Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

It took all her strength to slip her knee from the top pommel and ease off the saddle.

  Mevan’s grip clamped too tight, like knives gouging her flesh. “You’re afire, lass.”

  The rumble of his voice caused her head to throb with unbearable pain. Gyllis shook uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered. “I’m so c-cold.”

  “I’ve no doubt you’re fevered,” he said, whisking her into the keep and straight up the tower stairs.

  Gyllis clutched her arms close to her body, praying the jostling would soon stop so she could collapse in the folds of her bed. The whole castle was drafty—made her teeth chatter. With no fire lit in her chamber, it was as frigid as it had been outside. She crawled under the bedclothes and shivered while her head pounded mercilessly.

  ***

  Angels wept from the dreary skies while Sean stood at the graveside beside Kilbride Church on Dunollie lands. The priest droned in an endless monotone, chanting the Latin burial mass. The Tenth Chieftain of Dunollie’s death mask had been hastily made. Sean had arranged for the most skilled stonemason to carve the effigy that would complete the tomb, but presently his father’s body lay wrapped in linen, hands still holding his bejeweled sword, awaiting internment into the granite crypt that would house his body through eternity.

  Sean’s mother had died of consumption five years past. Her death had been a somber time in his life, but did not compare to the hollow void now filling his heart.

  Da had been a powerful and decisive man. His father led the clan, facing the brutal realities of life, yet he had a gentle streak—one Sean didn’t always understand. But from his first memories, he’d looked up to his father—aspired to be like him. A tickle of doubt needled at the back of his neck. How in God’s name would he fill his father’s shoes?

  The clanswomen lamented and sniffled around him. Yet he couldn’t weep. The Eleventh Chieftain of Dunollie could not demonstrate weakness. Sean’s jaw clenched as he endured the morose tones from the seemingly endless mass.

  When at last the priest was silent, he nodded to Evanna, Jinny and Angus’s daughter. The lass stepped forward, wiped her eyes, inhaled deeply and began to sing a ghostly tune.

  Watchin’ yon hills of the heather,

  On the shores of the deep blue sea,

  A bonnie young lassie sat singin’ her sone,

  Wi’ dew on her plaid an’ a tear in her e’e.

  She swayed wi’ a galley a’sail and aw’ee,

  An’ aye as it lessen’d she sigh’d an’ she sung,

  Fareweel to the lad I’ll ne’er again see

  I’ll nay forget ye. Alas, yer mem’ry ’ll alway’ be wi’ me…

  Evanna’s voice sang clear as a curlew soaring above a loch on a misty dawn. The purity of her tone made chills spread across Sean’s back. She repeated the sad verse twice while wails from the women rose.

  When the song ended, an eerie pall cast a heavy blanket atop the gathering of MacDougall clansmen and women. The only sounds were sniffles and rainwater dripping from the leaves. Sean had not the inclination to move. He stared at his father’s body. Everyone did. He’d always known this time would come, but had been so busy adventuring throughout Scotland, he had never considered it would come so soon. But it wasn’t unusual for any man to meet the Lord at eight and fifty.

  If only I had spent more time with him. Now I’ll nay have a chance.

  Angus stepped forward and bowed. He then retrieved the sword from Da’s body and strode directly to Sean. “In the name of King James, you are the rightful heir. Carry the chieftain’s sword with pride.” The henchman held the two-handed sword out. “Buaidh no bàs.”

  “Buaidh no bàs!” the clan chorused with the Gaelic MacDougall motto, victory or death.

  Clenching his teeth, Sean grasped the sword and drew it from its scabbard. “I will carry this with pride and the MacDougall Clan will grow and prosper.” He held the blade over his head. “Buaidh no bàs!”

  He slid the sword back into its sheath, secured it in his belt and set out. Thunder cracked overhead as he led the clan down the path to Dunollie Castle.

  Behind him, hurried footsteps slapped the mud.

  The hackles on Sean’s neck prickled.

  Before he could turn, Da’s sword was yanked from his belt. “I should be Chieftain of Dunollie, not a miserable piss-swilling maggot!”

  Drawing his dirk, Sean whipped around and crouched. Alan MacCoul moved fast as a fox. With teeth bared, he hacked down in a deadly challenge. Sean jumped back as the blade hissed through the air, just missing his flank. Circling, Sean eyed his nemesis. At last the bastard had given him the opportunity to end their feud once and for all.

  Eyeing his target, he waited for Alan to strike—to give him a flicker of an opportunity, and Sean would attack. “Make your move,” he growled.

  A thud sounded like a stick of wood hitting a tree. Alan’s arms dropped with the sword, his face stunned. He plummeted to his knees then fell to his face.

  Angus stood behind him, holding a branch as big around as a man’s calf.

  Sean picked up his father’s sword. “Why did you not let me finish it?”

  Alan writhed and groaned.

  Angus grasped the cur under the arm and tugged him to his feet. “I’ve no stomach for another funeral this day.”

  Sean sauntered forward and slid the blade under MacCoul’s chin. “In honor of my father I’ll spare you. Take your galley and be gone. I’ll have no more of your backstabbing. You are banned from Dunollie lands forever.”

  Spitting, Alan struggled in Angus’s grasp. “He was nay merely your father.”

  “Aye, we’re all hurting.” Angus pulled him toward the embankment where the clan’s galleys were moored.

  “Angus,” Sean hollered. “I’ll need to see you in my solar forthwith.”

  ***

  Sean sat and stared at his goblet of whisky. His jaw twitched and his gut churned. This was a black day. He may as well make it blacker.

  A rap resounded on the door.

  Sean raised his goblet and sipped. He’d swirled the fiery liquid around his mouth before swallowing. He knew who’d knocked and it served the varlet right to wait. After one more sip, he placed the goblet on the table. “Come.”

  Angus stepped inside with his bonnet in hand. “MacCoul has sailed with his galley, m’laird.”

  After staring at him without blinking, Sean grasped his armrests and squeezed. “I’d have finished him if you hadn’t stepped in.”

  “Aye.”

  “You ken more than anyone, MacCoul has been a thorn in my side since the day I was born.”

  “Aye.”

  “Have you nothing else to say for yourself?” Sean leaned forward. “My father protected that bastard. Do you now see yourself taking up MacCoul’s mantle?”

  Angus let out a labored sigh and glanced sideways, high color flushing his face. “Nay.”

  “Then why did you stop me?” Sean slammed his fist on the table.

  The older man jolted at the sudden noise then spread his palms. “I-I just reacted. Mayhap ’twas your father’s voice in my head.”

  “It’ll nay happen again.” Sean shoved back and stood with his palms flat on the table. “Do you ken how your actions made me look in front of the clan?”

  “Aye, but you were distraught.”

  “Damn it, man, I was defending myself from attack.” Sean paced then kicked a chair. “I respect you as my father’s henchman, but you will never make me look the fool again.”

  “Apologies.” Angus bobbed his head. “Agreed. I acted without thought. You’ve every right to be upset with me.”

  Sean shook his finger. “I do and I am.” He flicked his wrist. “Go fetch the factor. I want an accounting of the coffers—everything from crofters rents, to notes outstanding, to the size of our herds.”

  “Aye, m’laird.”

  Sean held up his hand. “A moment.”

  Angus raised his brows expectantly.

  “Have we any eminent
threats?” He didn’t know of any, but he’d been away so much the question needed asking.

  “Aside from the errant cattle thief and outlaws in the wood west of Black Lochs, things have been at relative peace for the past five years.”

  “What have you done to rid the forest of the outlaws?”

  Angus’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Whenever we run them off, ’tis a matter of time afore they’re replaced by another unsavory lot.”

  Sean nodded. “I aim for Dunollie to remain at peace and free from attack. After I’ve met with the factor, I want a detailed account of skirmishes as far back as you can remember.”

  Angus bowed. “Very well, m’laird. I’ll return with Master Murdach momentarily.”

  Chapter Six

  Alan MacCoul didn’t sail far—it wasn’t even a league to the miserable Isle of Kerrera his father had granted him in hopes he’d till the soil or raise sheep and live a quiet life away from the scrutiny of society. But Alan had no yen for the life of a farmer. He was a warrior, a leader of men.

  Even his father would be proud to see the army he’d amassed. The nobleman had been embarrassed by Alan his entire life—did everything to hide his bastard from the world, but that only served to make Alan more determined to prove his worth. He’d spent a few years on the borders, helping the reivers steal sheep and cattle from the English—and each other in lean times. Alan had grown strong and his sword was valued there—as was his coin. All he need do was send word and he’d have five score of Lowlander fighting men, not to mention another score of deposed MacDougalls in addition to Campbells who couldn’t stomach the Earl of Argyll’s tyranny.

  He kept things quiet on Kerrera, however—at least until all was in place to declare his superiority. If he moved too soon, he might lose his income stream, and that most certainly wouldn’t do.

  He seethed. He’d been standing alone at the stern of his galley, jaw set. Being exiled by Sean MacDougall was almost more than he could bear. I will make that sniveling magpie pay and I’ll laugh as I watch him suffer.

  Alan’s mother had made sure he had a place in the MacDougall Clan. After all, it was her clan too, though she had passed years ago.

  His most trusted men, Brus and Trevor, came up on either side of him as the galley neared the shore. Brus placed a foot on the bench. “You’re nay planning to roll over and take your exile like a dog are you?”

  Alan lashed out with a fisted backhand. “Watch your bloody mouth.”

  Brus stumbled into the hull and wiped his jaw.

  Alan leered at him and then Trevor. “How many times do I have to tell you we must wait—seize the opportunity when the time is right?”

  “Aye, but with recent events, I’ll wager it’ll be soon.”

  Alan grinned. “I’ve some games planned for the new Chieftain of Dunollie to keep him occupied whilst we prepare.”

  Trevor nodded. “I like the sound of that.”

  “First we’ll need to ensure our galley is hidden from the mainland. No need for passersby to spot my boat—especially MacDougall men.”

  “Easily done,” Trevor said.

  “Good, call the men together. We shall set things in motion this eve.” When the galley eased to a stop upon the smooth rocks, Alan looked toward the shore. “Have you found a smithy? We need to keep building our cache of weapons.”

  Brus pointed toward the cave. “I can hear the iron clanging—but he’s nay happy with his accommodations.”

  “Bloody hell, most smithies sleep on the hard floors in their shops—what kind of milk-livered…”

  The blacksmith stepped out of the cave and held a sword up to the sunlight. Wearing a leather apron, the man must have weighed eighteen stone. His forearms alone were as thick as the galley’s mast. The corner of Alan’s mouth ticked up. “See to it he has first pick of the wenches next time the whores visit from the village. I could use muscle like that fifty times over.”

  After Alan hopped over the rail, he strode directly to the smithy and held out his hand. “Welcome. Alan MacCoul here.”

  The man offered a firm shake and a suspecting eye. “Walter, m’lord.”

  “I’m no man’s lord.” Alan smirked. “At least not as of yet. Tell me, is everything on Kerrera to your liking?”

  The big man rubbed his backside. “Aye, but I could use a bit more hay for my pallet.”

  “Consider it done.” Alan clapped the smithy’s beefy shoulder. “I aim to ensure everyone shares in my success and I only ask for one thing in return.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Loyalty.” He uttered the word slowly to ensure there’d be no misunderstanding.

  ***

  Gyllis lay on the bed and listened to Mother and Meg discuss her failing health. They likely thought she couldn’t hear them. Though she could barely move, her ears and eyes had not been affected by the illness that plagued her.

  “It has been over a week and she continues to decline.” Across the room, Meg wrung her hands. “And now she’s showing signs of paralysis. Her joints are stiff. I’m afraid her condition has gone beyond my abilities.”

  Mother cast a worried glance toward Gyllis. “This morn she could scarcely swallow her willow tea.”

  Meg crossed herself. “May God have mercy on our dear sister.”

  If Gyllis could have screamed, she would have. But presently her voice was but a garbled whisper, her throat raw and sore. She had no intention of dying. She couldn’t. There were too many things she had yet to do in this life, bless it. Her head pounded and she closed her eyes, willing the pain away.

  “I wish Duncan were here.” Mother covered her mouth with her palm. “Last eve I sent for John.”

  Though Gyllis’s head throbbed, her heart squeezed at the idea of seeing her closest brother. John had joined the priesthood and now was the prior at Ardchattan. Gyllis rarely had the chance to see him, but enjoyed it immensely when she did. If only he could make me better.

  “As a man of the cloth, I do believe he may be a better brother than Duncan. He’ll know what to do for certain,” Meg said. She’d always been pious, and though Gyllis adored her, she was growing rather tired of Duncan’s wife voicing her fears of doom.

  “Mother,” Gyllis said, her voice croaking like a toad from the loch.

  Ma hastened to her bedside and grasped her hand. “Aye, my sweeting?”

  “When will John arrive?”

  She cast a worried glance to Meg. “Soon—as soon as he can spirit away from the priory, I’ll ensure he comes straight up to see you.”

  Gyllis tried to swallow and coughed. “I want to see him.”

  “’Tis a good sign.” Mother patted her hand. “Drink some more tea whilst we wait.”

  Meg reached for the cup while Mother helped Gyllis sit up. She could barely move her hands to grasp it. Meg helped her by tilting it back, but when the bitter brew hit her mouth, she erupted in a coughing fit. The tea spewed across the bedclothes and down the front of Mother’s apron.

  Wheezing, Gyllis hung her head and tried to swipe her brow with her hand, but couldn’t lift the trembling appendage. “I’m sorry.”

  Mother helped her recline and brushed at the wet spot. “You mustn’t worry. We should have used the spoon.”

  Tears stung Gyllis’s eyes. “I hate this.”

  “I know sweetheart. Do not worry overmuch, John will be here soon.” Mother patted her cheek. “You should rest until he arrives.”

  With heavy eyelids, Gyllis nodded. “What is wrong with me?”

  “I wish we knew,” said Meg. She brushed her fingers of her good hand over Gyllis’s hair. Meg had a cleft hand she called the claw that she tried to keep hidden for the most part. “One thing I do ken—you are a fighter, just like your father. You will not allow this illness to overcome you. Of that I am certain.”

  Gyllis shivered and sank into the mountain of pillows the women had layered behind her back. If only this horrid sickness would pass, she could focus on regaining her strength.
Mother and Meg headed toward the door, their voices muffled in hushed tones. Gyllis wanted to listen, but the effort was more than she could manage.

  After the door closed, Meg pattered across the floor and sat on the bed, picking up Gyllis’s hand. “I’ve sent to the physician’s council in Edinburgh and requested information on your symptoms. I’m not sure what my appeal will turn up, but I’ll leave no stone unturned. Until then, the priory is the best place for you. The monks will be able to provide the care you need.”

  Gyllis licked her dry lips. “I do not want to go to Ardchattan. I’ll be away from you and Helen.”

  “I ken.” Meg lightly brushed her fingertips over the back of Gyllis’s hand. “Helen told me things didn’t go well for you at the Beltane festival.”

  “The first night, Sir Sean was so charming.” A lump caught in her throat. “I cannot bring myself to speak of the rest.”

  “Well, if Sean MacDougall isn’t the man for you, I’m sure we shall find another gallant knight who will adore you completely. Let us see to your recovery and then I will make it my duty to ensure Duncan has a line of suitors queued up to offer for your hand.”

  “If I ever do recover.” The lump in her throat grew.

  “Do not say that. Your illness may have knocked you about, but between John, the monks and what I can find, we shall see you set to rights.”

  “Thank you.” Gyllis weakly brushed her thumb over Meg’s finger. “Has Duncan returned from court?”

  “Not as of yet,” she sighed.

  “I am sorry.”

  “No need. He shall be home as soon as the king’s business is settled else we shall need to build a home in Stirling as well.”

  Gyllis emitted a rueful chuckle and then yawned. “If you want Elizabeth and Colin to know who their father is, that may be your best option.”

  Meg leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Sleep my dear. We shall wake you when John arrives.”

  ***

  “Gyllis?” a deep voice called her name. He spoke so softly, the tone soothed her. If only she could hear it again, but then she would have to wake. “Gyllis, lass,” it came again.

  She stirred. “Sean MacDougall, is that you calling my name?” She’d welcome a dream even of Sean to while away the body aches and sickness—for her dreams were the only place she’d ever again see him.