McQueen Hildie - A Heartless Laird

Clan Ross
Book One

Hildie McQueen

Copyright 2019 by Hildie McQueen

Kindle Edition

Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Clan Ross Series

A Heartless Laird

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Clan Ross was well known for being led by a string of cruel and unsavory lairds during the late fourteenth and throughout the fifteenth centuries. A couple of the lairds were imprisoned, and the king ordered their deaths. This is not the clan I will be writing about.

The fictional Clan Ross will be a bit different. Although my lairds and warriors will be brave and brutal fighters, the actions of the characters will be explained and their reasonings will have cause, to them at least.

1580 Highlands of Scotland north of Inverness

All the while Scotland wars with the English, there is another war in the northern Highlands, a clash of two ferocious clans. Clan Ross and their mortal enemies, Clan McLeod, have ravaged villages and families all in the name of revenge.

Chapter One

T hundering of horses hooves vibrated the ground as the warriors retreated from the blood-soaked battlefield. A gust of wind blew over the field as if fanning over the dead and injured would add a sign of life continuing despite the errors of man.

Two clans had battled fiercely, the battle ending by the fact neither side could continue, their arms barely able to lift the heavy weapons.

The McLeod had called a retreat after spotting more fighters approaching from the direction of Ross lands. The reinforcements were mostly the injured warriors whod been left behind and ordered to come later. But they were large in number.

There were other men who happened to head by. But they were not part of either clan, simply a group of warriors headed back to their homes after fighting the English. After months of battling, the men were desperate to return home to loved ones and cared little what happened between warring clans.

Clan Ross remained behind at the battlefield, claiming victory on that day where both sides had suffered almost equal injuries. Unlike other clashes, there were not as many dead. It was a miracle that only about a dozen men remained on the ground since the fight had been ruthless, everyone out for blood.

Todays battle was over; the war far from it.

Malcolm Ross thirst was not quenched. As a matter of fact, dissatisfaction at the lack of a clear victor made him growl in frustration.

Atop his steed, the bloody yet proud Highlander took in the field, his gaze moving from the battleground on past to the forest.

Avenging the recent slaying of his father, Laird Ross, would take more than a few winning battles.

The vision of his father being speared through the midsection formed in his mind every night. Malcolm had not been present, but hed demanded to hear every sordid detail. Since then, hed dreamed of it almost nightly until it was as if hed been present. He had a clear picture of how the youngest son of Laird McLeod had run his father through, injuring him mortally. The vision replayed in his mind daily.

In Malcolms opinion, it was his fathers demand from the grave that his death be avenged. Malcolm was sure of it.

The loss of their laird had cut deeply through every member of Clan Ross, the mourning prolonged by the knowledge of how unprovoked his slaying had been.

A proud, strong and fair leader, his father had been revered.

Now, the helm of responsibility weighed heavily on Malcolms shoulders for he could never begin to fill the void his father had left. And for that, he despised the bastard responsible.

It didnt matter that he could possibly die in his quest to avenge his fathers death. Malcolm would continue to fight and would never be satisfied until Ethan McLeod lay bleeding and dying at his feet.

And even then, if no one remained standing, would the ravine-deep hole within his chest ever heal?

It would not be an easy feat, of that Malcolm was well aware. However, the McLeods had to pay with a higher price than he and his clan had. One way or another, hed have revenge and he was more than willing to die if required.

A bird called out from a nearby tree, bringing Malcolm out of his musings and he let out a long breath. Scanning the remains of the battle, he didnt notice any movement from those on the ground.

Several horses along with the injured lay still in the muddy field. Just then, carts neared as people arrived. Malcolm assumed they were a mixture of both clans. Once climbing down from mounts and carts, they moved with caution as if expecting to be attacked. A fair assumption as a wounded man acting out of instinct and self-preservation could be lethal.

An old man seemed more focused on the animals than the injured men. He walked to a horse and stabbed it in the heart, effectively putting it out of its misery.

Battlefields had a stench that filled the nostrils. Blood, excrement and sweat mixed with dirt wafted up when the breeze blew.

Every time the wind passed over the area, the smell was carried toward where he was. Malcolm didnt bother covering his nose but continued his vigil.

It had been a particularly grueling fight, one that had definitely hurt his enemy and he was assured in knowing many more of them had been hurt worse than his own. Clan McLeod would not seek retribution for a fortnight at least and that was too long in Malcolms estimation.

The fact it would be a while before he could seek the battlefield again disappointed him.

However, there were far too many injuries and, admittedly, his own warriors were exhausted and required rest. Having battled for months since his fathers death, even the reinforcements from smaller clans were showing signs of fatigue.

Having sent his warriors home, Malcolm and two guardsmen kept watch over the healer whod come to search for signs of life in those presumed dead. A waste of time in Malcolms estimation but he allowed it since it meant a great deal to his people. If one of his brothers lay amongst the injured, he too would demand for a healer.

So, he reined in his impatience and ignored his own injury and remained upon his steed, standing guard.

Nearby, there was a horse hitched to a wagon upon which four bodies were already piled. He glanced to it for but a moment, not wanting to ponder overly long at where he may end up one day soon.

Would he, too, end up in a pile of bodies, on a cart driven by an old man to be buried?

Despite the somber moment, he chuckled at the thought. Then he narrowed his eyes upon noticing an injured man lift his hand to get the healers attention. Someone was alive.

From the profuse amount of blood still spewing from his midsection, the unfortunate warrior would, in all probability, not survive. The healer and one of the guards dragged the man near the same wagon upon which bodies were being placed.

Malcolm didnt bother dismounting to see who it was. His men were loyal to the end. This warrior, like those piled on the wagon, had fought valiantly and expected no special treatment.