Page 3 of Highland Storm

“Be sure to give Apollo his choice of the hunt,” instructed Hawke.

“My laird?” questioned the falconer, eyeing up the baby boar tied to the side of his horse. “Ye mean, any of the fowl, or the hares only, right?”

“Nay.” Hawke ran a finger over his bird’s head and the bird clucked in appreciation. “I mean anythin’ he wants,” answered Hawke.

“But the boar is big enough to feed a guid half-dozen men,” the man protested.

“Apollo worked hard today and deserves it,” he said, knowing the falconer as well as Hawke’s father wouldn’t agree. The hawk was a raptor and helped to hunt food for the clan. Hawke had personally trained Apollo, having had his pet for ten years now. The red tail had been abandoned as a fledgling when its mother was killed by an owl. Hawke found the bird and took it into his care. Since then, Apollo never left Hawke’s side.

Making their way into the great hall, Hawke and his friends headed over to the fire and stood with their backs against the wall. It was a learned action, always protecting oneself so an enemy couldn’t sneak up from behind.

They were all welcome to sit at the dais, but since it was already so crowded, Hawke and his friends often ate at the lower trestle tables instead. Ethan liked to flirt with the lassies and Logan liked to brag a lot. Caleb, on the other hand, usually went from table to table, listening to all of the conversations. He was nosier than a gossipy alewife. Hawke just liked being closer to the kitchen because he could get more food faster that way.

“Who is that man?” asked Logan, trying to see through the crowded hall.

The man he spoke of was talking to Hawke’s father, Storm. Gathered around them were the rest of the men’s fathers, the Madmen MacKeefe. With them were Hawke’s grandfather, Ian, and also his great-grandfather, Old Callum MacKeefe, who should have been long dead by now, but seemed to live forever. Hawke credited that to the old man’s potent Mountain Magic that he brewed in his still ever since Storm was a boy.

“I think there’s a young lass with him,” said Ethan, looking over the heads of the crowd.

Hawke didn’t even notice the girl at first. She was so short that he figured she was naught more than a child.

“I’m no’ sure who it is,” answered Hawke. “But I can bet whatever they’re talkin’ about has somethin’ to do with our faithers.”

“Here comes Caleb, now,” announced Ethan anxiously. “He’ll let us ken.”

“Caleb,” called Hawke, flagging him down, hurriedly taking two of the four tankards from the man’s grip and handing one to Ethan. “What did ye find out?”

Since Caleb was small and lithe and good at sneaking around, he’d most likely be able to tell them anything they needed to know.

“It seems the man’s name is Brigham Ogilvy. He is the King’s Chronicler,” said Caleb, handing one of the tankards to Logan. Lifting the rim to his mouth, Caleb took a long draw before continuing. “His daughter is with him. I couldna see her well, but I noticed her face was comely.”

“Really? What’s her name?” asked Ethan, always interested in the ladies.

“Never mind that,” said Hawke. “Why did the king send his chronicler here to Hermitage Castle?”

“It seems King Robert wants everythin’ recorded.” Caleb took a seat atop the table, putting his feet up on the bench.

“What’s everythin’? And get yer arse off the table,” scolded Hawke.

Caleb scooted off the table, taking another swig of ale before he answered. “The king wants all the heroic deeds as well as the crazy ones recorded of the MacKeefe Clan throughout the years. The chronicler is startin’ with your great-grandfaither, Hawke. Auld Callum is tellin’ him now how his Mountain Magic is what has kept him alive so long. The chronicler wants to ken everythin’ from how Storm MacKeefe caught the band of renegades to how Aidan MacKeefe saved the Stone of Destiny.”

“These stories get grander each time they’re told,” Hawke mumbled into his cup.

“I wonder if we’ll be mentioned in the book,” asked Ethan, looking over the rim of his tankard as he drank.

“No’ unless we do somethin’ crazy like our faithers,” said Caleb.

“They’ll be writin’ about yer faither for days, Hawke,” said Logan. “After all, he has never been beat in the caber toss yet, no’ to mention, he is called the Highland Storm for the way he fights.”

“Used to be called,” Hawke corrected him, looking across the room at his father. “No one has called him that in years.” Storm’s long blond hair was cut short now because it had been turning gray through time and he was trying to cover up the fact. He was still a strong warrior and to be respected, but Hawke noticed him slowing down lately.

Storm called over Hawke’s older brother, Renard, and they all laughed and talked with the chronicler. Old Callum was eager for them to taste his whisky, passing full tankards of Mountain Magic to both Brigham and his daughter. Hawke almost laughed aloud when he saw the man and the girl take a drink of the potent brew and double over holding their throats. He was sure the Mountain Magic was going to get more than one mention in the Highland Chronicles now.

“What’s the matter, Hawke?” asked Caleb. “Ye look upset.”

“Nay, that’s only his usual look,” commented Logan with a chuckle.

“Aye,” agreed Ethan. “Hawke is always scowlin’ about somethin’. Guid friend, ye need a lassie to wipe that frown off of yer face.”