Suzanne Barclay - Pride Of Lions

To my family,

a constant source of pride and joy.

Prologue

Luncarty Tower, the Scottish Borders

July, 1381

The setting sun bathed the crests of the Cheviot Hills in red fire and deepened the shadows in the woods along the creek that flowed past the tower. Soon it would be full dark, and everyone knew the land about was wild and dangerous.

So why in the world was his aunt leaving the safety of Luncarty’s stout walls?

His belly tight with apprehension, Hunter Carmichael crept after her, careful to stay well back as she negotiated the steep trail down to the edge of the burn. Her movements were quick and jerky, which was not at all like his graceful aunt, his favorite among his father’s five brothers and sisters. But then, she had not been acting like herself all day.

Hunter frowned. Could it be Uncle Jock’s fault?

Last night Hunter had heard Brenna and her husband arguing. The sounds of raised voices and weeping had roused him from sleep. He’d lain there in the dark, in the little wall chamber down the hall from theirs and wondered what to do. His parents sometimes disagreed, but they never shouted, and his father would not have made his mother cry.

A shaft of longing knifed through him. He’d enjoyed his summer here with his beloved aunt, but he wished he was home at Carmichael Castle with his parents. He missed his mother’s gentle smiles, his father’s sage advice and even Father Matthew’s lessons in reading and writing and scripture. Uncle Jock didn’t hold much with book learning, and had allowed Hunter to roam about, fishing and riding and doing as he pleased. He’d liked that very much indeed, but just now, thinking of home made his throat tighten and his eyes prickle.

Bah, he was ten and three, nearly a man. And it was a man’s duty to protect his family, particularly the woman-folk, his father, Ross, had taught him. The memory of those lessons drove Hunter from his warm bed and down the chilly, dark corridor to knock on the door of the master chamber.

“Who the hell’s there?” Uncle Jock demanded.

“H-Hunter.”

There was some grumbling and cursing, but the door opened. Jock McKie’s burly body filled the doorway, clad in loose breeks and a rumpled tunic. “What do ye want?” he demanded.

“I...I heard voices.” Hunter peered around his uncle to where his aunt stood by the hearth, her eyes red, her hair tumbling like a black curtain to the waist of her tightly belted bed robe. She looked no older than he, though she was near thirty. The sight of her, so small and unhappy, roused his protective instincts. Pushing past Jock, he went to take her icy hands.

“Are you all right?” Hunter whispered.

“Of course she is,” Jock snapped, coming up behind him. “We were just discussing something, were we not, Brenna?”

“Aye, that’s true,” she said at once.

Hunter was relieved not to see any bruises on her face. They’d had a soldier at Carmichael who had beaten one of the maids. Bram was his name, and he’d claimed women needed to be hit to keep them in line. Hunter’s father had disagreed vehemently. Ross had whipped the man and dismissed him, but the lesson had stayed with Hunter. Though Jock was a head taller than him and weighed twice as much, Hunter decided that if he’d been beating Brenna, he’d thrash Jock. Or try to.

“We were having words, as married people sometimes do, and lost our tempers,” his aunt added. “I’m sorry we woke you.”

Hunter had pondered that for a moment. “Papa says the rest of us are cursed with Grandfather Lionel’s hot temper.”

“Meaning Ross does not have one?” she had teased.

“He does, but Mama says it takes longer to come to the boil.” Hunter had grinned. “He’s trying to teach me to master mine, but...”

“Bah, a bit of fire in a man’s gut is what makes him a man,” said the Borderer whose clansmen jumped when he spoke. Aye, Jock McKie ruled Luncarty with an iron fist, but in the two months he’d been here, Hunter had never seen him raise his voice or his hand to his wife.

It must be as she’d said, an argument.

Hunter had returned to his room, but he had kept his door open and his ears, too. There’d been no repeat of the loud voices, but after a short time, he had heard hoarse, rhythmic groans. Before this summer, he’d not have known what they were, but two weeks ago, he’d chanced upon a stable lad and a maid trysting behind the barn.

Feeling hot, flustered and a little ashamed to think they were doing that at their advanced ages, Hunter had closed his door. His aunt and uncle had obviously made up their quarrel.

But come morning, his aunt had behaved strangely. She’d been too busy for their usual walk, too busy even to sit and talk with him. At first, Hunter had felt as dejected as an abandoned pup. Then he feared that Aunt Brenna knew he’d overheard them coupling last night. But she didn’t act embarrassed, more like nervous and preoccupied. She snapped at her maids and harried the servants into what seemed to him, and apparently to them, an unwarranted cleaning spurt.

The mattresses were dragged out to air, the old rushes scraped off the floor of the great hall and a party sent out to cut new ones from along the creek bank. There would be no hot meal that day, declared Brenna the tyrant, for the cook and his helpers were scrubbing down the kitchen.

Jock, chased from the hall by the army of cleaners, had gathered his troopers and ridden off in search of a tavern where they could drink and dice in peace. And doubtless do a bit of wenching, too, judging from the remarks some of the men made.

“Take Hunter with you,” Brenna had commanded.

Jock had readily agreed. “’Bout time the lad completed his education,” he’d said, winking lewdly.

The notion had been tempting, indeed, for lately Hunter had found himself fascinated by the maids at Luncarty. Young or old, pretty or ugly, the sway of their hips and breasts caused a wild, uncontrollable stirring in his lower body. A longing he was more than curious to satisfy, but his sense of duty was stronger. Hunter had pleaded a bad belly and stayed behind to watch his aunt. For what? He did not know.

She had spent a long time sequestered in Uncle Jock’s counting room. When she’d emerged, she was carrying a covered basket. Upon spotting him lurking about, Brenna had sent Hunter on an errand to the blacksmith. He had pretended to go, ducking around a corner to watch for her. When she’d donned her cloak, taken a small basket and headed out of Luncarty, he’d followed covertly.

“I am going down to gather water betony plants,” he’d heard her tell the guard on duty at the gate. The man had waved her past with a reminder not to linger too long. After all, Lady Brenna was answerable only to Jock.

Hunter had felt no such strictures. He was her closest kin, and with Jock away, it was up to him to guard his aunt. Especially since she seemed to have gone a bit mad, he thought.

Pulling himself from his musings, Hunter concentrated on his quarry. From Wee Wat Carmichael, the wizened tracker who must be a hundred years old, he had learned the art of following someone without being caught.

Hunter made a game of it, crawling from rock to rock, and bush to bush. But when his aunt entered the woods, her black cloak blended with the shadows, and he nearly lost her. The cracking of a twig to his right gave her away, and he was soon behind her again. Careful to stay back, he watched as she worked her way along the creek bank. She did not pause to look for herbs, but moved quickly through the trees.

The terrain grew rougher and steeper, huge rocks blocking the path as though tossed there by a careless giant. Hunter crawled over and around them, worried because he could not hear Brenna up ahead over the gush of rushing water. The moon had risen, its light peering through the thick canopy of leaves to light the way. Likely Jock was back by now. He’d be worried. Hunter quickened his pace, determined to catch her and coax her into abandoning this search or offering to help her.