Heart of the Highlands:
The Wolf
Protectors of the Crown Series:
Book Two
April Holthaus
Edited by: One More Time Editing, LLC
Published by: Grey Eagle Publishing, LLC
Cover Design by: Zak Kelleher
Printed in the United States
First Printing: December 2016
ISBN-10: 1512028738
ISBN-13: 978-1512028737
All rights reserved.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © 2016 April Holthaus
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events or persons are purely coincidental. No part of this publication is allowed to be reproduced without the author’s written permission.
Dedication
To J.E. for being the only alpha male I have ever met. You truly are a wolf!
Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Other completed works by the Author
About the Author
Heart of the Highlands: The Wolf
Protectors of the Crown
Book Two
Preface
For hundreds of years, Scotland has battled the English for their freedom. Now, they face a new enemy. In a world divided between politics and religion, the young King James V faces the threat of his own people rebelling against him. When civil war breaks out amongst the Highland clans, James recruits a secret group of warriors for protection.
He calls them the Protectors of the Crown.
Chapter 1
Scotland, 1537
I should be dead.
Rylan knelt along the shore, dipping his dirt-stained knuckles into the cool, refreshing water, then wiping away layers of dirt and dried blood from his face. His shoulder ached from battle and the gash along one arm needed mending after losing so much blood, but still, he survived.
Like a sheet of mirrored glass, the surface of the loch was calm and still. The landscape above reflected in its surface; an inverted world where everything was the same, yet completely different, much like Rylan’s existence.
He loosened the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his forearm to inspect where his arm had been slashed by his enemy’s blade. The deep gash was still seeping blood and the skin around the wound was badly bruised. Taking his dagger out of its sheath, he began to cut into the fabric of his kilt creating yet another strip to bandage the open wound. Winding it around his forearm, he held one end between his teeth as he tied the knot tightly in place. After the fierce battle with the Sutherlands, his clan’s sworn enemy, Rylan was lucky it had only been his arm that had suffered. Many of his clansmen had been injured including his Laird, Ian MacKay, who now lay bedridden as he healed from his wounds.
Accustomed to injury, Rylan thought the cut along his arm rather complimented the other scars and bruises that marred his body, for each one held a story of merit and bravery. Rylan learned early on how to care for most of his injuries without a healer, and although he lacked a healer’s skill and patience, his own crude stitches served their purpose. That was all that mattered. What man, if he still breathed air, and blood still flowed freely in his veins, should complain?
Glancing across the bay, he thought he saw a flicker of steel flash through the cluster of trees. His eyes affixed to the forest as he stood watching, waiting for any sign of movement. His suspicion was validated when a flock of birds flew up from the trees and darted into the sky. It was time to leave.
Rylan strode to the horse he had tied to a nearby tree. Unraveling the reins, he placed his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself into the saddle.
Following the banks of a meandering river, Rylan pushed his horse onward toward the foothills of the rounded bluffs that made up the northern ridge of the Southern Uplands mountain range. Night was almost upon him, and he wished to seek shelter within the woodlands scattered throughout the deep valleys and glens. Cover was scarce.
As Rylan neared the base of the mountains, he steered his horse through a narrow crevice that looked as if the ancient Gods had split the mountain in two, creating a remote passageway to a Garden of Eden.
The pathway led Rylan to a cluster of birches and willows that circled a small pond. Satisfied the spot would accommodate his needs, he dismounted and tied his horse to the trunk of a small silver birch.
Scavenging through the forest, Rylan gathered an armful of dry wood to make a fire. As he returned to his camp, he kneeled and piled the wood on the ground, stacking the logs in a crisscross formation. Glancing up, he gazed across the pond and noticed several black and red berry bushes. His stomach growled at the sight of the juicy morsels. Thinking back over his day, he realized it had been hours since his last meal.
Rylan finished stacking the wood, made his way to the bushes, and began picking a large handful of the tart-flavored berries, popping them in his mouth one by one. His fingertips were soon stained deep purple from the juice bursting from the succulent fruit.
Once he consumed all the berries he could, Rylan made his way back to his horse. He pulled an apple from his satchel and offered it to the greedy animal who eagerly snatched it from his hand.
Mongrel beast.
He reached into his saddlebag again and pulled out his plaid to use as a blanket, a small knife that he tucked into his belt, and a small tinderbox containing a flint and a piece of steel to start a fire. As soon as the fire was set ablaze, Rylan unraveled his plaid and settled down with his back against the trunk of a willow tree to rest. He took the small knife from his belt along with a small piece of wood he’d found and holding the wood still with his injured hand, settled in to whittle.
As night fell, the woods came to life with the sounds of nocturnal creatures lurking and chattering in the darkness. Frogs croaked, crickets chirped, and an owl hooted high in the trees. Even the flames came to life as they danced along the dry logs.
Rylan stared into the flames while images of the day’s bloody battle weighed heavily on his mind. They had lost many good men. With this ongoing feud between their clans, many more were sure to perish. He sliced a piece of bark off the wood he held. It was awkward, but he soon managed to get into a soothing rhythm of knife against wood. The pastime had long been his method of dealing with his lonely and violent lifestyle.
Rylan’s eyelids began to open and shut more slowly until he could no longer keep them open. Before he knew it, he drifted off to the sound of the crackling fire.
Suddenly, Rylan awoke to the sound of thunder nearby. Not thunder; hoofbeats. Damn! The noise resonated around him. Rylan quickly sat up. He had only meant to rest his eyes for a few moments. They were searching for something, or someone. Though Rylan could not see them, he knew they were close. Slowly, he swapped the small carving knife for the dagger he kept in his boot and
held it, balanced and ready. Gazing back at the fire, he knew the smoke had alerted them to his position.
“Eeijt!” he scolded himself.
Angry with himself, he quickly stood and ran to the fire, snuffing out the flames. He had not meant to keep it burning for so long. The rising smoke would have been no different than if he had stood on the mountain top, waving a white flag, and screaming out for all to hear, “come and get me, ye bloody bastards.”
Rylan grabbed his clan plaid, quickly stuffed it into the saddle bag, and jumped onto the back of the horse. Snatching the reins, he kicked his horse into a sprint back through the narrow passageway.
The sounds of human voices and galloping horses grew louder. Rylan’s only chance was to stay hidden under the cloak of darkness as long as possible. Perhaps then he would shake the assailants off his trail.
As he made his way out of the valley and back into the vast open field, he stayed close to the base of the mountain, in the shadows away from the threat of being revealed by the sun that would soon break the horizon.
Unsure how many were following him, Rylan glanced over his shoulder. Shadowy figures rapidly rode behind him keeping up with his pace. He counted five, maybe six men. They shouted for him to halt, but Rylan increased his speed. Their accents indicated they were not the Sutherlands chasing after him for revenge as he had thought, but Englishmen.
The beat of his heart pounded like a battering ram crashing against his chest. His palms began to sweat, causing his grip on the leather reins to loosen. Rylan was ill-prepared to confront the English, and in fact, he preferred to completely avoid them. Recovering from his wounds was not the only reason.
Rylan had difficulty losing his assailants as they managed to match his speed, maintaining the distance between them. Had his arm not hurt like the infernal blazes of hell, he would have smacked the side of his horse to ride faster. At this rate, the English troops were sure to catch up with him when his mount tired. Rylan diverted his horse along the tree line. He had one choice and one choice alone. Unbuckling his bag, he swung it over his shoulder, stood for a moment with his feet firmly in the stirrups, then leapt off the galloping beast.
Landing on his injured arm, Rylan crashed to the ground in a hard thud and tumbled into a small shrub, which quickly halted his momentum. The instant he made impact with the ground, he regretted his spontaneous, rash, boyish decision. Jumping off a racing horse was not an option he would eagerly choose again.
Pain shot down his arm and around his chest. He whimpered, clenching his teeth to avoid yelping aloud, as tears filled his eyes. Rylan lay on the forest floor, concealed by the darkness, tangled within the brush, and suffering from excruciating pain. His horse continued at full speed, with the English troops continuing the chase, unaware they pursued a rider-less horse. It took only moments for them to ride past, the sounds of the horses dissipating. Holding his arm, Rylan pushed himself off the ground into a seated position. His bandage was once again soaked with blood and pain radiated throughout his entire body.
Raking his hand through his hair, he looked over the landscape. There were still several miles between him and his destination: a meeting with Charles De Walt, the Duke of Annandale. With a warrant in his pocket for his own arrest, Rylan sought to request a petition for pardon. After fulfilling a string of questionable requests for the Duke, Rylan was owed his due.
Struggling, he pulled himself up. Having taken the brunt of the fall, his hip ached as he walked. Rylan hobbled forward with a slight limp. His bruised ribs forced him to take shallow breaths. With each breath, he could feel the space behind his ribcage grow tighter as if he had been kicked by a horse. Nevertheless, Rylan was not about to allow his half-mangled body to slow him down. He would fight through the pulsating pain. It was nothing a long nap and tankard of strong whiskey could not cure. Just the thought of the drink made his mouth water. He could taste it now; the burn of the liquid fire reaching the back of his throat, the warm sensation heating the pit of his stomach. It helped to will away the pain and keep his thoughts on the coming pardon.
Rylan guessed that he had at least five miles go to until he reached the nearest town or village. At his current pace, he should pass some sort of dwelling within the next hour or two. Once he arrived in the village, he would need to secure himself a horse and provisions to last for the remainder of his journey.
The summer day grew hotter as the sun rose in the sky. Sweat beaded on his forehead and around the back of his neck. Grass tickled along his large calves as long blades gently brushed against them below his kilt as he walked through the grassy fields and meadows. As he reached the crest of one hill, another greeted him. The rolling hills of the open terrain were like waves atop the ocean.
After nearly an hour of walking in the blazing sun, Rylan spotted salvation in the form of a stone croft in the distance. Next to what appeared to be a small farmhouse were several small outbuildings and a large wooden barn where at least two horses were grazing within a moderately sized pen.
Passing through a bountiful mixture of barley, wheat, and oats, Rylan stepped out of the golden field and onto a path of cobblestones leading to the house. There was no one in sight in the yard other than the chickens, which pecked away at the corn on the ground.
Making his way to the front of the house, Rylan knocked on the door after noticing it was unlatched. The moment he tapped the door, it swung on its hinges. Readying his blade, Rylan took a cautionary step inside.
“Hello?” he said, surveying the front room.
The inside was relatively small displaying only a few possessions. The front room had a small table with two place settings, a shelf with a few worn books leaning against a beeswax candle, and a small hearth along the far back wall. On one end of the room were two closed doors. At the other end was a kitchen with four cupboards and a wooden table. Sitting on the table were a dark brown jug and a plate holding a loaf of bread.
With no one in sight, Rylan quickly stepped further into the room. Greedily licking his lips, he picked up the jug and drank deeply. The water inside was warm and stale, but it quenched his thirst. Guzzling hastily, streams of water ran down his chin and dripped onto the floor. Once finished, he set down the empty container, ripped off a piece of the bread, and stuffed it into his mouth. Licking the crumbs from his fingers, he surveyed the room further. Taking inventory, Rylan noticed a basket of moldy onions, an unfinished tapestry lying over the arm of a small wooden chair, and a bookshelf where the dust had settled. It was apparent that at least one woman lived here.
Rylan left the house and made his way toward the barn to find the owners. Pushing the wooden door aside, he stepped in to find the barn empty as well. He thought that perhaps the owner had gone to market, which would very much be in his favor.
Inside the barn, three empty stalls lined the walls on the left side of the room and piles of hay were stacked high against the adjacent wall. In the corner of the barn was a lone cow in its stall grazing on a pile of hay, and a water trough along the back wall.
Rylan spotted a set of worn leather reins hanging on a wooden beam. If he were going to make it to his destination on time, he would need a horse. Moreover, it just so happened that two of them were readily available.
Rylan was not against stealing when necessary, but perhaps if he were to have it returned when he was no longer in need of it, he could ease his conscience knowing that at least he would return the beast to its rightful owner.
Reaching up to lift the reins from the rusty nail, Rylan yelped in pain. His chest squeezed tight as pain radiated down his arm, taking his breath away. He knew he was in no condition to ride. At least not without a few more bandages in place.
Rylan sat down on a stool to take a short breath. He was tired and sore, his mind void of thought. It was a mystery at times why God had mercy on him and kept him alive.
Rubbing his tired eyes, Rylan stood and snatched the reins off the wall. Hobbling outside, he went in search of a horse to replace the
King’s horse he had lost. His mind played back the final words King James spoke to him before he left, still questioning what the orders meant.
“I can no’ take part in yer Laird’s quarrel wit’ the Sutherlands. Tis too great a risk and I need to stay in good graces wit’ the remaining Highland Chiefs,” James replied, tapping the rim of his specs upon the desk. “But perhaps I may be able to lend a hand.”
“Sire?”
“I make it a habit to know my enemies and know them well. I be no’ the one to tell ye this.”
“I understand,” Rylan said as he leaned in closer.
“Good. Head south o’er the hills of the uplands until ye reach the southernmost part of the mountains. Stay to the west. About a half days’ ride, just south of Dumfries, ye will come across a wee homestead. There, ye will encounter a treasure so fair, possessing it t’would be Sutherland’s undoing.”
“What will I find?”
“No’ what, lad. But who.”
Chapter 2
Sitting along the shoreline, Fallon dipped her feet into the cool running water of the narrow river allowing her toes to dig deep into the small pebbles and beige sand. Looking toward the sky, she closed her eyes, feeling the heat of the sun as it embraced her with its warmth. It had been a long, hard summer and she cherished these few peaceful moments. She would not have many of them left with the harvest quickly approaching.
With many chores still needing to be attended to, Fallon did not want to linger much longer. Standing up, she slid her slippers back on and grabbed the heavy basket of wet clothes she had just finished washing in the river.
When she returned home, Fallon began draping the wet garments over the fence to dry. Once completed, she went on to her next task of weeding the garden. Kneeling in the dirt, Fallon pulled the scattered weeds that threatened to overrun the garden. It seemed more weeds grew in this garden than the vegetables planted there. Gardening was not something she particularly enjoyed, but the land’s rich soil was favorable for many crops. This year, however, she was lucky to get a healthy bushel. The drought had affected the local farmers making food scarce for many.
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