The Beast of Clan Kincaid (22 page)

He picked up his boots, carrying them with him, as he proceeded on to the place where Deargh slept.

Only he did not find Deargh in the grass, where he had been before, although their horses and belongings remained in place. Birds lit in the trees, fluttering overhead, peering down at him.

He heard voices, and followed them, wary. Coming into a break in the trees, he found Deargh standing with his back to him, facing a score of fierce-faced bearded men, dressed in leather and fur, and bearing all manner of arms. They all looked at him, scowling and suspicious.

Turning, Deargh looked at him with an odd look in his eyes. He did not smile.

“There ye be.”

“Yes?” His muscles tensed with caution.

“It looks like we will not have to search for the Kincaids any longer as they have found us.” He turned back to the men, his old
hieland
brogue rolling off his tongue. “Dae ye see heem? Whit ah say is true. Ah hae brooght the Kincaid's eldest son haem tae ye.”

 

Chapter 16

Most of the men were younger than Niall. But there were a few older men among them, with wrinkled and scarred faces. One was missing an eye. Another, an arm. From the look of them, and their rough clothing and hard expressions, they had lived difficult lives since losing their homes and taking to the hills. Perhaps, even, the injuries inflicted upon them had been suffered that night, as they stood with his father.

From out of their midst appeared Murdoch the bard, his hand clenching a long staff, which he used to steady himself.

“I kent that first night it was him,” he said. “It was his voice. It is the same as the Kincaid's. Others may not hear it, but withit my sight, I hear things others dinnae.”

“Hoo can ye remember a voice for 'at long?” said one of the younger warriors, his gaze cool with skepticism. He wore his dark hair pulled back from his face. Tall and broad shouldered, a faded scar ran from the corner of his mouth, upward, to his cheek.

“He doesnae look a 'hin like the Kincaid,” another man scoffed.

“The song you yourself sing says all three sons had
bàn
hair,” said the scarred young man, with an air of importance.

“Oh, aye, he did,” agreed Deargh brusquely. “But with age, it became
dubh
. As ye see now.”

A host of eyes narrowed in suspicion.

The younger man leaned on his sword. “I hae heard of this man's fighting skills. But I walnae follow him as my sworn chief because of the soond of his voice.”

Several of the younger heads nodded in agreement.

“Noo 'at ah look upon heem longer, he
diz
look loch the Kincaid,” said an old man, squinting and pointing. “See the shape of his head? His nose. Th' way hae holds heemself.”

Several of the other older men came closer, squeezing Niall's arms and examining his face, which he suffered patiently, as a tidal wave of emotion moved through him. Joy. Pride. Sadness. Though his recollection was fragmented and altered by time, he … remembered some of their faces, though from the perspective of a boy. Aye, he was angry too, to have been denied the company of these men—his clansmen—for the past seventeen years.

The armless man moved to stand beside Deargh, and smiled. “He looks more like his mother's sire, the dark chief they called
Fitheach
, aye, his hair as dark as a raven's wing.” He said to the others. “And I min' ye too, Deargh, even underneath all that.” He wiggled his fingers at his tattoos. “He was chosen by the Kincaid that night to do exactly what he has done. I trust that he would not present us with an imposter.” With his good arm, he clapped a hand on Deargh's shoulder.

Deargh nodded at him in thanks, his eyes damp and bright.

“I am still nae convinced,” said the younger warrior. “You are old and sometimes addlepated.”

“Addlepated!” The old man pushed toward him. “I'll show you addlepated.”

Murdoch shuffled between them, eyes wide and unseeing, and held up his hands.

“There is only one way tae ken for certain. A way only Osgar and I ken.”

“And what way would that be?” someone exclaimed.

A hunch-shouldered old man, apparently Osgar, came forward and pointed at Niall. “You must come here, behind the tree, where the others cannot see.”

A round of complaints went up.

“Behind the tree?”

“What is it that we cannot all see?”

Niall looked at Deargh and scowled.

Deargh shrugged. “I do not know. But they knew your father. Osgar, there, was on his council. I suggest you go with them.”

Behind the tree, Murdoch reached out and touched Niall's chest. Feeling his way to the side, he grasped Niall's right arm and held it aloft.

“Look there. High up, under his arm, nearly tae the shoulder.”

Osgar bent, looking underneath. He squinted, and tilted his head.

“Do y' see it?” Murdoch questioned impatiently.

“I see lots of things,” Osgar snapped. “The man's got a lot of ink on his skin.”

“Well, look harder,” insisted the bard.

Osgar grew still. His expression went blank.

Looking up at Niall, he said in a hushed voice, “Aye, it is him.” He stepped back, a look of reverence overtaking his aged features. “This man is the true son of our chief. Niall Braewick, the rightful laird of Kincaid.”

“What did you see there?” said Niall, lifting his arm.

Murdoch grinned. “When y' were born, your father had a mark put on you—a wolf with a green eye. It matched one he himself was given at the time of his birth, and his father before him. I remember when they took the needle to y'. Ye squalled like a lass.”

Niall could not help but smile at that, but his chest ached with grief. Any story from his past held such meaning. Knowing that his father had marked him as his son, in such a way that he would carry the mark with him through life … that he held such pride in his sons, touched him deeply, to his soul.

“Did my brothers receive the same mark?”

“Aye.” Osgar shouldered between them. “So y' must not tell anyone y' see. There be those who would go out and get the same mark and present themselves here, telling everyone they were the Kincaid's sons. It doesn't mean much now, but if y' do what you say you're going tae do, it will mean quite a lot soon enough.”

Niall nodded, knowing they were right.

“Murdoch,” he asked. “How is it that the MacClaren allowed you to be his bard?”

“Me?” Murdoch answered. “I am just a blind old man. What threat can I be to him?” He leaned forward, leaning on his staff and grinned. “He does not know how carefully I listen, to learn their weaknesses. That I have waited for a day such as this, and when the time comes I will do my part, just as surely as any Kincaid who wields a sword.”

“I know you will,” Niall answered.

They emerged from behind the tree.

All the men stood there looking at them.

“Well, wot is it?” one demanded.

“It's his
crom-odhar,
isn't it?” Another chuckled. “Like the rest of us Kincaids, it's ten feet long.”

They all laughed heartily.

“No, but it is something just as remarkable,” Murdoch answered. “There are reasons why the proof cannot be shared, so you must accept our sworn testimony. This man is true to his word. He is the Kincaid's eldest son, and you must give him your fealty and follow him—and even die for him, if need be—from this moment on.”

The men's gazes grew sharper, and they all stood taller.

“As your laird,” Niall said in a low voice, meeting each pair of eyes as his gaze moved over them, “I command it of you. What say you, will you share these lands with me again, my Kincaid brothers? My clansmen? Will you share in my vengeance?”

“Aye, laird.”

“We will stand with ye.”

“We have waited for this day for so long.”

“As have I,” he answered solemnly … before he smiled. “There is so much I wish to know. The MacClarens speak of you as savages, you know.”

“Aye, it's a pleasure to harry them, and we do it as often as we can.”

“So I heard. One story in particular. Which of you has Donald MacClaren's daughter?”

The scarred young man's eyebrow went up. “That would be me.”

“What is your name?” Niall asked, recognizing power and prowess in the young man's shoulders and confident stance, and surmised he would prove a formidable warrior at his side.

“Brochan, laird.”

“Does she remain with you by her own will?”

“Oh, aye.” He grinned a roguish smile. “She took a wee bit of persuading at first, but…”

Laughter sounded all around.

“A
wee
bit,” someone said with a chuckle.

“But now she's my wife—”

“Because—” Niall asked.

“Because I asked her, and she said yes,” he answered more softly. More seriously. “We'll have our first
bairn
come spring.”

A bairn. He thought of Elpeth then, and wondered if they would have children. Daughters and sons.

“Kincaid,” said Brochan, looking pensive. “As devoted as we are to our cause, our numbers are small compared to theirs. We have little more than … forty able-bodied warriors.” He looked around, and others nodded back at him. “Without a doubt our women will take up arms as well, if we should call upon them, but what is our strategy?”

Niall lifted a hand. “I have more men, traveling here even now, and more important, I have allies. I also have a plan. For now, I ask only that you stand ready until I call for you. Make my presence known to any Kincaids in Inverhaven and all surrounding lands, so that they will be ready, but only if you are certain of their loyalty. When the time comes, and it will come soon, I vow to you, my kinsmen, that you will have the greatest place of honor at my side, when the MacClaren is defeated.”

“Wot of the Alwyn?” asked Osgar. “He must be held accountable too.”

“He will not escape our justice. Once we have taken control here, we will tend to him.”

“Very good!” Murdoch exclaimed.

“Aye!” agreed Brochan.

All the men gathered round, placing their hands on his shoulders. Tears shone in some of their eyes—including Deargh's, whom Niall had never once seen in his life, show such emotion. Niall's heart beat with pride, and in anticipation of the long-awaited reckoning to come.

Osgar looked at him steadily. “We have something t' show you now. Can ye come w' us?”

He agreed. But rather than riding into the hills toward a hidden settlement, as Niall had expected, a boy was left to mind his and Deargh's horses, while they were led on foot straight back across the valley and deep into the shadowed woods behind the castle. Traveling there, he saw firsthand how the Kincaids moved about unseen and unheard, their skill at doing so a disciplined practice, making use of the lay of the land to remain obscured, down to the colors they wore, the grays and greens of stone, lichen, and grass. At last, they arrived at a small clearing.

“Why have you brought me here?” Niall asked.

They all looked at him solemnly.

Osgar stepped forward. “Come with me.”

He set off across the grassy field, dotted with patches of fern, and the others followed. When he reached a certain spot, he searched intently, pushing aside the overgrowth with his wrinkled, knobby-knuckled hands.

“Here,” he said, resting his hand on a large flat stone. “The Kincaid sword is buried here, with other items of clan importance, waiting to be returned to their rightful place in the castle.”

Niall's throat tightened with emotion. “I remember that night, the sword being taken away. I feared it had been destroyed or thrown in a bog, forever lost.”

“We just need to know how fast you need us to dig them up.”

“Less a fortnight,” he answered.

“That soon? You're certain?”

“I am, and you should be too.”

They all laughed, but their laughter faded, and they looked at him with peculiar intensity.

“What is it?” he asked, his senses suddenly gone keen.

Osgar's voice took a tone of reverence. “There's something else we must show you now.”

“Show me then.”

He again followed Osgar to the distant edge of the clearing. Everyone else fell away, trailing behind until only he followed, and Deargh at a short distance.

Osgar bent, and pushed aside a fern, to reveal—

A stone cross laid flat on the ground.

Niall's heart stopped beating, and the earth seemed to disappear from under his feet. He knew what Osgar would say.

“This here”—the old man said softly, stepping back—“is where your father lays. Your mother is there…” He pointed. “On that side.”

Osgar gestured to the ground beyond, and walking there, pushed aside the groundcover on one side and the other where smaller crosses spread across the earth like stones.

“These are all the others,” Osgar said. “Buried together, as well as we could manage. We brought a priest. The ground is consecrated, and he spoke the necessary words over them.”

Niall blinked, exhaling. Taken, in an instant, back to that night.

The drums. The fear. The loss
.

He had existed ever since with a low, simmering rage ever constant in his thoughts, in his blood—but seeing his parents' graves awakened something blacker and more dangerous inside him. For some reason, in that moment, he thought of Elspeth—saw her face in his mind—as if his soul sought comfort from her. But just as quickly her features blurred, as did his feelings for her … all becoming indistinct and obscured by the shadows of hate that filled his mind.

“My brothers…” he asked in a hollow voice.

Osgar shook his head. “We never knew what happened to you, nor them. We do not know if they lived or died.”