Highlander's Stolen Destiny: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book Read online

  Up some steps that led up to a wooden gallery that lined the upper echelons of the hall was the entrance to the solar, the principle sleeping accommodation for the laird and lady. Other chambers where the rest of the family slept could be found nearby.

  Lady Mary looked down at her sister from her position on the quasi-throne situated on the plinth. Next to her sat her husband, Laird Alastair of the Clan Macleod. Their chairs stood before the large dining table. Flanking them, endured two burly clansmen stoically. Also in the Great Hall were Mungo and Murtagh, the laird’s trusty advisors. The moment they had heard that an English delegation had reached the burgh, they had ceased what they were doing and had attended to their laird and dearest friend who was more of a brother to them than anything else.

  Mary was magnificent. She was thirty-seven summers old. Yet, her demeanor and countenance did not betray her advancing years. She was still slim, refusing to succumb to the travails many a woman suffered from birthing three healthy sons. Her skin was soft and seductively pale like the snow on the mountain peaks in the winter. The structure of her face was flawless. The only imperfection, if one could call it such, was a small hollow on her chin.

  She had brown doe-like eyes that effused sweetness and strong will. Her hair, like her husband’s, was auburn, but more cherry-colored than his mane of fine curls. If there was any clue that she was a mother of three and a woman of certain maturity, then it was a slight web of wrinkles around her eyes that spoke of much laughter and love in her life.

  “What brings you here, sister?” she asked of the woman standing before her.

  Mary could see her sister’s surprise at her appearance. She in no way looked as she remembered her all of those years ago. Mary looked resplendent in the way a Scottish lady should. She could see the emotions play on her sister’s face – most of them surely of a negative connotation.

  Mary wore a silk checkered arisad. This was a plaid that reached from the neck to the heels and was tied on her breast with a buckle of heavy silver. The ornate clasp with a large gemstone in the center denoted her rank. The plaid, being pleated all around, was held in place below the breast with a belt of leather covered in places with plaques of silver and gems. Under it, a man’s vest made of silk with gold lace and plate buttons with fine stones covered her slender but firm physique.

  Rounding off her appearance was a headdress of fine kerchief of linen attached straight and tight about the head, hanging down the back taper-wise. A large wisp of her red hair hung down her cheeks above the breast with the lower end tied with a knot of ribbons.

  “Must one have a reason to visit one’s sister?” The years had not been as kind to Elizabeth as they had been to Mary. As her almost twin, she very much looked the thirty-seven summers she was. She had become matronly in all but her regal manner. Like her sister, Elizabeth’s hair was cherry-red. It was streaked with gray in places now, possibly a testament to the fact that she never had children to soothe her aching womb.

  “No, I suppose not, Elizabeth.” Mary pleated her brow. “How fairs your husband?”

  “He passed away two years ago.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. I did not know.” Mary felt a stab of sorrow for her sister who had always dreamt of love so ardently when they were younger. It was she who had always spoken of gallant knights in shining armor, boasting fine virtues and the chivalry their ilk commanded when she had been destined to marry the fat Earl of Wavel. Her beloved Alastair had saved Mary from that fate and the earl had succumbed to his ailments the last Mary heard of him.

  The always-romantic Elizabeth had endured a similar fate as Mary a little under a year later. With Mary gone and absconded to the Highlands, their father had chosen another important peer for Elizabeth. He was a lord with substantial wealth.

  “He was a good man,” said Elizabeth, looking pensive. It was obvious from the expression on her face that she had never loved him. Their relationship had been more one of mutual respect and affection. It was what their father had wanted for both of them – a union of station.

  “So, other than the reason that you wish to see me, sister, there must be another purpose. After all of these years, you never visited once,” said Mary.

  “Well, it was not the foremost thing on my mind at the time.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was never easy for me to have a traitor as a sister, a close relative in the family who shunned her own kind to join up with the enemy. A sister who shirked her familial duties to elope with a barbarian and a traitor to the crown of England.” Elizabeth’s features had morphed into an incensed grimace as she vented her misplaced emotions.

  Mary felt her husband stir next to her. She quickly placed her hand on his, stroking softly. Alastair was like a lion when roused. He was a fearsome warrior and had proved so on many occasions in the numerous battles that had taken place between the two countries.

  When she was certain that she had calmed him, Mary shot both Mungo and Murtagh a hostile glare. It read bounds: I am the one handling this. My husband agrees and so must you. A tight smile skirted her lips when she saw the two brawny clansmen comply without the need for words.

  “Elizabeth, I will not have you come to my home and make accusations that bear no substance. I found the love I always craved when I met Alastair. Can you claim the same by always obediently following father’s wishes?” She continued remorselessly when she saw her sister balk. “I have found my place in the world by the side of this great man whom you would brand a traitor and a savage. I say no. This man and his fellow clansmen are heroes of Scotland.” Mary rose to her feet. “They fought for what they believe in and I joined their cause out of love for them and this land.”

  “Then you have truly become a savage,” hissed out Elizabeth.

  “If that is what you think of me, then I am proud to be exactly that.” Mary’s mien softened. “But tell me, sister, why are you here? I don’t believe you have come all this way to hurl insults at my husband, my people, and my person. There has to be another reason.”

  Before Elizabeth could speak, the large double oak door at the end of the hall swung open. Three young men stepped in. Elizabeth saw both her sister’s and Alastair’s faces light up. She turned to see who brought on this interruption.

  Walking down the length of the hall came three of the most impressive young men she had ever seen. One of them was willowy, elegant and almost effeminate. She guessed that he could be no older than fifteen. Next to him marched a young man of such physical proportion it made her shiver. The seventeen-year-old looked as if he could rip a tree out of the ground and throw it a hundred paces. The last young man was the most impressive. Unlike the other two, he had silky black hair like hers had once been. He was taller than his brothers, broad-shouldered and proud. He reminded Elizabeth so much of her own father.

  “These are your nephews, Elizabeth. The one on the right is Callum, next to him, is Doogle, and last but not least, the heir to the lairdship, my eldest son, Brice,” said Mary.

  “Laddies, what brings ye bunch of idle skunners in here. Ave ye scared all the lassies away with yer eager protestations of undying love?” said Alastair with obvious pride in his voice.

  He was a tower of a man. Although not as hefty as Murtagh or Mungo, he had a herculean physique that would put any Greek sculpture of a god to shame – not the boyish ones, but the ones of Poseidon or maybe even Zeus. His hair, streaked with slivers of gray, was like a fire in its luminance. His face was chiseled and strong, but it also radiated immeasurable kindness. It had taken on the toll of age but the lines found there were of happiness, quashing any contours of worry and sadness that might have settled had he not been so in love with life and the woman standing next to him.

  Turning back again, Elizabeth swallowed deeply. She had called him a barbarian before. Yet, the man sitting before her was nothing but respected. She could see his regal bearing. It circulated off him like an aura of power.

  He was as tall as his eldest son and
much stronger in build. He sported a thick red beard with streaks of gray, matching the unruly tuft of curly hair on his head that appeared to be as large as a lion’s. A plaid about seven or eight yards long, which covered the neck to the knees, except the right arm, mostly enclosed his body. Beneath the plaid, he wore a waistcoat and a shirt to the same length as the drape of the plaid.

  His long stockings were made of the same stuff as the plaid and his shoes were called ‘brocks’. Like the two other men, a large claymore hung from his waist. The laird peered down at his sons with his piercing blue eyes. There was a large smile on his face, betraying his pride. In his entirety, the man was like a king.

  “Laddies, meet yer aunt, Elizabeth,” he announced. Alastair got to his feet and stepped off the dais. “To be honest, I have only met my sister-in-law once.” When he reached Elizabeth, he took her in a bear hug, nearly crushing her with his bulk. “Now, how does it feel to be embraced by a savage?” He snorted his mirth. “Laddies, offer yer aunt the same courtesy.”

  The three young men quickly followed suit, overwhelming Elizabeth with emotion. She felt the conflict pull inside of her. This was her flesh and blood – her sister’s brood of fine young men and the man she had chosen as her husband. She nearly shed a tear. It had been so long since she had been with family. All Elizabeth had were countless servants in her large castle not far from Leeds.

  “You asked why I am here, sister?” she said when she finally regained control over her feelings.

  Mary nodded.

  “Father died a month ago. We buried him near our family’s private chapel.”

  The color on Mary’s face changed from rosy cheeks to pallid in a heartbeat. Her father, the late Lord Leighton, may have wanted to force her into a loveless marriage but he had been a wonderful father when she and her sister were growing up. A tear rolled down her cheek. She felt Alastair reach out to take her hand. The gesture gave her great comfort. Knowing that he was there was all she needed.

  Close by, Murtagh and Mungo shuffled their feet, although their wives, Caitlin and Freya, had softened them a great deal, they were still incapable of voicing sentiment in a coherent sentence. Brice, Doogle, and Callum remained still and silent where they stood.

  “You bring very sad news, Elizabeth. We shall host a banquet in his honor this evening.” Mary nodded at Murtagh so that he would inform his wife, who was the head of the kitchen, that preparations needed to be made.

  “He would have liked that,” said Elizabeth.

  “Even if it was hosted by me?” asked Mary.

  “Even then… He spoke of very little else. Every time I went to see him, he asked whether I had heard from you. He blamed himself for ever having attempted to force you to marry the Earl of Wavel. He regretted it until the day he died – why did you never write? Some word would have put the poor man’s mind to rest.”

  Mary recoiled at the bitterness in her sister’s voice. “I know that I should have. I only assumed that I was a persona non grata at Leighton Castle.”

  “That you never were. Father loved you very much no matter what transpired.” Elizabeth shrugged and exhaled heavily. “He is gone now… but maybe some good can come of it.”

  Mary arched her eyebrows. “What are you implying?”

  “As you know, father had no male heir to the title and his lands. Neither of us can inherit it due to Salic law… which leaves only one option. The title and the lands will pass on to the next male in line…”

  “Brice,” interjected Alastair.

  “Yes, that is right,” said Elizabeth. She cast a quick glance at her eldest nephew who showed no reaction to the news. He’s perfect, she thought.

  “Well, it is not for me to decide. My son, Brice, will make the decision himself. He is old enough,” said Alastair, eyeing his boy.

  “That’s easy, father. I want to be the laird of the clan one day and not some English lord. My place is here with my people,” said Brice with conviction.

  “Very honorable indeed, Brice. And I commend ye for it. Just take yer time to make yer mind up, will ye? If we get the chance, we might go and visit these lands belonging to yer grandfather.”

  “If that is yer wish, Da.”

  “It is,” said Alastair with finality.

  Elizabeth had not predicted this. Mary’s husband was far more farsighted than she had expected. Mary, on the other hand, saw right through Alastair. Her dear husband was playing chess like he always liked to do with his boys and Mungo. He was considering placing one of his boys on English land for surety. It could never hurt to have a member of the family in a position of influence should it be needed.

  “We shall speak no more of it now. Laddies, yer grandfather has passed away and we will pay him the proper respects.” He turned. “Mungo, please show Elizabeth to her quarters…”

  “What of the men who escorted me here? They too need a place to stay,” interrupted Elizabeth, causing Mungo to wince for no one interposed when the laird spoke.

  Alastair ignored the insult with his customary self-confidence. “They shall be provided for and may join the banquet this evening.” He nodded at Elizabeth and directed his wife to the large table behind the thrones where they sat down. Mungo stepped forward and indicated that Elizabeth follows him. The three lads exchanged glances and dashed out of the Great Hall to indulge in their usual activities: swordplay for Brice and Doogle and reading and writing for Callum, the scholar.

  3

  The Banquet

  * * *

  Elizabeth heard the music of fiddles and flutes coming from the minstrel’s gallery at the front of the rectangular space. The noise level of people’s voices and raucous shouts increased as she descended the steps to the Great Hall. It was warm as the presence of so many human bodies added to the heat coming from the fires and heavy silver candelabras. Running down the entire length of the hall were long tables made of massive oak. Already, the men and women sat and ate and drank. It appeared to Elizabeth that the festivities were already in full swing.

  “Are you sure about this, milady?” asked Sir Peter, who was the head of her guard. He was in his early forties and had served her late husband first as a squire, then as a knight. He was tall, strongly built and had a hard face that was marred with scars.

  “Yes, I am with my sister and her family now. What could be wrong with that, Sir Peter?”

  “They are Scottish.”

  Elizabeth chuckled. “Yes, that they are. But I feel there is more to them than meets the eye. This needs to be done. I must convince my nephew to accept this inheritance.”

  “I know.” The knight eyed the laird’s eldest son as he descended the final steps into the Great Hall. “He looks English enough. So unlike that brute of a younger brother of his. By God, what do they feed them to get them so enormous?”

  “Oats. Tis oats in water they eat. And that by the bucket load,” said Elizabeth, studying her other nephew.

  “Come, sister. You and your man will sit with us,” announced Alastair, pointing to two free spaces at the great table when his guests arrived.

  Elizabeth and Sir Peter walked to the table standing perpendicular to the other tables in the hall. It was the high table on a plinth where the laird, lady, the most notable members of the clan’s chief families, and Alastair’s sons sat. The piece of furniture was of substantial length, filling up the entire width of the hall.

  The surface was covered with a fine cloth that Elizabeth deduced was of damask. On top of it lay a sanap or overlay to protect the delicate material. The centerpiece was a presentation of such theatrics such as Elizabeth had rarely seen. On a special wooden support, in front of the laird and lady, sat an ornately gilded pheasant. Next to it and down the full length of the table, came specially decorated stuffed boar’s heads. Each of them held a red apple in their mouths to add to the effect.

  A loud “Ahh” erupted in the hall as groups of servants walked between the tables carrying an array of meat and fish dishes such as venison, bee
f, wild boar, salmon and pike on large platters. These were carefully placed on the tables that looked as if they were about to buckle under the heavy strain of the prodigious amounts of food.

  Elizabeth could never have expected the Highlanders to have the coin, let alone the sophistication, to host such a banquet. All around her, the people helped themselves to large portions of meat and fish, supplementing their bounty with vigorous rips of chunks from the massive round bannocks that decorated the tables. There was none of the etiquette she was used to from similar events back home. Here, everyone ate as they pleased. It was like a gathering of wolves at a carcass.

  “Come sit, Elizabeth,” ordered Alastair again. He focused his scrutiny on her escort. “And who might ye be?”

  “Sir Peter Waverly, my Laird. I am in Lady Cartwright’s service.” Sir Peter bowed courteously.

  “Welcome, Sir Peter… ye are most welcome. Any man who risks his life to look after my family is a friend of mine.”

  Sir Peter seemed happy with this. He helped Elizabeth into her seat before he sat himself down next to her.

  “So, Sir Peter, any news on the war in France?” asked Alastair, devoting part of his attention to a succulent piece of pork that had just been placed before him.

  Further down the table, Mungo and Murtagh exchanged glances. They despised the way the English king tried to get his fingers on both the kingdoms of Scotland and France. A quick prod to Mungo’s ribs by his wife, Freya, soon stopped his muttering.

  “There was a great victory recently,” said Sir Peter happily, as he ripped a large chunk off the bannock in front of him.

  “Oh. Who won?” asked Alastair.