Laird of Flint: A Forbidden Love Scottish Medieval Romance Adventure (The Warrior Lairds of Rivenloc

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Rivenloch, Lowlands, Scotland

Autumn 1159

Hew’s heart cracked.

He supposed he should have been used to the pain by now. He’d had his heart broken a hundred times.

But it always felt like fresh agony. Like a blacksmith had swung a sledgehammer into his breastbone. Shattered his ribs. Collapsed his lungs. Added another wound to his already scarred heart.

He let the scribbled missive fall from his fingers onto the rush-covered flagstones of the great hall. Anne’s playful, flowery signature grinned up at him in mockery.

For a fortnight, he’d believed Anne was his ladylove. His life. His breath. His everything. She’d held his very soul in her hands.

Had none of it been true?

Had he only imagined she was as besotted with him as he was with her?

Bloody hell. Anger stung his eyes as he felt the familiar hollow ache begin in his chest.

At least the others had kissed him farewell. Or mumbled regrets. Or turned their tearful faces away as they explained their affection had faded.

Anne hadn’t even had the courage to end their courtship face-to-face.

She’d sent a missive with a damned monk. A monk who’d been instructed not to wait for a reply.

Hew drew in a ragged breath and bent down to pick up the carelessly scrawled missive. Clenching his jaw, he crumpled it in his fist and tossed it onto the blazing fire. The page unfurled to give him one last taunting look at Anne’s name before the flames licked at it, darkening and curling the parchment. Incinerating their love as if it had never been.

The page hadn’t yet turned to ash when his younger brother Logan arrived with a pair of ales.

“I know that look,” Logan said, handing him one of the cups. “Who is it this time? Gormal?”

“Gormal?” he growled. “Gormal?” Hew frowned as anger’s sharp blade rushed in to try to protect his broken heart. “Gormal was three sennights ago.”

Logan shrugged, unfazed by Hew’s ire. “I can’t keep up.” Then he gulped down a large swallow of ale.

Hew supposed he shouldn’t be vexed with Logan. Since summer, he’d enjoyed the company of a dozen different lasses. Indeed, if he hadn’t given his heart so completely to each and every one, he wouldn’t have been able to keep track of them either.

It was a truth known to all of Rivenloch that Hew du Lac had a serious weakness for women.

How could he not? They were so beautiful. Tender. Strong. Maternal. He loved their gentle touch. The sparkle of their laughter. The vulnerability of their tears. Their subtle curves. Their soft voices.

And he never met a woman he couldn’t love. It didn’t matter if she was rich or poor. Young or old. Bonnie. Ugly. Widowed. Betrothed.

Indeed, it was lucky Hew was good with a weapon, for he’d gotten himself into more than one scrape, falling in love with another man’s mistress.

“Anne. Right,” Logan repeated, as if adding her to a mental list. “What happened? She didn’t have a husband, did she?”

Hew pretended to bristle at the suggestion. “Nay.”

“Come on,” Logan chided. “’Tis me, your brother. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Hew blew out a harsh sigh. “Nay, she wasn’t married.”

It had been three months since he’d unfortunately charmed the beautiful wife of Sithech the butcher. He was determined he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“That’s good then, aye?” Logan said. “You won’t have to kill anyone.”

This time Hew didn’t have to pretend offense. “I’ve never killed a man over a woman, and you know it,” he grumbled. He had given Sithech the butcher a good clout in the nose. But that had been in self-defense.

Logan grinned at him over his cup. “I do know it. I’d just rather see you snarling than moping.”

Hew narrowed his eyes meaningfully at his brother. “I have killed a man for testing my patience before.”

Logan laughed. He wasn’t afraid of his big brother, even though Hew took after their hotheaded mother Helena. Logan had inherited their father Colin’s sense of humor, so he always knew how to incite—and quell—Hew’s rage.

“Hey,” Logan said, nudging him again with his elbow. He paused to finish off his ale, then wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “Since you’re not otherwise occupied with Anne,” he said, raising his brows twice for effect, “why not come to the field and show me how to do that axe trick?”

“Maybe later.”

While Hew appreciated his brother’s efforts at cheering him up—Logan knew how much Hew loved demonstrating his axe skills—he wasn’t in the mood.

This last heartbreak felt like the culmination of all that had come before. He’d been so sure about Anne. So certain this time he’d found The One, as his cousin Isabel liked to say. True, he’d said that at some point about most of the ladies he’d courted. But this time, he’d meant it. That Anne should so callously reject him for the feeblest of reasons—I fear I grow weary of your company the missive had said—felt like the final layer of the burial shroud wrapped around his love life.

“Forget her,” Logan advised. “She wasn’t good enough for you. You’ll find another sweetheart soon enough. One more worthy.”

Hew smirked at that. His brother almost always found a way to soothe his aching heart. But this time, Hew didn’t think it was possible. He was weary of lust and loss.

“I’m going to take a vow of chastity,” he decided, only half jesting.

“What?” Logan exploded. “Chastity? How can you say such a thing? You know you’re my hero, right?” He shook his head. “Sard a bard, Hew, you’re only one-and-twenty. Still in your prime.”

Hew grunted. Today he felt like he was one-and-forty.

“On the other hand,” Logan added with sly innuendo, “maybe with you off the market, I’ll stand a chance.”

“Who’s off the market?” Their mother Helena strode into the room, clutching a rolled parchment in her hand.

“Hew,” Logan told her. “He’s taking a vow of chastity.”

“Chastity?” Helena scoffed. “For how long? Two days? Three?”

“Maybe forever,” Hew grumbled.

“What is it this time?” Helena asked.

“Another broken heart,” Logan supplied.

“Ah. Done with Gormal?” she asked. “I had a feeling that wouldn’t last.”

Hew fumed in silence.

Logan rolled his eyes. “God’s hooks, Ma. Gormal was three sennights ago. Keep up.”

She scowled at Logan in disapproval. Then she arched a damning brow. “Out,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Logan trembled in mock fear. Then he called out “Farewell!” to Hew as he gave their mother a comically elaborate salute and made his exit.

When Logan had gone, Helena turned to Hew. Her face was grim. The sort of sober expression that told him she was about to make his day much worse.

“What is it?” he asked, eyeing the scroll she tapped against her thigh.

“News from Laird Deirdre.”

“Ah. How fares my aunt?”

“Well enough, considering.”

“Considering?”

“I’m sure you know about the king’s…friendliness…with Henry.”

Hew grunted. Scotland’s King Malcolm had become far too genial of late with Scotland’s foe, the English King Henry. Malcolm had taken Scottish soldiers to Toulouse, forcing them to fight alongside their sworn enemy, England, and against their old ally, France.

Most of the clans were deeply unhappy with the situation. It strained their loyalty and made them doubt the king’s wisdom.

The Rivenloch clan had been fortunate. Since soldiers were always needed to defend the Scottish border, they hadn’t been called upon to join the battle in Toulouse. Yet.

“Deirdre’s not planning to send soldiers to France?” It would be a particular insult to clans like Rivenloch—clans that had held the border against the invading English for centuries—to be suddenly forced to join their ranks.

“On the contrary.” She lowered her voice. “She’s looking to protect the clan from Malcolm’s…childish ideas.”

Childish. That was accurate. The king was barely a man. He was two years younger than

Hew. Malcolm had been but twelve years of age when he assumed the throne.

Hew shook his head. He’d heard the rumors about Malcolm’s latest childishly romantic notion. “You mean the one where he wishes to be knighted by the English king.”

“Vanity is a poor excuse for destroying an ancient alliance.”

Hew agreed. “So if Laird Deirdre is not sending Rivenloch men to war…”

“She fears Malcolm may try to forge an alliance with the English another way.”

“How?”

“Through marriage.”

“The king might marry an Englishwoman?” The idea soured his stomach.

“Not the king. He’s not quite that foolish. All his lairds would revolt.”

Hew hoped so. Scotland had fought hard for its sovereignty. For Malcolm to reverse the gains of his forefathers was like a gauntlet blow to the face of Scotland.

“Who then?” he asked.

She didn’t have to answer him. Her smoldering green eyes said everything.

“His most loyal vassals,” he guessed. Then his already cracked heart plunged to the bottom of his belly. “Not me?”

“Not yet. But Rivenloch will doubtless be foremost in his sights. Deirdre is already planning to send your cousin away.”

“Gellir?”

She nodded. “’Tis the curse of all his fame and fortune on the tournament circuit. Gellir’s winning all his battles. Earning prizes. Gaining glory. He might as well carry a banner that says ‘Most Eligible Knight.’ If the king does indeed begin to marry off his vassals, Gellir will be the first one to catch his eye.”

That was likely. Gellir was not only an illustrious tournament champion. He was the first son of one of the most powerful lairds in Scotland. And he was of marriageable age.

But Hew was the same age as Gellir. How long would it be before the king sought an English bride for him? He shuddered at the thought.

“Where will Gellir go?” he asked.

“To Darragh, I think. ’Tis remote enough that your cousin Feiyan can keep him out from under the king’s nose.”

“So what’s this to do with me?”

“I think we’d be wise to follow Deirdre’s counsel. Sooner rather than later.”

“You think I should join him at Darragh.”

Hew was fine with that. Now that he’d lost his ladylove, there was nothing to stay for anyway.

Besides, the west of Scotland was wild and beautiful. Darragh was an enchanting castle perched on a cliff overlooking the firth.

It would be refreshing to wake up to the sound of waves lapping on the shore and gulls screeing through the air. To breathe in the crisp scent of the sea. To see the sun set upon the gentle waves, gilding the crests with golden light. Or to watch from the parapet as a storm raged like a dark beast, lashing the rocks below with untamed force.

It would be good to see his cousins. He owed Feiyan a visit. And it would be fun to challenge Gellir the Tournament Champion to a skirmish or two.

Indeed, the more he thought about it, the more he looked forward to it.

Nothing was quite as invigorating as change. And after the heartache he’d endured in the last several months, Hew could use a change of scenery.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have to consider chastity after all. Darragh would undoubtedly offer him a whole new array of eligible ladies. Ladies who wouldn’t scoff at his sentimentality, laugh at his passion, or crush his heart.

Aye, Darragh could be the answer he sought.

“Nay, not Darragh,” his mother said.

His enthusiasm sputtered out like a spent candle. He frowned. Not Darragh?

“Where then?” he asked.

“West of here. I’ve had a request for a warrior.”

“Right.” A good fight would keep his mind off of his broken heart.

“Someone very good with a weapon.”

Good with a weapon. That was flattering. Especially in a clan full of warriors good with weapons. “Who will I be fighting for?”

“You’re not going to like it,” she warned, “though it may make your vow of chastity easier.”

His frown returned. God’s bones. Just how much worse could this day become? He sighed. “Where do you plan to send me, Mother?”

“To Kildunan.”

“What’s Kildunan?”

“A monastery.”

He blinked.

A monastery.

A quiet, dull, boring place where he would be surrounded by quiet, dull, boring men who led quiet, dull, boring lives without so much as a glimpse of a woman?

No doubt his mother expected him to explode with rage. She would have. Indeed, she’d already moved one hand to the hilt of her dagger, as if anticipating his resistance and planning to convince him at the point of a blade.

But Hew’s spirit was too weary for resistance. Too broken for outbursts.

He’d jested with Logan about taking a vow of chastity. Now it was no jest.

“Perfect,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “When do I leave?”

A fortnight later, on a cold and drizzly day, a quiet, dull, boring abbot with sparse white hair welcomed Hew to Kildunan monastery. Kildunan was exactly what Hew expected. Remote. Isolated. Lady-less.

At least he wasn’t expected to actually take vows as a monk. He was only feigning an interest in the monastery with an eye toward higher ranks in the church.

The abbot had secretly requested a skilled warrior to deal with the thievery that had plagued the monastery for months. First, the silver cross upon the altar had gone missing. Then the gold chalice used for wine. A jeweled Bible had been taken from the nave, as well as several pieces of jewelry donated by wealthy nobles seeking to secure their place in heaven.

No one had been able to catch the elusive thieves. No one had even seen them. So the abbot had decided to use intimidation tactics. He figured a warrior from the Rivenloch clan would do nicely.

The abbot’s eyes lit up when he saw Hew’s mighty axe—sharp, gleaming, and deadly. And the generous donation of silver Hew brought from the Laird of Rivenloch only added to his enthusiasm.

The abbot knew if the thefts became common knowledge, nobles would begin to distrust the monastery. And if that happened, donations like those from Rivenloch would dwindle. Despite taking a vow of poverty, the monks depended upon the generosity of patrons for their sustenance.

The abbot needed Hew to quietly apprehend the outlaws and, if possible, secure the return of the valuables. In exchange, he’d give Hew a private cell, two meals a day, and safe haven should the king’s men come knocking.

His cell was a tiny, sparse enclosure with a straw pallet, a scratchy wool coverlet, a hook for clothing, and a single candle. Hew shivered as he dropped the satchel of his belongings onto the rush-covered clay floor. At least the room was dry. But with no hearth, it was as cold as a buttery.

Supper was barley pottage in a trencher and a cup of ale. He could have eaten twice as much, but the rations were scant. He made a mental note to snare a rabbit or two and see if there was a loch for fishing nearby to supplement the monks’ stores.

After supper, he returned to his cell. There he huddled, fully dressed, under the thin coverlet. His feet hung off the end of the pallet. His teeth chattered. His bones ached from the cold.

What he really needed more than anything, he decided, was a woman to keep him warm.