Page 35 of True Highland Spirit (The Highlander #3)

From The Highlander’s Sword

Gascony, France, 1346

If they caught him, he would hang. Or perhaps, he mused with the detached calm born of shock, he would be eviscerated first, then hung. Best not to find out. Sir Padyn MacLaren ran through a throng of shocked ladies-in-waiting to the tower stairs before his fiancée screamed in fury. Or rather his ex-fiancée, since the lovely Countess Marguerite had just made it clear she intended to marry Gerard de Marsan. The same de Marsan who had tried to slit MacLaren’s throat and now lay on the floor—dead.

Soldiers from the floor below rushed up the stairs to their lady’s aid. MacLaren wiped the blood from his eyes. The slash down his face was bleeding something fierce, but he gave it no mind. He needed to get past the guards, or his bloodied face would be the least of his troubles.

“Hurry!” MacLaren said to the first man up the stairs. “Gerard de Marsan has attacked the countess. To her, quick! I will fetch the surgeon.” The guards ran past him, and he dashed out the inner gate before the alarm sounded and soldiers poured from their barracks. MacLaren raced toward the outer gate, but the portcullis crashed down before him. Turning toward the stone staircase that led to the wall walk, he ran to a young guard who looked at him, unsure.

“Who attacks us?” MacLaren asked the young man, who stammered in response.

“Go ask your captain. I’ll keep watch.” MacLaren ran past the guard up the stairs to the battlement. Without stopping to think or break his stride, he ran through the battlements over the embrasure and into the air. For a moment he was suspended in time, free without the ground beneath him, then he plunged down the sheer drop to the moat below. The shock of cold water and muck robbed him of breath, and he struggled to the other side. MacLaren scrambled up the embankment and crawled into the brush, bolts flying toward him from the castle walls. Rushing through the thicket to the road, he pulled a surprised merchant from his horse and rode for cover.

MacLaren raced from Montois castle without looking back. Along the road, a dusty figure of a knight rode toward him. MacLaren drew his sword and charged. The knight reined in and threw up his visor. It was Chaumont, his second in command.

“Marguerite has betrayed us to the English,” Chaumont called.

“She told me that herself,” growled MacLaren, pointing to his cut face. “We need to get to camp and warn the men, or they will all be put to the sword.”

Chaumont nodded. “I got word of her betrayal shortly after you rode for Montois and commanded the men to pull back to Agen.”

“Ye’ve done well.” MacLaren exhaled.

“Indeed I have. Nice of you to notice.”

The thundering riders approaching cut short their conversation. They abandoned the road in favor of an overland route through dense forested terrain in which they hoped to lose the pursuing soldiers. They traveled many hours into the night, until they finally felt safe enough to stop by the shores of a small black lake.

“You need tending, my friend,” said Chaumont.

“Have ye a needle?” MacLaren asked grimly.

MacLaren stood without flinching while Chaumont stitched the gash on his face. MacLaren focused on the dark water before him, unbidden memories of the day’s events washing over him. He had faced the English to protect Marguerite before they could reach her castle at Montois. The hard-fought victory had been won, but his closest kin had been lost.

“Patrick died for nothing.” MacLaren’s voice shook as he struggled with the words. “What an utter fool I was, trusting that deceitful wench. I should be dead on that field, not him.” MacLaren clenched his jaw, holding back emotion. “There is nothing left for me here. ’Tis time I take my men and go back where I belong.”

“What is it like, this land of your birth?” asked Chaumont, finishing his work.

MacLaren closed his eyes, remembering. “Balquidder. ’Tis a wild place, full of wind and rain. It can be a hard life at times, but I’m never more alive than when I’m in the Highlands.” He turned to the young French knight. “Your friendship is the only thing I will regret to leave behind.”

Chaumont looked at him intently. “Take me with you.”

“Your place is here.”

Chaumont shook his head. “If you had not given me a chance, I would still be some rich man’s squire, polishing his armor and servicing his wife. I have served you in times of war, and I will serve you still, if you will have me.”

“It would be an honor.” MacLaren clasped his hand to the Frenchman’s shoulder. They embraced the way men do, slapping each other hard on the back.

“Urgh!” Chaumont made a face. “You smell like the devil’s arse.”

“I swam through the moat to escape the castle. Now I know exactly where the garderobes empty into.” MacLaren turned back to look over the lake. “That water was like Marguerite, a beautiful exterior, but underneath, naught but a filthy sewer.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before he was pushed hard and he fell gracelessly into the cold clean lake. He came up sputtering, only to hear the Frenchman’s laughter. MacLaren bathed in the cold water and emerged the better for it. He pulled himself swiftly up the bank and tossed Chaumont into the water for good measure. It was time to go home.

“Step along now,” MacLaren called to his soggy companion. “Come to the Highlands, my friend, and we shall feast like heroes.”

***

Balquidder, Scotland

Shrouded in the winding cloth of the dense mist, a shadowy apparition of a horse and rider stood on the high peak of the Braes of Balquidder. Built into the side of the craggy rock, Creag an Turic, the abandoned tower house of the MacLarens, loomed stark and black against the pre-dawn sky. Below, the small village of Balquidder slept by the shores of Loch Voil. The MacLaren fields lay mostly fallow, brown and grey in the early morning gloom. Without its laird, misfortune and neglect had befallen the clan, leaving it vulnerable to raids from its neighbors. Few clansmen remained, scraping out a living as best they could.

In the valley below, a young boy stood in the doorway of a farmhouse. He gaped up at the ghostly figure and blinked—horse and rider were gone.

“Mama! I seen the ghost!”

“Come away from there, sweetling. What do ye ken about such things?”

“I seen him looking down on us. Do ye think it be an ill omen?”

Mary Patrick sighed. Having your nine-year-old son tell you there is a ghost at the door before you even got your boots on in the morning couldn’t be a good sign. She silently said a quick prayer to a few saints for protection and one to the Holy Mother for good measure.

“’Twas the Bruce,” whispered Gavin, his eyes gleaming.

“Robert the Bruce is no’ riding these hills,” said Mary to Gavin’s skeptical face. “And even if he is, he’s no’ going to help ye wi’ yer chores. Now off wi’ ye. We’ve much to do if we want food in our bellies.”

Somewhere in the ethereal mist, the cloaked figure raced at an inhuman pace… straight for Dundaff Castle.