Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (26 page)

Duguald returned and gripped his shoulder tightly.

Branan drew a deep breath and opened the box. He saw a folded parchment with his name on it, the ink faded with age. With a shaking hand he opened it.

My dearest Branan,

My beloved son. Here is your true legacy.

Your loving mother

Tears blurring his eyes, Branan peered into the box. Inside, nestled in green silk, were two gold rings. One was larger as if made for a man, the other smaller—a woman’s ring.

“Their wedding rings,” he choked. Duguald’s grip tightened on his shoulder. He looked up and saw his uncle’s eyes misted with unshed tears.

Branan turned his attention back to the rings. The man’s ring bore an engraved thistle. He removed it from the box and placed it on his finger. It fit perfectly.

The woman’s ring also bore the thistle, but a purple amethyst graced the flower and a green emerald it’s stem. A tear trickled down Branan’s cheek and he took Catriona’s left hand, gently placing the ring on her finger. He twisted it slightly to make certain it was straight.

She groaned softly.

Branan’s heart threatened to stop. “Catriona?”

She moaned and her eyes fluttered open.

His heart nearly sang, but he brutally reined it in. His mother had been conscious a few short hours before death claimed her.

“Branan?” Catriona whispered, struggling to focus on him. “What happened?”

“David struck ye a grievous blow.”

“My head . . . ”

“Aye.” Branan watched her closely, not daring to hope.

“And you fear... Nay, Branan. I will not die.”

He prayed she spoke the truth.

Her hand reached for him and caressed his face, but she sucked in her breath. “Branan, you are fevered.”

“Aye, but I willna leave your side.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and fear lunged within him. But she opened them again and tugged on his hand. “Then you shall rest here, with me. We will recover together.”

Duguald released his shoulder, smiling broadly. “Aye, laddie, see tae yer bonny lass.” He turned and strode from the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Six Months Later

B
ranan, are you sure you want to do this?” Catriona asked worriedly as she fought to keep up with him. Her belly was becoming cumbersome with their growing babe. She paused for a moment, trying to catch her breath, and received a good kick in the ribs for her efforts.

“I told ye,” Branan said gently, as he walked back and took her hand. “Ye didna have to come with me.”

Catriona rolled her eyes at him and he helped her over a rough part of the trail.

The overgrown path turned slightly and Catriona’s gaze locked on the reason for their journey. Her mouth went dry as she stared at two weathered headstones. Branan led her forward, his stride resolute, but his face was pale and his jaw set too tightly for her liking.

“Branan—”

He shook his head. “Ye ken I’ve put this off for too long.”

She sighed and said nothing more.

They stopped before the headstones and Catriona felt tears prick her eyes. Branan released her and knelt before them, resting a handful of flowers on his mother’s grave.

Catriona also carried flowers, two white roses, which she had cut from the gardens of Penrith. Branan helped her kneel. She placed one rose on Raina’s grave then placed the second on Raulf’s.

“Thank you both,” she whispered. “For the gift of your son.”

Branan helped her regain her feet. She stood still for a moment, her breath evading her, her hands supporting her swollen belly.

“Are ye all right?” Branan asked, his arms moving to encircle her from behind. He placed one hand on her belly.

Again the child kicked—hard.

Catriona gasped and Branan’s eyes widened. “Glory, lass.”

“Our babe does not enjoy so much activity.”

Branan’s expression turned stricken. “I told ye—”

She turned in his arms and quickly touched her fingers to his lips, silencing him. “You know activity is good for both of us. You hired the best midwife to tell you everything I have always said.”

His worried expression eased only slightly. “Aye.”

“It matters not the abuse my insides are suffering, remember the midwife also told us that a kicking babe is a strong one.”

He smiled and kissed her brow, then looked back at the graves. “Why did ye gift a flower to my father?”

“Because I wanted to thank him too.”

His sea-green eyes sparked with a radiant fire. “Careful, lass, ye may spoil me.”

“You are already spoiled.”

“Och, lassie, now ye wound me. Be easy on my battered pride.”

She rolled her eyes again.

Branan placed another gentle kiss on her brow, then slowly turned to face the graves, sighing heavily.

“Would you like to be alone?”

“Nay,” he whispered, holding her hand. “I need ye here, beside me.” Branan knelt before the graves and slowly drew his gleaming claymore.

A memory intruded on Catriona’s thoughts, of standing in the chapel, Branan kneeling before the priest and offering the weapon. The priest anointing it with holy water, murmuring the blessings of Saint Michael, purifying the blade of the innocent blood it had claimed.

Carefully, Branan rested the hilt on his father’s grave so the blade lay across it and touched his mother’s.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Mother, Father, I have succeeded,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I have reclaimed what is mine and found justice.” His voice broke, and he took a deep breath to steady it. “I miss ye.”

Catriona covered her mouth, her throat and her heart aching.

Branan touched the hilt of his claymore, the gold wedding ring glittering on his finger. “But I have achieved more than that. I truly found my heritage and the legacy you left for me. Not in land or title, not in possessions or gold, but in discovering the love you shared. I have found the strength of soul.” For a long moment, he remained silent, staring at the graves, then bowed his head, his body quivering.

Catriona felt a hot tear slide down her check. She touched Branan’s head, her fingers stroking his thick, glossy black hair.

He looked up at her, his sea-green eyes turbulent and shimmering like the ocean. His lips lifted as he caught her hand and kissed it, then turned back to the graves.

“Now ’tis I who look forward to the birth of my bairn. I will make one last promise to ye. My son shall bear the MacTavish claymore in courage and honor. And mother...” Branan paused, smiling brightly. “He shall hear the stories of the chivalrous knight and his beloved lady every evening.” He paused again, inhaling deeply. “May ye both finally find peace and love in the arms of the Almighty,” he whispered.

Slowly, Branan rose and picked up his claymore. Catriona watched him uncertainly as he returned it to its scabbard. He took her hand in his once more. He kissed her cheek and smiled. “I have walked the path, Catriona. Now ’tis time for me to turn to a new road.”

She grinned up at him and he led her away. As they walked back, Catriona frowned, thinking on his words.

“Branan?”

“Aye, lass.”

“Telling our child the stories, I can understand. But what about the sword?”

“What of it?”

“What if this babe is a girl?”

Branan chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest, and winked at her. “Then the lass had better be as good at wielding a sword as ye are with a bow.”

The Internet has proven a valuable resource for this work, starting with Branan’s clan, the MacTavish. In the era during which this story takes place, the clan’s Gaelic name is spelled MacTamhais, but is pronounced MacTavish. I chose to call the clan MacTavish to give the correct pronunciation a basis with modern readers.

There has also been a great amount of question and debate regarding the history of Scottish clothing. Many authors, movie producers, and others have done all they can, but unfortunately, the ancient records still have some holes. I wrote this story several years ago and only recently dusted it off for publication as an e-book. At the time, here is what my research uncovered:

The Scottish plaid (also called a brat) was worn by all. But there is significant question if the garb was truly the kilt-type plaid made popular in blockbuster movies. There is a good chance William Wallace would not have been attired as Mel Gibson was in
Braveheart
. Remember, many of the monuments dedicated to historical figures were created many years later when legend had grown larger than life.

The plaid is a simple volume of fabric, woven by clan women, and used as a cloak. Many times, the man wore it over his shoulder, secured by belt and brooch to keep it out of the way. The leine or leint was a long dyed or undyed shirt, usually descending to the knees and secured with a belt around the waist.

Many men in the clans also wore a jacket called an inar, which could have sleeves or not, more like a vest. If a man wore this, he didn’t wear a leine under it, but wore trews. In the era of this novel, trews were more like snug-fitting breeches rather than underwear, or could also be loose and long trousers, made of soft leather or cloth and very sturdy. It depends on the style of the particular clan.

Most readers realize that the advent of the plaid denoting colors of a particular clan came well after the Renaissance—when it developed into the tartan. However, something must be said for thread count. Throughout history, each clan had their own style of weaving. The thread count was usually the most obvious. This is why Branan, when considering selling the weaving of his clan, resolves to ask the women about changing thread count specifically for the sale. The colors may not denote the clan, but thread count can many times pinpoint an area and time period. The change signifies a sale to another clan, or even more changes, if they sold outside the country.

A mention should be made about locations and titles. The Royal Forest of Inglewood existed during this time period, with the castles mentioned in the story. The Royal Forest was exactly that, the king’s forest, and the title of Warden was granted to a person to manage these lands for his king. As time passed, this title became hereditary. But within and around the Royal Forest, lands were also granted to be held by families as the feudal system dictated.

Penrith Castle has been documented from licenses to crenellate to William Strickland. Brackenburgh Tower resides near the fork of the king’s roads and might have been used for trade. The Manor House at Newton Reigny carries an ancient serjeantry, given to the de Reigny family by Henry I. There are documents about Thistlewood with its “parallels with Scottish Tower-houses.” All of these edifices have their own rich history, which only sparks the imagination. My research into these keeps and towers resulted in this story.

I hope you have enjoyed reading this work as much as I have enjoyed writing it. If you would like information about the clan MacTavish visit www.mactavish.org (the website, although active when I did my research for this novel, is now a poignant memorial). Information about Scottish clothing was researched at www47.pair.com/lindo/Scotland.htm, but this site is now also defunct. Castle information was obtained through the book,
The Medieval Fortified Buildings of Cumbria
by Denis R. Perriam & John Robinson, Cumberland and Westmoreland Antiquarian and Archaeological Society, 1998.

“Fall if ye must, ye Towers and Pinnacles

With what ye symbolize; authentic Story

Will say, Ye disappeared with England’s Glory!”

William Wordsworth: “Lowther”

From The Medieval Fortified Buildings of Cumbria

Legacy of the Mist Clans: Book II

By

Kathryn Loch

Amazon Box Set Edition

June 1286

Glen Gyle, Clan MacGrigor

Scottish Highlands

R
onan MacGrigor leapt from one crenellation to another as fast as his legs could carry him, hearing his younger brother right behind.

“Take it back, ye sorry cur!” Aidan shouted.

Ronan laughed and kept running, uncaring that he teetered precariously on the ramparts of the highest tower. “Codswallop!” he shouted and leapt forward.

“Buggering swine!” Aidan shouted back, trying to close the distance.

At eleven, Ronan was tall for his age, but his brother, only a year younger, almost matched him. They tussled and fought constantly, much to their mother’s vexation.

Ronan made another leap to a crenellation, his foot sliding slightly, and he fought to recover his balance. Contorting sideways, he dove for the ramparts and rolled. Instantly on his feet again, he sprinted to the trapdoor and vaulted down the ladder.

Aidan bellowed something but Ronan couldn’t understand his words. He fought to steady his breathing while he looked for a place to hide. Boxes lined the walls and he spied a dark shadow behind the ladder. Ronan had discovered a talent for losing himself in shadow. He settled against the wall and again fought to slow his breathing, his body growing unnaturally still.

Aidan flew down the ladder and looked around. “Ronan, ye bloody codsucker, I’ll find ye!”

Ronan nearly laughed aloud. Aidan’s gaze swept over him—he looked directly at him in fact—but never paused. Growling another curse, Aidan sprinted for the tower door, flung it open, and plowed into a clansman, who had unfortunately decided to walk in at that moment.

Aidan nearly knocked the man down, but somehow the man maintained his feet.

“Hold, young MacGrigor,” the clansman said, gripping Aidan’s shoulder. “Ye ken what yer da says about ye and yer brother’s horseplay atop the walls.”

With a laugh, Ronan sprinted from the shadow, startling both of them, and hit the wall walk at a dead run. “Bloody codswallop!” he shouted.

Aidan screeched in fury, breaking away from the clansman and lunging after Ronan.

Ronan scrambled from the wall walk, vaulting an insane path of stone buttresses, using carved decorations for handholds and cracks in the mortar that only few would see to aid his rapid descent down the walls. Actions that would stricken his mother if she saw him, he knew from experience.

Aidan slowed his pursuit, falling two paces behind Ronan. Ronan knew he was faster than his brother on the walls, but he dare not grow complacent. Aidan would be on him in an instant if he checked his pace. He reached the stairs descending into the bailey and ran.

Just as his foot touched the dirt of the bailey, a young maid, her basket filled with eggs, inadvertently stepped into his path. Ronan lunged to the side at the same moment his brother shrieked. Ronan braced himself, dreading what was coming. Sure enough, his brother made a wild leap from the stairs and plowed into him. Ronan, in turn, plowed into the young maid. She cried out in fear and the basket flew from her hands.

In a heartbeat, Ronan regained his feet, but instead of dodging his brother, he grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him away. The basket of eggs lay smashed and oozing on the ground.

“Sorry!” Ronan shouted to the maid as she struggled to pick herself up.

“Ye bloody daft lads!” she cried. “When will ye learn?”

Ronan couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, although he knew he needed to move even faster. It would be only moments before their da arrived to put a stop to the mayhem.

Ronan dragged his brother along the bailey wall where it butted up against the stone keep. Water runoff had caused a hole to form in the corner, and those charged with maintaining the keep had not yet filled it in. Ronan had spotted it earlier and had been curious. It seemed the hole opened to something much larger and deeper.

“Da’s comin’,” Aidan wheezed.

“Aye,” Ronan said and shoved him toward the hole. “Look.”

“I’ll be buggered,” Aidan said.

Ronan slid to a stop and flopped on his belly, pushing the loose dirt away. The hole widened easily and he stuck his head inside. He gaped at it a moment—it was huge, much larger than he originally suspected. He pulled his head back and shifted around then kicked and widened the opening with his feet.

“Ronan!” his da bellowed. “Aidan!”

“Hurry!” Aidan said. “He’ll thrash us both.”

Ronan gave one last kick then slid into the void, his brother following so quickly he landed on top of Ronan.

“Get off, ye lout,” Ronan growled.

“Shhhh!” Aidan leaned against the dirt wall and looked up at the opening.

“Where are they?” their da asked.

Ronan heard the maid’s voice but could not make out her reply. Aidan grimaced. Ronan shook his head—his brother’s hearing was amazing. He could listen to voices behind closed doors then relate the entire conversation exactly.

“He’s coming this way,” Aidan whispered harshly.

As good as Aidan was at overhearing conversations, so was Ronan at finding hidden escape routes and secret holes such as the one they were in.

He looked around, still surprised this one was so large. On his left, he saw the foundation of the stone wall in the bedrock. On his right, he saw the foundation of the keep. The cavity continued between the two, descending deeper, and the blackness was complete.

“Light,” Ronan murmured.

“Here,” Aidan said, handing him a stubby candle and a fire-striker. Ronan grinned at him and lit the candle. With their antics and constant discoveries, Ronan wouldn’t be surprised if Aidan had a rope wrapped around his waist and hidden under his tunic.

Ronan lifted the candle and stared into the crevice.

Their da bellowed again.

“Damnation, Ronan,” Aidan growled. “Move. If he finds us now, it willna be pleasant.”

“Worse than a thrashing?”

“Much worse.”

Ronan shivered and stepped forward. His jaw went slack at what the weak light of the candle revealed. The dark gray stone stopped at the bedrock, but the line was intermixed with reddish clay. It only took Ronan a moment to realize it too was man-made. The red clay formed bricks that were far different than anything the Scots used in building.

A memory from his Latin tutor stirred. He remembered the old priest saying many of the keeps today were built on old Roman or Saxon fortifications. Ronan wondered if this was what he was staring at.

“What is it?” Aidan asked.

“A piece of history,” Ronan murmured reverently.

Aidan pushed on his shoulder. “Which is what we’ll be if Da finds us. We’ve got tae get out.”

Ronan nodded and quickly descended deeper into the hole.

The tiny candle did little to push back the darkness, but Ronan continued angling toward the keep. They were below the foundation now, moving deeper. He looked up and saw gray flagstones above his head.

“Aidan, look,” he said and pointed.

Aidan’s eyes narrowed. “Methinks that is the floor tae the kitchen.”

“Aye.”

“Give me a boost. If I can push one of the flagstones away, we can escape, and Da willna find us.”

Ronan placed the candle on a ledge in the dirt and bent, lacing his fingers together. Aidan stepped into his hand and Ronan heaved him upward. Aidan’s fingers grabbed dirt and Ronan quickly moved so that Aidan stood on his shoulders. He gritted his teeth.

“Holy hell, Aidan, what have ye been eatin’?”

His brother grinned down at him. “The same as ye, which is why I didna volunteer tae give ye the boost up.”

Ronan bit back his curses. His brother dug at the flagstone, sending dirt into Ronan’s face. Ronan coughed, averting his gaze and trying to blink the dirt from his eyes. Aidan muttered to himself while he tried to free the flagstone. Ronan’s shoulders screamed at him.

“Hurry up, ye—”

“Got it,” Aidan whispered harshly. “Be silent.”

Ronan again clamped his jaw shut. Without warning, Aidan heaved himself up and through the opening. Ronan extinguished the candle and shoved it in his belt pouch. Aidan stuck his head back in and reached a hand down. Ronan took a step back then lunged forward. His foot hit the dirt ledge and he pushed off and up. The other foot hit the opposite dirt ledge and he levered upward again, catching his brother’s hand. Aidan hauled with all his might, and Ronan forced himself through the hole, gritting his teeth as he scraped his shoulders and then his ribs.

He looked around and discovered they were in a dark corner of the kitchen. A scullery maid worked on the other side of the room with her back to them. Ronan quickly crawled out of the way, and his brother replaced the flagstone.

Ronan eyed the path to the door. That was the only place where they would have to step into the light and be in full view, but it would only be for an instant. Ronan tapped Aidan’s shoulder and pointed. Aidan nodded.

Ronan sucked in a deep breath and skittered through the shadows along the wall. He grabbed the door and hauled it open, just as another maid bearing an armload of dirty roundels and trenchers walked in.

The door’s abrupt opening along with the appearance of Ronan and his brother, dirty and disheveled, caused her to scream and drop the roundels and trenchers with a resounding clatter and crack of shattered wood. The second maid in the kitchen also screamed.

Ronan bit back a curse. He grabbed his brother and towed him through the door. They disappeared into the shadows at the back of the great hall.

Aidan’s breath rattled in Ronan’s ear. “The entire keep heard the noise. We need tae move now.”

Ronan eyed the path they needed to take to the stairs. It crossed in front of the door to the keep. They had to sprint across before their father entered. He drew another deep breath and prepared to move. But just as he gave his body the command, his ears buzzed and a strange euphoria settled over him. Bloody hell, nay! Not now! It had been so long since the last one he had begun to hope he was free of these accursed attacks. He fought it with all his might, trying to force his limbs to move, but they grew leaden, locking him in place. He barely felt his brother gripping his arm. Aidan’s voice calling his name only merged with the din roaring in his ears. His vision blurred even more, and the last thing Ronan recalled was his own soundless scream.

HHH

“Ronan,” Aidan whispered harshly.

Ronan battled to pull his wits back together. Where was he? He still couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. Damnation, how long had the blackout lasted this time?

“Da is in the great hall,” Aidan said. “We need tae move.”

Finally, Ronan’s vision started to pull itself together and his muscles gradually unlocked. He drew in a ragged breath, blinking rapidly, and looked at his brother.

“Another one?” Aidan asked softly.

Ronan nodded miserably and hung his head. Holy hell, why couldn’t he control this? It had happened a few times when he was younger, but he still had not been able to master it.

His muscles had completely frozen, and at least he remained standing. The blackout had not toppled him, but his body was slow to function again. He took a slight step forward, but his legs felt thick and heavy.

“Ronan, we have tae move before Da sees ye.”

“Too late,” his da said and stepped into the shadow.

Ronan swallowed hard as his giant father loomed over him, the normally handsome planes of his face now harsh with anger. His blue eyes glittered dangerously in the weak light. His black hair, streaked with touches of gray, tumbled loose around his face.

Surprisingly, his father’s anger faded as he gazed at his eldest son. “Yer mum saw ye two on the walls again,” he growled. “Why must ye give her such a fright?”

Ronan lowered his head, staring at the floor. He had thought her too busy to notice their foolery.

“Ronan, look at me.”

He swallowed hard and looked up. His father studied him a long moment. “Ye had another blackout again, didn’t ye? That’s why ye werena able tae run away.”

Ronan nodded.

His father sighed heavily. “At least they seem tae be rare occurrences the older ye get.”

He nodded again. “Over a year since the last one,” he said softly, although his words sounded slightly slurred.

His father continued to study him. “Yer mum will ken the minute she lays eyes on ye that ye had another one, and that will only worry her more.” His mouth tightened in disapproval. “Off with ye, laddie. Take yer brother, and by the saints, I dinna want tae see either of ye again tonight. If I do, I will thrash ye as ye scoundrels deserve.”

Aidan grabbed Ronan’s arm and hauled him to the stairs, glancing over his shoulder to make certain their father hadn’t followed them.

“Ronan, are ye all right?”

Ronan nodded and determination rose within him. He would defeat this strange affliction. He wasn’t sure how, but he was certain he would find a way.

“Well, from the look in Da’s eyes, we need tae give him another two days and his anger at us will only be a distant memory.” He paused and winked at Ronan. “Then we can return tae that hole and explore it properly.”

Ronan couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. “Aye, brother. But you’re still a bloody codswallop.”

Aidan spun, punched him in the gut, then sprinted up the stairs.

Ronan gasped for air twice before his lungs finally filled themselves. “Bloody codswallop!” he yelled and charged after Aidan.