Kate Robbins - The Highland Chiefs Series 03 (2 page)

Chapter One

Golspie, Scotland, 1432

A writ of bastardy.

For all his efforts and all he had put up with from his monster of a father, it had come to this. Ronan Sutherland stared hard at the unfolded parchment in his hand. Someone behind him coughed; another sniffed.

He should walk away, say to hell with Dunrobin Castle, the earl’s title, all the evil he had seen within these walls, and be done with it. What kept him here was beyond his comprehension.

“My lord, ’tis been validated.” Robert de Strathbrook, Bishop of Caithness fidgeted.

“By whom?” Ronan turned to see if the man would look him in the eye.

The bishop had been formidable in his day. Now instead, his robes dwarfed him, his cheeks hollowed by age. He would not have the stamina to travel to Edinburgh and engage the king’s council.

“My priests took it upon themselves to conduct the act in my stead. Sutherland is one of the oldest earldoms in the country. It was not easy, but their diligence was properly paid, I assure you.”

Ronan’s guts burned.

“When?”

“The letter says the rightful earl will arrive in a sennight to claim the title. He said you should be out of the master chamber by then.”

Ronan shook his head. “And I am to wait until he arrives before I learn of his identity?”

“Aye, lad.”
Lad?
“He wants no one to speak of it until he arrives.”

“So be it.” Ronan turned to leave Dunrobin’s great hall. A scurrying sound in the corner caught his attention and he paused. Be damned if he would tolerate eavesdropping while he still ruled.

Ronan crossed the hall in three strides and whipped the large tapestry aside. John Sutherland. He might have known. The man slithered in and out of rooms unbidden. He was the last person Ronan wanted privy to his conversation with the bishop.

“What the Hell are you doing in here?”

John’s lips curled into a greasy smirk. “Watching your demise.”

Ronan grasped his face in one hand and squeezed. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I shall drive my blade through your gullet so fast you will not even feel it.”

John laughed. “I will not have to tell anyone. They already know. And you, bastard, will no longer prance around here undoing all the good your father did.”

Christ’s blood. This was worse than he thought. He had suspected some mutiny from those loyal to his father’s madness two years ago after his death. When they quietly fell in line to Ronan’s new and more tempered methods, he had accepted it. What a daft, green lad he had been. Was no one loyal to him at Dunrobin now? Allain surely still was. Always had been.

Ronan released John’s face and left the great hall in search of his captain. If there was one person he could rely on to help unravel this mess, it was Allain.

“We have trouble,” Ronan said, when he found Allain in the stable.

“Do we not always?” Allain grinned. “What now?”

Little ruffled the man, a trait for which Ronan was most grateful. He handed over the letter the bishop had delivered. His only ally at Dunrobin scanned the missive. A more legitimate heir to the Sutherland Earl’s title and clan chiefship had presented himself and was bent on tossing Ronan out on his ear. He had so many questions he did not know where to begin and thoughts of waiting around for a sennight to meet his usurper did not sit well. Still, he had to find out who this man was.

“There are only so many possibilities as to who this person can be.” It was as though Allain guessed Ronan’s train of thought.

“Aye. A brother or another son. And since another son would also be a bastard like me, it can only mean my father’s brother has returned from the continent.”

Bile rose in Ronan’s throat as he said the words. Alexander Sutherland made his older brother, Artair, look like a spring lamb. He had been banished years ago for his cruelty by Ronan’s grandfather and no one had heard from him in more than a decade.

Now, it seemed the prodigal son was set to return and claim that which Ronan had worked hard to reform. His own father had been a cruel, hard man who enjoyed the pain of others. If the truth of Alexander Sutherland’s own evil was half of the legend, Ronan feared the entire Highlands would be laid waste by fire and steel.

Allain folded the letter and passed it back. “What do you want to do?”

Ronan paced. He did not know. The news had come so suddenly he hardly had time to wrap his mind around it let alone formulate a plan.

“I will be here when he arrives. I have no intention of abandoning the people here to another madman. But, I cannot help them in the long run if my head is on a pike.”

Allain scraped his hand over his beard. “What do we know? I mean, did your father put anything into writing when he named you as heir?”

“Unfortunately, no. And I did not think to ask him as I slid my blade across his neck.”

“You know as well as I do, he deserved it. But as I told you that day, say those words where the wrong ears can hear, and you shall have more to worry about than a challenge to your title.”

Allain was right. Ronan had not spoken the words since the day he killed his own father. Thinking back brought Fergus MacKay to his mind; he had not thought of him in a long time. The man owed him a debt for releasing him from his father’s torture chamber. Those two had been bitter enemies for years. Surely, the people Ronan was responsible for, were grateful for the two years’ peace that had since followed.

A second vision passed before his eyes as he thought back to that day. The only woman he had ever loved had walked away from him. Ronan shook his head. He would not let himself dwell on her beauty, for the yearning in his soul was too much to bear. No, he would focus on this current problem and find a way to solve it.

“The letter says he will be here in a sennight,” Ronan said.

Allain’s brows knit together as he frowned. “Ronan, did you look at the date on the letter?”

His guts lurched. The bishop had led him to believe he had seven days from this day. Unfolding the parchment, Ronan glanced at the top corner. His heartbeat kicked up. It was dated eight days ago. His replacement would be on his doorstep at any moment.

Ronan left the stable just as a group of riders thundered up the path to the castle keep. He ducked in behind the armoury annex and watched John Sutherland step forward to welcome the party. Those twenty men he had considered loyal to his father, capable of terrible cruelties, were with him. Damn them all for bringing this upon Dunrobin.

“Well, this is a fine turn of events then,” Allain said, suddenly beside him.

Fine indeed. By the time all the riders had gathered and dismounted, Ronan was certain there were more than sixty men—a large war party then, if the weaponry they carried was any indication. They were not interested in a peaceful takeover by the looks of the heavy armour they wore, and the trebuchet.

“Do you think ’tis your uncle?”

A tall, white haired man dismounted and scanned the area, his armour clanking. He was more like a giant than a man.  The silver helmet he wore shaded his eyes, but his teeth were visible as he approached John, towering over him. The man reached down and grabbed John by the tunic.

“Where is the bastard?” His voice boomed over the crowd.

“My lord, I know not. He scurried away as soon as he saw the letter.” The tremor in his voice was unmistakable.

The man drew his broadsword from its sheath on his hip and slid it into John’s guts. Ronan would not mourn the man, but the lack of compassion or even patience for an explanation, was telling.

“I want the bastard!” the man bellowed. He stepped forward to address the other men.

The other guards, who had stood so confident moments before, now cowered. Their gazes dropped to the ground. Had Ronan not feared for the good people inhabiting Dunrobin, he would find their behaviour humorous.

“You promised me I would be served the bastard’s head on a platter upon my arrival. I want him now!”

The man grabbed another of the guards and ran him through before he could open his mouth to answer. Christ’s guts, would he kill every person here if he did not get what he wanted? Ronan straightened and clenched his fists. He was not loyal to those men, but how long before someone he was sworn to protect met the same fate?

Just as Ronan was about to move around the armoury, Allain grabbed his arm.

“Are you daft?”

“I care not for those men, but I am still responsible for them and everyone else here.”

“Aye, you are, and what a marvellous job you’d do with a broadsword through your middle.”

“What would you have me do?” Ronan pulled his arm out of Allain’s grasp. “He will slay every man here until he gets what he wants.”

“Aye, he might,” Allain said. “But then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“When he kills those men and still doesn’t find you, what will he do?”

“Kill everyone else.”

“I don’t think so—look.”

Ronan turned his head. The man now addressed the stable hand and pointed to the horses as if giving instructions. Perhaps there was hope. Perhaps the man saw John and his men for the evil filth they were. Again he turned to go.

“Not so fast. I see what you are thinking and I admire your faith in mankind, but I still think you are in danger.”

Ronan did not have time to question what Allain saw.

“Ronan Sutherland! If you can hear me, know this!” The man’s hands were on either side of his mouth, but his voice was so loud it did not need the amplification. “I am Alexander Sutherland and I claim this castle, the earl’s title, and the chiefship of clan Sutherland as rightfully mine. You have misrepresented yourself and I shall punish you accordingly. If you ever step foot on Sutherland lands again I will kill you where you stand. Any person who assists you is punishable by the same fate.”

Ronan measured his options. If he revealed himself now, there would be no hope for him or anyone else to find peace. If he left to seek help, he would abandon those here to this man’s cruelty.

“Christ,” he whispered. “I have no options.”

“Aye, I admit, precious few good ones come to mind.”

“I need an army.” He glanced at Allain to gage his reaction. The smile on his friend’s face was reassuring.

“We do, but we need to know what we are fighting against first. For all we know he has thousands of men at the ready to protect what he thinks is his.”

Allain’s use of the collective ‘we’ was appreciated.

Ronan frowned. “As my father’s brother, technically, it is his.”

“Not if he is dead.”

Murder? Ronan would go far to protect his clan and had already risked much. As much as he despised his father, killing him had haunted him ever since. Slaying a man on the battlefield was another matter.

There was nothing Ronan could do to help anyone here now but go in search of an army.

Ronan watched Alexander scan the area again and then march his men into the castle. By the time they had all passed, Ronan realized he had seriously underestimated the number of those loyal to his uncle. Dozens of men followed, and Rowan shuddered to think of the turmoil they might cause. He could do nothing for his people at the moment.

“We need help.”

“Aye, but whose?”

“You know who. There is no one else who could raise an army large enough.”

Fergus crossed his mind again. They had enjoyed a strained peace over the past two years. Many on both sides had difficulty with a truce between the clans, but with both chiefs determined, at least no further attacks had occurred.

“But . . . the MacKay?” Allain’s eyebrows were nearing his hairline.

“He owes me his life.”

Allain shook his head. “Ronan, I was happy to see the back side of Fergus MacKay. He is a boarhound at the best of times. What makes you think he will come so quickly to your aid?”

“Once he understands this threat is worse than my father’s, he will help.” Every fibre in his being was certain Fergus would help. “Come, we must acquire horses and make haste. I am certain it will not be long before a search party is sent.”

Once on their horses, they ducked through the back end of the stable and sneaked through the woods so they could circle around toward the main path into Dunrobin. The road connected northwest toward Tongue. They had no provisions and the light was quickly fading so they would need to make good time in order to find a safe place to spend the night.

How had everything gone to Hell so quickly? His father had tortured, beaten, raped, and slaughtered so many. Ronan had spent a lifetime watching in disgust. Life at Dunrobin had finally shifted into some semblance of order after his death. He could not count the number of times in the past two years he had been caught off guard by a smile from one of the maids or the kitchen staff. Dear God in Heaven, what would they endure now?

He urged his horse on harder. He felt the air forced from his lungs with each footfall, beating in time with his racing heart.

He had to reach Fergus and get back again before too much damage was done. His stomach clenched at the thought of that monster harming those people—his people.