True Highland Spirit (42 page)

From
The Highlander’s Sword

Gascony, France, 1346

If they caught him, he would hang. Or perhaps, he mused with the detached calm born of shock, he would be eviscerated first, then hung. Best not to find out. Sir Padyn MacLaren ran through a throng of shocked ladies-in-waiting to the tower stairs before his fiancée screamed in fury. Or rather his ex-fiancée, since the lovely Countess Marguerite had just made it clear she intended to marry Gerard de Marsan. The same de Marsan who had tried to slit MacLaren’s throat and now lay on the floor—dead.

Soldiers from the floor below rushed up the stairs to their lady’s aid. MacLaren wiped the blood from his eyes. The slash down his face was bleeding something fierce, but he gave it no mind. He needed to get past the guards, or his bloodied face would be the least of his troubles.

“Hurry!” MacLaren said to the first man up the stairs. “Gerard de Marsan has attacked the countess. To her, quick! I will fetch the surgeon.” The guards ran past him, and he dashed out the inner gate before the alarm sounded and soldiers poured from their barracks. MacLaren raced toward the outer gate, but the portcullis crashed down before him. Turning toward the stone staircase that led to the wall walk, he ran to a young guard who looked at him, unsure.

“Who attacks us?” MacLaren asked the young man, who stammered in response.

“Go ask your captain. I’ll keep watch.” MacLaren ran past the guard up the stairs to the battlement. Without stopping to think or break his stride, he ran through the battlements over the embrasure and into the air. For a moment he was suspended in time, free without the ground beneath him, then he plunged down the sheer drop to the moat below. The shock of cold water and muck robbed him of breath, and he struggled to the other side. MacLaren scrambled up the embankment and crawled into the brush, bolts flying toward him from the castle walls. Rushing through the thicket to the road, he pulled a surprised merchant from his horse and rode for cover.

MacLaren raced from Montois castle without looking back. Along the road, a dusty figure of a knight rode toward him. MacLaren drew his sword and charged. The knight reined in and threw up his visor. It was Chaumont, his second in command.

“Marguerite has betrayed us to the English,” Chaumont called.

“She told me that herself,” growled MacLaren, pointing to his cut face. “We need to get to camp and warn the men, or they will all be put to the sword.”

Chaumont nodded. “I got word of her betrayal shortly after you rode for Montois and commanded the men to pull back to Agen.”

“Ye’ve done well.” MacLaren exhaled.

“Indeed I have. Nice of you to notice.”

The thundering riders approaching cut short their conversation. They abandoned the road in favor of an overland route through dense forested terrain in which they hoped to lose the pursuing soldiers. They traveled many hours into the night, until they finally felt safe enough to stop by the shores of a small black lake.

“You need tending, my friend,” said Chaumont.

“Have ye a needle?” MacLaren asked grimly.

MacLaren stood without flinching while Chaumont stitched the gash on his face. MacLaren focused on the dark water before him, unbidden memories of the day’s events washing over him. He had faced the English to protect Marguerite before they could reach her castle at Montois. The hard-fought victory had been won, but his closest kin had been lost.

“Patrick died for nothing.” MacLaren’s voice shook as he struggled with the words. “What an utter fool I was, trusting that deceitful wench. I should be dead on that field, not him.” MacLaren clenched his jaw, holding back emotion. “There is nothing left for me here. ’Tis time I take my men and go back where I belong.”

“What is it like, this land of your birth?” asked Chaumont, finishing his work.

MacLaren closed his eyes, remembering. “Balquidder. ’Tis a wild place, full of wind and rain. It can be a hard life at times, but I’m never more alive than when I’m in the Highlands.” He turned to the young French knight. “Your friendship is the only thing I will regret to leave behind.”

Chaumont looked at him intently. “Take me with you.”

“Your place is here.”

Chaumont shook his head. “If you had not given me a chance, I would still be some rich man’s squire, polishing his armor and servicing his wife. I have served you in times of war, and I will serve you still, if you will have me.”

“It would be an honor.” MacLaren clasped his hand to the Frenchman’s shoulder. They embraced the way men do, slapping each other hard on the back.

“Urgh!” Chaumont made a face. “You smell like the devil’s arse.”

“I swam through the moat to escape the castle. Now I know exactly where the garderobes empty into.” MacLaren turned back to look over the lake. “That water was like Marguerite, a beautiful exterior, but underneath, naught but a filthy sewer.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before he was pushed hard and he fell gracelessly into the cold clean lake. He came up sputtering, only to hear the Frenchman’s laughter. MacLaren bathed in the cold water and emerged the better for it. He pulled himself swiftly up the bank and tossed Chaumont into the water for good measure. It was time to go home.

“Step along now,” MacLaren called to his soggy companion. “Come to the Highlands, my friend, and we shall feast like heroes.”

***

Balquidder, Scotland

Shrouded in the winding cloth of the dense mist, a shadowy apparition of a horse and rider stood on the high peak of the Braes of Balquidder. Built into the side of the craggy rock, Creag an Turic, the abandoned tower house of the MacLarens, loomed stark and black against the pre-dawn sky. Below, the small village of Balquidder slept by the shores of Loch Voil. The MacLaren fields lay mostly fallow, brown and grey in the early morning gloom. Without its laird, misfortune and neglect had befallen the clan, leaving it vulnerable to raids from its neighbors. Few clansmen remained, scraping out a living as best they could.

In the valley below, a young boy stood in the doorway of a farmhouse. He gaped up at the ghostly figure and blinked—horse and rider were gone.

“Mama! I seen the ghost!”

“Come away from there, sweetling. What do ye ken about such things?”

“I seen him looking down on us. Do ye think it be an ill omen?”

Mary Patrick sighed. Having your nine-year-old son tell you there is a ghost at the door before you even got your boots on in the morning couldn’t be a good sign. She silently said a quick prayer to a few saints for protection and one to the Holy Mother for good measure.

“’Twas the Bruce,” whispered Gavin, his eyes gleaming.

“Robert the Bruce is no’ riding these hills,” said Mary to Gavin’s skeptical face. “And even if he is, he’s no’ going to help ye wi’ yer chores. Now off wi’ ye. We’ve much to do if we want food in our bellies.”

Somewhere in the ethereal mist, the cloaked figure raced at an inhuman pace… straight for Dundaff Castle.

From
The Highlander’s Heart

Northumbria, England

Late spring, 1355

One thing was perfectly clear; it was time to get rid of her husband. Isabelle, Countess of Tynsdale, tightened her grasp on the saddle and continued to plot ways to end her marriage, for if she ever was returned to her husband, she would die.

Unfortunately for her train of thought, her tall mount moved with a swaying motion Isabelle found disconcerting. She had imagined riding a horse would be delightful, but now, perched on top of the stiff, boxlike saddle, Isabelle was reevaluating her opinion of horses.

“You must not let him take you back,” said Marjorie, Isabelle’s former nursemaid and companion who rode next to Isabelle on the dusty road. It was an unnecessary reminder. Other than trying not to fall off her horse, Isabelle could think of little else but escaping her husband, the Lord Tynsdale.

“I am not going to sit idly by whilst that husband of yours murders you,” continued Marjorie. “I have raised you since you were naught but a bundle of swaddling clothes, and I will not be having that old worm take you with him to perdition.”

“I have no intention of being my husband’s fourth deceased wife. I had hoped to be a widow,” said Isabelle with a wistful sigh.

“It would be most considerate of him if he was to keel over dead, but I warrant we cannot expect kindness from the likes of him.”

“No, not him,” replied Isabelle in a soft voice. She had been married five years ago when she was sixteen, and Tynsdale carried more years than anyone cared to count. She spent one violent night with him before fleeing back to her uncle at Alnsworth Castle. Isabelle rubbed the scar on her temple, the one visible reminder of that dreadful night.

“’Tis a shame having a rat bastard for a husband is not grounds for divorce,” Marjorie sniffed.

Isabelle smiled at Marjorie. “Indeed, quite so.”

“I hesitate to suggest it, but maybe you could do something to cause your husband to divorce you, like take up with another man?”

Isabelle laughed but shook her head. “I could present Lord Tynsdale with a dozen illegitimate babes and he would never dissolve the marriage. Not when he stands to gain all of Alnsworth. The castle is too great a prize.”

“I wish your uncle could have clung to life a little longer.”

“I wish I had not inherited Alnsworth.” Isabelle shuddered to think of what would happen if Tynsdale ever became lord of Alnsworth. Her uncle had protected her from Tynsdale for the past five years, which had sparked a bloody feud between the two barons. If Tynsdale took control of Alnsworth, his revenge would be felt by all. A heavy mantle of fear wrapped around her shoulders, but Isabelle resisted giving in to the seductive draw of despair.

“I must convince King Edward to dissolve this union,” Isabelle said brightly, shaking off her fear. They had left Alnsworth that morning to travel to the court of the king of England. Isabelle smiled at the prospect of going to court and meeting King Edward II. For five years Alnsworth Castle had been a safe refuge, but Isabelle longed for freedom.

Isabelle took a deep breath of fresh air, untainted by the smells of castle life. Granted, the smell of horses figured prominently, but the aroma was at least different, if not completely fresh.

The procession of horses was unexpectedly called to halt. On the road ahead, her entourage had been stopped by a group of soldiers riding toward them. It was a bright, sunny day and the hard-packed dirt road bordered a grassy field to her right and a tall forest to her left.

Her captain of the guard rode forward to meet with the lead rider. After a short exchange, both men dismounted and continued to speak with each other. Small in stature, the stranger was as wide as he was tall, a contrast to Captain Corbett, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache.

“What is this about?” asked Marjorie.

“I have no idea,” answered Isabelle. Captain Corbett turned toward her with a grim expression. “But I fear it is not in my favor.”

Rounding the bend, the rest of the approaching party came into view. Mounted guards were followed by a small troop of foot soldiers. Their banner waved bright blue and gold in the sun. Isabelle’s stomach churned. They were Tynsdale’s men.

“Isabelle!” Marjorie’s eyes went wide. Isabelle knew what she was thinking. If she was given to those soldiers she would never get another chance to escape. The small man and her captain walked toward her. She needed to do something—fast.

“Tell them I had the sudden need for privacy. I’ll go yonder across the field. Tell Captain Corbett I’ll meet him later at the church at Bewcastle. Only…” Isabelle’s eyes met Marjorie’s. “I do not wish to make trouble for you.”

“Nonsense, Isabelle, if they catch you it could mean all our lives.” Marjorie leaned toward her, speaking in a fierce whisper. “You are a clever girl, keep your wits and you will do well. Now make haste!”

Marjorie slapped the rump of Isabelle’s horse. Isabelle swung the reins and dug in her heels, something she had never before attempted. Her horse jumped and skittered sideways, then bolted into the field. Isabelle hung on for dear life, thrilling in the speed and her newfound freedom. She risked a backward glance. The guards were speaking heatedly with Marjorie and Captain Corbett but had not yet given chase. She had a head start. Isabelle bounced across the field relishing her swift mount, the sun on her face and her last-minute reprieve.

Without breaking his stride, her horse bolted into the thick forest on the other side of the field. Isabelle shrieked and ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch. She abandoned the reins in favor of holding onto the saddle with both hands.

“Ease up!” she called to her errant mount. Despite her desire to put distance between herself and Tynsdale’s men, she did not care for being splattered against a tree. “Stop, oh stop, you vile creature.”

The vile creature in question did not stop and, being a sturdy mount with fresh legs, continued to run. Isabelle grabbed at the horse’s mane and screamed at the horse to no avail. If anything, her mount gained speed. Isabelle closed her eyes and gripped the pommel, hoping the horse would not stumble or collide with a tree.

After what seemed like an eternity, her well-conditioned horse began to break his stride and settled into a jarring trot. Isabelle gritted her teeth, sure the wretched beast had chosen this pace to cause her the most discomfort.

Thick foliage brushed against her, scratching her face, arms, and legs. The road where she had last seen Tynsdale’s men was now miles behind her. Her reins were caught on the bridle, and she leaned forward to reclaim them. The horse, sensing her movement, broke into a run, heading straight for a stream. Galloping closer, Isabelle realized the stream was a wide river, swollen from the spring rains.

“Stop! Oh, why will you not stop? Can you not see there’s a—” Isabelle’s words were stolen with her breath as the horse plunged into the icy water. She clung with desperation to the saddle. The horse splashed forward into the swiftly moving waters. When the horse began to swim, Isabelle feared for her life. It would be so disappointing to escape certain death, only to be killed later that same day by one’s own horse. Isabelle clung tighter with icy fingers and fiery determination.

They were swept downstream a good ways before the horse struggled to the far shore and fought its way up the bank. Isabelle hugged the neck of her horse as her mount continued to trot along. Afraid to reach again for the reins, Isabelle contented herself to watch the scenery until her mount finally stopped and put down his head for a bite of grass.

“Oh, finally,” Isabelle muttered and slid down the side of the horse, landing in an undignified heap. Isabelle collapsed in the grass, reveling in the wondrous feeling of being on solid ground again. Taking a deep breath, she regained her feet. Tugging at the ties of her wet, wool cloak, she pulled it off and tossed it over the saddle.

“You are a very ill-mannered beast,” she reprimanded her mount. “When we get to wherever we are going, I shall ask their cook to serve me some horseflesh stew for supper.” The bay horse looked up from his meal. “I shall have your tail made into a flyswatter and your hooves carved into ink wells.” The horse turned his head and looked at her with big, brown eyes framed with long, black lashes. Too late, Isabelle noted a flash of intelligence.

“Nooooo!” Isabelle shouted as the horse trotted away. “I didn’t mean it. I would never do anything like that.” Isabelle ran after her mount. “Come back, oh, please don’t leave me. I lost my temper, but it has been a trying day. Oh, please do come back!”

Isabelle ran until every gulp of air burned and her sides stung. Unable to continue, Isabelle doubled over panting, her hands on her hips, watching her horse’s disappearing backside. She collapsed on a large rock and evaluated her situation. She was lost somewhere along the border between England and Scotland. Her horse was gone. She had no provisions, not even her cloak, and she was still damp from the river. Not good.

On the bright side, she had escaped her husband’s guards, and if she could survive this minor mishap she would no doubt live a long, happy, and prosperous life. She smiled to herself and decided not to let a little thing like being lost, alone, wet, and hungry bother her in the slightest.

Isabelle stood tall, shoulders back, chin high, to march back to the river and from there to the nearest town. From there she could arrange transport to Bewcastle… with her coin purse that was in the pocket of her cloak. She twisted her signet rings, trying to think of what to do. Her rings were her only material possessions now, one on each hand. Tynsdale was on her left and Alnsworth on her right. Her two worlds at war. Twisting off her rings she deposited them safely in the pocket of her gown. It would not do to lose them.

Isabelle marched forward in the direction she thought was the river, ignoring the unpleasant way her wet chemise clung and chaffed her legs. After two hours walking and no river in sight, even she had to admit she was lost. All the trees looked exactly the same. A buzzing sensation in her stomach told her that either she was hungry or starting to panic. She gulped down fear, chose a new direction and strode boldly, telling herself that this was surely the correct path.

Isabelle marched on through the day, trying to find any sort of human habitation. Clinging to the hope that help was near, she pushed her way through thick brush and bramble until shafts of sunlight were no longer filtering down through the trees, a sure sign the sun was low in the sky. Through the fading light she kept moving, hoping that somehow her luck would take a dramatic shift in her favor.

Isabelle’s feet were sore and blistered, her gown ripped and tattered, and her long, black hair hung loose, having long since lost her headdress. Her thin veneer of optimism had been scraped away by a thousand clutching branches, and even she had to admit her situation was growing dire. She wanted nothing more than to stop and rest, but feared if she lay down she may never again get up, so she forced her legs to keep moving.

She tore through one more bush and stumbled out onto a wide, empty path. Exhausted, it took her a moment to recognize what she had found—a road. She collapsed to her knees and ran her hands along the hard-packed dirt. The road was rutted and narrow, dense forest on either side, but Isabelle was overjoyed for such a lovely sight. On impulse, she leaned down and kissed the ground.

“There now, what do we have ’ere?”

Isabelle whirled around and stood up so fast her head spun and she stumbled on shaky legs. Three raggedy men were walking down the road toward her.

“Why ’tis naught but a dirty wench,” said a thin man in a red cap.

“Looks an ill-used whore at that. Must have been dropped by her last sport,” said a portly man with the remnants of his porridge still in evidence on his shirt.

“Been too long for me,” said a third man with large forearms and no front teeth. “I dinna care how used she is. I thinks I’ll have me a tickle.”

Isabelle gasped. Her heart pounded in her chest and she glanced around for her guard to put a swift end to these insolent men. All she saw was uncaring trees. She considered fleeing, but the brush was thick, and her legs were barely holding her up. She straightened her shoulders and tried to appear severe and forbidding.

“You will come no farther if you please. My guard surrounds you. I command you to leave at once.”

The three men stopped short, looking around her suspiciously.

“She be English,” whispered Red Cap, loud enough for all to hear.

“Yes, English,” said Isabelle, hoping that would be a deterrent. Were these ruffians Scots? What were they doing on English soil? “My patience is not without end. If you value your lives you will leave without delay.”

The men stopped walking toward her, but they did not leave. Suddenly, No Teeth pushed Red Cap forward, knocking him into her. She struggled to keep upright, and he jumped back from her immediately. The men drew their knives and watched the bushes, waiting for attack. When nothing happened, Isabelle knew her bluff had been called.

“Well now, lassie,” smiled No Teeth, “looks to me no one will mind if we enjoy yer company a bit.”

“Leave me alone,” said Isabelle, wishing her voice had not wavered when she said it.