The Warrior (27 page)

M
oira heard her husband’s voice coming through the window from the courtyard below
and paused to listen.

“Have ye paid no mind to what I’ve been teaching ye?” Duncan said. “You’d let yourself
get killed over a wee bit of rain in your eyes?”

That was odd. While Moira could well imagine Duncan using those words as he trained
the men, his tone was soft and reasonable.

Moira stuck her head out the window, wondering if the faeries had stolen her warrior-husband.
When she saw he was with Ragnall and Sarah, she smiled. The two children were squinting
up at Duncan through the rain and holding their wooden swords in front of them. Duncan
held a wooden sword as well, which, with his size, made him look a trifle ridiculous.

“Do ye think the MacLeods will wait for a dry day to attack us?” Duncan asked them
as he crossed swords with first one and then the other. “Or the MacKinnons? Or the
Macleans? Or the—”

“Duncan,” Moira called down, “it is raining a bit hard now.”

Duncan looked up at her and broke into a smile. “I suppose it is.”

“Can I wipe the rain out of my eyes now, Da?” Sarah asked with a sour expression on
her face.

Sarah had decided to call them Mother and Father, which seemed right to them. While
Duncan was bound to spoil Sarah and their future daughters in other ways, they were
both determined that their girls would learn the skills to defend themselves. They
lived in dangerous times in a dangerous world. Should the girls ever need to, they
would know how to steal a boat and use a dirk.

“Let me help,” Duncan said to Sarah and wiped her face with his sleeve.

Moira patted Sàr next to her. Duncan was like the wolfhound—profoundly loyal and gentle
with his family and the fiercest of warriors in protecting them.

“Ye both did well today.” Duncan scooped up a child in each arm and rubbed noses with
them in turn. “What do ye say we meet your mother in the kitchen and find ourselves
a treat?”

Moira ran down the stairs with the wolfhound on her heels. A short time later, she
and Duncan stood in the kitchen doorway watching the children eat honeyed nuts and
chat with the cooks. Every time Ragnall smiled at something one of them said, Moira’s
heart felt lighter. He would always have a more serious nature than Sarah, but the
dark cloud that had hung over him was gone.

“I have a different kind of treat in mind for us.” Duncan’s warm breath tickled her
ear as he leaned down and whispered to her. “What do ye say to sneaking off to your
cottage with me, princess?”

“Ye know that if ye sing to me first,” she whispered into his ear, “ye can get me
to do anything.”

Much later, Moira lay in her warrior’s arms, thinking of all her blessings.

“Teàrlag told me our new babe will be another boy,” she said, resting her hand over
the new life inside her, “and the next one will be a girl.”

“Then it must be true,” Duncan said and cupped her face with his hand. “I have great
faith in the old seer, for she’s the one who told me that trusting in a woman’s love
would change my fate.”

Moira smiled into his eyes. Her husband had a true heart she could always depend upon.
He had promised her everything would be better once they had wed, and he was a man
who kept his promises.

I always have “aha!” moments when I do my research for a book. Usually, this happens
when I come across a colorful historical character I can use to add an intriguing
twist to my plot. With this book, my great finds were a dog and a song.

Once I decided to include a dog in this story, I looked for a breed that existed in
Scotland in the early 1500s. I considered making him a Scottish deerhound until I
stumbled across its cousin, the Irish wolfhound, which I could have my heroine acquire
in Ireland. I did not know much about the breed, so I met with a local woman who owns
three. What amazing dogs! The owner told me they are aptly described by the phrase
Gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked
. The wolfhound’s quiet devotion, fighting prowess, and huge size made it seem like
a canine version of my hero, Duncan. I named him Sàr, which means “warrior” in Gaelic.

Duncan was musical in the previous books, but I had not planned to have him sing until
I heard the words to “Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair,” a traditional song
from Appalachia that is believed to have originated in Scotland. The man’s longing
and the description of the woman made this a perfect song for Duncan. Continuing in
the folk tradition, I did change a few words.

Meticulous readers may remember that Duncan’s whistle was made out of metal in
The Guardian
. I’ve learned since that was a mistake and consequently changed it to bone in this
story.

I apologize to connoisseurs of Scottish “whisky” for using the spelling
whiskey
, which is more familiar to most American readers.

As I portrayed in this book, the Highland clans of the Western Isles had close cultural
and kinship ties to northern Ireland. The Irish MacQuillans were on-and-off allies
with the MacDonalds of Dunivaig and the Glens, a branch of the MacDonalds that had
lands in both Scotland and Ireland. Sean and his brother Colla, however, are pure
fiction.

As I have mentioned before, researching clan histories of five hundred years ago presents
both challenges and opportunities for the fiction writer. For my story, I assumed
that the MacCrimmons were already serving as the hereditary pipers to the MacLeods
and that they were just starting their famous school, but I am not certain when either
actually occurred.

The MacLeods of Dunvegan and the MacDonalds of Sleat had a long and bloody rivalry.
I confess that I moved their fight over the Trotternish Peninsula forward by several
years. And so far as I can tell, the MacDonalds did not take the castle on Trotternish
before taking the rest of the peninsula.

Finally, I changed the name of this castle from Duntulm to Trotternish Castle to make
it easier for the reader to distinguish it from Dunvegan, Dunscaith, and all the other
castles that begin with
Dun
. The castle is in ruins, but the site is gorgeous. The day my daughter and I visited,
the sun was out, and it seemed as if we could see forever from the ruins on top of
the bluff. (I have photos on my website, www.margaretmallory.com.)

The MacLeod chieftain, Alastair Crotach, married late and lived a remarkably long
life. I hope readers find this real historical character as fascinating as I do, because
you will see more of him in
The Chieftain
.

F
ornicator, philanderer, liar,” Connor’s mother called out as she circled the crackling
fire dragging a stick behind her through the sand. “
Mo mhallachd ort!
” My curse on you!

Connor hugged his knees to his chest as he watched her long, unbound hair swirl about
her in the night wind like black snakes.

“May your seed dry up, Donald Gallach, chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat,” she
said in a high, quavering voice as she circled the fire a second time, “so that no
woman shall bear you another child.”

Connor wished his friend Duncan or his cousins were here, instead of asleep in the
castle hall with his father’s warriors, as he should be. His father said a seven-year-old
who slept on a pallet next to his mother’s bed would never be a great warrior and
had forbidden it. But his father was away, and Connor had been afraid something bad
would happen to his mother if he did not stay close to her.

“May your sons already born by other women die young,” his mother said as she raked
her stick around the fire again.

She had been weeping and tearing at her hair for days. She was like that sometimes.
Other times, she was like sunshine that was so bright it hurt your eyes.

But she had never done this before.

“Three times ’round, and the spell is bound.” His mother straightened and raised her
stick in the air. “And may ye know it was I, your wife, who cursed you!”

Connor heard running feet coming through the darkness just before a familiar voice
called, “No, Catriona!”

Connor’s heart lifted when Duncan’s mother, Anna, appeared next to his mother. Her
soft voice and kind words could sometimes soothe his mother. But if Anna saw him,
she would send him back to the castle. While her attention was on his mother, Connor
crawled through the beach grass until he was safely out of the firelight.

“Please, ye mustn’t do this,” Anna said. “An evil spell that’s unwarranted can come
back on ye.”

“Donald Gallach deserves every evil wish,” his mother spat out. “With passion and
sweet promises of eternal love, he persuaded me to leave a man who adored me. And
now, I discover he’s been keeping a woman up at Trotternish Castle—and she’s borne
him a son!”

“Men have done far worse.” Anna put her arm around his mother’s shoulders. “I beg
ye, take back this curse before it’s too late.”

“It was too late the moment he took another woman to his bed,” his mother said and
pushed Anna away. “I swear I will make that man regret what he’s done to me for the
rest of his days.”

“I’m certain you’re the only one the chieftain loves,” Anna said, brushing his mother’s
wild tangles back from her face. “Please, return to the castle and rest.”

“If he believes I will accept this and remain here, a dutiful wife, he has forgotten
who I am.” His mother stared into the fire and smiled in a way that frightened Connor.
“How he will rage when I leave him for another man.”

“Ye can’t mean to do that,” Anna said. “What about your children?”

Connor held his breath, trying not to cry, as he waited for her answer.

“Ye know very well that Highland children—especially a chieftain’s children—belong
to their father,” she said.

“But they need their mother,” Anna said, gripping her arm again. “And young Connor
adores ye.”

“You’re better at mothering them than I am, and I know you’d never let Donald Gallach
touch you,” his mother said. “Promise you’ll take care of Connor and Moira after I
leave.”

“I will, but—”

“Don’t go!” Connor ran to his mother and buried his face in her skirts. As always,
she smelled of rose petals.

“My sweet, serious lad.” His mother dropped to her knee and embraced him, then she
leaned away from him and asked, “Ye want your mother to be happy, don’t ye?”

Connor nodded. If she were happy, she would stay.

“You were begat of fiery passion, when I owned your father’s heart,” she said, holding
his face between her hands. “Every time your father looks at you, he will remember
how it was between us then and regret what he’s lost.”

One night, Connor slept too soundly, and his mother disappeared.

When he awoke, a storm raged outside, and the castle was in an uproar. His father
had returned after weeks away and was bellowing at everyone.

“Ye follow your mother about like a dog.” His father lifted Connor off his feet, shook
him, and shouted in his face. “Ye must have seen her with someone. Who did she leave
with? Tell me!”

His father’s fingers dug into his arms, but Connor did not say a word. Even if he
had known where his mother was, he would never betray her. And if he was very good,
she might come back for him.

His father sent his galleys in every direction, despite the storm. By the next day,
an eerie calm had settled over the sea. Connor was outside with Ragnall, his father’s
son by his first wife, when one of the boats returned. As soon as he saw a warrior
carrying his mother from the boat, her limbs and long black hair swaying with his
long strides, Connor starting running.

“No, Connor!” Ragnall shouted.

He darted out of his brother’s reach and scrambled down to the beach. But Ragnall
was ten years older, a grown man, and he caught Connor before he reached her.

Ragnall neither chastised nor tried to soothe him, but simply held Connor against
his solid frame, heavily muscled from constant training. Connor strained to see his
mother through the warriors who had crowded around her.

“Even in death, she commands the attention of every man,” Ragnall said under his breath.
“By the saints, your mother was beautiful.”

Was?
Connor did not understand, but fear knotted his belly.

The men suddenly parted to let the chieftain through. As their father brushed past
Connor and Ragnall, his gaze was fixed on the limp body that was draped over the warrior’s
arms like an offering.

“Their galley capsized in the storm, and all were lost,” the warrior said when Connor’s
father came to a halt before him. “A farmer found her body washed up on shore.”

The muscles of his father’s jaw clenched and unclenched as his gaze traveled over
her.

“Let me see her!” Connor wailed, reaching his arms out to her.

His father pivoted and fixed his fierce golden eyes on him. Ragnall tightened his
grip and turned sideways to protect him from their father’s wrath, but Connor was
too distraught to fear him.

“What’s wrong with her?” Connor usually kept silent in his father’s presence, but
he had to know.

“She was unfaithful, and now she’s dead,” his father said, anger vibrating off him.
“There will be no weeping for her.”

Grief sucked the air from Connor’s lungs, and it was a long moment before any sound
came out. Then he howled, “No!” and clawed at his brother’s arms, trying to get down.
“Let me see her! Let me see her!”

“Praise God I have one son who is a fit heir to lead this great clan,” his father
said.

“Connor’s only a bairn, Fa—” Ragnall started to say.

The chieftain cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand. “Keep her son out of my
sight.”