Season of the Witch

By Jaid Black

The king is furious when word reaches him Eilean Donnán was conquered by Vikings. Adamant the stronghold is returned to Scotland at once, he dispatches the ruthless Highlander warlord Cainnech MacKenzie to lay siege. If Cainnech can defeat the Nords and recapture the island by year's end, the land, castle, and titles that go with it will all belong to him. Cainnech expects to make war against a Viking jarl, but is shocked to discover the current master of Eilean Donnán is no man at all. The Viking is a woman... and the woman is rumored to be a witch.

Lucia Ingegärd is an American of Italian and Nordic descent. Or at least she was an American until she was transported to a time long before her country existed. Desperate to return to the future before Christmas, Lucia puts her engineer's mind to the singular focus of going home. Her work is stalled when a huge, fierce-looking warrior surrounds her temporary home and gives her an ultimatum: surrender herself or she'll be shown no mercy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaid Black
• Release date: May 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463662083

Jaid Black

Jaid Black is the founder and driving force of Ellora's Cave Publishing, the award-winning online source for erotic literature. She is also the founder and publisher of Lady Jaided, a sexy new magazine for women. Her novella "Hunter's Right" appears in the collection Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down, and her novel Deep, Dark & Dangerous is forthcoming from Pocket Books in March 2006. Vistit her on the web at www.jaidblack.com.

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Copyright © October 2015 by Jaid Black.

Republished February 2017 & May 4, 2020.

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Season of the Witch

By Jaid Black

Prologue

Kinghorn Ness, Fife, Scotland

December 10, 1265 A.D.

Return the stronghold tae Scotland afore the year passes. Seize it from the bluidy Viking bastards and ye become her laird.

Sir Cainnech MacKenzie nigh unto choked on the mead he’d been drinking. Sitting across from King Alaxandair III of Scotland at the great hall’s dining table, his gray eyes rounded and his jaw went slack before he schooled his features into their usual unreadable mask. This was a development the newly knighted Highlander hadn’t seen coming.

Cainnech had battled the Vikings in the name of Alaxandair III for nigh unto ten years, even afore the monarch had decided the Hebrides were worth fighting for. He had laid siege and won back much of the Western Isles from the Norwegian King Håkon. His calculating tactics and skill on the battlefield had become legendary. Coupled with his huge height, unyielding musculature and dark, Celtic hair plaited to the middle of his back, he had gained a severe reputation.

Those clashes, fought more for the Gaelic Highlanders desirous of autonomy from Norway than for Scotland, were the reason he’d been obliged to travel to Kinghorn Ness at Alaxandair’s decree a sennight ago. The king wanted to ensure the Highlanders stayed true to Scotland. Knighting the Hebrides’ most formidable warrior would do much toward advancing that cause.

In truth, Cainnech wasn’t certain how he felt about being knighted. ‘Twas a title customarily bestowed upon the sons of noblemen. Born a bastard, Cainnech could claim no birthright and therefore hadn’t given such frivolities as a title any thought. But this…

’Tis Eilean Donnán yer wantin’? Cainnech asked.

Aye. The king frowned. I canna say what became of the mon I gave it tae, but I suspect he met a bad end at the hands of Håkon’s successor.

King Magnús?

Aye. Bluidy Vikings.

I dinna realize the stronghold had been besieged let alone fell. Cainnech had heard rumors this past sennight whilst in Kinghorn Ness, but this was the first time the gossip had been confirmed as truth. Such news was unsettling, for the island’s castle had been built a’purpose where the three lochs met. ’Tis a formidable stronghold for any mon who possesses it.

The very idea that Alaxandair meant for him, the bastard of a tavern wench, to be her laird…‘twas nigh unto impossible to fathom. And yet here Cainnech sat at the right hand of the king being told to fathom it. At thirty and six years, the jaded warrior was more than eager to call one place home.

Aye. I canna allow this, Alaxandair growled. If Eilean Donnán remains in Viking hands, ‘twill be a matter of time afore the whole of the Hebrides is once again in their pagan clutches.

Cainnech would never allow the Isles to fall, but he said nothing.

’Tis a rumor aboot Eilean Donnán ye should know of, one of Alaxandair’s personal guards interjected.

Bah! The king took a swig of mead before continuing. Dinna listen tae Sir Aedan. He’s taken tae many hits tae the head.

The great hall burst into raucous laughter. Even Cainnech had to smile.

I’ve been trying tae tell ye! Aedan insisted, slamming his cup on the table. The mon was clearly drunk. I heard it meself from Old Grelly!

Alaxandair rolled his eyes. Was Old Grelly mayhap as drunk as ye?

Mayhap. But he dinna lie.

Cainnech joined in on the second bout of laughter. ‘Twas amusing to watch the men squabble. He presumed Aedan could get away with it because he had grown up with the king and was one of Alaxandair’s childhood friends. Still, friend or no, Cainnech never would have put a mon who drank so heavily in charge of his personal guard.

May I ask what rumor ye heard? Cainnech questioned. The knight made a habit of acquiring as much information as possible afore laying siege to any stronghold. Even mayhap irrelevant information. My interest is piqued.

The usually boisterous great hall grew quiet. King Alaxandair hesitated for a moment, but answered. Some say Eilean Donnán’s new master is no’ a mon at all, but a wench.

A wench. Cainnech was impressed. Unmarried? Old?

Unwed, aye, but not old. ‘Tis said she is of breedable years and quite pleasing tae look upon. Yet she is the property of no mon, Aedan informed him. His features were grim. There is a reason for this.

Cainnech raised an eyebrow.

The wench, Aedan decreed in a tone reminiscent of a storytelling minstrel, is a witch.

Cainnech blinked. The mon couldn’t be serious. He shook his head a bit, as if to clear it. ‘Twas no mystery why the king hadn’t wanted to tell him of such fanciful gossip. Cainnech was about to laugh when he noticed no mon in the great hall appeared less than convinced the tale was real. He held his mirth. Had the lot of them gone daft?

’Tis said she’s a Viking sorceress, the king grumbled. I admit I’ve heard these rumors from more men than Aedan.

Cainnech’s gray eyes widened. It almost sounded as if Alaxandair was nigh unto convinced of this himself—even if he wouldn’t admit as much. A witch? A Viking sorceress?

A clansman Cainnech didn’t know the name of stood up. Me father saw her himself. ‘Tis more than gossip, that.

And what did yer father say aboot her?

She’s fair of hair and green of eyes. Her body bespeaks of fertility—curvy and a bit fleshy.

The great hall broke into murmurs and hushed whispers. ‘Twas all Cainnech could do to not roll his eyes.

Me father is convinced she was fashioned from the devil’s own hands for her beauty is tae beguiling tae belong tae a mortal wench.

Yer sire believes her tae be a sorceress because she’s comely tae look upon?

Nay. Well aye, but ‘tis more.

Cainnech was too amused to put an end to this conversation just yet. By the saints, if such a wench was real he’d conquer the stronghold just to own her and fuck her, lairdship be damned. What is yer name, lad?

Eonan, me lord.

I’m no lord.

Yet, the king said pointedly. Bring Eilean Donnán back tae Scotland and ye will be titled well beyond the station of a knight. Ye will be her laird and her baron.

The murmurs in the great hall grew until they reached nigh unto a deafening level. Cainnech’s most trusted warriors were amongst them. He exhaled slowly. For them as much as himself he would do this.

Yer sire said what else, Eonan? Cainnech inquired, causing the great hall to quiet again.

The boy’s blue eyes were round as full moons. "He saw the Viking sorceress do…things." He swallowed roughly as he ran a hand through his matted red hair.

Things?

She commands the sun itself, Eonan rasped. ’Tis a vow me father saw her harness its verra light and put it intae a ball that lit the darkness during the night’s witching hour.

The chamber was abuzz with excited commotion. The boy was so sincere in his speech that even Cainnech was starting to think this Viking wench might be real. But a sorceress? ‘Twas difficult to credit.

All eyes were on the newly knighted Highlander, including King Alaxandair’s. Cainnech stood, his braids falling forward as he inclined his head. His gray eyes narrowed.

My men and I will ride tae Eilean Donnán at first light, he formally announced. I will seize the stronghold and return her tae Scotland.

And the Viking sorceress? the king inquired. Assuming she exists.

If she has the beauty yer clansmen claim, ‘twould be remiss of me not tae wed her and bed her.

Alaxandair clapped his hands together on a laugh. The great hall followed suit. And if she is a sorceress?

Cainnech shrugged. Then I shall drown her. ‘Twas the recommended method of death for the unholy as set forth by the priests. ’Tis the season of Scotland, no’ the season of the witch.

Chapter One

Eilean Donnán (Island of Donnán)

Na h-Eileanan a-staigh (The Inner Isles) of Hebrides

Scottish Highlands, December 13, 1265 A.D.

This. Is. Bull. Shit.

Lucia Ingegärd—half Italian, half Nordic and 100% pissed off American—bit out the only words that came to mind to describe her current predicament. She had been plucked from her oceanfront condo in the beautiful, weather-temperate city of Santa Monica, California, and thrown into this freezing, God-forsaken, snow-covered, stone castle in the horrid Middle Ages. And why? Whyyyy?

Her nostrils flared as she asked herself that question for what had to be the thousandth time. She wasn’t certain she’d ever discover the answer, but she suspected it had something to do with her stupid, nerdy, geek-bait hobbies. Apparently pastimes like learning archaic languages, attending medieval fairs, and buying strange books from even stranger people were not the things to do if one preferred to live in an era where war wasn’t everywhere and women weren’t reduced to the status of chattel.

I rue the day I decided to learn Gaelic! she dramatically wailed to the book she just knew was responsible for this mess. The damn thing had brought her here so it needed to take her back. "Do you hear me, book? Rue it I say! Ruuuuue!"

She plopped down onto her quasi-comfortable bed with a sigh—quasi being the key word, she thought grimly. The fucking book couldn’t hear