The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  He turned to his Chieftain, and Euan recognised true fear as the warrior kept retreating. “Hold, man,” he said. “I’ll see for myself.”

  Then he heard, “Laird, I’m sorry, but she’s dead.”

  For the second time in Euan’s lifetime, the crone had sent his world tumbling down around him in this place.

  He had set his hopes too high, ready at last to bend the knee to the crone, anything, if he could but hold out hope that his life might return to normal, even be it doing battle with the likes of the English or Comlyn for that life.

  Although, he ducked his head to pass through the narrow opening, his shoulders still brushed on either side of the roughly woven edges. Willow twigs cracked and split, springing back into place. Two strides took him to the centre of the dark smelly hovel. By the smell and the maggots, he judged she’d been dead at least three days, perchance four.

  In this heat it was hard to tell. The buzzing increased tenfold as he moved closer. What had once sounded like a haunting sound of late summer now instead belaboured one of the grotesque facts of death.

  Yet, he couldn’t blame the ways of nature for the return of the nauseous sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  No, that was caused by the death of hope.

  Scowling, he ducked back outside into the green glade, too lovely a setting for what lay within its core. “Search for anything you can dig a hole with,” he told the shamefaced warrior who had discovered the body. “We need to bury her without delay.”

  Dugan and the other warrior, curious, crept closer and took a peek then turned away, holding their noses, gasping as they reached the fresh air, hurrying away from the sweet smell of death. Strange, the difference a battle made to one’s perception of life’s end.

  “Could we no’ just set fire to the cabin?” asked one. Euan’s chest swiftly rose and fell as he let out a short sharp burst of irony, that some might call laughter.

  “She shall be buried in the ground, like a good Christian, and no shirking because it’s hot, and you’re feeling lazy, or because she smells, get the task done and let us away from here.”

  How’s that for diplomacy, your majesty?

  He mocked not only the Queen but himself as well. How had he ever imagined, he might talk his way out of his problems with a few appeasing words?

  The earth had baked solid. Tree roots criss-crossed the glade, which meant digging a hole big enough to hold what was left of the crone took an age. From the moans, groans and grunts squeezed through clenched teeth, a person would suspect that moving her body from the cabin might have taken them longer. Distaste writ large on their faces, they tumbled her into the grave as if she were already halfway to hell.

  A dark cloud of flies rose up from the hole his men had dug.

  There was little Euan could do now to save her soul … to save himself … for who knew what lay ahead for them both now, the witch and her victim.

  He stood looking down on the pitiful bundle of bones and rags, deciding there was but one last act of redemption he could make—a token that might help the witch and, through that, help Euan McArthur, for now the curse could never be broken.

  Suiting his actions to the thought, Euan removed the rosary the Queen had given him and ran the blue beads round and round his fingers, pausing each time he reached the cross. Then, with some reluctance, he tossed it in the grave with the woman who had defended herself in the only way she could, saying, “God go with you.”

  Spinning on his heel, he barked at his men, “Fill in the grave.”

  Marching back the way he’d come, Euan’s feet took the path already marked by their passing, and all the while, his mind travelled somewhere else, trying to seek some sort of hope from the tragedy that had occurred. He had a life, if not the one he’d imagined or had promised his father: that, as Clan Chieftain, his father would be the ancestor of all the McArthur Lairds who came after him.

  Graeme was established as his heir.

  And he had Morag, the one woman he could let himself love and not murder by getting with his child.

  Chapter 22

  There was a strange feel to the atmosphere. The calm, still days at the start of September had gone. Instead, heavy grey skies bulging with rain bore down on them from the northeast, like Viking dragon boats bent on once more invading these shores.

  Morag shivered. The skelp of wind on the battlements filled her with foreboding. Seabirds rode the chilled blasts, screeching like banshees bent on torturing every poor soul within the Keep. It obviously didn’t scare Rob or Alexander the way it did her. The noise in the air was but a token interruption in the background of their tired grunts, mingling with the gruff yells Graeme McArthur considered encouragement.

  Euan had set Rob between Alexander and Jamie as a buffer to their natural antagonism, Comlyn versus Ruthven; but with Jamie trailing at Euan’s heels in the south, a friendship had grown between the two, and that despite the competitive bouts with sword and staff, supervised by Graeme. Yet those were but a start to the skills they would learn, forerunners to battle-axe and mace.

  Personally, watching Rob with a real sword in his hands made the blood chill in her veins. The steel blade was a far cry from the wooden swords her son had practiced with while her father was still alive. No matter where they lived, he would have to learn to protect himself, especially with Doughall and the Moor sniffing the air like hounds on his scent.

  The Moor was perverse, and her brother hardly any better. She had cause to wonder what exactly the Moor expected to achieve, other than revenge, by urging Doughall to remove Rob from this world. With that pair’s twisted proclivities, it was obvious Doughall would never have an heir of his own.

  Aye, no matter that it made her blood run cold to watch, Rob needed to be taught how to defend himself.

  Both lads’ faces were running with sweat by the time Graeme called a halt, first removing their swords, then marching back to the armoury with the weapons while the lads headed for the nearest rain butt. Laughing, they ducked their heads under the water to sluice sweat from their youthful shoulders and chests.

  Feeling secure at last, Morag deserted her sheltered corner and, turning walked back inside the keep.

  If anyone had noticed, they would surely think she mothered Rob overmuch for a sister and would in truth do better to let him grow up. None suspected she was indeed his mother … and now, she was to be a mother again.

  The McArthur leapt over the bow as the ship was driven onto the golden sands, making certain he was first ashore.

  Home and all that it held for him.

  He let out a sigh that started somewhere deep in his gut. Once the news was known, few of his clansmen would consider he had much to be happy about.

  The voyage had been longer than expected; the wind and seas running swift against them had pounded the ship so hard that they had been forced to shelter overnight in the Firth of Tay.

  Not long syne, the ship had sailed beneath the cliffs supporting Cragenlaw. He could well imagine the bustle inside the hall once their ship had been sighted; yet for once, it didn’t draw a smile.

  None of it mattered.

  He didn’t know what had come over him, but all he wanted to see was Morag. From the moment he knew he had no longer any chance of an heir, Morag’s presence in his life had assumed much greater importance.

  Even before then, the lass had gained a grip on his affections—a truth he’d found hard to admit, even to himself. Now, he had no more need to arrange a marriage for her, to give her up to another man or, in his case, set her aside for another wife with more right to his bed, if not his affections.

  He’d had the whole voyage to think it over and had decided that what the Lord had taken from him with one hand He’d more than given back to him with another. Of course, Euan would deny it should anyone ask, but in the short time she had been in his life, he’d found more with Morag than all the others combined.

  He strode up the wet sand. The tide was just on the turn, but
once the ship was unloaded, it would drift at anchor on the ebb. Behind him, he heard the sound of oars being shipped. Feet splashed in the water as warriors eager to be on dry land, jumped over the side. All his fighting men were either McArthurs, or from a sept of the McArthur clans—men he could trust.

  The mercenaries he had hired were coming overland.

  King Malcolm Canmore had agreed to his hiring the Raven’s band of mercenaries and had endorsed Queen Margaret’s recommendation. Almost immediately upon meeting the Raven, he’d felt a bond with the leader. They were similar in build, big men who looked down on others because of their height, not because of their station in life. Perhaps, they each fought for different reasons, Euan for his clan and the captain for silver, but the mercenary had a sense of honour at odds with a trade where one’s loyalties were for sale.

  When asked, the Raven would answer that he had no notion who he was or where he’d come from. Even his name, the Raven, had been given because of Odin’s bird, always searching for land to call home. More than a decade had passed, but in all that time, naebody laid claim to him, a lack which made everyone certain he was bereft of kin as well as land. With King Malcolm’s sponsorship, he had literally fought his way up to the position he held now, the most feared and best beloved soldier for hire. Aye, the Raven’s reputation rode before him.

  A chorus of shouts, all filled with excitement, broke into his reverie—young Rob and Alexander, whooping and hollering like the young devils they truly were. His young devils, he thought with a grin, and they were riding two of his best mounts.

  “McArthur, you’re home at last,” shouted Rob.

  “Aye, did ye gang to Dun Edin? Did ye see the king?” added Alexander. “Is he as fierce as they say?”

  “One at a time, lads.” He broke into their eager questions with a chuckle. “There’s time enough when we get back to Cragenlaw. What’s been happening at the castle while I was in the south, any troubles with yon band of rogues?”

  “Nary a sight of them, McArthur, I reckon me and Nhaimeth scared them away before you left.” Rob’s eyes scrunched into fine lines with suppressed laughter. “At least that’s what Graeme’s always telling us, for a jest belikes.”

  “More to the point, lads, how has your training gone? Is Graeme happy with your work?”

  Neither lad paid him much heed, which intrigued him enough to look over his shoulder, curious to see what had caught their eye. Jamie was on Diabhal, the destrier now taking out his displeasure on the broad planks laid across the beam of the ship to help the horse to make the leap into the sea.

  “God’s blood! Jamie will kill himself on that demon of a horse,” said Alexander.

  Rob had more confidence. “No, Alex, see they have ropes on the bridle to help haul him off. Harooh, Jamie,” he cupped his hands and yelled over the crash of the waves, “Give that black devil a dig in the ribs with both heels. He needs to know who’s in charge.”

  From Euan’s close observations, the one in charge would appear to be Rob. Finished shouting at his friend, he turned back to Euan. “All I can say is, Jamie will need to work hard to catch up with us.”

  Alexander added an, “Aye.”

  Euan’s trust in the lad had proved correct. He had melded Alexander and himself into a team, and now looked to be intent on having Jamie join them. Such friendship between the likes of these lads could be the making of Scotland. Past rivalries between Duncan, Macbeth, and, aye, Malcolm Canmore, had done the country no favours. It was one thing to be fighting the English, but not fighting each other as well. That’s how he and Comlyn could well end up, if the older chieftain had his way.

  But enough of that, he was home now, with other matters on his mind. “And your sister? How is she?” Euan nudged the question out gently, wary of letting the lad realise how keen he was to see Morag again—keener than even Euan had anticipated as he leapt off the ship.

  “Morag’s in fine fettle.” Trust Rob to speak of his sister as he would one of Euan’s horses. “She’s been keeping busy in the still room. She made some violet oil not long after you left, and she’s been making soap.”

  The news went straight to Euan’s groin, he felt his cock harden, and if not for his hauberk, he might have embarrassed himself. He was no bouquet of heather himself, but he had no difficulty imagining the scent of Morag’s hair.

  Diabhal landed in the water, making a huge splash, soaking Jamie, but as soon as his feet found purchase on the sand he pounded out of the sea onto the beach.

  “Whoa, whoa, you brute,” yelled Jamie, tugging on the reins.

  Euan reached out and grabbed them the moment the brute, as Jamie called him, came within arms length. With the bridle in his hand, he pulled Diabhal’s head down and huffed in his huge flared nostrils, letting him breathe in his scent. The destrier shuddered, hooves planted in the sand as if he would never move again. Euan kept talking, soothing, and soon the quivers that wracked his huge frame eased, and his great horse eyes stopped rolling. “Jamie, get up behind Rob. Quick now, lad, I’ve business at Cragenlaw that will wait no longer.”

  As soon as his legs were astride Diabhal’s girth, Euan dug in his heels and was away. For the first time in years, he was filled with a sense of freedom. He’d done all he could to circumvent the curse, to no avail; but his plans for Graeme were in place, so now he could pursue a life that included Morag with a clear conscience.

  The flight of tiny birds that had taken up residence in Morag’s insides circled her heart, a mixture of excitement and fear. How would Euan take her news? Would he think she meant to trick him into marriage? With the tiny babe growing inside her, everything had changed?

  Euan rode straight up to the door where Graeme and Duncan waited, followed by his three young squires. Morag stood back in the shadows thrown by the torches either side of the entry, uncertain of her place. Darkness had fallen quickly fallen, and it felt like a lifetime since she had last anticipated his return, with Graeme by his side.

  Diabhal had barely come to a halt when Euan dismounted and flung the reins to Rob. “See to him.” His voice sounded gruff, impatient, which set the tiny wings fluttering. It took all Morag’s self control not to wring her hands.

  “Euan, man, ’tis grand to have you home,” said Graeme, flinging an arm round his cousin’s shoulder. “How went your quests? Did you have any success?”

  “Some.” After, clapping a hand over Graeme’s he moved to cross the threshold. “The mercenaries are a week or so behind us. No trouble there; work on your Keep can start soon. As for the rest … the crone is dead.”

  Graeme followed. “You killed her?”

  They reached the Great Hall. “No, auld age did it before we got there.”

  “Then the curse still stands?”

  “Aye. We’ll talk later, I’m awash with salt water and dripping all over the fresh rushes.” At least if he hadn’t paid heed to her, he’d noticed the care that she’d made sure was taken over the refurbishments for his return.

  A moment later, Morag knew she’d been mistaken as he turned and held out his hand to her. “Come woman, I’ll need your assistance.”

  They were well out of sight from the hall, round two twists of the stairs when he swung her into his arms and clamped his mouth across hers without breaking his pace. He wanted her.

  The plaids she had draped across entrances trailed across them as he burst through. She had hung them to hinder the draughts that had grown colder as winter approached, but they did better with the cold than with Euan, for whom naught could foil his charge.

  However, none of this occurred to her until he released her lips, slid her down his powerfully muscled body, and her feet touched the floor. “Welcome home, McArthur,” she whispered, shocked by the feelings churning in her breast.

  Love, sorrow, doubt, all fought to direct her heart.

  She took a deep breath, releasing it slowly to ease emotions stronger than any she had felt before, aye, even those that had blighted her life. As Morag ca
me to herself, she remembered her duties. “Can I help you with your plaid?”

  “No, all that’s needed is for you to lie across the bed.” He realised Morag looked shocked, but no worse than he by the words that left his lips.

  Euan felt driven, as if every challenge, every loss in the years since the crone cursed him, had culminated in this moment, and naught he could do would prevent what had to happen.

  He stripped the plaid from his shoulders and unbuckled the belt that held it against his hauberk. Morag sat upon the end of the bed and removed her veil.

  “No, keep your clothes on, just roll onto your stomach.”

  Her eyes were wide and fearful as she watched him drag the weight of chain mail over his head. He could see his reflection in their depths, stripped bare, chest agleam in the torchlight and cock rampant, yet she said naught.

  Euan stepped closer, drawn. Her eyes glanced down, and the emotion behind them changed. Morag licked her lips then rolled onto her belly, obedient.

  As if in a dream, he slid his palm down her spine atop her green kirtle, new. He was more familiar with the curve of Morag’s buttocks than he was his own, but he couldn’t hurry, he wanted to rush, bull-headed, but resisted and shaped them with his hand. So soft, so womanly, and more waited.

  She wasn’t that tall, yet he would always think of her legs as long. His palm confirmed his memory. Her kirtle was woven in fine worsted, rough compared to the skin he knew it covered. He reached the hem and lifted it higher, revealing calf, thigh, buttocks, the shadows between awaiting his touch. A good chieftain was raised to know when to charge, when to initiate surrender.

  His chest heaved as he pushed back need.

  Euan dipped his fingers into the shadows and felt heat, damp, desire—his and hers.

  He could wait no longer. Euan parted her thighs and sank into her.

  Heart pounding, Morag let out a sigh as he entered her, lifted her, pulled her on to his length and began to move.

  A brief flash of fear had pierced her when he played his stony gaze over her, as if his features had been hewn from the very granite Cragenlaw was built of. But now … now all she experienced was the familiar, the strength of his thrusts, the scent of his heated skin, and hard length of his shaft. After all, this was what she’d waited for, burned for in the long, lonely nights while he was gone.