MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol Page 3

“Here,” she said to Malcom. “Take this to your Da.”

  Malcom eyed her with a lifted brow, though he took the rolled parchment she handed down to him from the rooftop, wherein she’d scribbled a few more changes for his father to see. He did not much appreciate being ordered about, and wondered what his Da would think when he handed him yet another new set of Catrìona’s blueprints.

  Annoyed, he nevertheless started down the hill, mulling over what sort of clan raised a lassie to work like a man—and to act like one too.

  Page’s bossiness could be excused, Malcom supposed, for she’d been left to fend for herself, much like Seana Brodie had been. But at least those women knew to give their men obeisance in front of others. Catrìona treated her husband with the same bossiness with which she treated Malcom.

  “Do this. Do that,” she would say. And Gavin Mac Brodie would rush to do her bidding, all the while grinning like a bampot, as though he thought it would gain him some wonderful prize. What Malcom wouldn’t give to be away from this place—somewhere where he could begin to matter. Here, he was only the MacKinnon’s son, and all his counsels were scoffed at.

  Down, deep in his soul, he felt a coming tide … a surge of something foul. Trust was simply not something Malcom gave so freely.

  All his grumblings were forgotten the instant he spied the riders coming up the hill.

  Hastening to his father’s side, Malcom handed him the parchment from Catrìona without a word.

  His father turned the parchment in his hand. “What’s this?”

  “From Cat,” Malcom said, rolling his eyes, and fixing his gaze upon the approaching riders. “She says the chimney is better positioned to the middle of the roof.”

  “Does she?” his father said, and stuffed the parchment into his belt to deal with later, his gaze returning to the riders. “Where are your sisters?” he asked.

  Malcom shared his concern for their safety. He did not suffer strangers easily. “Page took the women to the brook.” All save Catrìona Brodie, he didn’t bother to add. She, more than any of them, needed a bath, for she sweated like a man.

  “Good.”

  It wasn’t until the riders were halfway up the hill that Malcom realized who it was. A wolf’s-head banner snapped in the breeze, and he peered back at Catrìona.

  * * *

  A bit farther down the way, near a bend in the road, a small cavalcade stopped for a rest. Broc Ceannfhionn held the wagon reigns, considering a detour.

  There were a number of cairns along the landscape here, but most of these were not built by the hands of seven-year old boy. He, more than anyone, understood what it was like to see a village burn… The scent of seared flesh and the haunting refrain of terrified screams tainted his childhood memories. And yet none of these were things he ever wanted his children to suffer. Although mayhap it would behoove them to know from whence they’d come?

  Very near where he’d buried his beloved dog, Merry—bless her sweet four-legged soul—he had erected a cairn for his murdered kinsmen and carved each of their names upon the stones, earmarked with the year of their deaths. Their bones rested leagues away, but this was Broc’s private monument to a life he’d abandoned and a people whose legacy would perish along with his own death… lest he fathered a son—and now he had.

  A sliver of sunlight stabbed him in the eye and he turned away, casting his gaze backward along the cavalcade, settling his sights on his flaxen-haired boy seated in one of the carts near the new wet nurse. There was barely enough room for the children amidst food supplies and heaping piles of cloth, but none of them had complained.

  Griffin was nine. Maggie was ten. His eldest, Suisan, was already twelve. And Lara, at seven, was the image of her minny, with bright red hair and soul-stirring green eyes.

  He’d never told any of them how their grandparents died… all his children knew was that Broc’s mother and father and all his kinsmen all perished under unfortunate circumstances and that was how Broc had come to live most of his life with the MacKinnon clan. They’d embraced him as a child of seven into their fold—something for which he would be indebted to them until the day he died. Whatever he had was theirs to share—which was why he’d dragged six hefty wagons along a mountainous countryside, and spent two entire days rebuilding a wheel to replace the one they’d lost after dragging the lot across a wide burn.

  By all the accounts Broc had received, Chreagach Mhor lay in ruins. And so they’d come expecting to spend the entire winter, bringing as many of their household as they could spare, and leaving Broc’s most trusted men to garrison the keep.

  Dunloppe’s defenses were entirely secure, and, for the moment, they were no longer at war.

  Mulling over the complexities of a visit to his parents cairn, he considered asking his wife for counsel. Seated next to him, she was as lovely as the day he’d met her, her curls aflame beneath the afternoon sun.

  As though by instinct, Elizabet peered down in the direction of the cairn—where Broc had first confessed his love for her. After a moment, she met his gaze, crooking her arm about his and squeezing gently, guessing at his thoughts. “Only think on it awhile, my love. If you still feel the need to share, we can stop by on our way home.”

  Broc nodded, considering his children, who’d barely known a day of hardship. Even more than the MacKinnons, they were blessed.

  Elizabet said, “Perhaps of greater import than the way they died is the legacy you will leave in their names?”

  Together, they peered back at their band of wee ones sitting in the carts.

  His daughter Suisan was becoming such a little lady. She’d kept all her siblings preoccupied the entire journey, telling them stories and playing games all along the long, bumpy way. All four children were perfectly content at the instant, leaving Broc to worry less about his brood, and more about the state of affairs of Chreagach Mhor.

  It pained him immensely to think of his laird—he would always think of Iain this way—in such dire straights. Even now, ten years gone by, he could not quite fathom himself laird of his own demesne. And yet he was. He was proud of all he’d accomplished—risen literally from the dust of his own clan—and for this he had mostly Iain to thank.

  Leaving the cairn for later, he clicked the reins, moving along down the road, eager to see his cousin Constance—willful little lass that she was—to know the woman she had become.

  Beside him, Elizabet pulled her heavy cloak around her shoulders and pinched a loose fabric from her dress. “I’d forgotten how long this journey could be.”

  Noting the weariness in her face, Broc nodded back toward the cart where the children rode. “Why do you not take a rest? You need not keep my company the entire way.”

  “I am fine,” his wife persisted. She gave him a crooked smile. “If you can do it, I can do it,” she said saucily. “Anyway, when was the last time you spent so long in a saddle or in a wagon seat, my dearest husband? You’ve hardly left our home save to attend the King’s council. You must have sores on your bum the same as me.”

  Broc chuckled low. “’Tis God’s truth,” he said, and gave his wife a bit of a grimace, offering on a more serious note, “You know I wadna ever leave ye, but for the agreement I have made with David. I like my bed very well, thank you, please. One damp winter in a cauld dungeon is quite enough discomfort to last a mon his entire life.”

  They fell silent after that assertion, and Broc realized the memory of that particular winter must plague his wife even more than him. In fact, he wished he hadn’t brought it up at all, for that was the winter he’d come far too close to hanging on the gallows—both he and Lael dún Scoti.

  In truth, he was greatly pleased Elizabet had insisted on coming along. Not only could the MacKinnons use all the help they could get, but he never relished leaving his family alone for very long. Dunloppe he could lose if it be God’s will, but Broc could never bear to lose the love of his life or the children they’d born together.

  “We’ll arrive there soon
,” he ventured to say.

  Elizabet’s answering smile could scarce hide her fatigue. “Do not fash yourself, Broc Ceannfhionn.” He smiled, because she’d used the name he’d given her when they’d first met, Broc the blond. His wife kept him humble—as did the name itself, given to him by Iain MacKinnon on the day Broc arrived at Chreagach Mhor.

  “’Twill be alright, Broc Ceannfhionn,” Iain had said, giving Broc hope.

  Now it was Broc’s turn to return the favor.

  * * *

  Aidan dún Scoti arrived with more than two-dozen strong backs to join the reconstruction. Each man saw to his own mount as Iain greeted the dún Scoti laird.

  It humbled him to know that a man like Aidan—who rarely left his vale in the Mounth—would come so far to help. Allies though they were, they were hardly neighbors. Now, more than ever Iain was coming to realize the value of the brotherhood they’d formed ten years before—a bond of seven noble clans that included all of the dún Scoti—the hill Scots—who bore no other name, the MacLeans, the Montgomeries, the Brodies, and the last of the McNaught and MacEanraig clans.

  All except Jaime Steorling had come to offer aid, and Jaime, ’twas said, had been summoned to yet another of David’s councils. The rest of the clans had been spared the majority of these, for David only levied their men whenever it was unavoidable. He knew better than to abuse the fragile oath they’d all sworn.

  “I believe the last time you were here was for your sister’s wedding,” Iain said.

  In fact, Aidan had weathered that situation rather nobly, for his sister had been ripped from the bosom of her family by none other than David of Scotia, with the sole premise of bartering her politically to England—much the same as was done to his own son. But unlike Malcom, Catrìona had escaped her captors, and promptly found herself a Brodie husband.

  Aidan arched a dark brow, the twinkle in his eyes unmistakable. “Aye, well, it took me all this long to get over the foul temper it left me in.” He removed his riding gloves, tucking them into his waist, and said, “South was never my favorite way to ride.”

  Iain couldn’t resist a bit of ribbing. “What the bloody hell lies north o’ ye?”

  Aidan’s smile tightened. “Only Moray, but ’tis precisely the way I like it.”

  Iain laughed, clapping Aidan fully on the back. “Welcome, friend,” he said. “Welcome. No matter how many years go by, I am no less pleased to see you.”

  Both men sobered over that, for far too many years had passed, and both were now sporting a bit more silver in their manes—Iain a bit more than most.

  “I would have brought you more,” Aidan said by way of apology, speaking of his men and the supplies they’d brought, “but the rest were needed in the vale.”

  Dark times lay ahead, but it needn’t be said. In fact, the less it were spoken, the more one could hope to be spared.

  There were whispers of war in the air. By all accounts David of Scotia was taking stock of his armies and his allies. Henry of England was in Normandy, fighting to secure his holdings, and ’twas said his daughter’s rebellions were taking a toll on his health.

  “We are eternally grateful for all ye ha’e provided,” Iain said. “Tis a generous offering, no less.”

  “And how is your wife?”

  “Page is verra well. And Lìli?”

  Aidan smiled. “We’ve a brand new bairn. ’Tis why she did not come.”

  The keep was bustling with folk dashing about. The men were assembling tables in the hall and the women scrambled to find victuals enough to feed so many hungry mouths. Knowing Page as well as he did, Iain did not add feeding the masses to his list of concerns. His wife could make a fine soup from a pile of stones.

  At the rear end of the hall, they climbed the stairs, with Iain leading the way. The sound of their footfalls echoed behind them.

  “I hear tell Henry has called his liegemen to France.”

  Aidan let the announcement hang in the air, leaving Iain to mull over all the possible reasons why—as though he did not already have enough to worry over. And yet, he realized Aidan would not have mentioned it unless the news somehow affected them.

  “Do you know why?” Iain asked, peering curiously back at Aidan.

  Aidan shook his head, though he arched a brow. “Jaime Steorling has gone to Edinburgh to meet with David. He took my brother and Cameron with him. I believe that he means to offer them a position with his newly formed guard.” He, meaning King David, Iain surmised. “As for Henry, your guess is as good as mine.”

  Displeased with the news, Iain clenched his jaw. “I suppose this means we’ll not have the pleasure of my nephew’s company any day soon.”

  Cameron had left them years ago to serve Broc Ceannfhionn, returning only once in ten years time. In his absence, his sister Constance had grown into a woman—somewhat of a wildling at that. At fourteen, Iain dreaded the day she would come to him with a bairn in her belly and no husband to provide for her. Thank God, thus far, she’d kept her knees shut.

  “Only time will tell,” Aidan allowed. “But something is amiss. Henry’s barons were also summoned unexpectedly and David’s council may or may not be connected to that. I hear tell he’s had a time with the Kingdom of Moray as well.

  The Kingdom of Moray was the last resort of the Gaels. Back in the day, like many of the tribal kings, the chieftains of Moray all styled themselves Ri, meaning king—somewhat of a problem for men like David, who hoped to unite all the clans as one.

  The very last to style himself Ri had been King Macbeth, and Macbeth’s successor Óengus only styled himself mormaer, which meant great steward. But five years ago, David brought down the Mormaerdom, giving the Kingdom of Moray to a number of Henry’s Flemish counts, and stripping the sons of Óengus of their birthrights.

  Some claimed that, with Henry pre-occupied in France, the sons of Óengus planned to restore the Mormaerdom.

  Aidan said, “If there is something more at stake—if Henry has changed his alliances with the Flemish counts, then I cannot speculate what it means for Moray or for Scotia.”

  “So then, perhaps David means to send this new guard to fortify de Moray?” De Moray, meaning Henry’s Flemish counts, who could not directly claim the Moray bloodline, and so they’d styled themselves de Moray instead—of Moray, but not Moray.

  “That would be my guess.”

  In much the same way Aidan dún Scoti represented the last of the blood of the Pechts, the sons of Óengus were the last of the Mormaerdom. Their tribes were a threat to David—no matter what David of Scotia claimed, and Iain knew Aidan could not be pleased that his brother would embroil himself in such a mess. Despite that David might have something to gain by an alliance with Aidan’s tribe, it was bound to be bad news for Keane. It was tantamount to sending a wolf into a lion’s den, quite literally, for the sons of Óengus would only see him as a contender as well as an enemy from David’s camp, and the de Moray counts would no doubt view him as a wild card, despite the fact that Aidan’s dún Scoti tribe had never claimed any kingship.

  Add to this the skirmishes in Normandy, where Henry’s daughter had openly supported the rebels, and there was little good to come of it all.

  “What of your brother?” Iain asked.

  Aidan fell silent as they climbed the tower stairs. “None of it pleases me,” he confessed. “But so long as he keeps it out of my vale, I will not intervene. Keane is a mon with his own mind.”

  It was for this reason Iain kept out of politiks entirely. It gave him a bellyache. Thank God his own bloodline was much removed from his MacAlpin roots. He could no longer be seen as a threat to David’s reign—at least not directly.

  “Well, I thank you for the news,” Iain said. “Likewise, I shall leave Cameron to his own devices. But as for you and your men, you will sleep beneath my roof tonight, even if we must all pile in three deep.”

  Aidan grinned, his teeth a blinding white. “Better three men deep than all alone on nights like these, eh?
Never fear, if I can sleep on rocks, keeping watch o’er my sheep, I can sleep anywhere, auld friend.”

  Iain chuckled. “I have spent a few of those nights myself. Damned sheep complain all night long, not unlike cauld men.”

  Aidan’s laughter escaped like a bark. “Aye, though ye’ll ne’er hear my men complain for whatever they can get. We are not come to bring you more grief.”

  Iain clapped Aidan on the back again. “Ye canna know how much that means to us. Come now,” he said. “Let me show ye where to settle your things.”

  He led the dún Scoti chieftain into the solar, where there were already more than a few pallets laid upon the floor. “This is where you can bunk your men.”

  And then he took Aidan to a tower room—the one he’d used for himself years ago. For a time, after the death of his first wife, he’d kept the chamber locked and the windows boarded up, but those burdensome memories were long gone. Mairi’s ghost lingered here no more—in fact, Iain did not believe in ghosts.

  “This is a greater kindness than I would have hoped for,” Aidan said, upon inspecting the scarcely furnished room, and it struck Iain, not for the first time, that the dún Scoti chief was as humble a man as he’d ever known.

  “If you would but send a messenger to the Brodies,” Aidan continued, but he barely got the words out of his mouth when Catrìona Brodie appeared in the doorway. Iain realized he was about to ask for a messenger to his sister, but Catrìona had been here now for days, helping alongside the Brodie men.

  “Aidan!”

  Aidan spun about, the smile on his face all the more genuine at the sound of his sister’s voice. His arms flew wide, beckoning her into an embrace and the lass fairly flew across the room, leaping like a wee girl into her brother’s arms.

  Behind her came Iain’s daughter Liana. At ten years old, she was the very image of her mother. “Papa!” she said, excitedly. “More wagons have come! Mama says to tell you that they bear Dunloppe’s standard!”

  A smile to match the dún Scoti’s erupted on the MacKinnon’s lips, for this now was his oldest and dearest friend, Broc Ceannfhionn.