Chapter Six
Jamie McLeod sat on the edge of his bed, having sought a few moments of solitude. Releasing a long, slow breath, he rested his head in his soot and blood streaked hands. But when he closed his eyes all he could see were images of the recent attacks. Fields going up in flame. Women and children dead. Growling, he fisted his hands as a fresh wave of fury coursed through him.
Damn Fiona MacDonnell to Hell!
The viper had run home to her father after Jamie had seen her safely from his lands and, no doubt, spewed vicious lies against him. More than that, she had clearly turned the MacKenzie against his clan. Now, his people were being slaughtered, but he was powerless to defend his kin against both clans MacDonnell and MacKenzie.
How could he possibly set this right?
A moment later, a sharp rapping sounded on his door the instant before Matthew, his second in command, walked in.
“The council has assembled in the great hall.”
Jamie closed his eyes for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and stood. Crossing to the hearth, he rested his forearm on the stone mantle and stared into the fire. Small, demon faces bared their teeth at him, staring up through the dancing flames. The frightening images had been carved by his grandfather to appease his wife. Jamie’s grandmother had believed the fairfolk would fly down the chimney and take her babies from their cradles. The demonic sprites still decorated the bed of the hearth all the way to the mantle. As a child, Jamie could remember being terrified of the hearth and had vowed to have them plastered over when he became laird. Now, the faces were a constant comfort, a reminder of the men who had come before him and borne the weight of the chiefdom with courage and compassion.
He turned to face Matthew. “I am ready.”
Upon entering the great hall, Jamie listened to his council members’ fury and distress over the recent violent raids from the MacKenzie.
“They burned out poor William’s croft with him and his Elsa still inside,” Grant choked out. “His children…” he shook his head, pressing his lips together in a grim line. “They were slaughtered. We found them in a field near the house as if they had tried to run but had been cut down, arrows mangling their wee bodies.”
Jamie slammed his fist on the table.
“Hamish and his family suffered the same fate,” Matthew added. “That brings the death toll to twenty.”
Jamie stood, fury seething within him. He pressed his hands on the table and looked each of his council in the eyes. “They’ve slaughtered our cottars, burned our fields, and torched one of our storehouses. They must be stopped.”
Matthew stood up. “The MacKenzie has five times the men and stores. They are toying with us, trying to force our surrender.”
Jamie pushed away from the table, raking his hands through his hair. “So my cousin reminds me,” he muttered bitterly.
Jamie had sent a messenger to his cousin, Kenneth, chieftain of Clan MacLeod on the Isle of Harris to the north. Kenneth sent back a missive offering men to help defend Jamie’s keep, but he refused to send warriors to mount an offensive attack, arguing it would be sending his men to be slaughtered. Kenneth promised to stand with Jamie only with better odds.
As much as Jamie wanted to be furious with his cousin, he knew Kenneth was right. Attacking the MacKenzie with only the might of the MacLeod would be suicide. What’s more, he knew the MacDonnell chit was engaged to Adam MacKenzie, which only stacked the odds further against the MacLeod. No matter how he looked at it, he was outnumbered. Never had his clan stood so close to the brink of ruination.
He fisted his hands. “This cannot be the end of the MacLeod.”
“My laird,” Edward shouted as he rushed into the great hall.
Jamie turned and looked at the young stable hand. “What is it?”
“A rider from the MacDonnell has been spotted.”
Matthew lunged to his feet. “Prepare for battle!”
The room erupted into chaos. Grant unsheathed his broad sword. “I am ready for blood, my laird.”
“Hold,” the young lad cried, waving his arms.
“Silence,” Jamie bellowed.
Everyone froze. Jamie turned to Edward. “Speak,” he snapped.
“The MacDonnell bears the colors of his clan alongside our own colors.”
Jamie straightened. “Are ye certain?”
The lad nodded, wide-eyed.
Jamie turned and stormed from the great hall, down the wide steps, and into the courtyard. He raced across to the inner wall and thundered up the stairs to the top of the battlements, taking them three at a time. Straightway, he spotted the lone rider who sat astride his horse, and, sure enough, he held two banners high—one bearing the colors of Clan MacDonnell and the other, the crest of Clan MacLeod.
Jamie turned and shouted down to Michael. “Prepare for an attack but make no move unless I give the signal.” Then he called to the guardsmen at the gate, “Lower the bridge.”
Jamie stood with his feet wide and his arms crossed over his chest while he watched the rider nudge his horse cautiously into the courtyard of Castle Làidir. With a wary eye on Jamie, the warrior dismounted and dipped his head in greeting.
“I am Robert MacDonnell.” He withdrew a missive from his sporran. “I bring ye an urgent message from my laird.”
Jamie took the offered parchment and motioned his scribe to his side. “Phillip, what do ye make of this?” he asked, handing off the scroll.
Phillip’s eyes darted over the page, his lips moving in a quick flutter. Then he looked up at Jamie. “The MacDonnell wishes to unite with the MacLeod against their common enemy.”
Jamie arched his brow. “And who is that meant to be?”
“It says here Clan MacKenzie.”
Jamie crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the messenger. “If yer chieftain’s daughter is betrothed to the son of the Mackenzie, how is the Clan MacKenzie our common enemy?”
Robert’s eyes widened. “Do ye mean ye’ve not heard?”
Jamie lunged forward and grabbed the top fold of Robert’s plaid. “What have I not heard?” he snarled.
“The MacKenzie is dead and so is his son, both murdered,” the messenger blurted.
Jamie froze, then slowly released his grip on the man’s plaid. “Donald MacKenzie is dead?”
Robert made the sign of the cross. “He is, may God rest his soul.”
Jamie repeated the action of the MacDonnell warrior before he asked, “By whose hand?”
“His own brother, Ranulf MacKenzie. He has taken the clan by force.”
Jamie remembered seeing Ranulf MacKenzie at a gathering of the clans when Jamie was just eight years old. Ranulf had been regarded as the fiercest swordsmen at the games and won every honor in which he competed. It had been years since Jamie heard his name spoken. “The last I heard, Ranulf MacKenzie was a hired sword, making a fortune in England.”
Robert nodded. “Indeed, but now he has returned with the spoils of his trade, a fortune in gold and a small army of lethal swordsmen. They have adopted the MacKenzie plaid, but wear black leather jerkins that bear Ranulf’s own crest.”
“How has he come by his own crest?” Jamie asked.
“He claims to have been awarded the prestige by an English lord.”
Jamie shook his head in disbelief. “He is a traitor to his kin and his king.”
Fury coursed through him. It all was beginning to make sense. His own clan had not feuded with the MacKenzie for more than a hundred years. Jamie had assumed his enemy, Laird MacDonnell, had turned Laird MacKenzie against Jamie’s clan when their children became betrothed. But now, Jamie understood that the MacDonnell and his own clan did, indeed, face a new and treacherous foe. The recent, vicious attacks—the slaughter of innocents—revealed the character of Ranulf MacKenzie. He was a tyrant who needed to be stopped.
“Come inside the keep, Robert,” Jamie said, turning on his heel. Once inside the great hall, he started pacing.
Alone, his clan was powerless against the might of the Mackenzie, but how could he join with the MacDonnell? The feud between their clans went back hundreds of years. The origins of their conflict were now forgotten, but many of the elders remembered the last time the two clans had tried to reconcile.
Jamie’s grandfather, Angus MacLeod had agreed to a betrothal with Flora MacDonnell, the chieftain’s fifteen-year-old daughter. Flora arrived at Castle Làidir on Christmas, but the ceremony was not arranged until the feast day of the Epiphany. But when the day arrived, Angus was left standing at the altar, humiliated in front of his kin. As it turned out, the MacDonnell wench had stolen away in the night and demanded sanctuary at the kirk in a village south of MacLeod territory. Later, Angus and his father learned that she had accused them of battering women and claimed that she had been forced to flee for her very life.
No doubt, Flora had been in love with another or did not think Angus handsome enough. For Angus and his father had been good men who would never have touched a woman in anger. Although Angus and his father had been disappointed at the time, for they had truly wanted peace, they had not been surprised.
What else should they have expected from a MacDonnell lass?
“This is the opportunity for which we were hoping,” Matthew said, intruding upon his thoughts. “If we make an alliance with the MacDonnell, then yer cousin will send the warriors we need.”
Jamie whirled around. “Are ye mad? Ye want to put yer faith in them?” he said, jerking his head toward Robert.
“What other choice do we have?”
Fingal, one of the elders, came forward. Bushy gray brows shadowed his keen eyes. “How do we know this isn’t a trap? Our laird is right. We cannot trust the MacDonnell. His warriors have stolen twenty head of cattle this year alone.”
“Only after ye stole ours,” Robert growled.
Matthew reached for his sword, but Jamie stayed his hand. “Ye see, Matthew, even now we fight.”
Robert turned to Jamie. “Forgive my outburst. I ken our clans share no affection. This is known to all. We tinker each other’s cattle and raid each other’s stores, but what we have suffered at the hand of the new MacKenzie does not compare. The madman has butchered women and children. He is after blood. They didn’t steal from our stores; they burned them to the ground. This vile tyranny cannot go unchecked, nor can either of our clans stand alone against their strength.”
“What of the MacKenzie people? Have they forgotten all goodness and decency, or do they cower beneath the might of this Ranulf?” Jamie asked.
Robert lifted his shoulders. “No one knows for certain what goes on at the MacKenzie keep.”
Jamie’s mind was reeling from the news. What was to be done? Robert was right—they had to resist, but after generations of war, how could the clans MacDonnell and MacLeod put aside their own prejudices?
He turned and looked at Robert. “I do not know how I can ever trust yer laird,” he said flatly.
“What choice do any of us have?” the man shot back.
“Might I make a suggestion,” a weak voice said, coming from the table in the corner. Argyle, the eldest of the MacLeods, slowly stood. Gripping tightly to his cane, he hobbled across the room, his back stooped, and stopped in front of Jamie.
Jamie bowed his head in respect to the older man. “What do ye have to say, Argyle?”
“If the MacKenzie’s lad is dead, then the MacDonnell’s daughter is unwed.”
Jamie knew what the old man was suggesting. He gritted his teeth at the idea of marrying the haughty slip of a woman he had met in the forest. He turned to Robert, knowing he could not discuss such an arrangement with a member of Clan MacDonnell present. “Robert, ye must be tired and in need of food.” Then he motioned to the lad still standing near the door, his young eyes wide and eager. “Edward, take Robert to the kitchen and see that he is properly fed.”
After Robert followed Edward from the room, Jamie turned back to Argyle and shook his head. “Do ye remember the last time a MacLeod man was betrothed to a MacDonnell woman?”
The old man wrinkled his brow. “I am one of the few still alive who does.”
“I have met this Fiona. She is no different than any other MacDonnell woman. They are inconstant, fickle, and weak. How can I bring such a lady into my clan, to be the example to my kin?”
“I do not think ye have a choice,” the old man rasped. “Without this alliance, ye may not have a clan at all.”
“Damnation,” Jamie cursed. His hands clenched in tight fists at what he had to do. “Matthew!”
His second stood up. “Aye, my laird.”
“See that my horse is readied. Then double the watch on the outer wall and on the watch towers throughout our land. Ye’re in command in my absence.”
“Where are ye going, my laird?”
Jamie didn’t answer. He couldn’t bring himself to utter the words.
“My laird?” Matthew repeated. Then finally he snapped, “Jamie!”
Jamie turned around. “I’m going to the MacDonnell to make an alliance.”
“But Jamie,” the older man called out. “Ye’re still covered in soot and blood. Should ye not bathe first. That is no way to ask for a lady’s hand.”
Jamie shook his head. “She’ll have me as I am or not at all.”