Page 3 of Highland Spy

“No’ my sword,” said Logan, pulling it closer to him in a protective hold. “I’m no’ foolish enough to bet that.”

“Aye, no’ after it was his fault our clan lost it in the first place,” remarked Hawke.

“Blethers, Hawke! I got it back and that is all that matters,” Logan said with a scowl.

“A warrior’s sword is somethin’ that shouldna be risked – even if it looks like a sure bet,” said Ethan. “After all, a Highlander is nothin’ without his blade.”

“Then just let me use it for a sennight if I win,” said Caleb, wanting the sword now more than ever.

“Nay. And why do ye want it so badly?” asked Logan. “We’re no’ battlin’ anyone at the moment, so there is no’ need for it. What are ye goin’ to do? Just carry it around? Or mayhap it’s to impress the lassies since ye are still no’ married.”

“Never mind,” Caleb said through gritted teeth, waving a dismissing hand through the air. “And take back yer money – all of ye.” Caleb scooped the coins off the table and handed them to Hawke and Ethan. “I’ll do it just to prove to all of ye that I can – no’ because there is somethin’ for me to gain. I’ll do it just out of the sheer satisfaction to show ye three that when I say I’m goin’ to do somethin’, by God I will. Now, move,” grunted Caleb, pushing Logan’s arm and the coveted sword away from him. He stormed out the door and headed across camp. Bridget and her father, Brigham, were talking to old Ian MacKeefe, Hawke’s grandfather. He and Caleb’s father shared the same name since Ian was commonly heard in the Highlands. Old Ian was one chieftain of the clan while his son, Storm, filled the position of the other. Usually one of them stayed in the Highlands while the other ruled over Hermitage Castle in the Lowlands. Storm and his wife, Wren, were at the castle now.

Caleb headed over to the fire, straight for the group of people.

“Dinna forget to do somethin’ about that weasel,” Logan called out from the hut.

“Guid mornin’,” said Caleb, smiling at Bridget as he walked up to join them. Usually, Caleb got along great with the girl ever since he first met her months ago. He’d taken a liking to her and she seemed interested in him as well. But not today. Right now, she wasn’t smiling at him, but frowning instead. Bridget didn’t respond to his greeting and neither did her father, Brigham. “Is somethin’ wrong?” asked Caleb, looking over to the clan’s chieftain.

Ian, or The MacKeefe, as he was often called, cleared his throat. “Caleb, it seems yer pet has been causin’ some trouble around here lately.”

“Aye, I ken,” he answered. “But Slink is only havin’ fun. He doesna mean to bother anyone. He just likes to . . . inspect things. Closely. He’s curious, that’s all.”

“Well, yer weasel stole my best quill,” grumbled Brigham. “It was given to me by the king himself.”

“That’s right,” retorted Bridget. “I placed the Highland Chronicles and the quill down on this rock and when I turned around, yer weasel was runnin’ away with the quill in its mouth. If that animal ruins it, we’ll never find another quill of that quality.”

“Slink isna a weasel,” Caleb said with a frustrated sigh. “He’s a pine marten.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s a thief,” snapped Brigham. “I’ve even seen the thing take food right out of a bairn’s hand while we’ve been here.”

“I’m sorry about all this, really I am,” apologized Caleb. “I’ll find Slink anon, and return all the items he’s stolen. I promise.” Caleb turned to go, overhearing The MacKeefe talking to Bridget and her father. Old Ian held a missive in his hand.

“I’m honored that King Robert II would think highly enough of the MacKeefes to ask ye to add us to the chronicles,” said The MacKeefe. “And I’m also glad ye returned here after ye managed to escape the bandits on the road. Ye are lucky to be alive. But if ye’re headin’ back to Hermitage Castle, I canna let ye go unescorted. The roads are much too dangerous, especially since it is so close to the English border.”

“It’s of great importance that we get there,” said Bridget. “The king expects us to record the yearly competition between the Scottish lairds.”

“Aye, that’s right,” chuckled Ian. “The MacKeefe Clan is hostin’ the Leader of the Lairds Competition this year. I almost wish I could be there to watch my son, Storm, win again. He’s the reignin’ champion and has braggin’ rights ye ken. Ye’ve got that in yer chronicle book, right?” He spoke of the competition that was started by the MacKeefes years ago, all in fun, of course. It was similar to the Highland Feis with the caber toss, sword fight, and several other events. The only difference was that this was just for the lairds of the Highlands and Lowlands to compete. It was a prestigious competition and everyone looked forward to their clan’s leader winning.

“Well, why dinna ye come to Hermitage Castle with us?” asked Bridget. “After all, ye’re the chieftain of the clan.”

“Aye, but I’m too auld to compete, lass. I’ll stay here and watch over our camp and livestock. My son will bring home the prize for the clan again this year. I wonder what the prize will be?”

“I’m no’ certain, but the king will be sure to make it a prize worth winnin’,” said Brigham. “He wants me to record everythin’ that happens for him, right here in the Highland Chronicles.” He nodded to the book on the log.

“I’ll make sure a few of my men escort ye to Hermitage Castle,” offered Ian. “Once there, ye’ll be safe inside the castle walls. Plus, ye can talk more to my men on the way there and mayhap find somethin’ else to write about in yer book.”

Caleb’s ears perked up when he heard this. Mayhap this would be the opportunity he needed for the chronicler to mention him after all.

“Well, we wouldna want to impose upon ye,” said Bridget, sounding as if she didn’t want to be a bother.

“The MacKeefes are some of the fiercest warriors we’ve ever met, Bridget,” her father pointed out. “After all, we’ve got a book full of heroic deeds to prove it.” He bent over and picked up the Highland Chronicles from atop a rock and thumped his hand down atop it. “I would feel guid to ken that we have their protection.”

“But is it really necessary for us to take their best warriors away?” asked Bridget in almost a whisper, seeming nervous or perhaps upset, Caleb couldn’t tell which. He figured it was because she was still angry about his pine marten stealing their quill. “These men are busy. I’m sure we can hire some simple foot soldiers as our escorts instead.”

“I’ll do it,” offered Caleb, spinning on his heel and hightailing it back to the group.

“Ye?” Bridget’s eyes quickly scanned down Caleb’s body. She didn’t look pleased with the offer at all.