Secrets Of A Highland Warrior

That had been nothing more or less than it’d been for generations until this very moment. His sword arm ached with the need to swing. To feel the rough reverberation of metal against metal. Instead, they rode through empty fields until they saw the village surrounding the motte and bailey with a centre keep.

Even from this distance, Rory could see the weakness of the McCrieffs’ half-stone and half-timber defence. It was encircled by a partial wall at its lowest point, but nothing a bit of fire and a medium-sized battalion could not destroy.

McCrieff’s castle was, mostly, as his father remembered and recalled to him. Had they made no improvements since then? His own land was surrounded by water, but even they fortified their walls. The McCrieffs had not prospered like his own clan.

Riding slowly, they approached the village, which wasn’t empty, but full of wide-eyed silent residents. So much silence, which weighed heavier than his armour. Ominous. Foreboding. Not one resident moved. It was as if they feared one flick of a wrist would erupt in bloodshed. Rory slowed his horse even more and quieted the breaths through his lungs.

There was always a moment of stillness before a battle, but he felt none of the menacing tenuousness now. He craved to fight, but with soldiers who also craved to draw their swords. Not villagers and children. Not with domesticity that chafed more than the unusual circumstance he found himself in. Only the animals didn’t seem to understand that the unnatural stillness wasn’t to be broken.

So they rode through gaggles of squawking hens and through small herds of sheep. Always Rory observed every detail of the residents, buildings and houses. He might not feel the hatred of enemies, but he knew there were those who hated him. Anything he missed could be his death or the demise of his men. He didn’t want either, but he wouldn’t accept the latter at all.

They had prepared for battle. Instead, they walked through the McCrieffs’ village as if this was no more than a neighbourly visit. Except the silence. This was the indication that all was not welcoming. Good, he wanted to fight. Why weren’t they fighting?

Damn the coward, McCrieff. Hamish’s reputation was as a duplicitous ruler, but rumour was he faced you as he lied. This nothingness was something else and unwanted. How could he prove to his clan, to his Chief, his father, that he, too, would be worthy of power if at this moment he was denied proving himself?

On through the silent village until the wide open gates. Here, Rory stopped and Paiden pulled his horse alongside his once again.

‘I don’t like this,’ Paiden said.

‘Now you show caution?’ Rory said.

‘I wanted to turn away at the stream, but you wouldn’t let me,’ Paiden gave a fake wobble to his voice. ‘But I’ll agree if you turn back now.’

Deep on McCrieff land and it wasn’t safe for any of them. The questions kept mounting. ‘Why bother? If it’s a trap, we’re in it and it matters not if I go through that gate or not.’

Paiden gave a grim chuckle. ‘I think it matters very much. About what that is, is up to you.’

It was a trap Rory knew he must purposefully step foot into. He was already a dead man simply riding to this point. If he rode past the gate, he’d be in the Great Courtyard surrounded by McCrieff warriors who could easily strike him with arrows. Armour or not. Enough arrows and any protection would eventually fail.

However, he was also a dead man if he stood outside the gates, so it was possible they intended to take him prisoner, but the McCrieff Chief wasn’t that clever. So what else could it be? Did they intend to lay out a feast for him and his men and tell tales by the fire?

He’d rather kill the entire clan than sit at their table. If his father discovered he’d done so, he’d lose all honour.

‘Stay here,’ Rory said.

Paiden snorted, but he held his mount still as Rory approached the gate and assessed each gatekeeper. They gave no indication of their intentions to his presence. Their bodies tense, but no weapon in either hand. Of course, there was no welcoming greeting on their lips either. Just more of that unnatural stillness like the villagers.

So he passed through the gate on well-worn dirt beneath smaller buildings in different states of disrepair.

Once through to the other side, Rory could see two men above, but from the angle of the gate and the high walls, he knew there were hidden places where numerous men could walk the wall, aim their bow and arrow over the slats and pull the killing shot.

Just past the walls’ shadow and Rory spotted a lone man descending the keep’s steps. There were many steps, tightly terraced, yet he took them one at a time. He spotted no limp or deformity in the Scotsman. No, the McCrieff took the steps slowly and deliberately to waste time.

Another scan of his surroundings and Rory waited while the stranger strode towards them. He appeared the same age as his father, but that was the only certainty he could be Chief of Clan McCrieff.

He was tall, thick, his shoulders wide. Lochmore’s Chief was a scholar—this man led troops, fought in battles and had shed much blood. His father had said Hamish was large, but everything else didn’t fit. This man didn’t look as if he spoke to councils and negotiated.

A flash of movement at the top of the stairs and Rory glanced towards the new threat. It was a woman half in the shadows of the doorway, her white gown giving a shape and size to her. She appeared younger than the man striding towards him now.

None of her features were clear. But her unbound hair was a riveting flaming red. She could be across the moors in the furthest field and he’d see her.

He felt...he felt as if he knew her.

Disconcerted, Rory dismounted and took in the courtyard. As expected, the ramparts were full of men, arrows locked though the bows were not taut. Around the wall he saw more men standing. No swords drawn, but their stances were wide—they were ready to charge—and the man who had descended the stairs now stood in front of him.

‘You are not Lochmore’s Chief.’

‘You are not the McCrieffs’,’ Rory guessed.

The man gave a regal nod, but didn’t divulge any further information. So be it. Rory purposefully looked around them. ‘Is that why we face each other freely in this courtyard?’

‘You stand freely because I will it.’

‘You could not will it, if I did not freely stand here.’

The old warrior tilted his head, assessing Rory as a man, as a soldier, as an opponent. He’d been given the same look all his life from his own father. This time, however, there was humour in eyes framed by wrinkles and the slight curve lifted the harsh corners of his lips.

This McCrieff, warrior or not, wanted to smile at Rory’s words. Was the man humoured by his own words or was the joke finally on him?

‘I’ve come to address the King’s decree.’ Rory got to the point.

‘You intend to claim part of the McCrieff lands.’

Rory pulled out the royal scroll, certain the McCrieffs had received a copy as well. ‘They were no longer yours the moment Edward signed this parchment.’

The warrior didn’t glance at the seal. ‘Don’t want yours. Got one of our own.’

‘Then—’

‘I’ll ignore both.’

‘Where is your Chief?’

The man remained quiet, but he turned his gaze to men along the sides. Men who kept their weapons lowered, but who walked slowly towards them.

‘Are you or the Chief ignoring our missives as well?’ Months of preparation. Hours of manoeuvring and counselling for every circumstance. But there wasn’t a circumstance here. The sun was well risen, the day was warm, the armour was heavy and getting hot, and nothing...nothing was occurring. He wanted this done with and to return home. ‘Are you conceding the lands are ours without a fight?’

‘I’ll concede those lands will remain as they are, Rory, son of Finley and only heir.’

Rory didn’t let his gaze stray from the man in front of him, but he was acutely aware of the bowmen at the top of the gates and the men on the ground. Aware of the woman trying to hide in the door’s shadows and failing. She wore white, her hair like a bright flame, her hand now rested on her stomach as if she was holding herself in.

He knew how she felt. A trap he had stepped in and one that was unavoidable. He could take on one, maybe two of the men before him, but not all. ‘You know who I am and yet...’ Rory let the sentence drop, hoping the man in front of him would complete it.

The warrior shrugged. ‘Time would be better spent eating and drinking, no?’

‘You prepared a feast for our arrival?’

‘We knew you were coming. You wrote us a missive to that effect.’ The man turned slightly and indicated for Rory to follow him to the keep. ‘You haven’t broken your fast yet?’

Rory ate nothing other than was necessary for strength this morning. Any more and he couldn’t fight well. ‘Lochmores have never eaten at a McCrieff table.’

‘That is because you’ve never been invited before.’

This conversation was more along Paiden’s gift for circuitous conversation. What he wouldn’t give for his friend beside him to interpret. All Rory knew in this moment was if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Sparring with words wasn’t his way, being direct was. ‘Tell me what game this is and get on with it.’

‘Do you like games?’

‘I never played a game in my life.’ He’d been honed to be a weapon by his father and, when he could think or act for himself, he’d kept to the regime. Once the arrow was shot, it had no choice but to continue where it was aimed.

‘But this one you’ve entered into already. I know you see her.’

Anything of frustration in him left immediately and his focus remained locked on to the warrior before him. Older, but no less deadly. A worthy opponent by the way he held himself. Fearless since he had no weapon out in preparation to an attack.

His father was like this as well. But the man did keep his eyes on Rory their entire exchange. The woman, for she was the only woman visible in this courtyard, was still half-hidden. Yet this man knew she was there watching them.

‘She’s hiding from you.’

‘Little escapes my observations.’

‘Who are you?’ Rory said.

‘I’ll introduce myself and my daughter when you’ve entered the McCrieffs’ Hall, son of Lochmore.’

So be it. Rory turned to signal his men. A fatal mistake. A bite of steel against his side, a harsh grasp of one arm, then the other.

There was time to free himself, to fight, but Rory knew it would be brief. He could negotiate for his men better alive than dead. With a shove at the men holding him, he allowed the wrenching of his arms behind his back as he faced the McCrieff.

The warrior gave a knowing smile. ‘I said you’re invited, I didn’t say as a guest.’

Chapter Three

Hurry, hurry, hurry. The mantra hurtled itself through Ailsa’s thoughts faster than her feet carried her to the safety of her rooms.

Lochmores on McCrieff land. Arrows and swords drawn, shields low, but ready, and one armour-clad man riding freely into their courtyard.

Shocked, she had stood on the steps and gawked. He was...huge. Broad of shoulder, his arms twice as thick as any man’s she’d ever seen. His horse was the largest, because he was the largest. All her life she’d been surrounded by warriors, fierce, protective. But there was no one like him...this stranger who rode through their gates as if he owned McCrieff Castle.

He’d worn no helmet, but the distance between them was not far and she had seen the glint of determination as he surveyed his surroundings. Everything about him screamed of dominance, of power, of ownership. He was a ruler and, like all rulers, he held himself as if he owned it all.

She had watched as he minutely adjusted the reins of the great beast he rode, as he dismounted and strode towards her father. The sound of the chainmail slapping against leather, the crunch of pebbles under his feet, the way his brown hair brushed against his forehead when the wind picked up.

She had felt the way her fingers tingled as he swiped away the errant curl. And in that, she knew she hadn’t only gawked because he was a Lochmore who held some power. She’d gawked because he was a man. And the shiver through her body had nothing to do with the slight wind at the time and all to do with the man whose searching eyes found her.

She reached the top of the stairs only to find the winding hallway to her chambers empty as well. Everyone was down below or in hiding. This part of the keep was her refuge and domain. But she didn’t feel safe.

She hadn’t felt safe downstairs hiding partially surrounded by thick walls and a great door. She had thought herself well hid and certainly well beyond the man’s acknowledgement.

Yet, his eyes hadn’t remained on her father, they had scanned his surroundings, finding the men with arrows and swords, finding...her. Her heart had skipped before it thudded strong in her chest as their gazes met. He’d been too far for her to discern his features with clarity, too far for her to hear the conversation they’d held properly.

It hadn’t mattered. The distance hadn’t taken away the impact of his gaze on her and it hadn’t masked some of the words exchanged with her father.

Words, a name she never thought to hear. His name was Rory. Rory. A name that shouldn’t hold significance to her except that the old healer had told her a fable. A mere story, but it was lodged as a fact firmly inside her thoughts and memories. She’d curse the healer for telling that story if it didn’t risk her very soul blaspheming the dead.

Could he be the same Rory? Ailsa scoffed at herself for thinking that thought, rushed into her room and slammed the door. No one here. Good, for her knees trembled so badly she leaned against the door and forced them to lock before she slid to the floor in a useless puddle.

He couldn’t be the same Rory, even if Rhona’s story was true. Rory was a common enough name. And even if he was that baby, should it make a difference? No. Her friend Magnus was dead for ever. Just last winter two McCrieffs guarding the border had died when several Lochmores rushed across the border and engaged in a fight.

No a name shouldn’t make a difference. The only difference between how McCrieffs treated Lochmores was when a Lochmore strode through the courtyard, her father had invited him in, and then...and then confiscated his weaponry.

As he should. Her father should have also marched him to the dungeon or beheaded him right then and there. Instead, there had been an invite for breaking fast and more words exchanged that she couldn’t fully understand since most were lost with the distance between them.

Pushing herself away from the door, Ailsa hastily grabbed her shears she kept in her room and strategically folded them into the pleats of her belt and gown. Her father might have confiscated Lochmore’s weapons, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have hers. If Lochmores were invited to dine at McCrieffs’ table, she would be ready.

* * *

‘Your Chief is bedridden and you are Tanist,’ Rory said, repeating her father’s words slowly.

He sounded stunned. Ailsa was stunned as well, but at least this fact she knew. Everything else was as much a surprise to her as it was to the man who sat on her father’s left side while she sat at his right.

Her shears tucked into her belt, she had descended the stairs, a roaring in her ears as introductions were made. As the proximity to this Lochmore filled in the details the distance of the courtyard had not revealed.

His eyes were not the dark brown of earth, but held the light of a gem lit behind it. His size was formidable as she’d thought. Yet it wasn’t that which made her eyes unerringly fall to him again and again. There was something about him that compelled her. It felt like a tincture of awe and wariness.

She shouldn’t have felt either. Lochmores didn’t deserve admiration, and as for wariness...her father had unarmed them all. They weren’t out on the battlefield, but in the comfort of McCrieff Hall, eating and drinking food. Decent food, too. Not the usual fare. Her father had ordered a true feast for this occasion. Ailsa had never seen the Hall so full. There were three tables in the hall. Theirs, the smallest that sat no more than ten on one side, was perpendicular to the two larger tables. Lochmores kept to one side, their backs to the wall and they faced the inside, faced the McCrieffs.

She focused her thoughts on that. There might be no battlefield, but the men had sat as if there was. That was the cause of her wariness. Not this man who bore the name of Rory.

‘The Chief is bedridden and has been for months,’ Frederick replied.

‘And you didn’t think to notify us, though we sent letters regarding the King’s demand?’ Rory said.

‘His illness has nothing to do with our lack of reply, Lochmore.’

‘Then you are the one who ignored them so we could dine here. A letter to that effect would have been more agreeable. Or at least more comfortable for me, since I would have worn different clothing.’

‘Your being comfortable doesn’t concern me.’

‘Nor my safety.’

‘You’re alive.’

‘Without a weapon, so I wonder for how long.’

‘Isn’t it enough that you eat at our table?’ Ailsa knew it was rude to talk around her father, but would not hold her tongue when it seemed the King made demands she knew nothing of. A serving tray laid out with vegetables and covered in a rosemary sauce was presented, giving her an opportunity to break the argument between the two men. ‘Are these leeks not fine enough for you?’

Rory’s gaze fell to her and she refused to look away. A full dining hall and her father between them and yet no one else existed. The tray lowered and broke their line of sight, but only for a moment. A moment more while his eyes remained on the tray and the leeks were laid upon his trencher.

Those few brief breaths allowed her to reflect on the curl of his brown hair, the squareness of his jaw, the strong brow with eyebrows that slashed as if they had a purpose. He looked as if he had a purpose.

Then his gaze was on her again. ‘The leeks look delicious,’ he said, stabbing one with his knife, ‘but are insufficient if I wanted to defend myself.’

What was happening here? ‘Why do you need to defend yourself?’

His mouth quirked as if she told something amusing. ‘We are enemies, are we not?’

Frustrated at her useless question and his fruitless answer, Ailsa searched the Hall for the truth.

She sat where she always sat with her father since Hamish no longer could sit at the same table, yet she didn’t feel as if she was in the same chair, the same Hall or in the same place she’d always been.

This wasn’t a battle and yet it felt as though it was. Deadly silence and watchful stares. Food was served, but no trenchers were shared. Every man had his own goblet. Where the extra spoons, food or goblets came from she didn’t know. She also didn’t know how her father arranged such elaborate plans without her knowing.

On a typical day, by now there would be banter, and arrangements made for tomorrow. Instead, a few of the McCrieffs farthest away from the Lochmores murmured heatedly, and one Lochmore closest to their table kept up a conversation no one engaged in.

This wasn’t a typical meal and, no matter how much she observed everyone here, she knew there was more division in the room than that between Lochmore and McCrieff. Only she couldn’t identify the ‘others’ her father had spoken of.

Only Rory and her father exchanged words and she’d never heard her father be so diplomatic or evasive before. They were enemies, but something else was amiss. She needed him to convey to her why.

‘Is Hamish here?’ Rory addressed her father.

‘Upstairs,’ Frederick said. ‘It will be necessary for you to see him after we break the fast.’

‘Necessary for what?’ Ailsa demanded.

Frederick was turned away from her and Ailsa couldn’t see her father’s face, but she saw Rory’s. Keen intelligence burned in his eyes and he must have seen her father’s hesitation. She saw it in the slight tenseness of Frederick’s shoulders before Rory answered.

‘Necessary to discuss the King’s granting McCrieff land to Lochmores.’

‘Land!’ Ailsa cried.

Rory glanced to Frederick before he pinned her with a dark gaze. ‘Why else did you think I was invited to eat leeks with you?’

Ailsa pushed away from the table. The sharp scrape echoed in the Hall and earned her glances.

‘Ailsa, please.’ Her father turned to her, his eyes darting to others in case their conversation was overheard.

This. This was what had been plaguing the clan. Not her father’s position or Hamish’s illness. An English King decreed McCrieff land to Lochmores and they were here to collect.

Aware of Rory’s eyes on her, she laid her hand on her father’s arm. ‘All of it?’

‘Some,’ her father whispered low. ‘Along the water.’

Reeling, Ailsa gripped her father’s arm. Her father had been acting strange for weeks. Nothing untoward for everything was kept to a routine that was sustained by the Chief before him. Hamish was still too cognisant to do otherwise. Months of her father attending council meetings, inspecting land, conversing with tenants. So much to do and more so since John Balliol was crowned King of Scots last November.

Many Highlanders believed he was nothing more than a vassal of the English King Edward. But some supported him more openly than others. The Lochmore clan was one of those...

It became clear to her. The Lochmore clan supported the English King and in doing so had been granted part of their lands.

Land that McCrieffs firmly maintained was theirs and which had been fought over time and time again. It was politically crucial land since it contained water and naturally separated the clans. For her, it was important because it fed McCrieffs and provided foliage she needed for remedies. She wanted to stand and wave her arms. To shout for them all to leave the land alone. To lose such an advantage was detrimental to her and the clan. Hamish, in his day, would never have agreed to such a granting.

Hamish would have called men to arms, he would have called for battle. He would never have let Lochmores on his land, let alone in the courtyard. But her father, whose loyalty she had never questioned before, practically invited them here and prepared a feast for them.

She couldn’t cause a scene, but she would say what she needed to. ‘You can’t.’

‘Ailsa,’ Frederick said.

‘Why can’t he?’ Rory said. ‘If he is Tanist, with the agreement he has authority to do so. Even if he didn’t, it is already done by King’s decree and by mine.’

‘That land is not yours,’ Ailsa said.

Rory’s eyes went to Fredericks. ‘She didn’t know. What is happening here, Tanist?’

She’d like to know as well. Since Balliol’s claim, many secrets were being kept. Her father held private meetings, but so did Hamish. Her father acted as though he didn’t notice these meetings and, though she asked, she wasn’t privy to her father’s secrets. But everything about their behaviours filled her with unease. She couldn’t be the only one who observed their leaders’ movements. The ‘others’ would have seen as well.

‘You have to have some ideas,’ Frederick said. At Rory’s shrug, he added, ‘You can’t be a Lochmore and not want more,’ Frederick continued, his voice low so that if people tried to listen, they would not hear. ‘Especially, since it’s about to be handed to you.’

The King hadn’t decreed that all McCrieff land should be handed to the Lochmores, just the land against the border, so that couldn’t be what his father was hinting at. Even confused, Ailsa felt relief. Until...

Until Rory’s eyes locked with hers and she knew he understood a fraction of a moment before she did how Lochmores could gain more without a fight.