Four
It was several days arduous journey to the Moray Firth and Catherine’s family castle northeast of Inverness. They took a circuitous route, making it difficult for any pursuers and avoiding any hostile clans. The weather cleared after the third day, and they increased their pace, all of them eager for home. A lifetime spent in the Highlands hadn’t inured her to the breathtaking beauty around her, but she passed spectacular mountain scenery, rugged glens, raging cataracts, and dramatic seascapes, without taking any notice at all.
Jerrod’s words still troubled her. What had her father wanted? There was a time she’d thought she knew and had done everything in her power to give it to him, but he’d become a stranger to her over the years. She felt his presence always, a bitter blend of sorrow, anger, and regret, but there’d been good times… wonderful times… in the early years.
Her father, Ian Drummond, laird and chieftain of clan Drummond, Earl of Moray and peer of France, had been a vigorous and powerful man. The Highlands had ruled his heart and Catherine’s mother had owned his soul. When she’d died giving birth to Catherine, it had broken his heart. He’d wept for days, consumed with grief, inconsolable until Catherine’s nurse Martha had thought to place the bawling infant in his arms. She had her mother’s eyes, he’d said, and from that day on, he’d kept her close, spoiled and coddled, her father’s first and favorite child.
As she grew, she’d followed him about the castle, toddling after him on stubby legs. He’d scoop her up, chuckling, and tuck her in the crook of his arm, carrying her with him wherever he went. Once she was old enough to ride her own pony, she accompanied him with the men and boys when they went hunting and fishing, and in the council chamber, she sat at his right hand.
Her life had been carefree and full of adventure until she’d turned nine and her female relatives had begun hounding him. In his grief he’d neglected to remarry, they told him, depriving her of a mother’s care and influence. In his grief, he’d kept her close, raising her as a son. She would start to look like a woman soon, and she must be taught to act like one. If she didn’t learn her role and accept her place she’d never be accepted by men, or by women as one of their own.
Only her old nurse Martha had disagreed. “The girl is fine as she is. A rare jewel shouldnae be set in a common mold.”
Not long after, he brought home her new Mama, Liselle. She was French, she was beautiful, and given how much she hated her new Highland home, she was kind. Between bouts of frenzied tears, lamentations that bordered on hysteria, and a never-ending litany of complaints, she saw to acquiring for Catherine a wardrobe fit for a young lady, and instructed her in the rudiments of genteel conversation, deportment, and dance. Catherine was inclined to like her, but it was difficult to warm to someone who detested her father and the home she loved.
She hadn’t known until years later that her new mother, alone and friendless and given no choice, imagined herself in love with another man, but when she thickened with child and begged to return to France, her father had readily agreed. He’d accompanied her to his Barony in the Loire Valley and stayed for the birth and christening of Alistair, their son, and then returned home to teach his daughter the arts of governance, trade, and war.
She was an apt pupil, but she wasn’t a male, and throughout her youth she had to fight to be included, and fight to be herself. Most of her father’s men grew to accept her as a comrade, though some regarded her with suspicion and others disapproved. Her uncle Frazer was one, as was his son, her cousin Donald. Donald had come to live with them when Frazer was killed on a cattle raid. He was a strapping, unsmiling, redheaded boy, full of bravado and overly proud, but she knew he missed his father and was eager to show her father his worth. He was always quick to protect her and she knew he loved her in his way, but he was jealous of her abilities, resentful of the attention her father paid her, and amazed a girl should be allowed such liberties, chieftain’s daughter or no.
Alistair came home when he was six. She’d tried to befriend him, but he was another who objected to her behavior, and he pushed her resolutely away. Even as a child, he was ascetic and disapproving, bookish and severe. Jerrod had taken to calling him the little Presbyterian. Little had they known. Slight of stature and far from robust, he was as strong-willed and brave as any Drummond, but he was prone to fits of temper and seldom stopped to think before he acted. Within a year of his coming, her father had pulled her aside.
“A man can’t live forever, Cat, though I intend to do my best. But it’s my duty to think of who’s to succeed me as chieftain.”
Her heart had quickened and swelled with pride. She’d struggled all her life to make him proud, to live up to his name and her heritage.
“Alistair’s my only son, by rights it should be him, but the clan regard him as a foreigner, he does nae seem suited in body or mind, and between you and I, I’m far from certain his blood is mine. He’s young yet. He may grow stronger and wiser with time, but I fear he shares his mother’s unsettled nature. Donald wants it badly. He’s a fine warrior, well liked, too, but he’s rash, hotheaded, and stubborn. It’s you who’s shown the most promise, girl. It breaks my heart you’re a woman.”
She’d blinked, stricken, and an empty chill had seized her that was with her to this day. It had only gotten worse.
“Our people love you, Catherine, as I do. They trust and respect you, but they won’t take their orders from a woman. Not so long as there’s any other choice. But if we find you the right husband, someone with the wit to recognize your skills and abilities, rely on your experience and counsel…”
He’d continued on like that for some time, but she was frozen inside, and she’d barely heard a word. He sent her to France shortly after, to stay with Liselle and be schooled as a lady. She went to Paris and Versailles, polished her dancing and her manners, and was presented at the court of Louis XIV. She was courted, feted, and pronounced a great success, but the whole time she felt like an imposter—awkward, indelicate, and overlarge. She’d returned home two years later with a new hairstyle, a new wardrobe, and a fashionable new cynicism, and watched while her beloved father tried to sell her… for the good of the clan.
Her suitors pricked with interest when they saw her. She didn’t account herself a great beauty, but she knew she was comely enough when you added her inheritance and the prospect of becoming chieftain of a powerful and prosperous clan. She’d turned them down, one by one. It took but a moment to see in their eyes: this one would rule her, this one ignore her, and this one was naught but a peevish child. She’d struggled against it for nearly four years, joining the men on hunting trips and raids, then returning to her solar to be coiffed, dressed, and marched out on sullen display.
In the end, her father lost patience, telling her to choose or he’d choose for her. She’d felt hurt and betrayed, and at Michaelmas a year past, she’d told him she hated him. She’d seen the hurt in his eyes and felt a stab of remorse, but she’d refused to take it back. Ten days later, he’d keeled over across the dinner table, sending overturned goblets and red wine running the length of the cloth, clutching at his arm ashen-faced, wheezing for breath and struggling to speak before crashing to the ground. She’d watched, horrified, as his hand slowly opened, releasing his goblet, and red wine pooled like blood on the floor.
Catherine jerked upright in the saddle, looking around her and wiping her eyes with her sleeve. The wild, snow-peaked Cairngorm Mountains were behind them, and before them the landscape dropped to low hills, crisscrossed with cattle and whiskey trails. Far in the distance, the sun glinted bright off steel-blue water and crests of white foam, and she could see and smell the smoke that drifted from the fishing villages dotting the coast. They were nearly home.
Her father’s death had changed things irrevocably, laying open rivalries and fault lines that had lain dormant under his skillful rule. Rory, her uncle Jerrod, their men, and several others, stepped forward immediately offering their allegiance, but more had looked to Alistair and Donald. Sick with grief, she understood it was this her father had hoped to avoid. Donald stepped forward, Alistair stepped back, and she’d stepped aside, leaving it to the council to decide.
They’d chosen Donald, but her father had left the bulk of his lands and fortune in Scotland to her. It hadn’t taken long for Donald and Alistair to try and control her, Alistair as her guardian and Donald as her chief. She snorted in disgust, startling her mount. Donald resented that she was invited to council, resented that she spoke her mind, and resented that when he spoke, they looked to her to see her reaction. He considered her a rival and he wanted her gone. It galled her to listen to his impassioned ranting and her brother’s pretentious and uninformed opinions, and it worried her to listen to their dangerous and ill-conceived plans. She knew her father would expect her to speak up, but each time she did, they became more determined to set her on the path of proper womanhood and put her in her place.
They’d made it a priority to find her a husband, and in the end, despite her objections, they’d affianced her to Cormac O’Connor, a friend and boon companion from Donald’s youth. They offered an alliance and a sizable dowry, and all he had to do for it was take her away. Large and rough, a brash and arrogant man who was quick to anger and slow to forgive, Cormac would seek to rule her. She knew the type. He was a simple man with an overabundance of pride, not unlike many of her father’s warriors. She’d learned how to manage them long ago. She’d be able to manage Cormac. It rankled though… to be usurped, to be cast from the land and people she’d been trained to fight for, care for, and protect. It hurt like hell. Nevertheless, when Alistair journeyed to Edinburgh and landed in trouble with the Covenanters, she had organized the raid to retrieve him.
He’d stumbled onto a meeting and quickly found himself enamored. It didn’t surprise her. Presbyterianism as practiced by the lowland Scots was a hard, unyielding faith. It abhorred graven images, didn’t recognize Easter, and looked on Christmas with suspicion and distaste. The Covenanter’s refused to accept the royal decree that the king was head of the church and signed a covenant stating only Jesus Christ could command that position. They might as well have signed their own death warrants. The combination of severity and courageous defiance, romanticized into a struggle for faith and independence against a tyrannical and too-English king, must have appealed immensely to Alistair’s rigid nature and his youthful need to rebel. Still, Covenanters were no friends to the Drummonds, and Alistair’s misguided folly teetered perilously close to a betrayal of his clan.
When word came that he’d joined an assembly on the River Clyde near Hamilton, and a paid company of king’s men was descending upon them, she’d argued for his rescue, reminding them that others would notice if they failed to protect their own. Donald argued that Alistair’s foolishness should not be allowed to endanger the clan. The council had looked back and forth between them, and in the end, it was decided a small force would go.
She’d taken ship with a group of handpicked men. From Edinburgh they’d moved overland, intending a quick surgical strike, but by the time they got there, the battle was already joined. They’d watched the slaughter from the hills, silent and grim, straining to spot Alistair in the melee below. A fog had moved in, rolling over the hills and along the river, making it difficult to see. When it lifted for a moment, she’d caught a glimpse of the crimson Drummond plaid down by the bank. She’d given a whistle and waved her sword, pointing in his direction. She wasn’t supposed to have taken the field, but the flash of her weapon drew unwanted attention, and within minutes, she’d been surrounded by a bloodthirsty mob.
She’d tried to retreat, struggling to turn her horse around, but in the melee, she was forced down the hill and back toward the water. At one point a giant swordsman banged into her, stunning her and almost knocking her from her mount. He took a lazy pass at her with his sword and she threw herself sideways, reaching back and almost catching his thigh. He’d seemed disinclined to pursue her, breaking off his attack and allowing her to retreat. She’d pressed on toward Alistair’s position, only to find she was cut off and he was already gone. She knew now who the giant had been. She’d realized it in his tent. Even without a helmet, she’d recognized his height and his sword.
She stretched and twisted, cracking her neck, and looked back at her men. They were the best of the Highland Scots. She’d fought with them as was her duty, and she never wanted to do it again. It was nothing like the lightning-quick skirmishes and rousing night raids she’d been on with her father. One took some livestock, one laughed with one’s companions, and on occasion, some heroic fool took things a step too far and got himself killed. This had been a hacking, slashing massacre. It could have been worse, though. The Englishman had spared her on the battlefield and protected her in the camp. She owed him a great deal. She owed him her life. She grinned. Too bad she was never going to see him again to pay him back.