Loyal and True Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Laura Strickland

  Loyal and True

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Other Books by Laura Strickland

  A word about the Picts and the Caledonii

  Poem

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Why could he not rise?

  He remembered the battle—he could see it all now in patterns of black and white. Violence had its own aura, as did so many things in the world, a combination of sight and smell. People smelled different when angry or afraid.

  He’d fought at Barta’s side as he always had and always would, and taken a number of wounds. They didn’t matter, only her welfare mattered, and his presence at her side.

  For him, battle felt like a game, a violent one. So long as Barta remained with him and protected, he cared little what else happened, even to him. He existed to be with her, to protect her—nothing more.

  But now she arose from the place where they’d both gone down—where he’d thrown his body in defense of hers—and he could not follow.

  For the first time in his life he could not follow.

  Oh, unbearable agony. For, faintly, he could still feel her, smell her tears, sense her touch. He could feel her starting to move away from him, feel her spirit tug at his. They were bound together, always had been, by a silver cord stronger than leather and more potent than magic.

  Love.

  Do not leave me here, Mistress. I cannot rise. I cannot follow you.

  Like hers, his spirit howled at the sky.

  Praise for Laura Strickland

  Laura Strickland’s novella FORGED BY LOVE won first place in the short historical category of the International Digital Awards.

  ~*~

  “The world building is phenomenal.”

  ~Daysie W. at My Book Addiction and More

  ~*~

  “Laura Strickland creates a world that not only draws you in, but she incorporates it…seamlessly. …the kind of book that keeps you awake well into the wee hours, and sighing with satisfaction when you’ve finished the very last page.”

  ~Nicole McCaffrey, author

  ~*~

  “As I read I became so involved with the story, I found it difficult to put down the book. …Definitely …an author to watch.”

  ~Dandelion at Long & Short Reviews

  Loyal and True

  by

  Laura Strickland

  Hearts of Caledonia, Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Loyal and True

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Laura Strickland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1856-1

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1857-8

  Hearts of Caledonia, Book One

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Mac, Tug, Shannon, Jessie, and especially Mara,

  who taught me so much about

  the unbreakable bonds of love.

  Other Books by Laura Strickland

  available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Dead Handsome: A Buffalo Steampunk Adventure

  Off Kilter: A Buffalo Steampunk Adventure

  Sheer Madness: A Buffalo Steampunk Adventure

  Steel Kisses: A Buffalo Steampunk Adventure

  Last Orders: A Buffalo Steampunk Adventure

  ~*~

  Devil Black

  His Wicked Highland Ways

  Honor Bound: A Highland Adventure

  The White Gull (part of the Lobster Cove Series)

  Forged by Love (sequel to The White Gull)

  Words and Dreams (sequel to Forged by Love)

  The Hiring Fair (part of the Help Wanted Series)

  Awake on Garland Street

  Stars in the Morning (part of the Landmarks Series)

  ~*~

  The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy:

  Daughter of Sherwood

  Champion of Sherwood

  Lord of Sherwood

  ~*~

  Christmas Short Stories:

  Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship

  The Tenth Suitor (part of the

  Twelve Days of Christmas Series)

  Christmastime on Donner’s Mountain

  ~*~

  Valentine Short Story:

  Ask Me (part of the Candy Hearts Series)

  A word about the Picts and the Caledonii

  Dear Reader,

  Not a great deal is known about the Picts, certainly not as much as we might wish. They left few written records, which makes research for even a work of romantic fiction challenging. One thing we do know is that they did not call themselves “Picts.” That appellation was leveled by the Romans and stemmed from the pictures (tattoos) they wore on their skin, so numerous they were often referred to as “blue men.”

  At the time of my story, Celtic clans had moved into western Scotland from Ireland and settled the kingdom of Dal Riada. The north and east of Scotland, a vast territory, was still controlled by tribes loosely gathered under the name “Caledonii.” Beneath this name there existed sub-tribes, and I have called mine the “Epidii.” Predictably, conflict arose between the Gaels and the Caledonii, who contested for land. Later, as legend has it, they would be united under Kenneth MacAlpin, but before then a considerable amount of fighting and displacement must have ensued.

  The language of the Picts/Caledonii has not survived except in place names and some given names inscribed on stones. Research tells us it was closely related to ancient Welsh, and I have chosen to give my characters names with an ancient Briton/Welsh flavor. Since this is in fact a work of romantic fiction, I hope you will join me in imagining the details of Caledonian life, including what they may have called one another—and t
heir hounds.

  Caledonian hearts are loyal and true.

  Caledonian hearts are valiant and wise.

  Caledonian hearts are noble and blessed.

  Chapter One

  The region of Pitlochry, Scotland, 754 AD

  She could not breathe. Oh, dear goddess, why couldn’t she breathe?

  Flat on her back and disoriented, Barta stared upward. A sharp crescent moon hung in the black vault of the sky like a shard of ice, pinned stark against the darkness—the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes. She blinked at it, wondering where she lay and just how she had come here. Deep silence drummed in her ears, and a terrible, great weight pressed down on her chest, making her fight desperately to inhale.

  What did she recall? With her eyes fixed on that wicked, deadly moon, she groped mentally for the pieces of reality. There had been a raid. She herself had precipitated it and had attacked, accompanied by several companions. She’d thought they could do a nighttime hit-and-run on the Gaels who’d been so insistent about pushing into their territory all season long. Others among her tribe’s warriors had disagreed. She strove to remember the course of things beyond that and failed. She recalled only the crash of weapons, the screams of ponies and men, and the terror caused by the Gaels’ chariots, which they used like mobile weapons.

  Now all lay still—far too still to bode well for Barta and her fellow tribesmen. The moon—not yet risen when she and her companions left home with their spears on their shoulders—hung far to the west. Time had passed, too much time. Why couldn’t she recall?

  A strange and terrifying thought occurred: her headlong impetuosity, for which her father ceaselessly faulted her, might have caught up with her at last. He’d long insisted death must come for her before her time and that it stalked her even more surely than it did other Epidii warriors. She might be dead. Was that why she had to fight so hard to breathe?

  She’d often declared she didn’t fear death or the subsequent flight over land and water to the afterlife. Had that been a lie? She certainly tasted terror now in the back of her throat and knew herself unprepared to leave this wild, dangerous world with all its beauties, or this land for which she’d been so willing to fight.

  Barta blinked at the moon again and focused on sensation. Not dead, no—she could feel far too much: pain from a half-score of wounds and the dreadful struggle to drag breath into her lungs. Her heartbeat, so strong it shook her body. This terrible weight pressing down on her and a persistent, wet warmth. The smell of…

  Blood.

  Ah, goddess, she lay here soaked by it!

  That knowledge got her moving, scrambling up, fighting against her panic and the pain in every limb. She slid with difficulty out from under the mighty weight that pinned her and fought her way to her feet, where a terrible sight met her eyes.

  Destruction spread around her in a wide swath. Here a downed pennant, there a smashed chariot. The bodies of the fallen, both Epidii and Gael, sprawled everywhere. The living—gone. Impossible to tell in this stark, uncertain light how long ago the skirmish had ended or who had won. She must have been left for dead beneath…

  She looked, blinked, and stared in disbelief. Her heart seized in her chest.

  No. Goddess no, not that. Not…

  For an instant her mind refused to accept the evidence before her eyes. But yes, if she, Barta lay here, Loyal would be here also. She should have remembered that at once, should have thought of him as soon as she opened her eyes. Because he was the embodiment of his name, had been from his first breath right up to his very—

  Last.

  No, by the hart and hind, no. He must merely lie injured—knocked down senseless like Barta herself. He’d done what any good war hound should and laid his body over hers in an act of protection.

  A final act.

  But he couldn’t be dead. She wouldn’t allow it. The goddess, merciful and beautiful, wouldn’t allow it. He merely slept.

  With a cry of distress, Barta fell to her knees beside the deerhound’s sprawled form and placed her hands in his fur. He lay on his side with his long legs outstretched, head drawn back in what looked like a strain of agony. Others of their fallen lay around him, for the heart of the fight had taken place here. Barta began to remember it now, the chariots—accursed weapons on wheels—had herded the Epidii like beasts, and the Gaels had cut them apart. Trapped. A knot of Epidii caught just here fighting desperately.

  Loyal, at Barta’s side as always, snarling, leaping to her defense, throwing himself between Barta and the weapons of her opponents. That did not mean he now lay dead. They’d fought together so many times and always survived.

  Why did she not remember him falling?

  The answer came to her even as she ran her palms across his fur. Still warm. Yes, he had to be alive. But her hands came away drenched with his blood.

  She gazed at her palms by the cruel light of the glittering moon. Loyal’s blood covered them. Yet it took her an instant to realize the truth: his head had been drawn back not in agony but so some Gaelic warrior—now dead or departed—might slit his throat.

  A cry of despair escaped her, and she collapsed over the hound’s body, denial pounding through her. She could smell the beloved scent of his still-warm fur along with his blood—ripe, sharp, and primal.

  Her mind told her no one, not even a courageous war hound full of strength, could survive such a wound. Her heart and her lips cried out for him.

  Loyal—do not leave me. You cannot! How can I go on if you leave me? Come back…please come back to me!

  ****

  Wild with pain, Barta cried into the darkness and received no response. The limbs beneath her hands did not stir; the hound did not strive to rise to her call. Slowly, heart burst and aching, Barta dragged herself to her feet.

  The battlefield, deserted except for the dead, glittered with blood and abandoned weapons. Two of Barta’s tribe mates, both staring sightlessly at the moon, lay close by. Barta, who herself bled from several places, eyed their wounds and gulped back another sob. Oh, what had she done?

  And what to do now? At first light, the crows would come and begin their work. She did not want to leave her companions—and especially Loyal—here for them to pillage. She wanted to carry him home and assail him with honor, but doubted she could. The great hound weighed more than she did, and she alone appeared to have survived the battle.

  Alone.

  She had never felt more alone than she did at that moment. She cried out to the goddess again in a wail of pain that split the night.

  “Help me! I cannot leave him here. I will not.”

  Unnatural strength came and filled her, fueled by her agony. She bent and attempted to gather the great hound into her arms. His head lolled and revealed his terrible wound.

  Another sob tore from her. Though every muscle quivered, she could not succeed in lifting him, not even with the goddess’s assistance. She must leave him here. Unless…

  One of her fellows, like her, survived.

  She abandoned the hound and went about from man to man, stooping and steadily weeping harder. Six men lay nearby, close friends all, and every one dead. She had not meant it to end like this—it had been a simple act of defiance on her part, intended to discourage the Gaels from encroaching further onto Epidii land. Barta’s idea, all hers. By the goddess, she had persuaded them. To their deaths.

  A quick blow, she had thought to strike, hitting from out of the dark at an unprepared scouting band. But the Gaels had proved more in number than expected and had fought back hard. She now recalled seeing their leader—a man with flying, yellow hair—rallying his men and using those accursed chariots to best effect, cutting the Epidii apart.

  Now, though, every living soul had departed. That didn’t mean the Gaels would not return—several of their dead still lay here on the bloodied ground, and experience told her they would not neglect them for long.

  She had to get away from here at once. But how to leave her fr
iends…and Loyal?

  She tried to think how long it would take her to get home and back again with the help needed to fetch her dead. She could not be sure how far off the Gaels’ main encampment might lie, but it should take them considerable time to return.

  She fell to her knees again and twined her arms about her hound, planting one palm against his great chest, where she’d always been able to feel his heartbeat.

  Stilled now.

  She kissed his muzzle and tasted his blood on her lips. She wailed again in despair, heedless of her danger should the retreating Gaels hear. Let them return and slay her; her heart already lay here on the ground.

  She’d been no more than seventeen when her father’s bitch, Bright, had a new litter.

  “Choose one for yourself,” Father told Barta. That had been before his injury on the field, back when he still retained his strength and vigor. “The hounds are always following after you anyway, and if you intend going into battle like a son rather than a daughter, you will need a good hound at your side.”

  It had been easy to choose. Eight pups had Bright whelped, all brindle-gray like her. They’d played, climbed, and tumbled over each other in the way of pups everywhere—all but one who focused on Barta with bright hazel eyes and tottered after her whenever she took a step.

  Father had laughed. “That’s the one, Daughter. A male, and he’s going to be big and strong, judging by the size of those paws. You could do worse.”

  Barta already knew that. The pup had chosen her rather than the other way round.

  She’d taken days to decide on a name for him. Even that had come naturally when folk saw him trotting after her around the settlement, each of them saying with a smile, “Well, Barta, he looks to prove loyal.”

  Loyal he’d been for every day of the four years since. They’d walked together, trained and played together, eaten their meals and slept together. Inseparable.

  Until now.

  Tears streamed down her face, making the hound’s body blur before her eyes. “Oh, Loyal, how can I leave you when you’ve never, ever left me?”

  Yet he’d given his life in her defense. Could she turn around and throw that gift away by letting the Gaels return and catch her here?