Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)
Monica McCarty
Prologue
God can not be appeasit … unless that unhappie and destable race be extirpat and ruttit out, and never sufferit to have rest or remaning within this cuntrey heirefter … they salbe prosequte, huntit, followit, and persewit with fyre and sword….
—Edict for Extermination of Clan Gregor Commission given to the Earl of Argyll by the Privy Council February 24, 1603
Inveraray Castle, June 1606
One of these days his cousin was going to get them killed. Patrick MacGregor could only hope that day wasn't today. But Alasdair never could resist a challenge, even one that took them deep into the devil's lair—in this case Inveraray Castle, the Highland stronghold of clan Campbell. The thick stone walls of the austere keep jutted high above the trees to disappear into the gray sky, a forbidding reminder of the dominance of their enemy for more than a hundred and fifty years.
Today, however, the gates of the impenetrable fortress had been raised in welcome, and the glen that stretched from the castle to the line of thatched cottages nestled along the shore of Loch Fyne teemed with hundreds of clansmen who'd descended on Argyll from all across the Highlands. A whiff of excitement hung in the drizzly morning air. The games were about to begin.
As they left the sheltering shadows of the forest and approached the field of play, Patrick's senses flared, heightened by years of evading capture. Wariness and distrust were ingrained in every fiber of his being, and right now every instinct screamed caution.
His gaze darted through the crowd, keeping him well apprised of the situation. But no one had taken undue notice of the three newcomers … yet.
The MacGregors were once again at the horn—thanks to the Campbells, being outlawed was an all-too-common occurrence in the last seventy-odd years. Nonetheless, his cousin Alasdair Roy MacGregor, Chief of the MacGregors of Glenstrae, had insisted on attending the gathering this year to enter the archery competition. Known as “the Ar row of Glenlyon,” Alasdair was a bowman of repute. But he wasn't the best. That title belonged to Rory MacLeod. It was the opportunity to face MacLeod and best him that had forced them out of hiding. The fact that the gathering was being held this year at Inveraray—home to their fiercest enemies—only heightened the danger.
The three men had reached the edge of the muddy field. His cousin turned to him. “You know what to do?”
“Aye,” Patrick replied. He'd better, since it was his plan. “But are you sure you want to do this?” Despite the steel knapscall that covered his cousin's distinctive red hair—a trait the MacGregors shared with their Campbell enemies— and the hood he wore against the rain that shadowed his features, if anyone recognized him before their plan was set in motion, the chief was a dead man.
His cousin's eyes lit with anticipation. “Absolutely.” He looked to Patrick's brother Gregor for support. “ ’Tis time Rory MacLeod faced a wee bit of competition, and the opportunity to do so right under Argyll's pointed nose …” His mouth slid into the familiar roguish grin that had endeared him to the heart of their clan. “ ’Tis a temptation too great to ignore.”
“We'll be gone before they realize what happened,” Gregor added.
“Not too soon,” the chief said, “I want everyone to know who won.”
Patrick leveled his steely gaze on his bold cousin. “So you can claim the golden arrow from Maid Marian?”
Alasdair chuckled and clapped him hard on the back, well aware of his Robin Hood reputation. Nor had he missed the allusion to the archery contest held to trap the famous outlaw. “Behind that black façade is a wry wit, cousin. I've no intention of meeting any Campbells today, but you can be assured that I'll leave them with something to talk about.”
Patrick didn't doubt it. His cousin had a streak of daring in him that at times bordered on foolhardy. The head of clan Campbell—Archibald the Grim, the Earl of Argyll— was not a man to prod: He had a crushing bite. But knowing Alasdair would not be dissuaded, Patrick nodded. “Good luck, then, cousin. And take care. If anything goes wrong, be ready.”
“With my two fiercest warriors at my back, what could go wrong?”
Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “You don't really want me to answer that, do you?”
His cousin chuckled and bounded off toward the line of contestants.
Patrick admired his cousin's easy confidence, even if he couldn't share it. He'd been on the wrong end of a hagbut or arrowhead too many times in his life not to recognize the scent of danger. And right now it fairly reeked.
As his cousin approached the field of play, he and Gregor moved stealthily into position. Patrick did his best to blend into the crowd—not an easy feat given his height and build, but one perfected over years of practice.
Though his face was not as recognizable as his cousin's— and his hair black, not the characteristic red—he was grateful for the hood and knapscall. They'd bargained for rain, and the skies had not disappointed. Cold rain in spring was an occurrence of such regularity these past few years, it could almost be counted on. The brown woolen cloak helped cover the tattered, dirt-encrusted leine and breacan feile, but no amount of dunking in the loch could fully hide the evidence of a man who'd lived in the wild for months.
He helped himself to a tankard of ale and stood at the back corner of the crowded pavilion that had been set up for the spectators. As had been popular in tournaments of old, a large tent had been erected to give the principal members of the clan a comfortable—and somewhat dry— position from which to watch the competition.