Chapter 1
Chapter
One
PORT OF LEITH, SCOTLAND
T he barque rode the swell of the wave, then bumped against the moorings, jarring the passengers and the lone horseman who waited until the others had disembarked.
His blue gaze scanned the dock, the low--hung rooflines of the establishments beyond--inns, taverns, and brothels that offered a marginal meal, plenty of drink, and other assorted comforts, like the ones left behind at the port of Calais.
A merchant returning from that French port bumped into him, his gaze locking with a deadly glare, then quickly moved on, cursing under his breath about pilgrims from other places.
The last passenger gathered his strength and the reins of his horse, slowly leading the tall stallion that had carried him far the past years, and now one more journey.
He had paid the fare across the water in silver coin that he'd earned in service to the French king, now much lighter in the pouch carried under his belt. But it was enough.
He leaned heavily against the side of the stallion, drawing the curious stare of the captain of the vessel.
"Are ye all right, then?" the man asked in the thick accent of the north country, giving him a curious look. "The crossing sometimes does that."
He would have laughed at that if he had the strength. After countless river crossings and the Mediterranean, east to distant ports, sometimes days at sea, a hundred men retching from the unpredictable swells and rolls of the ship, the north sea crossing had been a welcome change, plowing through the gray blue waters as the tide rolled in, the sails billowing, and the mast groaning.
While other passengers, including the merchant had taken refuge under the canopy that offered some protection from the rain and sea spray, he had welcomed it, welcomed the rain that brought the smell of the north country and home with it as they drew closer.
The merchant's wife had taken to the hold of the barque below the deck, with her discomforts and a disapproving glare at his horse, the sword in the scabbard at his saddle, and him.
He couldn't remember when he last bathed, and his hair had grown long into the beard that covered the lower half of his face. He had no idea what he looked like, after the last campaign at Calais, and the past weeks.
He had been taken to the abbey at Mont St. Michel after the battle at Calais after Robbie bound his wounds as best he could. There the monks had bandaged and cared for his wounds. Robbie had been a constant presence in those first days his grizzled face with the scar at one cheek that sliced through the dark beard, an image that appeared then disappeared through the fevered haze as his body burned, then froze, then burned again.
There were words, his friend's thick Scot accent, then the low murmurings of others that came and went, a different image in that way that life had a way of playing its cruel joke in the monk hovering over him, then disappeared; the image of a saint that frowned down at him from overhead, no doubt for his sins.
Then other images--the blood, the dying, a man whose arm had been severed, the hand still clutching his sword, the dry heat of the desert, blowing sand, the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean, a dark skinned woman whose body moved over his, her breasts glistening with oil, her long dark hair wrapping around him, then she slipped into the shadows of the fever.
When she returned, it was a young lass whose cool hand touched his burning cheek, and dark blue eyes that looked back at him. She turned away as though someone had spoken, and when she turned back she was covered in blood as the sounds of battle closed around her. He had reached for her, trying to protect her, then she was gone too.
Three weeks he had lain there.
Robbie had left the week before, with a new urgency to return home. They met that last time in the cloister, Robbie's expression grim in spite of the smile and the fine wine he brought.
"Ye'll be up and about soon, the monks say."
But he knew what they said. He heard it when they thought the fever had taken him once more. They said their prayers over him, and in those more lucid moments encouraged him to repent his sins. He was long past repentance.
They embraced, the way men do who have shared a part of their lives and very nearly death when no words are necessary. Last words were spoken, then his friend left. Ruari watched from a stone half wall that surrounded the cloister as he rode down the winding trail to the village below, then out across the causeway that linked the island to the mainland during low tide.
That was the day he knew he would not stay.
He would not live if he insisted on leaving, the monks warned, as he painfully donned the blood-stained leather tunic with the Fraser stag burned into the leather. It took some time longer to pull on the leather brecs and boots. Many times he was forced to stop, gather his strength, then continue with one thought that drove him on. He would not die there .
Then there was the ride from the abbey to Calais, a ride that would have taken but a half day, but took twice as long when he was forced to stop and tie himself to the saddle against falling unconscious to the ground from fever and weakness.
He had rested at Calais until the barque arrived, sleeping in the stables of an inn, racked by fever and the cold, sleeping beneath a sweaty horse blanket, the hay in the stall crawling with vermin. When the barque arrived, he paid his fare and boarded, not even certain he would survive the crossing.
"Some ale, and a woman will do ye fine," the captain of the barque grunted at him now with a narrowed look.
"The Hog's Breath is just yonder, and a bed for the night. Ye look the worst for it, lad."
And likely an empty pouch by morn, Ruari thought, if he lived through the night. Instead, he reached for the harness at the saddle, sunlight glinting off the blue stone at the ring at his hand. He gathered his strength, set his foot into the stirrup, and then one-hand pulled himself atop the stallion.
He left the port town behind, then turned west toward the rolling hills and Fraser land.
"Where are ye goin', pretty lass?" Eben McGinley followed her from the wool makers cottage.
"Is there a fire up yer skirt, aye?"
Alix shook her head, the long braid, falling to her waist. She continued along the path that led to the keep.
It was growing late and she must return to help her grandmother with the evening meal with so many at Lechlede arrived for the celebration.
There had been preparations for days, with the feast planned for that evening. The other clansmen had come from far and wide, for it was the young lad who had just turned ten years would one day be chieftain of Clan Fraser and he must know the men he would lead.
Her grandmother, Morna, had warned about returning late. Their kinsmen were encamped on the hillside and no place for a young girl to be out walking alone after dark. And then there was Eben McGinley.
She adjusted the basket at her arm, the blade that lay under the folded length of fine wool. The blade was cool at her fingers.
"Ah, Alix, stay for a while. Then I'll walk with ye to the keep. Ye've nothing to fear, girl."
"Except you, Eben McGinley," she replied, shaking her head.
He was tall, lanky like his father the smithy, with freckles among other spots at his face, and full of himself.
He made the mistake of grabbing the handle of the basket. She turned on him, the blade flashing in her hand.
"I'll not say it again. Eben. No! Now, let go, or I'll have yer ballocks in this basket!"
He took several steps back, hands raised in mock surrender. "Tis what I like about ye, Alix. Ye've got spirit, not like the other girls that laugh and then hide, teasing a man."
"A man?" she replied incredulously. "Ye're full of yerself, aye, and a ways to go afore ye be a man like the chieftain, or his brother for that matter."
"That one?" Eben said, keeping a safe distance but falling into step as she turned and continued up the path.
"Tis said that he fell in France."
She whirled on him. "Ye dinna know what yer talking about. Tis only rumor, like the rumor that yer sister was wed with Colum Adair."
"They were wed," he said defensively.
"And with a bairn a scant two months later? And Dabaidh Ross claiming the child is his?" She made a sound that said far more.
"Tis not the same," Even complained.
"Ye heard the stories about the chieftain's brother. Some called it murder, and the reason he left Lechlede. Ye just dinna want to believe it..." His voice trailed off as he stared past her to the encampment.
"I'd best go with ye," he said then with a gesture toward the keep and the edge of the encampment where a lone rider sat astride his horse, unmoving.
"To see ye safe to yer grandmother, aye," he added with a frown.
Alix glanced toward the encampment, light from dozens of torches flickering in the twilight. She wasn't afraid of walking back alone. There was more risk with Eben McGinley and his wandering hands.
But there was something about the rider that had her staring, something in the width of his shoulders, and the angle of his head, the hood of his tunic pushed back to his shoulders, features hidden by the main of dark hair and the thick dark beard at his face.
"Alix! Wait," Eben called out as she walked toward the rider who seemed frozen atop the tall stallion.
"It's cold here tonight, aye?" she called out as she approached closer. "Who are ye looking for, then? If ye give me the name, I might know where ye can find them."
Eben had come up behind her.
"What is yer family?" she asked as she came up beside the rider.
She laid a hand at the reins as the horse angled its dark head toward her. She looked up at the man in the saddle, thinking she might know him. He was covered in mud and filth from the road, and had obviously traveled far.
It was there in the way he sat at the saddle, as if it took all his strength just to remain there. She saw the faint glint of armor at the neck of his tunic, the thick beard that looked as if it hadn't seen a scissors or the scrape of a blade in weeks, one arm resting against him, his other hand at the reins.
"There is water and food at Lechlede," she told him.
He didn't seem to hear her. Then his gaze slowly came back to her, blue as summer sky amid the tangle of dark hair, staring down at her.
" Mo thruaigh mise ! Dear God!" Alix cried out.
Then he tumbled from the saddle, and fell to the ground at her feet.
Alix flung the basket aside and dropped to the ground beside the stranger.
"Is he dead?" Eben asked.
She shook her head, but in truth had no idea if he was dead or alive. He didn't move when she gently nudged him. She bent over him and heard the faint rattle of his breathing.
"Get to the keep and bring help," she told Eben. When he just stood there, she turned on him.
"Do ye hear me, man! Get on with ye!"
She gently shook the wounded man as she knelt by his side. There was dried blood at the front of his tunic. She looked for a wound, but found none.
Then she saw what remained of his left arm. His hand was gone, thick bandages wrapped tightly around the bloodied stump. Tears filled her eyes.
"Oh, Ruari Fraser. What has happened to ye?"