The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  As his parents spoke, Alec paced. He was too tense to remain seated and his mind whirled with possibilities at what to do about the current situation. In his heart, he knew the only thing that would satisfy Malcolm Ross would be to see his own father dead and it was something he’d not allow.

  Up until this point, Clyde had remained behind when they’d gone to battle. However, his father hated it and would not continue to remain behind in the keep while his men fought.

  There had to be a way out of the situation. That they were considering sending a woman to relay a message was not only dangerous, but also not the best way to go about gaining their people’s trust.

  There had to be another way.

  Gwyneth, a comely woman he’d often bedded until recently, darkened the hallway and beckoned him with both hands. By the rapid motion, something was amiss.

  “Can ye spare a few moments?” she asked, her eyes moving from his face to the back garden. “A woman is in the kitchen garden and asks to speak to ye.”

  He let out a breath. The last thing he needed at the moment was to be bothered with two women who wished to find out which he favored the most. “I do not have time…”

  Gwyneth didn’t bother to hide her annoyance. “I told her that, but she insists.”

  “Very well,” he replied and looked over his shoulder. His parents continued speaking, while the council members held separate conversations.

  Hoping to hear what the woman had to say to be over in quick time, he stalked down the short hall and on past the kitchens. Upon spotting him, his dog got up and stretched lazily. The hound was at his side when he walked out and into the garden.

  A blonde woman stood, a shawl pulled tightly around her too-thin shoulders. Blue, tear-filled eyes met his for a moment and then she ducked into a quick curtsy.

  “I thank ye for coming out,” she said in a hoarse whisper that made him lean closer to hear. “I must ask ye for assistance.”

  “What happened to ye?” he asked, expecting she was ill and needed asylum. “Are ye ill?”

  “Nay, I am not.” A cough and shiver told otherwise. “I require yer help in finding my brother…” Her eyes welled up with tears. “He is all I have, ye see. He came here to ask for work and has not returned.”

  “What is his name?” Alec asked, his stomach tightening as he already knew the reply.

  “Daegen,” she said in a shaky voice. “He is blond, we…favor…”

  The messenger. Somehow, she and the group headed to her home had missed each other.

  Alec took a fortifying breath. “Come inside. Eat.” He touched her shoulder and led her into the kitchen. “A bowl of food and warm drink,” Alec instructed.

  When she sat and looked around in astonishment, Alec lowered to a chair. “What is yer name?”

  “Paige,” she replied, taking a deep drink of the warm cider. “My brother and I live near the loch.”

  “Yer parents?” he asked, wondering who the party headed to her home would find.

  “Only my grandfather remains. He is at home awaiting my return.” She eyed the plate placed before her. “If it is agreeable, may I take this home to him?”

  “Eat,” he instructed and then met the cook’s gaze. “Prepare a basket of food for her to take.”

  Her gaze rested on his for a moment and he couldn’t help but notice how lovely she was. “Ye are kind.”

  While she ate her fill, Alec waited. It would be soon enough that he would have to tell her about her brother’s unfortunate death. The young man had arrived two days prior, eager to be of assistance. From what he knew, her brother had volunteered to go to the Ross’ lands, claiming to be friendly with them. Now, he wondered if it was true.

  “I must return. Perhaps my brother is home now.” Paige stood and Alec walked out with her.

  He took her by the shoulders turning her to face him. “Yer brother is dead. He was killed this morning. He was very brave. Went to Ross lands with a missive.”

  Thankfully, he caught her before she collapsed in a heap. Her legs gave out as she absorbed the information. Alec pulled her against him as sobs racked her slight body. She clenched the fabric of his tunic like a kitten fearing the touch of its mother.

  “No. It cannot be. No.” Paige pushed back and wiped angrily at her face. “Why him? Why did ye send him?” Her bloodshot eyes pinned him, her face transformed with fury. “Ye purposely sent him to his death.”

  There was no use in arguing. For it was true. It hadn’t been him who’d sent the messenger, but it may as well have been. “I am truly sorry,” he said, meaning it. Then without thinking, he reached forward and wiped her tears with his plaid. “Do not cry.”

  Seeming shocked by his actions, Paige remained as still as a stone, only a sniffle here and there. Her breathing remained ragged and he knew she was wondering what would become of her family now. They’d obviously depended on her brother for food and, given her thinness, it was apparent he’d been struggling to find work. His willingness to volunteer for the task of messenger was further proof of how desperate their plight had become. The clan war had a debilitating effect on his people and Alec decided if anyone would go to the Ross and ask for a truce, it should be he.

  “Come, I will escort ye home.” He looked directly into her eyes. “It would probably be best for yer grandfather and ye to come here to live.”

  She nodded, seeming to run out of energy. “May be the best for my grandfather is old and ill.”

  The need to take care of her grandfather was obviously more precious than her pride as she allowed him to take her by the elbow. “Wait here in the garden,” he said, guiding her to a bench. “I will retrieve my horse.”

  Paige sank to sit, all life seeming to have gone from her. Anger filled Alec knowing his brother did not care one bit at the consequences of his actions.

  Just moments later, with her slight frame against his chest, they rode the short distance to Paige’s small cottage. The party including the guards and Ethan remained. As the two men dug a grave, Ethan stood by, his expression impassive.

  The men stopped to gauge the threat of his nearing. Then upon recognizing him, they relaxed. He rode to the front of the cottage, dismounted and assisted Paige down. She rushed to where they’d laid her brother and began to sob anew. An old man emerged from the cottage, a slight smile on his craggy face and eyes that no longer saw what truly happened. “Ah, I see ye have come, Clyde,” he said, calling Alec by his father’s name. “It took ye long enough to seek revenge on my beating ye last time we played.” The old man chuckled then looked to where his granddaughter was crying. He shook his head.

  “Come now, dear. Fix our visitors something warm for their bellies. I grow quite hungry.”

  Alec reached for the sacks that hung from his steed’s saddle. “I bring food. Perhaps ye would like a bit of wine?”

  The old man chuckled, allowing Alec to guide him to a chair beside the front door. There was a well-built overhang that would shield people from the elements and both chairs and table that were under it were also very well made.

  Paige’s brother had obviously been a good carpenter, by the looks of every part of the sturdy structure. It was a shame he would not be building anything now.

  Chapter Six

  Malcolm entered the great room to find his brothers and his cousin, Aiden, seated as his uncle, Gregor Ross, paced, stalking from one end of the room to the other.

  Upon noting Malcolm, Gregor glared in his direction. “There was no need for such savage action. What have we become that we slaughter a messenger without allowing him to speak?”

  Unsure of what exactly had transpired, he settled into a chair and motioned for a servant to bring him drink. The girl hurried over with a tankard and filled it to the rim. “I will fetch some cheese and bread, Laird,” she whispered and hurried away as if afraid of him.

  He watched her go, immediately disregarding her. There were more important things to worry about, obviously by the way his uncle now s
lashed across the air with his right hand, effectively shutting down any arguments that either Tristan or Kieran raised. “Tis not the way yer father would have wanted it.”

  At hearing this, Malcolm stood and walked to stand on the other side of the table where his brothers, Aiden and uncle had gathered. “What happened?”

  It was Aiden that replied. “The McLeods sent a messenger. Our archers killed him upon seeing the McLeod plaid upon him.”

  Malcolm slid his gaze to Kieran. “Our archers? Or was it ye, Brother?”

  As usual, the much too beautiful face shuttered. Kieran shrugged. “What does it matter?”

  “It matters,” Malcolm replied, pounding a fist on the table. “If they were to offer a truce, we would ask that Laird McLeod and that dog, his son Ethan, give themselves to us.”

  “They would not do it,” Kieran replied, tearing a piece of bread from a freshly made loaf that the serving wench had brought for Malcolm. “Why waste time listening to drivel?”

  Their uncle’s dark brown eyes flashed angrily to him. “This,” he motioned with his hand to Kieran, “is yer creation. Clan Ross has become an army of heartless heretics who care little for humanity.”

  “Tis vengeance and I do not care the cost as long as we capture the bastard son of a whore who killed my father,” Malcolm replied in a flat tone. The words he’d often repeated stood hollow in the air.

  No one responded. It was as if they’d grown weary of the same sentence repeated each time their council met.

  Gregor rose to his full towering height and shook his head like a hound fresh out of water. “Tis not what my brother would want. It is not the way of Clan Ross.” His voice boomed. “I understand vengeance and was glad at first to beat their warriors in a battle showing our anger. However, although Clan McLeod is smaller, it will be a long time before any war with them is over.”

  The middle brother, Tristan, had always been the peacemaker, and although a warrior to be feared, he was the most levelheaded of the three brothers. “Uncle, ye must understand how we feel. It was the McLeods who provoked us. It was them who came onto our lands when father was visiting a farmer. It was them who slaughtered him without provocation.”

  “I do understand,” his uncle replied in a tight voice. “I, like ye, also wished to show our fury. However, after all these months of battle, they remain steadfast and willing to defend. Aye, I know we can beat them…”

  “However?” Malcolm, who’d seated again, asked, leaning forward to place an elbow on the table.

  His uncle lowered his voice. “We are losing too many men, are almost equal in injuries and losses. If we send more men and use our entire army, it would be a massacre and what will be won by that?”

  Malcolm waited for a response to his uncle’s words to come from within. There was not even a slight stirring in his chest. Neither sadness nor foreboding filled him. There wasn’t a heaviness at knowing more would die, nor was there any sense of jubilation at the knowledge they would probably win.

  “I want that bastard dead.”

  “Then send someone to kill him. But stop this war. Declare a truce. Obviously, they admit that we have the upper hand else they would not send a messenger.”

  Malcolm began to eat the cheese and bread, his mind returning to the scene at the forest. The woman, Elspeth, seemed to hate him. He cared little what the villagers thought about him and yet a part of him wondered if a truce of any kind mattered at this point.

  At noticing his father’s empty chair, his heart hardened and he narrowed his eyes. “We fight again at dawn.”

  His uncle’s shoulders rounded and he lowered to a chair, defeated. Malcolm didn’t care that it wasn’t his uncle’s fight and yet it should be. Did the man not care that his own brother was slaughtered for no real reason. That amidst defending his people, the youngest son of Laird McLeod had taken no mercy and sliced him from one side of the abdomen to the other?

  Guards came, seeming to know orders awaited, and Kieran went to them. “We must prepare.”

  His cousin, Aiden, stood and stretched. “I will alert my men. Best go to see about my other needs as well.” He flashed a smile and left.

  “Whoring will not make ye a better fighter,” Tristan called after him. Then seeming to think on it, stalked to a long table where serving women cleaned. He took one and threw her over his shoulder. The startled woman yelped, but soon relaxed, her head bouncing as Tristan took the steps two at a time up to his bedchamber.

  Malcolm sat back and stared at his uncle and two remaining guards. “Have our scouts returned?”

  One of the guards, the one who’d taken Ian’s place, shook his head. “Nay, but I expect them at any time.”

  “Good. Once they do we will discuss our plan.”

  “When will it cease?” His uncle spoke again, his voice tight. “When not just every warrior, but yer brothers lay dead?”

  He considered it for a moment. Would he feel anything? Did it matter who lived and died around him anymore?

  Malcolm felt absolutely nothing.

  The clashing of metal against metal, screams of both men and beast filled the air. Malcolm caught sight of a young fighter vomiting while attempting to hold his midsection, blood oozing through his fingers. Whether he was a McLeod or a Ross was impossible to say as the fighter’s clothing was covered with blood and mud.

  Malcolm turned to defend against the downswing of a sword and rage filled him at recognizing his opponent. Face twisted in a sneer, Ethan McLeod thrust forward, intent on spearing him through the midsection.

  Malcolm moved sideways and swung his sword straight across with all his might. The bastard needed to die just like Malcolm’s father had.

  But Ethan was a worthy opponent, easily evading the strike and countering with a strong swing of his own.

  The swords hit so hard that both of their arms shook. “Go to hell,” Malcolm exclaimed, thrusting forward.

  Once again, Ethan evaded and blocked. They swung more times until Malcolm lost his footing when another fighting duo fell against him. When he turned to defend against Ethan, the man was gone.

  Before Malcolm could go after him, a different McLeod warrior attacked.

  As the battling continued, out of the corner of his eyes, Malcolm caught sight of Tristan fighting an opponent almost as huge as his brother. Tristan was a relentless warrior who’d never been beaten in battle. He was as agile as he was immense. That fact often threw his opponents off.

  Kieran was out of sight, but present nonetheless by the many who fell after being struck by an arrow.

  “Retreat!” a man called out and the McLeods ran toward their mounts and into the forest, some chased by Ross warriors.

  Malcolm raced after them, furious at noting Ethan was being tossed across a horse’s back. The idiot had been injured. All he could do was pray it was a mortal wound.

  Then and only then did Malcolm fall to his knees, exhaustion finally allowed to make its appearance. He took a shaky breath, his arms and legs quivering as the energy of the battle ebbed from him.

  Too dazed to care, he watched as men hurried to and fro searching for survivors. There didn’t seem to be many as the battle had been evenly matched. On both sides, they’d not cared to maim or injure but only to kill. So many months of fighting had brought out the lack of emotion that normally came when taking another human being’s life.

  The tactics had changed. Malcolm wasn’t sure when, but they had. In the beginning, there had been many injured. Now the dead far outnumbered the injured. And those who were injured were left because they would not survive.

  If Clan McLeod had taken Ethan, it was only because he was the laird’s son. So that he could die in his father’s presence.

  A part of him wondered if that would be punishment enough. Would it cause the thirst for vengeance to ebb at knowing Laird McLeod would stand by uselessly as his son died for his own actions that caused a war between clans?

  Hoping his legs would keep him upright, Malcolm s
tood and went to find his horse. Hopefully, the beast had survived. The animal waited near a bush, its massive hooves pawing at the ground. His steed was bred for war and as battles continued, it seemed to grow stronger and more energetic.

  Other than a shallow wound to its hindquarter, Malcolm’s horse was uninjured. He patted the animal’s big head. “Time for a rest, Rab.”

  It was then he noted a small wagon. It was the same one that had taken Ian away, which meant Elspeth was there somewhere.

  Malcolm whirled around, not knowing why. Amongst those that lay about, he spotted her making her way about gingerly, squatting every so often to inspect someone.

  Suddenly, she stumbled backward, her gaze crossing the distance between them. It was then he noticed her hands clutching her upper chest. She’d been stabbed. The injured man had mistaken her for an attacker.

  Malcolm raced to Elspeth just as she collapsed.

  Chapter Seven

  When Conor burst through the door, he was so breathless it took a minute for him to formulate words. Ceilidh went to the doorway to peer out, expecting a wagon with injured. Instead, it stood empty.

  “Where is Elspeth?”

  Conor’s mother and grandmother came to see what occurred and stopped at hearing her question, their eyes wide.

  Conor looked between them and shook his head. “She was injured, stabbed by a wounded man.” He gulped and attempted to continue, but was peppered with questions one after another.

  “Why didn’t ye bring her?”

  “Go back and get her.”

  “Tell me where she is?”

  “Go on, Boy, talk,” his mother urged, shaking his shoulder.

  “The Ross Laird took her,” Conor finished weakly. “He would not allow me to intercede.”

  There was a shocked silence. It was Ceilidh who spoke first. “Why would he do it?”

  “They spoke the last time we were at the battlefield,” the grandmother said thoughtfully. “Perhaps he means to take her to their healer.”