The Cursed Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  She had to convince herself of that.

  The ride to Dunkeld was far. She could expect to arrive after nightfall, if she rode consistently, all day. She sighed. They slowed a little as she reached the trees. Much of the ride was through the woodlands, on paths she was glad to recognize. She had come here often as a girl, she recalled, on hunts or with her cousins, playing at being soldiers, or whatever they fancied being for that day.

  She sighed, recalling how carefree they all were then. There had been no danger here, the woods as friendly as the castle grounds.

  The place was neglected, she noted as they rode slowly along the wooded pathways. The brush had not been cleared for a while, and there were places where the bracken hid the path.

  That's not safe, she thought, frowning.

  With many of the verderers also leaving since the rumors began, the woodlands were clearly not as often patrolled. There was the chance of poachers coming in, or vagabonds. Or outlaws.

  “Stop it, Joanna,” she said aloud. The sound of her voice broke the silence, emphasizing it. Making her hair rise on her head. She made herself laugh.

  “You're being fanciful,” she told herself sternly. Her voice fell, padded, in the weighted silence and it seemed to mock her for her fears. She shivered.

  This is the forest where you and Brodgar played! Look! That's the tree where you climbed up and he waited, telling you to come down before you went too far up and got stuck there...

  She sighed. Her family. She would see them soon. She built Brodgar's cheery face in her mind, filling in the dimples, the earnest smile, shining golden brown eyes. She thought of each of them in turn, building a refuge for her mind in their familiar presence.

  Mother.

  She wondered if her mother was recovered now. It would be odd if she were not, she told herself, refusing any other alternative. With Alina to take charge of the sickroom, it would not be long before she was up and walking again, her vital self.

  A twig cracked. Joanna jumped.

  She waited, and then let out a relieved breath.

  “You're jumping at nothing, Joanna,” she told herself, trying to see the funny side. Here she was, in woodland she knew well, still within sight of her ancestor's keep, and she was acting as if she was in a den of outlaws.

  She laughed. “If I'm like this now, what would I do if I was?”

  Her horse, Storm Surge, twitched her ears, listening to her voice. Joanna patted her neck.

  “Not too long now. Let's go for an hour or so, and then we can pause. We'll eat and then continue. Lots of miles to walk.”

  They carried on. The day darkened, clouds gathering overhead. They stopped for lunch, Joanna sharing some loaf with her horse, which snorted and blew warmth into her hand.

  They rode on.

  Joanna sighed. She was almost asleep in the saddle, swaying with the motion, knowing the path from memory. All they had to do was stay on it. Soon they would be home.

  She shivered. They had been going for five hours since noon. The day was already darkening, the brief dusk falling on the forest. Soon it would be dark.

  “Come on,” she said aloud, though more for herself than for Storm Surge, who was doing well. “Just a few more hours now. We're almost there.”

  Her words fell into silence and she shivered.

  They went for another hour. Two hours. The day ended in a burst of orange, distant glimpses reaching Joanna through the tree line. Then night fell.

  Joanna heard something moving through the trees. Her hair rose on her scalp. She shivered.

  “It's just the wind,” she told herself. There was hardly a breeze, but she didn't choose to contemplate that fact. “A bird in the treetops. Or some woodland creature.”

  Her voice soothed her. She cleared her throat.

  “Oh, a maid, she walked by the hilltop, o...”

  The words of an old song filled her mind, and she sang, feeling her spirits lift even as the sound wove through the trees.

  Her horse was soothed by it too, she thought, for she noticed her ears switched back and forth less often. Her own heart settled into a steady rhythm.

  “...and the rain does fa-all and the wind does how-l...” she sang the chorus, enjoying herself.

  A twig cracked. Something rustled.

  Joanna tensed. She waited. Held her horse still.

  Something moved in the trees behind her. This time, the sound was unmistakable. The sound of feet, walking quite heavily over the needle-covered ground.

  “Who goes there?” Joanna called. Her voice was soft and she cursed herself instantly. Calling out made her instantly recognizable as a woman, and alone. If there really was a danger then...

  “Stop or I'll shoot.”

  Joanna screamed in fright. Or she would have. Her voice died in her throat.

  Facing her on the path, his dark hair stiff with dirt and grime, was a man. He carried a short crossbow. The bolt aimed at her chest.

  Joanna felt her fingers tense on the reins as her horse snorted in alarm. Joanna gripped with her knees, tying to convey to the horse that they had to stay still. Had to stay where they were. Unmoving and nonthreatening, or he'd loose the bolt and kill her there and then.

  “Please,” Joanna said. Her voice was a thread of sound. “What do you want?”

  The man grinned. His teeth shone in the darkness.

  “Hey, Jack!” he called. Joanna tensed. She heard footsteps behind her. Another man appeared. He was as dirty as this one, though he wore a coat, a stiff hat that looked to be made of leather pulled down over his hair.

  Jack looked at her questioningly, as if he couldn't quite understand what she was doing there. Then he too grinned.

  He lifted his arm and two more men appeared. Joanna whimpered. She was surrounded now, unable to move to her left, where the trees rose tall and too close to pass between, or to her right. Ahead was blocked, too, and she heard feet cross to just behind her.

  “Where's yer purse?” one man whispered. He was grinning too, and Joanna could see a blackened stump of tooth in his lower jaw. She winced.

  “I...I have none. I...”

  “Where?” the man demanded. He struck her leg with his cudgel and she hissed a breath of agony, feeling the bone start to swell.

  “I have nothing with me!” she protested. “Only food and some clothing. Please, take them and be on your way. I have nothing for you.”

  “And tell the guard, and have us killed, no doubt.” One of the men snorted. “Not likely we'll let you do that, is it. Nae. Off your horse.”

  “Please,” Joanna whispered. “I'll tell no one. I swear it. You have my word. I...”

  She looked round wildly. Two of the men had come forward and they grabbed her boot, trying to drag her down. Storm Surge reared and one of the men shouted, angry.

  Then the shot came out of the bushes.

  Joanna blinked, not sure what had happened. Something whizzed out of the night, narrowly passed her, and buried itself in the thicket somewhere on her left. She heard a cry and the strange whir that an arrow makes, stopped hard in wood.

  All the men were suddenly silent. They were looking at the tree to her left. She stared. A bolt stood in the wood. A longbow bolt.

  The men with her had crossbows. She turned round, looking over her right shoulder whence the bolt appeared.

  “Go, now,” a voice hissed. “Before I put an arrow in you.”

  The men seemed as incapable of motion as Joanna did herself. She stared at the tall figure, armed as it was with a fearsome longbow. Arrows stood in a quiver on his back. She could not see his face.

  “Alright, lads,” the man behind her said. The one with the tooth. “We're off. Nice and slow.”

  The first man nodded. He let the crossbow hang on a leather strap by his side, raising his hands above his head. They walked back out of the clearing, not nearly as fast as they had entered, the same way they had come.

  “Right,” the voice said tersely. “Now disappear back to w
here you came from, afore I lose all patience.”

  Joanna let out a long, shuddering breath. She had no idea who the man was. She only knew he had saved her life. When they were alone in the clearing again, she slumped forward in the saddle. She was shaking, suddenly exhausted.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said raggedly, her voice a tense fraction of its usual self. “Who are you? You shall be rewarded well. I promise you.”

  The man sighed. He took off his leather cap. She did not recognize his face. He was perhaps eight years older than herself, face lined with care, eyes level and stern. His body was thick with muscle, the product of years training with the massive longbow.

  “My name is Sean Langtry,” he said shortly. “Head verderer at Lochlann. Or was, before they stopped paying my wages. I'm still here and still overseeing the place. Though it makes me scant beside pleasure in my job.”

  Joanna gasped. She did not know him, did not remember when they hired him over old Gaire who had the title when she was a child. Nevertheless, she was shocked to hear he was out of work.

  “Sir,” she said, voice shaking but firm as she continued. “I am of the family of Lochlann. I tell you this now. Take this brooch,” she said, unpinning her clan brooch from her shoulder, wincing as she did so – her mother had given it her and it was precious, perhaps the most precious thing she owned – then holding it across. “Take it to the castle. Tell them Joanna sent you. Tell them I said you must claim a reward.”

  The man, Sean Langtry, nodded gravely. “Thank you, my lady. However, I would have done it for no reward. Those men are wicked. I'd no' leave a lass to them.”

  Joanna let out a shuddering breath. “Thank you,” she said again. “I wish I had more to give you. I cannot express my thanks.”

  The man bowed, gravely. “Then that is thanks enough.”

  As she watched, he came across to her horse, stroked her and then gave her a gentle thump, sending her forward on their way.

  “'Tis a ride of three hours or so to the fortress, milady. Don't walk. Keep a fine pace. You’ll make it safely before the night is ended.”

  “Thank you!” Joanna called over her shoulder. She set Storm Surge to a canter and they bolted into the deep dark of the woods, her heart pounding.

  She had a narrow escape. However, she was almost home. She had three more hours to ride.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PERIL IN DARKNESS

  PERIL IN DARKNESS

  The night was even darker, or so it seemed. Joanna clung to the saddle, swaying with weariness. They kept a brisk trot and she had her eyes shut, relying on her horse to follow the paths.

  I will reach home. I must not stop. I must not sleep. I must keep riding.

  She said the words to herself, a firm refrain. A chant that kept her in wakefulness when all she wanted was to drop into oblivion of sleep. The energy that followed from her terror had evaporated, leaving her cold, tired, and aching.

  I will reach home. I must not stop. I must keep going.

  She said it to herself again, feeling her horse, too, start to slow. She was tiring, too. She knew they had to keep the pace, as Mr. Langtry had rightly stated. Nevertheless, she could not ask that of her mount.

  She felt her pace slow, her head swam, and she closed her eyes.

  I will reach home.

  She came sharply awake. She had drifted into sleep, sitting up, her fingers curled loosely on her reins. She stirred. Why had she woken? She listened.

  She heard the sound of feet on flagstones, a grate of chains on sandstone. She heard torches in the wind, distant calls. Her horse's hoofs on cobbled road making steady, slow progress, going uphill.

  They had slowed, she realized gradually, because they were riding uphill. The sounds were the sentry post, the wind higher as she left the cover of the tree line, snatching fitfully at flames of burning torches.

  She was there.

  “Oh...” she slumped forward suddenly, too tired to stay seated. Her horse snorted. A man looked up at her, frowning even as he drew a deep breath.

  “Who is...Lady Joanna?”

  He paused. Squinted up at her. Several things happened very quickly after that.

  “Open the gates!” the man shouted. The sound of chains on sandstone filled the air again. They were lifting the gate afresh.

  “Fetch the master,” someone else shouted.

  “Fetch someone to the kitchens!” someone else called. “Lady Joanna is home! In need of tending. She's unwell...”

  Joanna tried to protest at the last statement. She was, she was sure, quite well. She was just tired. And cold. And weary...

  “No...” she said faintly. Someone was reaching up towards her.

  “Joanna!”

  Someone shouted it. She knew that voice. It was a woman, and it sounded shocked and determined, and commanding, all at once.

  Alina. She thought it even as she slumped forward into the arms of their old armorer, Alec, who lifted her up as if she weighed nothing.

  She breathed in the scent of leather and grease, and then the sharper, clearer scent of herbs that told her Alina was near to her.

  Then she was fast asleep.

  She woke next morning in a warm bed.

  “Joanna,” a voice said. It seemed to come from far overhead. She twisted her head, and then opened her eyes.

  She found herself looking into the red-cheeked, green-eyed countenance of her mother.

  She smiled. A relief that was beyond words shuddered through her, and a deep, peaceful elation.

  “Mother,” she said.

  Her mother enfolded her in her arms. She smelled of spices and the citrus smell of the lemon balm she used to scent her hair. Joanna felt tears in her eyes. She clung to her wordlessly. Her mother hugged her fiercely back. There was a world of comfort in her presence, the sweet familiar strength of a mother's indescribable love.

  “Joanna,” she said.

  When they sat back and looked at one another, they both had tears proud on their cheeks. Neither wiped them away.

  “Daughter,” Amabel said clearly. “I am so pleased to see you. But what brought you back? We had no word of you. I was afraid.”

  Joanna sighed. She took her mother's hand, feeling its slender, bone-hard strength.

  “I was worried, too,” she said. “You were so ill. I feared...” she let out a long, shaky breath. She would cry again if she thought about it now. How the worry for her mother had lurked there, gnawing at her mind, draining her peacefulness away.

  “Alina made me well,” her mother said softly. A look of sadness crossed her face, making Joanna's throat close in sudden fright.

  “And Amice?” she asked, already feeling herself panic. “What of her? Is she too...” Her mind was full of her little sister's face, rose-cheeked, naughty, and crinkled with a smile as her brown eyes shone like buttons with her mischief. If something had happened to her, then...

  “Amice is well, yes,” her mother said, smiling warmly. “I'd bring her in to see you now, if you like, except that I thought her excitement would wear on you. She hasn't stopped bouncing about with wonder since she heard you were back,” she chuckled, running a hand down her face in a weary gesture. Their eyes met. They laughed.

  “I was so worried,” Joanna breathed. “I am so, so glad to see you. You have no idea.” She sighed.

  Joanna smiled. She squeezed her hand.

  “Well, I should let you rest. Shall I send for some broth? Anything you might like to eat? You should keep up your strength.”

  Joanna smiled placidly. That was so like her mother. She chuckled.

  “I could manage an egg, perhaps, beaten in some milk? With honey?” It was a cure-all from when she was young, a standard prescription for anything from a cold to a sore stomach. Her mother grinned.

  “I am sure Mrs. Watts could manage that,” she smiled. “I will go and find out.”

  Joanna lay back on the bed when she had gone, the unreality of things slowly working through her exhaus
ted thoughts. She was here, in her own bed, in Dunkeld. Her mother was with her, cured and as well as if nothing ailed her. Amice was well. Alina was tending to the ill, as always. Mrs. Watts still made the same remedies. The beam above the fireplace still had a hole in it.

  She sighed.

  Nothing has changed.

  Yet, she knew, everything had changed. She had stayed at Lochlann, where her uncle Brien, that unchangeable force, had passed on. She had met the dark man of her dreams. She had learned to love him.

  She had changed. She also had a mystery to solve.

  While her mother was downstairs, her voice drifting up through the hallways as she exhorted the maidservants to prepare a bath for her, she tried to piece together her suspicions, and to make a plan.

  The first thing she would do, when she was recovered again, was to speak to her aunt Alina. She was sure she could help her understand the thoughts that were slowly forming sense out of the confused mass of facts. She needed her help to find her way through this morass and to the solution.

  Then, perhaps, she could find the future that she dreamed of, but feared she would never attain, the freedom to realize her dreams of love.

  Yes, she had changed.

  She sat in bed, hearing a childish voice fill the hallway. Amice burst in, launching herself like a sling-stone straight at her chest. She laughed as her small arms wrapped her chest, her sister's laugh echoing as she covered her face with kisses.

  “Joanna! You're here! You're back.”

  Joanna laughed and wrestled with her sister, tickling her as she shrieked and giggled, calling out for mercy. She grinned at Brodgar, who stood at the end of the bed, a quiet smile on his face. Smiled at her mother. Yet, she was cold inside. Yes, she had changed. Her heart had altered, broadened, changed to hold another presence. Dougal.

  As she embraced her family, laughing and joking, playing with her siblings, smiling at her mother and Alina, who appeared behind them after a minute, face lit with a gentle smile, she missed him.

  Her heart would be colder until she saw him once again.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN