by B. J. Scott
Highland Challenge
A Highland Generations Novel
By
B.J. Scott
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, locations and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. Any actual locations mentioned in this book are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
All rights are retained by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The unauthorized reproduction, sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Copyright 2019 by B.J. Scott
www.duncurra.com
Cover Design: Earthly Charms
ISBN-13: 978-1-949407-06-8
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
About B.J. Scott
More by B.J. Scott
Dedication
To my husband Steve, whose love, encouragement, and support keeps me writing
and sharing my Highland Tales.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my family and friends for their continued support and encouragement.
Thank you to my Clan Scott street team for your support and for getting the word out about my books.
Thanks to my amazing editor, Sue-Ellen Welfonder, and everyone at Duncurra LLC for all you do to make writing for you a pleasure.
Finally, I want to thank my readers. Your support has helped me to keep my dreams as an author alive and make writing a pleasure.
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands, 1331
Andrew Fraser approached MacCurtry Castle with a mix of anticipation and curiosity niggling at his belly. As the chosen tanist to his father, he took his position as the future laird seriously, and already had many duties at Fraser Castle. However, when the missive arrived from his former mentor, Lorne MacCurtry, asking him to come, he felt obligated to do so. Until he spoke to Lorne, the reasons for his request and how long he’d be here remained unanswered questions.
A brisk wind kicked up and ominous black clouds threatened overhead. Lightning streaked across the sky, followed a few seconds later by a loud clap of thunder. Grateful he’d arrived at his destination ahead of the rain, Andrew huddled beneath his cloak. He didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, but he couldn’t help wondering if perhaps the sudden storm was an omen, a warning of what was to come.
It was not too late to forgo the visit and return home, but instead, he dug his heels into his destrier’s sides, urging the animal forward. As he got closer to the gate and noticed five heavily armed warriors patrolling the curtain wall, he reined in his mount and waved. “Seamus,” he shouted upon recognizing one of the men.
“Dinna come any closer. Na until you have stated your business,” Seamus replied, then swung his broadsword in a wide arc above his head.
Puzzled, Andrew stared up at Seamus. Lorne MacCurtry asked him to come, so he found it odd that the sentries were not expecting him. Then again, while Seamus still looked the same as he remembered, nine summers had passed since Andrew fostered here, and he had changed considerably. A grown man, he was no longer the gangly lad who’d trained under the seasoned warrior so many summers ago.
“Do you na recognize me, Seamus?”
Seamus cupped a hand over his eyes and narrowed his gaze, his fierce glower quickly replaced by a broad grin. “Saints alive, Andrew Fraser, as I live and breathe.” He turned to the man beside him. “Dinna just stand there, Brodie, Andrew has returned. Raise the gate and let him in.”
Metal groaned and chains rattled as the iron spikes rose, granting Andrew entry. Once inside the bailey, he dismounted, then paused to take in the familiar sights, sounds, and smells. The inner courtyard surrounding the keep was a flurry of activity. Vendors selling everything from fresh vegetables and fabrics, to saddles and weaponry lined the narrow streets. Bairns raced around the well, playing a game of tag as if they didn’t have a care in the world. The repeated din of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed in the distance, and the distinct aroma of pig fat rendering in a large black caldron to use in the making of tallow candles, stung his nostrils.
For the oldest son of a laird to foster with another clan was customary, and Andrew had spent two summers with Clan MacCurtry. He arrived when he was fourteen and returned home right after his sixteenth Saint’s Day. His father, Laird Connor Fraser, and Lorne MacCurtry fought shoulder-to-shoulder against the English during the Scottish war for independence, and Connor often said he could think of no finer place for his son to learn honor and discipline. While away from home, Andrew missed his family, but he also remembered his time at MacCurtry Castle with fondness. He had even come to think of Lorne as a second father.
“You have grown into a strapping young man, Andrew.” Seamus lumbered toward him. “When last I laid eyes upon you, you were a spindly lad of sixteen summers, and now you are as tall and braw as your da. No wonder I dinna recognize you.” He halted when he reached Andrew, then hauled him into a tight embrace. “It is good to see you.”
The bear of a man hugged him so tightly that Andrew found it hard to breathe. “I have missed you as well,” he gasped, then sucked in a huge gulp of air when Seamus finally released him. With his red hair, brawnier than average physique, and gruff demeanor, Seamus had always reminded Andrew of his Uncle Alasdair Fraser, making him feel a little less homesick.
“What brings you back to us, lad?” Seamus asked.
“Laird MacCurtry sent a message, requesting I pay him a visit as soon as possible. He dinna elaborate in his note, so until I see him, I willna know why he summoned me.”
“The laird wouldna bid you come unless it was important.” Seamus hung his head, his pleasant expression turning grim. “I just wish it were under better circumstances.”
“What is it, Seamus?”
“Sadly, our chieftain has taken to his bed, and the clan healer believes if his condition continues to weaken, he may not be alive much longer.”
The words Seam
us uttered hit him like a blow to the chest. Four summers had passed since Lorne’s last visit to Fraser Castle, but Andrew still pictured the proud warrior, sitting atop his destrier, wearing a padded leather gambeson and chain mail coif. With a longsword strapped to his back and a jewel-handled dirk at his side, he was ready to battle anyone who dared challenge him.
“It saddens me to hear of his illness, but I am still na sure why he asked me to come,” Andrew said.
“The laird told me there were a few pressing things he needed to address before he dies. He always thought of you like a son, so mayhap he wishes you to do them for him.”
“Could his nephew, Kayden, na have overseen these matters on the laird’s behalf?” It made more sense to Andrew that the laird’s relative and successor be the person to see to his needs and wishes.
A scowl darkened Seamus’s face. “It is no secret that bad blood has existed between them for some time, and Kayden no longer resides in the castle. I shouldna be speaking to you about private clan matters, but the laird did summon you.”
Andrew recalled the intense arguments that prompted Lorne to punish his nephew for his unacceptable behavior and frequent defiance, but Kayden was no longer a lad. “I knew there was discord between them, but hoped by now they had worked things out.”
“Nay.” Seamus stiffened and gave his head a sharp shake. “Kayden is as conniving and headstrong as ever. He and his uncle had a serious falling out two summers ago, and the laird ordered him to leave the castle, and na to return.”
Andrew let out a low whistle as he dragged his fingers through his hair. “It must have been serious for the laird to banish his tanist.”
While Kayden was not the MacCurtry’s son, he was his closest male relative. In keeping with Highland tradition, he stood to take over as laird should anything happen to his uncle. As he listened to Seamus’s opinion of the lad, Andrew had to agree that Kayden was one of the most disagreeable people he had ever met. He trusted no one, was sneaky, deceitful, and had a knack for getting into trouble and causing conflict everywhere he went.
They’d spend two summers together, but had never become what Andrew considered to be good friends. An angry, aggressive lad with a huge chip on his shoulder, Kayden was jealous of the budding relationship between Andrew and the laird, so did his utmost to drive a wedge between them whenever he could. Yet, despite their differences and dislike for one another, Kayden was the future laird of Clan MacCurtry, so Andrew showed him the respect due his position. A task that proved most difficult at times.
Large drops of rain began to fall, quickly soaking the ground at their feet. Seamus glanced skyward, then back at Andrew. “You know what they say about Scottish weather. It can be bonnie one moment and as ugly as the devil the next. Best we get inside afore the sky opens up and we get drenched.” He turned to a squire who had just joined them. “Tend to Lord Andrew’s horse and see him fed.”
“Right away, Seamus.” The lad seized the reins and bowed before leading the horse toward the stables.
“Unless you fancy catching your death of a cold, best we get out of this rain, Andrew.” Seamus spun on his heel, then trotted up the stone steps. “Once you have seen the laird, there will be a hot meal and tankard of ale waiting for you in the great hall.”
“Sounds good to me.” Andrew tugged the hood of his cloak over his head as he followed Seamus into the keep, then up another set of stairs, those leading to the chambers on the above floor.
When they reached the top, Seamus halted and pointed down a long dark corridor. “You know the way from here. I will meet you below when you have finished.”
Andrew proceeded on his own. When he’d stayed here, he’d traveled this hallway often, but this time as he neared Laird MacCurtry’s chamber, his chest tightened, and his stomach clenched with dread. Something told him that whatever his former mentor wanted to see him about was not going to be a simple or pleasant task.
After taking a deep breath, Andrew knocked on the door and stepped into the solar. The odor of burning herbs hung heavy in the air, along with a thick layer of smoke, making it difficult to breathe. He coughed to clear his throat, then stiffened when he saw Laird MacCurtry lying in a large bed before the hearth, his eyes closed, his face ashen, and his breathing labored.
“Who are you and what are you doing in the laird’s chamber? His lordship is too ill for visitors.” A short, stocky woman of about fifty summers rose from a stool beside the bed and stomped towards him. “I insist you leave immediately.” She clasped Andrew’s forearm, then tried to steer him toward the door.
Andrew planted his feet, refusing to move. “Laird MacCurtry bid me come and I am not leaving until I speak with him.”
“Can you na see the man is at death’s door,” she snapped. “His heart is weak, and you must na disturb him.”
“Andrew?” the MacCurtry called out.
The woman released Andrew’s arm and scurried back to the laird’s bedside. “There is naught to concern yourself with, m’lord. I have told him to leave so you can rest.”
“Nay. I will soon be resting for all eternity. I must speak with him, now. Andrew. Is that you, lad?” The laird made an unsuccessful attempt to raise his head, then began to wheeze and cough.
Andrew quickly moved to the bedside and gently stroked the back of the MacCurtry’s hand. “Aye. I came as soon as I could.”
Lorne peered up at Andrew through heavy-lidded eyes. “I prayed you would come,” he rasped—his feeble, hoarse voice barely above a whisper. “Pay Donella no mind. She means well.”
“I’m sure she has what’s best for you in mind, and mayhap she is right. You rest, and I can come back in the morning.” Prepared to leave, Andrew backed away from the bed.
“Nay, on the morrow may be too late.” The laird shifted his attention to Donella. “Have you seen Mareal?”
“The lass left the castle at first light and I havena seen her since. She dinna even bother to break her fast.” Donella tucked the pelts under the laird’s chin, then sat.
“Where did my daughter go?”
Donella shrugged. “I wish I could answer your question for certain, m’lord. My guess is she is visiting the crofters at the edge of the stronghold, those in need of a healer.”
“What my daughter does is admirable, but I canna believe she went out unescorted, again? Especially after I told her na to?” The concern in MacCurtry’s voice was evident.
“Mareal has always been a head-strong bairn, and you know as well as I that she doesna take warnings to heart.” Donella shook her head, while clucking her tongue. “She has never behaved the way a lass should. Especially the daughter of a laird. I oft wondered if the Almighty made a mistake at birth and really meant for her to be a lad.”
Andrew chuckled to himself. He thought the same thing about the laird’s daughter on more than one occasion when he was fostering with the MacCurtry.
“Tell Seamus and Brodie to find her and fetch her home.” The laird sucked in a shallow breath, then continued. “When they return, have them bring her to my chamber.”
Donella’s brow creased and she remained planted on the stool beside the bed. “I canna leave you unattended m’lord. I am sure Mareal will return soon.”
The MacCurtry slammed his balled fist on the bed. “I am na alone, woman. Andrew is here, and I need to speak with him privately. Do as I ask and find Seamus at once.”
“But, m’lord, you are na—”
“I asked you to leave us.” The laird cut Donella off before she could finish, then motioned toward the door, dismissing her with a flick of his hand. “Now.”
“As you wish, but I do so under protest. You are far too ill to have visitors.” She rose, then shot Andrew a glower of disapproval before leaving the room.
“You must forgive Donella. She can be quite thrawn when she wants to be, but she is a talented healer,” Lorne rasped. “Na that it will help me any,” he quickly added.
Andrew waited for the healer to close the
door before opening a window to let in some fresh air, then spoke to the laird. “It pained me deeply to learn of your illness, but you mustna give up hope.” He moved closer to the bed and caught the laird’s gaze. “Your missive was vague, and I am not sure why you wanted to see me.”
Laird MacCurtry dug his fingers into the layer of pelts that covered him and glanced away. “I feared if I told you why I wanted to see you in the missive, you might na have come.”
Upon hearing the MacCurtry’s words, Andrew’s stomach again twisted with dread. “When I fostered here, you treated me like a son. You are also one of my father’s dearest friends, so I couldna refuse your request to come. Regardless of the reason.” He gently stroked the laird’s shoulder. “I will help you in any way I can.”
“You are a good lad, Andrew. Were this na a matter of importance, I wouldna have asked you to—” MacCurtry began to cough and sputter before he could finish what he had to say.
Andrew retrieved a tankard of ale from the bedside table, then slid his hand beneath the laird’s head and raised it. “Drink this.”
The MacCurtry grasped the mug with both hands and took a sip, then rested his head on Andrew’s hand. “I dinna ask you to come for my sake, but for that of my daughter.”
The image of a slender, freckle-faced bairn, with large expressive green eyes, and unruly chestnut-colored hair immediately came to mind. The laird’s only bairn was a lass, but he agreed with Donella that you would never know it unless you took a close look.
Usually dressed in trews and a tunic, her face smudged with dirt, and her hair tucked under a wool cap, Mareal tried her damnedest to behave like a lad. She was pretentious, outspoken, and followed Andrew and Kayden everywhere they went. When they were bairns, her cousin called her a pest and a plague upon his existence. While Andrew agreed her persistence was annoying at times, he tolerated it and her for the laird’s sake, and never mistreated her the way Kayden often did.
