Black Richard's Heart (The MacCulloughs #1) - Suzan Tisdale

Prologue

Spring, 1358, The MacCullough Keep, Highlands of Scotland

Death could not come fast enough for Black Richard MacCullough.

’Twas difficult to distinguish his blood from the countless others who lay dead or dying on the cold spring grass. Grass he had played in as a child. MacCullough grass that was now painted in blood. The blood of his kin; the blood of his enemies.

It had been a long, hard-fought battle between the MacCulloughs and the Chisholms. A battle that had lasted for three long, bloody days. The MacCulloughs were laying siege to their own keep; a keep that had been stolen from them five years ago by the ruthless Maitland Chisholm. Like the cowards they were, the Chisholms had waited until most of the MacCullough fighting men were off at their southern border fighting against the MacRays before they attacked. Outnumbered four to one, the MacCullough keep fell for the first time in more than ten generations.

Now, Galen MacCullough — Black Richard’s father — and his men were fighting to get their keep and lands back.

The first two days had been spent trying to get beyond the massive, well-fortified walls. Knowing how well-built they were, for Galen MacCullough’s grandfather had built the damn things with his own hands, a decision was made: On this, the third day, Galen, chief and laird to his clan, decided to burn the bastards out.

Thick, black smoke billowed from the roof of the keep. The early spring breeze picked up sparks and carried them from the keep to the granary. Before they knew it, several buildings were aflame. The Chisholms came pouring out of the gate like rats leaving a sinking ship. Apparently, their ill-gotten gains were not worth fighting for.

Then the rains came, drenching man and beast alike.

Through the pounding rain and relentless wind, the proud MacCullough warriors fought. They fought for revenge. They fought for honor. And they fought to regain their home and lands.

Black Richard had watched his father, Galen, die first, cut down by Maitland Chisolm’s own blade. Unable to aid him for he was too busy in a fight for his own life, all that he could do was watch his father fall to his knees. A moment later, Maitland was using his battle axe to sever Galen’s head from his neck. Black Richard fell to his knees, engulfed in grief and despair. Throwing his head back, he let loose with a guttural lamentation that could be heard for miles.

Then, one by one, four of his six brothers fell.

There was naught to be done for any of them now. Picking up his sword, he was possessed with a fervent need to avenge the deaths of his father and brothers.

Black Richard fought ferociously and bravely, until he could no longer lift up his own sword. His last and final act, before being cut nearly in half, was sending Maitland Chisholm to hell. Black Richard had plunged his already bloodied sword deep into Maitland Chisholm’s chest. The pleasure he derived in watching the life fade from Maitland’s eyes was immeasurable.

Now Black Richard lay dying in blood and mud, his face flayed open by Maitland’s blade, his gut sliced open by a nameless Chisholm.

The MacCulloughs had fought bravely, and none who had died or were about to, would die in vain or in shame. He was certain just as many Chisholms - may the greedy bastards all now be burning in hell — had been killed as his own clansmen.

Knowing death was inevitable, Black Richard did not bother with plotting revenge. He would have to leave that up to his two younger brothers, Raibeart and Colyne. Far too young to fight now but, hopefully, with time and guidance by anyone left standing, the two young boys would rise and seek revenge in the name of their father and brothers. There was one Chisholm left to be dealt with; Randall. The son of the Chisholm chief responsible for the hell on earth they had been living all these years. Hopefully, someday, Raibeart and Colyne would kill the bloody bastard

Through the fog of pain, the blood rushing in his ears, the pounding in his skull, he thought he heard the call of victory. Whether it be real or imagined, he neither knew nor cared. All he wished for was the pain to cease and for the sweet release of death. Mayhap someone would take mercy on him and slice his throat to speed up the process of dying.

Which hurt worst, his face — flayed open from the top