Chapter Two
Hagen
Hagen Grant gave Midnight Moon his head as they reached the sandy stretch of coastline, his cousins Jowell Grant and Paden MacNicol flanking him. The castle rising ahead belonged to Tristan MacClane—a convenient stopping point with a clear view of the surrounding sea and isles.
And Tristan always had boats available for friends.
“Sorry, lads, but my sister said I’m to exercise her horse well, and this is his favorite stretch of beach.” Hagen let the stallion choose their pace, and Midnight surged into a gallop across the soft sand—the kind they never had at Clan Grant. This was one of the few times Hagen wore his hair loose, letting the wind and salt air whip through it.
“You’d better take good care of him,” Paden yelled, “or Dyna will have you mucking stalls by morning!”
Hagen laughed over his shoulder. Dyna loved her horse, but so did he. Any stallion with their grandfather’s stallion’a bloodline was magnificent to ride. And Moon was glorious on the beach, his black mane flowing like a king’s mantle.
“Grandda was a wise man,” Jowell said, catching up as they approached the end of the beach, the horses easily climbing the crest back to the main path.
“I wish he were still here.” Paden glanced at Hagen. “You’re going to be nearly as tall as Grandda.”
“And why are you still growing?” Jowell asked. “Neither Paden nor I have grown any taller in the last two years.”
“I’m younger than you two.” Hagen grinned. Nothing he liked better than hearing he resembled his sire and grandsire—Connor and the great Alexander Grant. Though he’d rather be compared for his swordplay than his height. He worked at itdaily, but he still had a ways to go before he’d match his father. The man fought like his weapon was an extension of his arm.
One day, though. One day he’d look his father in the eye as an equal.
Tristan MacClane greeted them from the curtain wall as they approached his castle. “Granthams, how do you fare? Come in for a brief respite?”
Hagen glanced at Jowell, who gave a subtle shake of his head.
Paden caught their exchange. “Mayhap on the return trip, MacClane? We’re headed to Iona, if we may borrow one of your midsize boats.”
“Of course.” Tristan leaned over the wall. “Any specific meaning to this trip? No one missing?”
Hagen shook his head, thinking back on the recent adventure—four missing MacVeys and Rankins. “Nay, all are well. We’re messengers, spreading good tidings for Yuletide. We’re inviting everyone to a festival at Duart Castle—the first two nights of Yule. It’s customary at Clan Grant and will be soon enough at Clan Grantham. We’d love to have you join us. You know Shealee will be looking for you.”
Tristan’s sister Merryn had married Paden’s brother Broc, and they cared for their orphaned niece, Shealee.
“I happily accept.” Tristan started down the stairs. “I do miss seeing my sister. If you follow me, we’ll get your horses in the stable and I’ll show you the best boat to take.”
“Our thanks to you.”
Within a short time, they set off for Iona. Tora and Sylvi were insisting that young Magni come share the holiday with them, and they needed to extend the invitation properly.
The three climbed into a boat with three sets of oars, allowing them to travel faster. “Many thanks, Tristan,” Jowell called. “We’ll return shortly.”
Six hands gripped the oars, slicing through the calm sea.
Hagen sat in the front seat, with his back facing Iona so his cousins couldn’t see his face. About halfway across, he called out, “I may be the youngest, but why am I the strongest rower? I’m paddling about the equivalent of you two weak-arsed rowers.”
“Kiss my sweet arse, you yellow-bellied whiner.” That came from Paden in the back, who had the personality of his sire, Hagen’s Uncle Finlay, one of the biggest teasers in all of Clan Grant.
“Are you carrying the weak-kneed knave in the middle, Paden?” Hagen glanced over his shoulder at Jowell, who always took the middle because he was the strongest rower of the three of them.
But Hagen loved to taunt his two favorite cousins.
Jowell drawled, “You should remember that I’m close enough to let my oar slip and slap any foul-mouthed buffoon in front of me or behind me, whenever I choose.” Jowell was the most serious of the trio of cousins, Paden the wittiest.
Hagen didn’t know what that made him, but he loved his cousins.
Paden guffawed, then twittered in the highest voice he could manage, “Oh, I’m so scared, Jowell. How did you get to be so strong? Is it from lifting that girlfriend of yours who’s as big as a Highland coo carrying twins?”
