Chapter 2
Tavin Stuart sat at the scarred table with the rest of his family, a tankard of ale in his hand.
The smell of roasting meat on the spit filled the air, masking the scent of moldy rushes that littered the floor.
While he preferred his chamber or that of the barn, his da had forced them to all gather around the grimy table with the pretense that he had something important to discuss.
Next to Tavin sat his brother Graeme and across from him sat their middle brother James.
Their da, the laird and chieftain of clan Stuart, was in his chair at the end of the table, his long, grizzly beard more suited for the Northern Highlands than mild winters they had here.
There were multiple tankards on the table, with the serving girls ensuring that they stayed full to the brim unless they faced the wrath of the laird.
With three men in the keep, the serving girls liked to make themselves scarce on multiple occasions so Tavin knew that they would be disappearing soon, fading into the walls of the keep so that his brothers and his da couldn’t find them.
Tavin also enjoyed the occasional woman in his bed, but he preferred the experienced ones in the keep and not the ones with fear in their eyes.
There were many times he wondered if it would be different if his ma was still alive. Tavin’s ma had died when he had been born, and while the laird had many women in his bed since then, he had not remarried.
Because of the lack of women in the household, the Stuart brothers had grown up under their father’s thumb, learning to defend themselves and to wield a sword. Tavin knew of a thousand ways to torture a man and how to thoroughly clean a sword of blood so that it would not rust.
Tavin rubbed his arm insolently, feeling the faint line of the scar that was there.
It was a reminder of a time in his past where he lost his innocence, a reminder that people were cruel and so there was no reason for him to be kind to others.
He had tried and failed, a valuable lesson to learn so young.
The Stuart clan was known by many names: traitors, title stealers, cursed.
The real reason they were given the names was because of their ancestors and how they had turned their backs on any treaties that were set forth by the other clans, robbing them of what was rightfully theirs.
Tavin had sat through many a lesson with his da about what the other clans had taken from them, how they had stolen land and made it impossible for clan Stuart and their ancestors to join the other lairds as the great warriors they were.
As a result, clan Stuart had robbed and pilfered whatever they could find over the generations, lining their coffers with other clans’ valuables.
His da had stated that it was because they were due those things, as the one thing that could not change was their name, their past.
They had no honor amongst the other clans and avoided the larger ones at all costs, but the feeling was mutual. There was no honor in the other clans either to shun one of their own, to steal and lie.
Tavin was starting to think that his da didn’t care what the other clans thought.
Their band of misfit warriors had been pilfering smaller keeps for years, with Tavin being the one who scouted out the property first, finding their weaknesses and reporting back to his da so they could attack, usually in the dead of night where they could not be identified.
And anyone that did see their faces did not make it until morning.
Tavin was always careful to be memorable yet not without a disguise, lest someone recognize him as the son of a Stuart.
He cut his hair when he could, chose different tartans, and never let anyone get close to him.
To many in the keeps he scouted, he was nothing more than a weary traveler looking for a few days’ rest before moving on.
It was the way he preferred it.
“’Tis time,” his da said, that glint in his eyes as he looked at his sons, “tae take on a larger keep.”
“What’s wrong with the small ones?” James asked, drumming his fingers on the table.
“It’s not enough,” the laird grumbled, sweeping his hand across the dirty great hall. “Do ye not want tae live in a fine keep, with plenty of women tae keep yer arse warm?”
“Aye, but we have plenty of women here,” Graeme stated, winking at the closest serving girl. “And the keep is just fine.”
“For ye,” their da said, narrowing his eyes. “I want all of Scotland tae fear our names, tae bow down before us!”
Tavin frowned. He did not think that any amount of stealing from other keeps was going to have Scotland kneeling before them.
His brothers shifted in their seats uncomfortably, but they all knew there was nothing they could say to their da about his plan.
He fully expected them to go along with it and that the spoils they got would be under his control.
Tavin had learned long ago not to question his da’s plan, for it would end in fist cuffs and he had no wish to have his eye blackened or his lip cut.
Even though his da had a number of years on him, he still fought like a warrior, like a Scot.
“I want bigger,” the laird growled, eyeing each of his sons. “And I have one in mind.”
James cleared his throat, becoming the first one to speak. “Which one Da?”
“McPherson.”
Tavin whistled low in his throat. McPherson had been a clan similar to theirs until about a year ago, when the laird was overthrown and his daughter had taken control of the clan.
He had ridden past their border on more than one occasion, seeing the improvements the clan was making on their own lands.
It was enough to be jealous of.
“The girl,” his da said, “should be easy tae manipulate. There is a rumor that not everyone is happy with her being their laird. If her own clan isnae happy with her, then they will likely give up the keep tae have a true Scot as their laird.”
The brothers looked at one another, each thinking the same thing. A larger keep meant more warriors to fight if they could not slide in under the cover of night, a chance to have bloodshed if they weren’t careful.
Tavin ran a hand through his hair, recently shorn to his shoulders. He had yet to get used to the shorter cut. “I can scout tomorrow.”
“I need more,” his da stated, his expression hard. “I need the girl tae be under our thumb.”
Tavin was the one to swallow hard. “What do ye want then?”
His da grinned. “I want her panting after a Stuart.”
Tavin stared at him, not believing what he had just heard. “You want me tae seduce her?”
Graeme burst into laughter. “Little brother, ye have quite the way with women.”
James snickered. “Is that why his bed is always empty?”
Tavin listened to his brothers’ jests, his hand clenched around his ale tankard tightly. Being the youngest, his brothers had always liked that he did not carry the same skill set as they did. They fought faster, wielded a sword better, and always mocked him for not being in the fights with them.
But without him, they would not know where to attack first. They would not know where the goods were, or how the guards were positioned within the keep itself. Tavin could withstand their taunts for it was because of him that they were all sitting around the table.
“Enough,” his da said sharply, silencing them all. “Tavin will go tae the McPherson keep and report his findings to us. Get close tae her, son, make her trust ye. We need her secrets.”
Tavin stood, nodding to his da before exiting the great hall, feeling a great weight lifting off his shoulders at not having to be in the same room as his brothers. They did not believe that he could do anything that could aid in their cause, yet they could not be successful without him.
He would show them exactly what he could do, yet seduction wasn’t something he was used to doing.
Tavin strode out of the keep and to the barn, where he inhaled the fresh hay he had laid down before his da’s meeting. “Yer back too soon.”
Tavin turned to the old caretaker, giving him a grin. “Did ye think I would not come back?”
He shrugged, stroking his long beard. “Sometimes ye do, sometimes ye don’t.”
Tavin shook his head as he picked up the pitchfork, shoveling another load of hay into the empty stall. “Ye dinnae make any sense old man.”
The caretaker huffed and shuffled away, picking up the pail of feed. “Dinnae get testy with me. I dinnae care if ye are the son of a laird.”
Tavin smirked as he continued to work. Ever since he was a young lad, he had come to the barn to escape his da’s wrath or his brothers when they chose to pick on him.
The old caretaker had taught him everything he knew about horses, not caring that he was the son of the laird.
It was the one place that Tavin didn’t feel the pressure of his birthright.
“Ye look troubled.”
Tavin looked up from his work. “I will be gone for a time after today.”
The caretaker eyed him. “Another mission from yer da I suppose?”
“That is right,” Tavin replied softly. “Ye have enough food?”
The caretaker waved a hand at him. “Dinnae worry about me. I will be fine.”
“That’s what ye always say.”
He grinned at Tavin. “Then why do ye ask? Get tae work!”
The next day, Tavin picked up his bundle and threw it on his horse, checking to make certain the saddle straps were cinched tightly.
Today he would depart for McPherson land and start his work.
After three days, he would meet with his brothers to hand off information so they could start to prepare for the late-night invasion, to ravage the keep of all their valuables and their animals.
All he had to do was keep the new lady of the keep occupied until then.
“Tavin.”
Tavin turned, surprised to see his da a few feet away. “I’m leaving.”
“I know,” the laird said, walking over to clap a hand on his shoulder. “I want tae tell ye that this invasion means everything tae me. I need for ye tae find out all ye can.”
“I will,” Tavin said, clearing his throat. “I willnae let ye down.”
His da squeezed his shoulder, the closest that he came to showing any sort of affection for his sons. “May the gods go with ye then. We will be expecting yer report.”
Tavin nodded before walking over to his horse and swinging up onto the saddle. It was time to get to work.
Laird Stuart watched as his son rode away from him, clenching his fist at his side as Tavin disappeared from view. Years of disgust, years of being spat on. Their name dragged through the mud of Scotland.
But with this new plot, he was going to change all of that.
Turning away, he walked back to the keep, taking a moment to look up at the imposing stone structure.
He had never seen it without the soot on the stones, the green moss covering the crumbling wall that surrounded their border.
His fields were barren and there were but a few clansmen left that were not ruffians and outcasts.
Clan Stuart was what everyone claimed them to be.
Stroking his beard, he walked into the great hall, his mind on what was to come. They were not going to just steal and thieve from the McPherson clan. No, they were going to take their keep as well. He wanted the clan name, and he was going to get it one way or another.