Pride of the Clan
Authors: Anna Markland
PRIDE OF THE CLAN
BY
ANNA MARKLAND
©
ANNA MARKLAND 2015
COVER ART BY STEVEN NOVAK
Virtutis Gloria Merces
Glory is the Reward of Valor
Dedicated to three authors who are as passionate about medieval romance as I am.
Kathryn Le Veque, Catherine Kean and Laurel O’Donnell.
I acknowledge the assistance of my critique partners Reggi Allder, Jacquie Biggar and Sylvie Grayson in polishing this manuscript. Also thanks to my loyal Scottish fan, Margaret Anderson, for help with research on Blair Castle.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.
All fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.
COPYRIGHT
©
Anna Markland 2015 All Rights Reserved
ISBN 978-1-927619-36-0
KINGSLAYERS
Scotland, February 21st, 1437 AD
“Our king is slain.”
Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson wasn’t surprised when scores of Highlanders summoned to the Hall of Dunalastair Castle reacted in stunned silence to his older brother’s dire tidings. The rigid anger in Tannoch Robertson’s stance soon inflamed loud outrage.
Upon first hearing the tragic news two hours before, Rheade had floundered in a flood of anguish and disbelief, along with a profound sadness that the murder of King James Stewart would inevitably result in a bloody vendetta. “There’ll be widespread carnage,” he confided to Logan.
“Aye,” his younger brother replied. “No one will be safe from Tannoch’s wrath. If the chieftain of Clan Robertson deems any man, woman or bairn guilty of complicity in this regicide, their lives will be forfeit.”
Soon the Hall reeked as a seething mass of angry, troubled men clamored for revenge. The roar was deafening. Standing in front of the massive hearth, hairy legs braced, Tannoch held up a big, calloused hand. Smoke from the burning peat caressed him like a wraith. When quiet was more or less restored he declared, “Let every clansman learn of the evil that transpired in Perth.”
He glowered those still muttering into silence.
“Yestereve our beloved king was lodging at the Dominican Priory, with his wife.”
Queen Joan’s name rolled through the crowd like mist creeping over the moor.
Tannoch shook his head vigorously. “Nay, praise be to the saints she suffered naught more than bruises, and I have sworn to her and her son that Clan Robertson will avenge this foul murder.”
As hoarse shouts of
Aye
echoed off the stone pillars of the hall, the turmoil in Rheade’s gut told him life had changed irrevocably, and not for the better.
“Who has done this foul deed?” came the shout.
There was a collective intake of breath as Tannoch coughed up phlegm, spat it out and announced, “I will utter three names; may they be forever engraved on yer hearts.”
He paused, his cat-like eyes roving from one end of the Hall to the other, then growled the first name. “Robert Stewart, the King’s Chamberlain and Master of Atholl.”
Many frowned, straining to hear. Chants of
Death to Stewart
rose to a crescendo as the damned name was relayed from man to man.
Tannoch raised his hand again, shouting over the din. “They say ‘twas Robert Stewart who unbarred the doors of the royal apartments.” He waited, then growled, “But ‘twas not he dealt the fatal blow.”
The wolf pack gradually quieted, salivating for the name of its next prey.
“The king’s own uncle, Robert’s grandfather, Walter Stewart, Earl of Atholl,” Tannoch yelled hoarsely, thrusting his fist in the air. “Our
bluidy
neighbor from Blair Castle.”
Death to Atholl
, came the thunderous reply.
His contorted face a brighter red than usual, spitting saliva that glistened like morning dew on his bushy beard, Tannoch bellowed, “’Twas he pursued our King into the hiding place where he sought refuge, under the floorboards.”
“Shame! Shame!”
“But ‘twas not he dealt the fatal blow.”
Utter silence awaited the third name.
“Robert Graham.”
The outcry shook the rafters. “’Twas he.”
“On the morrow we ride for Blair Castle. Ne’er forget our clan motto,” Tannoch thundered. “
Garg ‘nuair dhùisgear
.”
Rheade’s gaze remained fixed on his older brother as frenzy seized the mob and broadswords, daggers and pikes danced in the smoke-hazed air. “I swear our chieftain has a glint in his eye,” he shouted into Logan’s ear. “
Fierce when roused
indeed.”
“Aye. He was born with a flair for rabble rousing.”
There was no doubt Tannoch expected his brothers to join him on the hunt for the regicides. “He’ll keep at it like a cat with a mouse, until he brings them to justice.”
Logan’s face was grim. “No matter how long it takes.”
At two and twenty, Rheade’s thoughts had recently turned to choosing a wife and siring bairns. None of that would be possible now.
MARGARET
Near Loch Tay, Perthshire, Scotland, February 22nd, 1437 AD
With one hand, Margaret Ogilvie lunged for the side of the canvas-covered wagon as it once again lurched to a halt at a heart-stopping angle. Her spirits fell at the unwelcome sound of wood splintering. With the other hand she pushed against her aunt’s considerable girth as the screeching woman tumbled toward her. Ending up beneath her might prove fatal. Margaret already bore bruise upon bruise from similar mishaps during the long trek from Oban to Blair Castle.
Over her aunt’s loud wailing she heard Uncle Davey outside swearing at the wagon driver.
Aunty Edythe rolled her eyes, gasping for breath. “Won’t make a scrap of difference to the way Shaon drives. Davey has reprimanded him a thousand times over since we left Oban more than a sennight ago, and still we endure another breakdown.”
The wagon had faltered the first time near Loch Etive, shortly after their departure. Margaret had pointed out the reason for the mishap had more to do with the rutted and rugged byways they were travelling. “And the fact we are making the journey in February,” she’d added.
“Any driver worth his salt can maneuver a cart over any kind of terrain, in any kind of weather,” Davey Ogilvie had retorted. “And besides, I promised my dear departed brother I would take ye to Blair Castle with all possible haste.”
Margaret and her aunt huddled in the off-kilter shelter of the wagon while Shaon and his twin stoically effected whatever repairs were necessary this time. The two men had served her father faithfully since before her birth. They’d done nothing to merit this nightmarish journey, but hadn’t once complained. They labored in the sleet under her uncle’s critical gaze. Margaret’s fingers and toes might be frozen, but she was out of the bitter wind and wrapped in several blankets. At least for the next while they’d be spared the pungent odor of the horse’s frequent droppings. Joss had freed it from the traces and tied the reins to a nearby tree.
“Joss is simple,” her aunt said, making no effort to lower her voice.
This had been a constant, irritating refrain Edythe seemed incapable of abandoning. It was true that Joss, built like an ox, had little in the way of speech, but Margaret was aware it was he who often solved practical problems that arose on the Ogilvie estate. Shaon, a will-o-the-wisp compared to his brother, had been known to flatten anyone who ridiculed Joss.
“They are doing their best, Aunty,” she replied wearily, knowing what would come next.
“Why yer betrothed couldn’t come to Oban to collect ye, I’ll never understand.”
And there it was. Another painful truth her aunt seemed bound and determined to repeat over and over. The last time she’d set eyes on the man who was now Master of Atholl she’d been twelve years of age, her betrothed ten years her senior. Despite repeated appeals and assurances he would retrieve her from Oban once she reached marriageable age, Robert Stewart had failed to do so.
It was evident he didn’t want her.
“And now ye’re practically an auld maid at twenty,” her aunt continued. “No wonder yer poor father, God rest his soul, made my Davey swear to take ye to Atholl.”
Despite the cold, sweat trickled down Margaret’s spine. She pressed her hand to the sweet-bag of aromatic herbs fastened round her neck with a ribbon, inhaling the fragrance her touch released. Concealed beneath her
léine
and nestled between her breasts, it provided relief from Edythe’s constant harping, and the woman’s distasteful odor.
At the outset of the journey her aunt had stoutly refused Margaret’s offer to share her supply of sweet-bags. She had tried without success over the years to like Edythe and attributed her uncle’s mean-spirited demeanor to having spent years with the shrew. It explained how a man resembled his brother in looks and yet was different in temperament.
Margaret and her brothers had been raised in a loving home by Jocelin and Duncan Ogilvie and she had hoped one day to share such a life with a man she loved. Her betrothal to Robert Stewart had squashed the notion. He apparently had other priorities.
“Aye,” Edythe continued with a sniffle, dabbing her eyes with a kerchief. “Such a pity yer ma withered and died after yer brothers drowned in Brecan’s Cauldron.”
“And Papa not long after,” Margaret said hoarsely, bitterly aware of the hypocrisy in Edythe’s sentiment. She stifled an urge to spew out her resentment of her aunt’s callous disregard for her parents’ grief.
If she dwelt too long on the memory of the fateful day when her darling brothers had been dragged into the fury of the whirlpool in the Strait of Corryvrechan between Scarba and Jura, she might go mad.
Now only one obstacle stood between Davey and the ownership of Ogilvie Hall. Margaret’s childhood home was not part of her dowry. Edythe’s thirst for it had brought her on this perilous journey, no doubt to ensure the marriage took place. Margaret would have preferred to make the journey on horseback, but the cart had been necessary to transport Edythe.
