Warrior of the Highlands

He continued, “Men who are enemies in Scotland might find themselves allied in Ireland, driven by religion over clan. Here the Catholic confederates fight to retake Protestant lands. Confederates who have a long-standing hatred for England and her king. Do you see? The Confederates are not naturally Royalist, aye?”



He watched her face, waiting for her to nod her understanding before he continued.



“But the king, he fancies his Catholic wife and is inclined to let we savages be.” He gave a quick laugh. “While



Parliament would oust both Catholics and king. And so two enemies have found they have much in common. Irish Catholics supporting an English monarch. My father never thought he'd see the day,” he added with a chuckle.



“Will you fight?” she asked abruptly.



“If I must.”



She turned her face away sharply, unable to look at him.



“Leannan, I've simply come for more men. I rally troops to return with me to help hold the MacDonald castle at Dunyveg. But… ” He was quiet for a moment. “Leannan, look at me. Please.”



“Don't,” she rasped. She turned her face back to him and didn't bother to hide the angry tears that shimmered there . “You need to go back to Scotland now. Fight there. Not here.”



“Och, Haley lass. I fight where I must. I gather men, but even now the Parliamentary army marches south. I'll not turn back to Scotland, leaving my allies to face their enemy alone. If the Munster army needs me on Irish soil, then that is where I'll stand.”



They arrived two days later, and Haley's greatest fear was realized. It was as she suspected. The Munster army did indeed lay claim to MacColla.



They were welcomed at Assolas House, a lovely, two-story mansion, complete with a carpet of ivy covering the gray stones of its facade and a river babbling gently beyond. The grounds were lush, featuring flowers, fruits, and a serene sweep of green lawn.



And Haley thought it hell.



She knew she needed to take control of the situation.



Needed to figure out how exactly to save MacColla from himself. But reasonable solutions eluded her. The only strategy she came up with would be to knock him on the head and whisk him as far as she could from Ireland .



But she knew, he'd only come to, and come back.



They sat at dinner with the Lord Taaffe and though she told herself she should've been grateful for a meal consisting of more than just oats and hare on a spit, she couldn't muster enough of an appetite to eat.



Rollo and the others had dined earlier, leaving just the three of them to, as Taaffe had put it, “more thoroughly acquaint themselves.” She wished she'd been able to dine with the soldiers, not being much in the acquainting mood.



Once inhabited by Catholic monks, the Assolas dining room featured a long, well-used table with benches on either side. Taaffe and MacColla sat directly across from each other.



And Haley saw immediately what a mess that was going to be.



Lord Theobald Taaffe was an antique. With his curled hair and fine waistcoat, he'd clearly gone straight from wealth and careful tutelage to a grand military posting.



He was broad chivalry, not blood and iron rations.



The sort of man who'd ride into battle well -groomed and flanked by an attendant to carry his provisions.



Not MacColla's sort at all.



Haley watched her love's face darken through the meal, forced as he was to sit captive to Taaffe's uninformed opining.



When the man announced that he'd sent a letter to the enemy, proposing they dispatch a like number of men to fight for the purpose of recreation, MacColla's face turned purple.



“A generous gamester am I” Taaffe elaborated, “but alas, the Parliamentarians did not rise to my challenge.”



“You did what?” MacColla snarled. “Is it you think you can resolve this war as though a game of dice?”



“The men have seemed dispirited of late. I'd thought a good and chivalrous challenge would rouse the blood.”



“Gee,” Haley muttered, astounded by the absurdity, “that's very… King Arthur of you.”



“This is no sport we play at,” MacColla said with steel in his voice. “No joust, no tilts. You'll get your fill of blood once the fighting begins. Roused indeed. Blood enough will spill - the sod will weep with it.”



MacColla's near-growl brought her eyes to him. She saw him, truly saw him, for what he was. A blooded Highlander, eager for battle.



The flicker of humor she'd felt a moment before took a dark turn. It was this buffoon seated across from them who'd be by MacColla's side in battle.



“Ah, yes,” Taaffe agreed gravely. “Bloody days are upon us. Even now we have an army of twelve hundred horse and seven thousand foot rallied. Most are encamped at Kanturk less than a league hence. The rest wait on Knocknanuss Hill. The best strategic position in Cork, I dare say.”



Knocknanuss. Haley sat upright on the hard bench, her heart thumping to life.



“Though our foe marches toward us, we still strongly outnumber… But, dear girl” - Taaffe turned his attention to Haley - “are you ill?”



He turned to MacColla. “I beg your forgiveness, sir. How dare I speak of such dark matters before one of the fairer ”-



“What did you say?” Haley interrupted.



“I fear you swoon ”-



“No,” she snapped. “ Where? Where did you just say the soldiers were?”



“Why, Knocknanuss Hill, to be sure. Venture to the top, and you shall be rewarded by the finest of landscapes stretching before you.”



But his words were just a drone in her ears.



Knocknanuss.



Her body buzzed with adrenalin. Why did that name strike a chord?



She'd once learned something critical, but what had it been? Knocknanuss.



There was something that had happened in Knocknanuss.



Chapter Twenty-Seven



“Come on, you can tell me,” Haley said, enjoying the look of discomfort on Rollo's face.



Since hearing the name Knocknanuss, she'd been upset. She finally remembered it as the site of a famous battle, but who won, and how, still eluded her. There were just too many battles from that time period; she couldn't recall them all.



But she was finding sitting and talking with Will Rollo to be a welcome diversion. She asked him again, “James Graham is alive, isn't he?”



“A crowd of hundreds would claim otherwise,” Rollo replied flatly. “Graham was seen hanged, after all.”



Rollo stared straight ahead, and Haley used the opportunity to study his profile. He was a large man. Not like MacColla with his massive height and brawn, but more movie-star tall, with fine, chiseled features. She eyed his sharp jaw and cheekbones, and the thick waves of chestnut brown hair skimming the nape of his neck.



Though he wasn't all ferocious Highlander, Rollo didn't strike her as a courtly Lowland type either. He fell somewhere in the middle. Sort of how she imagined James Graham.



“But MacColla all but said Graham is alive. He said you were friends. Implied that you are friends.”



“I didn't hear MacColla say such a thing.”



She would've sworn she saw a smile glimmer for a moment in his eyes.



She looked back to the dance floor, considering the question of James Graham. She realized all of her theories and speculation just didn't matter anymore.



MacColla was all that mattered now.



She scanned the room, seeking him out. He stood on the edge of the dance floor, watching dancers reel to the skirling of the pipes. They might be far from Scottish shores, she thought with a grim smile, but leave it to the MacDonalds to bring their piper wherever they went.



The set ended, and she heard someone call MacColla's name. She watched as he downed his ale in one long swallow. A man tossed him a broadsword. He grinned , catching it easily.



The pipes shrilled to life once more, and MacColla joined two men on the dance floor.



A sword dance. Her heart thrilled at the sight of these big, glowering men, laying their swords crossed on the ground to begin one of the most ancient of rituals.



She felt so filled up at the sight of him. Glorious and exuberant, with a broad smile, already prancing to the music.



Someone began to slam his tankard on a table, keeping time to the music. He was joined by another, then by fists on tables and clapping hands, until a drumbeat sounded through the room.



Haley had considered MacColla to be the most magnificent of men. But seeing him dance she realized why songs had been written about him. Why history remembered him as more than an ordinary man. His charisma, his passion and delight, ignited the room. He was more than a man, he truly was an epic hero.



The men hopped and skipped about the blades, their arms raised high, plaids dancing with their movements.



She beamed. Such a simple and pure pleasure it was to watch him move. It thrilled through her, cutting the despair, and she knew then why the Scots turned to pipes and dance and ale, as she discovered some hidden glimmer of joy buried deep in her soul.



Her eyes cut briefly to Rollo, and she wondered what he thought of all this. His face was calm, his usual dourness replaced by some other, softer emotion. But she knew he would never be able to do such a thing as sword dancing.



The beat grew faster, and Haley clapped in time, her eyes drawn back to the men. One of them tossed off his bonnet and the crowd cheered. MacColla loudest of all. He laughed heartily, his feet moving rapidly in time, kicking and hopping over steel.



His eyes searched the crowd. He found her and grinned.



Pain sideswiped her, stabbing her in the chest, and Haley clutched her hands in her skirts. Watching him, seeing such happiness, such life, seared her, pulling her lungs tight, dimming her vision.



We have to get out of here. Leave Ireland.



“Don't these people realize they're at war?”



Haley didn't realize she'd spoken until she heard Rollo's reply.



“A bit of revelry is good for a soldier. Many of these men will return from battle a lifeless body on a bier.” He studied the crowd, standing and cheering, clapping in time to the music. “Such diversions aren't uncommon before battle.”