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THE LEGEND
PROLOGUE
February, 1660.
Torridon, Scotland
Alistair
MacCurrie, Earl of Torridon and chief of Clan
MacCurrie, pushed the pillow out of the way and
stretched his wife’s arms above her head, linking
their fingers. He shook his black hair back over
his shoulder and smiled before he captured her
mouth.
“Annie,”
he said when he lifted his head again. “Are ye
ready at last?”
She
laughed, her eyes dark in her pale face. “We’ve
only made love for an hour, love.”
“I
want ye,” he growled. “I’ve been patient. What
do ye want me to do?”
She
did not answer, but raised her hips to meet him.
He moaned with pleasure as his body eased into
hers.
“Give
me a son,” she breathed, then withdrew her hands
from his to wrap them about his shoulders and
draw him closer. “Give me a son, my love.”
Alistair thrust
deeper. “I’ll give ye a son, my bonnie Annie.”
He withdrew and thrust again. “And another.”
“Enough,” Anne
laughed. “We have only so many rooms.”
He traced a
line of kisses across her temple. “We’ll build
more.”
They shared
a smile, then fell silent, concentrating on their
union. Anne called out her ecstasy first, straining
to hold him closer; a moment later his voice joined
hers. At last they slept, wrapped in each other’s
arms. Neither saw the strike of lightning that
lit the February night, nor heard the crash that
followed. Nor did they hear the whispers
that greeted the first light of morning. “The
legend,” the whisperers said to each other, then
hurried about their work.
Still languid
from their night of pleasure, Alistair and Anne
came into the hall with linked hands. They ignored
the sidelong glances thrown at them, for they
were accustomed to the comments about their ardor.
But when Alistair’s mother Mairi, small and gray-haired,
saw them and hurried over, she shattered their
composure.
“Have ye seen
it?” Mairi asked in a tone of wonder.
“Have I seen what?” Alistair
shook his head. “Mother, what d’ye mean?”
“Come,” Mairi said, leading them outside. She
pointed to the huge oak tree that had stood for
centuries just outside the gatehouse of Castle
Currie. Alistair swore and Anne gasped as they
saw what the night had brought.
The tree, still joined at the base, had been sliced
cleanly in two, the singe of fire blackening the
bark, the leafless branches stark against the
sky. The smell of burnt wood filled the air.
Alistair stepped forward to run his hands along
the cleft, then turned to his mother, his face
pale.
“It’s the legend,
“ Mairi said to her son. She glanced at her
daughter-in-law who stared with round eyes. “Anne,
ye dinna ken, do ye?”
Anne shook her head.
“The legend
of the MacCurries,” Mairi said, “tells that three
generations of lairds will be born and die on
the same date; that to the third laird, twin sons
will be born, who will lead the clan to war and
then to fifty years of peace. And that the sign
of their conception will be this tree . . .”
She turned to
look at the tree, then back at Anne. “. . .
that this tree will be split in two. And each
half will live.” She looked at her son. “Yer
father and his father died on their birthdays.
It’s the legend, as the Seer said it would be.
Anne carries the lads now.”
Alistair turned
to stare at his wife, who put a hand over her
flat stomach. For a moment the only sound was
that of the waves crashing at the bottom of the
cliff, then Alistair shook his head as though
to clear it.
“Mother,” he
said. “It’s naught but a lightning strike.”
“Alistair,”
his mother said in a soothing tone. “If the halves
live, will ye believe it?”
“It’s superstition.”
“It’s a prophecy,”
Mairi said. “And a good one, my son.” She laughed.
“Ye should be celebrating. Fifty years of peace
for Torridon. And yer sons bringing it.”
Alistair stood
silent, then reached for Anne, who slipped into
his arms. He looked over her head at his mother.
“I canna believe it, Mother,” he said softly.
Mairi shook
her head. “Nor I. But look . . .” She gestured
at the tree. “Time will tell. Peace, Alistair.
Yer sons will bring peace to this land.”
Anne turned
to face the tree, her hand over her middle. “November.
They will be born in November.”
CHAPTER ONE
March,
1689. Torridon, Scotland
James MacCurrie
looked into his brother’s eyes across their father’s
grave. Blue gaze met blue gaze, the brothers
communicating, as always, without words, sharing
their grief equally. It would be the last time
the brothers would be equals. When they walked
away from their father’s cairn, nothing would
ever be the same for either of them.
He took a deep
breath and turned to look at his home. Solid
and somber, Castle Currie stood alone on this
promontory on the western coast of Scotland, above
the waters of Lochs Torridon and Shieldaig, its
stone turrets reaching high to the heavens. Above
them storm clouds gathered and the wind freshened,
but the crowd of people standing outside the fortress
paid no notice.
Clan MacCurrie
buried its chief this day.
Neil gave the
signal to the pipers lining the top of the cliff,
their plaids bright against the gray water below
them, their movements slow and deliberate as they
began the funeral dirge. The untamed music rose,
shimmering in the air above the mourners for a
moment before wrapping itself around the castle
as if in a final embrace, then soaring over the
other side of the headland, across the loch and
to the open sea beyond. James closed his eyes,
fighting for control, ignoring the stares of the
awestruck clanspeople who watched his family.
The Legend,
the whisperers said now to each other, just as
they had incessantly during the last few months,
their talk growing more excited with each passing
day. They were silent when the day actually came
and Alistair, after weeks of semi-consciousness,
opened his eyes, talked for a moment with his
family, then took his beloved Anne’s hand. And
died. On his birthday. As his father had, and
his grandfather before him, exactly as the Brahan
Seer had foretold.
The entire clan
had gathered to bury Alistair MacCurrie, coming
from the fishing villages that dotted the shores
of the sea lochs, from the crofthouses nestled
at the base of the sandstone mountains, from Glen
Torridon to the east, and from the blue islands
that stretched out to sea. The people pulled
their clothing tighter and watched the small group
in front of them.
James could
feel their stares, could sense their wonder.
He felt much the same. He’d been raised with
the Legend, had passed the tree that marked his
conception every day, had watched his father’s
birthday celebrations each year with combined
excitement and fear. But he’d not believed it
would really come to pass.
“There will
come a day,” the Seer had said, telling of the
three lairds of Torridon who would be born and
die on the same day, of the tree that would be
split and still live, of the twins who would bring
fifty years of peace. The Seer had included a
wealth of detail in his prophecy and James now
wondered if any more of it would come true. Since
his father had died he’d waged a war within himself,
part of him believing, part scoffing. Only time
would tell.
He felt his
throat tighten as the priest placed a hand on
the coffin and said a prayer for Alistair’s soul.
Their father had been an extraordinary man. How
could he be gone? How could it be that they would
never hear that roar of laughter again, never
feel the slap on the shoulder he always gave them
before an embrace? Never be teased by him, or
encouraged to rise to a difficult task, then praised
for their efforts. Never listen to his counsel,
his warnings of who to trust and who to watch.
James shook his head, denying the death.
His cousin Duncan
Mackenzie moved to stand next to him and James
shot him a grateful look. Duncan nodded, his
eyes solemn, then bent his russet head as the
priest continued. James did not hear the prayers
being said, nor the answering murmurs of the mourners.
He stared at his hands clasped before him and
tried to ignore the waves of grief pouring between
him and Neil.
Both brothers
turned when their mother slumped to the ground
with a wail. Anne lay crumpled at the foot of
the grave, her frail shoulders shaking with the
force of her sobs. As her sons leaned to raise
her, their grandmother stopped them. The prayers
paused and the crowd of mourners watched in silence.
“Leave her,”
Mairi said, looking from Neil to James. “Ye canna
comfort her. Let her weep, lads. She mourns
as she should.”
“But, Grandmother
. . . “ James said, his hand on his mother’s arm.
Mairi restrained
him with a look. “Ye’ll leave her. Ye canna
understand the grief she feels. Leave her be.”
Her eyes filled with tears and her expression
softened. “Please, lads, let us mourn as we
will. I bury my son today and your mother her
husband. There is no comfort possible for us.”
James and Neil
exchanged a glance, then stepped back from the
women. The wind tugged at James’s clothing and
tore his hair from its binding, but he ignored
it, trying to control his emotions. He Neil’s
gaze again and saw his disbelief and sorrow mirrored
there in eyes the same shape, the same shade of
blue, as his own. And he saw something more.
James watched as his brother steeled himself and
put on the mantle of responsibility. Neil was
now chief of the Clan MacCurrie and Earl of Torridon.
And James was his vassal. Neil was older by moments,
and that made all the difference between them.
They’d been raised for this day, had known it
was coming closer through the long months of their
father’s illness, but they’d never discussed it.
James knew Neil would lead the clan well, knew
he and Duncan would be there to assist him. The
twins had watched the winter and their father
die together.
James looked
into Neil’s eyes again. A moment later Neil’s
expression lightened and James knew his message
of support had been received and appreciated.
They’d always been able to speak without words,
even when they were not together. When James
traveled, Neil knew when he would be coming home.
When Neil, out on the islands, had broken his
wrist, James had known something was wrong. They’d
never questioned this ability. Others found it
disquieting, but the twins both treasured and
relied upon it. Now they would need it more than
ever, for Alistair had died during turbulent times.
War was in the air.
The brothers
and Duncan threw the first handfuls of dirt into
the grave, then stepped back as clansmen finished
the job. When the grave was full, their grandmother
helped Anne to her feet, and with her arm around
her daughter-in-law, looked at the grave.
“He was my son,”
Mairi said in a voice that carried across the
crowd. “And I was proud of him.” Her chin trembled
and her tone quieted. “Fifty-four years ago I
bore him. I should be long in the ground and
he here to mourn me.”
She took a shuddering
breath and looked from one grandson to the other.
Her voice was much quieter now. “It’s yer time
now. Make the prophecy come true. Bring peace
to my home.”
James watched
his grandmother place the first stone for her
son’s cairn with shaking fingers, then stepped
forward with Neil and Duncan to finish the job.
As they finished, the sky opened and the wind
howled around them. Torridon bid farewell to
its laird with a show of fury that was remembered
for decades.
Early that evening,
after the rains had gone and the sky was closing
again for the night, the three cousins walked
slowly along the battlements of Castle Currie.
James gazed across the sea loch, his emotions
muted now. He had been drained by the funeral
and the meal afterward, and was feeling very detached
now. He’d stood next to Neil while the clanspeople
had come forward with their expressions of sorrow
and support. And he’d thanked them all, moved
by their concern, but he’d felt as though he watched
himself from the outside.
Easy enough
to do, he thought, slanting a glance at Neil.
His brother’s face reflected James’s mood, his
dark brows drawn together as he stared down into
the harbor. If he turned he could look up at
the tower where his father had died, where his
grandfather and great-grandfather had died, where
he and Neil had been conceived and born. He did
not turn, but he could feel the stones behind
him, watching to see how he and Neil fulfilled
the terms of the legend. Superstition, he told
himself. Not a destiny, not a forecast. If only
he believed that. As long as he could remember,
James had felt the power of the legend, had known
that some day he and Neil would have to face its
invisible force. been respected, but his sons
would have to prove their own value.
Neil looked
up to meet his gaze, then nodded, and James almost
smiled, hearing the echo of his thoughts from
his brother. Duncan looked out to sea, as Duncan
usually did. The cousins were all tall and lean,
but there the similarities ended. Even-tempered
Duncan had inherited his father’s dark red hair
and green eyes, while the twins had Alistair’s
black hair and blue eyes. And his temperament,
James thought with a smile; their grandmother
had bemoaned that often enough.
“It was a good
funeral,” Neil said softly.
“Aye, the whole
clan came,” Duncan said. He paused, looking up
from his ships to his cousins, each in turn.
“The others will be arriving soon.”
James nodded.
Duncan was right. Representatives from the MacLeods
and MacKenzies, the clans whose lands bordered
the MacCurries, would come as the news of Alistair’s
death spread. They’d come to pay their respects.
And to judge the mettle of the new MacCurrie chief
for themselves. Neil would be no surprise to
them, for the clans knew each other well, but
the men would still come. They’d bring their
condolences and more. They’d bring news of the
outside world. Of war.
There had been
rumors for months, of troops being raised on the
continent, of rebellions planned at home. Neither
Scotland nor England had been happy with James
Stuart as its king, for he had been a poor leader
and was resented in many quarters. Both countries
were weary of the turmoil his reign had brought.
But few had actually expected William of Orange,
King James’s son-in-law, to challenge him for
the throne. And win, at least in England. Scotland’s
throne was even now being decided in Edinburgh.
“They’ll want
to talk about the king,” Duncan said.
“Which one?”
Neil asked ruefully.
William had
landed with his army last November. At first
it appeared that King James would fight, but within
a month, James Stuart had fled to France, and
by February William and his Mary had been declared
king and queen of England. Now the royal pair
waited, with all of Britain, for the Scottish
Convention, meeting in Edinburgh, to ratify their
right to the Scotland’s throne.
The MacCurries
had paid little attention to the uproar. While
London and Edinburgh had steamed with turmoil
and intrigue, Torridon had looked inward, watching
its laird decline. Now, whether they wished it
or not, it was time to re-enter the world. Neither
twin had no desire to be embroiled in a struggle
for the throne, but they might have no choice.
The Scottish Convention would decide any day which
king to accept, and the Highland clans would then
meet to decide to approve or oppose that decision.
There was a gathering of the clans planned at
Dunfallandy Castle to do just that.
“The gathering
is in a fortnight,” James said.
“We need to
be there,” Neil said to Duncan.
Duncan crossed
his arms over his chest. “So which of ye am I
going with?”
Neil met his
brother’s gaze for a moment, then looked back
at his cousin. “Jamie,” he said, his eyes amused.
“Aye, that’s
best,” Duncan said, nodding again. “Ye should
be here.”
James nodded,
knowing that there was no need to explain to Duncan
that Neil should be at Torridon to greet any latecomers
who wanted to mourn his father. Or that there
was another, more important, reason for him to
stay behind. Transition of power in any clan was
a dangerous time, hardly the right moment for
the clan chief to leave with his warriors. With
war in the air, it would be even more foolish
to leave MacCurrie territory unguarded.
“Too bad we
canna sail there; we’ll have to ride. Ye ken
how I love horses.” Duncan sighed loudly as he
looked down at his ships. “When do we leave?”
“Ye’ll need
a week,” Neil said, then met James’s gaze.
The legend,
James thought, catching Neil’s unspoken words.
The twins will lead the clan to war, then to fifty
years of peace. And at Dunfallandy, the clans
would be discussing war.
“Ye ken I hate
it when ye do that,” Duncan said, his tone mild.
“Use words.”
James nodded,
looking from his brother to his cousin. “We’re
thinking of the legend and all the talk that will
come if there’s war.”
Duncan grunted.
“There’s already been a lot of talk. Everaone’s
watching ye here and they’ll do the same at the
gathering. Fergusson invited the clan chiefs,
no’ just representatives. He’ll be expecting
Neil and the man’s easily offended.”
“Aye,” Neil
said. “That’s why Neil will attend.”
Duncan looked
from Neil to James. “Ah. Jamie will travel wi’
me, but Neil will attend the gathering. Good.
No one here will say different and no one there
can tell ye apart except me. It’ll work.”
James glanced
up at the castle tower, feeling the weight of
generations. He turned to look into his brother’s
eyes. The twins held each other’s gaze for a
moment longer.
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