Page 5 of Outlaw Ever After

She paused. “Because ye’re innocent.” And upon those words, the strangest ache assailed her. “They want yer head.”

“They already took my da’s.”

She shuddered. Hurried down another rung as her bare feet patted around for purchase. She knew.

The next morn, the laddie was gone. Pandemonium thrust the castle into upheaval.

Days later, while her sire’s body lay in the chapel and her mother was sitting vigil, Seamus returned empty-handed, fist clenched. He called the hall to attention. The laird’s badge now pinned his kilt at his shoulder. His eyes were steely, the last of his innocence gone. At his hip his hand rested on the hilt of their father’s dirk.

“The prisoner has evaded us and I canna uncover the whoreson who set him free,” he declared to a rumble of dissent. “But let it be heard, when I do, they will know the bite of my punishment.” Peigi bit her quivering lip. Her brother would hate her if he knew what she’d done. “I’ve petitioned the crown to declare the Comyn heir an outlaw, and I hold their approval in my fist. He is an outlaw ever more unless he surrenders, and I’ll nay rest until I smoke him out of his hole.”

In the coming days, the menfolk argued further. And then, the gauntlet was thrown down. A parchment depicting the Comyn laird’s skull was passed throughout their villages. Messengers spiked it to tavern walls and highroad sign posts across Scotland:

A skull on a pike before a castle.

Should the Outlaw Comyn wish to honor his sire in a burial, he will submit to interrogation in three moons’ time to Laird Seamus Grant and Laird Bale MacGregor at Urquhart Castle’s gates. If he so ignores this demand, his sire’s skull will forever be buried in the holding of Castle Freuchie, never to be found again, and Castle Freuchie will pass to the Grants in perpetuity.

Who was Bale?

All knew the skull was where the soul resided. All knew the soul was trapped in purgatory if not interred. But years passed. The lad was never seen again. He’d seemingly…vanished .

Chapter One

“The second is a brushing past of hearts that yearn to win.”

– A Song of Samhain Nights

Fourteen years later. Royal Inverness Games and Lughnasadh Harvest Festival. Kilravok Castle, 1547.

“Three targets struck true. With a scythe no less!” cried the official. “We have a winner!”

An adoring roar deafened the crowd as Alexander pried his war scythe from the center of the target. He punched it in the air with victory, his arm torqued. He turned in a slow revolution, his messy strawberry tresses knotted high on his head and his woven beard soaked with rivulets of sweat rolling down his face.

“Will no man give me worthy competition?” he boomed, his jest a deep timbre.

Laughter erupted. Ladies tittered behind their hands.

The prize was lobbed to him. Alexander snagged the purse from the air with ink-stained fingers and tossed it for good measure. The jingle was hearty. Good . He needed to replenish his funds after paying for his final year at King’s College, Aberdeen. The salary he earned as Laird Tormund MacLeod’s loyal guardsman and bookkeeper wasn’t enough, and since MacLeod was barely making ends meet, Alexander didn’t have the heart to ask for more.

Now, newly certified in law with an expertise in contracts, he awaited news of his employ request. If he got it, Tormund MacLeod, like a brother to him, had promised to honor Alex’s decision to leave his sword behind in favor of the quill. Only the MacLeods knew how he lived life with one foot always stamping down a past that itched to be heard. And working in royal contracts might be just the way to win back what had once been stolen from him. Not with weapons: with wit .

Tormund and his surrogate uncle Niall didn’t disparage him for the decision.

“A fine prize for throwing a wee dèideag ,” Niall taunted, calling Alexander’s scythe a toy.

Alex stalked forward and opened the purse to shake out five gold coins. He slung an arm around Niall as the losing contestants groused. “…he should be disqualified. It’s a bloody spear throw, nay scythe throw…”

“Technically, ’twas a projectile throw.” Alex shrugged.

“Projectile is in the name,” the man fumed. “Spear is implied since a man can nay throw an arrow.”

“Implied is nay necessarily canon , good men, when there is room for inferences to be made.” He waggled his brow, knowing it would only aggravate their bruised prides, then pretended his hands were each end of a scale measuring weights. “In other words, spear…scythe… Seven pounds or half a stone… Same thing.” Then he let the palm holding the coin purse drop the weight and he flashed his grin. “Or mayhap my scythe was superior.”

The men cursed him and lumbered off as Niall groaned. “Hell to outwit in yer law debates, ye no doubt were.”

Lumbering across the pitch, Alex wiped his sweat upon his forearm. He rolled out his shoulders and swiped up his satchel and tunic, which he slapped over his bare shoulder and back strap.

More lasses fawned as Alex flashed a grin, biting the coins for authenticity. If the variety of sheep’s eyes being cast his way were an indication, he’d nay sleep lonely tonight.