Highland Revenge (Fated Hearts Book 1)

Highland Revenge

A Scrolls of Cridhe Novella

Fated Hearts Book 1

By

Ceci Giltenan

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Copyright 2014 by Ceci Giltenan

www.duncurra.com

ISBN-10:1942623038

ISBN-13:978-1-942623-03-8

Cover Models: Justin Thomas and Meghan Cusack

Cover Art:
Earthly Charms

Cover photo by Brad Nguyen

Produced in the USA

The Guardians of Cridhe is a group of authors, Lily Baldwin, Kathryn Lynn Davis, Kate Robbins, Tarah Scott, Suzan Tisdale, and Sue-Ellen Welfonder, who along with myself came together as a group to create novella collections called, The Scrolls of Cridhe. In gaelic the word “cridhe” means heart. Our first volume is called Highland Winds and is available on Amazon as an e-book or paperback.

The Legend...

Long, long ago, in the time before time, seven sisters were called from the far reaches of the realm. Each brought unique talents, but had one common gift; the ability to weave ageless tales of love and courage. An evil witch coveted their gifts and locked them in a tower, silencing their voices upon threat of death. But the Highlands are enchanted, and magic will not countenance seven pure hearts such as theirs to be lost.

With no one else to hear them, they sang their stories to each other. Fate blew a braw Highland wind to their prison, and the sweet, high timbre of the sisters' voices enthralled it. The wind gathered close their silver words as it raced past each day, and carried their love and goodness throughout the world...then across the ages.

Today, their words live on in the Guardians of the Cridhe, seven sisters who have sworn to preserve those pure and musical hearts so long as they live. It is said these seven descend from those ancient female bards. Only their words can bear witness to that truth...

Dedication

To Tarah Scott, thank you for envisioning The Scrolls of Cridhe and asking me to join in. That single act has changed my life in more ways that I ever imagined.

To the rest of the Guardians of Cridhe, Suzan, Kathryn, Lily, Kate and Sue-Ellen, thank you for saying yes. Thank you for allowing the magic to flow and committing heart and soul to this project. But thank you most of all for being the sisters for whom I have always yearned. I love you all.

To Eamon, my husband, my best friend, my soul mate, I love you with all of my heart. Thank you for standing beside me and being such unfailing support to me in this new chapter of our lives.

Pronunciation Guide

Glossary

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Epilogue

Castle MacNicol, The Highlands, 1311

“Son, there is no reason to vent yer anger on me. I went round in circles for hours with Laird Ross about the betrothal. Ye know how badly I wanted this alliance—even more than ye wanted Morven for yer wife. I sought to prevent Clan Ross from allying themselves with the MacKays, but I’m sorry; we weren’t able to come to an agreement.” Laird MacNicol was losing his patience.

“Why is it ye can’t ‘come to an agreement’ where I’m concerned?” Bhaltair demanded. Ye managed to marry Angus to his beloved MacDonnell wench—”

His father backhanded him.

“I’m yer Laird and father. I know ye’re angry but ye will keep a civil tongue in yer head when ye speak to me. Sheila is a lovely, kind lass and yer sister by marriage.”

Bhaltair seethed, but he knew he had gone too far. “I’m sorry, Father. But ye know how I feel about Morven—how she feels about me. How could her father do this to her? How can ye do it to me? I have pledged to serve ye and, after ye, Angus, for the rest of my life. All I have ever desired is to marry her. It’s the only boon I have asked of ye.”

“Ye act as if I am slighting ye on purpose, Bhaltair, and nothing could be further from the truth. I tried my damnedest, but it is not to be. The best thing ye can do now is to forget her. We will find a bonny bride for ye, son, but it will not be Morven Ross. She’ll wed Kentigern MacKay before the next new moon.”

Bhaltair clenched his fists, leaving the solar without another word. He couldn’t contain his roiling emotions. He loved Morven more than he had imagined he could love anyone. He was so heart-broken he felt physically ill. He didn’t think he had ever been so enraged. He took the stairs two at a time, descending to the great hall, making no attempt to hide his bitter fury. He wanted to vent his anger on something—anything. No, not “anything”. He wanted to destroy Kentigern MacKay. Making his way to the stable, he didn’t bother with a saddle. He mounted his great black warhorse and rode out onto the open heath. Well away from the castle and village, he slowed his mount, slid off its back and ran blindly into the moonless night. He finally released his anguish in a roar of pain and rage. As the bitter Highland wind howled around him, signaling a rising storm, Bhaltair MacNicol vowed to visit his revenge on Kentigern MacKay for stealing his own heart.

Castle MacNicol, November 1332

Eoin MacKay roused himself groggily in the dungeon of Castle MacNicol. His head pounded and blood loss had left him terribly weak. The raid had been utter folly—he knew that now. He had simply wanted to prove to his father that he was a man. The Laird hadn’t allowed him to ride with the MacKay warriors and join the Earl of Mar in their attempt to repel the English King at the River Earn. It didn’t matter that the Scottish army suffered a terrible defeat and thousands were left dead, including many MacKays. At twenty, Eoin believed he was ready to prove himself in battle, to be a great warrior.

He was wrong. Great warriors didn’t stupidly lead their men to death, which is what he had done.
Men?
Nay they hadn’t behaved like men, but like little more than untried lads. In truth, he was one of the youngest, and not really the leader at all; the raid hadn’t even been his idea. However, once he heard the others planning it, he readily joined in, hoping to impress his father. It was to be a lark. The four of them planned to raid a MacNicol farm near their border. They envisioned returning home with a few head of livestock, bragging rights and a new swagger in their step. They hadn’t counted on running into a large patrol of MacNicol warriors.

Once they realized they were significantly out-manned, more experienced warriors would have surrendered. While they would all have been captured and imprisoned, they would have been alive and eventually ransomed. For Eoin, surrender would have meant utter humiliation. It would have proven his father’s assessment correct: he was not yet ready to face battle. In the supreme arrogance of youth, the four chose to fight. Eoin attacked with everything he had, but nevertheless saw his friends fall beside him.

With the blood loss from the gash in his left thigh making him dizzy, it took everything he had to remain conscious. He remembered the moment when the warrior he’d been battling had raised his sword, ready to cleave Eoin’s head from his shoulders. He hadn’t had the strength left to defend himself. He’d been certain he was about to die, but the blow never came.

One of the MacNicols commanded, “Stop! Don’t kill this one. He is too weak to be a threat anymore and judging by the quality of his blade, he might be worth something.”

They bound him, throwing him across the back of his own horse to take him to Castle MacNicol. Whether it was from pain or blood loss, Eoin blessedly lost consciousness until he was dropped at Bhaltair MacNicol’s feet and doused with a bucket of cold water.

Bhaltair grabbed a fistful of Eoin’s hair, raising his head to look him in the eye. “What have we here? Are the MacKay’s sending out their bairns now to do their thieving?”

Eoin could only groan.

“Who are ye, laddie? How much ransom can I squeeze from Kentigern for yer sorry hide?”

Eoin still had a modicum of pride left. He refused to answer.

Bhaltair backhanded him with such force that Eoin thought his head would explode. “I asked ye a question, laddie, and I want an answer. I have no problem beating it out of ye.”

Eoin remembered whispering his name before passing out, but he had no way of knowing how long ago that had been. His clothes were damp, but so was the dungeon floor, and the cold seeped into his very bones. The cell was pitch black. As he raised himself to his knees, white-hot pain shot through his injured thigh. After the initial jolt of pain receded and he could move, he crawled slowly, feeling his way around the tiny cell. He was thirsty; surely he would find a bucket of water. But the only object in the room was a low wooden platform shoved against the back wall.

He felt certain someone would bring him water eventually. The MacNicols intended to ransom him, and a dead hostage was worth nothing. In the meantime, he pulled himself onto the wooden platform. It was no more comfortable than the ground, but it protected him marginally from the penetrating cold of the earthen floor. He gingerly touched the wound in his leg. It wasn’t as deep as he’d first imagined. It had bled profusely and would probably heal better with a few stitches, but it wasn’t a mortal wound. Perhaps he didn’t deserve to, but as long as it didn’t fester, he would survive.

~ * ~

Soon enough it became clear that no one was going to bring him liquid or sustenance of any sort. He’d been left alone in the dark with his pain, his thoughts and a dreadful thirst. He dozed off and on. Eventually he awoke freezing, but his skin felt blazing hot. Fever was setting in. He needed water; his mouth and throat were so parched he couldn’t moisten his cracked lips. Perhaps they had forgotten him. He tried to call out—maybe someone would have pity—but he was only able to make a rasping sound. He crawled to the door of the cell and banged on it with all his strength until he collapsed with the effort. No one responded.

~ * ~

He woke later burning with fever and barely aware of his surroundings. He was still on the floor, but the cell was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. A dark-haired lad of about nine knelt beside him. The boy stared at him with intense blue eyes. “Are ye awake then?”

All Eoin could manage to whisper was, “Water.”

“Padraig, help me get him up. He needs to drink.”

A large warrior knelt on his other side and lifted him to a sitting position. “This is a bad idea, Finn,” he said. “If he finds out what ye’re doing, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I don’t care. This is wrong, and ye know it is.”

“It is none of my business, no more’n it is yers.”

The lad ignored the man and lifted a costrel to Eoin’s lips. He drank greedily.

“Don’t let him have too much at once. He’ll heave it all up and things will be worse.”

The lad pulled the costrel away from his lips. “More. Please,” Eoin croaked.

“I’ll give ye more in a bit. Padraig, help me get him up on the bed. His wound needs tending.”

“I said ye could give him water and a bit of food, Finn. I don’t think ye should be doing anything else.”

“Listen to me. This is not the way a prisoner should be treated. This is cruel and shameful. I don’t know why he’s doing it. Laird MacKay’s son is bound to bring a huge ransom, but he wants to leave him here to die. It’s wrong and I won’t have it!” For a scrawny lad, dressed in ill-fitting ragged clothes, he sounded like a little laird. If Eoin hadn’t been so ill, he would have laughed.

Padraig said no more, but helped lift Eoin onto the wooden platform. The lad held the candle high with one hand while gently prodding Eoin’s wound with the other. He poured water over a cloth and proceeded to wipe the yellow drainage away until the wound looked cleaner. “It should have had been sewn up, but it is all puffy now.”

“Nah, ye don’t want to stitch it now. Here step aside and stand back, he might not like this.” Padraig pulled a flask from his léine.

“He needs water, not whisky.”

“This is not for drinking. Dag swears by it and he has seen some bad battle wounds. Now lad, this is going to hurt, but if ye value yer life and Finn’s here, ye won’t scream.” Padraig poured the contents of his flask over Eoin’s thigh. It felt as if liquid fire had been poured on the open wound. Eoin clenched his teeth and nearly passed out, but didn’t utter a sound. “Now bind it up snug, Finn, and get out.”

Finn helped him drink some more water before proceeding to bind the wound. When he was finished, he held the costrel to Eoin’s lips again. “I have a bit of bread and venison here. Do ye think ye can eat it?”

“Aye, I think so.”

“I’ll leave the costrel here with ye but go slowly, and for the love of all that’s holy, if anyone else comes, hide it. Wedge it between the bed and the wall.”

“I will. Thank ye, lad.”

“I’ll bring ye a blanket next time.”

“There will be no ‘next time’, and how’s he going to hide a blanket?”

Finn and Padraig left, taking the candle with them.

Eoin knew his fever-addled brain must have misunderstood the lad. He had said,
Laird MacKay’s son is bound to bring a huge ransom, but he wants to leave him here to die
. What did that mean? Who wanted to leave him here to die? He was Laird MacKay’s son and custom dictated that he be given basic care until his father had the chance to pay his ransom. Unless… a deep chill passed through him.