With substantially fewer battles, the Camerons did what they had done before, they raided, striking unseen in the quiet dawn or the starless twilight of dusk—led by Constantine also known asThe GhostCameron. He was feared and respected, but little was truly known about him, save that he’d fought eleven battles, he rarely smiled, and he always brought his men back home. No one but his closest friends knew the weight of his grief and regret over not being at his wife, Alison’s bedside as she left the earth with their first daughter during the babe’s birth. Or how so much death, much of it by his own hand during battle, tore the sleep from his eyes and produced cries from the depths of his heart when he did sleep and dream. He had seen much…too much for his heart to remain the same.
He rubbed his eyes, weary that his anguished thoughts found him again.
The ground rumbled, thankfully commanding all his attention. Immediately, his thoughts focused on what was happening. Only a herd could shake the ground. The MacKintoshes were coming. Constantine clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The sound snapped his men to attention.
Peering down into the glen, the Camerons waited a little longer until the MacKintosh riders and their cattle came into view.
Constantine counted eighteen riders circling the herd. He blew a short puff of air through his lips, insulted that so few men had been assigned to keeping the herd safe from the Camerons. It proved the MacKintosh chief didn’t take Constantine seriously. That would change after today.
Before he and his men raced down the side of the mountain to retrieve their horses, he gave the signal for Lachlan, the youngest of his cousins and an expert archer, to ready his weapon.He wasn’t to fire until he received a second signal from Constantine.
Now mounted, the Camerons almost reached the foot of Gulvain when their bold enemy spotted them. Constantine gave the signal and three consecutive arrows from Lachlan’s bow struck the soil a few feet apart in front of the herd, startling the animals and driving them into a stampede.
Flying dirt, men shouting, and swords swinging made it difficult to see and hear. The danger of a horse slipping and being trampled along with its rider was very real and entirely possible if one didn’t know what one was doing.
Constantine and his men were expert rustlers and despite the deafening clamor as the herd shook the ground around them, kicking up chunks of earth, they moved into their practiced positions. Some raced swiftly on their horses to positions of six feet apart in two rows with fifty feet between them. Geoffry and ten of the Camerons raced around the herd, shouting and pushing their mounts close to the cattle, drawing them into the narrow path made by their comrades, while Constantine and Lewis fought the MacKintosh riders.
Before the raid, Constantine had given orders to Lewis and any other one of his kin who found himself fighting. As was the case with raids, they were not to kill anyone in the MacKintosh clan. But they could break bones and knock out some teeth.
Dismounting, Constantine used his hands to pull MacKintoshes out of their saddles and beat them senseless. He was quick, precise, and merciful enough to stop before he killed them.
If the truth be known, he didn’t like raiding and found fighting without the risk of death quite mundane. But it was a way to keep him and his kin rich. After today they would have three hundred head of cattle.
Taking a moment from fighting while his opponent fell, Constantine watched the thunderous herd slow under the direction of Geoffry and Fionn MacDonald, sons of Constantine’s Uncle Richard on hismother’s side, along with twenty other Camerons, including Lachlan, who had left his hiding place on the mountain and had come to join his cousins to lead the cattle away.
Constantine counted about fifty head of cattle.
Lewis, son of Uncle Robert, stayed behind with Constantine and the others to fight. They took down the MacKintosh riders, two by two but without killing any of them.
If this had been war, every one of them would have been cut down without mercy. But this wasn’t a battle. This was a raid. There was a difference. He was an outlaw and a soldier, not a murderer.
He was tempted to yawn when the next MacKintosh came at him.
When Constantine discovered the chief MacKintosh’s second eldest son, Kenneth, among the riders, he dragged him out of his saddle and hit him twice with his fists, almost knocking him out, but not completely. He wanted a message delivered.
“Yer father insults me by sendin’ his son,” he said, pulling the young man to his feet by the collar after his punches left him teetering. His eyes, with pupils as black and as cold as coal stared into his victim’s eyes with dark contempt. “Does he think I willna kill ye if ye bring yer cattle through my land?”
“Ye will start a clan war,” the MacKintosh’s son reminded him quickly.
Constantine did not smirk or chuckle as his men did, but he continued to stare into his enemy’s eyes with the pale promise of death glinting his gaze and unmistakable conviction softening his voice. “I dinna fear war. I’ll kill ye and send yer headless body to yer chief just to prove it.”
As he had hoped, his threat was enough to make his captive tremble. “But I willna kill ye today. When ye’re well enough to return home, go and tell yer father that yer cattle now belong to the Camerons.”
“When I’m…well enough?” MacKintosh asked nervously, still held up by his collar, eyes wide and haunted with worry.
Constantine said nothing but nodded and let him fall to the ground. When he stepped away to mount his horse, he passed Lewis and tossed him a slight nod. It was enough for Lewis to slip a knife from his belt and move toward their prisoner.
Without waiting around to see what damage his cousin would inflict—for Lewis was known and feared for his enjoyment in making men suffer—Constantine left the glen and rode to a small crest. Without dismounting, he let the wind blow his long hair across his face and eyes as he looked down into the glen at his kin herding the cattle, now under control, out of the mountain pass.
He heard another horse approaching, but he didn’t turn to see who it was. He already knew it was the archer, Lachlan. After spending a lifetime—half of it on the battlefield—with his closest cousins, he knew the sound of their horses’ gait, and the rhythm of each man’s breathing.
“Geoffry counted fifty-three head,” Lachlan let him know as he rode closer. “The men are herdin’ them to the castle. Geoffry and Fionn will meet us at the tavern, with Lewis.”
Constantine gave him a slight nod and shoved his hands into his leather gloves. It wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. Without another word he flicked his reins and rode away before his cousin heard him sigh or groan.
Once the cattle reached Tor Castle, they would be safe under Cameron care. If the MacKintoshes dared to come after them, they would be dealt with harshly.
But now was time to celebrate adding more cattle to the herd.
