by Mary Wine
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Wine
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Cover design and illustration by Anne Cain
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To the man who still sweeps me off my feet and puts up with me through all my endeavors. My hero, my partner… my husband. I love you.
One
Scotland 1437, McLeren land
Fire could be a welcome sight to a man when he’d been riding a long time and the sun had set, leaving him surrounded by darkness. But the sight of flames on the horizon could also be the most horrifying thing any laird ever set his eyes on.
Torin McLeren wanted to close his eyes in the hopes that the orange flames illuminating the night might not be there when he opened them again. He could smell the smoke on the night air now but didn’t have the luxury of allowing the horror to turn his stomach. He was laird, and protecting his holdings was his duty.
Digging his spurs into his horse, he headed toward the inferno. Wails began to drown out the hissing flames. Laments carried on the night wind as wives and mothers mourned bitterly. The scent of blood rose above the smoke, the flickering orange light illuminating the fallen bodies of his clansmen. He stared at the carnage, stunned by the number of dead and wounded. He might be a Highlander and no stranger to battle, but this was a village, not a piece of land disputed and fought over by nobles. This was McLeren land and had been for more than a century.
A horror straight out of hell surrounded him. Mercy hadn’t been present here—he’d seen less carnage after fighting the English. The slaughter was almost too much to believe or accept. His horse balked at his command to ride forward, the stallion rearing up as the heat from the blaze became hot against its hide. Torin cursed and slid from the saddle. Every muscle in his body tightened, rage slowly coming to a boil inside him. Hands reached out to him, grasping fingers seeking him as the only hope of righting the wrong that had been inflicted on them.
His temper burned hotter than the fire consuming the keep in front of him. They suffered raids from time to time, but this was something else entirely. It was war. The number of bodies lying where they had fallen was a wrong that could not be ignored. Nor should it be. These were his people, McLerens who trusted in his leadership and his sword arm for protection.
“Justice…”
One single word but it echoed across the fallen bodies of men wearing the same plaid he did. Every retainer left to keep the peace was lying dead, but they had died as Highlanders. The ground was littered with the unmoving forms of their attackers. His gaze settled on one body, the still form leaking dark blood onto his land, the kilt drawing his interest. Lowering his frame onto one knee, Torin fingered the colors of his enemy. The fire lit the scarlet and blue colors of the McBoyd clan. His neighbor and apparently now his enemy.
McBoyds? It didn’t make sense. These were common people. Good folk who labored hard to feed their families. Every McLeren retainer stationed there knew and accepted that they might have to fight for their clan, but that did not explain the number of slain villagers. There was no reason for such a slaughter. No excuse he would ever swallow or accept. McLerens did not fear the night, be they common born or not. While he was laird, they would not live in fear.
“There will be justice. I swear it.” His voice carried authority, but to those weeping over their lost family, it also gave comfort. Torin stood still only for a moment, his retainers backing him up before he turned and remounted his horse. He felt more at home in the saddle, more confident. His father had raised him to lead the McLerens in good times and bad. He would not disappoint him or a single McLeren watching him now.
“Well now, let us see what the McBoyds have to say for themselves, lads.”
Torin turned his stallion into the night without a care for the clouds that kept the moonlight from illuminating the rocky terrain. He was a Highlander, after all. Let the other things in the dark fear him.
***
“Shannon! Wake up, girl, and quickly.”
Shannon McBoyd opened her eyes to nothing but a single candle flame offering light against the dead of night. Outside the glow of that single flickering flame there was nothing but blackness. The yellow glow cast the features of her clanswoman in enough light to make out the pinched look on her face. Tension prickled along Shannon’s neck and down her back.
“Here now, Gerty. What’s the fuss about at this time of night?”
Shannon rubbed her eyes and shivered. The night was frigid, almost unnaturally so, and the small window across her chamber had its wooden shutters closed tight, but wind still blew through the center of it where the shutters met. The candle flame danced as Gerty moved in front of the window, and she gasped, turning her back to shield their only source of light.
“Come now, out of bed.”
Shannon pushed her bedding back. Her shift was thin and worn, providing her little protection against the darkest hours unless she remained in her bed. Old Gerty didn’t seem to notice the chill—that, or she was ignoring it. The old servant pushed the bed curtain aside, barely keeping the flame of the candle she held away from it.
“Yer father is calling for ye. Hurry up, girl. He’s got the whisky out.”
Shannon felt her stomach clench because it was not a natural time for her sire to be demanding her presence. The last remains of slumber evaporated as she tried to think of what her father wanted from her at this time of night. She crawled out of the bedding quickly because her father was never kind when kept waiting. Randal McBoyd expected obedience and promptness. Never mind that it was the dead of night, best left to ghosts and other unholy things.
“Hurry, lass.”
Gerty didn’t wait for Shannon to comply. The old servant was moving faster than Shannon could recall. Gerty dropped a loose gown over her head before Shannon had fully raised her arms. At least the dress was bulky enough for her to wiggle her arms into the sleeves. The fabric held the chill of the night, making her shiver again. Gerty handed a girdle belt to her and reached for the hairbrush. The servant pulled the bristles through her hair only a few times before dropping the brush back on the table. She grabbed the strands and forced them into a braid, making Shannon wince as the woman pulled too hard, but she could not appear below with her hair loose. That would start rumors that she didn’t need attached to her name. She reached for her linen cap, which was sitting beside her bed, and tied it beneath her chin, grateful for the warmth it would help keep inside her. When it was blistering hot in the heart of summer, she detested the cap demanded by her father to preserve her modesty.
“Good enough. Get on with ye.”
Shannon struggled to push her foot into a shoe while Gerty opened the chamber door and gestured to her frantically. There was a haunted look on Gerty’s
face that sent another ripple of apprehension across her skin. At least she did not sleep very far from the hall where her father would be waiting on her. Laird McBoyd always received those he wanted to see while sitting on the raised dais at the end of the great hall. A single chair with ornately carved armrests in the shape of a raptor’s talon sat there on top of a costly Persian carpet.
Shannon smelled the candles burning before she saw the glow at the bottom of the stairs. Voices drifted up the stone stairs that led to her meager chamber. Many voices, and there was laughter as well. A sense of foreboding flooded her. It was an eerie mixture, the good cheer and the darkness. It felt as if she were still dreaming, because the abundance of activity did not fit with the time of day.
Something else touched her senses. She drew in a deep breath to identify the scent filling the stairway. Metallic and thick, it turned her stomach. A chill crept across her skin that left gooseflesh along her arms.
“Get on with ye.”
Gerty pushed her the last few paces into the hall. As the laird’s only daughter, a lowly female, she was given a loft storeroom, set off to one side of the hall, as a bedchamber. Only her brothers resided on the second floor of McBoyd Castle. She was less than her brothers in her father’s eyes, a woman who should know her place and be reminded of it. The church told her that too, that she was less than a man, but her heart did not believe it. Gerty called her stubborn, often warning her that she would come to no good end if she did not learn to be content with a woman’s lot.
In some ways she was content. Her chamber stairway allowed her to view the hall before those celebrating in it noticed her. She might peek in without being sighted at the large double doors at the end of the great hall. Her ears hadn’t deceived her; there was much merriment indeed. But her eyes rounded with horror when she looked more closely at the men making so much noise in the middle of the night. She fought back a gasp, swallowing it before she was noticed. The scent of spilled blood was strong here. It mixed with the aroma of food, nauseating her completely. If Gerty hadn’t been behind her, she would have run to the garderobe to retch.
Her clansmen were celebrating in bloodstained kilts. They laughed and jested while raising tankards of ale to one another. Shannon found her gaze glued to the dark stains marring their fingers. It was gruesome and too horrible to accept from her own kin. But a closer look showed her far more of her father’s retainers sat still around the hall, in the quiet, than those celebrating. Those men sat sipping from their cups, many merely holding them with looks on their faces that said they’d had no appetite for what had happened this night.
“There ye be. What madness is this, making me wait so long for ye, Daughter?” His eyes narrowed. “Ye seem to learn nothing in church about respecting yer father.”
Shannon lowered her head to give her sire the deference he always demanded from her. At least the action served to hide her frown from Randal McBoyd’s direct stare. He was an arrogant laird, and the last bruise he’d left with his fist was just now fading. She was in no hurry to receive a fresh one. Such would be hers soon enough. Her sire was quick to reprimand her anytime he felt the urge. Her father was diligent when it came to reminding her she was less than a man and a disappointment to him for being born a daughter, but he could read in her eyes that she did not agree with his views completely. So it was better to just keep her gaze lowered; that preserved peace in the house at least for part of the time.
“I brought her straightaway, Laird.” Gerty aimed another jab at the center of her back, but Shannon didn’t need it. While she was in no hurry to get within striking range of her sire, she was not a coward either. She could suffer his strength and would not simper in the doorway like her stepmother so often did. The sight of the woman’s downcast face and quivering hands always made her cringe. If that was accepting her place as a woman, she never would.
“Father.”
Laird McBoyd snorted. His left hand curled around the arm of his chair while he peered at her over the rim of his tankard. He drew a deep mouthful before grunting and handing his cup off to a servant. The boy assigned the duty of holding his laird’s cup was quick to take it before it fell.
“Aye, I am yer father. A fact I’ve detested many a time, but tonight it seems there might yet be some good out of yer mother’s weakness in breeding me a daughter.” He slapped the chair arm beneath his hand. “The king is dead. Scotland will be having a new family on the throne, and one that will no’ be dogs begging for scraps from England’s hand!”
A cheer rose from behind her, but Shannon noticed the men who watched in silence. In their eyes she could see a reflection of her own dread. It was the look of decent men who did not find war so grand a thing. But they remained silent because the laird would be followed. That was Scottish tradition, and honor was more important than misgivings.
“Ye’ll be wedding the Earl of Atholl’s nephew. Atholl will be wearing the crown afore the month is finished, as he should have done instead of bring James back from England. Atholl is the true and rightful heir; any clan who opposes the new order will fall under the sword like the McLeren did tonight.”
“You raided the McLeren? They are at least triple our number and Highlanders—”
Her sire roared with rage. He gained his feet in a flash, and his fist connected with her cheek in the next. Shannon’s head whipped about with the blow, but she never faltered from her stance. Instead she turned her face back to her father without a single whimper. She even bit her lip to ensure that it did not tremble.
“Ye’ll mind that sharp tongue, girl! Mind it well, I tell ye! No woman will be speaking her mind to me. Not beneath me own roof, I tell ye.”
Shannon stared straight at her sire, pain spreading across her face, but she refused to show him any sign of her discomfort. Blood trickled from her lip, but she did not raise her hand to wipe it aside. Her father snickered.
“Well, ye’re a strong one, anyway. Atholl will nae be finding fault with yer spine. Ye’ll give him sons worthy of being called Scottish.”
He grunted before dropping back into his chair. “Aye, and wedding that boy will make sure Atholl holds true to his word to help us wipe the McLerens clean off the face of Scotland. It will be the McBoyds that become the strength here, Daughter. Atholl has promised me his retainers to see the task finished. We began tonight. As soon as Atholl’s retainers arrive, we’ll be finishing.”
Her father reached down and pulled a dagger from the top of his boot. Its blade was still stained dark, and her father looked at the dried blood with a grin that sickened her. “I put this through the heart of McLeren’s captain.”
***
“How can I be kin to such a monster?” Shannon shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory of her father’s glee over murder. She refused to believe that killing their neighbors for nothing more than power was something that brought honor to the name McBoyd. If that was because she was a woman, she was grateful to be one.
“Hush, isn’t that black eye enough suffering for ye? The laird is to be obeyed, not questioned.”
Shannon refused to temper her expression, not here in her chamber. Gerty clucked her tongue at her in reprimand.
“Things will nae go well for you, miss. No’ with all that stubbornness inside ye. Best ye think on that while on the road to Edinburgh. Think long and hard. ’Tis for sure that yer husband will no’ have any more tolerance for it than yer father does.”
Think? There would be nothing else for her mind to do but consider the facts again and again. It was not too far into spring for travel. Yet her father was sending her onto the half-frozen road. Well, perhaps that was indeed a kindness. She had no desire to share a roof with such a monster. What manner of laird sought war when peace had been enjoyed for so long?
A greedy man, that was who.
A man who didn’t know when life was good. She was not so foolhardy. Even suffering her fat
her’s dislike of her gender failed to blind her to the goodness surrounding her. There was food aplenty on the tables at all times of the year. Warm clothing for the winter and men of good conscience wearing her family colors. She had always worn her arisaid with pride and a level chin, but looking down to where the length of McBoyd tartan hung down her gown, Shannon felt shame rise up inside her. The blue and scarlet seemed tarnished now, stained just like her father’s dirk. Her father had always envied his neighbor, the McLeren, even raiding them from time to time. But there was no bloodletting done. A few head of sheep or sacks of grain were the normal prize. It was more of a jest between men to see who could best the other.
Shock still held her in its grip while a trunk was packed for her journey. Her own kin had looked like savages wearing the blood of their fellow Scotsmen. That was not the McBoyd honor she had always respected. It was something borne out of greed and evil that made her cringe. As sad as it might be, she would be happy to depart. Even onto a half-frozen road.
“Here now. Let’s see what can be done with yer face.”
Gerty lifted her chin and studied the swelling. Her lips settled into a frown.
“Ye be a right pretty enough lass. When yer nae wearing a mark from yer father’s hand, that is.” She clucked her tongue once again. “With a little prayer, it might be healed by the time ye meet yer groom. Best to hope for that. No man wants a wife who needles her sire.”
“I spoke a truth. The McLerens do outnumber us, and Highlanders are nae to be trifled with. There will be retribution for this night’s work, make no mistake about it.”
“Hush now.” Gerty made the sign of the cross over herself. “Do ye want to bring a curse upon us all? Yer father burned White Hill to the ground. Every McBoyd life hangs on the alliance being made between Atholl and yer father.”
Gerty snapped her fingers at the two girls packing behind them. Both had frozen in their tracks, their eyes rounding with distress as they listened in on the conversation. Somehow, Shannon didn’t think that Gerty’s prayer or snapping fingers would make any difference when it came to the retaliation the McLerens would be raining down on them. The maids were right to worry. She couldn’t shake the tension off her back either. It sat there between her shoulder blades, twisting tighter and tighter until she ached.
