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Lions of the Highlands

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October

T hey had been waiting for him.

George Munro the Younger, having studied Religion and Latin and Literature in France at Notre Dame and Sainte-Chapelle, among others, made a weekly pilgrimage to Fortrose Cathedral, one of the oldest churches in all of Scotland.

Even though George was slated to be the next chief of Clan Munro, he very much wanted to be a priest, much to his father’s displeasure.

But the truth was that he was very pious and wished to serve God.

George had tried to learn the ways of the clans, of battles and politics and fighting, but he simply wasn’t very good at it.

He didn’t even say anything when his father betrothed him to a local heiress, the daughter of an ally.

But the truth was that he didn’t much care about any of it.

He didn’t want to marry and he didn’t want to assume the mantle of his clan.

His younger brother, Jamison, would make the perfect clan chief, although Jamison had never expressed any interest in such a thing.

George was to be the next chief and Jamison had been very supportive and respectful of that role in life.

George missed Jamison a great deal these days but knew why he’d been forced to go south.

With Robert also gone, it was just George and Hector at home dealing with the fallout of Connell’s death at the hands of Jamison.

George the Elder had tried to placate the MacKenzie, even apologizing for the “mishap” and offering one hundred of his prized cattle to compensate the man.

But that wasn’t enough for the MacKenzie.

They were out for blood.

George the Elder knew this. So did young Hector, who was much as Jamison had been at that age– cocky, brash, arrogant, and brilliant.

Even Ainsley Munro knew it wasn’t safe outside of the walls of Foulis Castle these days but the only person who ignored that danger was George the Younger.

He knew that the MacKenzie was a threat, in theory, but it wasn’t going to stand in the way of him making his weekly pilgrimage to Fortrose.

Surely, they wouldn’t target a man with no weapons and no interest in war.

Therefore, before dawn on a cold, foggy Friday morning nearly three months after Jamison and Robert had fled Munro lands, George slipped from Foulis Castle on his own and without an escort, and began his twenty-mile trek to Fortrose.

And that’s when the MacKenzies had been waiting.

They knew of the heir’s weekly pilgrimage; he never varied.

On that icy morning, George the Younger never even made it out of his family’s territory.

The MacKenzies ambushed him when he was just out of sight of the castle, knocking him from his horse and then proceeding to run their horses all over him, killing the man by crushing him.

It had been a terrible and painful way to die.

When they were sure George was dead, they tied a rope around his feet and dragged him all the way back to Foulis, dumping his battered body within sight of the gate.

Because of the fog, the Munro sentries never even saw the body until well into morning when the fog lifted.

Hector was the first one to see his brother’s battered corpse.

Sickened, he had vomited several times before going to summon his father, who gazed down at his heir without much surprise in his expression.

Somehow, he knew it would come to this. He knew the MacKenzies would seek an eye for an eye in the death of Connell but he was still devastated to realize that fear had come to fruition.

Shrugging off all offers of help, George the Elder had picked up the crushed, bloodied body of his son and carried the man, all by himself, back into the fold of Foulis Castle.

He wept the entire way.

The days after that were filled with sorrow.

George Munro the Younger, also known as Lord Bayne because it was the title held by all firstborn males of the clan chief, was laid to rest in his beloved Fortrose Cathedral in the churchyard where generations of his ancestors were also buried.

It was a small mass given the circumstances of George’s death, so only the family and close allies were in attendance along with about two hundred armed Munro men in case the MacKenzies tried to attack a gathering of Munros.

George the Elder and his wife were well protected by Hector and a huge armed contingent, but they weren’t the only men who were armed. The allies had come armed as well.

In this case, there were three particular young men George the Elder had summoned the night of his son’s murder. They had brought men and weapons of their own. These three were close friends of Jamison’s. They had all fostered together at Lioncross Abbey Castle at the request of Henry III.

These three young men were all soon to be the chief of their own clans upon the death of their fathers but, for now, they were heavily involved in Scotland’s politics and in the welfare of their people.

When George had sent them all individual missives, informing them of what had happened and asking for them to attend the burial, they had come without question.

Even though the burial of George the Younger had been attended by just a few at the graveside, the clans spread out for mass outside of the churchyard.

They gathered in groups under gray skies and cold sea winds as the Munro heir was laid to rest. When the mass was finally over and Ainsley was left weeping over the death of her eldest child, George the Elder approached the three wool-clad young warriors standing off together inside the wall of the churchyard, respectfully observing the burial from a distance.

As George approached, he drank in the sight of Jamison’s friends, perhaps the most powerful young men in the north of Scotland and certainly some of the most noble and trusted.

They were men determined to make Scotland a better place because in this goal, they understood what some Scots didn’t– that if one wanted to live in peace, then one had to learn to work with the English.

They weren’t going to go away and so long as the Scots continued to resist, there would be continued heartbreak and death.

But that thought had very much to do with English conditioning.

That very factor had been the brilliance of King Henry in brokering the transfer of the Highlander sons far to the south so they would learn from the English– and what the lads were taught was a broader view of the world.

It taught them that to live in peace, one must understand one’s enemy and understand when compromise was called for as opposed to drawing a sword.

Those young men, Jamison included, understood that message better than most and petty fights like the one between the MacKenzies and the Munros were foolish and a waste of time in their view.

Instead of the clans squabbling, they needed to unite.

George the Younger’s death had been an utter waste of a life and quite unnecessary in their view.

That was why the sons of the chiefs, known as the Lions of the Highlands, had come to the Fortrose churchyard at George’s summoning– to help make tomorrow better for all of them.

George needed their help.

Beaux MacKay was the first man George made eye contact with as he approached the group.

A big, burly young man with crown of curly blonde hair, Beaux was a handsome man with a gentle manner about him that belied the deadliness of his sword.

He had a dirk he always wore, given to him by his grandfather, and the hilt of it was carved into the head of a dragon.

The White Dragon was the moniker Beaux had earned because of it.

Fair-skinned, gentle-mannered but deadly, the name suited him.

Standing next to Beaux was a tall, sinewy young man with a crown of graying dark hair and a silver beard.

His hair had turned color early in his life and the young man was often referred to as The Gray Fox, not simply for his hair color, but also because he was cunning, silent, and swift in battle.

Kendrick Sutherland was the only son of his father, chief of Clan Sutherland, and a great ally of the Munros.

Rounding out the three proud warriors was the heir to Clan Ross, Caspian Ross.

A fearsome warrior who traveled with a nasty collection of dirks strapped to his body, Caspian was a man to be both feared and respected.

He was bulky and muscular, and as strong as an ox.

He tended to use his dirks with little provocation.

Talons, men called them, and coupled with his black hair and dark eyes, Caspian was known to friend and foe alike as The Black Falcon.

And this falcon’s talons were quite deadly.

Three powerful young warriors soon to head three of the largest clans in the Highlands.

Jamison was part of this group even though he hadn’t been heir to the Munro until a few days ago.

Still, Jamison transcended that position in life; he was The Red Lion, the man they considered their leader.

He was a great warrior without the trappings of titles because something in Jamison went beyond titles and lands and birthrights.

Something in his soul made him a natural leader and men naturally flocked to him.

George knew all this, which is why he had summoned them. They loved Jamison and Jamison would need their help, now more than ever. He was now the Munro heir and with the MacKenzie still out to make trouble for him, George didn’t want to take any chances.

“Beaux,” George said, relief in his voice as he greeted the young man. Reaching out a hand, he grasped Beaux’s hand tightly. “Praise God ye have come. Praise God ye have all come.”