Heart of Stone by Rebecca Ruger
Prologue
Nairn, Scotland
Summer, 1299
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UNTIL HE HAD FIRSTstepped foot outside of Caerhayes, Calum MacKinnon had no idea that most chiefs, or men of some worth with keeps to maintain and crofters and landholders and serfs to oversee, normally conducted their daily business inside the hall. Seated behind the same trestle table upon which his evening meal would be served, the master of the keep would hear grievances and receive messages, review accounts and entertain visitors. Daytime affairs of the keep would see the table bared, the worn wood gleaming under the drumming fingers of an impatient chief. During the supper hour, when his family or guests or men-at-arms shared the table with him, the wood was hidden beneath a fine cloth of linen, mayhap embroidered with the family’s crest, or in some cases, whatever animal the family had claimed as its talisman.
Calum wouldn’t learn until later in life, when the world he knew expanded, that his uncle’s practice of managing all the business of Caerhayes from a tiny room at the rear of the keep was unusual. The room, of which most person’s first impression was merely orange, was found at the end of a dimly lit and twisting corridor, one floor below and directly beneath the kitchens. And like other things he’d only been made aware of when he’d reached an age to understand that it was generally a good practice to take note of the details of an environment, Calum had only recently learned that while the small chamber certainly appeared as a dead end with surely naught but dirt holding up the four stone walls, at one time an exit had been dug and carved into the earth. It could be accessed behind the lone tapestry in the room, covering nearly half of the southwest wall, behind which there was a thick timbered door, to which only Domhnall had the key, and from which one might reach fresh air and blue sky beyond the walls of Caerhayes.
Orange was impressed first, and foremost, despite the fact that the sandstone walls were very light. The chamber was windowless and lit by a precarious abundance of tapers, too many for a room so slight and containing so much parchment and leather, but which cast the stone of the wall and the timber of the ceiling and even the dirt of the floor into shades of auburn or salmon or ginger, dependent upon perspective and nearness to the flames. The tapestry itself showcased the blue and gray and green of the MacKinnon tartan, but here in this room, it took on a burnt and golden hue.
The door was ever closed that Calum rapped his knuckles on the dark wood as he’d been summoned only moments ago by his uncle. The call for entry from within came at the same time Calum was already pushing open the door. He bent his head as he cleared the doorway, but thankfully was allowed to assume his full height within.
Domhnall MacKinnon did not look up immediately but continued to frown over a missive in front of him even as he waved his hand with some impatience, bringing Calum one step closer to the wide table. So little of the scarred wooden top of the table was visible, covered with pots of ink and sheafs of parchment and a scattering of small tools and several rings of keys.
Folding his hands at his waist, Calum waited. He didn’t bother to glance around. Nothing changed inside this room, it was ever and would ever be crammed with crusty leather journals and ink stained paper and dusty relics. He couldn’t sit, as Domhnall occupied the lone chair in the room, behind the table.
He didn’t like to be pulled away from the training field, not when he’d so recently received word that Wallace might again be calling up patriots, that he might now have the numbers and means to avenge last year’s debacle at Falkirk. Though they’d been away from home until only recently, that action last year was the last time his men had seen combat. He wanted them ready, wanted to move quickly with a capable, hungry army when the word finally came.
Domhnall MacKinnon cleared his throat and set the letter aside, giving his attention to Calum now.
“I’ve made arrangements for you to be wed,” he said without preamble.
Though his blood came immediately to a boil, Calum allowed no response to color his expression. He returned the regard of his uncle, took in the robust features and hard glare, the pocked skin and hulking of his huge shoulders.
“I’ve said, uncle, I’ve no interest in taking a bride.” He kept his tone level. Too often any meeting between Calum and Domhnall ended in rafter-splintering shouting, both so quick to anger, the elder so intent on ruling with an iron fist, the younger so determined to make his own way, be his own man.
Domhnall’s tone was yet conversational when he replied, “You’re to manage all this, all of Caerhayes, when I’m gone. You need a bride and bairns.” He kept his elbow on the table but lifted a finger to point at Calum. “Many bairns, so when your own son abandons you, you have a spare.”
Disregarding the bit about Domhnall’s son, Calum admitted this came as no shock. His uncle had been threatening for years. He’d not ever truly thought he might choose his own bride, but understood instead that because the MacKinnons of Nairn, kin to the greater MacKinnons of Skye, were rich in both land and influence, that his bride would be chosen based on what she might bring to the marriage. There would be no love, only politics and power.
He exhaled at length and asked, “Who? And when?”
Domhnall glanced to his left, squinting down at the topmost paper. “Er, Julianna Elliot. Her stepfather is Angus Faucht, has the Elliot keep near the border, Kinclaven, which makes it easy for him to keep one foot on both sides of this war.”
“And on which side does his weight currently sit?” Calum asked, rolling his eyes. He had no respect for any man who practiced such self-serving duplicity.
“Currently with the rebels, he has assured me. But his position—or rather, lack of a permanent one—is enticing. If Scotland should fall, he’ll turn. And if that should happen, he’ll be able to corroborate that we, too, are loyal to Edward, deserving of consideration for either nobility or more land or whatever blessings the English king will deliver to his faithful.”
“That was done, was it not, Uncle, when you signed the Ragman Rolls?” Calum couldn’t resist asking. He recalled being enraged at the time, that Domhnall had, with no discussion at all with any other MacKinnon, signed his name to the extortion advocated by Edward I. To his credit, his uncle had resisted at first, hadn’t signed the charters of ’91 or ’92. But he’d caved or had been coerced in ’96. He’d maintained that it was naught but ink to paper and not his heart speaking, but Calum had never quite been able to comprehend or forgive.
Calum seriously hated when his uncle referred to the patriots—people defending their own land and sovereignty from usurpers—as rebels. But that was another argument, meant for another day, though it had been fought often enough already. He hated more his uncle’s deception. Calum knew that nothing—not the threat of death to himself or even any of those under his protection—would ever allow him to even so much as feign a loyalty to England. But that’s what they’d been doing for years, as Calum fought bravely and willingly at the side of true loyalists like William Wallace while his uncle walked a fine line between the differing factions of the Scottish landowners and nobles, and those same men of English origin.
“When?”
“Depart anon,” Domhnall said. “Your bride awaits.” He shook a finger again at his nephew. “Calum, this takes precedence. We need this alliance. The war will wait. Collect the gel straightaway and return without delay.”
“Aye,” Calum ground out.
“Take only your inner circle with you. You’re to wed there at Kinclaven, upon your arrival.”
Meet and mate, he thought with some derision. But he gave his nod to the chief of the MacKinnons, as he might one day be that man, and knew well that duty trumped any other prerogative.
“As you wish, sir.” He bowed his head briefly and pivoted, closing the door behind him as he departed, gnashing his teeth with his displeasure.
***
DOMHNALL STARED ATthe closed door, his black eyes skinny.
The decision he’d made hadn’t been an easy one, but it was the right one, he knew. The lad was foolish to believe that Scotland might somehow find herself on the side of victory. For years, Domhnall had been laying the foundation for the MacKinnons permanent turn to England’s rule and English law. But Calum, he just wouldn’t see it. Would hear nothing of it. He’d resist until the end, would fight to his own death, would challenge Domhnall, with force he had no doubt; would never admit that Scotland would fall; couldn’t see past his patriotism to the truth; had no plan for the future when she did fall. Young Cal was reactive, not proactive, always had been.
Still, Domhnall’s sigh was heavy for what he must do. But then another knock came and the Caerhayes bailiff entered. Cuthbert was made bailiff not for his cleverness or any fine grasp of economics or politics, but for his ability to act shrewdly and sometimes, when needed, without conscience.
The ghoul-like man lifted a thin gray brow at Domhnall, who considered one last time if there were any other way.
He nodded finally, none too pleased about his decision.
“Make it happen,” he instructed. “Send word to Faucht, he’s on his way.”
“How many should he expect?”
Domhnall shrugged. “He goes with his officers, and those young ones who are never far from his side. No more than ten, I would guess. I would expect that Faucht can make quick work of them.”
The ghoul nodded, looking entirely too pleased that people—kin—were about to die.
“Send that crank, Ollie, down with the gold,” Domhnall advised, “though it gnaws at me still to have to pay for the disposal. Faucht is lucky I dinna reveal his secrets.”
Cuthbert departed, giving a gratuitous bow as he backed out of the room.
Domhnall sighed again, chewing his lip. He let only a moment of disquiet plague him for what he had just done, what he had put into motion. He wouldn’t dwell on it though. It needed to be done if the MacKinnons were to survive this war.
Claiming a clean sheet of parchment, he put ink to paper again, getting back to work.
He had his own wedding to arrange and an heir to create.