Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  Ewan raised his brow in surprise at the viciousness of his tone.

  And then the king wheeled his horse’s head around and galloped away with his men close behind.

  “It was as fruitless as I feared ‘twould be,” Cameron said, heaving a sigh. “We must prepare. On the morrow, there is war.”

  The party then returned to Stirling, subdued.

  And they’d no sooner ridden under that city’s gray-stoned gate than they were met by Merry, wide-eyed with concern.

  “Merry, ye must leave at once, my wee lass,” Ruan declared as he dismounted.

  Cameron handed his horse off to a stable lad and joined them. “Aye, ye should hie off to Cambuskenneth Abbey. I’ll be sending my wee Kate and the lassies there as well,” he said kindly. “On the morrow, this will be no place for women and children.”

  Merry’s dark brows knit into a scowl, a scowl that her brother instantly mirrored. “I’ll not have ye say otherwise, Merry,” he warned, locking his firm jaw.

  “And have I no say?” Merry exploded, her dark eyes flashing. And then she turned to Ewan. “Surely, ye canna let them send me away?”

  “Aye, I would see ye safe in Cambuskenneth myself,” Ewan said, stepping forward to join them.

  “And ye? Are ye fighting?” she asked, her nostrils flaring. “Has your wound healed, aye? Should ye even be lifting a sword?”

  Stifling the smile threatening his lips, Ewan reached over and cupped her chin in the palm of his hand. “I’ll not be dying any time soon, I swear it, Merry.”

  Tears threatened her expressive brown eyes, and she turned upon her brother. “And ye? Are ye drawing your sword as well?”

  Ruan smiled and bent down to kiss the top of her head. “Aye, but ye know right well that no man can withstand the rage of a MacLeod, lass,” he said.

  “I’m a MacLeod, Ruan, and dinna ye forget it,” she choked, furiously wiping the tears from her eyes. “I’m fair angry with the both of ye. But return to me, so I can keep being angry with ye for several years at least, aye?”

  Cameron’s brow creased in laughter though his lips remained set in a line as Ruan chuckled outright.

  “I swear it, my wee Merry lass, and I’ll expect your wrath for years to come,” her brother said then, and catching Ewan’s eye, he gave an almost imperceptible nod before shifting his eyes back to his sister. “I’ll trust Ewan to see ye on your way then. I must be going.”

  And then drawing Merry close for a final farewell peck on the cheek, Ruan turned on his heel and joined Cameron to cross the courtyard and disappear into Stirling’s main hall.

  Ewan lifted his brow, a little surprised at Ruan’s response, but more than a wee bit grateful. The man was warming up a bit faster than he’d expected.

  “Are ye truly sending me away?” Merry broke into his thoughts, her voice catching with unshed tears.

  Leaning down, he whispered into her hair, “I must, lass. And I would see ye leave at once. Cambuskenneth is not far. When this is over, I’ll fetch ye there, I swear it.”

  Her face crumpled as if she would cry, but she stubbornly refused to let the tears fall. “Marry me, Ewan,” she said in a tone of desperation. “I would have at least one night with ye, afore the dawn. Let us find a priest and—”

  “Nay.” He shook his head and drew her close in his arms.

  “Because of Ruan?” she asked, lifting her distraught eyes to search his.

  “Your brother would be greatly displeased, and he’s a force to be reckoned with, to be sure,” he answered with a tight smile. “But nay, I’d not sleep the night, and with the dawn, I’ll be needing my wits about me. Give me something to fight for, aye? I’ll return to ye, I swear it. Not a sword will harm me. Now, let’s ready Diabhul, and I’ll ride ye to the abbey, aye?”

  She didn’t speak as, with a light touch at the small of her back, he guided her to the stables. Once inside, they moved to stand in front of Diabhul’s stall and then, not really certain who found whose mouth first, he was kissing her.

  Her soft, tempting mouth was warm, and she responded hungrily, melting against him as he traced the curve of her lips with his tongue. Her hands slid up his chest to lock behind his neck as he let his fingers drop to roam over the curve of her hip in a gentle caress.

  His mouth fused over hers in a deepening passion until finally, a soft sound escaped her throat.

  At once, he broke the kiss, and took a deep, calming breath. Aye, he had to stop or else he’d end up taking her in the stables. ‘Twas not how he wanted to make her his.

  Brushing the back of his hand across her cheek, he murmured, “’Tis time ye left, lass.”

  She swallowed, looking dazed. “Aye,” she murmured.

  But then, she was pulling his head down and melding his mouth to hers once again.

  ‘Twas fair difficult to leave the lass, she was a storm of temptation. With great difficulty, he pulled his lips away from hers.

  He stood there then, looking down at her as he lightly traced her jawline with his thumb. And then she lay her head against his shoulder, and he rested his chin upon the silkiness of her raven hair.

  He wanted to stay there forever, with her nestled against him. It took every ounce of his strength to step away. Her lips were swollen with his kisses. It was fair difficult to resist sweeping her back into his arms and to claim them again and again.

  But he did.

  In silence, he helped her saddle Diabhul and lead him out of the stables. And then mounting his own horse, they cantered out of Stirling Castle’s stone gate, down St. Mary’s Wynd leading from the town to the Cambuskenneth Abbey a short distance away.

  And all too soon, they saw the abbey’s stone walls and the tower rising behind it, centered in the expansive greensward with gardens and orchards nearby.

  But Merry was not eager to enter. At the banks of the Forth winding around the abbey walls, she dismounted Diabhul and held out her hand.

  They walked, side-by-side, their fingers laced together, not speaking for a time.

  But upon reaching the walls, Merry soberly eyed the massive tower before her. “’Tis where the queen was buried last year, was it not?” she asked quietly.

  “Aye.” Ewan nodded.

  He remembered her funeral well, and regardless of the prince’s wish, he was certain that her husband, the king, would soon join her in her cold abbey crypt.

  It was a disturbing thing, to know when a man would die. He could only wonder of himself. Would he ride to these abbey walls on the morrow, to fetch Merry as he’d promised? Before, he’d never thought of dying and what he’d might miss. He’d always just thought of winning the battle. It had almost been a game, a match of wits. Aye, ‘twas a game ordered to be played by the nobles just to gain power. But now. Now, with Merry’s hand in his, he no longer wished to play along. He wanted only to spend the rest of his days walking, as they did now.

  He could see the fear in her eyes, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He couldn’t. He had to be strong in order to give her hope and to ease her suffering. Together, they entered the abbey, and the abbot himself met them at the arched door of the massive tower. And then it was truly time to say farewell.

  Once again, he swore, “I’ll be here on the morrow, lass. Dinna fret.”

  Her eyes were wide and her face pinched as she nodded firmly. “I know ye’ll come back to me, Ewan. My heart tells me so.”

  Under the watchful eye of the abbot, Ewan smoothed her hair back and stooped a little to plant a chaste kiss on her forehead. And then kneeling before the priest, he bowed his head to receive his blessing.

  Rising to his feet, he bowed to her one last time before mounting his horse.

  Merry watched him desperately, as if she were trying to memorize his every movement. And then darting forward, she caught his stirrup.

  “I dinna want to let go,” she said, her voice wavering.

  Kissing his fingers, he leaned from the saddle to press them against her cheek. “I’m asking you not to
fret, lass,” he said gently. “I will return to ye, I swear it.”

  He galloped away then and didn’t look back.

  It was time for war.

  But this time it was different. This time, he spurred his way to the battlefield, carrying with him the image in his mind of a spirited lass with a cloud of midnight hair, a slender waist, and a bonny smile that filled his heart.

  He let himself think of her for only a few minutes before he set all feelings aside and distanced himself from all else save fighting to win.

  He returned to Stirling then, and after a meal of boiled onions and hare, he joined the others, ready to ride.

  It had been decided that the main contingency fighting for the prince, which included all the leading nobles of the realm and their men, would leave the castle at once to join their forces at Torwood Bridge.

  They were all dressed for battle. The prince, Cameron. Ruan, and many others.

  But Hugh Cunningham was nowhere to be found.

  Straightening his plaid, Ewan pulled on his leather gloves and with his dirk at his waist and a broadsword strapped to his back, he cantered down Castle Hill, leaving the castle and its town behind him.

  In less than an hour, they’d arrived at Torwood Bridge to see war tents with boldly striped awnings dotting the grassy field, each flying their standard. And upon spying the Douglas crest, they urged their steeds forward.

  Crows scattered from the trees as they approached Archibald’s tent.

  A horn blew in the distance.

  And then Archibald stepped out to greet them, his red face splitting into a wide grin as he beckoned them inside.

  Handing the reins of his horse to a gangly lad with a missing tooth, Ewan followed the others and ducking low, entered the tent.

  A large table took up most of the interior. Upon its surface scattered parchments mingled with half-empty trenchers and tallow candles dripped wax over the entire lot.

  The young prince remained only a moment before retiring, and he’d scarcely gone before Cameron turned to Archibald.

  “The king is not to be harmed,” the dark-haired Earl of Lennox informed the man. “See that every man knows this. We seek only to force James to resign the crown. We dinna want his blood. His son does not want his blood.”

  Archibald’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Ach, ‘twill never happen!” he burst out, pounding his fist upon the table. “The man willna let the crown loose from his fingers until he is dead, and even then we’ll have to pry it from his cold stiff fingers.”

  “’Tis the will of the prince,” Cameron repeated calmly and levelled his gaze upon the man. “A prince soon to be your king. When James sees his army fleeing afore us, he may surprise ye. A courageous king willing to die for his country he is not.”

  Archibald crossed his arms and scowled, but then the talk turned to the impending battle and the various strategies that might be used.

  And at that, Ewan found himself engaged.

  Finally, it was decided that he, along with his cousin, Julian, would head the second line with the goal of pressing through the ranks to capture the king alive.

  Ewan rose then and with an impassive nod, bid them all a good night.

  He was keenly aware of Ruan’s eyes locked upon his emotionless face, but he couldn’t allow it to matter. ‘Twould be the only way to survive, to reach what he wanted in the end.

  It was the only path to Merry.

  He was at the door when Archibald said, “Aye, ‘twill be slaughter on the morrow. The king is stuck with no place to hide and cut off from a retreat to Edinburgh. There is no way we can possibly lose. His ships canna even join him; the river is too shallow here.”

  “Aye,” Cameron expelled a long breath. “The man really is a fool. He shouldna have come here. His force is inferior in every respect.”

  But Archibald looked far less grim. Indeed, he was laughing, quite jolly.

  Deciding that he was truly weary of it all, Ewan stepped outside into the gathering darkness.

  Several of his men met him then, the ones who had shared his imprisonment in Carlisle. They exchanged tidings for a time, but then he moved away. And settling under a nearby tree, he prayed again that Cameron would somehow avert the battle entirely, and then he rolled himself into his plaid to sleep.

  He woke at dawn, rising in the chill of the morning air only to discover that there was no last-minute reprieve.

  The king had already moved what forces he had to camp near the small brook of Sauchieburn, not far from the celebrated field of Bannockburn.

  It was certain. They would fight this day.

  Clenching his jaw, Ewan strode forward with purpose and mounting his horse, which had been made ready by a squire, he galloped to survey the battle lines he was to command.

  The men were ready, hardy borderers inured to war, well-armed and well-disciplined.

  Julian was already there, waiting.

  And falling into rank beside him, Ewan folded his gloved hands over the pommel of his saddle and sat with his cousin in silence for the sound of the horn, their signal to move.

  The first line—hardy spearmen from East Lothian and the Merse—departed, led by Lords Hailes and Hume.

  All watched as they passed before the young prince, mounted upon a fine white battle charger with Cameron by his side.

  And then the horn split the morning air.

  Turning his horse in a half-circle, Ewan grimly crossed himself, and then with an impatient gesture, his blood-curdling battle cry of Bàs no Beatha! rent the air. Drawing his sword, he spurred his stallion forward and was followed at once by the rumbling thunder of horses’ hooves churning behind him.

  It was their turn to pass before the prince, and then they were charging the battlefield, with the young prince and Cameron falling into place behind them.

  The army advanced rapidly from Torwood, approaching the Sauchieburn from the east.

  Smoke hung heavy in the air as Ewan arrived.

  Some of the northern clans had arrived during the night, and the men armed with axes and swords were advancing.

  Behind them, heading the main battle was King James III himself. Clad in splendid armor, he rode a tall gray horse. Wearing a fur-trimmed cloak, he had a great broad sword belted about his waist and he carried an elaborate silver shield. He looked every inch the part of a warrior king.

  And at the moment, his forces were winning.

  Ewan eyed the field spreading out before him in dismay. Lords Hume and Hailes were quickly losing ground to the northern highlanders.

  Ewan clenched his jaw.

  It was time to put an end to it.

  Raising his sword and with his clan’s battle cry upon his lips, Ewan, with Julian behind him, led his men forward, sallying forth under a volley of arrows as banners were unfurled and heralds sounded their trumpets.

  The king’s men scattered before them like a panicked flock of hens, and Ewan pressed forward in a steady attack, pushing the royal forces back.

  And then an arrow struck betwixt his mount’s armor, and Ewan was forced to abandon the beast, raising his shield to fend off his attackers.

  The coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils as he tossed them off like gnats.

  He didn’t allow himself to think; he only heard the resounding ring of metal clashing against metal.

  Sweat stung his eyes.

  Burning pain lanced down his arm.

  He ignored it.

  This was his last battle. He just had to get through to the end. The men before him thinned out, much like trees thinning on the edge of a dense forest. And then they were through the king’s defense, having recovered the lost ground with such vigor that the king’s commanders retreated at once in confusion.

  Wiping his face with his forearm, Ewan glanced in all directions.

  And then paused.

  Only a stone’s throw away sat James himself upon his gray horse, his face registering considerable alarm. And even as he watched, the king
violently wheeled his horse’s head. And digging his heels into the beast’s side, he fled the battle like a coward, escaping toward the nearby village of Bannockburn.

  A white horse streaked past Ewan, and he saw it was Julian, riding low over the neck of the animal, galloping in hot pursuit of the fleeing monarch.

  Suddenly, there was a cry from behind, and whirling, Ewan lifted his shield as a sword came crashing down.

  Driven to his knees from the weight of his attack, he looked up into the eyes of his assailant.

  It was Hugh Cunningham.

  Chapter Fourteen – Beaton’s Mill

  “Are ye ready to meet the wrath of Clan Cunningham, ye whoreson?” Hugh hissed as he hovered over Ewan. There was a maniacal gleam in his blue eyes as he bared his teeth to add, “I’ve dreamt the entire night of sheathing my sword in your flesh. Who’s the stronger man now, aye? Who is upon their knees, aye?” He jabbed the point of the sword at Ewan with each sentence.

  With a grim smile touching his lips, Ewan swat the blade away and rose swiftly to his feet. He looked the rail-thin man in the eye, and in a strong deep voice, said, “And I thank ye for attacking me. ‘Twill be easier now to leave ye dead, slaughtered on the moor with only crows to pick your bones.”

  Hugh faltered and, turning white, took a step back.

  But Ewan advanced, moving slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.

  “I would wash my hands of the matter, if I could,” he gritted out fiercely, continuing to drive the man back, step-by-step. “But I canna leave it be. Not now. Not with Alec’s death left to avenge. Aye, I will enable Clan Montgomery to win this one between ye.”

  At the mention of the Montgomery winning, fury suffused Hugh’s pale face and, lifting his sword, he lunged at Ewan.

  It was too easy.

  Ewan feinted left, and then in one fluid motion, he thrust his sword with uncommon speed.

  And then it was over.

  Hugh fell lifeless to the ground.