Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (59 page)

“The new earl has arrived and is livid le March isn’t here to greet him,” the balding man said. He waved the vellum in the air. “Le March decided to go back to England but he left us a gift. He discovered the man responsible for freeing the English wench and left him in the same cell that housed her and the Scottish Demon. These orders bear his seal, and, by God, we will honor them. I don’t care what the earl says.”

“I take it he is to be hanged today?” one guard asked.

“Aye,” the balding man said, nodding. “But le March vowed he would not see his death coming, so we are to leave the bag on his head. He was forced to cut out the man’s tongue to keep him silent, so we are to ignore his nonsensical wailing.”

“People gather in the yard,” the guard said. “They await a good hanging; we should not disappoint them.”

“Now you have it aright. Bring him to the gallows.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Aidan stepped back and grinned. Within moments, the two guards had fetched le March from the cell and dragged him out. He battled them, screaming, but because of the gag, they could not understand his words. Aidan’s grin grew and he silently followed them.

HHH

Ronan watched the people gather around the gallows from his hidden vantage point. A few minutes later, two guards emerged dragging a struggling man with a bag over his head to the gallows. The crowd jeered and pelted him with rotten food. Ronan wished he could enjoy the irony of it all, but knowing how close it had come to that being him, or Lia . . . he shivered violently and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.

“Ronan,” Aidan’s voice whispered softly. “Everything proceeds as planned.”

Ronan nodded. “Fetch the men and horses,” he said. “When I leave, we will need tae move fast.”

Aidan grinned at him. “I dinna believe we’ll have tae move as quickly as ye think. Ye will terrify them.”

Ronan returned his grin. “We shall see.”

Aidan disappeared and Ronan’s attention turned back to the yard.

The Demon Laird!
a voice whispered in his memory. For some reason, the memory of the young lass lying so still at the base of the stairs with blood on her face intruded over his vision.

Ronan closed his eyes and shivered.

You have an illness,
Lia’s voice countered.

An illness for which there was no cure, but Lia had been right there as well. With her help, he had learned to manage it, he had learned to live a normal life. He had vowed to defeat it, but it was also a part of him, and he accepted that.

He opened his eyes again, watching the happenings in the yard intently.

They hauled le March onto the gallows and forced him to stand on a tall box. The hooded executioner tightened the noose around his neck.

You are mine!

Ronan opened his hands and stared at the white scars covering his wrists. He felt the resonating echoes of each scar on his body, he knew which one he bore due to whip, knife, or hot iron with perfect clarity.

“Vous êtes si belle pour moi,”
Lia had said.
You are so beautiful to me.

Ronan knew at that moment that if she saw beauty within him, it was because together they had defeated the demon residing in his soul. Slowly, Ronan lifted his head.

The hangman moved behind le March and the crowd fell silent. Suddenly, he kicked the box out from under le March’s feet. Le March’s body dropped like a stone and the noose tightened, snapping his neck instantly.

You will never be free!

Ronan drew a deep breath into his lungs, his heart pounding against his ribs. For the barest instant, terror raged within him that even with le March’s death he would remain a prisoner . . . a prisoner of his own fear and hatred.

It lied then just like it’s lying to you now,
Lia’s voice whispered.

Le March’s mocking voice dissolved into nothing like ash in the wind. A huge weight suddenly slid from Ronan’s shoulders and he straightened his spine. He closed his eyes and thanked the Almighty for his Sassenach healer.

He remembered his belief, that the finely made claymore he wielded was the soul of Clan MacGrigor. He suddenly realized it wasn’t.

He was.

He, along with the members of his clan. Those who laughed with him, cried with him, even those who had feared him. All of them wove together like a brilliant tapestry which resided in his heart. Nay, the claymore was not the soul of Clan MacGrigor; the glittering steel had simply reflected it.

Le March’s body twitched several times before finally falling still. The crowd cheered wildly. Ronan stepped forward a little more, continuing to watch as they cut the body down. One guard started to remove the bag.

Now
, Ronan thought. He scrambled from his hiding spot and up the wall to the battlements. While he did not know this keep as well as his own, he had prowled the walls last night and devised his plan.

The guard removed the bag completely and a stunned silence descended.

A woman screamed.

“Le March!” another voice cried. “We’ve killed the baron!”

Ronan reached the top of the embattlements and looked back.

I believe in you.

All he had suffered, all he had overcome, he now understood. Le March was no longer a threat to him, his family, or his clan. Now he could truly look forward to becoming a husband, and perhaps even a father. Ronan’s deep laugh echoed through the yard.

All eyes turned to him, as he stood, his cloak wrapped around him. His laughter grew in strength.

“The Demon Laird!” someone shouted.

The new earl gazed at the body of his predecessor, then he looked up at Ronan in terror, his face turning a ghastly shade of gray. More screams resounded until everyone in the yard was in a panic.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan saw two enterprising guards move toward him. With a flare of his cloak, he vaulted over the side of the wall, and using cracks in the mortar and carved decorations, he scrambled down to where his brother and men waited with the horses.

He was already in the saddle as the guards achieved their vantage point. They stared at him in fear; one crossed himself. In their eyes, there was no way down the massive wall without a rope. It appeared as if he had disappeared over the edge and had gained his horse without injury in an impossible jump.

Ronan laughed again and spurred his stallion away. As he, along with Aidan and his men, galloped down the white ribbon of winding road, their horses’ hooves kicking up dust, Ronan balanced over his mount’s withers and lifted his face to the sun. He was a free man.

The Demon Laird was a part of him and always would be. He no longer feared what he was but now embraced what he could become. He was laird of Clan MacGrigor. In the face of Longshanks’s fury, he would protect what was his; he would fight for all he held dear.

Aidan pulled alongside. Ronan grinned at him, asked his horse for more speed, surging ahead slightly. Aidan arched an eyebrow as he studied his brother.

Ronan’s grin grew. “Bloody codswallop,” he barked then urged his horse faster.

Aidan cursed. “Ye sorry cur!” He drove his spurs into his mount’s sides. His horse flattened itself and ran for all it was worth, only a pace behind.

Ronan laughed and gave his mount his head. The race was on.

May 1304

Glen Gyle, Clan MacGrigor

Scottish Highlands

L
ia, now fully recovered, heard the cry of the sentry and her nerves jumped. The wedding guests were finally arriving for the ceremony tomorrow. Butterflies rioted in her stomach, but she was grateful for Sueta, Alba, and Marta’s assistance. She never would have everything prepared in time if it had not been for their help.

“Alba, where is the whiskey?”

“Already on the table, milady.”

“And the bread . . . the cheese?”

“Peace, Lia,” Sueta said, gripping her arm, but she was smiling. “You are making yourself frantic.”

“Forgive me,” she said, ducking her head. “But what if they don’t approve of Ronan marrying me? I’m not nobility.”

“Ye will be when ye two are wed,” Alba said.

Lia looked at her in confusion.

“Child, peace,” Sueta said. “Your betrothed invited them for a reason, to join your celebration.”

Lia tried to take comfort in Sueta’s words. But she scowled, realizing she did not hear horses entering the bailey. She walked to the open door of the keep, wondering what the problem was.

On the top of the battlements of the barbican, wearing his cloak with the cowl pulled low, stood the Demon Laird with his arms folded over his chest.

Through the open gates, Lia saw three lairds and their families along with their retinues staring up at him, too fearful to enter.

Lia’s eyes widened in disbelief. She fisted her skirts, charged down the stairs of the keep, and strode into the bailey. “Ronan MacGrigor,” she barked. “Stop terrorizing the wedding guests!”

Ronan looked at her over his shoulder and shot her a bright grin. He leapt from the embrasures, and in a blink of an eye, jumped to the bailey side of the wall walk. He scrambled down the side of the wall as easily as descending a ladder, except there was none. No matter how many times she had seen him climb down the same exact way her heart still pounded in fear. She covered her face with her hands, fighting to steady her nerves.

“There, there, child,” Sueta said, patting her shoulder. Lia looked at her as Sueta offered her staff. “I’ve found this quite helpful in dealing with your betrothed, if you wish to borrow it.”

To Lia’s left, she heard someone laughing outrageously. She glanced over and saw Aidan laughing so hard he had to grab Connell’s shoulder to remain standing. Her worry and frustration eased as she felt her lips twitch.

“Cease encouraging him.”

Aidan lifted his hands but couldn’t stop laughing. “Forgive me, lassie. But dinna ye see the expression on their faces?”

She looked to the heavens seeking patience. “If you both continue, we shall have no guests at all.”

“I believe they kenned what they were in for when they accepted the invitation,” Ronan’s deep voice rumbled as he approached. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight against his side.

Lia bit back her own laugh when he hesitated and eyed Sueta’s staff nervously.

“I think I know what Sueta is giving me for a wedding gift.” She giggled as Sueta cackled gleefully.

“I shall leave you to greet your guests properly.” Still chuckling her mirth, Sueta moved toward the keep.

Lia glanced over her shoulder. The guests had finally found the courage to enter the barbican. There would be others arriving later. No doubt she would have to keep a close eye on her betrothed.

“I try yer patience,” Ronan murmured, gazing down at her, his steel-gray eyes sparkling with the fire she so loved.

“Aye,” she said, mimicking his brogue. “But I would have ye no other way.” She reached up and brushed his cheek, noting the dark scar that had cut across it had faded to a thin white line and was now lost in the smile lines of his face. What she enjoyed seeing even more was that he was indeed smiling at her. Her hand slid to the hood of his cloak, and she attempted to tug it off.

Ronan caught her hand and stopped her. “Wait.” To her surprise, he pulled it even farther over his face as he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, the cowl now shielding his kiss from their visitors. His kiss grew more impassioned, and Lia never wanted it to end. But the sound of approaching horses caused him to pull away.

His smile grew. “I must admit to looking forward to making ye my wife tomorrow.” He reached up and pushed back the hood of his cloak himself.

Lia took a breath to reply, but Aidan stepped next to them. “And ye shall break the hearts of every lassie of marrying age from here to Stirling.” He looked at Lia and winked at her. “But I shall do my best to console as many as I can.”

Ronan chuckled. “Until ye find a bird who sings a song ye canna resist.” He playfully shoved his brother. “Every dog has his day, and I’m sure yers will soon arrive.”

Aidan shoved him back. “The only dog here is ye.”

“Will you two cease?” Lia asked, fighting down her laughter.

Ronan ducked his head and whispered in her ear. “Forgive me, lassie. I dinna mean to vex ye so, but there be too much happiness in my heart to contain.”

She gazed up at him, suddenly remembering the eve when she first met him.

He inclined his head, gazing at her curiously. “What?”

“I was just remembering the eve when I first arrived. You were in so much pain. ’Tis good to see you happy now and to hear your laugh.”

He cupped her cheek in his hand, a wealth of emotion in his eyes. “My sweet, bonny lass,” he whispered. “Thank ye. Thank ye for healing the heart of the Demon Laird. It belongs to ye, now and forevermore.”

The series of
Legacy of the Mist Clans
started with Mist Warrior and the story of Branan MacTavish. As I researched the clan, I learned that MacTavish was one of what had come to be known as the “Mist Clans,” meaning that at one point in history, the clan name and everything associated with it was deemed illegal. This resulted in histories being destroyed, people hiding their true names and, therefore, their clans, and dark periods spanning several generations. While this can wreak havoc with research for the purposes of writing, it also inspires the imagination.

As I began work on another Highland tale and started my research on a totally different clan, MacGregor (MacGrigor is simply a variant spelling), I was surprised to learn that it too was a “Mist Clan.” The more research I did, the more it appeared to me that MacGregor and MacTavish had quite a bit in common. That, in turn, opened the door to expand my ideas for the series.

It is not known exactly when the MacGregors came to Glen Gyle, but they were there in the 1500s. I chose to set this novel in Glen Gyle because I located a map dated to approximately the fifteenth century delineating Scottish clan holdings, which had the clan located there, and also because Glen Gyle is reasonably close to Stirling Castle, especially when one starts speaking in terms of medieval warfare and siege tactics. As far as my research has shown, there was never a castle in Glen Gyle, but there is a home there built by a famous MacGregor, Rob Roy.

While writing in this time period and this genre demands the author use artistic license here and there, I always make great effort to research and use as much factual history as possible. I work to present characters and situations within a window of history using a premise with a strong enough foundation that it not only entertains but presents to the reader a possibility that it might have actually happened.

Ronan’s illness, the falling-down sickness, consisting of attacks we now call seizures (some are epileptic, others are not), can display in a variety of ways. As a child, he displayed “absence seizures”. These
“cause a short loss of consciousness (just a few seconds) with few or no symptoms. The patient, most often a child, typically interrupts an activity and stares blankly. These seizures begin and end abruptly . . . (The patient) may be aware of ‘losing time.’”
(WebMD.com)

After le March tortures him, Ronan’s illness manifests itself in a different form:
“The most common and dramatic, and therefore the most well-known, is the generalized convulsion, also called the grand-mal seizure. In this type of seizure, the patient loses consciousness and usually collapses. The loss of consciousness is followed by generalized body stiffening (called the ‘tonic’ phase of the seizure) . . . then by violent jerking (the ‘clonic’ phase) . . . after which the patient goes into a deep sleep (the ‘postictal’ or after-seizure phase). During grand-mal seizures, injuries and accidents may occur . . . ”
(WebMD.com)

The falling-down sickness was often misunderstood during this time period and many did believe it a sign of possession. Common folk were not typically educated and often fell prey to superstition, yet on the other end of the spectrum, nobles, while educated, were just as human as the next man, and superstition can have a powerful impact.

Yet the illness was known and had been diagnosed. Hemlock, although a potent poison, was indeed used to treat the falling-down sickness, and it was also considered an accepted treatment for palsy, mania, and dropsy.

The story opens with young Ronan and Aidan discovering a void that leads under the foundation of the keep and curtain wall built over the “footprint” of ancient ruins.

Sapping was a common strategy in medieval siege warfare and the combination of the discovery and siege tactics at the time leads to Ronan’s idea to tunnel out.

For medieval castles, tunnels and secret passages or escape routes are popular points of intrigue and hundreds of legends abound. Unfortunately, historians have only been able to confirm the actual existence of a select few secret passages. Some of the most popular in historical fact are the tunnels of Valkenburg Castle in the Netherlands. History has documented the tales of the Ghost Knights, who would mysteriously appear behind the enemy laying siege to the castle and attack. The tunnels were also used to bring supplies in, thereby rending the point of siege warfare useless.

Longshanks’s trebuchet,
Lupus Guerrae
, the War Wolf, was indeed the reason why Stirling Castle fell in 1304. The besieged Scots watched for five months without hope of rescue while Longshanks constructed the massive engine (as well as assembled the smaller ones he had brought with him). When close to completion, the Scots attempted to surrender to Longshanks, but he refused, sending them back into the castle just so he could see what the trebuchet could do. Documented to be 300-400 feet long, it is said that one blow from the engine destroyed an entire curtain wall, but some historians believe it was actually the original gatehouse (barbican) of Stirling Castle that the War Wolf obliterated.

I believe it an important point to mention that historians debate whether Stirling Castle actually had an “original” gatehouse during this time period. If it did exist—and again considering the period, it should have had one—War Wolf destroyed it so totally that historians can’t decide if it was really a part of the original construction or if the gatehouse was added years later.

I hope you enjoyed reading Demon Laird, for creating these characters and situations has been a delightful adventure for me and has developed to such a point that it has expanded the
Legacy of the Mist Clans
series potential dramatically. Ronan’s brother, Aidan, will definitely get his own story.

To those readers of Mist Warrior who hoped to see sequels for Gavin de Reigny and Tristan of Greystoke, worry not, those are still planned, and as the series expands and develops, I hope to weave the threads of each into a vibrant tapestry, similar to the one Ronan brings to mind in the close of Demon Laird.

I would also like to encourage readers to leave reviews of this work on Amazon, Goodreads, Facebook, and other sites if at all possible. They not only help other potential readers but they help myself as a writer. I appreciate comments from readers and seek to learn from them in an effort to make myself a better writer so that I can produce more stories my readers will enjoy.

Also, I just plain love hearing from folks, so feel free to look me up on
Facebook
and say hello. My author website, kathryn-loch.com, is in the midst of an overhaul, but you can also check out
My Blog
for updates. Thank you again, and happy reading!