Highland Master

Prologue

Perth, Scotland, September 1396

Abrupt silence filled the air when the young dark-haired warrior’s opponent fell. The lad looked swiftly for the next one but saw no one nearby still standing.

Then, hearing moans and weaker cries of the wounded and dying, the warrior realized that his sense of silence was no more than that the screeching of the pipes that always accompanied combat had abruptly ceased when his own fight had.

Not only had the pipes of battle fallen silent, but so also had the noble audience that watched from tiered seats overlooking the field. They had cheered at the beginning, for he had heard them before all his senses had focused on his first opponent.

The broad, usually green meadowlike expanse of the North Inch of Perth had altered gruesomely now to a field of bodies and gore.

Man after man had he slain in that trial by combat between Camerons and Clan Chattan, two of the most powerful Highland clan federations. Each, by order of the King of Scots, had produced thirty champions to fight. The royal intent was to end decades of feuding over land and other bones of contention.

The young warrior extended his gaze to sweep the rest of the field for any remaining opponent. He saw only three men standing and one kneeling, all some distance away from where he stood near the wide, fast-moving river Tay.

St. John’s town of Perth and nearby Scone Abbey having served as royal and sacred places for centuries, Perth’s North Inch had long been a site for trial by combat. The field was fenced off from the town just southeast of it on the river, and the river provided as effective a barrier as the fences did, if not more so.

The town overlooked the Tay estuary at the first place narrow enough to bridge. If a man should fall in, the swift and powerful river would sweep him into the Firth of Tay and thence to the sea or, more likely, drown him long before then.

Therefore, the day’s combatants had tried to keep clear of the precipitous riverbank. But when other ground grew slippery with gore and cluttered with the fallen, the area near the water remained as the only option.

None of the four who were still visibly alive looked as if he cared a whit about the young warrior. The lad remained wary but was grateful to rest, knowing that if he had to fight one or all of them, the likelihood was that he would die.

The others wore clothing similar to his—saffron-colored, knee-length tunics and wide leather sword belts. Each also wore a leather targe strapped to one arm to parry sword strokes. And each one wore his long hair in a single plait, as most Highland warriors did, to keep flying strands out of his face as he fought.

Although he could not discern their clan badges from where he stood, the lad knew they were all members of Clan Chattan, the enemy.

“Fin.”

His sharp ears heard the voice, weak though it was, and he turned quickly.

Amidst the nearby bodies, he saw a slight but insistent movement and hurried toward it. Dropping to a knee beside the man who had made it and fighting back a rush of fear and icy despair, he exclaimed, “Father!”

“I’m spent,” Teàrlach MacGillony muttered, clearly exerting himself more than a man in his condition should. “But I must—”

“Don’t talk!” Fin said urgently.

“I must. Ye be all we ha’ left from this dreadful day, lad. So ’tis your sacred duty tae stay alive. How many o’ the villains be still upstanding?”

“I can see four,” Fin said. “One is kneeling—retching, I think.” With a catch in his voice, he added, “Except for me, all of our men have fallen.”

“Then them ye see be just taking a breath,” his father said. “Ye’ll ha’ to stand against them unless his grace, the King, stops the slaughter. But his brother, Albany, does sit by his side. The King is weak, but Albany is not. He is evil, is what he is. ’Twas his idea, all this, but his grace does ha’ the power to stop it.”

Fin looked again toward the tiers. Not only did the King and the Duke of Albany sit there but also members of the royal court, the clergy, and many of Perth’s townspeople. Banners waved, and vendors doubtless still sold the ale, whisky, buns, and sweets that at the beginning of the day had made the event seem like a fair.

“Albany is speaking to his grace now,” Fin said.

“Aye, nae doots telling him that there must be a true victor, so that the feuding betwixt the Camerons and Clan Chattan will stop. But hear me, lad. Our people did count on me as their war leader today, and I failed them. Ye must not.”

“You accounted for several of these dead, sir,” Fin said.

“I did, aye, but your sword sped more to their Maker than mine did. And, if ye truly be the last man o’ ours standing, ye ha’ a duty that ye must see to.”

“What is it?”

“Vengeance,” his father said, gasping. “Swear that ye’ll seek it against their war leader and… and others. Ye ken fine… after such slaughter… the right o’ vengeance be sacred. ’Tis a holy bequest that ye… as sole survivor, must accept.” Gasping more harshly for each breath, he added, “Swear it… to me.”

“I do swear it, sir, aye,” Fin said hastily. To his father, clearly dying, he could give no other reply.

“Bless ye, my…”

Teàrlach MacGillony gasped no more.

Tears sprang to Fin’s eyes, but a cry from the audience startled him from his grief. Glancing toward the tiers, he saw Albany waving for combat to continue.

The pipes kept silent. The King sat with his head bowed, making no sign, but people would see naught amiss in that. The King was weak, and Albany, as Governor of the Realm in his grace’s stead, had long been the one who made such decisions.

Looking toward the men of Clan Chattan, Fin saw that three of them faced the tiers. The fourth, a tall and lanky chap, spoke to the others. Then, his sword at the ready, he turned toward Fin. The others followed but stopped well back of him.

As the man approached, he kept his head down and watched where he walked, doubtless to avoid treading on the fallen.

Fin hefted his sword, drew a deep breath, and set himself.

When the other man looked up at last, his gaze caught Fin’s and held it.

Fin stared, then found voice enough to say, “Hawk?”

The other stopped six feet away. With a movement of his head so slight that Fin wondered if he had imagined it, he indicated the river nearby to his right.

The men behind him were talking to each other, cheerful now, confident of the outcome. They were far enough away that they could not have heard Fin speak, nor would they hear him if he spoke again.

“What are you trying to say?” he asked.

“Go,” Hawk said, although his lips barely moved. “I cannot fight you. Someone from your side must live to tell your version of what happened here today.”

“They’ll flay you!”

“Nay, Lion. I’ll be a hero. But think on that later. Now go, and go quickly before Albany sends his own men to dispatch the lot of us.”

Hawk being one of the few men Fin trusted without question, he whirled, thrust his sword into the sling on his back, and dove in, wondering at himself and realizing only as the water swallowed him that he must look like a coward. By then, the river was bearing him swiftly past the town and onward, inexorably, to the sea.

The weight and cumbrous nature of the sword strapped to his back threatened to sink him, but he did not fight it. The farther the current took him before he surfaced, the safer he would be, and if he died on the way, so be it.

Then another, horrifying, thought struck. He’d sworn two oaths that day.

The first had been to accept the results of the combat and do no harm to any man on the opposing side. Every man there, as one voice, had sworn to that oath.

But then his war leader—his own dying father—had demanded a second oath, of vengeance, an oath that Fin could not keep without breaking his first one. Such a dilemma threatened his honor and that of his clan. But all oaths were sacred.

Might one oath be more sacred? Had his father known what he had asked?

He began kicking toward the surface, angling southward, knowing of only one place where he might find an answer. He could get there more easily from the shore opposite Perth… if he could get there at all.