Iain stared, open-mouthed, stunned that a man of Silver Leg’s reputation would stoop to such an ignoble flight.
One of the men walked somewhat hunched over, his resentful scowl even blacker than Silver Leg’s own. His blood firing anew, Iain recognized him as the second man from the Shepherd’s Rest.
But it was the other man, the fourth, who truly caught Iain’s attention, had him sprinting after the others, his heart lodged so tight in his throat he couldn’t call out for the bastards to halt.
Couldn’t shout a warning that their days of evil-doing had come to an end. He could scarce see to run either, for dust seemed to have been blown into his eyes, causing them to burn and water.
Almost as if he had tears in his eyes.
And perhaps he did, for the fourth man was the reason the bastard from the ale-house couldn’t walk upright. The fiend was carrying the fourth man slung over his shoulder like a sack of coal.
A sack of pathetically unimpressive coal, for the old man bouncing along against the blackguard’s back was reed-thin.
A frail old man.
A fine-boned graybeard who looked to be ailing. A scholarly sort, for certain.
Madeline’s father.
~*~
“Da!”
If Iain hadn’t guessed right, his lady’s tearful cry told the tale.
Iain’s blood also froze. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Spinning about, he saw her ride up, then leap from her saddle just outside the gatehouse.
Shock slammed into him as she streaked across the bailey toward her father. Never had he seen anyone – man or woman – fling themselves from a horse’s back with such speed.
Nor would he have believed that a lass could run so fast.
Or so brazenly defy such bitter-earnest orders as he’d given her. Yet she had, and – damn his eyes – he couldn’t blame her.
Striding forward, he was startled again when Nella also burst into view. Disheveled and breathing hard, she slid from her saddle. Taking a few steps, she almost collapsed against the side of one of the bailey’s lean-to buildings.
Catching Iain’s eye, she lifted her hands and shook her head. “I couldnae stop her. I tried!” she called, then clutched a hand to her breast, gulping air.
“Just see to yourself,” Iain shouted back, running now, his gaze on Madeline.
Furious at the danger she’d put herself in, he tore across the courtyard, reaching her just as she hurled herself at the miscreant carrying her father.
“Odin’s bone!” Iain roared, plucking her off the bastard. “What are you doing here?”
Wriggling free, she ignored him, launching herself anew at the blackguard holding her father.
“Would you have waited? Helpless and not knowing what was happening?” she shot back, pulling her father from the other man’s grasp.
“Well?” she snapped, her tone so like his when riled, he almost forgot his ire. Cradling the old man against her, she glared at Iain, her eyes blazing. “I warned you Drummond women are bold.”
“So you did.” Iain’s heart thumped – not that this was the time to let her know that.
Her chin came up then, and she added, “We also descend from a long line of warrior women.”
“I am no’ surprised.” Looking at her now, Iain didn’t doubt it.
But then the anger seemed to drain out of her and she clutched her father tight, more loving daughter than anything. She made some kind of cooing sounds, soft little mewlings, and just stood there, rocking the man, tears spilling down her cheeks.
As discreetly as he could, Iain blinked against the sting in his own eyes as he thrust the killing end of his sword beneath Silver Leg’s chin. To the side, he caught Gavin making short work of the other bastards. Their gullets sliced through, the two men went down without a single cry.
Silver Leg deserved a slower death.
His greyhounds snarled and bristled, but stopped short of snapping, their white-eyed trembling speaking more of terror than menace.
“So-o-o!” Iain lowered his blade, but kept its tip aimed at Logie’s sizable gut. “I’d say you’ve been well fed at Abercairn. ‘Tis your doom that I cannae say the same of the laird.”
Glancing at Madeline’s father, Iain noted the man’s skeletal frame and sunken eyes, the waxy pallor of his skin.
Sir John Drummond’s sad state made Iain’s blood run cold and ripped off all the veneer he’d struggled so hard to paint over his fuming MacLean temper.
“This was ill done, Logie,” he said, his voice rising. “I should tear you apart with my bare hands.”
Silver Leg spat on the cobbles. “God’s curse on you and yours!” he hissed, his glance sliding to a shadow-hung byre hard by the curtain wall.
Following his gaze, Iain spied two pack horses, each one heavily burdened with bulging canvas or leather sacks. Logie had been heading in that direction. No doubt to flee with whatever of Abercairn’s spoils he could carry away with him.
“Where were you going?” Iain pricked the fiend’s belly with his sword. “Do those sacks hold what I think? Or food? Since that, too, you seem to crave.”
“Rot in hell,” Logie seethed, his face dark with fury.
“I will assure you a swift passage there!” Iain vowed, nodding to Beardie and Douglas. “Seize him, lads. Hold him fast until I see what those sacks contain.”
His blood pounding in his ears, Iain unsheathed his dirk and slit the canvas of one of the sacks. Silver plate and assorted church goods, not unlike the treasures Iain was delivering to Duncairn Cathedral, spilled onto the ground.
Snatching a handful of silver coins, Iain strode back to Logie. “Your life is forfeit,” he said, letting the coins tumble from one hand to the other. “Had those sacks held your own collection of fine-embroidered tunics and knitted hose, I might have given you some small mercy.
“As is…” He handed the coins to Madeline, then grabbed a handful of Logie’s hair and yanked back the bastard’s head so far, his mouth gaped open. “I should melt down every last one of those coins and pour the molten silver down your throat!”
Silver Leg’s face ran white.
“Tell me what you were about with Laird Drummond, and I will think on a more agreeable solution,” Iain said, and folded his arms. “Speak.”
Logie said nothing.
“He was taking me to the old smithy,” Laird Drummond himself spoke up, his voice little more than a rasp.
“The smithy?” Madeline stared at her father. “But Da, why there? Are you sure? No one has gone there for years.”
His bravura cracking at last, Silver Leg began to tremble.
Laird Drummond eyed him, a look of disgust on his haggard face. “Logie was using the old smithy to melt down Abercairn’s silver and gold,” he said, clutching his daughter’s arm for support. “But he hasn’t found our true treasure,” he added, pride strengthening his voice.
He looked at his daughter then, and the love Iain saw shining there tore at his heart.
“I didn’t tell him where the Bruce jewels are hidden,” Sir John said, his gaze still on Madeline’s tear-streaked face. “That’s why he brought me up from the dungeon when the trouble began this morning. He meant to ride away, but keep me with him until he could pry the answer from me.
“Or until he could find you,” he finished, wheezing. “I couldnae let that happen.”
“No one is going to e’er harm a hair on your daughter’s fine head, Sir John. Nor on your own,” Iain declared, keeping an eye on Silver Leg.
“You,” he said to that dastard, “shall receive a most pleasing penance, Logie.”
Striding up to him, Iain drew himself to his full height, and smiled. “I shall allow you to return home – to your own holding,” he said, and his smile widened. “Word has come to me that the accommodations there are most comfortable. I wish you all haste on your journey, both to your home and to hell.”
He turned to Beardie and Douglas. “Hie the bastard from my sight,” he said
, eager to have done with the viper. “See that he is tossed into the deepest pit in his dungeon.”
“Ho! That we will do,” the oarsmen agreed in chorus and dragged the spluttering Logie from the bailey.
Iain watched them go, his mind on his own journey. The one he just ended, for of a sudden, he knew that he not only wanted to make Madeline his bride, he also wanted a family.
One of his own.
And perhaps one, too, in which a fragile old man could be nurtured back to good health. Too much love bonded his lady and her father for him to ever consider taking her elsewhere.
He would stay with her here.
If she would have him.
Hoping so, he turned back to her, determined to resolve the matter forthwith. But a surprisingly firm grip on his forearm stayed his tongue.
“Iain MacLean!” Sir John Drummond’s reedy voice held a challenge. “My daughter tells me you have reason to make an honest woman of her,” he said, peering at Iain from earnest gray eyes.
Iain’s brows shot upward, but he caught Madeline’s tearful wink and played along.
“Aye, sir, that may be true,” he admitted, struggling to keep a straight face.
“I thought so.” The old man nodded, and Iain suspected he caught a twinkle in John Drummond’s eye. “Young man, am I going to have to challenge you to uphold my daughter’s honor or will you do the noble thing and marry the lass?”
Iain glanced away for a moment, stared at a shaft of morning sunlight breaking through the clouds to shine on Abercairn’s curtain wall.
Sakes, but he needed to swallow. Blink a few times, too.
But when he turned back around, he was smiling.
The most dazzling smile Madeline had ever seen.
“I will marry her, Laird Drummond,” Iain said, lifting his voice so all within Abercairn’s bailey and maybe outside, too, could hear him.
“I wish to have her as my wife and at my side,” he vowed, placing a firm hand on each of their shoulders. “Nothing would make me happier. And she will always be loved and cherished. For all the days of our lives.”
Epilogue
Duncairn Cathedral, The Highlands
Two months later…
“You and your new lady wife have all our good wishes and felicitations.” The beaming Bishop of Duncairn reached yet again to pump Iain’s hand. “‘Tis rare to see a lovelier bride than Lady Madeline.”
Madeline nodded her thanks … again.
Iain kept his smile in place and didn’t show a single sign of agitation.
Even though the rotund bishop had kept them standing on the cathedral steps for nearly an hour.
Indeed, if the gregarious churchman didn’t soon stop pressing his hospitality on them, dusk would soon settle and the wedding feast awaiting them at Abercairn would begin without the bride and groom.
Sliding a glance at her new husband, Madeline tried to catch his eye, but the bishop looked her way instead, rewarding her with another of his warm and jolly smiles.
“My regrets that, in our excitement to prepare for your nuptials, we misplaced your wedding gift,” he said. “Brother Jerome will find it soon, rest easy.”
“We must be away.” Iain’s brow creased. “We have guests at Abercairn.”
“You will be there soon, son.” The bishop patted Iain’s arm. “Have patience.”
“We do,” Madeline assured the man.
For good measure, she also edged closer to Iain and discreetly nudged his toe.
Only her father didn’t seem to mind the wait.
Much improved in health in recent weeks, Sir John strolled the cathedral’s tree-shaded grounds with Gavin and Nella, perhaps planning the smaller wedding they’d celebrate at Abercairn in a fortnight, before leaving for Gavin’s home of Doon.
Madeline’s heart squeezed.
She’d miss her friends, but wished them well. They certainly made a jovial pair. Just now, they were smiling at the tail-wagging affections of the bishop’s young hound. The black-and-tan whelp jumped and cavorted about her father’s legs, and she caught his laughter at the dog’s playful antics.
Such was a joy she’d never tire of, just as she loved seeing Silver Leg’s two greyhounds trail her father’s every step through Abercairn, adoration in their great round eyes – and her father’s, too.
John Drummond had always loved dogs, but never been able to keep one, and now it seemed every needy canine in the realm found its way to Abercairn’s door.
Much to the old laird’s delight.
None of Abercairn’s leeches could explain why dogs no longer made the laird sneeze. Madeline and Iain suspected it had something to do with Iain’s sacred relic having been secured in Sir John’s bedchamber in the weeks before Iain delivered the reliquary and his other gifts to the cathedral.
“Ahhh… here comes Brother Jerome at last.” The rosy-cheeked bishop rubbed his hands together, his eyes twinkling. “So sorry to have kept you waiting, but the gillie who delivered your gift claimed it was of the greatest importance that you receive it on your wedding day.
“We would have sent the courier out to Abercairn otherwise,” he added, then shrugged. “Better now, moments after your blessed union, eh?”
The words spoken, Brother Jerome joined them on the cathedral steps and offered Iain a large linen-wrapped package.
“Here, my sweet.” He handed it to Madeline. “Today is your day, too.”
“Nae, sir.” The bishop placed a beringed hand on Iain’s arm. “We were instructed you are to open the gift.”
“Me?”
Both churchmen bobbed their heads. “It was made quite clear,” the bishop declared.
Puzzled, Iain took back the package, opened it, and withdrew the most beautifully worked sword belt he’d ever seen. Of finest leather, the belt was clearly priceless. But it wasn’t the value in coin that made it so dear.
He shook his head. “I dinnae believe it.”
“What?” Madeline gripped his arm. “You know the belt? Is it yours?”
“No’ the belt…” Heat stung Iain’s eyes as he gazed in wonder at the two Highland quartz crystals set into the belt’s clasp.
Devorgilla’s faery fire stones.
And they shone with a light brighter than a thousand suns.
“‘Tis the stones.” Iain pulled his bride close, resisted the urge to shield his eyes from the stones’ brilliance. “They are a blessing for us, a gift from Doon’s crone.”
“Truly?”
“Aye.” He leaned in, kissed her cheek. “I will tell you the tale later, when we are abed.”
“I will hold you to it.” She ran a finger along his jaw, touched his lips. “Among other things.”
“Whate’er you desire, my lady.” Iain smiled, sure he knew.
She peered at the belt, its precious stones.
“So beautiful.” Seizing the belt, she fastened it low around Iain’s hips.
Stepping back to admire him, she smiled. “Now you truly do look like the Master of the Highlands.”
Iain shook his head. “I dinnae care much about being Master of the Highlands, lass.”
“Nae?” She blinked. “I thought you liked the title?”
“Och, I do.” He dropped a kiss on her brow. “I’d just rather be the Master of Your Heart.”
“But you are, my love.” Madeline slid her arms around his shoulders, leaned up to kiss him. “You were all along.”
As she said the words, the faery fire stones gleamed even brighter. And far off in the distance, on the fair Isle of Doon, some may have heard a cackle of delight.
Author’s Note from Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Dear Readers,
Where to begin? I’ve been writing these Author’s Notes for many years now, always assuming/hoping that if you’re anything like me, you’ll appreciate a behind-the-scenes peek at various things encountered in a story.
This is also where I share any fun facts and inspiration that might be of interest.
S
o here’s a selection of ‘tidbits’ from Master of the Highlands…
~ This book was originally published very early in my career. I’ve made changes here and there so the writing style reflects how I write today.
~ The original cover model was John DeSalvo and the cover model on this edition is Michael Foster. I’ve met both men at conferences and was delighted to discover that they are as nice as they are handsome.
~ Arisaid: A Highland woman’s version of a belted great plaid. Outerwear, worn like a cloak or shawl, versatile, can be belted (or not). Earliest arisaids were undyed or white, with broad stripes or a tartan pattern.
~ Iain’s Penance: Pilgrimage was big business in medieval Scotland and Glasgow Cathedral was a highlight of the pilgrimage circuit. St. Kentigern’s shrine can still be visited today and the story’s descriptions of the tomb and its medieval cure-seeking visitors reflect how medieval pilgrims would have experienced such a sacred site. Other saints and places mentioned are likewise real, unless noted here.
Holy wells, springs, healing ponds, glades, trees, crosses, cairns, etc, also drew pilgrims.
~ Iain’s Reliquary: Loosely based on Scotland’s famous Monymusk Reliquary, dated to the 700s and said to have held a relic of St. Columba. Small and ‘purse-like,’ it is made of yew wood covered by sheets of silver and bronze and decorated with enamel designs of Pictish origin. The reliquary was carried by Robert the Bruce’s army at his triumphant Battle of Bannockburn in 1314. The Monymusk Reliquary is on display at the Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. (google it to learn more and see images)
~ Duncairn Cathedral: Fictitious, but based on several very real Scottish cathedrals. During the Viking years, much of Scotland’s treasure was moved from coastal regions to inland cathedrals or monasteries for safekeeping. Sadly, such places are soft targets for all marauders, not just raiding Norsemen. So Iain taking gifts to Duncairn to replenish stolen treasures could have happened.
~ Disinheriteds: Scottish nobles who’d supported the English in the Scottish Wars of Independence and then lost their lands through the Treaty of Edinburgh in 1328 when England accepted Robert Bruce as king of an independent Scotland. Bruce died shortly thereafter in 1329 and these ‘disinherited’ nobles then returned to Scotland with English support to reclaim their lands – or as I had Logie do, rampage and seize property at will.
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