The Chief (42 page)

Most of the main characters in the novel are loosely based on actual historical figures. “Tor” was the first chief and progenitor of Clan MacLeod (and great grandfather six times over of Rory MacLeod from
Highlander Untamed)
. In the early fourteenth century, however, the clans as we think of them today were in their infancy. Even the term “Highlander” is probably anachronistic—the
Oxford English Dictionary's
first “highlandman” citation is c.1425—but both fiction (Nigel Tranter) and nonfiction (G.W.S. Barrow) authors use the term for the period. I assume they found, like I did, that there really isn't a good alternative. Besides, what fun is it to read a Scottish romance without a “Highlander”?

The two branches of Clan MacLeod, the MacLeods of Harris and MacLeods of Lewis, are known as “Siol Thormoid” and “Siol Thorcuil,” respectively—literally the seed of Tormod and seed of Torquil. New work on MacLeod genealogy contravenes the previously accepted genealogy of Tormod and Torquil as brothers, instead suggesting Torquil might have been his grandson (the son of Murdoch). Seven hundred years after the fact, it is impossible to ascertain the genealogy for certain. I decided to use the traditional version, both for simplicity and because it's the one still used by the current
Chief of MacLeod on the Dunvegan website. Similarly, Tor's patrilineage in Chapter One from the King of Norway and the King of Man is also greatly simplified and disputed.

Most genealogists agree that Tor was married twice and that his second wife was Christina Fraser, the sister of Alexander (a close cohort of Bruce, who later marries his sister Mary) and Simon, the first Lord Lovat. Christina's father was a prisoner in England for a time, but unlike in the story his family accompanied him. Presumably, Christina and her brothers would have spent some time at the English court.

Tor's marriage alliances are a perfect illustration of the shift that is taking place in the Western Isles during the period, from independent sea kingdom to Scottish fiefdom. His first marriage is with an important family on the western seaboard, his second with the daughter of a Scottish noble.

The raid on Skye by the Earl of Ross actually occurred a couple of decades earlier than I suggested, in 1262. It was as brutal as I described, including the killing of children. The death of Tor's parents during the raid, however, is fiction.

According to some traditions, Torquil MacLeod received his lands in Lewis by killing all the male members of the Nicolson clan (by drowning them in the Minch) and then marrying the heiress daughter. I thought that was perhaps a little harsh for most readers' taste and decided to put a more romantic spin on the story.

The politics surrounding the First War of Scottish Independence are, to put it mildly, extremely complicated. For those interested in delving deeper into the
period, I highly recommend G.W.S. Barrow's
Robert Bruce
(Edinburgh University Press, 2005). For an entertaining historical fiction account, Nigel Tranter's
The Bruce Trilogy
(Hodder Headline, 1985) is a classic.

The relationship between Bruce and Wallace was much more complex than I've made it. They both wanted the English out of Scotland, but Wallace wanted the Balliol family restored to the crown while Bruce wanted the crown for himself. As suggested by Tor's criticism of him in Chapter One, Bruce did flip-flop back and forth between the “patriot” side and the English. Bruce's actions can usually be explained by looking at whom the Balliols/Comyns supported—usually you'll find him on the other side.

I glossed over what is probably the low point of Bruce's life: the murder of his rival Red Comyn before the altar at the Greyfriars church. The accounts of events leading up to the murder are greatly disputed. One of the “romantic” versions (now discredited) is of a pact with Comyn and intercepted messengers carrying evidence of Bruce's treason to Edward. I decided to use the story, as it fit in nicely with my learned heroine, but also because I had the same problem as many early chroniclers of Bruce had: how to explain the decidedly unheroic act of a great hero. Clearly, Comyn stood between Bruce and the throne, but even if removing him was “necessary,” the murder of a rival just doesn't play well. Killing him in a church and violating sanctuary made it much worse. For the act, Bruce was excommunicated for nearly twenty years. Scotland was placed under interdict for a time as well.

The attack on Dumfries Castle actually occurred immediately after Bruce killed Comyn, not before, as I have it. The taking of Dumfries was Bruce's first act of
rebellion against King Edward. The constable of the castle at the time was Sir Richard Siward, not Seagrave. But Seagrave did serve in Scotland for years.

One of the biggest holes in my knowledge of history in this period was of the importance of the descendants of King Somerled, namely the MacDonalds (Lords of Islay), the MacRuairis (Lords of Garmoran), and the MacDougalls (Lords of Argyll). “MacSorley” is the collective name for the descendents of Somerled. I knew about the importance of the MacDonalds (later the Lords of the Isles), but I was completely unaware of the MacRuairis and the MacDougalls. The MacDougalls were probably the most powerful clan at the time, but they would see their fortunes fall during the Wars of Independence. Our old friends the Campbells would be the principal beneficiaries of their demise. The MacRuairis would disappear a few decades later.

Did Bruce really have a “Special Forces” Highland guard as his personal army? The short answer is no, but there are some interesting parallels. The Special Forces aspect is fictional, but Bruce did have a “meinie” or personal retinue, which included Robert Boyd, and close cohorts like Christopher Seton, Alexander Fraser (Christina's brother), Thomas Randolf, Edward Bruce, and Neil Campbell. Neil Campbell, Alexander Seton, and Thomas Hay signed a bond to defend and support Bruce to the end. And in one of those cool “serendipity” moments, I found a mention of “Donald,” son of Alistair (the inspiration for MacSorley), who led a chosen group of Highlanders (a “warband of Islemen;” see
clanmacalistersociety.org
) at the bequest of Angus Og to help and protect Bruce in 1306. How about that!

What is clear is that early on, Bruce recognized the
importance of the West Highlands. At the seminal battle of Bannockburn in 1314, Bruce led a division of Highlanders and Islesmen against the English. Many of my “Highland Guard” were said to have fought alongside him (including Tor). And when Bruce was faced with the most desperate time in his quest for the crown, it was the Highlanders and Islanders who came to his rescue. But that is the next story.

To Jami and Nyree, who first heard this idea almost eight years ago and helped to get me to the place where I could write it. Thank you for all of your brilliance, encouragement, and friendship. What would I do without you guys (other than spend much less time on the phone)? Go Cardinals (and the SSRW)!

A special thanks to the usual suspects for their help in getting this series off the ground: Kate Collins (my fabulous editor), Andrea Cirillo and Annelise Robey (my equally fabulous agents), the entire Ballantine team, and Emily Cotler and Claire Anderson at Wax Creative.

No doctors to thank in this book (maybe next time Nora and Sean), but I do want to thank Scottish historian and fellow author Sharron Gunn for her help with some of the Gaelic translations.

And finally, to Dave, Reid, and Maxine: Your support means so much to me (even if it's sometimes reluctantly given). And for the record, when I tell you not to bother Mommy because she's busy, what I
really
mean is I love you.

Read on for an excerpt from

The Hawk

by Monica McCarty

Published by Ballantine Books

Rathlin Sound, off the North Coast of Ireland

Candlemas, February 2, 1307

Erik MacSorley never could resist a challenge, even an unspoken one. One glimpse at the fishing boat being pursued by the English galley, and he knew tonight would be no different.

What he
should
do was ignore it and continue on his mission, slipping undetected past the English patrol ship on his way to Dunluce Castle to meet with the Irish mercenaries.

But what fun would there be in that?

After four months of hiding and hopping from island to island with nothing more than a brief foray to the mainland to collect Bruce's rents and the occasional reconnaissance mission, Erik and his men deserved a wee bit of excitement.

He'd been as good as a monk at Lent, (except for the lasses, but Erik sure as hell hadn't taken a vow of chastity when he joined Bruce's Highland Guard) staying out of trouble and exercising unnatural restraint the few times he'd been called to action since the storm and their escape from Dunaverty. But with Devil's Point within pissing distance, a high tide, and a strong wind at his back, it was too tempting an opportunity to let go by.

At nine and twenty, Erik had yet to meet a wind he could
not harness, a man who could best him on or in the water, a boat he could not outmaneuver, or, he thought with a satisfied grin, a woman who could resist him.

Tonight would be no different. The heavy mist made it a perfect night for a race, especially since he could navigate the treacherous coast of Antrim blind.

They'd just skirted around the northwest corner of Rathlin Island on their way south to Dunluce Castle on the northern coast of Ireland, when they caught sight of the patrol boat near Ballentoy Head. Ever since the English had taken Dunaverty castle earlier this month and realized Bruce had fled Scotland, the English fleet had increased their patrols in the North Channel looking for the fugitive king.

But Erik didn't like seeing a patrol boat this close to his destination. The best way to ensure the English didn't interfere with his plans was to put them someplace they couldn't give him any trouble. Besides, from the looks of it, the fishermen could use a little help.

English bastards
. The treacherous murder of MacLeod's clansmen was still fresh in his mind. And they called him a pirate.

He gave the order to raise the sail.

“What are you doing?” Sir Thomas Randolph sputtered in a hushed voice. “They'll see us.”

Erik sighed and shook his head. Bruce owed him. Acting nursemaid to the king's pompous nephew was not what he'd signed up for. The king might have to add a castle or two to the land in Kintyre he'd promised to restore to him, when Bruce reclaimed his crown and kicked Edward's longshanks back to England.

Randolph was so steeped in the code of chivalry and his knightly “duties” that he made Alex Seton—the sole knight (and Englishman) among the elite Highland Guard—seem lax. After two months of “training” Randolph, Erik had new respect for Seton's partner Robbie Boyd. Erik had heard enough about rules and honor to last him a bloody lifetime.
Randolph was beginning to wear on even his notoriously easy going nature.

Erik arched a brow with exaggerated laziness. “That's rather the point if we're going to draw them away.”

“But damn it, Hawk, what if they catch us?” Randolph said, calling Erik by his
nom de guerre
—his war name.

When on a mission, war names were used to protect the identities of the Highland Guard, but as a seafarer Erik had no choice but to involve others. He needed men to man the oars and with the other members of the Highland Guard scattered, he'd turned to his own MacSorley clansmen. The handful of men who'd accompanied Erik on this secret mission were his most trusted kinsmen and members of his personal retinue. They would keep his secret.

Thus far, the infamous “Hawk” sail had not been connected with the rumors spreading across the countryside of Bruce's phantom army, but he knew that could change at any moment.

The oarsmen in hearing distance of Randolph laughed outright at the absurdity.

“I haven't lost a race in…” Erik turned questioningly to his second-in-command, Domnall, who shrugged.

“Hell if I know, Captain.”

“See there,” Erik said to Randolph with an easy grin. “There's nothing to worry about.”

“But what about the gold?” the young knight said stubbornly. “We can't risk the English getting their hands on it.”

The gold that they carried was needed to secure the mercenaries. It had been collected over the winter months from Bruce's rents in Scotland by small scouting parties led by Gregor MacGregor, a member of the Highland Guard known as “Arrow” for his extraordinary prowess with a bow. The nighttime forays had only added to the growing rumors of Bruce's phantom guard. MacSorley and some of other guardsmen had been able to slip in and out of Scotland undetected thanks to key intelligence leaked from the enemy camp. Erik suspected he knew the source.

Bruce hoped to triple the size of his force with mercenaries. Without the additional forces the king would be unable to mount an attack on the English garrisons occupying Scotland's castles and take back his kingdom.

Last month, MacLean and Lamont—two members of the Highland Guard—had been sent to Ireland with two of Bruce's four brothers to begin recruiting soldiers. Erik had stayed with MacLeod and MacGregor to protect the king. But now, with the night of the attack approaching, Bruce was counting on him to secure the mercenaries and get them past the English fleet to Arran by mid-February.

“Relax, Tommy, lad,” Erik said, knowing full well that the nobleman with the sword firmly wedged up his arse would only be antagonized further by the admonition. “You sound like an old woman. The only thing they'll catch is our wake.”

Randolph's mouth pursed so tightly his lips turned white, in stark contrast to his flushed face. “It's Thomas,” he growled,
“Sir
Thomas, as you bloody well know. Our orders were to secure the mercenaries and arrange for them to join my uncle,
without
alerting the English patrols to our presence.”

It wasn't quite that simple, but only a handful of people knew the entire plan.

It was safer that way. For Bruce to have any chance against the formidable English army, it was imperative that they have surprise on their side. After years of serving as a gallowglass mercenary for his cousin, Angus Og MacDonald, King of the Isles, in Ireland, Erik knew that it was wise to be cautious with information. Coin was the only loyalty most mercenaries honored, and the McQuillans were a rough lot—to put it mildly.

Erik would not trust them with the details of their plan until he had to, including both the location of the rendezvous with Bruce and when and where they planned to attack. He would arrange to meet the Irish two nights before the attack, and then personally escort them to Rathlin to rendezvous with Bruce to assemble the army. The next night Erik would
lead the entire fleet to Isle of Arran, where Bruce planned to launch the northern attack on the Scottish mainland set for February 15.

The timing was imperative: the king planned to attack at Turnberry while his brothers led a second attack on the same day in the south at Galloway.

With the timing so tight, and since they could only travel at night, there was no margin for error.

Nothing would interfere with his mission. Having a little fun with the English wasn't going to change that.

“It's reckless,” Randolph protested angrily.

Erik's shook his head. The lad really was hopeless. “Now, Tommy, don't go throwing around words you don't understand. You wouldn't know reckless if it came up and bit you in the arse. It's only reckless if there is a chance they'll catch us, which—as you've already heard—they won't.”

His men hoisted the square sail. The heavy wool fibers of the cloth coated with animal fat unfurled with a loud snap in the wind, revealing the fearsome black sea hawk on a white-and-gold-striped background. The sight never ceased to get his blood pumping.

A few moments later he heard a cry go up across the water. Erik turned to his disapproving companion with an unrepentant grin. “Looks like it's too late, lad. They've spotted us.” He took the two guide ropes in his hands, braced himself for the gust of wind, and shouted to his men, “Let's give the English dogs something other than their tails to chase. To Benbane, lads.”

The men laughed at the jest. To an Englishman “tail” was a hated slur. Bloody cowards.

The sail filled with wind, and the
birlinn
started to fly, soaring over the waves like a bird in flight, giving proof to the Hawk namesake emblazoned on the sail and carved into the prow of his boat.

The faster they flew, the faster the blood surged through his veins. His muscles strained, pumping with raw energy, holding
the boat at a sharp angle to the water. The wind ripped through his hair, sprayed his face, and filled his lungs like an elixir. The rush was incredible—elemental. Freedom in it's most pure form.

He felt alive—invincible—knowing that he'd been born for this.

For the next few minutes the men were silent as Erik maneuvered the boat into position, heading strait for Benbane Head, the northernmost point of Antrim. His clansmen knew him well enough to know what he planned. It wasn't the first time he'd taken advantage of a high tide and treacherous rocks.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see that his ploy had worked. The English patrol had forgotten all about the fishermen and were giving chase.

“Faster,” Randolph shouted above the roar of the wind. “They're gaining on us.”

The lad certainly knew how to put a damper on a good time. But grudgingly, Erik had to admit, that the English galley was closer than he expected. The captain had some skill—and some luck. The Englishman had taken advantage of a gust of wind, one even stronger than the one Erik had tapped into, and was augmenting their speed with their oarsmen. Erik's oars were silent. He would need them later.

A little English luck didn't worry him overmuch—even a blind squirrel found an acorn once in a while.

“That's the idea, Tommy. I want them close enough to lead them into the rocks.”

Devil's Point was a promontory that jutted out like a rocky finger from the coastline just west of Benbane Head on the far north coast of Ireland. At high tide the rocky reef would be invisible until it was too late. The trick would be to get the English between him and land, so it wasn't his boat that was torn apart by the jagged rocks. At the last minute Erik would let them catch up, and then turn sharply west, holding course
just past the edge of the rock while leading the English right to the Devil.

It was just the kind of deft maneuvering that he could do it in his sleep.

“Rocks?” Randolph said, his voice taking on a frantic edge. “But how can you see anything in this mist.”

Erik sighed. If the lad didn't learn to relax, his heart was going to give out before he reached three and twenty. “I can see all I need to. Have a little faith, my fearless young knight.”

The dramatic high cliffs of the headland came into view ahead of them. On a clear day the majestic dark walls topped with emerald green hillsides took your breath away, but tonight the looming shadows looked menacing and haunting.

He looked back over his shoulder again and cocked an eyebrow, a hint of admiration coming into his gaze. The English dog wasn't half-bad. In fact, he was good enough to throw off Erik's timing. Running parallel to the shore wasn't going to work, he was going to have to lead them straight in and turn—directly into the wind—at the last minute.

The English captain might be good…

But Erik was better.

A broad smile curved his mouth. This was going to be more fun than he'd anticipated.

With his cousin, Lachlan MacRuairi, off on a mission, and Tor “Chief” MacLeod land-bound as personal bodyguard to the king, it had been some time since Erik had tasted any real competition. About the last place he expected to find it was with an Englishman.

It was too dark and misty to see the precise edge of the shoreline, but Erik knew they were getting close. He could feel it. Blood pumped faster through his veins as he anticipated the danger of the next few moments. If anything went wrong or if he were off at all in his calculations, the English wouldn't be the only ones swimming to shore.

He turned to Domnall who manned the rudder fixed at the
stern. “Now!” he ordered the tack from port to starboard. “Come about and let's send these English bastards straight to the Devil.”

The men responded with an enthusiastic roar.

Moments later the sail fluttered and the boat jerked hard to the starboard side: Devil's point straight ahead.

He heard the hard snap of the sail behind him as the English followed suit, managing the sudden tack with ease.

They were right behind them, nearing firing range for their longbows.

Almost time…

“Stop in the name of Edward, by the Grace of God, King of England,” a voice from behind shouted in English.

“I serve no king but Bruce,” Erik replied in Gaelic.
“Airson an Leomhann!”
He shouted the battle cry of the Highland Guard: For the Lion.

The cacaphony of voices behind him suggested that someone understood what he said. “Traitors!” a shout rose up.

But Erik payed them no mind, his attention completely focused on the narrow stretch of black sea visible ahead of him.

The air on the boat was thick with tension. Not much farther now. A few hundred feet. He eyed the cliffs on the shore to his left, looking for the jagged peak that marked his reference point, but the mist made it difficult to see.