Highlander’s Devious Ally (Scottish Medieval Historical Romance)

by Adamina Young

  The boys’ mother had died when Findlay was born, so the two were brought up by their father, who died when Findlay was twelve. He had gone on a sea voyage to Spain and had never come back, and later it was discovered that his ship had gone down in a storm with no survivors.

  They had a sister too who wanted to be a nun, and Ranald had to be father for all of them. She and Finlay where twins but still, not as close as the two brothers where. Ranald was almost ready to take over the family farm, which was quite prosperous and had been running quite profitably under the auspices of Uncle Adam, his father’s brother.

  Ranald’s pride and joy was his newly-acquired mare Sheba, a well-built but fine-boned riding horse. He had paid a small fortune for her and took care of her as if she were his own child. He had sometimes even been known to sleep in the stables with her. He had no excuse; he merely wanted to be near her.

  “You treat that horse like a girl!” Findlay accused him, laughing. “Even the chambermaids laugh at you!”

  “Away and get your head back in your work!” Ranald growled. “And remember that next time I really will hit you! I should have done it months ago!”

  Findlay laughed. Ranald always came out with the same threat but had never once carried it out.

  Findlay and Ranald did not have a castle of their own, but the farm had a ten-bedroom house and they employed four servants, made their own butter, cheese, and sausages, as well as curing their own bacon, and they grew all their own vegetables in the kitchen garden. Chickens who supplied all their eggs strutted about clucking importantly in the garden, as well as goats for milk. Findlay often thought that if they lost everything but the garden and the pigsties they could still live comfortably forever.

  He was happy. Soon he would be big and strong enough to chase the local girls and then he would have a sweetheart of his own. Until then, he could watch how Ranald did his flirting and learn from him.

  Findlay would never forget the day his life changed forever. It was a day in October when the harvest was being gathered and the rye and barley fields shone golden even on the most sullen of days. Great draught horses pulled loads of sheaves of oats and towering piles of hay on carts, and the tangy aroma of wood smoke scented the air as farmers burned dead wood. It was a magical month.

  They lived in the town of Inchcolm, which was on the northern shore of Loch Ness at its widest point, just before it became the North Sea. It was a comfortable little town, well known for its fishing fleet, one of the biggest and most productive in the area; indeed, it had a huge harbor for such a small town.

  There was one thing that the McBlain farm could not produce, and that was fish, and since the two brothers particularly relished herring fried in oatmeal on a Friday night, they went into town at least once a week to stock up on supplies, usually taking the opportunity to go into the local tavern, the Black Bull, for a hearty jug of ale which the landlord, Gregor Mullan called “The Best in the West.” They lived on the east coast of Scotland but nobody worried too much about the name as long as the beer was good, which it was.

  The bar was crowded because it was a Thursday and the hard drinkers wanted to fill up their bellies before Friday, the day of fast. The McBlain brothers were regular, but moderate drinkers, and two of Gregor’s favorites because they were sociable and gave him very little trouble.

  “Two Bests, please, Greg,” Ranald said, leaning on the counter and looking at the pretty new barmaid Sorcha, a plump pretty redhead with a cheeky air about her.

  “Just my kind of woman,” Ranald said as he quaffed his beer with satisfaction. “A treat for the eyes!”

  “Ranald!” One of the regulars, a man called Jamie who had the bulbous blue nose and rheumy eyes of the heavy drinker, called for his attention. “Every wummin is your kind o’ wummin!”

  Ranald raised his glass. “To women!” he cried, “God’s most magnificent creation!”

  There was a general chorus of cheers and Ranald was slapped on the back so hard that he nearly fell over.

  Just then, a well-dressed man came in escorted by two armed guards. This was such a rare sight that most of the patrons stood back to let him through without any argument. This too was unusual. The man himself was unremarkable, of medium height, medium build, regular features, and light brown hair. He was pleasant enough, but had a self-important air that Ranald immediately disliked. His guards stood on either side of him glaring malevolently at all the patrons in the pub, their hands on the daggers that were prominently hanging from their belts.

  “I am Laird McCauley of Inverlieth,” the man said in an upper-class accent. “May I ask to whom the gray mare outside belongs?”

  “She belongs to me, M'Laird,” Ranald said, stepping forward and giving the man a polite little bow. The Laird bowed back and Ranald thought he saw a fleeting look of surprise on his face.

  “She is a beauty,” the Laird said enviously. “Would you consider selling her to me?”

  “Thank you, M'Laird, but she is not for sale,” Ranald said firmly. “However, I can give you the name of the dealer where I bought her.”

  “I can offer you a very good price,” the Laird wheedled.

  Ranald looked at the rapt faces around them. This was the most interesting thing that had happened in ages.

  “I prefer not to discuss private matters in public,” Ranald said angrily.

  “Of course,” the Laird said. “Pardon me.” He stood aside to let Ranald out and they stood in the street looking at the horse.

  “The dealer is David McCue,” Ranald said, pointing to a cluster of buildings on the corner inside which several horses’ heads were visible over the doors of their stalls. “He mainly deals in draught horses but he sometimes gets beautiful specimens like Sheba here. I don’t know what breed she is, or if she is a pure breed of any kind but she has a good, sweet character.” He ran his hand down the horse’s neck and she whickered and blew on his hair in a gesture of affection.

  “I do not want another horse.” There was a definite edge of hostility to the Laird’s voice now. “I want this one. Every man has his price. Tell me what yours is and I will double it.”

  Ranald looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps you did not hear me, M'Laird. You may offer me the moon and I will still not part with her. She is not for sale.”

  “Name your price then,” the Laird said, sighing.

  Ranald was becoming really angry now. He tried a different approach. “Thank you for the honor you have done me, M'Laird, but the horse is not for sale, nor will it ever be.”

  The Laird bowed and gave him a somewhat hostile glance. “If you should change your mind, my castle is in Inverleith, ten miles down the road. Ask anyone in the town and they will find me.” He was going to turn away, but then swung back. “I expect to hear from you soon, Mister—?”

  “McBlain,” Ranald replied sullenly. Echoed.

  “I see you are one of those men who enjoy the thrill of the chase,” the Laird observed, “and like to drive a hard bargain. I expect to hear from you soon.”

  Ranald was about to repeat the fact that the horse was not for sale, but decided that he was wasting his breath. He went back inside where Findlay was waiting and they finished their drinks. Ranald was in a thoroughly sour mood by this time and was quiet for the first mile of the journey home, which they were doing at a slow amble.

  At last Ranald sighed, stretched, and smiled at his brother. “I am not letting that idiot rile me!” he said determinedly. “He can play the big man while he has two armed men with him, but let him face me himself and it will be a different story!”

  “Yes, you are right, Ranald,” Findlay agreed, laughing. “Can we hurry up a bit? I am starving.”

  Findlay did not remember the next few moments very clearly, but he remembered their consequences for the rest of his life. He was suddenly knocked sideways by something that felt like a blow from a hammer on the side of his head, and he fell from his horse onto the stony surface of the road. He landed on the s
ide of his head, and there was a concussion like a drumbeat that pulsed through his ear for a few heartbeats. Vaguely he thought he heard shouts of triumph. He tried to remain conscious but it was a losing battle, and blackness descended.

  When he woke, his head was throbbing with pain, and as he tried to sit up, a sharp needle of it went through his head, but he persevered and looked around for Ranald. He was only a few yards away, lying face down on the dirt, motionless. When Findlay saw Ranald he knew at once he was dead, although there was not a mark on his body.

  Findlay checked the pulse at his throat just to be sure, then shook him vigorously for a moment, trying to bring life back into the body that would never breathe again. He picked up Ranald’s hand and held it against his face, weeping bitterly till he had no tears left. It was only then that he noticed that Sheba was missing, then he knew who had killed his beloved brother, and a black, bitter rage filled him. A moment later this was confirmed as he saw a piece of cloth under Ranald’s body and as he pulled it out he saw part of the crest of the McCauley clan, which the guards carried whenever they were accompanying the Laird.

  Pain overtook him. He felt like destroying everything he saw before him. Life had no meaning.

  It was then that he swore his revenge.

  13

  Planning and Execution

  Lyall had never seen such hate in a man’s face before. Findlay was weeping tears of rage, and was thumping one fist into the palm of the other as though he were punching Jock’s face. Lyall put his hand on Findlay’s to still his motions, but he swiped it away, and Lyall concluded that it was something he did when he thought about Ranald’s death.

  “I hate him with every fiber of my being,” Findlay hissed, “and I spent the first weeks after Ranald died fantasizing about ways to torture and kill him. I hardly ate, hardly slept. I nearly made myself ill. My uncle and aunt were very concerned about me, till one day I realized that I was killing myself, and that would mean that Jock McCauley had killed both the McBlain brothers and our name would die. I had sworn revenge, and now I was going to get it.”

  “How did you get him to take you in?” Lyall asked.

  “I followed him every chance that I could,” he replied, “and I gradually came to know what kind of person he likes, does not like, who is worthwhile currying favors from, and who he can use. He uses people as informants and spies, and as menials. He picks up waifs and strays like me and makes them do dirty jobs just so they have something to eat, or so you would think. The truth is he loves to bully people.

  “I got into his household by acting like a simpleton begging by the side of the road for something to eat, and he pretended to take pity on me. It was all I could do to keep it up, because M'Laird was riding Sheba, Ranald’s horse, and I would happily have beaten him to a pulp if I could. But I must be a good actor, for he took me into his service.” Findlay paused for a moment, apparently thinking, then he laughed in a gloating fashion. “Because I am apparently so dense, there are many things that I can do which no one thinks I am capable of.”

  “Such as?” Lyall asked, intrigued.

  “I put antimony in his wine one evening,” he replied, smiling. “Not enough to kill him, but enough to keep him in the privy for a week! Nobody ever suspects me of anything, although I know they pity me. I am treated like a pet.”

  “Why do you not just kill him?” Lyall asked, puzzled. “You could have done it easily.”

  “I will, but first I want to ruin him,” Lyall resumed the angry motion of his hands again. “I will show everyone what an evil black-hearted monster he is. Men like him have to be exposed.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Lyall asked.

  “Wait and see,” Findlay said grimly.

  They sat talking for a while, each telling the story of their lives and their hopes for the future. Findlay had a fund of stories about Ranald, and it was evident that his brother’s death had left a void in Findlay’s life that could only be filled by the death of Jock McCauley. At the same time, both were aware that a bond had formed between them. Whatever happened in the future, a friendship had been forged.

  Just before the sun rose, while there was still only a sliver of light on the horizon, they prepared to leave so that Findlay would not be missed. In the early morning, his first duty was to empty the servants’ chamber pots.

  “There is one thing I must tell you,” Findlay said heavily. “You must be prepared to get your forces ready to free Ailith this afternoon.”

  Lyall looked at Findlay’s grim face and felt as if a boulder had settled in his stomach. “Why?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Because Laird Jock is not the only one with spies,” Findlay replied enigmatically. “Something is being planned for today—all the signs are there. There are preparations being made for a feast in the castle. I have heard nothing for certain, but I strongly suspect that he is going to take Ailith and force her to marry him, and the food is for the marriage feast.”

  Lyall felt a surge of anger so strong that he could hardly contain it. He gave an almighty roar that was half pain and half rage before Findlay gripped his upper arms.

  “Concentrate on mustering your men,” he advised. “I will join you later. Now go!”

  “Thank you,” Lyall replied, grasping the other man’s hand. Then he frowned, puzzled. “You could have said this a while ago. Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

  “You still have enough time to go and get your men,” Findlay replied, then he sighed. “I just wanted to talk for a while to someone who did not speak to me like an idiot.”

  Ailith’s hands were so painful that she could go on no longer. She had used a little of her precious drinking water to wash them, but unless the earth suddenly gave way she doubted if she could dig her way out before she starved to death.

  She had made a gap of just over a foot wide under the edge of the stones, but she knew that soon she would have to dig them out without the guards seeing her. They were heavy and she was weak from hunger, fatigue, and pain.

  She sighed. Perhaps she should give in and marry Jock; perhaps he would not be too bad a husband. Then she shook her head, for she knew that it was her despair speaking. If Jock tried to take her by force she would find some way to kill herself, she vowed, because being married to him would be like a living death anyway. She lay back on the mattress and closed her eyes, then fell into an exhausted stupor. She no longer cared what happened to her. Jock had broken her at last.

  At that moment, her prospective bridegroom was on his way to see Ailith with twelve of his best men and a priest. Jock was dressed in his best kilt and had a standard bearer on each side of him bearing the crest of his clan, and twelve of his best men, fully armed. He could hardly wait; he was feeling gleeful, triumphant, and full of lust, because tonight Ailith was going to be his, even if she fought, because he was going to tie her to the bed.

  The thought made him squirm with unabated lust. He would watch her helpless and terrified face as he made her his, and hear her agonized scream as he took her maidenhead. The more he thought about the idea the more he liked it, and he was grinning from ear to ear as he reached the cottage.

  The priest was a young handsome man called Iain Baxter. He had been ordained at the age of twenty-three and defrocked at the age of twenty-five after numerous complaints had been received about his overfamiliarity with young girls. He was tall, fair-haired, and quite handsome except for a prominent jagged scar that ran up from the corner of his mouth almost to his left cheekbone. It had been caused by the eating knife of the girl whose testimony had led to his expulsion from the church.

  He had kept the secret of his disgrace private, except for a select few acquaintances so that he could perform clandestine functions like this one for corrupt lairds like Jock McCauley, for which he was well-compensated. He made a good living this way, and had all the women he wanted. Jock and everyone else despised him, but they tolerated him out of necessity.

  Jock and “Father” Bax
ter dismounted as they came to the door of the cottage, then the guard with the key opened it for them. Jock screwed up his eyes at the smell, and the so-called priest did likewise.

  “Ailith! My love!” Jock called, smiling at her in a way that was more of a gloat than an expression of joy. “Have you decided to marry me yet? Please say yes, because I have brought Father Baxter with me and I will bring in two of my men to be witnesses.”

  Ailith felt sick. She was filthy, hungry, her hands were excruciatingly painful, and her spirit had been worn down by this cruel man’s treatment of her. “Do I have a choice?” she asked heavily. “Do what you like, Jock, I no longer care. Only let me wash, please.”

  Jock smiled triumphantly. “Of course!” he replied. “I will have some water brought for you.”

  He called out to one of his men, who conveniently happened to have soap, water, and a towel with him. Ailith’s lip curled with disgust as she looked at Jock.

  “You knew I was being kept dirty, Jock,” she said scornfully, then stepped up to him and thrust her face into his. “I am not a fool, and I would appreciate it if you would not treat me like one. You will have to put up with me the way I am, since this is the way you wanted me.”

  “You cannot be serious!,” Jock said his jaw dropping in amazement and disgust. “Wash yourself at once. I cannot marry you looking like this!”

  “Then do not marry me,” she replied lightly. “Your choice, Jock. Marry me as I am, filthy as you want me to be, or do not marry me at all.”

  “I could hold you down and make you wash,” he threatened, frowning ferociously.

  “Do so, then,” she shrugged. “I cannot stop you. I do not want to marry you, but I cannot stop you doing that either. Do whatever you have to, Jock. I do not care.”

  “I have had a beautiful dress made for you,” he wheedled, and beckoned one of his men to bring it in. It was indeed lovely, made of buttercream-colored satin and trimmed with white lace, but to Ailith it was a symbol of oppression, of slavery, because it meant the end of her ability to have any say in her own life.