Page 1 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)

Pr ologue

Penrith Castle

Royal Forest of Inglewood

Midsummer, 1403 AD

Twelve-year-old Branan held his mother’s hand tightly. “You cannot die,” he said, his voice choked with tears.

“Listen to me,” his mother, Raina Strickland, whispered. Her green eyes blazed with anger and sorrow. Her grip on Branan’s hand felt weak and the bruise on her right temple appeared dark and angry. “I have little time left and you must know the truth.”

“The truth?” Branan asked in confusion. He knew the truth. His father, William Strickland, had beaten his mother so badly, all knew she would never rise from this bed.

“Strickland is not your father,” his mother said through clenched teeth.

Branan gaped at her. He wondered if the injury to her head, which the healer insisted would end her life, had addled her thoughts.

“Your father,” she continued, her face a pallid gray, “was the Scottish-born knight, Raulf MacTavish.”

“Nay,” Branan blurted.

“Hush, dear boy,” Raina said gently. “I was married to Raulf MacTavish. I had just discovered I was breeding when Strickland murdered your father. Strickland hated Raulf.”

“A Scotsman?”

“Please, Branan, listen well. After Strickland murdered your father, he forced me to marry him in order to gain the wardenship. I had no choice. If I had not carried you in my womb, I would have willingly died. Instead, I convinced Strickland you were his. I told no one of my breeding until a few weeks after he took me to his bed. If Strickland had known your true sire, he would have killed you the moment you were born.”

Branan’s eyes burned, but he refused to shed his tears. “Why? Why did you not tell me? Why did you let me believe that bastard was my true father?” Ever since he’d been little, Branan had wondered how he could be born of such foul stock.

“I feared for your safety, Branan. I did not tell you because you were not old enough to understand the danger of your heritage. Every day you look more like your father. Soon you will reach the age where Strickland will see his old enemy staring back at him. Forgive me, my son. I never wanted to mislead you, but only now are you old enough to understand the truth.”

Branan’s mind scrambled to keep up with it all. “Who was my father? Who was Raulf MacTavish?”

“Remember the stories of the great knight I used to tell at your bedside?”

Despite his confusion, a tiny smile tugged at Branan’s lips. As long as he could remember, his mother had told him wonderful stories of a gallant knight afore bed. Those stories had taught him chivalry, courage, and honor, for he certainly had not learned them from Strickland.

“Those tales were not fanciful legends, but the truth about your real father.”

“You…you mean…my real father was that knight?”

“Aye, my son. There is a family near, a family your father and I once called friends. Seek out John de Reigny at the manor house of Newton. Strickland knows them not, but Reigny can teach you more of your father and your family in Scotland. Lord Reigny was Raulf’s best friend and brother in arms. He also knows your Uncle Duguald.”

“Uncle Duguald?”

“Your father’s younger brother in Scotland.”

Slowly, his mother relaxed and closed her eyes. “Forgive me, Branan. I do not wish to leave you, but the choice is not mine to make.”

“Mother,” he whispered, a tear sliding down his cheek.

“Know this well, my sweet Branan. I told your father, only hours before his murder, of your impending birth. He was overjoyed, Branan. He wanted nothing more than to hold you in his arms. But Strickland robbed him of that joy and then stole our lives. When I buried your father…I vowed you would one day make Strickland answer for what he had done. Be cautious. Revenge will burn deep within you, but you must learn before you fight. Learn, or you will lie in a grave next to us.”

Branan’s tears broke free. “Mother, don’t leave me.”

“Forgive me, Branan. I love you, my son, but…I am so tired…I must rest for a moment.”

He waited, praying she would open her eyes. Her hand relaxed on his as she slipped into unconsciousness .

“Momma, nay,” he gasped, resting his head on her shoulder.

But she never moved again.

Three hours later, under the cover of the moonless night, the healer, a priest, and a few servants who had been in the house before the time of Strickland, draped Raina in a burial shroud and carried her secretly out of the castle.

They led Branan to a small grave site about three miles away from Penrith.

Branan stared in disbelief at the weathered gray headstone. A terrible chill crawled down his spine and pricked his skin.

Sir Raulf MacTavish, died 1391.

His real father.

Branan watched mutely as the servants dug a fresh grave for his mother. He should have helped, he should have done something, but all he could do was stare at the granite stone and try to comprehend all his mother had told him.

Strickland is not your father.

The servants lowered his mother’s body into the grave and Branan felt sobs wrench through him. The hard, cold ache of loss wrapped around his heart. The priest spoke soft words, committing his mother’s soul to the Almighty. Surely this was all some strange dream and he would awaken to find his mother alive.

He understood only one thing. The man he had been raised to know as his father had beaten his mother again. This time, he had killed her.

Strickland murdered your father.

The servants started to fill the grave. The priest placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know this is difficult, my son,” the old man said. “I know the truth of your heritage.” He paused and gestured to those around him. “We are the only ones who do.”

“Why…?” Branan choked. “Why didn’t she tell me afore?”

“She had no choice. When you are older, you will understand.”

“What am I to do now?” Suddenly Branan felt very lost and alone—and very much a child.

“Where is she?” a voice roared.

Branan spun around. William Strickland, mounted atop his huge destrier, galloped toward him, along with three knights and a handful of serjants .

The priest crossed himself and muttered a prayer in Latin.

Before Branan could summon his wits, Strickland pulled to a stop before him. His eyes were dark, the planes of his face made even more cruel by a neatly trimmed beard, spattered with gray. Strickland’s gaze locked on the headstone for a long moment…then he stared at Branan.

“Now I finally understand,” he growled. “You are that bastard’s whelp, not mine.” Instantly, he drew his sword, a large Scottish claymore.

Branan caught a glimpse of a brass-plate hilt. He knew that sword well after gazing upon it almost every day of his life. A few times he had wondered why his father chose to carry a weapon used primarily in Scotland. It had a thistle engraved on the hilt and a deep green emerald set in the pommel.

Reclaim your father’s sword.

Suddenly, Branan understood. Raulf MacTavish, a Scotsman, once bore a claymore. He gazed upon the weapon of his true sire.

Black rage possessed him. Branan screamed in fury.

The priest grabbed him and shoved him backward. Strickland cut downward, decapitating the priest. Blood splashed across Branan’s face and soaked his tunic. One of Strickland’s men lifted a crossbow. It thunked , and fire burned through Branan’s left shoulder.

“Run, Lord Branan!” someone screamed.

Branan hauled himself up, hatred sending fire through his veins. The black rage pounded deep within him. He would kill Strickland for this…for murdering his mother…for the beatings…for his true sire….

A servant tackled Branan just as another knight shot a crossbow bolt at him. “Run,” the man growled. “Remember your mother’s words.”

Learn before you fight.

A foul taste coated his mouth, but Branan, his thoughts fogged in blackness, picked himself up and ran.

“Get the bastard!” Strickland screamed.

Branan focused on the dense trees a short distance away. Ignoring the agony in his shoulder, he sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him. Crossbow bolts landed near his feet but still he ran, his long legs pumping rhythmically. He threw himself into the forest where the trees and undergrowth grew thick. The dense brush would slow him down, but the knights on their horses would be at a severe disadvantage.

He seemed to alternate between running and hiding for hours, but the knights were not as crippled as Branan had hoped. Just when he prayed it was safe to catch a breath, a bolt sent him diving for cover. Now that Strickland had determined the truth, he would never let Branan live.

Branan had broken the shaft to the bolt in his shoulder, but the barb remained embedded. He bled terribly and he knew his strength would not last much longer. He plunged under a thicket as a knight galloped past him.

“There you are,” a soft feminine voice whispered.

Branan almost yelped as a hand closed on his.

“Be silent,” the girl snapped. “I’m trying to help you, fool.”

Branan blinked in surprise. The girl appeared to be close to his age, with light-colored hair and eyes, but he could see little in the darkness. “Who are you? ”

“I’m Catriona de Reigny,” she whispered. “I pray your mother told you about our family.”

“You know John de Reigny?”

“He is my father.”

“Aye,” Branan said, snarling against the pain radiating from his shoulder and into his chest. “But why are you here?”

“My home is not far. We saw your mother’s burial and feared there might be trouble. My family and I are keeping an eye on you.” She paused and sucked in a breath. “’Tis my father’s promise to your dead sire.”

A shudder passed through Branan’s body.

“I will take you to safety, Branan MacTavish.”

He blinked at her, stunned.

“’Tis your true Scottish name.”

“Why…why should I trust you?”

She gestured to his shoulder, still bleeding badly. “You don’t have a choice. That wound may kill you yet. Now come on.”

“Aye,” he whispered and crawled after her. “It seems I must put my life in your hands.”

She flashed him a smile that made him feel strange. “No one knows this forest as well as I, not even my brother.”

Branan followed her, crawling on his belly through the thicket. A terrible chill possessed the core of his being. Too much blood loss. She’s right, this wound may kill me yet. But I cannot die. Not now. Not until I know the truth of my father. Who was he?

Another thought chilled him even more.

Who am I?