Chapter 2
Chapter Two
I sle of Skye
1689
The mist hung heavy over Bronmuir Keep, wrapping the ancient stone battlements in a ghostly embrace. Connor MacLeod rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip on his basket-hilted broadsword, its familiar weight an extension of his arm. The weapon had belonged to his grandfather. Smaller than the massive two-handed claymores of old, but deadly in the right hands. Across from him, Ewan circled with the wariness of a fox, his own blade catching what little light filtered through the morning haze.
“You’re slow today,” Connor taunted, feinting left before striking right, his sun-kissed brown hair falling across piercing blue eyes that narrowed in concentration.
Ewan parried the blow, the clash of steel echoing off the stone walls. “And you’re in a foul mood. Again.”
Connor grunted, pressing his advantage. His muscles burned with the effort, but the pain was welcome. A distraction from the weight that had settled on his shoulders since his father’s death.
Three months had passed, yet the burden of leadership still felt foreign, like a poorly fitted plaid. The scar above his right eyebrow, a souvenir from his first real battle, pulled tight as he frowned.
“Come now,” Ewan taunted, dancing back from Connor’s thrust. “Is that the best the mighty MacLeod can offer? My wee sister fights with more spirit.”
“Your sister is a terror,” Connor replied, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips, softening the hard planes of his face. “I’ve seen her with a wooden spoon.”
Ewan laughed, the sound carrying across the training yard where the scent of damp earth mingled with the salt tang from the sea. “Aye, and you should see her with a blade.”
He seized the moment of distraction, sweeping Ewan’s legs from beneath him with a well-placed boot. His friend landed hard on his back, sword clattering to the stones. Connor’s blade hovered at Ewan’s throat, the steel gleaming dully in the misty light.
“Yield?”
“I yield, ye great brute.” Ewan accepted Connor’s outstretched hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “Though I maintain ’twas an unfair advantage. I was distracted by your ghastly face.”
“My face?” Connor arched a brow. “Have you looked in a mirror lately, man?”
“Mirrors break when I approach. ’Tis my curse to be too handsome for this world.”
Connor sheathed his sword, shaking his head at his friend’s nonsense. The training yard was coming to life as the morning mist burned away, revealing a sky the color of a bruise. Rain would come before midday, the old break in his arm, a reminder of a skirmish with the MacDonalds three summers past when they’d ventured too close to Bronmuir’s boundaries, telling him so.
From his vantage point, he could see the rugged coastline where Bronmuir Keep stood proudly on its rocky promontory. To the north, across the sea loch and beyond the rolling hills, lay Dunvegan Castle, seat of the MacLeod clan chief. Though Bronmuir was a smaller branch of the clan, they maintained their allegiance to the main line at Dunvegan, sending men when called and paying their due tribute. To the east, the jagged peaks of the Cuillin Hills cut a dramatic silhouette against the sky, while to the south, the lands of Clan MacDonald sprawled, their ancestral enemies, whose territory at Duntulm Castle, lay on the northern peninsula of the island.
“My laird,” a voice called from the keep’s entrance. Young Callum, barely twelve summers old, stood with his chest puffed out importantly. “Moira asks for ye. Says ’tis urgent.”
Connor nodded, clapping Ewan on the shoulder. “Duty calls.”
“It always does,” Ewan replied, tone light but his eyes serious. “Go on, then. I’ll finish drilling the lads.”
The great hall of Bronmuir Keep had seen better days. Tapestries that once blazed with color now hung faded and threadbare, much like the clan’s fortunes. Connor strode across the rush-strewn floor, the dried herbs releasing their faint, sweet scent as his boots crushed them. He acknowledged the nods of respect from those gathered for the morning meal, the aroma of oatcakes and smoked fish making his empty stomach growl.
Moira waited by the hearth, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a severe braid. The clan’s healer had been a fixture at Bronmuir since before Connor’s birth, and she’d never been one to mince words.
“We’re low on yarrow and comfrey,” she said without preamble, her weathered hands working a piece of wool as she spoke. “And the feverfew is all but gone. With summer upon us, we’ll need more for the wee ones when the fevers come.”
Connor rubbed his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble. “Can we not gather more from the glen?”
“Aye, if the MacDonalds havena trampled it all in their patrols,” Moira replied, her mouth a grim line. “I’ll send the girls out, but they canna go far without protection.”
“I’ll arrange an escort,” Connor said. Another task for the too-few men they had left. With Cameron captured and Brodie missing, their numbers were stretched thin as winter porridge.
Moira’s weathered hand came to rest on his arm. “You look tired, lad. Are ye sleeping at all?”
“Enough,” he lied. Sleep had become a luxury he could ill afford, with worries circling his mind like hungry wolves. Dark shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.
“Hmph.” The sound conveyed her disbelief eloquently. “Your father worked himself into an early grave, and you’re following the same path.”
“My father was cut down by MacDonald steel,” Connor corrected, his voice hardening. “And I mean to see them pay for it.”
“Revenge is a poor bedfellow, Connor MacLeod.” Moira’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, held his. “It gives no warmth and leaves ye colder come the dawn.”
Before Connor could reply, the hall doors swung open with a bang that echoed through the stone chamber. A rider stood in the entrance, rain-soaked and mud-splattered, the smell of wet wool and horse following him inside.
“News from the south,” the man called, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent hall.
Connor strode forward, gesturing for the messenger to approach. “Speak.”
“King James has landed in Ireland with French support. They say he means to reclaim his throne, starting with Ireland, then Scotland.” The man accepted a cup of ale from a serving girl, draining it in one long swallow, foam clinging to his mustache. “The clans are choosing sides. Some for King William, others for James.”
A murmur rippled through the hall like wind through summer heather. The Glorious Revolution, they’d called it when Protestant William of Orange had taken the throne from Catholic James last year. There had been little glorious about it for the Highland clans, caught between loyalties old and new.
“And what of the MacDonalds?” Connor asked, though he suspected the answer.
“They’ve declared for King James,” the messenger confirmed. “As have the MacKinnons and most of the western clans.”
Connor nodded slowly, broad shoulders tensing beneath his linen shirt. It was as he’d expected. The MacDonalds had always been loyal to the Stuart line, and with French gold flowing into Jacobite coffers, they stood to gain much by backing James.
“What word from the MacLeods of Dunvegan?” Connor asked, his voice low. The other branch of Clan MacLeod had often charted their own course in matters of politics.
The messenger wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They haven’t declared yet, but rumors say the chief leans toward William. They’ve always been canny about picking the winning side.”
“We must call a council,” said Old Fergus, the eldest of the clan elders. His rheumy eyes fixed on Connor from beneath bushy white brows. “The MacLeods must decide where we stand.”
“Aye,” Connor agreed, though the thought of another council filled him with dread. Hours of circular arguments while action was needed. “This evening, after the day’s work is done.”
The messenger cleared his throat. “There’s more, my laird. The MacDonalds hold your brother at their keep at Duntulm. They say they’ll exchange him for the Bronmuir Brooch and a pledge of allegiance to King James.”
A cold fury settled in Connor’s chest, tightening around his heart like an iron band. “Do they now?”
“Aye, sir. They sent riders to spread the word.”
“Then they’ll wait a long time,” Connor said, his voice dangerously soft. “The MacLeods do not bow to threats.”
The hall emptied gradually as people returned to their tasks, the buzz of conversation following them out. Connor remained by the hearth, staring into the flames as if they might offer counsel, the fire’s heat bringing a flush to his tanned face.
“What will you do?” Moira asked quietly, coming to stand beside him.
“What I must,” he replied. “What my father would have done.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know yet.”
The old woman sighed. “Your father was a good man, but stubborn as a Highland stag. It did him no favors in the end.”
“He died protecting our people,” Connor said sharply.
“Aye, he did.” Moira’s voice softened. “But he might still be alive had he bent a little instead of standing rigid as an oak in a storm.”
She left him then, her footsteps fading across the hall. He remained, the fire’s warmth failing to reach the cold core of dread within him. Cameron was alive. That much was good news. But the MacDonalds’ terms were impossible.
The Bronmuir Brooch was more than just a treasure. It was the heart of their clan. A Norse princess had gifted the large silver and gold brooch, set with three ancient blue stones that shimmered like the deepest waters of the loch, to the first MacLeod of Bronmuir. Legend told that it was crafted from metal taken from a Viking longship, and the stones were the tears of a selkie who fell in love with the first MacLeod laird.
For generations, the brooch had protected the clan from disaster. Connor had worn it at his father’s funeral, feeling its weight against his chest like a promise.
To surrender the brooch would be to surrender their very identity. And pledging to James would make them enemies of King William’s forces.
A fine trap, and one with no easy escape.
The rain had started in earnest by the time he made his way to the small kirk that stood within the keep’s walls. Water dripped from the eaves, creating small rivulets that ran between the flagstones. His father’s grave was still new, the earth mounded beneath a simple stone marker. Hamish MacLeod, it read. Laird of Bronmuir. Defender of His People.
No mention of the man himself. The rumbling laugh that could fill the great hall, the hands that had been gentle enough to braid a small boy’s hair yet strong enough to wield a sword with deadly precision.
“I could use your counsel now,” Connor said softly, the rain masking his words from any who might pass by. The cold drops mingled with the salt spray from the sea, soaking through his woolen plaid.
“The clan looks to me, but I dinna ken the right path.”
The memory of his father’s final moments came unbidden. Hamish, pale with blood loss, his hand gripping Cameron’s as they all stood by their father’s bedside. The metallic scent of blood had filled the chamber, mixing with the herbs Moira had burned to ease his passing.
“The clan comes first,” he had rasped. “Always. Remember that, my sons. The MacLeods must survive.”
Simple words, yet the weight of them had nearly crushed Connor in the months since. The clan must survive. But at what cost? And how could he ensure their safety when enemies pressed from all sides? It should have been Cameron standing here as laird. Steady, thoughtful Cameron who’d prepared his whole life for this burden. Not Connor, who’d been content to ride and hunt and wench while his brother learned the responsibilities of leadership.
A shadow fell across the grave, and he looked up to find Ewan standing nearby, rain dripping from his cloak, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.
“I thought I might find ye here,” Ewan said, his usual levity absent. “The scouts have returned.”
Connor straightened, pushing aside his private grief. “And?”
“MacDonald riders, a dozen strong, moving along our border. They’re not making any effort to hide their presence.”
“A message, then,” Connor said. “They want us to know they’re there.”
“Aye, and there’s more. They’ve brought Cameron with them.” Ewan’s expression darkened. “They’ve got him bound like a common criminal, parading him for all to see.”
His hand went to the hilt of his sword, a reflexive gesture. The leather-wrapped grip was smooth from years of use, worn to the contours of his palm. “Where are they now?”
“Camped near the stone circle at Glen Mòr. They’ve made no move to cross our lands, but they’re close enough to cause trouble if they’ve a mind to.”
“How many men can we muster by nightfall?”
Ewan’s brow furrowed. “Twenty, perhaps twenty-five, if we include the lads barely old enough to hold a sword. But Connor, we canna meet them in open battle. They outnumber us three to one.”
“I dinna intend to fight them,” Connor said, already striding toward the keep, his boots squelching in the mud. “Not directly.”
Ewan hurried to keep pace. “What, then? Ye have that look about ye. The one that usually ends with us in some manner of trouble.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, a smile tugged at his lips. “When have I ever led you astray, Ewan MacLeod?”
“Shall I count the ways?” Ewan retorted. “There was that business with the MacDonald cattle when we were sixteen?—”
“That was your idea.”
“—and the time we ‘borrowed’ the laird’s prized stallion?—”
“Also your idea.”
“—not to mention the incident with the miller’s daughters?—”
“That,” Connor said firmly, “was entirely mutual.”
They had reached the armory, a low-ceilinged room lined with weapons and shields bearing the MacLeod crest. The air was heavy with the smell of oil and leather, mixed with the metallic tang of steel. Connor began inspecting bows, testing their draw with his powerful arms.
“We’ll need these,” he said, selecting several. “And as many arrows as the men can carry.”
Understanding dawned on Ewan’s face. “A night raid?”
“Aye. Not to attack, but to send our own message.” Connor met his friend’s gaze. “The MacDonalds think to use my brother as bait, to draw us into a trap of their making. I mean to show them that the MacLeods are not so easily manipulated.”
“And Cameron? We canna leave him in their hands.”
“No,” Connor agreed, his voice hardening. “We cannot. But neither can we meet their demands. We need time, Ewan. Time to gather our strength and find a way to free Cameron without sacrificing everything else.”
Ewan nodded slowly. “So we rattle their cage. Let them know we’re watching.”
“Exactly. And perhaps,” Connor added, selecting a particularly fine bow for himself, running his thumb along the smooth yew, “we might create an opportunity to speak with Cameron. If he knows we haven’t abandoned him...”
“It might keep his spirits up,” Ewan finished. “Aye, ’tis worth the risk.”
He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Choose ten men. Our best archers. We leave at dusk.”
“And the council meeting? The elders will expect ye to be there.”
Connor’s expression hardened, the scar above his eye standing out white against his flushed skin. “The elders can wait. My brother cannot.”
As Ewan departed to make preparations, Connor remained in the armory, methodically checking each arrow for straightness and fletching. The familiar task allowed his mind to work through the complexities of their situation.
The MacLeods stood at a crossroads. To the south, the MacDonalds and their Jacobite allies. To the east, King William’s forces, demanding loyalty. And caught between them, a clan weakened by loss and division.
His father’s words echoed in his mind. The clan comes first. Always.
Connor ran a thumb along the edge of an arrowhead, feeling its deadly sharpness. Tonight, he would remind the MacDonalds that even a wounded wolf had teeth. And perhaps, if fortune favored them, he might find a way to free Cameron without plunging the clan into open war.
But as he worked, a nagging doubt persisted. What if there was no path that led to both Cameron’s freedom and the clan’s survival? What then would he choose?
His hand went to his chest, feeling the empty space where the Bronmuir Brooch should have been. The ancient talisman with its three blue stones remained safely hidden in the castle’s secret chamber, where it had watched over generations of MacLeods, guiding them through dark times. Connor could only hope the brooch’s power would reach him even now, when he needed guidance most.