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The Legend

Warner Books

Chapter One

James MacCurrie looked into his brother's eyes across their father's grave. Blue gaze met blue gaze, the brothers communicating, as always, without words, sharing their grief equally. It would be the last time the brothers would be equals. When they walked away from their father's cairn, nothing would ever be the same for either of them.

James took a deep breath and turned to look at his home. Solid and somber, Castle Currie stood alone on this promontory on the western coast of Scotland, above the waters of Lochs Torridon and Shieldaig, its stone turrets reaching high to the heavens. Above them storm clouds gathered and the wind freshened, but the crowd of people standing outside the fortress paid no notice.

Clan MacCurrie buried its chief this day.

Neil gave the signal to the pipers lining the top of the cliff, their plaids bright against the gray water below them, their movements slow and deliberate as they began the funeral dirge. The untamed music rose, shimmering in the air above the mourners for a moment before wrapping itself around the castle as if in a final embrace, then soaring over the other side of the headland, across the loch, and to the open sea beyond. James closed his eyes, fighting for control, ignoring the stares of the awestruck clanspeople who watched his family.

The Legend, the whisperers said now to one another, just as they had incessantly during the last few months, their talk growing more excited with each passing day. They were silent on the day Alistair, after weeks of semiconsciousness, opened his eyes, talked for a moment with his family, then took his beloved Anne's hand. And died. On his birthday. As his father had, and his grandfather before him, exactly as the Brahan Seer had foretold.

The entire clan had gathered to bury Alistair MacCurrie, coming from the fishing villages that dotted the shores of the sea lochs, from the crofthouses nestled at the base of the sandstone mountains, from Glen Torridon to the east, and from the blue islands that stretched out to sea.

James could feel their stares, could sense their wonder. He felt much the same. He'd been raised with the Legend, had passed the tree that marked his conception every day, had watched his father's birthday celebrations each year with combined excitement and fear. But he'd not believed it would really come to pass.

"There will come a day," the Seer had said, beginning his prophecy as he always did. He had included a wealth of detail in his prophecy. Now James wondered if any more of it would come true. Since his father died, he'd waged a war within himself, part of him believing, part scoffing. Only time would tell.

He felt his throat tighten as the priest placed a hand on the coffin and said a prayer for Alistair's soul. Their father had been an extraordinary man. How could he be gone? How could it be that they would never hear that roar of laughter again, never feel the slap on the shoulder he always gave them before an embrace? Never be teased by him, or encouraged to rise to a difficult task, then praised for their efforts. Never listen to his counsel, his warnings of who to trust and who to watch. James shook his head, denying the death.

His cousin Duncan MacKenzie moved to stand next to him, and James shot him a grateful look. Duncan nodded, his eyes solemn, then bent his russet head as the priest continued. James did not hear the prayers being said, nor the answering murmurs of the mourners. He stared at his hands clasped before him and tried to ignore the waves of grief pouring between him and Neil.

Both brothers turned when their mother slumped to the ground with a wail. Anne lay crumpled at the foot of the grave, her frail shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. As her sons leaned to raise her, their grandmother stopped them. The prayers paused, and the crowd of mourners watched in silence.

"Leave her," Mairi said, looking from Neil to James. "Ye canna comfort her. Let her weep, lads. She mourns as she should."

"But, Grandmother," James said, his hand on his mother's arm.

Mairi restrained him with a look. "Ye'll leave her. Ye canna understand the grief she feels. Leave her be." Her eyes filled with tears, and her expression softened. "Please, lads, let us mourn as we will. I bury my son today, and your mother her husband. There is no comfort possible for us."

James and Neil exchanged a glance, then stepped back from the women. The wind tugged at James's clothing and tore his hair from its binding, but he ignored it, trying to control his emotions. He met Neil's gaze again and saw his disbelief and sorrow mirrored there in eyes the same shape, the same shade of blue, as his own.

And he saw something more. James watched as his brother steeled himself and put on the mantle of responsibility. Neil was now chief of the Clan MacCurrie and Earl of Torridon. And James was his vassal.

Neil was older by four minutes, and that made all the difference between them. Now, for the first time in their lives, the brothers would not be equals. They'd been raised for this day, had known it was coming closer through the long months of their father's illness, but they'd never discussed it. What was there to say? James knew Neil would lead the clan well, knew he and Duncan would be there to assist him.

Neil's expression lightened, and James knew his message of support had been received and appreciated. They'd always been able to speak without words, even when they were not together. When James traveled, Neil knew when he would be coming home. When Neil, out on the islands, broke his wrist, James had known something was wrong. They'd never questioned this ability. Others found it disquieting, but the twins both treasured and relied upon it. Now they would need it more than ever, for Alistair had died during turbulent times.

War was in the air.

The brothers and Duncan threw the first handfuls of dirt into the grave, then stepped back as clansmen finished the job. When the grave was full, their grandmother helped Anne to her feet, and with her arm around her daughter-inlaw looked at the grave.

"He was my son," Mairi said in a voice that carried across the crowd. "And I was proud of him." Her chin trembled, and her tone quieted. "Fifty-four years ago I bore him. I should be long in the ground, and he here to mourn me."

She took a shuddering breath and looked from one grandson to the other. Her voice was much quieter now. "It's yer time now. Make the prophecy come true. Bring peace to my home."

James watched his grandmother place the first stone for her son's cairn with shaking fingers, then stepped forward with Neil and Duncan to finish the job. The sky opened, and the wind howled around them. Torridon bid farewell to its laird with a show of fury that would be remembered for decades.

Early that evening, after the rains had gone, the three cousins walked slowly along the battlements of Castle Currie. Below them, in Loch Torridon' s protected harbor, Duncan's ships lay anchored, bathed in the same dusky light that enveloped the MacCurrie fleet. Fishing boats were tied to the docks that lined the shore, more pulled up on the rocky beach, idled for this day of mourning.

James gazed across the sea loch, his emotions muted. He had been drained by the funeral and the meal, after which he'd stood next to Neil while the clanspeople came forward with their expressions of sorrow and support. He'd thanked them all, moved by their concern, but he'd felt as though he watched himself from the outside.

Easy enough to do, he thought, slanting a glance at Neil. His brother's face reflected James's mood, his dark brows drawn together as he stared down into the harbor. Duncan was quiet as well. The sky had not cleared; the clouds obscured the towering mountains that ringed Loch Torridon, and the wind still whipped around the castle, its rage unabated.

If he turned, he could look up at the tower where his father had died, where his grandfather and great-grandfather had died, where he and Neil had been conceived and born. He could feel the stones behind him, watching to see how he and Neil fulfilled the terms of the legend. Superstition, he told himself. Not a destiny, not a forecast. If only he believed that. He felt like an actor on a stage. He thought his lines were his own, but there were moments when he wondered if another hand were not directing all he did, all they did.

As long as he could remember, James had felt the power of the legend, had known that some day he and Neil would have to face its invisible force. The watchful eyes of the clan had followed the twins as they'd grown, tall and strong like their father, waiting to see what the brothers were made of. Alistair had been respected, but his sons would have to prove their own value.

James glanced at his companions. All three men were tall and lean, but there the similarities ended. Even-tempered Duncan had inherited his father's dark red hair and green eyes, while the twins had Alistair's black hair and blue eyes. And his temperament, James thought with a smile; their grandmother had bemoaned that often enough.

Their mothers were sisters, Anne and Isabel MacKenzie, and when the three had been of an age, all fourteen, Duncan's father had died and he had come to live at Torridon. Alistair had raised the boy as his own, teaching and guiding him as he did his sons. The twins could not imagine life without their voluble cousin. He had been an able ally and partner in crime in their youth, a stalwart companion as they'd grown older.

"It was a good funeral," Neil said softly. "Aye, the whole clan came," Duncan said. He paused, looking up from his ships to his cousins, each in turn. "The others will be arriving soon."

James nodded. Duncan was right. Representatives from the MacLeods and MacKenzies, the clans whose lands bordered the MacCurries, would come as the news of Alistair's death spread. They'd come to pay their respects. And to judge the mettle of the new MacCurrie chief for themselves. Neil would be no surprise to them, for the clans knew one another well, but the men would still come. They'd bring their condolences and more. They'd bring news of the outside world. Of war.

There had been rumors for months, of troops being raised on the continent, of rebellions planned at home. Neither Scotland nor England had been happy with James Stuart as its king, for he had been a poor leader and was resented in many quarters. Both countries were weary of the turmoil his reign had brought. But few had actually expected William of Orange, King James's son-in-law, to challenge him for the throne. And win, at least in England. Scotland's throne was even now being decided.

"They'll want to talk about the king," Duncan said. "Which one?" Neil asked ruefully.

William had landed with his army last November. At first it appeared that King James would fight, but within a month James Stuart had fled to France, and by February William and his Mary had been declared king and queen of England. Now the royal pair waited, with all of Britain, for the Scottish Convention, meeting in Edinburgh, to ratify their right to Scotland's throne.

The MacCurries had paid little attention to the uproar. While London and Edinburgh steamed with turmoil and intrigue, Torridon had looked inward, watching its laird decline. Now, whether they wished it or not, it was time to reenter the world.

Neither twin had any desire to be embroiled in a struggle for the throne, but they might have no choice. The Scottish Convention would decide any day which king to accept, and the Highland clans would then meet to decide to approve or oppose that decision. A gathering of the clans was planned at Dunfallandy Castle to do just that.

"The gathering is in a fortnight," James said. Neil nodded. "We need to be there." "Aye." Duncan crossed his arms over his chest. "So which of ye am I going with?"

Neil met his brother's gaze for a moment, then looked back at his cousin. "Jamie," he said.

"Aye, that's best," Duncan agreed. "Ye should be here to greet any latecomers who wanted to mourn his father." But there was another, more important, reason for Neil to stay behind. Transition of power in any clan was a dangerous time, hardly the right moment for the clan chief to leave. With war in the air, it would be even more foolish to leave MacCurrie territory unguarded.

"Too bad we canna sail there; we'll have to ride. Ye ken how I love horses." Duncan sighed loudly as he looked down at his ships. "When do we leave?"

"Ye'll need a week," Neil said, then met James's gaze. The legend, James thought, catching Neil's unspoken words. The twins will lead the clan to war, then to fifty years of peace. And at Dunfallandy, the clans would be discussing war.

"Ye ken I hate it when ye do that," Duncan said, his tone mild. "Use words."

James looked from his brother to his cousin. "We're thinking of the legend and all the talk that will come if there's war."

Duncan grunted. "There's already been a lot of talk. Everaone's watching ye here and they'll do the same at the gathering. Fergusson invited the clan chiefs, no' just representatives. He'll be expecting Neil, and the man's easily offended."

"Aye," Neil said. "That's why Neil will attend." Duncan looked from Neil to James. "Ah. Jamie will travel wi' me, but Neil will attend the gathering. Good. No one here will say different, and no one there can tell ye apart except me. It'll work."

James glanced up at the castle tower, feeling the weight of generations. He turned to look into his brother's eyes. The twins held each other's gaze for a moment longer.

Netherby, Scotland

Ellen Graham smiled at her older sister and put her hands on her hips. "Flora, for heaven's sake, stop dancing!"

Flora paused in her twirling to smile at herself in the mirror. Her brown curls settled around her pink cheeks, and her skirts slowly stopped their swaying. "I'm getting married today! How can I not dance, Ellen?"

Ellen laughed. "How can you not? Even the sun has come to help you celebrate. This is the first day without clouds in ages."

"That's because it's my wedding day," Flora said, looking at Ellen over her shoulder. "At last. Do you think Tom will like my dress?"

"Tom will love your dress. He would marry you if you wore a grain sack." "He would, wouldn't he? He probably wouldn't even notice."

"Tom just wants to marry you. He's loved you since we were children." "And I've loved him. I just didn't realize it. Father was right."

Ellen sighed. For years their father had told Flora that she'd never find anyone to love her more than Tom Stuart.

Continues...

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Excerpted from The Legend by Kathleen Givens Copyright ©2002 by Kathleen Givens. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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