Fianna Leighton - Tales of Clan Mackay Read online

  Chapter 1 - Battle of Bannockburn 1314

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1 - Battle of Bannockburn 1314

  “Ach, what did ye find, lass?” The hand gripping Mary Drummond’s arm was black with dried blood, fingernails broken and pitted. Mary looked at the hand and then stared blearily at the woman beside her. It took a moment to remember the woman’s name. Alice. Yes, that was it, she’d met her when she’d first arrived at Bannockburn and had asked for Robert the Bruce. Alice had laughed explaining the King was gone to Stirling to seize the castle, taking most of the men still alive with him.The rest lay fallen in the field, strewn across the heather clad hills in a macabre assemblage of both Scottish and English warriors. Most of the men were dead, yet not all.

  Alice leaned past Mary, and using the stick she carried, poked the man lying in front of them in the ribs. He flinched, fingers dug deep into the rusty red grass beneath him. Mary let loose a breath, startled to find she was holding it as relief washed over her. “He's alive!”

  “He won’t be for long,” Alice decided as she tucked her stick under her arm. “What’s he got to give?” She stepped closer but then froze when Mary drew her dirk, pushing Alice aside.

  “He’s mine, I found him first.”

  Alice drew back warily and shoved a lock of gray hair from her face. “He might be alive but he’ll not last long. He is hardly breathing, lass. Let's take what he’s got and move on.”

  “No!” Mary crouched beside him, but kept her gaze on Alice. “You will leave his things alone.”

  The woman sniffed and rubbed her dirty hand under her nose, leaving a dark streak. “Fine, missy, but leave him and he’s fair game.”

  Mary scowled at the woman and then leaned protectively over the wounded warrior. “I’m taking him home; he’s one of ours.” She really had no idea but Alice didn’t know that.

  Alice's lips curved into a sneer, but then the smirk vanished and she picked up her skirts to hurry away. Another hand dropped heavily on Mary’s shoulder.

  “Ah, it’s Nicholas,” a deep voice said sadly. “Is he gone?”

  Mary turned to look up at the man towering above her. Clad in a muddy green plaid over a leather tunic and mail, he looked weary, his red hair dull with dirt and blood, his shirt splattered scarlet. He thrust the claymore he carried into the ground at his feet and then crouched next to her.

  “He's alive, if barely,” Mary admitted. “I thought ye'd have gone with the Bruce, Angus.”

  Angus MacDubh grinned sheepishly. “Too many here to take care of, lass. The Bruce will find enough men to do the work to be done. We've a rout on the English to be sure.”

  Mary sniffed. Had they won? She could hardly believe it looking at the dead lying in the fields around her. Too many loyal men had died today. But that was the cost of the war, one that had been drawn out for far too long. She shivered and leaned over Nicholas to place a hand on his brow. “He’s fevered and there is a lot of blood, but perhaps it’s not all his own.”

  Angus frowned and lifted the edge of the chain mail Nicholas wore. “No gut wounds at least. Ye may be right. The longer he’s out here means the less chance he’s got.”

  Mary nodded in agreement. “I'll do what I can for him.”

  “Nicholas is a good friend.” Angus sighed deeply. “Don’t leave him alone, Mary.” He looked around at the scavengers, a scowl drawing in a fine pair of eyebrows. “Been many a night I spent in drink with Nicky, he’s a fine man.”

  Mary looked up at the Highlander with a smile. “That sounds like something my brothers would say.” She shook her head. “Drinking companions are always fine men.”

  Angus grinned briefly and then his expression grew more serious. “Save him, lass. I know who ye are, who yer clan is. Good people forced to do the devil’s work these days, curse the English.” He spat, clearing his throat, his face turned away for a moment. He pulled his sword free of the earth. “I’d give ye a hand lass, but the hour grows late. The crows gather and I’ve got work to do, mercy to employ for those alive, if ye know what I mean.”

  She did which brought a catch in her throat at the thought of such a horrendous task. The screams of the dying still seemed to echo over the field, the loss of so many a burden the earth itself seemed weary to carry.

  Angus took a step down the hill but then he stopped to peer over his shoulder. The wind caught his hair, ruffling the red strands. He looked at her for a minute and then spoke. “He’s a fierce temper, mind you, if ye are near when he wakes. He willna’ know what is what when he does so be careful. He could kill ye even wounded as he is.”

  Mary smiled faintly. “I understand. I would send word of him if ye like?”

  Angus snorted. “When and how, lass? I’ve no sense where I’ll be after this.” He jerked his chin at the rolling hills over which the enemy had fled to fight another day. “I’ll be running after them most like, so they can kill me later. But if fate thinks I should know, I will.” He touched his brow and then hurried away.

  Mary sat beside Nicholas for a long moment. Had she been rash in taking on the man beside her? Her brothers were out there somewhere. The chances to find them were slim. They could be anywhere. Much of the Scottish army had already moved on following the fleeing English soldiers. Even if she could catch up to Bruce, there was still no guarantee the men would be with him. She looked back at where Angus had disappeared. Her brothers could also be nearby doing as Angus was, providing a desperate kindness to those alive, but soon to be dead. It was certainly a better alternative to the feasting of the crows. She looked down at Nicholas when he coughed weakly and then groaned. His hand lifted as if to reach for something and she frowned when it dropped back to the ground. She peered beneath the chain mail but could see little of his wounds.

  Nicholas mumbled something, fever slurring his words. Mary bent over him to put her ear next to his mouth. His hand caught her by surprise, dropping heavily on the back of her neck, holding her fast as he opened his eyes. “Scavenger!” he snarled in a raspy voice. His gaze full of pain and fury, he tried to say more but could only gasp a strangled cough instead.

  Mary jerked out of his grasp, her heart racing. She pressed her fingers against her chest to ease the tension. “I am not one of them!” she declared fiercely. “I’ve only come to find my brothers…” She stopped and sighed when Nicholas’s eyes fluttered closed. “And it seems, to help you,” she added softly.

  The choice made and promised, she could not change her mind. Drummonds always kept their promises.

  Nicholas lay again as if dead, barely breathing beneath the heavy weight of the steel across his chest. Like Angus, he wore a fair amount of armor including a chain mail tunic, thick leather gauntlets as well as a leather tunic and boots. Here was a man who knew how to fight and had the money to garner the best equipment. She'd been around fighting men all her l
ife and knew the value of the sword and mail. But now it meant only added weight for her. She gripped his arm and pulled, grunting at the effort to roll him onto his side. He groaned faintly, wheezing for a moment until he subsided once again to the deathlike state.

  It took a few minutes to remove his tunic and the mail. Moving him seemed to bring Nicholas around once more as he stiffened suddenly against her legs, hand reaching for a sword that was no longer attached to his hip.

  She was shocked at how fast he could move, even hurt, even warned as she'd been by Angus. Nicholas' hand shot out, gripping her arm painfully enough it made her cry out. He dragged her against him, his other hand buried in the back of her hair. “What do you do, woman?”

  She couldn't breathe, shocked by the strength still in his hands, the press of his body beneath hers, far too warm against her skin. His eyes glittered, even dulled as they were with pain, green as a highland meadow in spring.

  “I’m not stealing yer things,” Mary hissed. “I’m not like the others. I’m only trying to help ye.”

  His eyes widened, his breath suddenly choked off as he gasped for air. Mary slid off of him, drawing back as he struggled to speak. “Where are…” He choked, his voice so low Mary had to lean over him again. Her heart raced painfully, fear made her palms damp. But he didn’t speak further only tossed his head, brows drawn together.

  “I mean ye no harm.” Mary wondered if her efforts were futile as Nicholas coughed, his eyes squinted shut, clearly in pain. He lifted his hand and she flinched when he gripped her arm, but this time it was gentle, a light pressure against her skin that just as quickly dropped away as he faded into unconsciousness.

  With a deep sigh, Mary folded his hands over his chest. Wrapping his mail, she hid the armor beneath some rocks. It was the best she could do, hoping no one was paying much attention.

  Once she was back beside Nicholas, she tied a cloak underneath his arms, leaving her the ends with which she could drag him behind her.

  Nicholas muttered again and Mary knelt by his side.

  “Water,” he whispered hoarsely.

  She offered him water from a small skein she had brought. Most of the water spilled down his chin but he swallowed some, breathing a raspy sigh. Despite her fear, Mary felt her heart swell in concern. He was far too pale, his lashes dark against his skin. High cheekbones and a firm chin marked him as a stubborn man and along with the green eyes, a man she might have found interesting in different circumstances. She smiled when he opened his eyes, slits of brilliant green that made her shiver.

  “What. Are. You. Doing?” The words were short, the effort behind them evident as his brows drew together.

  “I am saving yer arse,” Mary tucked the remains of his tattered cloak around him, ignoring the stiffness of the fabric, the dried blood.

  “Foolish,” he protested. He lifted an arm but Mary forced it back beneath his cloak.

  “Aye, I am sure there’s a few hereabouts thinking the same,” Mary patted his shoulder and then stood up. Green eyes gazed at her blearily.

  “Can’t breathe,” he complained.

  Wishing her brother William was there, she crouched beside Nicholas again. “I’m doing what I can, lad. Just rest, now.”

  Chapter 2

  Nicholas felt the swaying movement of being dragged, but it was a faint sensation nearly drowned by the pain constricting his chest, the piercing ache of wounds dire enough he knew he might not last the night. He could do little to help and instead let his mind wander, memories of the past few days taking his thoughts.

  Robert the Bruce sat on a rock, dressed simply in breeches and linen tunic, a red plaid tossed over one shoulder. He'd looked little more than any Highlander, yet he was King, if a contested one at times. Nicholas had met Robert at Arran, to join his army after a long sojourn outside of Scotland. Coming home to the Highlands had not been what he'd planned, joining yet another battle not of his choosing. His loyalty to King and country, however, could not be denied when called.

  The battle at Bannockburn had been well planned. The English hampered by the burn beneath the castle and the marshes around it, had only a narrow channel in which to approach the waiting Scottish army. Nicholas had fought hard, cheered by the fact many of the invading cavalry had gone down, tripped by the caltrops buried in their path. Mist had hampered both sides, heavy and damp it had hidden much of the surrounding battle, and for Nicholas, the danger approaching rapidly from behind him.

  The horse and rider had appeared like a phantom from the mist, slamming into Nicholas even as he twisted to evade the blow, one arm raised in protection from the horse and the sword bearing down on him. Flung aside by the powerful impact, he landed hard on his back, all breath blasted from his chest. It had taken only those few precious seconds for another to find him vulnerable, stabbing him in the side and left for dead.

  He had not died, however. Long hours had left him thirsty and nearly delirious. He could not seem to rise out of the depths of pain surrounding him, not until a voice had broken through the walls of darkness, drawing him back to the living, and even more pain.

  He wanted to die. He told himself this over and over, wishing the end to come quickly. But the voice continued to haunt him, a lyrical speech that held him enthralled, a set of eyes he had noted but briefly in the midst of his pain. They had been filled with fear as he'd intended, but then something more, something he had not seen for some time in all his travels. Compassion. It was something he did not deserve. He had returned home, but did not intend to stay, for once this war was done, he would either be dead or gone.

  He could not stay. Too much had happened, too much left unsaid and undone.

  Once more he wished for death. And once more her voice intruded on his thoughts, pulling him to awareness, to listen to a brogue he had never thought to hear again.

  She muttered, the sound drawn out in short bursts as she dragged him along. He felt every bump and groove in the ground, gritted his teeth so not to cry out. She was complaining, speaking to herself.

  “I promised Angus, I did.”

  A few moments passed as he faded a bit, the darkness enclosing him in a curtain of pain.

  “My brothers are probably dead,” she continued, breaking into his awareness. “Ach, but I only wanted to find them, I did. Da will have my hide, surely, once he finds out I've come.” She grunted, jerking Nicholas over a large stone. He sucked in a breath, gripping the cloak wrapped around his chest. It was difficult, ribs more than likely broken sent sharp daggers into his side.

  A pause gave him a moment of relief, his head dropped gently to the ground. He felt her kneel beside him, a hand pressed his brow.”Are ye still with me, lad?”

  He heard her sigh, the fingers soft against his skin. “I do not know how far I can take ye lad. The fog's lifting, we will be visible soon. I dare not take ye on the road. Ach, if only I'd found my brothers.”

  He cracked open his eyes, found her faintly outlined by mist. She leaned over him, her hair undone by her efforts to drag him along and the mist, a pale shimmer of gold fluff that brushed her cheeks and hung in a loose braid over one shoulder. She drew closer, a frown marring her brow. She touched him carefully, her fingers barely grazing his skin, but leaving a fiery path in their wake.

  “Are ye awake, Nicholas?”

  He could not answer and closed his eyes. Darkness drew over him once again, and he surrendered, letting fate take him where she would.

  ***

  Mary woke abruptly and sat up to listen. Fog drifted slowly over the hills, obscuring the gray rocks around her for a few moments before fading away, sounds of the day muffled and dim. Sunlight glimmered faintly overhead through the mist, the ground damp beneath her skirts. She shivered wanting only to lie back down beside the warmth beside her and then blinked as she remembered who was there.

  “Oh, lad, are you still with me?” She leaned over Nicholas and wiped a few strands of hair from his cheek. He smelled il
l, his skin felt clammy, his color too gray. And still, his breathing sounded raspy as if he could not breathe deeply. She wiped the dew from his brow and then moved away from him, groaning at the pain of overused muscles. If she could just get him to some place warm, he might have a chance. If she could find her brothers, it would be even better

  The only thing to do was continue until she could find a more suitable refuge.

  Moving him had been difficult. The man was heavy, over six foot if she could guess, a broad-shouldered man with well-defined muscles, if not like her brother Rory who was nigh a giant of a man. No, a bit too thin, his face pale under a scruffy beard, he was still handsome beneath the grime with long lashes that brushed his cheeks. Amused by such a thought at this time, Mary covered him with the cloak and then smoothed another strand of black hair from his brow. She would have to get moving, the mist was fading quickly and its cloaking comfort soon to be gone. A woman alone on the road was not wise, but she had little choice. Rory would have thrown the man over a shoulder and hauled him wherever Mary meant to go. Malcolm would have taken the time to devise some kind of contraption to make things easier. William would have woke the man and made him walk. She chuckled and as if her thoughts had brought them round, she looked up to find William standing in front of her, arms folded over his chest.

  “Well, if it isn't Mary,” William complained with a growl of displeasure. “I said to Malcolm; look at that girl, she looks an awful lot like our sister.”

  Mary heaved herself to her feet, throwing herself into William’s arms with a happy cry.

  Malcolm hugged her as well, drawing back to look at her with a frown. “And I said what the hell! She should not be here but home, safe and warm in Drymen!”

  Mary pulled free of her brother’s embrace. “It is not warm in Drymen as ye well know. The keep’s freezing even at this time of year.”

  William did not appreciate her humor, his arms folded over his chest. “I am glad to see you well, Mary, but what the devil are ye doing here?” He looked past her, lifting a brow in an expression she knew all too well.