The Highlander’s Challenge (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “So you think...” Duncan began, breathy, as she finished.

  “I think Uncle Brien wants you to find a woman he loved.”

  Duncan stared at her. “Truly?” Whether it amazed him to learn the man was sentient, or whether he was amazed by the enigma and its solution, Alina did not know. She could not help a chuckle, he looked so surprised.

  “Yes,” she said, laughing. “And don't tell me you didn't know he loved. I am sure all people do. Though, I must admit, I wonder sometimes in that man's case.”

  They both laughed.

  Sitting there, in the dusky solar, Alina felt more comfortable than she had ever felt. Duncan was a companion so easy and comforting, so suited to her, that she felt like they had always sat thus, with the scent of dust and pinewood around them, the evening light filtering through the arches and splashing on the floor before them both.

  Alina cleared her throat, feeling an ache in her heart. “We should retire now,” she said gently. Her voice was raw and she did not change that. She longed to stay here with him. Longed to do what she was sure they both wanted. However, she could not – it was unthinkable.

  Biting her lip as he moved in the chair opposite, she sighed.

  “I agree,” he said. He sounded as reluctant as she felt. He sat with hands clasped in front, head down.

  “Well, then,” Alina said softly.

  “Well,” he agreed. He looked up then, whiskey-dark eyes meeting hers. He smiled at her. “It's hard to leave here.”

  She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  He leaned forward. Took her hand in his. Held it firmly.

  “I'll not be gone long,” he said softly. “Not this time. This does not seem as dangerous as the last task did. No swords, no theft.” he chuckled softly.

  Alina bit her lip. It was not safe – that much was certain. The Duncraigh's were certainly enemies of Lochlann. He would have to be sure none knew he came from the castle, in order to enter with any surety. Nevertheless, she had to agree with his words.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I suppose.”

  “I should go, lass,” he said. “I need to sleep.”

  “Yes.”

  For a long while, neither of them moved. They sat together as if imprinting the memory of their presence on the mind, drinking in each gesture, each scent, sound, and sight so that, when they parted, they would be sustained. Until they saw each other once again.

  Alina turned away sharply. Stood.

  “Goodnight, my dearest,” she whispered. Her throat ached with silenced crying.

  “Goodnight, my sweetest.”

  Duncan whispered it, his voice almost gone. Alina squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears sting at her eyelids.

  “Goodnight,” she said again. She took his hand, squeezing it fiercely. She clutched it to her heart. He had stood, and he bent down, caressing her hair.

  Alina turned away sharply and hurried then, heading for the door. She went through it quickly and then walked lightly down the hallway, heading for the stairs.

  She did not stop until she reached her own bedchamber. She collapsed in a heap, tears coursing down her face as she lay on the bed, face buried in the coverlet to stifle the sound of crying.

  She lay there until she thought she was empty of tears, then, quietly, she slipped off her shoes and robe and slid under the covers.

  It was important to sleep. Tomorrow she would have to be awake. To say farewell. Though he had not said it in as many words, Alina sensed from his tension and need to complete the venture that he would be leaving tomorrow.

  She would be there to wish him well. Closing her eyes, feeling her body slowly warm again beneath the covers, the fire still casting some little warmth from the glowing coals beside the bed, she curled up and tried, successfully, to rest and sleep, gathering strength for the coming morning.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LEAVING THE CASTLE

  LEAVING THE CASTLE

  Duncan woke feeling, if anything, more exhausted than he had when he first returned to the castle. He looked up at the vaulted ceiling above his head, leaning against the soft cushions behind him and thinking about the coming day, and the preceding night.

  It seemed he dreamed it. Thoughts of Alina teemed through him. He winced, feeling his groin stir at the thought of her. He chuckled.

  Stop it, he thought to himself crossly. There's time for that and it's still far away.

  He sighed. His mind turned towards the coming day. The morning was still new, the light outside the windows cold and gray-green, painting the ceiling with greenness and coal smudges of shadow. Somewhere, he could hear servants stirring, the roll of carts on the cobblestone as the supplies came up from the village – coal, meal, and vegetables, rolling into the gates of the castle.

  I will be leaving here soon. He sighed. He had decided that last night, knowing that the sooner he returned to his tasks the more likely he would be to finish them. If he stayed here in comfort and closeness to Alina for longer than a few short hours, leaving would become something unbearable.

  I need to go before I recall how completely I love her.

  The thought made him pause. He loved her. He did. It should not have been a surprise – he was, after all, intending to marry her – but as he realized the full magnitude of how he felt, it cannoned into him with the force of a stone from a trebuchet.

  I love her with every part of me. Beyond anything she could do to me. Beyond reason. There were no conditions to his feelings, nothing she could do to change them. He loved her, body, mind and soul. Her body, her mind, and her soul. Nothing could remove the sigil of that love from his heart.

  He sighed and turned his head to the side, easing the stiffness in his neck as he sat up. It cracked satisfyingly and he sighed again, and then slid out of bed.

  Splashing his face in the water on the nightstand, he focused on the small everyday tasks of dressing, washing, and combing his hair. He refused to think beyond them, to the aching void that would be in his heart when he next left.

  He looked about the room. He should gather things to take with him. This time, he would take more provisions. As well as a thicker cloak. He would also dress more warmly. He would not like to face that cold weather again.

  Unfolding garments from the trunk in the corner, he shook out their creases, wincing as the air, redolent of rosemary, drifted up from them to his nostrils.

  The scent of rosemary and strewing herbs was the scent of Alina. She washed in rosemary, he remembered, infusing the water with the herb so that her hair was thick and glossy, scented and fragrant as evening fields...

  He closed his eyes, biting his lip. Stop it! He could not think of her. Not now. He could feel his eyes dampening and cuffed at them impatiently.

  Reaching for warm linen trews, a thick weave making them good for warmth, he drew them on. Belted them. He shrugged on a wool tunic, glancing in the mirror to check he looked like what he intended to be when he rode to the castle he must visit: a prosperous lord's son, or perhaps a wealthy merchant, seeking shelter on the road for the night before continuing his journey south.

  He reached for his cloak, shaking out the dark green folds of it. It fell in a comfortable line about him. This was the proper one – the velvet cloak of deep forested green, the color the family had more or less assumed as their symbol.

  Looking one last time in the mirror, seeing the tall, pale-haired young man with a slightly crooked nose and deep-set eyes look out at him, he turned away.

  Breakfast, he thought determinedly. He was not going to think of Alina, or anything other than the immediate tasks he needed to do to prepare for his journey. I can gather some supplies from the kitchen while I am below stairs. Taking a small bag in which to pack a loaf of bread and perhaps some cheese or ham, he headed down the stairs towards the great hall.

  In the hall, he was surprised to see Blaine there before him. He looked up at him from where he sat at breakfast, eyes ringed gray, but otherwise bright and animated.
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br />   “Good mornin' tae ye,” he said, rolling his shoulders and yawning. He reached for a clay jug and drank, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “Good morning.” Duncan sat down opposite, feeling his mouth already water as he breathed in the scents of oats porridge and oatcakes, butter, cheese, and ham laid out on the boards between them.

  It was early yet, and a few men-at-arms, those veterans who had acquired a habit of little sleep, were with him. Almost all the other benches were empty, leaving a group of perhaps eight to ten men around Blaine. Helping himself to breakfast and a few oatcakes to add to his travel supply, Duncan talked to Blaine, who was seemingly focused on his dish of oats.

  “I will go again this morning, Blaine,” he said quietly. “I have fresh information. I do not wish to stay...not for too long.”

  Blaine was stirring his porridge, letting salt mix with the mass of it. He looked up.

  “Ye ken where tae go next?” His eyes were wide and round.

  “Yes, Blaine,” Duncan said softly. “As I said, I have fresh information...”

  “Ye're plannin' tae go alone?”

  To Duncan's surprise, Blaine sounded surprisingly hurt. He cleared his throat, amazed that he felt upset himself on hearing the youth so wounded by his choices.

  “I am sorry, Blaine,” he said gently. “I think it is best.”

  “Not wantin' tae take me tagging along intae yer mischief?” Blaine asked, his eyes teasing. He still looked sad, though, and Duncan felt a sudden twist of guilt.

  “I think it is best for me to go alone to accomplish this,” he explained carefully. The men-at-arms around them were eating their breakfast, breaking hard-boiled eggs or chewing thick slices of ham and cheese and seeming oblivious to them. Duncan still did not want to risk saying more.

  “Ye'll no' be gettin' into any serious scrapes, my lord?” Blaine said, smiling crookedly. “I dinnae want tae see ye get hurt too badly,” he said. “It'd spoil the fun of doin' it meself sometime.”

  Duncan smiled at him. He felt sad, too, and knew that if he thought the plan would work, he would take him with him. The youth was good company, quick-witted and a fine friend.

  “Well, then. I will return in fine fettle so you can test that idea.”

  Blaine did laugh then, the warmth touching his sad eyes. “I dinnae know if my ideas always go accordin' tae plan, sir,” he laughed. “I think, perhaps, it's me who'd be gettin me backside clobbered.”

  They both laughed then. Duncan toasted him with his own stoneware jar, which appeared to contain small beer – boiled, to reduce the effects, but still cleaner than water. He drank some, enjoying the yeasty taste. It reminded him, stupidly, of home. Broderick sitting opposite him at the table in their boyhood, kicking his feet and pulling faces as they ate their morning oats.

  I will not see them, either, if I fail, he thought miserably. He wished he had asked Alina, who had visited in the days before, for any news of home.

  I do not even know if Broderick is well or ailing. How my father fares. Whether Amabel has finally succeeded in her ambition of civilizing Dunkeld and making it more like Lochlann castle.

  He swallowed hard. They seemed so far away, as if they were tales told by Old Norries or his wife in the great hall when they were all young. Broderick, Amabel. Father. He had last seen them two months ago, it was true. However, already things had blurred, so that he could not recall if his brother's chin was blunt or more pointed, and Amabel's face had smoothed so that he recalled simply green eyes and a mane of auburn locks.

  I will survive. I need to see them all once more.

  Feeling stronger as he decided that, Duncan laid his spoon aside. His stomach was already feeling stretched and he felt the beginnings of queasiness, brought on both by his shrunken stomach and the worry for setting out.

  “I'm off to the kitchen to stock up,” he told Blaine.

  Blaine looked up. He blinked, trying to hide the dampness of his eyes before Duncan noticed, but he already had. Blaine reached out to him, clasping his hand firmly.

  “Ye stay safe, you daft man,” he said, firmly, “or Heaven is my witness, I'll come and clobber ye for it.”

  Duncan laughed. The threat was made in fondness, taking any challenge immediately away. He squeezed the youth's hand.

  “Stay whole while I'm gone,” he said. “I'll not come back to find you clobbered about.”

  Blaine laughed. He grinned crookedly. “I'll do me best, sir.”

  Still laughing, though his throat ached with parting, Duncan headed out of the hall and through the rear door to the kitchens beyond.

  In the warm, bustling surroundings, Duncan chose some supplies, packing them, wrapped in kerchiefs, into his sack. Then, after thanking the cook, who blushed red and dropped him a deep curtsy, he headed off upstairs.

  He had already selected his clothing, so, with the two satchels, he went down to the stables. The stable hands saddled his Clydesdale horse, and he rode him out after ten minutes of waiting. His horse, too, looked better rested, though he still felt a twinge of guilt at taking him out of the warmth and nourishment of Lochlann stables after so short a time.

  When we return from these tasks, he can rest a whole month. I'll ride Broderick's horse and hope he doesn't throw me.

  Thoughts of home did not help, and he bit his lip, walking the last few paces to the gate.

  He rode resolutely on, not looking back, not allowing himself to turn around.

  I am on the road. The road is ahead. I will not turn round.

  He chanted the litany in his mind, repeating it over and again until it made no sense.

  Perhaps three hundred feet from the castle, he turned around.

  The castle stood behind him, a tall, gray edifice of fine-cut stone. It was a different gray to the sky, the round towers reaching up towards it, blocky and imposing, their silhouettes crisp against the wavering gray cloud.

  All except for one point, on the top of the western tower.

  There, there was a blur, a smudge of blue that could have been a woman, dressed in a long, blue velvet gown. She stood tall and proud on the tower, and the wind lifted her black hair around her, making it rise and fall softly on the morning's breeze.

  As he watched, it seemed the figure raised her hand in farewell. He stared.

  He raised his hand.

  Then, he wrenched his horse around, back onto the road beneath his feet.

  I am on the road. The road is ahead. I do not look back.

  He rode looking forward, back bent as he clasped the reins, tight – very tightly – in his wind-cooled fingers. He could not see the fingers, or the reins, or the pommel beneath. His vision was blurred, drowned in unshed tears.

  The road was before him, and he could not stop. Could not turn back. The future, with all its travail and all its hopes, lay like the horizon, far ahead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SUDDEN SHOCK

  SUDDEN SHOCK

  The castle interior was warm. So much warmer than the cold morning outdoors. Alina, sitting in the turret room, huddled by the fire. It was not just that it was icy cold on the top of the west tower, where she had just been. It was the sadness that had settled inside her, numbing all the warmth.

  I cannot quite believe that he is gone. He had only just been here, only just sat and talked, and kissed, held, and loved.

  She held her fingers to the blaze, wincing as the blood slowly spread to them, making them ache and itch with sudden warmth. As the heat from the fire flooded through her, she felt herself take heart. Duncan would return. He will. Why ever not? This task is not half as dangerous as the last one.

  She sat there by the fire, letting herself return from the numbness and cold of the tower to a sort of drifting half-awareness. Once she had reached that state, she walked quietly from the turret room and down the stairs. She reached for her apron as she passed by her bedchamber, gathering her cloak over one arm. She had work to do.

  “Good morning, my lady,” Pat
rice greeted Alina when she appeared in the kitchens. The place was like a furnace, the servants all red-faced and sweating as they washed pots, scoured pans, chopped turnips or baked bread. The noise was deafening and Alina had to raise her own to be heard above the cheerful cacophony of pots, pans, and shouts.

  “Patrice!” she shouted. “How does your mother fare?”

  “Oh! Ma's good, thank 'ee. Better. She's stronger each day.”

  Alina felt a wash of happiness at that news. “Good. Do you still have parsley?”

  “No, my lady. Finished it two days afore.”

  “How is her chest?” she asked.

  “Guid, my lady. Still wheezing a little, when it rains or in the evenin'.” Patrice turned away briefly, heaving a vast mass of parsnips into a steaming pot. Sweat streamed down her face and her already-curly hair crimped in the steamy heat.

  Alina put her head on one side, thinking. “I will give you some more. You should dry it, and use a measure in a tea. Use it in the mornings and evenings.”

  “Thank 'ee, milady.” Patrice curtsied, and then wiped the sweat off her forehead on her sleeve. “Bless ye'”

  Alina smiled at her and went out into the rain-soaked gardens, relieved for once to be out of the furnace heat of the kitchen with the pot-boys and scullions, and scents, sights, and sounds. Here, at least, was utter peace.

  When she came back in again, parsley delivered, she paused outside the great hall. The place was empty, caught in that odd silence between daybreak and midday. The guards were either playing dice or in the yard, where desultory cheers and the crack of staves on posts meant that they were practicing their art. There were, for the moment, no claims on Alina's time.

  I think I will go and visit Aili.

  She had not seen her aunt between the raid on the castle and now. She would like to know how she fared. She would also like to seek Aili's counsel. The worry for Duncan, the crawling discomfort of the guest at Dunwray castle, and the concern for Amabel weighed on her. It would be good to rest that burden for a while.