Chapter 2
The four men lay dying on the ground. Callum MacNair did not even wait for the last of Laird MacTavish’s armed escorts to gasp the final breath; he mounted his horse and spurred it onward without a single glance back.
If anyone had been told the tall, muscular man was the skinny six-year-old lad who had escaped capture and a lifetime of servitude, they might have only believed it from the color of Callum’s hair.
It was the same dark red color, cut to his shoulders, sometimes tied back with a leather thong, sometimes left to fall over his face when he wanted to observe people without them being aware of it.
It was not often that Callum allowed himself to relax his guard, but when he did, his handsome features held a certain foreign appearance, and the traces of his mother’s Norse heritage were detectable.
He had the coloring of a true Highlander, but that was where his claim to a relationship with the MacNair clan ended.
The startling slant of his dark red eyebrows, his hawklike nose set over a firm mouth and thrusting jaw, and the high flat curve of his cheekbones made the maids around the castle whisper behind their hands that the warrior’s parents must have been barbarians from the lands of permanent ice and snow in the north, maybe even from the Land of the Rus.
His eyes were like two green flint chips taken from rocks mined for rich copper, and they seemed to harden with scorn if any maiden tried to dally with him.
No, there was no trace of the small six-year-old boy left. Callum had entered Castle Gray twenty years ago and never left.
“Och, what d’ye want, wee lad?” the gatekeeper had asked the child when he saw the boy trying to slide past the portcullis. “Are ye one o’ Mistress Reid’s bairns?”
Callum was starving, half dead from hunger, but he would not enter the castle under false pretensions.
“I’m an orphan, sir. A runaway. I have been walking along the coast for many days—many miles—searching for work.
I can be a spit boy, a page, a groom… Only let me inside, an’ I will work hard for yer laird. ”
The gatekeeper was a kind man with children of his own, and he admired the boy’s courage and stubborn spirit.
“Ye have an honest face, wee lad. Go down to the kitchens. Speak to Mistress Hamilton, the cook, an’ tell her I sent ye to work as a spit boy.
Ye will nae get paid, ye understand, but ye’ll get food and the hope of a promotion if ye work hard. ”
On his last legs, Callum staggered into the courtyard and stumbled down the kitchen stairs.
Mistress Hamilton had fed him and set him to work as soon as he had recovered from his nightmare escape and journey.
After one month of turning the spit with no complaint or abuse of the small ale, Laird Gray summoned the boy to his attention.
“Cook tells me ye’re a runaway, lad? From whence did ye run?”
Hiding his piercing eyes behind his long red hair, Callum had replied, “I will nae lie to ye, Laird. Me name’s Callum MacNair. I seek me faither, Cal MacNair. Me mither’s dead, ye ken.”
Laird Gray had peered closer at the boy. “I see the resemblance, there is nay doubt. But I have sad news for ye, Callum: Laird MacTavish slew yer faither after setting an ambush for him some years back. An’ without Cal MacNair claiming ye as kin in front o’ the clan, ye must remain nameless.”
Callum swallowed hard once or twice, then continued. “Nay…I am Callum MacNair, son o’ Cal an’ Freya MacNair, and I need no acknowledgment to make it so!”
Laird Gray hid a smile. The lad was so brave it made him wish his own boys were so fierce and proud. “Very well, Callum MacNair. Keep yer name. Report back here in one year so I can track yer growth. I will be keepin’ me eye on ye, wee Cal.”
Every year, Callum had presented himself to the laird, and every year Laird Gray had complimented him on being a hardworking boy and promoted him.
Over the years, turning the spit for eight hours a day honed Callum’s arm muscles into bulk and sinew.
He started out standing by the fires looking after the chickens, but at the end of his apprenticeship in the kitchens, he was able to pivot an entire ox over the flames all day without breaking a sweat.
When he was promoted and made the laird’s messenger, running from castle to castle carved his legs into impressive knots of muscles.
At the age of ten and four, he was already as tall as Laird Gray’s tallest soldier.
The laird had called him into the great hall. “Report to the captain of the guards tomorrow morn at daybreak, Callum MacNair. Ye are to be trained in the arts of war.”
The youth had bowed. “I am to be a soldier, Laird?”
Laird Gray had shaken his head. “Nay, lad. ’Tis more likely that ye are to be one of the greatest Highland warriors of all time.”
Now, twelve years and countless battles and skirmishes later, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Laird Gray had spoken the truth.
Not only was Callum MacNair a formidable foe, possessing a name that had kept Laird Gray’s lands free of trespassers for the last seven years, but he was a ruthless enemy to lawbreakers and greedy warlords.
Yet he always kept a low profile and would never be found in taverns drinking after a victory or bragging about his many accomplishments.
Callum MacNair’s name might be well known, but no one knew his face—no one alive, that was.
Laird Gray looked up when Callum had walked into the great hall five days before.
“Laird, I have come to look upon ye as if ye were me own faither. I have no words to thank ye for giving me shelter these twenty years.”
The laird gave a sigh. “I have a feeling why ye have come here today, Cal. Is yer destiny calling?”
Callum nodded and bowed. “Aye, Laird. I have heard the news that Hamish MacTavish needs men at arms. He lost over fifty men during his last skirmish and is willing to pay well for the best warriors. Do I have yer permission to join his ranks?”
Laird Gray nodded. He could recognize a man with revenge in his heart. “I will write a letter of recommendation for ye but under a different name. We cannae have yer faither’s name following ye, no’ when it was MacTavish who killed him.”
As a soldier for hire, a common mercenary, there was no chance for Callum to meet face-to-face with Hamish MacTavish himself. It was the captain of the guards who read the letter and wrote Callum’s name into the ledger when he approached him for work.
“Laird Gray praises yer skills as a warrior very highly…Cal Kerr. Welcome to the barracks.”
“When do I get to ride into battle with Laird MacTavish?” Callum wanted to know. His revenge had been burning inside him for a long time, but he was a calculating and patient man. He had to find out what had happened to his brother first.
“Och, Kerr, ye must ken that Laird MacTavish does nae ride into battle so much anymore. The man’s sixty years auld if he’s a day!
That’s why we need men like ye to fight the battles for him.
Plus, he has never been one to run into a skirmish.
For the longest time, the laird prefers to set traps an’ ambushes an’ catch his enemies all unawares.
He has many enemies surrounding these lands, an’ dinnae forget that Laird MacTavish has an eye on expanding his lands even further, so ye can expect to be busy. ”
Callum had hardly hung up his saddlebags in his barracks room before the captain was back. “We need ye to make up one o’ five escorts, Kerr. Ye must ride to the Calvin estates and fetch back the laird’s new bride.”
Callum cocked an eyebrow. “Five men to go an’ fetch one wee lass?”
The captain did not mince words. “Remember what I told ye about Laird MacTavish being surrounded by enemies? Like it or not, ye’ll face a few attacks along the way. Ye wear MacTavish plaid in yer bonnet now. It comes with a price.”
The information had suited Callum well. If there were one way to get close to Laird MacTavish, it would be after he escorted the man’s betrothed back to the castle. He had wasted no time placing his saddlebags back onto his horse and joining the small group of men.
Disaster struck on the third night after they left MacTavish Castle. They were at a tavern, seated in the alehouse, waiting for their food, when three tavern wenches approached them.
“Greetings, ye five braw gentlemen,” one of the women rasped at them. “How may we assist ye all to have the best o’ good times while ye rest yer bones at the inn?”
Four out of the five soldiers began to inquire about prices, but Callum just scowled into his ale. “Can I no’ tempt ye, handsome?” the oldest tavern wench teased. “Ye look so glum, I swear a good frolic upstairs will bring a smile to yer face, so good-lookin’ as ye are.”
She leaned over and chucked Callum under his chin.
“Begone, doxy!” Callum growled. “I’ll have naught to do with bonded women!”
“We’re no’ bonded,” one of the wenches simpered. “We do this out o’ our free will!”
“Then all the more shame to ye!” Callum snarled.
“That sounds just like Cal MacNair, or else I’ll eat me bonnet!
” A jovial-looking Highlander stood up from where he had been sitting with his back to the men.
When he saw Callum, he broke into a wide smile.
“Callum MacNair! How is it back at Castle Gray? Why are ye no’ there?
I swear the auld laird thinks of ye as his own son. ”
The four soldiers swiveled their heads around to look at Callum, the wenches forgotten. “Ye told the captain yer name was Kerr! An’ yer laird’s letter said the same. What’s going on?”
Callum replied in a glib tone, “The auld man’s deaf as a doorpost. MacNair, Kerr… What’s the difference? He heard it wrong, that’s all.”
The auld man who had greeted Callum was quick to back up this new story. “Och aye, lads. I’m forgetful an’ deaf in me auld age. Forgive me.”
But it was no good. “We must return to MacTavish Castle and report this to the captain. We cannae have an imposter in our troop!” the leader said, frowning at Callum from under his brows.
They had paid for their ale and left the tavern. The leader set a brisk pace back to the castle, but Callum did not stop smiling. “Hoots, lads, but the captain is goin’ to be sore with ye. Me name’s Kerr, I keep telling ye.”
His confident, careless chat made the men nervous. “P’raps we should take him at his word?” one of the escorting soldiers suggested.
“Ye dinnae even have to do that, lads,” Callum assured them. “I have a letter from the parish where I was christened in me saddlebags. It has the name Kerr written on it alright an’ tight. Let me show ye.”
The men had dismounted, grateful for the chance to stretch their legs. But a letter from the kirk was the last thing Callum would carry around in his saddlebags. In the falling twilight, no one saw him remove two small daggers out of the bag and stick them up his sleeves.
“Here it is,” Callum said, and then turning around with a fast pivot, he threw the daggers with deadly accuracy at two of the men’s necks when they approached him.
The other two men grasped their sword hilts, but only one managed to draw his sword.
The other one fell to the ground, holding his slit throat.
The blades clashed, but the force of Callum’s blow was so hard, the last remaining soldier’s hand stung and went numb. He bent to grab the knife out of his boot, but it was the last thing he did. Callum’s sword blade rang like a small bell as it hit its mark.
Immediately, Callum dropped into a crouch, going along all four horses and cutting off their saddles. Then he lifted the bridles out of their mouths. A quick smack on the horses’ withers, and the beasts trotted into the forest.
I can tell the captain we were set upon by MacTavish enemies and that I was the only survivor. That should be enough to instill trust into them. Now, it’s time for me to find out where the Calvin estate is an’ bring Hamish MacTavish’s bonded bride back for her weddin’.