by Kara Griffin
MacGilley’s blood was worthy, so he worried not about the sword’s misuse.
He followed the men toward awaiting horses. Anselan and his brother, Ewan, mounted their steeds and waited for him.
Graeme looked into his da’s eyes. “Five years is a long time.”
His father pressed a coin into his palm. “To keep ye safe.” The coin had been in their family for years and many tales told of its history.
He held fast to it. His father gave his unspoken approval and that meant much to Graeme. There were words he wanted to say, but he held silent.
“I ken you held your grandda in better regard than I. He was a great laird, as you will be. Just don’t get yourself killed, son. I want your vow, and I want to see ye back here.”
“That I cannot promise, Da. You know how we Camerons like to fight.”
“Aye, aye. Be well, my son. Until we meet here or in heaven.” His father turned and walked away. He’d never witnessed such sentiment from his da.
Graeme took to his saddle and sat taller than he ever had. A sense of pride came for what he’d done. Avenging his wife and ridding his clan of the swine that plagued them. He rode next to his cousins and didn’t look back. His only thought was to do his service and do it well. One day he’d return to his beloved clan.
CHAPTER ONE
Off the coast of Western Scotland
March, 1306
It was said they fought for freedom. Being free meant something different to every man. To Graeme of Clan Cameron, it meant serving no man. He lived to serve his clan and that alone until the Bruce’s passion swayed him. He’d done service to Lord Robert, for two years and during that time he’d seen how politics affected the lairds and lesser titled men. The alliances and word of the clashes reached him.
On the windblown shores of the small island they’d fled to, the men stood in a semicircle and gazed out over the far-stretched waters. Graeme never expected their leader to up and leave without notice, instruction, or farewell. They were left on the desolate island, probably for good.
Gilroy, an unkempt squire in the Bruce’s militia appeared hesitant to speak.
Graeme gave him an enraged look, disbelieving the lad’s gall. “When did he leave? Speak up, lad. There’s no reason to hold back.”
“I tell ye, m’lords, he left this morn by himself. Says he didn’t want ye to return with him. Too dangerous, he says. I’m to keep ye from following. He bid ye not to return to the mainland.”
“Do you hear that? He means to keep us from following.” Brodin chortled. “How do you propose to do that, Gilroy? Liam, I’ll wager you the coin, if ye toss young Gilroy in the water.”
“That’s hardly worth the bother of the coin. Och, I’d favor it. I’d even wager the lad can’t swim, and he’d sink like a stone.” Liam stood still though and waited for Graeme to acknowledge the wager.
Graeme, as perturbed as he was, eased slightly at the banter between his comrades. His friends wagered the coin for the last two years. It went from one to another when said wager was won. Whoever held it had the privilege to suggest the next wager. And so it continued, the coin going from one man to another.
The coin was brought back from the crusades by his grandda, and the remarkable story retold to Graeme when he was a wee lad. The tale, he surmised when he’d grown older, was doubtless embellished. His grandda told him the coin forged an alliance betwixt two rival chiefs who conquered their foes in the holy land. Without their truce both chief’s armies would have been desecrated. Since Graeme joined with the Bruce for his service, he used the coin in the same manner. He hoped to achieve trust and loyalty between him and his men who were of different clans.
“Gilroy could use a bath,” Heath said with no hint of jest in his voice. “I say we toss him in the water and see if he floats.”
Graeme peered over their lord’s little servant’s head and scoffed. “Bollocks. The Bruce put himself in more peril than what we’d ever face by leaving us here.” He turned abruptly to Gilroy. “How much time? When did he leave?”
The young squire backed up and appeared apprehensive. He shifted from one foot to the other and wouldn’t look them in the eyes. “M’lords, it was not yet dawn. Still dark when the Bruce took to the waters.”
All was lost. Graeme knew it, his comrades and even the inept young squire knew it. Robert signed his own death warrant. When they’d been exiled and absconded to the island for protection after the unfortunate incident at the abbey, he never would’ve thought their future king would be so reckless.
They were supposed to take shelter until word of Robert Comyn’s death dwindled. If the Bruce left them there, he must have had a good reason. Had he received a message?
Graeme poked the thin squire’s chest. “What news came?”
“There was a boat in the wee hours of the morn. A messenger came and told m’lord they executed his brother-in-law. Aye, hung him in the square before all. M’lord said England’s king wouldn’t hang him and that Edward was trying to bring him to heel for Comyn’s death.” Gilroy gazed at his feet as if telling him would cause his anger.
“Aye, he goes off and leaves us?” Graeme wanted to grab the wee shite and shake him. He wanted answers and information and didn’t want to pry them from the bugger.
“He said he would send for you once he was able to gain the throne.”
Graeme laughed and bellowed louder than he had in months. “Aye? The throne would be polished to a high shine by his arse by the time he’d come for us, but no matter.” With an intent gaze, he beheld his comrades, Liam, Heath, and Brodin. “With the Bruce gone, I will lead this excursion.”
His comrades nodded; not one refuted his right to lead since he’d trained them and was somewhat the leader of their group. Graeme trained each one in the tactics he’d become renown for. He only shared his knowledge of the strategies with his closest comrades, tactics he’d learned from his grandda. They’d each been given in service to the Bruce for one reason or another, most as heinous as his own offense.
“What excursion? Do you propose we defy the future king?” Liam grunted his accord, even though Graeme hadn’t conceded.
He ignored the men as he contemplated what they should do. “We’ll need a boat to take us to the mainland. ‘Tis doubtful anyone will come to deliver any messages or retrieve us.”
Brodin frowned and tilted his head in disbelief. “The Bruce left us here to rot.”
“More like die. The less people to attest to Comyn’s death, the better for Robert.” Graeme firmed his jaw, incredulous that their lord abandoned them.
“M’lords, I must go with you. Pray, don’t leave me here. I vow I won’t be a problem. I’ll help ye and won’t get in the way.” Gilroy, normally staid, raised his voice.
Graeme gave a slight nod. He wouldn’t leave the young lad to perish on the island unlike their future king did to them. The lad could be tiresome though, and he’d have to warn off the men from teasing the squire. He was young and untried when it came to battle or protection. Not only was he unskilled, he complained and thought low of himself. That was something Graeme forbade of his comrades. Honor. For king and country, regardless of the sacrifice. The lad needed to learn that before he’d make a full-fledged squire or even a low-ranked soldier.
“We’ll search for wood to make a raft or something we can use to get across the waters.” Brodin tugged on Heath’s arm and led him away.
“I’ll help unless ye don’t think I can carry wood,” Gilroy said.
Graeme gave a woeful glance to the lad. “Go and help them.” To his remaining comrade, he said, “When we get there—”
Liam set his closed fists on his hips. “Don’t you mean if we get there? It’ll be a hard crossing for the waters are choppy and fierce.”
“Aye, if we get there, we’ll need to find James Douglas. He’ll need to know our plan.”
“Damn me, why do ye want to involve the Black Douglas? He’s an ornery sort. He almost got us killed the las
t time we saw him. I’d trust him not. What exactly is our plan?”
“He’ll know where we can find the Bruce. Someone must protect his arse and we cannot trust the young soldiers or a rebellious army to do so.”
“After the battle at Falkirk, Robert tried reason. Och, I think he’s through with being reasonable and means to take arms again against the English king.” Liam scoffed and struck the sandy dirt with his foot.
“Which is why he’s going to need our aid.” Graeme turned back to face the water, knowing what he was about to suggest risked their lives. Not only would they defy their future king, but they needed to avert the English king’s hangman as well.
Chapter TWO
Lanarkshire, Scotland
May, 1306
Being ward to the overlord of Bothwell castle should have given her privileges and often did. Kerrigan arose late in morn to begin her day, but noise from the courtyard drew her interest. Footsteps, many from the sound of the tromping on the dirt path that led to the gatehouse, alerted her men-at-arms returned. She stood by the large casement, high atop the donjon, and looked out onto the courtyard. On the fourth floor at the top of the tower, she looked past the drawbridge and moat, the road beyond which flanked with heather fields and tall grasses. The view always enthralled her, but not this day.
The spring breeze whipped her hair about her shoulders, but she didn’t notice the chill in the air or the beauty of the land. She watched the soldiers as they passed under the portcullis, their dejected faces visible. Her heart wretched seeing a figure carried on a cart.
“It cannot be.” Her words, a harsh whisper on her lips, rushed out. She ran from the solar, through the narrow upstairs hallway, down the steep steps, and heard the commotion of the men who brought in the body.
“Is it the laird?” She watched the litter pass. None of the soldiers answered, their gazes cast to the stone floor. She hastened to the front of the procession and stopped them. When she reached the side, she peered at the handsome face of her overlord. “Is he … dead?”
The closest soldier shook his head. “He lives, Mistress, but not for long, I fear. Best prepare yourself and the family.”
“Hurry, take him to his solar.”
The men did as she asked, moved past her, up the steep steps, and disappeared when they reached the landing above.
Now that Laird Moray returned home with grievous wounds, Kerrigan knew her days of his safety and protection ended. Still, she would care for the laird until his demise. Unlike his wife, Lady Euphemia, who, once she’d heard of the laird’s grave injuries prepared to flee the castle. At this moment, she was packing her belongings and would be gone before nightfall.
There were many injured knights in both England and Scotland’s armies in the latest rounds of battles. Surely they each went to their barracks to mend their wounds and tend to the injured. From the bits of information she’d gathered from the soldiers who delivered Laird Moray, England suffered as many losses as the Scots. Bothwell was the forfeiture, and those who claimed victory would soon come.
“Take my satchels and secure them to my horse. I shall be ready to leave shortly,” the laird’s wife shouted to a passing servant.
Kerrigan regarded Lady Euphemia from the bottom of the stairs. She was about to take to them and see to the laird’s injuries, when the lady called her.
“You … ah, best be gone for when night comes all here will be doomed. Have a care for yourself. Tell all and make haste.”
Kerrigan scrunched her eyes in disbelief the lady couldn’t remember her name. She’d lived at the castle for nearly ten years, ever since her father was killed during the battle of the Red Ford. If it wasn’t for Laird Moray, her father’s comrade, Kerrigan might’ve been killed or captured. Who knows what the knaves would’ve done to her? Moray rescued her and brought her to his home and treated her like a daughter. Not only did she hold fondness for the laird, but she owed him, and before he passed to the hereafter, she’d repay his kindness.
She gazed at the laird’s wife, solaced because the lady gave them caution and permission to leave. There mayhap was kindness enmeshed in her selfish heart. Perhaps she cared not only about herself.
“My lady, we should see to Laird Moray’s wounds and offer him what comfort we can. He needs care and we cannot leave him here.”
The lady raised a chestnut-colored brow and scoffed. She waved to a servant who passed by with another satchel. “My husband despaired us. There is no time to offer comfort, lass. We are in peril if we stay a moment longer.” Her voice rose to a panicked pitch. “The English will come, and I for one shall not be here when they do. Do you not realize the danger? The servants shall flee as soon as my horse steps from this ghastly place. You should be amongst them if you are wise.”
Kerrigan wanted to shout an atrocious blasphemy at the woman. But she held her tongue, a lesson she’d learned when dealing with the lady of the castle. Who would leave their beloved husband to his death for the sake of her own safety? Alas, she realized the woman held no adoration for Laird Moray, and nor he for her. Theirs was a marriage of political gain for them both. A parlay which would exist no longer after this day passed.
“What of Andrew? You won’t await him?” Kerrigan held tight on the rail of the steps and shook her head. The laird’s son was taken by the English during a siege when Moray was off warring, and his son had yet to be ransomed or returned. She discerned her laird suspected he might never see him again, but he refused to give up hope, even though the English were known to be unkind to their captives.
“My dearest son is dead. I will not place myself in danger if he might one day return. ‘Tis doubtful he will.” Lady Euphemia tied the strings of her cloak. “Now hasten and be gone from this place.” She turned and left through the main gate, taking her closest servants.
Never could Kerrigan be selfless and flee with no regard for Moray. She took the steps and hastened to the chamber he was taken. In less than an hour those within the walls would abscond to the safety of the hills, except for her laird’s most trusted and devoted manservant.
“You’ve come, Mistress,” Finley, the old cantankerous servant, appeared cross, but the sides of his lips twitched with a semblance of sympathy. “We shall send for the clergy straightaway for last rites are needed. I must see to the keep and my lord’s men and will return soon.” He closed the door behind him and left her alone with Laird Moray.
Kerrigan scrutinized the bloodied body of Andrew Moray and withheld the urge to sob. She sat beside his bed and tenderly wiped his face with a cool cloth. Annag, the aged cook, and wife to her laird’s manservant, and only person to know of healing matters besides herself, came a few minutes later. She’d assessed his wounds, clucked over his body, and shook her head.
“Such a shame. My lord cannot overcome these injuries, Mistress, he’ll be gone before this day is done. The Good Lord keep ‘em. Best say your goodbyes then.”
“Aye, the cut to his waist injured his insides. There is no way to mend him.” She sighed at saying such woe and dejected at the thought of losing him. Kerrigan couldn’t imagine her own jeopardy, for all she could do was stay by his side and tend him. When he passed, would be soon enough to consider her own safety.
Her laird’s eyes opened; pain darkened the blue depths. “My bonnie lass, you’re here.”
With gentle, but shaky fingers, she brushed them over his brow, and pushed back the straggly stands of his hair. “I am, Laird. My place is here by your side. Rest easy, you are home.”
“I cannot rest, sweet lass. I must gain your promise.”
“Speak not of such matters. You need to rest.” Kerrigan looked at Annag, before she turned her attention back to him. “Do you have a remedy? We should ease his pain.”
Annag nodded. “I shall make one at once. It’ll take away his pain, naught more.” She turned to a nearby table and made an herbal concoction.
“I need nothing save for your pledge, Kerrigan,” the laird whispered.
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br /> How kind he’d been to her. He’d taken her in when she was but nine winters and allowed her to live in his home. She’d been the daughter of a great laird, lost akin to many in battle with another clan over insignificant, at least to her, matters. Her father, Laird Campbell, had been a loving father, husband, and devoted overlord. How she missed her home and that of Innis Chonnell and the wild countryside.
“Ye must allow me to speak, lass, for I need your aid.”
“Laird, save your strength.” She wiped his forehead, knowing he wouldn’t last long. The gash in his waist exuded blood, though it set, and at least didn’t pour from him. A pungent odor reeked from the wound and it seeped with a purulent which thickened. No one tended him and the gash infected.
Kerrigan thought of the lord’s wife, who ran off when she saw the condition of her husband. Her own mother stood firm in the face of such treachery when news of her father’s wounds reached them. She’d tended her husband until his last breath. Only it was too late to save herself, and she became the pawn of her father’s enemy. Never to be seen or heard from again.
Kerrigan had to flee for their enemy, the MacDougalls, neared and would overtake her home. Her mother wouldn’t leave and demanded she and her brothers hide in the adjacent woods until help arrived. How like a Sinclair—brave, unrelenting, and selfless.
She had no choice but to follow her mother’s orders. Mercifully, Laird Moray rescued her and her brothers. Although it was close because MacDoughall’s army rode less than a mile from their gate. Moray’s small band of soldiers couldn’t take on the MacDoughalls for they well outnumbered them. It was all he could do to get her and her brothers away. She squeezed her eyes against such memories and the thought of what her mother must’ve went through.
