A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4

by Kelly Jameson

  John’s surly bastard son Angus sat next to him, as he often did. Angus had been eliminated from the contest early on. He was a skilled fighter but he was a brute. He never won the sword competitions. Angus was good at two things—stealing other men’s cattle and women and swinging an axe.

  “Father, why do we bother with dancing contests when the Lord of the Isles’ authority is threatened by the Scottish king?” Angus growled. “’Tis been but a few months since King James the Third forfeited the MacDonald Earldom of Ross. He may eye the Lordship of the Isles next, the arrogant, foul gobermouch.”

  “I am more concerned about the power and ambition of the Douglas clan in the southern counties, Angus. And dunna speak against the king,” John replied, his eyes hard on his son.

  “Why ever not?”

  “’Tis not wise these days. Ye would do well to understand the Lordship as a powerful force may be coming to an end in the near future, and before I will sacrifice hundreds of MacDonald lives in battles we canna win, I will think long and hard on it.”

  “That is the problem, father. Ye think too much. Ye need to act more. A Lord of the Isles should act when there’s man’s work to be done. Yer more fit to be a churchman than Lord of the Isles!”

  “Ye go too far, Angus.”

  “But we have many MacDonald men with which to fight,” Angus said.

  “This is why ye’ll ne’er make a fit Lord of the Isles, for yer ever ready to sacrifice them all. Yer naked ambition clouds yer judgment.”

  Angus’ rough knuckles were white around his cup of whisky. “Yer submission to the Crown and its Lieutenants disgusts me. We are the Lords of the Isles. We answer to no one!”

  “It’s the ale and yer pride and inexperience talking, Angus, all of which can get ye killed. Try not to be such an ale-soused apple john. Yer likely to have yer throat cut while ye sleep, and not on a battlefield, with honor, if ye dunna keep yer wits about ye. Ye must try to read men, to discern what is happening beneath the surface. Sometimes the things ye dunna see can be vera dangerous.”

  Angus snorted and John half turned in his seat, gripping Angus’ shoulder. “Ye need to understand this. The king is no doubt turning a wrathful countenance to the Lord of the Isles. But I believe the tide has turned for good. The Lord of the Isles is not as all-powerful a position as it once was. The king’s forces are gaining greatly in power. I dunna think it would be wise to go against him. We may win battles here and there, but then we would battle and battle again and maybe in the next years lose much and, I fear, ne’er regain what we may lose. It would be folly to continue to pursue certain territorial claims.”

  “What kind of a clan are we if we canna expand our territories?” Angus whined. “Ye give too many lands to Maclean and others and believe it will make them more faithful to ye. But our clans continue to fight. Rents are vera much diminished. And the King! The King is weak. ’Tis said he is influenced by the Occult and prefers the company of fiddlers, fencing masters, and masons to nobles and warriors!”

  “Ne’ertheless,” John said, “he is able to raise troops.” He removed his hand from Angus’ brawny shoulder.

  Angus looked at him with disdain and gritted his jaw. “There was a time when our ancestors could muster the whole army of the Isles, ten thousand men, full armed, swords ready to cut, axes ready to cut down!”

  “Times change Angus, and they are changing now. Only a fool wouldna see it.”

  “Ye dunna sound like a Highlander,” Angus said. He grunted his displeasure and frustration. “We canna have two kings and two kingdoms, eh father?” He drained his cup, belched, and wiped a hand across his chapped lips. “Perhaps we should become like some of the less-respected border clans, who carry a double-sided flag—English on one side and Scottish on the other, so they may present to whichever army they meet? They are Scottish when it suits them and English at their whimsical pleasure! We need such a flag with the king’s colors on one side and the Lord of the Isles’ on the other!”

  John shifted in his chair at the mention of the English but Angus did not notice. “I am not saying we should lay down our swords and become subservient to anyone, Angus, only that we should be judicious in our undertakings henceforth. There are high politics involved that cannot always be decided by the blade of an axe.”

  “Well I say the only true king is the Lord of the Isles, and if I have to prove it with the blade of my axe time and again, so be it. We Highlanders have ruled these islands for years and years and the west coast of Scotland, from Kintyre to Lewis, independent of royal control, and we need to defend what is ours, as we have always done.”

  “Angus, my bastard, lower yer voice. Ye chaff like a snarling hound on a chain, ever ready to snap and bite at the hand that feeds ye. Have ye already forgotten the times of terrible loss? Have ye forgotten the wailing widows and the crying, fatherless lads and lasses? Have ye so soon forgotten walking the shores after the fighting, with basket-loads of the severed fingers and limbs of your kinsmen, when the swords and axes were wiped clean and put away?”

  “’What are a bunch of fingers and limbs? We are men of war more than anything else.”

  John’s mouth nearly gaped open but he controlled his emotions. “We canna afford senseless slaughter! Would ye make widows and orphans of our people for ambition, for pride and vain conceits? I dunna ken ye, son, nor yer callousness and reckless need to race into any battle before ye even ken what yer fighting about.”

  “Nay, father, ye dunna ken me. Ye never have.” A sneer cracked his ruddy face. “I wouldna be surprised if the king appointed ye to his fancy parliament, the better to control ye. If I were Lord of the Isles, no king and no parliament would control me.” Angus bit into a hunk of pungent cheese, wiping his fingers on his sleeve. “Now is not the time to lay down our swords,” Angus said, crumbs falling onto the lap of his knee-length leine. He didn’t bother to brush them off and John noted with disgust that the seams of the sleeves on Angus’s shirt were coming apart. John’s own silk shirt was clean and well-stitched.

  “Make no mistake, father, war is coming. There are those of us who will call for it.”

  “Anyone who courts war in these times is a fool, Angus. Ye’d do well to remember when leading a clan, ye must have the respect of yer people, not just their fear.”

  “Next ye’ll tell me a leader also needs their love.”

  “Love inspires great loyalty.”

  “Well, father, all I can say is dunna sleep soundly. There are those who are not so loyal.”

  “Is that a threat Angus?” John laughed and shook his head. “When I die, I am certain it will not be in my bed. MacDonalds do not die in their beds when they’ve lived honorable and brave lives serving their clan first. I have those who watch my back, who would risk their own lives to save mine. Best ye remember that. And best ye start to cultivate such relationships yerself.”

  “But father, I am too busy winning back all the lands ye give away to our enemies….”

  There were shouts as another lad was eliminated from the sword dancing competition, leaving only one to yet compete. Ronald. He was one of John’s natural sons, and there was no love lost between Ronald and Angus.

  “If the swords dunna lie, it’s up to knobby-kneed Ronald to predict whether we win or lose in battle,” Angus said. “A shame, for he’s not vera good with a sword, and I’ve never seen him raise an axe and hack a man apart. He’s too busy writing his daft poetry and studying the stars.”

  “A wise man respects the sword and kens when and how to use one,” John replied. “A wise man doesna always rely on his axe to hack apart his enemies’ limbs or cleave his head from his shoulders. And, a wise man doesna take overt pleasure in such things when they are necessary.”

  Angus bellowed for another whisky. “A man who doesna enjoy a good slaughter is no man at all.”

  As Ronald was about to begin the sword dance he received a challenge. John’s niece, Beitris, a six-year old lass with a long braid of glossy aub
urn hair and bright blue eyes that were nearly violet, stepped up to the swords, bowed, and addressed them. She was the daughter of John’s brother, Donald, who had died last winter.

  Ronald laughed. “What is the meaning of this? Lasses canna compete in sword dancing! Step back. This is a serious contest, not a jest.” He made as if he would pick her up and move her out of the way but John’s booming voice stopped him.

  “Nay! Let us humor her. Have a little mercy on the lass.”

  Ronald was aghast. Angus laughed at him.

  “But father….” Ronald said.

  John slammed his fist down on the table and Ronald flinched. Beitris did not, for she was still concentrating on the swords.

  “Vera well,” Ronald said. “What could a little mercy hurt? She’ll make a fool of herself, anyhow. Why, she doesna even have brogans on her feet. She’ll slice her toes to ribbons and walk gimp-legged for the rest of her life.”

  Beitris ignored Ronald and signaled for the pipes to begin. “Thank you, Uncle,” she said, bowing low to John. The Lord of the Isles nodded.

  “She’ll be a bonny lass when she grows up, eh?” Angus said. “A vera bonny lass. Another six years and I could take her to my bed and ruin her.”

  “She isna meant for a man like ye, Angus.”

  “Likely she will be too skinny when she becomes a woman anyhow. I like a woman with fat curves.” Angus slugged down his whisky. He slurred his words now.

  Beitris, her small form clothed in a lad’s trousers and linen shirt, began the dance. She moved nimbly. As the music increased in drama and tempo, she matched her movements to it. A sweat began to break out on Ronald’s forehead. She finished to clapping and cheers. She had completed the dance without touching a single sword.

  “Ye see, Ronald?” Beitris said. “I didna lose any toes.” She wiggled her toes for effect. Ronald frowned.

  “Now it’s yer turn, Ronald,” Angus called. “Are you going to be felled by a wee lass?”

  Ronald signaled the pipe player and began the dance. But he was clumsy, soon sending one of the great swords spinning, nearly slicing off one of his toes.

  John stood, trying to ignore the ache in his bony knees. “Congratulations to the lass Beitris, who brings honor to our great clan and shows us we will be victorious in battle!” John had a soft spot for Beitris and her brothers, who had lost both mother and father, and Beitris of such tender years.

  “Cousin Ronald, ye must always address the swords,” Beitris said. “Ye did not address the swords. Ye must respect the swords first. And never underestimate yer opponent, no matter how small, or show him mercy. I’ve heard ‘tis a weakness of yers. Ragnar and Lorcan tell me so. Maybe that’s why my brothers always best ye in practice. Yer thinking of yer love poetry when ye should be thinking of yer next move in battle.”

  Ronald’s face flamed red with anger. “How dare ye? What do ye ken? I’ll not take battle advice from a wee lass who insists on dressing as a lad. The only reason ye won is because yer skilled at dancing, as most lasses are.”

  Beitris pierced him with her deep blue eyes. She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Isna a sword fight just as much about dancing as knowing the right moment to stick a blade between a man’s ribs?”

  There was ribald laughter all around. “She’s right, Ronald,” John said. “Heed the lass’s words. She’s wise for one so young. And skilled.”

  “’Tis because she sneaks around the keep like a mangy cat, practicing swords with her brothers, who indulge her silly whims of fighting and hunting and she has no mother or father to teach her how to be a lass and do the things that a lass does. From now on, we shall call ye Kat!”

  “’Tis a sore loser ye are, Ronald.” She meowed like a cat, which brought more laughter.

  Ronald grabbed a mug of ale from a nearby table, took a gulp, and raised his mug high. “To the mighty Kat, who should have been born a lad! If ye keep playing with swords and hunting and fishing like a lad, ye’ll ne’er find a husband.” He winked at her and she crossed her arms and frowned.

  “To Kat, who would rather grow up and marry her sword!”

  “Be quiet Ronald now,” John said. “Now wee Kat, as skilled as ye are at stepping around sword blades without touching them, ye’ll ne’er ride into battle,” John said, and her frown deepened. He sighed. “’Tis just not the way in this clan. Best ye learn now so yer not disappointed later when ye become a wife and mother. The women of this clan have vera important duties too. They take care of the men who return from battle. They see to the running of the keep while the men are away. They even defend the castle if need be. So ‘tis not to say yer skills will never be needed. Just not on the battlefield, lass.”

  “But what of Joan of Arc?” she asked, her bright eyes defiant.

  “A vera rare woman indeed. She did incredible things. ‘Tis true. But dunna forget, in the end, the poor lass was burned at the stake. And though ye bested grown men in the sword dance today, ye are no Joan of Arc.”

  “I am brave. My brothers teach me well. And I won the sword contest. It means we will fare better with more woman warriors in battle.”

  “’Tis true my own sons could learn from yer courage, daring, and skill, Beitris,” John said. “But ye shall not be riding into any battle. No lass in this clan will join us on the battlefield. Yer much too valuable, and I promised yer parents I would protect ye. Now let us start the feasting and storytelling.”

  “I’m not in the mood for feasting and fairy tales,” Ronald said. “There’s a shaggy, smelly bastard at my father’s table, a wee girl stepping around a man’s swords, and I’ve lost my appetite.” He disappeared upstairs, Angus’ dark eyes following his retreat and noting it with satisfaction.

  Angus bit into a plump leg of chicken, grease dripping down his chin. “The day will come, auld man, when I’ll grow tired of the scraps ye toss me and break free of my leash. Then ye’ll all bow to my wishes as Lord of the Isles.”

  “A bold statement from a man who will have a short life unless he learns to temper ambition with prudence and compassion, for the good of the clan. For that is what ye need to learn, Angus. ‘Tis first and foremost always about the good of the clan.”

  Chapter 2

  Scottish Highlands, Near Duart Castle, 14 Years Later

  It was dark as an Earl of Hell’s overcoat. He was flat on his back. He thought it was night. Or maybe early morning, before dawn.

  Was that a sliver of moon in the sky or was he staring into a dark loch, looking at the tail of a flashing fish?

  His head pounded unmercifully and his side burned and stung. At times, he felt as if he were underwater. He seemed to drift between the past and the present in his mind, remembering his Da’s words from when he was a young lad.

  He reached out toward the loch, for he had decided it was a loch, trying to put his hand through the murky waters as he had once put his hand through a fierce warrior in a dream. “Remember to look for the magic,” he mumbled. “Fish flashing silver in a loch…people playing their pipes and fiddles…Seanachie telling tales of auld. There is magic in the wind clawing the moorland, tickling the royal capes of purple heather. Remember. Look for the magic….”

  Someone slapped his face. He came fully awake and realized he was not staring at a deep loch but at the night sky, trying to touch it. “Och!” Conall said, rubbing his face. “That was not vera magical!”

  Martainn, his second in command, crouched next to him.

  “Good, yer awake now,” Martainn said. “Stop yer havering. Ye were mumbling about magic and fish and purple capes. If ye do it again, I’ll give ye a skelpit lug! Ye’ve lost some blood but ye’ll live. ‘Tis not a deep wound. More of a long gash. A nasty gash. But ye’ll have a magical scar on yer magnificent hide to go with the others.”

  As Conall looked out over the hills winking with campfires he started to recall the day’s bloody battle. His father had not taken part in the battle because he had been called away on other matters beforehan
d. Still, remembering his father’s words and advice always gave him courage. He sat up and grunted. Dark, humped shapes littered the valley floor, men going among them, searching carcasses for anything of value.

  “Those better be MacDonalds on the ground,” Conall said, gritting his teeth in pain.

  “It was a rout,” Martainn said. “Ye dunna remember?”

  Conall rubbed his head. “Some.”

  “I’ll bring ye something to help ye remember.”

  The clouds shifted, allowing a belt of milk-white moonlight to illuminate the field and a nearby lochan. Martainn disappeared into the darkness and was back a moment later, a small hooded figure beside him. The lad’s hands were tied and his plaid drawn into a hood low over his face.

  “Should I put this MacDonald swine out of his misery too?” He drew his broadsword for dramatic effect but the lad did not flinch. “Found him crouching in the brush.”

  Conall cradled his side. Someone had dressed and bandaged his wound, which still seeped blood. He became aware of a nasty bump on his head, no doubt the cause of his head aching. He could not see the hooded lad’s face but the set of his small shoulders and head was proud. The lad was clearly not afraid, and Conall admired bravery in the face of death.

  Something caught his eye. He studied the lochan and saw it again. A fish flashed sliver in the water, splashing its tail as it once again disappeared into the depths. His father’s words came back to him again. Remember to always look for the magic. In the flash of silver fish in shimmering summer lochs.

  Conall was exhausted. He’d been hallucinating. He was in pain. There was nothing magical about darkness, injuries, pain and death. But there was magic in a victor granting mercy, for it was so rarely given in the Highlands.