Highland Seer (2 page)

“Can we be sure of our welcome here?” Jamie asked quietly.

“We’re bringin’ home their whisky and their menfolk,” Donal groused. “The laird’s gratitude had better include answering questions, like why we’re havin’ to escort his wounded.” At Jamie’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “Once they ken how charming we are, there shouldna be any problems.”

Jamie grinned and shook his head.

Behind him, Bram choked back a laugh and began coughing.

What was Toran thinking, Donal fumed, sending them to a treat with a clan that could claim a seat such as this one? Damn him. Toran stayed in the Aerie, close by his hearth, besotted by his wife and bairns, but still determined to stitch together treaties with the surrounding clans so they would never again fall prey to a Lowlander army like the one that had plagued them last year.

Not that Toran had anything to regret. The Lowlander army had brought Aileana to him. Donal scowled at his partner. If Jamie hadn’t bound the two of them together in the handfasting ceremony, it would be Toran out here in the hinterlands with Jamie, and Donal holding down the fort back at the Aerie, the clan Lathan seat. Wedded bliss…pah. Donal had no interest in that, especially after having seen the effect it had on his laird.

“Why did a clan as rich as this one appears to be send Fergus out with no escort?”

Jamie’s question brought Donal back to the present. He shook his head. “It doesna make sense.” As much as Donal would like to turn around and forget the whole mess, there was no hope for it—they couldn’t return to the Aerie without an answer from the MacKyrie or Toran would have their heads.

“Worst case,” Jamie added drily, “we can always ask guest-right. They wouldna turn us away then, no matter how many questions ye ask. Of course, gettin’ him to sign a treaty after ye finish yer interrogation might be more of a challenge.”

Donal slanted him a look. “I’m sure with yer ambassadorial skills, ye’ll be up to it.”

“Come on, then,” Jamie urged, smirking. “Let’s get this over with.”

Donal kicked his mount into a faster pace and crossed the glen, Jamie at his side. The wagons trundled faster behind him, the coos sensing home much as a horse would. The rest of the Lathans stayed with the wagons, the guard they should have had all along. The more he thought about the attack they’d broken up, the more his ire rose against the laird they were about to meet. Good thing Jamie was the ambassador. He would do the talking. As irritated as the laird’s neglect of his people made him, Donal was more likely to start a new war.

On closer inspection, the village seemed well kept if not overly prosperous. Off in the distance, black dots were scattered over the hillsides—each one a short, shaggy Highland coo. Or did they name them “cow” here, in the Lowlander manner? No matter. They had milk and meat aplenty then. Smoke rose from the blacksmith’s chimney. A lad barely old enough to be a tinker’s apprentice pounded out the side of a bent pot in front of his shop. But most of the villagers they passed were women. Several started toward the wagons only to be pulled back by their companions.

“They fear us,” Jamie remarked, “even though we are no’ threatening them or their men.”

“’Tis odd,” Donal agreed. “I’d expect more of a welcome from a Highland village.” He glanced behind him at the old men and lads. The men smiled at the women they passed. The lads waved and called out, but they failed to entice any lasses too near. Donal resolved to find out what had happened here to make the villagers so wary.

They made their way without incident inside the walls of the keep. The gate stood open. No one challenged their entry. Dangerously lax safeguards, Donal thought, looking around. The few men he spied were up on the ramparts. Women and children filled the bailey.

“Flodden?” Jamie asked quietly.

“That would be my guess,” Donal replied. “We’ll get more answers from the laird.” Many clans had lost their lairds and fighting-aged men in 1513 defending King James IV against the English at Flodden Fields. The losses were so heavy in the Lowlands that many clans had fallen apart. Some of the clanless “lost men” had joined together in the army the Lathans had broken up the year before. Losses at Flodden among Highland clans varied, but Donal suspected this one had been hit hard.

Donal and his men dismounted as old Fergus and the other wounded were moved into the keep. One of the lads approached, manlike despite his youth. “If ye’ll wait here, I’ll send the steward to ye,” he offered. “He’ll get ye settled in.”

“We’d like to talk to yer laird, lad,” Jamie told him.

“The laird will be with ye presently, I’m sure.” The lad shrugged, looking anything but sure as he took off at a run for the door of the keep.

“We’re to be left standin’ in the bailey, then?” Donal complained to no one in particular, his gaze moving from the people in the bailey, to the battlements, to the keep’s open gate, and back to Jamie.

“Let’s wait a bit for the steward.”

“If we’re left here much longer, we’ll take the horses to the stables, then look for the laird on our own,” Donal vowed. “We’ll no’ be treated like common tradesmen or worse.”

Before Donal could put words into action, an elderly man stepped out of the doorway into the keep and approached them. “Ye must be the men who rescued our folk.” He beckoned over several of the curious lads who had gathered nearby upon their arrival. “Take the horses to the stables, lads, and treat them well. We owe these men our thanks.”

“I’m Jamie Lathan, clan Lathan,” Jamie introduced himself. “Donal McNabb, clan Lathan, Bram, Forbes, Alpin, and Innis, clan Lathan all.”

“’Tis a great pleasure to make yer acquaintance,” the man said with a tip of his head. “I’m the steward, Sawney MacKyrie. Please follow me to yer quarters. Our laird wishes ye to be made comfortable.”

“As I told the lad,” Jamie said before the man could turn away, “we’d like to speak to the laird.”

“That won’t be possible today. The laird is quite busy, but will be available to ye in the mornin’.”

Jamie nodded, then raised an eyebrow as he looked to Donal, his meaning plain. What was going on here?

Donal shrugged and gestured for the others to follow the steward. As a group, they entered the great hall of the MacKyrie keep.

****

Ellie MacKyrie wiped her brow and pushed her hair out of her face for what seemed like the thousandth time. It had come loose from its braid again. Gotten in her eyes again. Irritated her beyond belief. Again. And dammit, in the midst of trying to stitch poor Fergus’s wound. She didn’t need the extra aggravation right now. Too bad Nan was busy tending one of the lads who’d come in with Fergus. She was better at this kind of stitchery. As healer, Nan had years of experience. A swig from the bottle sitting by Fergus’s left hand might be tempting, but while the fiery spirit could improve Ellie’s mood, she doubted it would improve her stitchery one bit. Fergus might be getting on in years, but even he would want her to do a neat job so he would heal with as little scarring as possible and keep the use of his arm. Besides, the whisky was for him, to dull his senses while she worked, and from the sound of his soft snores, it had done its job.

There, last stitch. The poor man could rest now, unmolested by her needle or her temper.

Who had done this? Who was to blame for terrorizing and wounding old men and lads? Lads, for God’s sake. Who did that to beardless lads? Or elders like Fergus? Rievers? Lost men? Or, as she feared, a neighboring clan? Who would stoop so low?

She put aside her needle and thread, dabbed Fergus’s wound with a whisky-soaked rag to clean away the rest of the dried blood, then stood and looked around her.

Davy met her gaze, still wide-eyed and fighting sleep. He’d seen more today than any nine-year-old should. Damn the auld king, the lairds, the warriors all, leaving them in this mess.

“Ye should sleep, Davy,” she told him as she bent to pull the covers higher on his thin chest.

“I canna, Ellie. No’ yet. I havena told ye about the brave warriors who saved us. And their leader, aye, his is the like we need.”

“Do we now?” Even the youngest lads knew they were in trouble and sought to help. If she didn’t need to reassure these lads, she’d be swamped with dismay by the burdens they bore. “Then tell me, laddie, so ye can rest.” She glanced around the room, noting several of her other patients awake and listening. “So all of ye can get to sleep.”

“There we were, surrounded,” Davy began.

“When horsemen broke out o’ the trees,” another voice piped in.

“They slew our attackers...whack!...just like that.”

“Aye,” Davy agreed solemnly. “But no’ before several of us were cut and bleedin’, tryin’ to defend ourselves and the MacKyrie whisky.”

“Like Fergus,” another added.

“Ye were all very brave,” she told them, fighting back tears of grief and anger. Those wagons should never have gone out without an escort, but where were they to find one of those? Instead, these lads, these bairns, had been forced to fight for their very lives.

“Their leader was a master of the blade,” Davy continued, oblivious to the turmoil nearly swamping her. “They were all braw warriors, but oh, if only ye could ha’ seen him! He killed five or six all on his own.” She couldn’t deny his enthusiasm for their rescuer. But this must be childish exaggeration. Or was it possible that he relating exactly what had happened?

“Did he?” Ellie’s heart picked up its pace. A warrior so grand as to best six attackers by himself? Could he be the one she’d Seen? The warrior who’d slain or chased off the wolves in her dream. Were those meant to be the raiders who attacked the wagons? It made a certain sense. Her dream had shown her the attack and its resolution, but she had not known how to interpret it. Could there be more to the dreams she’d been having? Did the warrior from her dream have a larger purpose than the rescue of the wagons? What if he’d come to train up their lads into men? To save the Clan MacKyrie?

“What’s all this racket?” Fergus’s gruff voice interrupted her thoughts. “A man canna sleep with all this blather.”

Ellie returned to his side to check his wound and placed a hand on his forehead. Good, no fever—at least, not yet.

“The lads tell ye true, lass,” the old man whispered. “One of them could be the one ye Saw in yer dreams. They all had strong sword arms and no fear o’ the battle. Ye must meet wi’ them and see for yerself.”

Ellie closed her eyes, picturing the man who’d appeared to her three times. If only she had seen his face clearly. Then, if she met him, she would have no doubts. She would know if one of these braw warriors who’d done her clan such a great service was the one in her dreams. She opened her eyes, pushed her hair back, and once again took Fergus’s hand. “If no’ the leader, then perhaps one of his men?”

“Aye, lass. Worthy lads, all. But ye must see for yerself.”

“I will, Fergus. But now, ’tis time for all of ye”—she paused and gave the laddies a stern look—“to sleep. The clan needs ye. Ye must heal and get strong.” She turned back to Fergus with a fond smile and squeezed his hand, then removed the whisky bottle to a pocket in her apron. “Ye, too, auld man. I need ye most of all. Sleep well.”

She waited while her charges settled down and closed their eyes. Fergus gave her a conspiratorial wink before he, too, dozed off again.

Her lads. No matter their age, they were her lads and she worried over each and every one of them. If only her Sight proved to mean what she hoped it did. What she longed for. The clan needed strong men to protect it, no’ these lads and elders. Damn the king. Damn the auld laird. They needed help.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Ellie entered the great hall dressed in a simple blue kirtle. She’d been told the Lathans were on their way down from their chambers, but saw no sense ruining a fancy dress when she had work to do in the sickroom.

Others were in the hall breaking their fast, passing through on the way to their chores, or, judging by the slight hum of tension in the air, waiting to see what would happen when the strangers arrived. Some of the neighbors had caused trouble lately. Would these men add to MacKyrie’s problems? Ellie hoped not. So far, they’d done the clan a service in saving Fergus and the others, not to mention the whisky. If she’d truly seen one of them in her dream, they were destined to do so much more.

She spotted Micheil and joined him. They rarely sat at the high table. Both preferred to sit with everyone else, moving to a different table for each meal as whim took them. “Mornin’,” she said, greeting him simply as was their custom. Dark haired, dark-eyed, and heart-stoppingly handsome, Micheil was her closest in age of the surviving MacKyrie men. They’d grown up together, mourned their losses together. Some thought they would make a good match. Even Micheil. But he had always been her friend, never her lover. She couldn’t think of him in that way.

And after the dream she’d had, the one she fervently hoped for the sake of the clan was a true Seeing, she believed her destiny led her to another man, one with lighter hair, sharper eyes, and a Roman nose broken more than once. “Our guests havena arrived, then?”

“Nay,” he replied, signaling to a serving girl for Ellie’s breakfast. “But when they do, they’ll be properly thanked, rewarded, and sent on their way, aye?”

Ellie glanced around the room, avoiding his question. Micheil thought the clan should solve its own problems. Ellie didn’t think it could.

She wished Fergus could be here to greet the Lathans, too. Fergus had a calming presence, despite his reputation as a ferocious fighter in his youth. Micheil sometimes let his temper get the best of him. She needed this meeting to go well. The future of the clan might depend on it.

She glanced at her companion and pursed her lips. But before she could frame an answer, the Lathans appeared on the stairs leading down from their quarters in this tower. Ellie stood. Micheil rose to his feet beside her as a serving girl pointed in their direction. As the rest of the clan stood, giving honor to their heroic guests, the Lathans moved together toward them. A tingle of anticipation curled around Ellie’s ribs. Was he truly here? Which one?