Page 7 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)

Ch apter Si x

Thistlewood

Days passed and Branan grew to know the people of Thistlewood. Many were refugees from Strickland’s persecution. They had been burned out of their homes, lost loved ones and children to the warden’s heavy hand.

Every evening Branan and his small but growing clan gathered around the large campfire and ate their meals as a group, spinning yarns and telling jests. A few members fancied themselves bards and recited poetry or sang songs. Most of it was terrible, but Jamie, one of Branan’s men, had a fine tenor and enjoyed pleasing the ladies with his Scottish war songs and ballads. A few others showed promise as storytellers.

On this night, Branan sat before the fire with his bowl, Catriona, as was her habit, sitting next to him. Branan smiled, and as he did every evening, he loosened the brooch that held his plaid over his shoulder and uncoiled its length. He wrapped it around Catriona’s shoulders. She leaned against him with a soft, pleasant sigh.

As they ate, many called for a story or song.

“My lord,” a voice said, and it took a moment for Branan to realize it was directed at him. “Pray pardon, but we have not yet to hear tale from ye.”

Branan grinned at the man who appeared as ancient as Methuselah. He had brought his two daughters to help work wool and cook meals, but he was too frail to do much labor. Yet he busied himself, many times managing the children as they picked up debris the workers left behind.

“I fear I canna please ye, Master Gordon,” Branan said. “I havena talent for spinnin’ yarns.”

Gordon sighed softly. “It matters not your ability to speak a story, Laird MacTavish, but we wish to know about ye and yer past.” He paused, fidgeting uncomfortably. “I mean no disrespect, but we know little except for rumors and tales. We’d like to learn what is true from ye.”

Branan nodded, arching an eyebrow in appreciation. If he was to truly lead these people, they should at least know a bit about him. Who knew what sort of rumors abounded about his life?

“Ye speak wisely, Master Gordon. What would ye like to know?”

Several people voiced their desires, creating a small cacophony. Branan laughed and held up his hand for silence. “I canna hear all of ye at once.” His gaze remained locked on Gordon.

“I would fancy learning of yer sire,” Gordon said softly. “Yer true sire.”

A bitter pang swept through him. Branan wanted nothing more than to learn about his sire through the man himself, by real experience, but that had been stolen from him. “Aye,” he said slowly, trying to keep his voice light. “But ye ken I have learned only what was told to me.” He paused and fixed a mischievous gaze on Duguald. “The best person to spin that yarn is the man who first told it to me. Uncle Duguald, I pray tell them of when my da and ye first met my mother.”

Duguald’s green eyes sparked. “Aye, laddie, ’tis a good yarn. Well now,” he said warming to the subject, “Raulf MacTavish was a braw—and ye womenfolk would say—bonny lad. In fact,” he said, gesturing dramatically at Branan, “if ye doubt me words, look upon his son, for ye shall see Raulf gazin’ back at ye.”

A few women giggled and spoke in whispers behind their hands, many directing pointed glances at Branan. He felt his face grow hot.

Catriona also chuckled, but it was a soft sound only he could hear. She looked up at him, her blue eyes shining in the firelight. “Aye,” she whispered, easily mimicking Duguald’s brogue. “Ye are a most bonny and braw lad.”

His embarrassment burned brighter, but he could not help the deep laugh that escaped him.

Duguald continued. “Raulf, God rest his soul, was always an adventurous lad. He constantly explored the land around him. Near drove our da tae distraction. He’d hie himself off explorin’ and they’d search for him for days. Most often he’d come home on his own, blathering about the great discoveries he made, then suffer a good thrashing from our da for makin’ our mother worry so. But as soon as the welts healed, he was off again.” Duguald paused, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Only one person was finally able tae make him cool his heels.”

“Branan’s mother!” a voice cried. Others agreed, their rapt attention focused on Duguald.

“Aye, laddie,” Duguald said, wagging a finger at the young man who had spoken. “When that happened, I knew the lad was smitten tae the core. But as I said, growing up, Raulf had the wanderlust. Our da finally gave up when he realized the thrashings did nary a good, so he asked me tae watch his back. I had a good case of the wanderlust meself, ye ken.” He paused, pulled a small flask from his belt, and took a drink. He handed it to Branan, who also drank.

Catriona looked up at him curiously. “What’s that?” she whispered.

“Scottish whiskey. Ye want to try some?”

She took the flask and sipped cautiously. Abruptly, she screwed up her face and shivered. “That’s awful!”

Branan roared his laughter. He took the flask from her and handed it back to Duguald, who winked at her.

Catriona coughed, but she too laughed.

“Raulf,” Duguald continued, “insisted on seeing England, even though there be no love lost betwixt our blood and the English. Raulf, with his pleasing looks and silver tongue could talk himself out of trouble as fast as he got himself into it most of the time. When his words failed, he was bloody fine with his claymore.”

Branan swallowed hard. Strickland now possessed his father’s claymore.

“We traveled south and finally reached Inglewood. Raulf was enchanted with this place. We stayed for a time in the township near Penrith Castle, and that’s where Raulf met Lady Raina.”

“Was she as pretty as they say?”

“Aye,” Duguald said with a bright smile. “She was a bonny lass. Their’s was a chance, but fated meeting. We explored the small market and behind one of the merchant booths, we heard a woman cursing in a fashion that would curl yer hair.”

Branan’s elbow lightly poked Catriona in the ribs.

“Stop it,” she whispered and laughed, “I want to hear the story.” She moved closer into his embrace.

Branan chuckled and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“Yet the fear we heard in her voice was very real. Then she cried out in pain and fell silent. Afore I could stop Raulf, he drew his claymore and charged behind the booth. We only saw the back of a man's cloak as he disappeared into the trees. The woman lay in an unconscious heap on the ground. I feared her dead and bade Raulf tae get away afore we were blamed for her murder. He, of course, ignored me and gently held the lass in his arms. As I said, she was a bonny creature and I ken Raulf was in trouble the moment he clapped eyes on her. But her lip was bloody and she had a red mark on her face the size of a man’s fist.”

Branan stared at the ground. He could picture it exactly, having seen similar marks on his mother’s face too often.

“She opened her eyes only for a moment and said something tae Raulf I couldna hear. But what she spoke captured him completely and took his heart for ransom. Only much later, did he tell me her words.”

“What did she say?” another person asked .

“Help me.”

Branan squeezed his eyes closed. Murmurs rippled through the group.

“Aye,” Duguald said, nodding. “Ye no doubt guessed the man who struck her was Strickland. Those in the marketplace gathered around us. When Raulf told them what happened, they didna accuse us as I had feared. All knew Strickland and his rages. They told us who the lass was and how tae find her home. Imagine our surprise when we discovered she was Raina Neville, the warden’s daughter.”

Another man chuckled. “Methinks you did not agree with Raulf tae take her home, but give her forthwith tae one of the merchants tae do it.”

Duguald laughed. “Aye, laddie, ye have it aright. But Raulf wouldna hear of it. Now that I ken what she said tae him, I can understand his resolve. Chivalry ran deep in his veins. We took her home and I was certain we’d swing from the hangman’s noose the next day. But her father, while highly suspicious of us, was more concerned for the welfare of his daughter. He invited us tae stay the night as a reward. I knew it was tae keep an eye on us. If Raina awoke, and disavowed our story, or if she died, he wanted us there tae execute justice immediately.”

“She was still unconscious?” Catriona asked.

“Aye, didna awaken until late that night, the poor lass. But when she did, she told her father the truth, then begged tae see Raulf tae thank him herself. Raulf had paced our chambers most of the night, worried sick about her, but when she summoned him, ye had ne’er seen a man so happy.” He paused and chuckled again. “Except, mayhap, her father.”

“Why was Strickland not punished?”

“Och, he was. I didna mention one thing because we learned it only after she awoke. She was Strickland’s betrothed.”

Others whispered in surprise.

“Aye, but her father had made the arrangement not realizing what a knave Strickland was, nor knowing Raina detested the sod. She and Strickland argued often, but this was the first time he had struck her. In the company of her father, he was a sniveling truckler. Raina’s sire was furious. The betrothal had been agreed upon, but the contract hadna been signed. He broke off all dealings with the Stricklands and fined the family a good pence or two. As a reward tae us, he invited us tae stay as long as we wished.”

“That is why Strickland hated my da,” Branan said. “When the betrothal was broken he lost claim to the Wardenship. That power was what he really craved.”

“Aye. We stayed on and everyone saw Raulf and yer mother were falling in love. Her sire saw it too, but while he sincerely liked Raulf, he worried over joining his daughter tae a wandering Scotsman.”

“Understandable,” Gordon said .

“He spoke not his concerns, although anyone with eyes in their head saw them plain on his face every time Raulf and Raina were together. But those two beheld only each other. Finally, the day came when Raulf asked for her hand in marriage.”

“And her sire refused?” Catriona asked.

“Flatly, but Raulf's silver tongue worked its magic and her sire began tae consider the proposition. Yet ultimately, he refused again.”

“How did Raulf convince him?” a young man asked.

Duguald laughed. “Ne’er forget one simple fact, Raulf could sell a lame plow horse tae the best horse trader for a tidy profit, he could send his claymore through the heart of a man afore anyone knew he drew the weapon, and he could near make a lady swoon with a simple smile, but he had one talent greater than all that.”

Branan smiled.

“What was that?” someone asked.

“Strategy, lad. Although all of us thought Raulf too captivated with Lady Raina tae realize her father’s concerns, he knew all along. So when her sire refused him a second time, Raulf played his trump card.” He paused gazing at Branan. “Tell them what I told ye, laddie, for ye sound exactly like him.”

Branan grinned. He had spoken the lines so many times with Duguald's telling of the story over the years, he was well versed in every word, every inflection.

“I realize yer concern for yer bonny daughter, but dinna think ye award her gracious hand tae a Scot who wanders without a home. She will be lady of my lands.” He captured Catriona’s hand in his, playing to his audience. “I am laird of the clan MacTavish and I daresay my holdings surpass those of the Wardenship But I love yer bonny daughter and will hold her heart within my own.” He held Catriona’s gaze for a long moment, then slowly pulled her hand to his lips.

She released a startled gasp.

Duguald leaped to his feet. “Ye see? That is exactly what I had tae deal with all those years! Ye see? He be Raulf through and through!”

The audience roared their laughter, many applauding.

Catriona jumped and ducked her head, her cheeks turning rosy.

Branan laughed softly and pulled her tightly to him. “Forgive me, lass,” he whispered, “but I couldna resist.”

Catriona hugged him, giggling. “You are a rogue, Branan MacTavish, just like your father.”

Branan renewed his laughter.

“So Raulf actually outranked Lady Raina?” a voice asked as the mirth subsided.

“Aye,” Duguald replied. “Our lands are no’ large, but they are greater than Inglewood. Caught unsuspecting by this news, Raina’s sire agreed tae the marriage and had the contracts drawn up forthwith.”

“But upon Raulf’s death, then Raina’s, wouldn’t clan lands fall under Strickland’s control?”

“Nay,” Branan explained. “First, in Scotland, inheritance of the clan doesna pass through the female line unless there is no male relative at all, and that is verra rare. At the least the claim would fall to Duguald, being my da's brother, and he managed the lands for a time. But because I am Raulf’s son and his only issue, the right of claim is mine and mine alone.”

Duguald’s humor faded a bit, his gaze growing melancholy. “Aye, laddie...yer parents...although their time together was brief, they were verra happy. And yer da...yer da would be so proud tae see what a fine man his son has become.”

Branan’s throat tightened and he swallowed hard.

“Aye!” a voice said. “And we stand with ye, MacTavish!”

A chorus of approval resounded.

Master Gordon rose and Branan was surprised to see his eyes liquid. “I remember...” he began and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I remember when Raulf and Raina managed these lands. I was a young man then. Inglewood prospered under their gentle grace. I remember their happiness and they shared it with all of us. I agree with your uncle. Your father would be proud of you.” He cleared his throat again and lifted his cup. “To MacTavish, may he return this Wardenship to the peace and prosperity we once knew.”

“MacTavish!” the group cried.

Startled, Branan lifted his cup in acknowledgment and took a drink, but a tiny hope kindled to life within him. His arm tightened around Catriona. She gazed up at him and smiled. It was an action, he discovered, that cured a world of ills. Perhaps...just perhaps...with the support and strength of those around him, there was a chance his bid would succeed.

****

A few days later, Branan worked to help clear the area around the tower, but found himself torn over the increasing discord within him regarding Catriona and her betrothal. His fear that she would end up in a marriage similar to what his mother suffered with Strickland was very real. Only now did Branan realize how much he had missed Catriona in the ten years he had been gone. He craved every moment he spent with her, every word, every smile, every touch.

The work around the tower was advancing well, and Branan's community at Thistlewood thrived. He heard the long, low whistle of a sentry, warning of more arrivals from Brackenburgh. Branan gazed down the trail.

Through the fog, a knight rode before two wagons. A dozen men and women on foot walked next to the wagons with six mounted knights flanking them. Behind them rode three more knights, but the one in the middle had a lady in his arms. She huddled against him and Branan’s throat tightened, remembering how Catriona had ridden with him in much the same fashion. He dropped his tools and hurried toward them as a crowd gathered.

“Branan,” Duguald whispered harshly.

Branan checked his pace, remembering the plan they had devised. “The lass with the knight,” he whispered back. “What if she’s injured?”

Duguald’s eyes narrowed and he stepped in front of Branan. “Is anyone injured?” he asked, his gaze focusing on the woman.

“Nay,” the lead knight said and glanced over his shoulder. “Weary and footsore, nothing more.”

Duguald nodded and Branan sighed in relief. The lead knights rode fine battle mounts, their armor gleaming in the muted sunlight. The three in back, while their armor was not as fine, appeared to be in good repair and their horses sound.

“I seek the lord of Thistlewood and bring an offering of goodwill,” the lead knight said. Branan noted the man appeared close to his age and size. He had long light-brown hair and blue eyes. He uttered the greeting Branan and de Courcy had agreed upon so Branan could be assured de Courcy had truly sent them. The offering of goodwill could be almost anything, but one part of it would be a special silver coin, notched and scarred in a seemingly random manner. But to Branan, the randomness was exact.

“I am the lord of Thistlewood,” Duguald said, playing his part in their arrangement to protect Branan.

The knight scowled. “I expected you to be much younger.” He removed a small pouch from his belt. “I have been instructed to give you this.”

“And who gave ye the instructions?” Duguald asked as he took the pouch. Branan moved next to him, in position of guard, his hand on his claymore, as did three other Scots.

“A monk advised me of a penance,” the knight said. “To bring an offer of goodwill to those in need.”

So far all was well. The knight followed the code exactly.

Duguald opened the pouch and the contents tumbled into his hand. Branan stole a quick glance at several coins, then spotted the one he wanted. He gave Duguald a slight nod.

“Welcome to Thistlewood,” Branan said and the knight looked at him in surprise.

“Who are you?”

“Branan MacTavish, the true lord of Thistlewood.”

The knight blinked at him, glanced at Duguald, then chuckled. “I understand.” He dismounted and bowed. “Well met, my lord.”

Good. He was quick of mind .

“I am Sir Tristan of Greystoke and I lead a group of six. We are stipendiary knights and specialize in guarding those of noble rank. We pride ourselves on our professionalism and our skills. My men are highly trained, but will not cause offense to nobility with repulsive behavior. We have come to pledge our blades to your service.”

Branan arched an eyebrow in appreciation. “Greystoke is a large holding if I recall.”

“Aye, my wife and children still reside there, but…” He hesitated drawing a deep breath, his eyes flinty with rage. “Thanks to Strickland’s bastard, I am near destitute. I make good money as a hired sword, but even that will not cover the ever increasing amounts he claims I owe. If I lose my holding, my family will have nowhere to go.” He motioned to the three knights in the back. They rode forward. “These men, while not part of my mercenary group, are my friends from holdings near mine. In the middle is Geoffrey, with his wife Beth, and the other two are members of his family. We all have suffered mightily under Strickland’s abuse.”

“Strickland razed my small holding a few days past,” Geoffrey said as he stopped his horse before Branan. “I bring with me my cousin, Guy, and brother by law, Alaric. We also wish to pledge our blades in service to the true Warden of Inglewood. With us are the tradesmen who worked in my holding; we have nowhere else to go.”

Branan’s throat tightened. “I mean to bring an end to that persecution,” he said, the softness of his voice conveying the power of his determination.

Greystoke smiled brightly and glanced at Geoffrey, whose shoulders visibly relaxed.

Branan extended his hand to Greystoke first as the ranking noble. “Well met,” he said. “I offer ye the protection of Thistlewood. Ye are most welcome here.”

Greystoke accepted his outstretched forearm with a strong grip of his own. “Thank you, MacTavish.”

“Follow my Uncle Duguald; he will help get ye settled.”

The young knight nodded and signaled his men to dismount.

****

Over the next few days, Catriona discovered herself drawn to the small area Branan used for his woodworking. She watched in amazement as he planed a large beam.

“What's that for?”

He glanced up and smiled, running his hand over the oak. “One of the beams for the new roof.” He straightened and motioned to her. “Look at this.”

She followed him and he hefted a large support block. “This is one of the joists. Even though we are pressed for time rebuilding this tower, I dinna see a reason for things to be plain. ”

Catriona gazed at the wood, her eyes wide. A beautifully carved angel emerged from the grain, its hair, wings, and garments flowing around the support as if it would spring from its perch at any moment.

“Branan,” she whispered in soft amazement. “This is beautiful.”

“Thank ye, lass.”

She looked around the small shed and saw more pieces Branan had been working on: a large table for the great hall, chairs, and many other items. Most had decorative carvings on them. They were not extravagant, nothing that would slow production of the pieces, but they were beautiful.

“You have great talent, Branan.”

His cheeks darkened a little. “'Tisna much, lass, but I do what I can.”

“Did Duguald teach you?”

He nodded. “Our clan has a fine reputation for woodworking. As soon as I arrived, Duguald and the other men began teaching me. I enjoy the feel of the wood.”

“Will you show me how you create such beauty?”

He gaped at her a moment.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve...I’ve never had a lass interested in how I do my work.” His lips curved upward in a mischievous smile. “They only cared about the results.”

“You know this lass is different from the others, and I’m intrigued by your art.”

“Art?”

“How else can I describe it?” She pointed to a large chair which had a charcoal pattern traced on it. “Now, tell me about that one.”

“Verra well, lass,” he replied.

Soon, Catriona was not only watching him work but helping as well.