Chapter Two
Hagen
Hagen Grant gave Midnight Moon his head as they reached the sandy stretch of coastline, his cousins Jowell Grant and Paden MacNicol flanking him. The castle rising ahead belonged to Tristan MacClane—a convenient stopping point with a clear view of the surrounding sea and isles.
And Tristan always had boats available for friends.
“Sorry, lads, but my sister said I’m to exercise her horse well, and this is his favorite stretch of beach.
” Hagen let the stallion choose their pace, and Midnight surged into a gallop across the soft sand—the kind they never had at Clan Grant.
This was one of the few times Hagen wore his hair loose, letting the wind and salt air whip through it.
“You’d better take good care of him,” Paden yelled, “or Dyna will have you mucking stalls by morning!”
Hagen laughed over his shoulder. Dyna loved her horse, but so did he. Any stallion with their grandfather’s stallion’a bloodline was magnificent to ride. And Moon was glorious on the beach, his black mane flowing like a king’s mantle.
“Grandda was a wise man,” Jowell said, catching up as they approached the end of the beach, the horses easily climbing the crest back to the main path.
“I wish he were still here.” Paden glanced at Hagen. “You’re going to be nearly as tall as Grandda.”
“And why are you still growing?” Jowell asked. “Neither Paden nor I have grown any taller in the last two years.”
“I’m younger than you two.” Hagen grinned.
Nothing he liked better than hearing he resembled his sire and grandsire—Connor and the great Alexander Grant.
Though he’d rather be compared for his swordplay than his height.
He worked at it daily, but he still had a ways to go before he’d match his father.
The man fought like his weapon was an extension of his arm.
One day, though. One day he’d look his father in the eye as an equal.
Tristan MacClane greeted them from the curtain wall as they approached his castle. “Granthams, how do you fare? Come in for a brief respite?”
Hagen glanced at Jowell, who gave a subtle shake of his head.
Paden caught their exchange. “Mayhap on the return trip, MacClane? We’re headed to Iona, if we may borrow one of your midsize boats.”
“Of course.” Tristan leaned over the wall. “Any specific meaning to this trip? No one missing?”
Hagen shook his head, thinking back on the recent adventure—four missing MacVeys and Rankins.
“Nay, all are well. We’re messengers, spreading good tidings for Yuletide.
We’re inviting everyone to a festival at Duart Castle—the first two nights of Yule.
It’s customary at Clan Grant and will be soon enough at Clan Grantham.
We’d love to have you join us. You know Shealee will be looking for you. ”
Tristan’s sister Merryn had married Paden’s brother Broc, and they cared for their orphaned niece, Shealee.
“I happily accept.” Tristan started down the stairs. “I do miss seeing my sister. If you follow me, we’ll get your horses in the stable and I’ll show you the best boat to take.”
“Our thanks to you.”
Within a short time, they set off for Iona. Tora and Sylvi were insisting that young Magni come share the holiday with them, and they needed to extend the invitation properly.
The three climbed into a boat with three sets of oars, allowing them to travel faster. “Many thanks, Tristan,” Jowell called. “We’ll return shortly.”
Six hands gripped the oars, slicing through the calm sea.
Hagen sat in the front seat, with his back facing Iona so his cousins couldn’t see his face. About halfway across, he called out, “I may be the youngest, but why am I the strongest rower? I’m paddling about the equivalent of you two weak-arsed rowers.”
“Kiss my sweet arse, you yellow-bellied whiner.” That came from Paden in the back, who had the personality of his sire, Hagen’s Uncle Finlay, one of the biggest teasers in all of Clan Grant.
“Are you carrying the weak-kneed knave in the middle, Paden?” Hagen glanced over his shoulder at Jowell, who always took the middle because he was the strongest rower of the three of them.
But Hagen loved to taunt his two favorite cousins.
Jowell drawled, “You should remember that I’m close enough to let my oar slip and slap any foul-mouthed buffoon in front of me or behind me, whenever I choose.” Jowell was the most serious of the trio of cousins, Paden the wittiest.
Hagen didn’t know what that made him, but he loved his cousins.
Paden guffawed, then twittered in the highest voice he could manage, “Oh, I’m so scared, Jowell. How did you get to be so strong? Is it from lifting that girlfriend of yours who’s as big as a Highland coo carrying twins?”
Hagen snorted at that comment, his face away from his cousins. “And I could grab the oar before it hit me, shoving you out the other side of the boat. It’d be easier to row then, wouldn’t it, Paden?”
Jowell snorted. “One thing I know about you, Hagen, is that you’ve never been a fool. I could swim there faster than you and Paden could row, and without me, you’d have to row harder, not less.”
Paden and Hagen hooted and whistled over that brag.
Hagen was about to throw another taunt his way, but they were close enough to be overheard by anyone on shore, and there was one truth he’d learned after coming to Mull. Voices carried a long way over water.
As they neared the isle, Magni was the first to greet them.
He flew down the path from the village, arms waving.
Wee Tenney ran behind him, but Magni stopped near the edge and picked him up, the two waving as the vessel slid through the water.
Magni, ten summers old, had moved here after being saved from a kidnapping.
His parents had since adopted Tenney, an orphan of two.
“Greetings, Hagen and Paden and Jowell! Why are you here? We have so many visitors this day.”
“Aye, aye, aye,” Tenney echoed.
Once they settled the boat, Paden reached for the lad and swung him up onto his shoulders, changing his pace into a bouncing gallop. The boy giggled, grabbing onto Paden’s auburn hair to steady himself.
“And who else is visiting, Magni?” Hagen asked, tying up the boat. “We’ll be here for a short visit, if that’s not an inconvenience.”
“Brynja and Hildi are here. They brought bread, and I love bread. They’re chatting with Simone and Artan.” He pointed toward the archery area.
Hagen glanced at Jowell, arching a brow. He’d gladly visit with Brynja again. She was one of the prettiest lasses he’d ever met. “We’ll chat with Simone too. Could you lead us to them, Magni?”
Jowell snorted. “Sure, that’s who you wish to see, Hagen.”
He kept his gaze forward. “I was given instructions to make sure Simone and Artan were invited. Uncle Logan insisted, if you recall.”
“Invited to what?” Magni asked.
“A Yuletide celebration. We’re inviting everyone to a big festival on the first two days of Yule. You’ll come, will you not, Magni? Bring Tenney and your parents.”
Magni stopped, looked up at the clouds overhead, then shook his head. “Nay, sorry.”
“Why not?” Jowell asked. “Are you mad at us, lad?”
“Nay, I just don’t wish to leave Iona.”
Hagen stopped and gripped Magni’s shoulders. “Now, Magni. You know we’ll protect you, do you not? Who could have a chance of getting to you with the three of us surrounding you?”
“But I was stolen from Duart Castle once.” The lad’s messy brown locks blew in the wind, but the fear in his eyes was unmistakable.
“Good point. Because of that, we locked that hidden door in the cellars, and I promise there will be more guards. And Kelvan is gone.” They’d ended the evil bastard’s reign of terror not long ago, but apparently his memory survived in the lad’s mind.
Magni heard a voice and pushed away from Hagen to run toward a smaller group chatting nearby.
“Can’t blame him,” Jowell said. “I’d think the same.”
“I know, but the bastard is dead.”
“What else can we say to convince him?”
“Later,” Hagen muttered, wanting to approach the group quickly.
Brynja was practicing with her weapons, and he’d discovered that his new favorite pastime was watching her practice.
Especially in those tight leggings Simone had given her.
Hagen nearly stopped in his tracks, so affected by the vision before him. Brynja stood next to Simone, firing at a target. First she threw her spear, hitting dead center, then she picked up her bow and nocked an arrow, striking the target again—though not quite center.
Artan let out a low whistle. “Two right on target, Brynja. Nice. You’ve learned archery quickly, lass.”
Hildi stood off to the side with Simone, watching her friend’s skills.
Heat rushed through Hagen. The way Brynja stood, her weight balanced, shoulders square, utterly confident. The power in her draw. The deadly accuracy of her aim.
And aye, the way those leggings fit.
“That lass can shoot,” he whispered to Jowell.
“Sure, her shooting is what made you hard,” Jowell drawled.
Hagen picked up a clump of dirt and flung it at his cousin, who cackled with laughter. “If you’ve not noticed, Hildi is also a fine beauty. Which one of you are going after her? I’m staking my claim on Brynja, so stay away. Far away.”
Jowell said, “I have noticed Hildi, since you mention it. She is a fine beauty and not as headstrong as her friend.”
Paden let Tenney down so he could run over to Magni’s side, then joined his cousins. He whispered, “I like them both.”
“Jowell, good to see you,” Artan called out a short distance away. “Hagen, Paden.”
Hagen’s gaze jumped back to Brynja, forcing him to stay behind his cousins until he got himself under control. She was just another lass, he repeated in his mind. Just like any other.
Except she wasn’t.
The group greeted each other, made introductions where necessary, and Brynja placed her weapons into a sack.
“Don’t stop because of us,” Hagen said.
“I’m done.” Brynja’s expression was unsmiling. “We’ll return to the nunnery.”