Despite Them ©Mary Duncan 2009

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

Spittal of Glenshee, Scotland, 1712

My father’s face stares up at me with a lifeless eye. At least I think it’s my father. Blackened skin partially covering his face is all that remains, the rest is burned off to the bone. His last moment of the torture he endured is etched in his features.

I scan the barren moorland around the standing circle where he took his last breath. His charred remains—staked to the ground spread-eagle like some ancient sacrifice—have turned the earth black in the center of the four pillars of timeworn stones. The smell makes my nostrils rebel against taking in air, but with the speed my heart is racing, I must breathe. I bring the ragged sleeve of my sark up to cover my nose.

The wind swirls some of the ash into miniature vortexes, as if specters of my father dance around me. I shudder in the cold and wrap my plaid tighter around me.

I have no tears. He taught me that. Being a Macgregor was hard. Staying a Macgregor was harder. The Campbells saw to the latter. We are hunted like dogs, our lands stolen from us. We are a clan with no territory and a disputed chief to lead us. Lead us where? Into the hands of the Campbells so we are forced to change our names to theirs? Never!

My father named me Gregor Macgregor, just as he was named and his father before him. We are an ancient clan. My father used to say ours was a royal race, as we are descendants of Alpine, the king of Scotland in the seventh century. We fought alongside King Robert the Bruce in Bannockburn in 1314.

Somewhere along the way, the Campbells procured legal title to our traditional lands in Glenorchy. For a long time, Macgregors held on by the sword. But over the years, we were reduced to tenants on our own lands. Many became outlaws for survival, taking to the mountains in defiance of an all out extermination, where we have become master drovers of cattle. We’ve learned to be elusive and even to prosper. We will not be discarded so easily.

There is nary a soul in sight as my gaze returns from the snow-capped mountains to the stone pillars. I have nowhere to go now. Our croft was burning when I returned from checking my snares. I have no one, save a distant uncle. My Mam died after bringing me into the world, and both my older brothers have scattered to the wind. I don’t even know if they’re still alive.

I’m ten-years old and nearly as big as most men. Now I will have to start using the knowledge my Da gave me to survive.

I scrub my dirty face, push my long hair from my eyes and start walking. The dead are restless here.

CHAPTER ONE

Blair Castle, Scotland, 1723

I took my oath to the poet chief after he found me in the heather nearly seven years ago. Alexander Robertson was astride a black warhorse at the time, just out for a hunt with his dog, an enormous beast that sniffed me out of my hiding place in the gorse. I was so scared of the thing I couldn’t have run if I’d wanted to. He’d called the dog off—it was only wagging its tail at me anyway—asked me my name, and told me to follow him home.

After living in the wild for two years, I’d come to rely on just myself. I didn’t need another father, and Alexander didn’t want to become one. We both served a purpose to each other. He needed someone to tend the stables in Carrie and I needed … I needed somewhere to belong. I stayed with him in his croft in Carrie, growing strong, learning to read and write, and learning about the man himself and the art of war.

The barn at Blair Castle has been my home for nearly two years now. The castle was small in comparison to some, but its white harled façade shines in the sunlight, making it appear larger in the lush green of the surrounding mountains. Today, I intend to take my lot in life up a few steps from stable hand. I’ve been training all my life for this day. The Games, where I will become champion and be chosen to guard Alexander, the thirteenth chief of Clan Donnachaidh.

From my perch in the loft, I see men coming from all around. Men not nearly as large as I am, not nearly as strong, or as committed. I have not yet met a man who can look me directly in the eye; they all have to look up. The intimidation of that one small act has me smiling. I pick up my claymore, pat the dirk at my waist, and descend the ladder.

The warm June sun hits my face as I step outside. The wiry wee Irishman, Kiernan, another stable hand that’s been at the castle for more years than he can remember, catches me as I round the corner, and pats my back as he falls in step with me.

“So, Macgregor, are ye still so sure of yerself this fine day?”

I practice my intimidating look on him.

He furrows his brows. “What are ye lookin’ at me so queerly for?”

“This is the look I’m givin’ me rivals to make them quake in their shoes.”

“Ha! Have ye seen some o’ them, laddie? There’s some here the same size as ye. Those lovely blue eyes o’ yers’ll have to do better than that.”

I feel a bit cheated. “Och, ye auld coot. Dinna ye fret none. I promise, it wilna be me lovely blue eyes they’ll hae to be worryin’ over.”

He wheezes out a laugh and his bright green eyes twinkle. “We’ll see, my friend, we’ll see.”

Already the sweat has crept down my back in small rivulets soaking into my linen sark. As we reach the castle and walk through the entrance on our way to the stone walled Great Hall, the temperature drops to a more pleasing degree. I reach for a mug of ale and drink it down in three gulps, securing a refill immediately. The second one goes down at a more leisurely pace as I scan the crowded room.

The noise is nearly deafening, as I’m unaccustomed to the din. Boisterous laughing, fist fights breaking out in the courtyard, the smell of unclean bodies and worse breath. I’m in heaven!

I glance upwards to the second and third levels where the women—if they’re smart—hover, twittering behind their hands like birds. Perhaps she’ll be there. I search the faces, but the auburn-haired lass isn’t among them. A jolt of disappointment runs through me. I shake it off, telling myself I don’t need the distraction, and grab a plate, loading it high with meats and savories.

At the far end of the table is where the sweets are located. Searching the vicinity quickly in case Kiernan is watching—he disapproves of the eating of sweets—I jostle my way through the crowd and pluck out a roll doused with honey. My fingers come away sticky and I lick them clean with a satisfied grin. I fight my way to a semi-quiet alcove and set myself down on a bench so I can eat in relative peace.

When my plate is empty and my ale is gone, I stand with the intention of retrieving another ale and sweet roll. Before I’m able though, from across the room I spot an enormous man with one arm. He’s probably the same height as me—which by itself gets my attention—but he must have two stone on me. Strolling on his good arm is who I’ve been looking for. The auburn-haired lass I’ve seen around the castle these three days past.

Figures. No woman that lovely would be without a man already. I push her out of my mind and concentrate on the man. His long black hair is plaited on the sides, as I do when I’ve a need to keep it out of my eyes. His eyes are sharp, seeing everything around him. I wonder how he lost his arm. The ‘15, perhaps, but he’d have been young.

I go unnoticed so far, so I take some time to wager my odds of beating a man of my own caliber. Pretty good, I’d say. He’s a bit older than I, which, in my mind, gives me an edge.

I set my plate and mug on the bench. Perhaps I’ll introduce myself. Keep yer enemies close, the saying goes.
He sees me before I can make my move. I watch his eyes studying me as I did him just moments before. He walks over to me and smiles, releases his woman, and thrusts out his paw.

“I’ve seen ye before, haven’t I?” The big man says, his blue eyes narrowing to place me.

I cock my head trying to remember if we’ve met, but I cannot place him. I grab his large hand in mine and give it a squeeze. “Gregor Macgregor. And ye?”

“Angus Robertson, the chief’s cousin. This is my wife Isobel.”

I nod at Isobel, whose dimples deepen when she smiles. Her eyes are a strange blue, and she is even smaller than I first thought.

I tear my eyes from her face and return my attention to Robertson, raising a brow. “Cousin? From where do ye hail?”

“Aulich. And ye?”

I can’t really help it, I let out a snort. “Pick a place.”

He nods, as if he knows. “Are ye goin’ to join us in the Games this year then? Ye’re of age now, are ye no’?” His eyes never leave mine.

My temper could easily get the best of me right now. Bloody hell, what does he think I am, some child? I’m one and twenty: a man, for Christ’s sake! He smirks, reading me like a book. Testing me. Baiting me, even. I’d give him one of my intimidating looks, but I’m fairly confident it wouldn’t have the desired effect.

“Oh, aye, I’m of age,” I say smugly. “And I plan to become the next guard to the chief.”

He pats my shoulder like I’m a puppy. “Well, good luck to ye then.” Then carefully leads his wife through the crowd, which actually parts for him like the Red Sea.

I need some air and head back through the alcove to a side door that leads to a courtyard. At least it’s shady out here. Leaning up against the cool stones of the castle wall I notice Kiernan hunkered down in the corner with his head on his knees fast asleep. I shake my head and despite my mood, grin. The man could sleep anywhere. He must have heard me walk out and looks up to see who’s interrupted his nap.

“Oh. It’s ye.”

“What’s the matter, no one want to talk to ye?”

“That smart mouth’ll get ye into trouble one o’ these days, laddie. Mind.”

I glance back into the Hall.

He cackles. “Oh-oh, already has then?”

“No,” I growl.

“But someone in there’s got ye thinkin’ things over, don’t they?”

I hate that he reads me so easily. I push off the wall and return inside. If there’s already one here the same size as I am, how many more are there? I decide a thorough search of my competition is in order if I’m to know what I’m up against. I have a full day to make my assessment, as the Games themselves don’t begin until tomorrow morning with the traditional boar hunt.

****

My mental list of real competition is compiled during the rest of the day. There is actually more than I thought, but during practice I pick out each of their weaknesses. Two are too drunk to give a good effort, one lacks any coordination, and the last, well, I’ll find something on him.

At least I won’t have to compete with Angus. With only one arm, there’s no way for him to participate.
The broadsword is a large, heavy sword made to coincide with a man’s height. Mine is five feet long. I’m looking for a sparring partner, but everyone has already paired up for the time being, so I stand aside waiting for a challenger. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Robertson walking my way with a sword in his hand, a grin on his face, and his eyes on me. I raise my head in greeting.

“Ye look like ye’re in need of a partner,” stating the obvious. “Care to hae a go?”

I practice my bravado and eye him up and down. “Are ye sure ye’re up to it then?”

He throws back his head and lets out a big laugh. “I’ve a feelin’ we’re gonna become good friends, Macgregor. Ye remind me of myself. And I happen to like myself.”

I don’t let on that I’m beginning to like him, too. It may be a trick to catch me off guard.

We walk to a spot with some room to maneuver our weapons, and take our stances with the steel blades crossed high. I watch his eyes. They’re still smiling at me, but somehow they’ve taken on a hardness that wasn’t there a second ago. He’s playing for keeps.

We nod, then begin with a teeth-rattling connection of steel-on-steel with the force of our considerable weights behind it. The sound continues to ring in my ears like warning bells. I am wielding the five pounds of steel with two hands to his one, but somehow he’s keeping up. He thrusts at me and I dodge the blade, swinging around to bring my sword onto him. He anticipates my move and is ready with a block that stops me for a second. Just long enough for him to see my hesitation and move in

We are in a dance of death, yet partnered well. The jarring hits and intense concentration last forever, like in a dream, with both of us breathing heavily. The sweat is burning my eyes and has plastered my sark to me like a second skin. My kilt is the only thing keeping me cool as I leap and thrust in this battle. We aren’t trying to kill each other. Drawing blood would suffice. There is no notice of what else is going on around us. To take my mind off task for a second could end in disaster. I am tiring, but I see in his eyes, he is, too. I’ll not be the one who concedes, though. Not if I’m to become the chief’s guard. It would be a sign of weakness, and there’s no room for weakness here.

Through labored breaths, but never letting up on the fray, Angus says, “I’ve had enough. Ye?”

I smile now, keeping up with his every move. “Are ye concedin’?”

Before he answers me, he takes his blade and swings it into mine, shifting me off balance, then with a twist of his wrist, encircles my blade. The sword is ripped from my hand and is sent into the air, landing well out of reach. The tip of his blade pokes under my chin.

Around me, I hear the cheers as my mind opens to my surroundings. I raise my hands in defeat, and can only stare from him to my sword with my mouth open in astonishment.

Angus plunges his sword into the ground and bows to me, like a gentleman would do. He makes no show of besting me to the crowd, as I admit, I would have done.

“Ye’re a verra fine contender, Macgregor. There’s no’ another man here that can do any better.” He pats my shoulder and leaves his hand there for a moment while he catches his breath. It gives me time to catch my own.
“Thank ye for the compliment, sir, but it is meself who should be givin’ ye the fine praise.”

He chuckles. “I hope ye’ve signed up for all the competitions. I’ve got my money on ye to win every event.”
I raise my brows. “From just this one contest, ye’ll wager it all on me?”

“Oh, aye. Besides, Alexander tells me he’s been watchin’ ye practice when yer chores are done.” He winks at me. “Says his money’s on ye, too.”

With that he plucks his claymore from the earth like Arthur pulled Excalibur from the stone and saunters off. I watch as he disappears into the castle while men around me are mentally adding me to their lists of worthy competition. I’m pleased my chief has such faith in my abilities. Probably wants to be certain his training is paying off.

I fetch my sword, which seems to weigh an impossible amount in my rubbery arm, heft it to my shoulder and head for the Hall. I want nothing more than a mug of ale—or three—to quench my thirst.

As I walk, I think about the maneuver that ripped the sword from my hands. And he did it with one hand. I shake my head and curl a smile. I’ll remember that move.

****

It’s dark in the barn and the only sound is from the horses below me. That and an occasional fart or snore from Kiernan. The smell of rain is on the air. Too bad. It would have been nice to have the Games during dry weather tomorrow.

I lay on my pallet thinking over the day. My beard itches. Perhaps I’ll shave it off in the morning. Women seem to prefer a clean-shaven man. Damn the luck that Isobel is already spoken for. Such a pretty lass. Ah, but there are plenty of young lasses around here for the week scouting for a man. Perhaps I can catch me one for a bit of sport. It’s been quite a while.

I drift off to sleep to enter the same nightmare that inevitably plagues me when there is too much on my mind.
I’m ten-years old in the days after finding my father dead in the standing stones. I’ve located my uncle after weeks of wandering, and he takes me in. He has naught to give me, but at least I have a roof over my head.
They come at night asking for food. Highland etiquette prevents my uncle from sending them away, but I refuse to spend any amount of time with the bastards who murdered my father—etiquette or not—so I sleep under the stars in a thicket of broom.

When morning comes, I haul in a bucket of water from the stream to begin cooking. I find him at the kitchen table with his throat cut. For the second time, the Campbells take my family. I close the door and walk into the wild.

When I open my eyes, it’s light. I sit up on my pallet and glance over at Kiernan. He’s watching me. Probably knows I was having the dream again, and my mood is too foul for his bantering this morning.

“What?” I growl.

“Heard ye were bested by Angus Robertson with the claymore yesterday.”

He said it without malice, which instantly puts me on the alert. I scrub my face. “It was a close fight.”

He nods, but still says nothing derogatory.

After a moment of silence, he says, “He’s not tested anyone for several years. Wonder why he chose ye?”

I ignore his question and ask one of my own. “How’d he lose his arm?”

“The ’15. He, himself, was but sixteen at the time. Robertson isn’t one to back down from a fight. Good man to have on yer side, if ye ask me.”

“How old is he?”

Kiernan scratches his balding head and narrows his eyes. “Must be six or seven and twenty by now. Married Isobel Macinroy and they’ve three fine sons.” He stands and belts his plaid. “Owns a large parcel over in Aulich. Raises cattle and sheep.” He turns and eyes me shrewdly, then looks away. “Borders Campbell territory.”

Now he’s trying to bait me. “Might I borrow yer razor?”

His head snaps around like I asked to share his wife.

“What are ye gonna do?”

“What d’ye think I’m gonna do? I’m gonna shave. What’s wrong wi’ ye, man?”

He stares at me for a moment, perhaps deciding whether or not I’m going to use it to slit his throat, shakes his head, then hands me his razor and strap.

I hook the strap on a nail on the post beside me and begin methodically sharpening the razor. A small bit of looking glass hangs on the same post, and I take a long hard look at myself. In the dim light of the barn, my eyes look very dark blue. My Da used to say there was the devil in them. I honestly don’t know what he meant by that. I can’t really tell what the rest of my face looks like, as it’s covered in a bushy black beard.

I pull back my shoulder-length hair and tie it off with a bit of twine. I test the razor on the edge of my thumb. Aye, it’s sharp enough to draw blood, so I proceed with short strokes on my cheeks, taking off the thick hair inch by inch.

Kiernan mills around and tends to himself, but remains quiet doing so, always watching me. I’m seriously wondering what he’s got cooking up in that conniving little mind of his. The man is usually a chatterbox, driving me to distraction on many occasions.

Slowly, I begin seeing myself again. I’ve had this beard for … well, since it decided to grow. When my face is finally uncovered, I notice that perhaps I’m not such a bad looking man. Any lass would be happy to have me. I smile at the thought.

I brush myself off and put on a fresh sark. One thing Alexander likes, besides his whisky and honey and writing some rather titillating poems, is a clean man. He’s told me so on several occasions, and makes certain I have two sarks and several spare plaids to change into so the many noblemen, who frequent the castle or his house in Carrie, won’t look down their noses at me. Alexander can be a hard man, but he always says we make our own way, and it’s best to look the part.

I throw some hay down for the horses, climb down the ladder and step out into the morning. The Grampians are shrouded in clouds, a bit like my mood, but as yet, there is no rain. Soon enough.


CHAPTER TWO

Jock Campbell was bitter today. Actually, he was bitter most days, but today he was in a particularly foul mood. He never needed a reason. He had the right to feel however he wanted, and hateful suited him.

He was the oldest of Norman and Philippa Campbell’s three sons, looking more like his mother with light brown hair and gray-blue eyes. His stature was the same as his father’s, average height and wiry. A scar ran through his left eyebrow, leaving an empty space. A remnant from one of his earlier kills when his prey fought tooth and nail and the man’s dirk nearly took out his eye.

His father and brothers didn’t understand his temper and mean-spiritedness. He suspected he obtained the trait from his mother. A shrew of a woman. How his father put up with her for over forty years he’d never know.
Not all Campbells were of the mind-set that their duty was to eradicate from the land anyone who had the misfortune of being born a Macgregor. His father wasn’t, nor were his brothers.

Weak men, he scoffed.

The small horse under him was skittish, apparently feeling his aggravation. He kicked it hard to move it on. He was looking to take out his frustration on something. At the moment, the horse was the only thing in the vicinity.
As he crested a hill, taking in the emptiness, he wondered how to rid himself of the bloodlust growing in his heart. What he wouldn’t do to find a Macgregor right now. They were once so plentiful; easy pickings for whatever torture he wished to inflict. It always made him feel so … free, when he was able to exercise his right of persecution. He took his birthright very seriously, though his family would probably shun him even more if they learned of the deeds he’d done in his younger days.

His thin lips curved into a smile at the memory of some of his more elaborate defilements. To his ears, there was nothing more exhilarating than hearing a grown man’s screams, begging for his life. Ah, and the women. He felt he had a way with them—young and old—age mattered not to him. In the end, they had helped to ease his urges. He chuckled to himself at that. He doubted any of them ever felt that way about him. And those he let live were always visited again … and again.

His favorite haunt was around Glenshee. Something about the standing stones made him feel God-like. Perhaps he’d see if there were any Macgregor dogs left in that area. A long, slow, excruciatingly painful kill would make him feel so, so much better.

He kicked his horse mercilessly and reined the beast south.