Highlander Avenged (23 page)

“And the lore is true, aye? Would you be so adamant about this clan if it was not? Would you ask me to send men with you if you did not worry about what would happen should Edward get his hands upon the relic?”

Malcolm did not let his gaze waver. “That is not for me to say, my lord. But this I can tell you. The chief of the MacAlpins of Dunlairig, Nicholas, was once a spy for Edward. He kens well what Edward is capable of and he fears for the well-being of his people. You have seen firsthand what the English king is capable of when his will is thwarted. Do you think this small clan will stand against his forces for long?”

King Robert said nothing.

“If they fall, sire, there will be nothing to stop the English from swarming across the Highlands. If they break through, they will strive to close a noose about the Lowlands. There will be
nothing to stop King Edward from taking the thing he covets most . . . your throne.”

King Robert sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I do not have men to spare, Malcolm.”

Malcolm closed his eyes and did his best to quell the anger and fear that threatened to overtake his reason. Without help, he doubted the MacAlpins would survive to see summer’s end, Jeanette would not survive. It was bad enough that he had left her there. He did not think he could live with her death upon his conscience. “But sire—”

King Robert held a hand up to stop Malcolm before he could make further entreaties. “You do make a compelling argument, though,” the king said. “I will release you from your duty here to return to this clan.”

Malcolm nodded, grateful that at least he could return to Dunlairig and to Jeanette, at least until he had to return to his home. Time, if they survived the coming English attack, might show them a solution to their inevitable separation.

“I thank you, sire.”

“Do you give up so easily, Malcolm MacKenzie? I never knew you to accept less than you demanded, even of me.”

Hope sprung up in Malcolm. “I have learned of late that my old ways were not always the best. Perhaps I learned that lesson too well?”

The king laughed. “Perhaps you have, but even so, you have convinced me that I must do what I can for these MacAlpins. I cannot spare many for your cause, but if you can convince your kinsmen to follow you into battle again, you have my leave to take them with you.”

I
T TOOK
M
ALCOLM
a while to find where the MacKenzies of Blackmuir were in the camp of over six hundred men, but finally, as the sun was settling on the horizon and the shadows were long and cool, he discovered his kin. A kettle hung over a fire and the scent of a savory stew hung over the seven MacKenzie men sitting near it.

“Malcolm?” Jock, a distant cousin and the eldest of the seven, saw him first. He was on his feet and striding toward Malcolm, gripping him in a bone-crushing bear hug before Malcolm could say anything. “You are alive!” Jock had him by the shoulders now, shaking him hard in his excitement. “Look, lads! ’Tis Malcolm himself!”

The others were on their feet, but there was something reserved about them. Perhaps it was just in comparison to Jock’s strong welcome, but Malcolm noticed looks passing between the men, and they did not look so happy to see him.

“Are you hungry, lad?” Jock asked, scooping some of the stew into a wooden bowl, handing it to Malcolm with a horn spoon, and motioning for him to sit on the small keg Jock had been using, without waiting for an answer.

“I am. My thanks.” He looked about and accounted for all the men who had been with him on the day he had been injured, except for one. “Where is Cameron?”

Another odd look passed from man to man and Malcolm could not help but assume the worst.

“He is dead?” he asked.

“Nay,” Jock said, but he was no longer excited and the smile that had split his face a moment ago was now replaced by a frown and the man did not look him in the eye. None of them did.

“Then where is he?” Malcolm prodded. “Is he maimed?”

“Nay,” Jock said again. “He was called back to Blackmuir just a few days ago.”

“Do not make me drag it out of you, Jock.” Malcolm set his still full bowl on the ground next to him and began rubbing his right hand again. The action reminded him of Jeanette, both when she massaged it for him and when she chided him for needing her to do what he could do himself. He almost smiled at the memory but kept his mind on the task at hand. He needed to convince his kin to return to Dunlairig with him, to take their part of the battle for Scotland’s independence away from here.

Jock was looking at his kin, as if hoping someone else would tell Malcolm what he wanted to know.

“I’ll not bite your head off for the truth, lads,” Malcolm said. “Is Cameron well?”

“He is well,” Jock said, as if that answer was easy enough to give. “He is gone back to Blackmuir because your da . . .” The man rubbed a big hand along the back of his neck and sighed. He looked Malcolm in the eye once more. “We looked for you as best we could after the battle at Dalrigh last summer, but the English and those damned MacDougalls crawled over that battlefield for days and we could not get close enough to even claim our dead. When your da heard the news that you were likely dead, he named Cameron his successor as chief.” He paused and sighed again. “Your da died a fortnight ago. Cameron went home because he is now chief of the MacKenzies of Blackmuir.”

Malcolm knew all of them were tense from the hard lines of their mouths, the bouncing foot of Turval, and Hector chewing his fingernails, as he always did before a battle. They were waiting for him to react, to explode, to deny the news, but in truth, he did not know what to feel.

His father was dead. As much as they had disagreed, he had never really believed his father would die. And yet, he had. An ache opened up in his chest, like someone had scooped out his innards and left him hollow, empty.

“How did he die?” he asked quietly.

“Fever,” Jock said.

“Fever,” Malcolm repeated, trying to understand this news. “Are my sisters well?”

“Aye. The message told us many had the fever but only a few died. Your sisters were amongst those that survived.”

“And Cameron has taken my place as the new chief.” The words had not sunk in until he said them himself. Cameron was chief. Not Malcolm. Cameron.

“We all thought you dead,” Aiden, Cameron’s younger brother, finally said. Jock took the opportunity to drain a cup of what was probably ale.

“Can I have some of that?” Malcolm asked Jock.

“Aye, but I think a wee dram of whiskey would be better for you, lad.”

Malcolm agreed, though he might need more than one wee dram this night. No one spoke until they all had whiskey in their hands.

“To my da,” Malcolm said, raising his drink in the air, then draining it. The others echoed his words and his actions.

Malcolm looked about him and realized that, with the exception of Cameron, these were all of the men who had fought with him last summer, all that had been left alive of the twenty MacKenzies that had joined the king’s army that spring. After almost twelve months of Cameron’s leadership, these seven were still alive. Did he keep them at the rear of the battles, or was he simply better at keeping their men alive than Malcolm was?

“Tell me about Cameron,” he said. “Will he make a good chief?”

For the next several hours Malcolm’s kin regaled him with tales of battles, hard weather, meager rations, and their recent victory at Loudoun Hill. In every tale, Cameron had proved to be a good leader of his men. In every tale, Cameron had proved to be a better leader of his men than Malcolm had been. It was hard to hear, but slowly Malcolm came to understand that these men trusted Cameron as they had not trusted him. He came to understand that his headlong rush into battle in search of glory made him a good warrior, but not the kind of leader these men needed.

And then he realized he was no longer that foolish man. His last battle with them had been the end of that foolish man. They had followed Cameron’s instructions, not his, because Cameron knew it was a fool’s battle. He had argued with Malcolm that they should retreat and live to fight another day, a better day when they were not already exhausted by the rout at Methven and the rapid march westward. But Malcolm had been too focused on proving himself to be the best warrior for his clan, while missing the point that he needed to prove himself the best leader for his clan. It was a lesson his father had tried to teach him again and again but Malcolm, in his arrogance, thought his father daft, and thought Cameron weak-minded for agreeing with Malcolm’s father. But on that day at Dalrigh his men had followed the better leader, not the arrogant warrior, and it had likely cost him the use of his arm for most of a year. And yet he was not angry.

This surprised Malcolm. He was not angry with them anymore. He himself had followed Nicholas’s instructions in the recent battle, though he knew the man was not the warrior Malcolm was. But Nicholas was a good leader, soliciting opinions and advice when needed, while still making his own decisions, using each person’s strengths to the best advantage for the clan. It was easy to follow him because Malcolm trusted him, everyone trusted him, and so they all did their part in Nicholas’s plan. Just as these men had followed Cameron.

“You were right to follow Cameron that day,” he said when the tales tapered off into silence. “If you had followed me, some of you, maybe all, would have died on that battlefield. I almost did. Cameron, in his wisdom, has managed to keep you all alive while fighting the good fight for King Robert and Scotland.” He looked at each one of them carefully now, weighing the stories they had told against the evidence of new scars, and a quiet strength that had not been there before, etched on their faces, along with the clear surprise at his words. “Will you follow him as chief?”

They each nodded.

“We swore our allegiance to him before he left here,” Aiden spoke again.

Malcolm nodded. “It was the right thing to do.”

“But you always wanted to be chief,” Aiden said. “Do you accept so easily that you will not follow your da in that position?”

“Easily? Nay, not easily. In truth, I did not want it anymore, but I would not have admitted that to anyone if it were not already done.” Only now was it sinking in, what it meant for Cameron to be chief of the MacKenzies, and that hollow place inside him began to fill with warmth and hope.

“You must have taken a hard hit on the head, Malcolm,” Jock said as he poked at the fire and threw another piece of wood on it.

Malcolm smiled at the man. “Nay, it was my arm that took the hit.” And his heart. He pulled his sleeve up and showed them the injury on his arm that had finally healed into a long pink scar. “It took me a long time to realize it was my own pride and arrogance that caused my injury. If I had listened to Cameron that day, I would have been with you all for this last year. But if I had been with you, then . . .” He wasn’t ready to talk about Jeanette just yet, not until he had things settled with these lads.

“Will you rejoin us now, Malcolm?” Dugald, the youngest of his cousins, asked.

“Nay. I have come, with the king’s blessing, to ask if you will come with me to fight on another front.” Before anyone could interrupt him, he put up a hand to stay their voices. “I understand you do not trust me to lead you.” Here there were denials, but he could tell their hearts were not in them. “Know that I am not the leader in this fight, but a simple warrior looking for reinforcements.”

“Who would we be fighting?”

“The English are mounting an attack against the MacAlpins of Dunlairig. They are a small clan who are said to protect the southern route into the Highlands along the Great Glen. Have you heard the tale of the Highland Targe?”

“Aye,” Gillean said. His hair was almost as pale as Jeanette’s and the lad had filled out in the year since Malcolm had seen him last. “My granny used to tell me that one. It was a shield big enough to block invaders, but I did not believe the tale, even when I was a wean.”

“King Edward believes it and seeks to take the Targe from them before he marches into the Highlands.”

“Why would he march into the Highlands?” Jock asked. “ ’Twould be daft to take an invasion force into that country if you did not ken the way through it.”

“I think he’s likely planning to make his way east, not north, in the hopes of circling the Scottish forces.”

“Did you tell Robert of this?”

“I did, and he agreed ’twas a likely plan. We believe there are twoscore English soldiers heading to Dunlairig. The MacAlpins have twenty fighting men—well, ten and nine without me—and their former chief has gone to rally their allies, but it is uncertain if he can do so. Even if he does, we cannot ken how many men will heed his call to arms. You seven could change the odds for the MacAlpins and for Scotland.

“Nicholas of Dunlairig is now the chief there and he is an able leader both in and out of battle. I trust him with my life, and I trust him with the lives of those I claim as mine,” he said, thinking not only of his cousins but how he had left Jeanette’s welfare in Nicholas’s hands. “I ken I ask much of you and that your loyalty lies elsewhere now. I ask only that you consider what I have said. With you, or without you, I return to Dunlairig at first light.”