by Amy Jarecki
Da? Dead? Sean had gone completely numb. He couldn’t feel the wee cut to his arm, nor did he care. When Angus and Jinny approached with the news, he’d fallen into Jinny’s outstretched arms, hardly able to inhale.
“It has only been two days. He told me he was fine.” Sean coughed to choke back the tears welling in his eyes.
“Aye,” said Jinny, the MacDougall Clan’s healer. “We all thought it was a passing cold, but last eve he took a turn. ’Twas the sweating sickness for certain.”
Sean glared at Angus, his father’s man-at-arms. “Why did no one fetch me last eve?”
“He didn’t complain at all. We had no idea how bad it was until this morn when Sarah took him his porridge.” Angus looked him in the eye. “By then he was gone. ’Tis now up to you to lead the clan, m’laird.”
Sean stood dumbfounded. For the love of God, he was now the Chieftain of Dunollie? Yes, he’d always known he’d succeed his father, but not like this, not now.
Angus inclined his head toward the horses. “We must away.”
Jinny grasped Sean’s arm and shoved up his blood-soaked sleeve. “I’ll need to wrap this first. Angus, I’ve a rolled bandage in the satchel. Fetch it for me.”
Sean tugged his arm away. “Nay. It can wait.”
“”Tis too deep to ignore.” She took the bandage from Angus. “You’re as pig-headed as your father. It won’t take but a moment, unless you want to grow weak in the head by the time you reach Dunollie.”
With a groan, Sean held out his arm and nodded to Angus. “Who else knows about this?”
“We kept it quiet—didn’t want word to slip out without informing you first.”
“Good. I shall pen a formal proclamation after we reach Dunollie.”
Jinny tied off the bandage. “’Tis only fitting it should come from you.”
Sean pushed down his sleeve and strode toward his horse. At least Angus had been smart enough to gather his things and have his horse saddled and ready to ride as soon as he crossed the finish line.
“Where are you off to?” The Lord of Lorn rushed up to him, his black mantle billowing with the wind. “The swimming competition is anon—and MacCoul was disqualified for using a blade. You’re our victor. You cannot—”
Sean gripped his uncle’s shoulder and placed his lips to his ear. “Da’s dead. Keep it to yourself until I have the keep in order. I must muster my men. Word like this gets out when our enemies ken I’ve been away, God knows what they’ll do.” Dread snaked up Sean’s neck. Aye, he needed to grieve his father’s death, but it was more important for him to take care of the clan. Once he had control, he’d issue an appropriate decree to be read by the criers.
“I shall make your excuses.” Lorn pursed his lips. “Do what you must. I’ll keep your confidence. But do not wait too long, else a scandal could erupt with your reputation sullied. People will think you’ve something to hide.”
“It shan’t be but a day, two at most.” Sean mounted his horse. “Besides, this news would serve to put a damper on your festivities. You wouldn’t want that.” He dug in his heels and cantered south to Dunollie. Thank God he was only four miles away. If he’d still been on the borders it would have taken him a week to travel home—and even longer for Angus to find him.
5
Gyllis sat in her saddle with her back hunched and stared at her gelding’s withers. She’d been furious when Sean didn’t bother to present himself at all during last night’s Beltane festival. She couldn’t decide what hurt worse, seeing him in the arms of another woman, or having been completely disregarded as if her invitation meant nothing. Her heart ached—felt like Sean had taken his dagger and cut it out.
Duncan had been right. Sean MacDougall was not good enough for her or any of the Campbell sisters. He was a womanizer of the worst sort.
Worse, Gyllis had not accomplished a one of her goals on their trip to Dunstaffnage and now she and her sisters were headed back to Kilchurn Castle to be tucked away until Lord knew when. Her entire body hurt. Her throat was sore—probably from crying herself to sleep—her eyelids were heavy and her head hurt so much, she could have sworn someone clamped it between a pair of smithy’s tongs.
At least she’d be protected from the cruel world cloistered within Kilchurn Castle’s curtain walls. If she never saw Sean MacDougall again, it would be too soon. She stuck out her tongue and spat. And to consider I kissed his filthy mouth. I wish I could curl up in my chamber and never come out.
Her sisters were riding just behind Mother with Gyllis taking up the rear. Of course, they were accompanied by a heavily-armed guard of sixteen men in four-point diamond formation. When they traveled, Duncan always ensured they had a well-armed retinue to protect them against outlaws.
Gyllis looked over her shoulder and realized her brother wasn’t with them. “Where is Duncan?”
Mother turned in her saddle. “He received a dire missive from the king. He left for court at first light. Enforcers business.”
What is it about the Highland Enforcers? They are always here and gone. Sean’s most likely traveled with him—not that I care about his whereabouts in the slightest.
“Lady Meg will not like it when she discovers he’s off to court again,” Helen said.
Alice tapped her mare’s rump with her riding crop. “Heaven’s stars, Duncan’s wife awaits him with two wee bairns and he’s off on yet another inordinately important errand.”
“It is not our place to question your brother. He’s the Lord of Glenorchy,” Mother said. Gyllis could swear Ma would defend Duncan with her last breath.
Helen smoothed a hand over her veil. “Aye, but not everyone is made of iron, Ma. I have no idea how you lasted for seven years while Da was fighting in the Crusades.”
“That which you cannot change must be endured. I coped quite nicely—and the Glenorchy coffers grew healthier as a result. If you are faced with adversity, you must meet it head-on and make the best of your lot.” Mother twisted round and shook her finger at the lasses. “Eventually you will gain reward from your efforts.”
Slumping further in her saddle, Gyllis presently cared not to think of being strong and industrious. She was not the lady of a keep, nor did she have any prospects of becoming one…unless Duncan was at court arranging a betrothal with some unsuspecting noble. Aye? That will never happen.
Swooning with a wave of nausea, she moved her hand over her mouth. Her throat burned with an awful taste oozing over her tongue. Quickly, she leaned away from her gelding and retched with a gagging croak.
If it hadn’t been for her knee hooked in the top pommel of her sidesaddle, she would have fallen on her face, curled into a ball and waited for death to claim her right there on the trail.
“Halt!” Mother shouted. A circle of horses surrounded Gyllis. “Are you ill, child?”
“I think I am.” Gyllis’s mouth filled with saliva while her head pounded even more relentlessly than before. “Initially I thought I was upset, but I’m perspiring and shaking. Everything aches.”
Mother pointed eastward. “Mevan, you must speed our pace.”
“Very well, m’lady.” The man-at-arms circled his hand over his head. “You heard her ladyship. Onward.”
Gyllis had no choice but to persevere, growing sicker by the moment. By the time they reached Kilchurn Castle, she could no longer sit. She slumped over her horse’s neck, eyes closed, holding on and hoping the gelding would remain on course with the others. Her entire body felt as if pins had been jabbed into her flesh. Every step the horse made jostled her bones like she would shatter at any moment.
Maintaining a fast trot, Mevan led them into the inner courtyard. Unassisted, Mother hopped from her mount and addressed her man-at-arms. “We must see her above stairs straight away.” She then pointed to Marion and Alice. “Quickly, fetch Lady Meg. Tell her Gyllis’s illness came on suddenly. She’ll know what to do.”
Mevan stepped beside the gelding and reached up. “Fall into my arms, Miss Gyllis,
I’ll see you’re right comfortable in no time.”
It took all her strength to slip her knee from the top pommel and ease off the saddle.
Mevan’s grip clamped too tight, like knives gouging her flesh. “You’re afire, lass.”
The rumble of his voice caused her head to throb with unbearable pain. Gyllis shook uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered. “I’m so c-cold.”
“I’ve no doubt you’re fevered,” he said, whisking her into the keep and straight up the tower stairs.
Gyllis clutched her arms close to her body, praying the jostling would soon stop so she could collapse in the folds of her bed. The whole castle was drafty—made her teeth chatter. With no fire lit in her chamber, it was as frigid as it had been outside. She crawled under the bedclothes and shivered while her head pounded mercilessly.
Angels wept from the dreary skies while Sean stood at the graveside beside Kilbride Church on Dunollie lands. The priest droned in an endless monotone, chanting the Latin burial mass. The Tenth Chieftain of Dunollie’s death mask had been hastily made. Sean had arranged for the most skilled stonemason to carve the effigy that would complete the tomb, but presently his father’s body lay wrapped in linen, hands still holding his bejeweled sword, awaiting internment into the granite crypt that would house his body through eternity.
Sean’s mother had died of consumption five years past. Her death had been a somber time in his life, but did not compare to the hollow void now filling his heart.
Da had been a powerful and decisive man. His father led the clan, facing the brutal realities of life, yet he had a gentle streak—one Sean didn’t always understand. But from his first memories, he’d looked up to his father—aspired to be like him. A tickle of doubt needled at the back of his neck. How in God’s name would he fill his father’s shoes?
The clanswomen lamented and sniffled around him. Yet he couldn’t weep. The Eleventh Chieftain of Dunollie could not demonstrate weakness. Sean’s jaw clenched as he endured the morose tones from the seemingly endless mass.
When at last the priest was silent, he nodded to Evanna, Jinny and Angus’s daughter. The lass stepped forward, wiped her eyes, inhaled deeply and began to sing a ghostly tune.
Watchin’ yon hills of the heather,
On the shores of the deep blue sea,
A bonnie young lassie sat singin’ her sone,
Wi’ dew on her plaid an’ a tear in her e’e.
She swayed wi’ a galley a’sail and aw’ee
An’ aye as it lessen’d she sigh’d an’ she sung,
Fareweel to the lad I’ll ne’re again see
I’ll nay forget ye. Alas, yer mem’ry ’ll always’ be wi’ me…
Evanna’s voice sang clear as a curlew soaring above a loch on a misty dawn. The purity of her tone made chills spread across Sean’s back. She repeated the sad verse twice while wails from the women rose.
When the song ended, an eerie pall cast a heavy blanket atop the gathering of MacDougall clansmen and women. The only sounds were sniffles and rainwater dripping from the leaves. Sean had not the inclination to move. He stared at his father’s body. Everyone did. He’d always known this time would come, but had been so busy adventuring throughout Scotland, he had never considered it would come so soon. But it wasn’t unusual for any man to meet the Lord at eight and fifty.
If only I had spent more time with him. Now I’ll nay have a chance.
Angus stepped forward and bowed. He then retrieved the sword from Da’s body and strode directly to Sean. “In the name of King James, you are the rightful heir. Carry the chieftain’s sword with pride.” The henchman held the two-handed sword out. “Buaidh no bàs.”
“Buaidh no bàs!” the clan chorused with the Gaelic MacDougall motto, victory or death.
Clenching his teeth, Sean grasped the sword and drew it from its scabbard. “I will carry this with pride and the MacDougall Clan will grow and prosper.” He held the blade over his head. “Buaidh no bàs!”
He slid the sword back into its sheath, secured it in his belt and set out. Thunder cracked overhead as he led the clan down the path to Dunollie Castle.
Behind him, hurried footsteps slapped the mud.
The hackles on Sean’s neck prickled.
Before he could turn, Da’s sword was yanked from his belt. “I should be Chieftain of Dunollie, not a miserable piss-swilling maggot!”
Drawing his dirk, Sean whipped around and crouched. Alan MacCoul moved fast as a fox. With teeth bared, he hacked down in a deadly challenge. Sean jumped back as the blade hissed through the air, just missing his flank. Circling, Sean eyed his nemesis. At last the bastard had given him the opportunity to end their feud once and for all.
Eyeing his target, he waited for Alan to strike—to give him a flicker of an opportunity, and Sean would attack. “Make your move,” he growled.
A thud sounded like a stick of wood hitting a tree. Alan’s arms dropped with the sword, his face stunned. He plummeted to his knees then fell to his face.
Angus stood behind him, holding a branch as big around as a man’s calf.
Sean picked up his father’s sword. “Why did you not let me finish it?”
Alan writhed and groaned.
Angus grasped the cur under the arm and tugged him to his feet. “I’ve no stomach for another funeral this day.”
Sean sauntered forward and slid the blade under MacCoul’s chin. “In honor of my father I’ll spare you. Take your galley and be gone. I’ll have no more of your backstabbing. You are banned from Dunollie lands forever.”
Spitting, Alan struggled in Angus’s grasp. “He was nay merely your father.”
“Aye, we’re all hurting.” Angus pulled him toward the embankment where the clan’s galleys were moored.
“Angus,” Sean hollered. “I’ll need to see you in my solar forthwith.”
Sean sat and stared at his goblet of whisky. His jaw twitched and his gut churned. This was a black day. He may as well make it blacker.
A rap resounded on the door.
Sean raised his goblet and sipped. He’d swirled the fiery liquid around his mouth before swallowing. He knew who’d knocked and it served the varlet right to wait. After one more sip, he placed the goblet on the table. “Come.”
Angus stepped inside with his bonnet in hand. “MacCoul has sailed with his galley, m’laird.”
After staring at him without blinking, Sean grasped his armrests and squeezed. “I’d have finished him if you hadn’t stepped in.”
“Aye.”
“You ken more than anyone, MacCoul has been a thorn in my side since the day I was born.”
“Aye.”
“Have you nothing else to say for yourself?” Sean leaned forward. “My father protected that bastard. Do you now see yourself taking up MacCoul’s mantle?”
Angus let out a labored sigh and glanced sideways, high color flushing his face. “Nay.”
“Then why did you stop me?” Sean slammed his fist on the table.
The older man jolted at the sudden noise then spread his palms. “I-I just reacted. Mayhap ’twas your father’s voice in my head.”
“It’ll nay happen again.” Sean shoved back and stood with his palms flat on the table. “Do you ken how your actions made me look in front of the clan?”
“Aye, but you were distraught.”
“Damn it, man, I was defending myself from attack.” Sean paced then kicked a chair. “I respect you as my father’s henchman, but you will never make me look the fool again.”
“Apologies.” Angus bobbed his head. “Agreed. I acted without thought. You’ve every right to be upset with me.”
Sean shook his finger. “I do and I am.” He flicked his wrist. “Go fetch the factor. I want an accounting of the coffers—everything from crofters rents, to notes outstanding, to the size of our herds.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
Sean held up his hand. “A moment.”
Angus raised his brows expectantly.
&n
bsp; “Have we any eminent threats?” He didn’t know of any, but he’d been away so much the question needed asking.
“Aside from the errant cattle thief and outlaws in the wood west of Black Lochs, things have been at relative peace for the past five years.”
“What have you done to rid the forest of the outlaws?”
Angus’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Whenever we run them off, ’tis a matter of time afore they’re replaced by another unsavory lot.”
Sean nodded. “I aim for Dunollie to remain at peace and free from attack. After I’ve met with the factor, I want a detailed account of skirmishes as far back as you can remember.”
Angus bowed. “Very well, m’laird. I’ll return with Master Murdach momentarily.”
6
Alan MacCoul didn’t sail far—it wasn’t even a league to the miserable Isle of Kerrera his father had granted him in hopes he’d till the soil or raise sheep and live a quiet life away from the scrutiny of society. But Alan had no yen for the life of a farmer. He was a warrior, a leader of men.
Even his father would be proud to see the army he’d amassed. The nobleman had been embarrassed by Alan his entire life—did everything to hide his bastard from the world, but that only served to make Alan more determined to prove his worth. He’d spent a few years on the borders, helping the reivers steal sheep and cattle from the English—and each other in lean times. Alan had grown strong and his sword was valued there—as was his coin. All he need do was send word and he’d have five score of Lowlander fighting men, not to mention another score of deposed MacDougalls in addition to Campbells who couldn’t stomach the Earl of Argyll’s tyranny.
He kept things quiet on Kerrera, however—at least until all was in place to declare his superiority. If he moved too soon, he might lose his income stream, and that most certainly wouldn’t do.
