Highland Warrior
by Heather McCollum

Copyright © 2021 by Heather McCollum. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Orkney Isle off the northern coast of Scotland
20 October in The Year of Our Lord 1589

Chapter One

“A wise warrior avoids the battle.”
Sun Tzu – The Art of War

“Retreating, Sinclair?” John Dishington, the sheriff for Lord Robert Stuart, smirked from his place by the table in the receiving hall of the Earl’s Palace. Cocky, scarred, and always looking for a fight, Dishington was one warrior Joshua Sinclair certainly would not miss when he left Orkney Isle.

“I will retreat only if God calls his Horsemen back to Heaven,” Joshua said, using the legend around him being the Horseman of War. It was a familiar role and usually shut the mouths of fools. “I am journeying back home to the mainland of Scotland for Samhain, not retreating.”

Dishington laughed, pushing away from the table. “A pardon for the confusion. You retreated from the field at South Ronaldsay.” Dishington, who called himself The Brute of Orkney, had more thirst for fighting than wish to stay alive.

Joshua inhaled deeply, his nostrils opening to feed his blood with warrior energy as he turned, the promise of death cutting into the lines of his face. “Lies will see your tongue cut from your screaming mouth,” he said, his tone low. The two warriors assigned to watch the arrow slits in the interior wall backed up near the hearth as if wishing to stay out of an inevitable battle.

Dishington picked up his tankard, using it to salute Joshua. “Och now, Sinclair. I know you count the battle as a win for your side, but when that lad fell, you carried him from the field. It looked like a retreat to me.”

Adam. The boy’s face, still and pale as the blood from his wound soaked his tunic. The vision haunted Joshua like a specter stalking him everywhere. His hands fisted as if he could change the outcome of that horrible day. “The battle was over,” he said. “And despite both sides taking too many casualties, we were the victors.”

Dishington saluted him again with his tankard and took a drink. “As you say,” he said, wiping his mouth, which twisted into a wry grin.

“I should have lopped your head off at South Ronaldsay,” Joshua said, turning away to nod at the two men he had trained for the last three months. “Stay strong, Tuck, Alec.” They nodded back, and he strode out to the broad double doors of the castle that Lord Robert Stuart, the first Earl of Orkney, called a palace. A bloody palace with arrow and gun slits built into all the lower walls right alongside glazed windows and murals of biblical scenes. When Joshua had agreed to train Lord Robert’s men, the earl had even promised to commission a fresco of the Four Horsemen from Revelations, with Joshua as the Horseman of War in the front.

“If you had lopped off my head,” Dishington called, following him, “we would not have shared these three months working alongside each other to shape these men into warriors for Lord Robert. Think of all the mirthful sport you would have missed.”

Sport? Mirthful? “Cac,” Joshua cursed under his breath as he traipsed outside into the autumn chill that seemed worse than at his home in Caithness even though it was not too much farther south.

Ignoring Dishington, Joshua strode straight for Lord Robert and his son who were in the middle of the interior courtyard by the central well. Patrick was his second eldest son and wore a sword and a frown. Like his brothers, Patrick had become the perfect copy of his sire, with an even worse temperament, especially with regard to the local Orkney inhabitants.

“I will be off, Lord Robert,” Joshua said, bowing his head to his employer without even a twitch of respect toward his son.

“You are a damn mercenary, Joshua Sinclair,” Lord Robert said with a half frown. “And yet gold does not sway you to remain at my palace.”

Joshua looked toward his saddled bay, Fuil, who stood waiting beside Angus Gunn, a friend Joshua had made at the palace. Angus held a handful of oats under his horse’s nose, and Fuil lipped it up.

“I am the Horseman of War,” Joshua said, his breath puffing white in the snowflakes whipping down from the heavy clouds. “Winter will freeze your enemies, bringing peace until spring, which is too dull for me.”

The truth was that Joshua did not wish to fight Robert’s battles anymore. In fact, Joshua did not want to fight any battles anymore, a secret he shared only with God. When he realized that Robert Stuart’s clashes with the people of Orkney would never end, the realization had made Joshua itch to move on. That and the oncoming winter.

“Damn snow. Bloody damn wind,” he murmured, glancing up at the snowflakes swirling down to pock his bare arms. His feet were like ice in his boots. Yet he walked forward with only a sash from the end of his kilt over his bare chest so Robert’s people could see and remember the tattoos around his muscular arms and across his back. The dark swirls on his arm in the shape of a horse, along with the massive sword strapped across his back, reminded them that Joshua was War incarnate, the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, sent from God, to rage and win against his foes. At least that was what his father had told him every day of his life. Maintaining an outward appearance that promised death, to intimidate Sinclair enemies, was an act that Joshua had honed until it became who he truly was.

He nodded to a small group of the earl’s warriors whom he’d been training, some of them good men. They nodded back, a few raising an arm in response. He stopped before his handsome, muscular warhorse. Fuil’s bay coat shined red, which was why Joshua had named him the Gaelic word for blood. His black tail swooshed with a need to be off on whatever adventure was next.

“Angus,” he said, his brow rising. “Watch your woman well.” He let his gaze slide to Mathias Campbell, the unscarred lad who’d been attracting all the lasses living in the village north of the castle where the soldiers resided when off duty. He was a rogue with honor, which made him a very poor scoundrel.

“What is that?” Angus asked, frowning at Mathias. “What about my woman?”

“Bloody hell, Joshua,” Mathias yelled, his smile broad. “Even leaving ye cause trouble.”

Joshua laughed. “To keep ye all alert!”

Angus grumbled a curse but grinned. “Stay alive, Horseman of War.”

Joshua nodded to him. “I always do.” Several of the men he’d been training laughed.

It was a shame the Scotsmen hired by Robert to live and work for him could not easily leave Orkney. But Joshua was a free man, and he’d had enough of Robert’s elitist ways. Nay, it was time to head home to Caithness and Girnigoe Castle on the mainland of Scotland, in time for the Samhain festival.

Liam, another warrior, gave him a wry grin through his thick beard where he stood by the gate of the half-finished outer wall, another of Joshua’s recommended improvements. “I am surprised that Jean unleashed you from her bed,” he said, keeping his voice low. Jean Stuart, Robert’s second eldest daughter, was voluptuous and territorial, not to mention spoiled. The lass was as prickly as her brothers but had enjoyed sparring with Joshua. And tumbling in her luxurious bed.

“Ah, sweet Jean,” Joshua said, sliding his hand down Fuil’s neck. “She has likely already lured in another for sport.” Throwing a boot up, he mounted easily from the ground and turned Fuil in a tight circle toward the open gate where two other young warriors worked at moving bags of grain. Joshua drew a pebble, which he’d picked up before mounting, from the fold in his kilt. With a flick of his wrist, he shot one at Hamish Kincaid, hitting him in the back of his head. Hamish whipped around to glare at his friend, Randall, who worked next to him.

“Why’d ye do that?” Hamish asked, rubbing his head.

“What?” Randall asked. “Lift a bag of oats?”

“Hit me in the head,” Hamish yelled, making Joshua grin. Aye, he would miss tricking these men.

Randall caught Joshua’s smile and hit Hamish’s arm, gesturing to him. “Are ye making mischief even as ye leave?” Hamish asked, hands on his hips.

Joshua smiled, showing his teeth. “Never assume ye know who the true enemy is, Hamish.”

The man shook his head but grinned. “We will not miss ye, Highlander.”

“Och, but I think ye will,” Joshua parried back. He continued out the gate, his bare arm, encircled by tattoos, high in the air to bid them farewell. He was far enough away that they would not see the chill bumps on his skin.

As he exited, a young lad jumped out of his path. “Pardon, sir,” he said. He was about twelve years old and stood with a younger lad, the two of them with wooden swords. “We are training like ye did with Lord Robert’s warriors so we can fight.” He grinned, his face tilted up at him. “Hamish Kincaid is our da.”

He nodded to the boy who had a few freckles. “My da says you are the wisest warrior he has ever known,” the boy said, and they both looked at him expectantly.

Joshua’s stomach clenched hard as the first lad’s face seemed to change to one with a broad smattering of freckles and a serious frown. He nodded to the boys. “The wisest decision a warrior can make is whether or not he should fight.”

Both boys lost their smiles and nodded as if taking in his wisdom, even though they would probably forget his words before he was out of sight over the rolling hills.

Shouts made him pull his horse to the side near the boys. Several of Robert’s soldiers marched down the hill toward the fortress on the sea. In the center of them walked a man, a completely naked man. Henry Sinclair, Robert’s eldest son, led the man by a rope encircling his neck, a cruel grin on his face. Henry nodded to Joshua as he walked past him on his way into the bailey.

The prisoner had scars across his bare chest and a slash on his side that had dried into a dark line of blood. Despite the frigid weather, he held his head even, staring out as he walked at sword point into the bailey. Just the sight of his bare skin made a shiver run through Joshua. Fok. Too cold for that. The brutal torture warred against Joshua’s determination to put this frozen isle behind him, and he watched Lord Robert turn a vicious smile on the prisoner as he halted by the central well.

“Ah,” Robert said, his words carrying to Joshua on the wind that never ceased to blow across treeless Orkney. “King Erik Flett, naked and near frozen.” Lord Robert and Patrick had already forgotten about Joshua leaving as they grinned at their prize, who was stripped of absolutely everything. Robert nearly strutted as he followed the prisoner into the castle with his sons and hired brute.

Joshua narrowed his eyes at the man who had employed him to make his men clever, strong, and fast. I should have killed him and his sons. The isle would be better for it. But Robert Stuart was the recognized son of the dead King James V of Scotland. Killing him and his family would surely bring royal armies to his clan, the Sinclairs of Caithness, on the mainland.

At least the prisoner was no longer out of doors. God, grant the man a quick and honorable death. Joshua turned back to face the land that sloped upward away from the castle perched before the frigid Birsay Bay, which led to the open sea.

His horse slid easily into a canter with a touch of Joshua’s heels. As soon as they reached the top of the rise, he pulled him to a halt. There wasn’t a single tree on Orkney to stand behind, but he was far enough away that no one would see him reveal himself as fully human. He reached into his leather satchel and yanked out a thick tunic, a fur to throw over his shoulders, and a wool blanket to wrap across his lap and Fuil’s back.

He patted his horse. “I will keep us both warm.” Fuil’s ears turned, listening.

Joshua had earned enough gold training Robert’s men that he could go anywhere. But he missed the soaring oaks and birches and pines of Caithness. Had his brother, Cain Sinclair, the new chief of their clan, managed to keep the peace with the surrounding clans? Or had he showed enough weakness that strife continued? Never having left Girnigoe Castle for any length of time before, Joshua had not lived under anyone other than his father and then his brother. Observing the leadership at the Earl’s Palace of Birsay with the likes of Robert Stuart made Joshua realize how intelligent and fair his brother actually was. Cain had married a Sutherland lass right when Joshua left. Was his bride, Ella, already with child? And what of his other brothers and sister? Was Aunt Merida still making cures and predicting peoples’ deaths?

He watched a flock of birds skimming the moorland. They rose high into the sky as they came upon the Earl’s Palace and all the men surrounding it. The sight made his shoulders ache with tension. “Aye, ’tis time to go home,” he murmured. If he left now, he could be setting the celebratory fires at Girnigoe Castle in time for Samhain to honor those who had died. Maybe he would stay through Hogmanay and set out again when it warmed. South this time. Surely there were warriors he could train in the south, too. Armies he could build up enough to intimidate the English from advancing farther into their country.

Leaning forward in the saddle, Joshua and Fuil shot ahead, flying over the brown-green landscape. Tall grasses lay combed flat, waves of frigid air blowing through the weeds as if a green sea rolled inland across the low hills, the colors being slowly muted with the falling snow. Ahead was the bay south of Birsay, where he could find transport to the mainland of Scotland.

The sun began its descent toward the line between sea and sky as he rode into the small village situated on a bluff above the rocky coast. A row of thatch-roofed cottages faced away from the ocean as if the people had seen enough of it and wished to keep it at their backs. Several dwellings had been burned badly. In fact, the town looked rather abandoned. If he couldn’t find the captain of the cargo boat anchored in the harbor below the cliffs, he’d have to ride farther south to the Bay of Skaill.

Joshua dismounted in front of the squat, two-story tavern, looping Fuil’s reins loosely around a rusty iron spike stuck into the stone wall running the building’s length. He slid a hand down his horse’s nose. “I will find ye a treat inside.” He left the blanket draped over the horse and took his satchel. Two men walked on the far side of the road, eyeing him cautiously. Joshua cast a frown at them that would keep them moving on.

The blast of warmth from the hearth fire inside the tavern was a balm against the cold beating at Joshua’s body. Hopefully, the tavern keeper had a bed to rent for the night and a snug barn for Fuil.

The low-ceilinged room was nearly empty. An old man with deep creases in his face stood behind a stone bar, his bulbous nose perched above a tankard as he took a drink. With no trees about, most of the locals’ furniture and houses were made of the plentiful gray stone that held Orkney up out of the angry sea.

A woman leaned toward him over the bar, her trousers-clad arse nicely rounded and generous and leading to long legs. She wore a short cape and a pair of boots that were laced over fur pelts, a fashion he’d adopted from the islanders to stay warm. Her pale gold hair was woven into an intricate braid that slid down her back, the end tied and tapered as if pointing an arrow toward the crux of her legs.

“Even if Erik is gone, you should still accept Torben,” the old man said before raising his eyes to Joshua. His tankard plunked down on the bar top.

She slapped her palm down. “To appease Fiona?” She shook her head, making her braid swing gently in contrast to the snapping hardness in her voice. “I will not tie myself to a man again.”

So the lass was free of any restraints, like marriage. Joshua’s brow rose.

The old man nodded toward Joshua, and she snapped around, surprise lighting her distinct features. High cheekbones sat in an angular face with a straight nose. Wisps of hair had broken free of her braid to lie in waves along her tan skin. Long eyelashes framed wide-set eyes, but he could not tell their color in the low light given off by the hearth and several oil lamps. Anger narrowed them. What would they look like under a bright sun?

The silence stretched with the wind whistling beyond the walls. Och but Orkney even sounded cold.

“I would like to rent a bed and a stall for my horse for the night,” Joshua said.

“No beds are open,” the old man said.

Joshua glanced pointedly around the empty room. Did the man know Joshua had helped Lord Robert’s men become more efficient to deter the local islanders from raiding his building materials and hunting on his land?

“Then a barn for my horse,” Joshua said and pulled out several coins, letting them clink on the bar top.

“No barn, either.”

Joshua pointed over his shoulder. “Like the one across the road?”

“All the stalls are full.”

Joshua crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Then my horse and I will stay the night in here.”

The old man snorted. “You haven’t enough of Lord Robert’s gold to pay for that.”

Joshua turned his face to the lass. “Will Lord Robert’s gold pay for a drink for the lady and me and a turnip for my horse?”

The tavern keeper looked at the woman as if asking her permission.

“Honey mead,” she said, putting the man in motion. He poured one for her and one for Joshua, sliding the carved tankard to him across the polished stone.

“Turnip is in the cellar,” the elderly man mumbled and shuffled through a closed door behind him.

Joshua studied the lass’s strong profile. She was beautiful with a sharp edge to her, and from her shape, he could tell she was not a girl but a woman. “I am Joshua Sinclair.” He took a drink of the sweet, fermented brew.

“I know who you are,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Who are ye then?”

“No one you need to trifle with.” She slid a glance toward him and then back to her cup. She was as icy as the rest of the isle.

He leaned his back against the bar and propped his elbows on it. “I’m looking to pay for passage to the mainland of Scotland.”

She set her cup down with a clunk. “You are leaving Orkney?”

“Aye.”

“Then you do not war for Lord Robert anymore?”

“I war for no man,” he answered and took a swallow of the refreshing mead.

“How about a woman? Could you war for a woman, be loyal to her?” Her gaze traveled down his form, and Joshua felt rather like she was stripping him bare. He’d had women look at him often as if they imagined him naked, but this woman seemed to be judging him.

He straightened, standing to his full height. “I am loyal only to my own clan back on the mainland.” He tipped his head to the door. “Do ye know the captain of the cargo ship in the bay?”

“Aye. He will be around in the morn.” Her brows furrowed slightly as she continued to inspect him.

Joshua braced his legs in a battle stance, arms crossing again. Hell, if she wanted to strip him naked with a look, or with her hands, he certainly would not mind. Would she?

His gaze traveled along her bare neck to the slope of her breasts that he could see in the open part of her cape. Her waist tapered inward only to flare out over full hips. He’d declared to his brother once that all lasses should wear trousers, and this woman added merit to the opinion. Och but he wanted to run his hands down those slopes. She looked warm and supple, her mouth lush.

“Here,” said the old man, pushing through the back door to drop the turnip on the counter. Thudding, it rolled to the edge. He picked up the pennies Joshua had left and tucked them in his tunic.

“Any of these cottages in town open to travelers?” Joshua asked the woman. If not, he would have to find shelter for Fuil and then come back and buy tankards of mead until the old man fell asleep so he could spend the night on a cold stone bench.

“There might be a place for you to stay,” the woman answered. “I will…ask.”

“I am obliged.” Joshua let his mouth bend up in a half smile that usually softened the lasses back home. He let the appreciation for her form show in his gaze. Not too much, or he’d been known to look predatory, which frightened off the majority of lasses. Nay, just mild interest showed instead of the thrumming rush he felt inside.

Her lips parted slightly as if she needed to draw in more breath, and she pushed away from the bar. Stopping next to him, her hand rose with awkward hesitation to touch his arm. “I will return once I know.” It curled into a fist but then flattened out to slide down the length of his bicep. “You will wait?”

Her touch momentarily robbed him of thought. She had asked a question. “Will I wait?” he repeated slowly. “For ye?” Recovering, he let charm grow in his smile. “An army of horses could not drag me from here.” Behind him, he heard the barkeeper snort.

She strode away, taking the heat in her touch with her. The door slammed shut as she pushed out into the cold, and Joshua turned to the frowning man, still standing behind the bar. “What is her name?”

The man pursed his lips tightly and shook his head. “I call her dróttning.”

Joshua’s gaze slid to the door and back to the man. Three months on the isle, and he still had not picked up much of the local language. It was as if they guarded it against those speaking English or Gaelic. “What does it mean?”

“’Tis from old Norse,” he said. “And it means you best treat her well.”

“I have every intention of treating her very well,” Joshua said and snatched up the turnip, tossing it into the air to catch easily as it fell back to earth. He pushed out through the door into the twilight. And stopped. “Bloody hell,” he yelled, the turnip dropping from his hand to roll away. Fuil was gone!

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