Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  An idea struck her as she slung her bow over her shoulder and adjusted her knife so it wouldn’t get caught on the stave.

  The war games. The very games that ensured her clan would never amount to anything. But the coin she could earn if she won—the castle and lands she’d receive—all of these would help her protect her people. The winning clans agreed to live in peace and as allies—anyone who went against the law risked execution. It would mean she’d have to marry, but at the end of their five year rule, the chieftain and lady had the choice of reentering the games to keep their position within Sìtheil, or they could relinquish their position, retain their prize coin and return to their own clans.

  She swallowed hard. There is no other way. If she did nothing her people would starve before the next clan even had a chance to invade their paltry holding.

  Stepping out of the cave, she stared up at the graying sky. Joining the games meant she had to cross the stormy Minch to the western isles, that she might die in battle. Meant she’d have to kill many more people in order to win. But such a sacrifice was worth it in the end if she could save her people.

  The first thing she’d do as Laird MacRae was join the fight for a throne—and she’d win.

  *

  Macrath Mor, bastard son of Chief Campbell, Earl of Argyll, had always been seen as nothing more than a pile of shite to his father’s wife. And today was no different.

  He stood before her in the great hall of the castle, barely any sunlight filtering through a few narrow windows, and only a few candles lit for both light and warmth. ’Twas chilly in the great hall—though not as cold as his stepmother’s heart. Leticia stood tall and proud upon the dais, and though she did so for height, even the six inch elevated platform only brought her up to his shoulders. Macrath took after his father, and was considered a giant among men, though he liked to tease his fellow clansmen he was considered giant for another reason.

  “Have you seen the earl, my lady?” Macrath asked, hating the way Leticia’s eyes sparkled with ill intent.

  His own mother had died in childbirth, and given that his father never turned away a boy of his blood, Macrath had been raised within the castle—though not alongside his father’s legitimate children. Leticia had seen to that. She’d also seen to it that every one of Argyll’s bastards wished they’d never been born.

  “Not as yet. But ’tis a good thing you’ve come.”

  Macrath raised a brow.

  “You’ve been chosen.” Leticia’s too closely set eyes narrowed at him, and she smoothed the soft wool of her gown.

  Macrath steeled himself for what the woman had in store for him next. There was always something. He supposed he could have left the clan, braved the wilds of the Highlands on his own, but his stepmother would have seen to it that none of their allies housed him. He would have likely ended up an outlaw, and Leticia would have seen him found and his head removed, just as she’d always planned. Besides, he’d risen in the ranks of his father’s warriors. Not that the task had been easy, as Argyll had been harder on Macrath than any of his other children. Perhaps it was his size, or maybe it was his skill. It didn’t really matter.

  “Chosen for what, my lady?” Macrath said.

  Where was the earl? The reason he even stood in the great hall instead of out in the fields with his men was that his father had agreed to meet him this morning. Macrath had something important to discuss with him. The captain of the Campbell guard was stepping down as age and injury had plagued his limbs, and Macrath wanted to replace him.

  Leticia smiled. The same smile she’d worn when she’d had him beaten as a child. Not a good sign. “Why, the war games of course. Five years have passed and so we are called upon to send another of our beloved warriors to the cause.”

  Damn. Had it already been five years? A warrior was eligible to attend the games as soon as they were eighteen summers. Being that he was in his twenty-seventh year, he’d only been eligible the previous time, and Leticia had threatened to send him, but in the end she’d not been able to out-bid his father’s choice. What had she done to make his father give in this time? Was this the reason his father had not stepped into the great hall as he’d agreed to do?

  Macrath bowed, his weapons chinking in the silence, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. With no one else in the room, he could easily run her through. She deserved as much. He’d once seen her order such a thing herself when a servant made her angry. But killing his stepmother wasn’t a way to mete out his vengeance. So, instead, he met her gaze levelly and said, “An honor.”

  And if he won, it would indeed be an honor. He’d be named Chief of the Morrison land and clan. He’d rule by divine right for five years. Gain a fortune in coin and the respect of his father. Bastard or no, he’d have a title. Leticia would have to acknowledge him as an equal. But if he didn’t win… The woman would have sent him to his death. And so would his father.

  A slow clap sounded from the doorway leading to the kitchens. Victor, Macrath’s legitimate half-brother sauntered into the great hall, his clothes in disarray. No doubt he’d just rutted one of the unwilling kitchen maids. The man had gained more than one beating from Macrath for his behavior toward women—which only made Victor hate him more. The feeling was mutual. Of all Leticia’s children, Victor was the cruelest. The most like her. As a team, Victor and Leticia would have been able to convince the earl that Macrath should go.

  “So you’ve heard the news?” Victor worked to straighten his clothes while Macrath worked to keep his temper in line.

  Already he felt his neck and face growing hot. It was an effort to keep from bellowing—an effort that had the veins in his neck throbbing. He turned from his brother to face his stepmother, not feeling the need to address the arsehole. Macrath’s birth order was another reason Leticia hated him—he was a year younger than Victor, which meant her husband had not been faithful. Hardly an oddity as many of the chiefs and earls had mistresses, but Leticia was particularly jealous. Macrath was the first of Argyll’s bastards. He had always wondered if she’d been the cause of his own mother’s death.

  A question, he’d likely never get answered.

  “You can go,” Leticia said with a sweetness that stung. “Best pack up your meager things as the games begin in two weeks.”

  That did not leave him much time. The games were far from Argyll. The fastest way for him to travel would be to pay for passage on a galleon at the Firth of Lorne. From there, he could sail south toward the sea and north into the Minch. He wasn’t sure two weeks would be enough time, but that was all she’d given him.

  “And the female warrior you’ve chosen?” Macrath asked.

  “Rhona.”

  Macrath gave a curt nod. Rhona would never make it. She was one of the kitchen maids and the mother of one Victor’s bastards, and likely that was the reason she’d been entered. How could his father have allowed that?

  Having had enough of his vile family, Macrath turned his back on them. They let him go, not bothering to stop him. After all, they expected he’d be dead within a month’s time.

  Suddenly the sea and war games looked brighter than anything he could have imagined here. In an odd way, he supposed he should be grateful to his stepmother for entering him in the games.

  At the stables, a horse had been prepared for both he and Rhona—not the best of mounts for either of them, but what could he expect? Macrath smoothed a hand down the dark mane of the chestnut mare that had been prepared for him—the furthest thing from a warhorse, his warhorse.

  “Where is my horse?” he asked the stable master, who suddenly colored so red he was almost purple.

  “Her ladyship said ye wished him to be sold yesterday.”

  And a pretty penny he probably got for him. Macrath’s warhorse had been sturdy, strong and well-trained. He’d seen a number of battles, and it was a great loss for him to have been sold. Sucking his tongue to the back of his teeth, he turned away from the stable master and faced the courtyard filled
with clan members—men, women and children.

  He may not have been respected by his stepmother and brother, but he was by the remainder of the clan. Rhona rushed toward a short, chubby cherub, hugging him to her breast—Victor’s son. She cried and kissed him all over his face, and the child clung to her worn plaid gown. Macrath’s heart broke for them both as most everyone knew she would likely not return.

  He would do all within his power to protect her, but when she was separated from him, there would be little he could do. He adjusted his saddle and then mounted his horse. There was no need to waste any further time. To the loch he’d go, pay passage on a ship and arrive at the games in enough time to pull his sword from his scabbard. With skill and luck, he’d win the war and gain the title of Chief.

  A few of his siblings who did not share Leticia’s hatred stepped forward and wished him luck.

  “Macrath.” His father’s booming voice made those in the crowd settle. The Earl of Argyll never called him son. Never allowed him to sit at the high table, nor sleep within the castle, but all the same, he did pay him special attention in training and even with the giving of his time.

  “My lord.” Macrath bowed his head.

  “For you.” His father pulled his claymore from his back. The hilt of solid steel and studded with jewels, the blade sharp, shiny and thick with runes down the center. His father had brought many a victory to his people with that weapon. Rightfully, it belonged to Victor. Why was he giving it to Macrath?

  Macrath gave a quick shake of his head.

  “Take it,” the earl growled. “May it protect you.”

  Macrath swallowed back any emotion that threatened to surface. Never had his father shown him such consideration. He reached forward and wrapped his grip around the cool metal of the hilt. The claymore was solid, sturdy and he felt a power thrill its way up his arm to hold it. How many warriors in his past had held this sword?

  “My thanks,” Macrath said. He took his own claymore from his back and replaced it with his father’s—his.

  “My lord!” Leticia called out, rushing forward, eyes darting from the sword to Argyll.

  But his father gave her a glare Macrath had never seen turned on her and Leticia clamped her lips closed, her eyes shooting hatred. If she’d been a witch—which he’d suspected as a child—she would have used magic to turn the blade to his throat.

  “We thank you for your sacrifice Macrath Mor.” The earl held out his arm toward him. “Son.”

  Macrath stared at the extended appendage, shocked that his father had acknowledged him in front of the clan. A fact they all knew, but one that was never spoken of. Macrath struck out his arm, gripping his father’s tight. If he never saw the man again, at least he knew in this moment that he was accepted. He ignored Leticia’s huff.

  Steadying his gaze on the gathered crowd and then back to his father, he said, “I will bring honor to the Campbells.”

  “I know you will. You’re a skilled warrior. One of our best.”

  Macrath turned to Leticia, and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ll not have seen the last of me, dear stepmother.”

  Before she could answer, he raised his fist in the air and issued a battle cry that echoed through the clan as they all raised their arms and shouted with him.

  Though a fierce battle it would be, Macrath was certain he’d succeed. There was no other way. The ultimate revenge against his bitter stepmother was to survive, and the spoils of war were only an added bonus. His blood pumped a thrilling race through his veins. Though the news of entering the games and the danger it brought to him had only been announced the hour before, he was looking forward to it. He was ready.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m here to join the games for Clan MacRae.” Ceana stood tall and proud, accompanied by two of her guards—the rest left behind to defend their holding.

  Her stomach was still doing the flips it had on the galleon, and she was close to vomiting all over the man’s shoes who assessed her. At least the storms that had rocked her passage had subsided, leaving only a light mist to wet her cheeks. Perhaps the gods had seen fit to give everyone a chill before the games began, sending half of them to the sky from illness before the first arrow could be shot.

  “Are you now?” Bloodshot eyes roved over her form, pausing at her breasts and hips.

  She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the bile from spilling between her lips. If she never had to see the man again, she would be mightily pleased. Instead of staring at his dirty, overlong beard, and pock-marked skin, she focused her gaze beyond him. He stood directly in front of the castle entranceway—a stone arch, the portcullis raised and the doors flung wide, signaling the end of the previous Chief and Lady Morrison’s reign, and the beginning of a new era.

  Through the entranceway was a bridge covering a moat and beyond that, the legendary Sìtheil Castle. She peered around the gate steward, catching glimpses of flags and stones, but not much else. The thick stone walls surrounding the castle blocked her vision. Would the castle soon be her new home?

  I will call this place home.

  The steward cleared his throat in irritation, and Ceana realized she’d ignored him completely. Hoping that he wouldn’t take her disinterest as a sign of weakness, she thrust her chin forward, and said, “I am.”

  A lecherous smile curled his lips, showing yellowed and blackened teeth. “And have you a male to enter?” The man’s gaze flicked to her two guards and Ceana stiffened.

  Straightening her back to the point of discomfort, she met his gaze dead on. “Nay.”

  He made a clucking noise with his tongue and shook his head. “All clans entering must have both a male and female entrant. No quarter given.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Now, lassie,” he leaned in close, the scent of whisky strong on his breath, “if you’re willing to, eh…come to my tent, I’ll be happy to negotiate.”

  Ceana jerked backward, bumping into her guard, and then quickly righted herself, her face flaming hot with embarrassment. She’d gotten her share of crude offers, but with each ensuing one, the offense never dulled, if anything, her ire was heightened. “Certainly not! I’m Laird MacRae. How dare you speak to me with such vulgarity?” She itched to grab her knife and gut the bastard. But, that would not ensure her entry into the games. Then again, would it?

  “Och, but you see, I need not dare, for here you are just another female entrant, and we’ll likely be burying your remains in a day or two. So why not—”

  “I’ll enter.”

  Ceana whirled to see her guard, and her brother’s best friend, step up beside her. “No, Aaron,” she whispered. She’d known Aaron since as long as she could remember. His father had fought alongside her own, and when her brother had taken his seat as Laird and Chief of MacRae, Aaron had been right there to support him. He had skill with a weapon, but he was not the fiercest in her guard. She couldn’t let him join. Couldn’t watch him die. “As your laird, I forbid it.”

  Ignoring her, he pressed his lips together and nodded curtly at the gate steward. “I’ll enter,” he repeated.

  Ceana fought the urge to lower her head. Dougal would never forgive her. Behind her several potential entrants called out their irritation for the time it was taking her to cross through the gate. Boarg, her other guard—an older warrior who served her father—shouted out a response that made her grit her teeth.

  “Boarg, talk some sense into him,” she said.

  Her guard shook his head. “Made up his mind on the road, my laird.”

  “Well, now, I suppose you’ve missed your chance for a piece of this,” the vulgar steward said to Ceana, grabbing his man parts beneath his plaid and shaking them at her.

  “I’m sure I’ve missed nothing,” she responded, feeling even more ill than when she’d first boarded the galleon a week before.

  “Suit yourself.”

  The steward turned back to his makeshift table and stroked their names on a parch
ment scroll while saying, “Two entered. One male. One female. Aaron of MacRae, Bitch of MacRae.”

  Ceana’s hands fisted. “Strike that through, sir, and write it again as it should be. I am Ceana, Laird MacRae.”

  He glared up at her, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll do no such thing. Should have warmed my bed when you had the chance.”

  Aaron nudged her with his elbow. “ ’Tis not worth the fight. Save your energy for the games,” he murmured.

  Aaron was right. There was no sense in angering the man in charge of taking names—though with hers now being Bitch of MacRae, she was likely to run into more trouble along the way than she anticipated. Ceana flashed her brother’s friend a look of defeat, conceding to the steward, the first concession of which there might be many. “I just hope not all the guards are this way.”

  Unfortunately, Ceana doubted the likelihood of that taking place. Sensing her upset, Aaron, spoke to the steward for her. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Tent steward. Take this.” He thrust a signed scroll at them, indicating that they had indeed been entered in the games.

  “Our gratitude,” Aaron said.

  The man huffed, but before he could say anything further, Aaron ushered her forward as did Boarg. However, as soon as she stepped through, she wanted to turn around and run all the way back to MacRae lands. To brave the starvation of her people, and pray for another way to survive.

  Men and women, both unclothed, swam and splashed in the murky waters of the moat, seemingly uncaring that this was the place most chamber pots and rubbish buckets were tossed—along with the holes from the garderobes. The stench of the water, thankfully, did not reach her nose. But beyond this, men and women practiced sword fighting up on the sky-high battlements. And they were good. Experts even.

  Immeasurably better than she.

  Ceana had skill with a bow. Even up close, she had skill with a knife. But a sword had never been her strong suit. If she were to come up against any of the women above, she would lose. Most Scotswomen weren’t trained with a sword, but because of the games, the women growing up in the isles were all taught to handle a sword from the moment they could lift one.