The next day, they walked to the edge of the isle, where the water lapped against the rocks. She had brought flowers picked from the garden – lavender and primrose. They prayed, and then tossed them into the water.
In her heart, she christened her daughter, Mairi, after her beloved nursemaid.
She remembered her dangerous swim across this very water, when she had almost drowned. How desperate she had been then. How happy she was now.
She looked at the man standing next to her.
“It has come full circle,” she whispered. He held her in his arms, stroking her soft hair.
They walked back to their castle, hand in hand. Everything was finally right with their worlds.
The End
Highland Jewel
©2018 by Blair Keith
All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, events or locales is completely coincidental.
Chapter One
Aberdeenshire, Scotland, 1353
“My Lord. We should stop to rest the horses soon. I’m sure your good lady wife would appreciate a rest, as well.”
Buchanan Innes, the Laird of Aberdeenshire, atop his favorite stead, looked back at his man Knox who had uttered the words.
Buchanan sighed heavily. Knox was right, of course. They had been travelling for five hours already. He had ridden his small regiment hard, but he had forgotten that his wife and his infant son were travelling with them. He looked back at Edana on her horse. She was pale, with dark rings of fatigue underneath her eyes. A wave of tenderness washed over him. Behind her, on a brown mare, the nursemaid held his two-year-old son, Dougal. The boy was asleep, wrapped in a plaid blanket in her arms.
“Aye, Knox. There is a brook further down this valley where we will stop,” Buchanan answered eventually. “But not for long. We only have a few more hours of daylight.”
Buchanan scanned the countryside automatically. It came naturally to him, now. As Laird, he was always on the alert. There had been minimal clan clashes in recent times, though, which was why he felt confident travelling with such a small retainer of men.
They reached the brook, and slid off their horses. Buchanan walked to his wife, helping her dismount. She looked up at him lovingly.
“I must say, it is good to finally be out of the saddle,” Edana said. She rubbed her back ruefully.
Buchanan laughed. “You are growing soft in your old age, dearest,” he smiled. “Remember our rides around Loch Muick, before we were wed?”
Edana smiled. “I do remember,” she said, gazing up at her husband and Laird. “How we rode like the wind! Just the two of us, outsmarting the men to be on our own.”
Buchanan’s eyes grew warm as he looked at her, remembering. “We would stop in the woods, and...”
Edana put a hand up to stop him. “No more, Laird! We are an old married couple now, and shouldn’t think back on the folly of our youth.” But she smiled as she spoke.
The nursemaid, Fenella, approached with their sleeping son. Edana gently took him in her arms, gazing down on the sleeping face adoringly. Buchanan felt a lump form in his throat as he looked at them both.
Could a man be more blessed than he? he wondered as he led his horse to the brook to drink. Wed for five years now, to the lassie he had loved since he was just a lad. He had known Edana since they were children; they had played together whenever their families had met. He knew how lucky he was – most lairds never met their betrothed before the ceremony, and didn’t like them much after. But she had always been his beloved.
The only blot on their happiness had been the lack of a child.
For the first two years of their marriage, they had hoped. But there was nothing. Edana grew sad and withdrawn. She went on pilgrimages to shrines of Our Lady, begging the mother of God to bless her with a child. Buchanan knew she had done other things, too, not sanctioned by the church. She had consulted midwives and healers, and once they had made love under a Rowan tree after she was told this would bless them with a child.
It had worked. Nine months later, Dougal, his son and heir, had come howling into the world. A child who could not be more loved and wanted. Secretly, they nicknamed him Rowan boy, remembering that wonderful night under the tree when he had been conceived.
He glanced around, assessing. The horses were all drinking. Most of the men had wondered off, relieving themselves behind trees or drinking thirstily. Dougal had woken up and wriggled out of Edana’s arms, raring to go. Buchanan saw her instruct the nursemaid to take him for a walk, which Fenella did, leading the little black haired lad further upstream.
Knox approached him. “Time to get moving, laird,” he said, glancing around him. “Shouldn’t stay too long. I know there hasn’t been much trouble recently, but we should be vigilant. Those Sutherlands have been making a bit of noise.”
Buchanan yawned. “A little longer, Knox,” he said. “The little laddie needs to stretch his legs.”
Knox frowned. “We shouldn’t have brought him. He should have stayed with his nursemaid at Dunnottar.”
Buchanan looked at the man. “We thought of it. But Edana couldn’t bear to be separated from him, ye ken? There is the banquet at Drum Castle tomorrow, but we will be staying for another week at least with the Irvine’s.”
Knox spat on the ground. “I don’t like it. It slows us down.”
Buchanan studied his right-hand man. A tough warrior, Knox had led many battles on behalf of the Innes. Buchanan didn’t know what he would do without him. They had been fighting battles side by side since both were in their teens. Buchanan trusted his judgment implicitly.
“If you think it best, we will pack up now,” he replied.
A shadow fell over the brook. He looked up. A mass of clouds was moving across the sun. He turned to look at his wife, who was standing by the brook now, bending down to scoop water into her hands and drink. He could see the long knot of black hair coursing down her back.
It happened quickly, and yet Buchanan felt like time began to warp, slowing each second down immeasurably.
Edana straightened slowly, raising her hand to her neck, almost caressing the arrow that had swiftly punctured it.
Buchanan started running toward her. Oh God, what had happened to his love?
It seemed to take him forever to reach her. She staggered, still holding the arrow. He could see bright red blood spurting from between her fingers.
In his peripheral vision, he could see his men moving, drawing their slings and arrows. He heard the voice of Knox, screaming. “Ambush!”
He was almost to her. If he stretched out his fingers, he would be able to touch her. She looked at him then, confusion in her dark eyes.
But it was too late. He felt the knife enter sharply, in between his shoulder blades, cold and merciless. He staggered and fell, arms reaching still toward his wife.
Behind him, Knox let out a primal roar, brandishing his sword in the air above his head. He had not seen the assassin with the knife pounce on his laird until it was too late.
Blood swam before Knox’s eyes. With the might of ten men, he lunged. He had killed five by the time he got to his laird, writhing on the ground. Knox lay his head on Buchanan’s chest, listening. He heaved a sigh of relief. Still breathing.
Then he saw the lady, on her side with an arrow hanging out of her neck. Her eyes were still blinking.
He had to decide. He couldn’t carry both. He turned to his laird.
Knox heaved him up onto his shoulders, staggering into the woods. He made it just as more men ran into the clearing, hollering war cries. Knox dropped the wounded man behind some bushes, where he crouched down, panting heavily. The cries of his men as they were slaughtered would stay with him to his dying day.
***
Buchanan’s breathing was getting more labored. He was ashen.
Knox turned him over, assessing the wound. It was clean, but deep, right between the shoulder blades. Blood was pouring out.
He ripped his kilt roughly until he had enough fabric for a bandage. Buchanan’s head was lolling as Knox worked. He had secured the wound, but for how long? Even now he could see blood seeping through it.
“Edana…” Buchanan’s voice was a whisper, saying his wife’s name over and over.
“Dead.” Knox knew he was being harsh, but he couldn’t go back for his laird’s wife. Not if he wanted to save his laird.
Buchanan’s face crumpled. “No…no….” A single tear trickled down his cheek.
Knox felt a lump in his throat. He roughly pressed his shirt against the wound.
“Dougal?” Buchanan whispered. “Where is my son?”
Knox had completely forgotten the boy. He didn’t know what to say to Buchanan. He seemed to recall they had walked upstream, probably first in the path of the marauders when they had come through.
Who the hell were they? Knox squinted his eyes, trying to remember the tartan. Of course. Sutherlands.
“Knox….” Buchanan’s voice was fading. “Look after my son…. keep my son safe…”
Knox looked at his laird. It was too late – he could see the man’s life force draining out of him. The boy was probably dead, as well. But then, Buchanan would never know that.
“I promise, laird,” Knox said roughly. “You have my word, on my sword. I will keep your son safe.”
Buchanan’s eyes were tilting backwards. With a sharp intake of breath, he turned his head suddenly. He uttered his wife’s name a last time, before the last hiss of breath left him.
Knox lowered the dead man onto the ground. He bowed his head. If he was a godly man, now would be the time for prayers. But he was not. All he could do was lower his laird’s eyelids.
Everything was still. The screaming had ceased.
The light was darkening when Knox eventually made his way back to the clearing. He shuddered at the carnage before him. Dead Clan Kerr men everywhere.
He turned and walked to where the woman’s body lay.
Knox was a hardened warrior, but he swore softly under his breath when he saw what they had done to her.
The lady of Aberdeenshire was dead, as he knew she would be. But the Sutherland blaggards had not let her die from the arrow wound to her neck.
Her gown had been torn from her, so her body lay naked, half submerged in the brook. He could see blood oozing from several knife wounds on her torso. They had attacked her in a frenzy.
Knox knelt, cradling Edana’s head. The knot of her ink black hair fell over his arms. Her black eyes were open, frozen in horror. He gently closed the lids. He could see that her jewels had been ripped from her body.
So, that was the motivation? Robbery?
He cursed, and stood up. There was nothing more to be done for her, this lovely lady, his laird’s eternal beloved.
His feet dragged as he walked upstream, searching for the bodies of the boy and his nursemaid. His heart was as heavy as it had ever been.
Except he couldn’t find them. Puzzled, he was starting to wade into the brook to see if they had been pushed into the water when he heard the snap of a twig behind him.
It could be a deer. But a sixth sense led him to investigate.
He couldn’t believe it. Crouched in the hollow of a dead tree, he could see the nursemaid, cradling the little boy.
Alive. Very much alive.
Chapter Two
Dunnottar Castle, Aberdeenshire. Twenty years later.
The air was filled with the scent of roasted venison as the harassed servants brought ever more dishes into the great hall. The long banquet table groaned under the weight of the food.
The men were high in their cups, toasting each other with abandon. Claret flowed freely, although the local heather ale was also in abundance.
“You’d think they hadn’t eaten in a month,” whispered one of the servants to another as they plonked yet another dish in front of the famished men.
It was true. The savagery of the men as they attacked the meal was something to behold. Hounds that sat at their feet gnawed on the bones that were thrown over shoulders.
“To the Laird!” yelled one man, lurching to his feet unsteadily; ale cup raised to the top of the table.
“To the Laird!” they all echoed, raising mugs and swilling.
Dougal, the new Laird of Aberdeenshire, raised his cup in acknowledgment. He raised the cup higher as he turned to the man at his right hand side.
Knox accepted the compliment with a raise of his own cup.
“How long was the hunt?” the older man asked the younger, gesturing to the deer, resplendent on a long platter in the middle of the table.
Dougal smiled. “She eluded us for a while, but we got her in the end. Probably a few hours.” He paused. “She was worth the wait.”
“Aye,” the older man agreed. “Nothing better than roasted venison on a platter.” He let out a belch, and wriggled uncomfortably. “I must take off my scabbard soon, though. It’s getting a bit tight!”
Dougal laughed, looking at this guardian fondly.
He was a well contented man, all things considered.
The banquet was in celebration of the fact that he had just been declared the new Laird of Aberdeenshire, taking over from Knox, who had held the trustee of the lairdship for him since he was two years old.
The older man had served him faithfully, and well. Dougal could have assumed the title before, but he didn’t want the responsibility until now. Besides, he was a fighting man. Knox had trained him thoroughly in all aspects of combat. They had battled side by side for years now. But the most satisfying battle of all had been against the Sutherlands, one year ago.
Dougal felt his fists tighten as he remembered the satisfaction of finally avenging his murdered parents.
“This is for your parents, God rest their souls,” Knox had said, before they ambushed. Dougal had never seen him fight so viciously. Knox had been like a brother to his father. He had been there the day his parents had been killed.
So had Dougal. Not that he could remember. Apparently, his old nursemaid had hidden with him in a hollow tree stump, and they had survived the slaughter. Good old Fenella, thought Dougal. He still thought fondly of his nursemaid, dead nigh on fifteen years now.
As soon as she had passed, Knox had claimed him. “You are no longer a laddie,” he had told the bewildered seven-year-old. “The time for the nursery is behind you. We will make a great warrior of you, boy.”
And he had. He had taken the boy into the Highlands, sleeping rough, training him. Dougal had killed his first man when he was twelve years old.
He was a warrior, and proud of it. He prided himself that he held little sentimentality in his heart.
He drained his ale, looking around for the serving girl to refill him.
He spotted her in the corner. She was there with another servant. Both lasses were looking at him, whispering to each other. When they saw their laird’s eyes on them, they colored.
Dougal grinned. He was used to the effect he had on women. They swooned over the tall, black haired man with the chiselled face and piercing brown eyes. He barely had to glance at one before her skirts were around her shoulders. It had been that way since he was a teenager.
He gestured to the serving girl with a crook of his finger.
She bounded toward him, ale jug in hand. He watched her bosom bouncing as she walked.
She tipped the jug toward his cup. Dougal smiled, reefing it away at the last minute. Ale slopped onto the table.
The girl bit her lip. “I am so sorry, laird,” she breathed.
Dougal looked at her, eyes narrowed. “What was your name again, lass?”
“Grizel, if you please, laird.”
“Well Grizel, I don’t like it very much when I
have ale tipped over. You should make it up to me.” He looked at the girl. Her bottom lip pouted.
“In my chamber. An hour’s time,” he drawled.
Grizel’s eyes widened. Then she curtseyed quickly, walking back to the other girl to whisper in her ear again.
Dougal watched them over the brim of his cup. Maybe he should get the two of them to entertain him in his chamber?
He was interrupted in his reverie by Knox, grabbing him on the arm.
“You shouldn’t dally too much with the serving wenches,” the older man said. “You are getting older, my lad. Time you started thinking of marriage.”
Marriage? Dougal raised an eyebrow.
He was too young, to get married!
Too many women, too little time. He grinned. Besides, although he enjoyed having conquests for a night – not to mention visiting certain local establishments - he had never met anyone that he wanted to marry. Oh, the names of potential brides had been tossed at him for years by Knox, but he had always managed to wiggle out of it.
He frowned. He wasn’t being entirely honest with himself.
There was one girl.
He clearly remembered when he had seen her. It had been at the Earl of Buchan’s wedding. Two years ago.
A girl dressed in white had stood at the entrance, on the arm of an elderly man. She had long flowing golden hair. When she had started walking, he had seen her face, and it made him catch his breath.
She had large amber eyes, accentuated by long black lashes. Her lips were the color of rubies.
“Who is she?” he had asked his best friend and fellow warrior, Kinney, who was standing next to him.
Kinney had laughed. “You are looking at the ‘Jewel of the Highlands’,” he had answered. “Heather Leith, the Maid of Caithness, of Clan Gunn. She is well known as the most beautiful woman in the Highlands, if not all of Scotland.”
“I must have her,” Dougal had breathed, spellbound.
Kinney had laughed again. “Get in line, Dougal,” he replied. “You and most of the men in Scotland! She rejects marriage proposals daily. And anyway, she is already betrothed, to the Glenorchy clan.”
Historical Hearts Romance Collection Page 31
