn’t believe it. Duncan, who refused to wed his true love.”

  Ah, poor Duncan. Ian glared at Alex—the tale was too sad for jesting.

  “And then there’s Connor,” Alex continued in his heedless way, “who must try to guess which of a dozen chieftains with unwed daughters would be the most dangerous to offend.”

  “Ach, my da’s brothers will likely kill me first and save me the trouble of choosing,” Connor said.

  “Not with us watching your back,” Duncan said.

  Connor’s half-uncles would be pleased to have one less obstacle between them and leadership of the clan. Connor’s grandfather, the first chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat, had six sons by six different women. The sons had all hated each other from birth, and the ones still alive were always at each other’s throats.

  “I hope when my brother is chieftain he’ll save the clan trouble by keeping to one woman,” Connor said, shaking his head.

  Alex snorted. “Ragnall?”

  That was a false hope if there ever was one, though Ian wouldn’t say it. Connor’s older brother was no different from his father and grandfather when it came to women.

  “So who will you wed, Alex?” Duncan asked. “What Highland lass will put up with your philandering without sticking a dirk in your back?”

  “None,” Alex said, the humor thin in his voice. “I’ve told ye. I’ll never marry.”

  Alex’s parents had been feuding for as long as Ian could remember. Even in the Highlands, where emotions tended to run high, the violence of their animosity was renowned. Of the three sisters who were Ian’s, Alex’s, and Connor’s mothers, only Ian’s had found happiness in marriage.

  At the sound of footsteps, Ian and the others reached for their belts where their dirks should have been.

  “Time to leave this hellhole, lads,” Ian said in a low voice. He flattened himself against the wall by the door and nodded to the others. Plan or no, they would take the guards.

  “Alexander!” A woman’s voice came out of the darkness from the other side of the iron bars, followed by the jangle of keys.

  Ian drew in a deep breath of the salty air. It felt good to be sailing again. They had stolen Shaggy’s favorite galley, which went a long way toward restoring their pride. It was sleek and fast, and they were making good time in the brisk October wind. The jug of whiskey they passed kept Ian warm enough. He grew up sailing these waters. Every rock and current was as familiar to him as the mountain peaks in the distance.

  Ian fixed his gaze on the darkening outline of the Isle of Skye. Despite all the trouble that awaited him there, the sight of home stirred a deep longing inside him.

  And trouble there would be aplenty. They had spoken little during the long hours on the water since the Campbell woman had given them the terrible news that both their chieftain and Connor’s brother Ragnall had been killed at Flodden. It was a staggering loss to the clan.

  Duncan was playing sweet, mournful tunes on the small whistle he always carried, his music reflecting both their sadness and yearning. He tucked the whistle away inside his plaid and said to Connor, “Your father was a great chieftain.”

  Their chieftain had not been loved, but he was respected as a strong leader and ferocious warrior, which counted for more in the Highlands. Ian found it hard to imagine him dead.

  He took a long pull from the jug. “I can’t believe we lost them both,” he said, clasping Connor’s shoulder as he passed him the whiskey. “To tell ye the truth, I didn’t think there was a man alive who could take your brother Ragnall.”

  Ian knew that the loss of his brother was the harder blow for Connor. Ragnall had been fierce, hotheaded, and accepted as the successor to the chieftainship. He had also been devoted to his younger brother.

  “I suspected something,” Duncan said, “for if either of them was alive Shaggy wouldn’t have risked a clan war by taking us.”

  “Even with our chieftain fallen, Shaggy should expect a reprisal from our clan,” Ian said after taking another drink. “So I’m wondering why he didn’t.”

  “Ian’s right,” Alex said, nodding at him. “When Shaggy said he was going to drop our lifeless bodies into the sea, he didn’t look like a worried man to me.”

  “He had no extra guard posted outside the castle,” Ian said. “Something’s no right there.”

  “What are ye suggesting?” Connor said.

  “Ye know damn well what they’re suggesting. One of your da’s brothers is behind this,” Duncan said. “They knew we’d return as soon as news of Flodden reached us, so one of them asked Shaggy to keep an eye out for us.”

  “They’re all wily, mean bastards,” Alex said. “But which of them would ye say wants the chieftainship most?”

  “Hugh Dubh,” Connor said, using Hugh’s nickname, “Black Hugh,” given to him for his black heart. “Hugh never thought he got his rightful share when my grandfather died, and he’s been burning with resentment ever since. The others have made homes for themselves on the nearby islands, but not Hugh.”

  “What I want to know,” Ian said, “is what Hugh promised Shaggy to make sure ye never showed your face on Skye again.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, all of ye,” Connor said. “There’s no affection between
my uncle and me, but I won’t believe he would have me murdered.”

  “Hmmph,” Alex snorted. “I wouldn’t trust Hugh further than old Teàrlag could toss him.”

  “I didn’t say I trusted him,” Connor said. “I wouldn’t trust any of my da’s brothers.”

  “I’ll wager Hugh has already set himself up as chieftain and is living in Dunscaith Castle,” Duncan said.

  Ian suspected Duncan was right. By tradition, the clan chose their leader from among the men with chieftain’s blood. With Connor’s father and brother both dead and Connor in France, that left only Connor’s uncles. If half the stories told about them were true, they were a pack of murderers, rapists, and thieves. How a man as honorable as Connor could share blood with them was a mystery. Some would say the faeries had done their mischief switching babies.

  They were nearing the shore. Without needing to exchange a word, he and Duncan lowered the sail, then took up the oars with the others. They pulled together in a steady rhythm that came as naturally to Ian as breathing.

  “I know you’re no ready to discuss it, Connor,” Ian said between pulls. “But sooner or later you’ll have to fight Hugh for the chieftainship.”

  “You’re right,” Connor said. “I’m no ready to discuss it.”

  “Ach!” Alex said. “Ye can’t mean to let that horse’s arse be our chieftain.”

  “What I don’t mean to do is to cause strife within the clan,” Connor said. “After our losses at Flodden, a fight for the chieftainship would weaken us further and make us vulnerable to our enemies.”

  “I agree ye need to lay low at first,” Ian said. After an absence of five years, Connor couldn’t simply walk into Dunscaith Castle and claim the chieftainship—especially if Hugh already had control of the castle. “Let the men know you’re home and see they have an alternative to Hugh. Then, when Hugh shows he puts his own interests above the clan’s—as he surely will—we’ll put ye forward as the better man to lead.”