Page 4 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)

Ch apter Three

Brackenburgh

As they rode, Branan wrapped his plaid around them both and held Catriona close. His excuse was to keep her warm, but a part of him savored the wonderful feel of her body against his. In the ten years Branan had been gone, Catriona had blossomed into a beautiful young woman. She only reached the middle of his chest, and when Branan had embraced her, he’d felt as if he could have wrapped himself around her twice.

Although petite, Catriona was strong and lithe. As a child she had mastered the bow and constantly hunted in the forest. Her father had ignored her unladylike behavior, secretly pleased with her skill. Now she was strong, yet the feel of her feminine curves ignited Branan’s blood. Her face was no longer childlike in shape, but her angelic blue eyes were just as beautiful as he remembered. Her smile still dazzled him and her skin remained unblemished.

Errant locks of red-gold hair brushed his cheek as she rested her head against his shoulder. He fought to keep from inhaling her sweet scent—a subtle hint of jasmine that enchanted him. He sighed softly, his arms tightening around her.

“I missed you, Branan,” she whispered, burrowing closer.

He glanced down at her, startled, then smiled. “I missed ye too, lassie.” He released his breath. “Gavin told me about your betrothal.”

“Papa refused to listen to me. I thought I could talk him out of it. I detest Richard.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he’s handsome enough. Many a girl would kill to marry him. But he’s an absolute beast. He’s rude, arrogant, and thinks I’m something to be coddled. If he had his way, I’d be locked in a tower for the rest of my days.”

Branan felt his lips twitch. Confining Catriona would drive her insane. “I had hoped to talk to your father about this.”

Her shoulders bowed. “He’s gone now.”

“I am sorry, Catriona.”

She rubbed her eyes and he knew she fought back tears.

“Still,” he said, trying to distract her from her grief. “Gavin is heir. He now has a say in who you marry.”

She shook her head. “Right after Gavin left, my father signed the betrothal contract.”

His heart crashed to his boots. She shivered and Branan’s arms tightened around her. Betrothal contracts were difficult enough to break, but since her father had placed his mark and then died, dissolving the contract would be well-nigh impossible.

Branan’s anger levered up a few notches and he silently cursed John de Reigny. He loved his foster-father, but how could John do this to Catriona? Why force her into the marriage if she could not abide the man? He never thought John would do anything like this.

Jamie, one of Branan’s men scouting the road ahead, galloped back to the group. “Riders!” he called, drawing his sword and hefting his targe. “About fifteen, heavily armed, ridin’ hard.”

Branan cursed under his breath. With Catriona in his arms, he could not fight. His men immediately moved into positions around him. Their first duty was to protect their laird, and ultimately, the lady in his arms.

Gavin and his serjants formed a line in front of their group. “Wait for my order,” he snapped to his men.

The group galloped into view. Branan swallowed hard. Many of them appeared to be stipendiary knights: hired swords.

A young knight, his armor finely made, led them on a black destrier. He held up his hand, signaling a stop and glared at them. Then he saw Gavin and blinked. “De Reigny?”

Gavin put away his sword. “Aye, de Courcy, we were just coming to see you.”

Branan breathed a small sigh of relief; at least these were not Strickland’s men.

“I just received word that the manor house was under attack,” de Courcy said urgently. “I was coming to help your father.” He pulled off his helm.

Branan examined de Courcy critically. Catriona had spoken truly; he was handsome. His mahogany hair was pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence and his body appeared lean and strong.

Gavin nodded, his back stiff. “I just returned to discover Strickland murdered my parents. Burned the entire household and village.”

De Courcy’s face paled. “Sweet Jesu. And Catriona...?” His gaze scanned their group, locking onto Catriona as she peeked at him from under Branan’s plaid.

Relief flooded de Courcy’s expression and he vaulted off his horse. “Praise the saints,” he said and quickly approached.

One of Branan’s men looked to him. Branan gave him a brief nod and the man allowed de Courcy to pass. De Courcy hurried to Branan’s mount and took Catriona’s hand in his, pressing a kiss against her fingers. “I was so worried about you.”

Catriona’s expression eased. “I am fine thanks to Branan and Gavin.”

De Courcy looked up at him.

“I am the MacTavish,” Branan said.

De Courcy scowled in confusion, but Catriona stared up at him in surprise. “A laird?”

He nodded.

“MacTavish,” de Courcy muttered, as if trying the name and not liking the way it tasted.

“Branan killed three of the men trying to capture me,” Catriona said. “Gavin slew the other two.”

De Courcy’s brows rose on his forehead. “Then I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my betrothed, MacTavish.”

Branan’s anger at his possessiveness grew.

He reached for Catriona. “Ride with me, my sweet. You will be safe at Brackenburgh now that your home is gone.”

Catriona shrank deeper into Branan’s plaid. “I am fine, Richard. Finally I am warm.”

“Nay, lady, you will ride with me.”

Catriona sighed and moved to untangle herself from his embrace. Branan helped her dismount, surprised she had given in so easily. De Courcy wrapped his cloak around her.

“MacTavish,” de Courcy said, his tone light, “as a reward for helping my betrothed, I’d like to invite you and your men to Brackenburgh.” He paused and leaned closer. “I believe we have a few things to discuss.”

Branan nodded, although his gaze never left de Courcy’s hand as he wrapped his arm around Catriona’s shoulders. “Aye, de Courcy.”

De Courcy nodded and lifted Catriona into his arms. Branan’s throat tightened.

“Honestly, Richard,” she said her voice harsh but weary. “I’ll be just fine.”

“Nonsense,” de Courcy replied. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal and it has given you a fright. I do not wish you to swoon.”

Catriona shot a glance at Branan, over de Courcy’s shoulder, and rolled her eyes in the most meaningful fashion. Branan had to fight back an unexpected grin. De Courcy, ye dinna ken of the fyrdraca ye have drawn to yer breast.

****

The large group arrived at Brackenburgh as the faint echo of distant church bells rang for Compline. Branan sighed and his belly gnawed at him, wanting supper.

De Courcy led them through the gates of a large keep built on a grand scale. Branan cringed, thinking of his home in Scotland. This keep made his look like a peasant’s hovel. His gaze automatically found Catriona as de Courcy dismounted with her in his arms. No wonder John had chosen this man to marry her. With his wealth, her future would be secure.

De Courcy instructed one of his men to escort his guests inside while he saw to his betrothed. Branan heard Catriona protest again as he carried her to the stairs, but couldn’t hear her words. He scowled. Her future would be secure, but what of her heart? Catriona’s free spirit would find little comfort in de Courcy’s overbearing nature. Many men did not approve of a woman having a spark of independence, but in the short time Branan stayed with the de Reignys, Catriona’s fire had entranced him.

Branan joined Duguald and Gavin. The rest of the men walked to the barracks and servants took their horses. De Courcy’s steward escorted Branan, Gavin, and Duguald into the great hall.

Further evidence of de Courcy’s wealth assailed Branan inside. A massive fire roared in a huge hearth in the cavernous hall. Expensive tapestries adorned the walls and a giant oak table filled the center of the room. Branan paused simply to appreciate the craftsmanship of the wood. The chairs were equally as fine.

Duguald noted his gaze and chuckled. “’Tis a goodly piece of work.”

“Aye,” Branan replied. “It would take us years to complete one like this.” He ran his fingers lightly along the grain.

The steward escorted them to a small room where they could refresh themselves. Branan removed his armor and donned a clean inar and trews, and wrapped his plaid over his shoulder, tucking it into his belt. Soon, the small group had rid themselves of dirt and returned to the hall.

“Thank you for your patience,” de Courcy said as he descended the stairs. “I have granted my betrothed use of my mother’s former solar. The maids will tend to her and see that she eats.” He paused at the table as a servant handed him a cup of wine. “Although she will never admit it, I know she is exhausted.”

Branan could only agree with de Courcy’s observation.

“Come; sit and refresh yourselves. Our meal will be served soon.”

Branan sat at the table. The servants brought them bread and cheese. He found the wine a bit too strong for his pallet, instead enjoying the finely made ale.

They spoke little except of trivial things during their meal. Gavin carried the conversation, asking about de Courcy’s money-making ventures. Over the course of the evening, Branan discovered de Courcy a shrewd man when it came to profits, and definitely not a slouch when it came to tactics.

Brackenburgh, although a defensive castle, existed primarily for trade. Its locale near the River Petteril, close to the fork of the king’s roads, one of which lead north to the Barony of Carlisle and the other northwest leading to the Barony of Allerdale, gave it a perfect position to serve both goals.

The meal finished and the table cleared, most of the servants departed except for a few who would tend to their cups. De Courcy sat back, his dark eyes glittering as he looked at Branan.

“John told me much about you, but I fear he never told me you were a laird.”

“He didna ken of it,” Branan said softly. “I didna either until Uncle Duguald brought me to Dun-ArdRigh.”

De Courcy arched an eyebrow then nodded. “So your lands have been keeping you busy.”

Branan nodded. “Our primary income is in wool production.” He fingered the plaid he wore. “Our women are fine weavers and their work is prized. The wool that my men and I wear is the pride of our clan.”

“This pattern you wear is one of the finest, MacTavish. I hope to pursue purchasing your clan’s weaving for resale. We shall both make tidy profits.”

Branan couldn’t resist the smile he shot at de Courcy, yet he made a mental note to request that the women change the thread count. When they sold to other clans, the weave changed subtly. It should be more apparent when sold to the English or even abroad.

“We are also woodworkers. When I am not at the lathe, I am training horses.”

De Courcy arched an eyebrow. “You sound like a very busy man.”

“Aye, but I enjoy the work.” And my sanity, he thought.

De Courcy sighed, his expression turning wistful. “I can hardly remember the days when I performed various labors. Now these trade endeavors are so extensive, I barely have time to manage them.”

Branan’s brow furrowed. Were de Courcy’s words an affront or a compliment to the fact that Branan still performed physical labor?

Gavin cleared his throat. “Yet, de Courcy, I hear you have time to take on a relatively new matter, one that requires strategy and the use of weapons rather than just profits.”

De Courcy chuckled, his eyes glittering. “Aye, de Reigny. I like making money, that is no secret, but when something...or someone...threatens my ventures, I find it prudent to seek other means of recourse.” He paused, studying the others for a long moment before his gaze locked on Branan. “I understand, MacTavish, that there is no love lost betwixt you and Warden Strickland. ”

Branan’s jaw tightened. “Aye.”

“John told me that by all rights you should be the heir to the Wardenship.” He paused and scowled. “I am not sure if I am clear on this, but John explained you are not Strickland’s son, that you were begotten of Lady Raina’s first husband—the Scotsman, Raulf MacTavish, whom Strickland murdered. In truth, you are of Scottish blood.; what I’ve seen thus far has proven it.”

“’Tis sooth. My mother only claimed me as Strickland’s son because she feared he would kill me the moment I uttered my first squall.”

De Courcy nodded, surprising Branan with an expression of approval. He motioned the servants to quickly refill their cups then lifted his as if in a toast. “To the wisdom of your mother, Branan MacTavish, for protecting what she held most dear.”

“Well said,” Gavin replied, lifting his cup.

“Aye,” Branan said and acknowledged the toast. But my mother paid such a terrible price because of her love for me.

“Strickland,” de Courcy continued, “and I had a...disagreement. It seems the expense of maintaining the Royal Forest of Inglewood is increasing.”

“Increasing to line his pockets, you mean,” Gavin muttered.

“Brackenburgh answered the challenge in stride and we paid our due. Remember making money is my talent, so I was still able to show a profit even after the hefty increases.” De Courcy paused and sighed. “Unfortunately, many townships were not able to do that. Strickland punished them by burning their stores and their homes. I tried to help those Strickland persecuted, but he grew suspicious of me, thinking I was holding back.”

“He not only bites the hand that feeds him, but he lops it off,” Branan muttered.

“Strickland’s bastard delivered a message from his father. He threatened my standing and my profits if I did not give them more.” De Courcy’s lip curled. “When I asked why Strickland did not come himself, the whelp replied that he was collecting his due from another village. The idiot was too busy pillaging to come threaten me. He had to send his by-blow to do it.”

Gavin shook his head. “One would think if a man has the bollocks to threaten one with financial backing such as yours, he’d leastways do it in person.”

“Aye,” de Courcy replied, his disgust poorly veiled. “There is a point where a man must take a stand, otherwise Strickland would have bled me dry. I flatly refused the cur and told him he could get only what we had been giving, not a farthing more.”

“So that’s when Strickland burned some of your holdings?” Gavin asked.

“Aye. But he did not realize what he was jumping into. I have the finances to easily hire some of the best mercenaries available—and I have the finances to keep them most loyal.”

Branan nodded in appreciation.

“For every village and storehouse Strickland destroys, I destroy two of his. He suspects I am behind this, but he has no proof. Tension builds and instead of Strickland paying his taxes to the king out of his own coffers, like normal, he raises the rents and fees against the poor. If they do not have the money, he takes it in food or livestock. I’ve seen the whoreson throw out a family because they had nothing. Right now, the villagers and freemen are bearing the brunt of Strickland’s frustration and greed. I may like making money, but I do not believe in destroying those lower in station to get it. I mean to stop Strickland and bring him down. It is no longer solely a matter of money, but the survival of those who call Inglewood home.”

“How do ye plan to do that?” Branan asked.

“It was not long after this started that I spoke to John and he told me about your heritage. He thought we could work together. If I am to stop Strickland, the best way is to restore the true heir to the Wardenship. Strickland would be defeated, the persecution would stop, and there would be an honorable man managing the lands for the king. I would be able to return to my ventures without worry. Yet while I liked the idea, I was not without concern. I mean no offense when I say I was uncertain about putting a man with such strong Scottish blood into such a powerful position. John told me much about your honor and the strength of your character. But when I voiced my doubt, he sweetened the deal by offering his daughter and her dowry in marriage.”

The blood drained from Branan’s face and even Gavin’s jaw went slack.

“He did what?” Branan asked.

“’Tis in the betrothal contract,” de Courcy said. “By supporting you and your cause against Strickland, I get to take Catriona to wife.”

Horror coiled through Branan and he clenched his fists. What had his foster-father done? John offered his beloved daughter to ensure Branan would have an alliance to defeat Strickland? Anger surged through him. That John would use Catriona like a pawn to guarantee Branan’s future—she should not have to pay so high a price.

“I see,” he said softly, fighting to get his emotions under control.

“But it grows late,” de Courcy said, watching him closely. “We should all get some rest and tomorrow I will show you some of my undertakings. I think you will be impressed.”

Branan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“De Reigny,” de Courcy said, “in light of your recent loss and the fact you will soon be my brother by law, I hope you know you may stay here as long as you need. I will do everything in my power to help you rebuild Newton Reigny.”

Gavin stared at the signet ring he now wore and Branan clearly saw the grief in his eyes. “Thank you, de Courcy.”

They stood and de Courcy summoned a servant. “Take our guests to their quarters and see that they have everything they need.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Branan followed the servant, still reeling with the shocking insights the past few days had wrought. He could scarcely comprehend it. Catriona’s future had been bartered because his foster-father wanted to guarantee Branan’s victory. Suddenly, he despised the man who had been well-meaning, but absolutely foolish.

The servant escorted them to a large, pleasantly furnished room with four simply made beds. Their bags had been brought in and the three men bedded down for the night. But sleep eluded Branan.

He sighed. The notion that he had found a place with the clan to live in peace had been foolishly romantic. At least he still had Catriona and Gavin’s friendship.

John de Reigny had known Branan’s true father well. Lamed in the battle that had claimed his father’s life, John had told Branan of their many escapades together. Although he walked with a limp and needed a cane, John had once been a fine knight. He had instructed Branan on swordplay and battle strategies. Branan had learned well. Then the day came when Uncle Duguald had arrived and taken him to Scotland in the dead of night. Like a thief, he had stolen Branan away with only John knowing the truth. Duguald then saw to Branan’s training.

After that, Branan had learned never to call one place home for long. Hidden among outlying clan families, Branan had been shuffled around like an unwanted orphan—which he had been. Every time Duguald feared Strickland’s spies might learn of his whereabouts, he appeared and took Branan to another home. Although Duguald visited often to train him in swordplay and battle tactics, every time he rode into view, Branan couldn’t help but wonder if this was the time he would be moved again.

When Branan earned his spurs in a tourney at sixteen, Duguald brought him to the clan seat at Dun-ArdRigh as laird. When he entered the courtyard, the clan members had gaped at him…

“...Duguald,” one man said, plucking at his uncle’s sleeve, his eyes wide. “Raulf stands in the flesh.”

“Aye,” Duguald said with a smile. “He be Raulf through and through, appearing more like his father than a son has a right tae.”

“Does my appearance offend ye?” Branan asked Duguald.

“Nay, laddie. It does my heart true tae see so much of yer da in ye. ”

After that, Branan had discovered the keep where his father grew up to be a wonderful home. One he did not wish to leave. That was until Gavin’s arrival once again turned his world upside down...