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

by Emilia Ferguson

  She returned to her room and shrugged off the apron. Then she headed into the icy, abandoned part of the castle, glad she had not left her cloak behind.

  “Aili?”

  “Come in.”

  Alina entered to find her aunt sitting in her carved chair, as usual. She was wearing a black dress Alina had not seen before and she looked somehow more alive than she had seen her in a few years. She smiled.

  “It is good to see you, Aunt.”

  “And you, my dear. Good to have you back at Lochlann.”

  Alina felt a twinge of surprise, than shook her head. It should really not surprise her anymore that her aunt knew precisely where she was and where she had been at any time. There was very little that escaped her – whether by some uncanny sense or simply through her observational powers.

  “It is good to be back, Aunt,” she admitted, taking a seat at the table. Their visits were all comfortable routine: Aili would call for cakes and ale and they would talk, working from the everyday worries to deeper underlying concerns and then finally to their solutions.

  “It is good to see you,” Aili agreed. “This castle is full of goings-on these days! A thousand different tales flying around, and probably none of them accurate.” Her aunt shrugged dismissively and lifted her glass from the tray.

  Alina raised a brow, carefully selecting a delicacy. She chose a square of marzipan – her favorite sweetmeat – and bit into it, letting the sweet, rich flavor melt in her mouth.“What tales?” she asked as she swallowed.

  “Oh, you know...” Aili waved a hand in a vague gesture. “The MacDonnell are lurking in the woods, waiting to attack. The Thane of Inverglass is amassing an army, come to take us. The castle is full of spies. Witches too, apparently.” she sniffed. “Though that is always the case.”

  Alina met her eye and they both laughed.

  “But people really expect an attack?” Alina asked, returning to seriousness. She cradled the goblet between her hands, glad her aunt had thought to have the ale mulled. It worked the last of the cold out of her fingers.

  “Mm,” Aili nodded, swallowing. “They do so. And who am I to say they're foolish? Personally, I'll not think the MacDonnell thane would move against Lochlann. Not if old Benoite's still alive.”

  “Benoite?” Alina stared at her.

  Aili snorted. “You don't know, do you? No. I suppose not. Your uncle took a shine to her. More than. I think the man was entirely entranced. He was foolish with it.”

  “Oh?” Alina watched her, transfixed. “She was a lady of the MacDonnell?”

  “No,” Aili waved a hand, smiling. “She was born at Inverglass. Sister to the last thane. But she was wed to a MacDonnell later. After.” She said the last word with emphasis. Alina's mind leaped to the meaning of it.

  “You mean...after Uncle...?” she asked hesitantly.

  “After the old fool suggested to ally with the Duncraigh and was told where he could go next, yes.” Aili smiled. “By, but you know the stories as well as I.”

  “Thank you, Aunt.” Alina registered her aunt's compliment somewhat distractedly. She was thinking of other things, trying to fit the new threads into the weaving she had made. “But...” she paused, biting dark-red lips. “If the lady was of the Duncraigh, and then she wed...she would be with the MacDonnell now, would she not?”

  “Yes, lass,” Aili agreed, leaning back, contented. “She retired to seclusion after her husband, the old thane's elder brother, passed away.”

  “But...” Alina covered her mouth with her hand, feeling sudden fear. “But that...” she trailed off.

  “What, lass?” Aili asked, reaching her hand across the table to her.

  She had sent Duncan to Inverglass. To find the pearl. Who was, it seemed, not anywhere near the place, but with the MacDonnell's. Duncan was riding to a hostile fort, poised for war with Lochlann – where he would find nothing. And it was her fault.

  Standing, she looked wildly around.

  “Forgive me, Aunt. I...I must go.”

  “Whist, lass,” her aunt said tranquilly. “You know what you're doing. Don't fear so.”

  Alina shook her head, heart pounding. Her blood felt as if it had pooled in her feet, her head light, her thinking a flurry of wild thoughts. I have to leave. To find Duncan. What if he is already too far away?

  “I have to go, Aunt,” she said a little wildly. “I have to leave. Now.”

  Before she was far too late.

  Gathering her cloak in her hands, nodding to her aunt and the old maid-servant who had appeared to bring fresh ale, she ran past both of them and out of the door, heading down the icy steps and up to her bedchamber. To pack. To prepare. To leave now, while she still had a chance to reach him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IN THE DARK

  IN THE DARK

  There is only one way to get there faster than Duncan. Alina packed her things in her bedchamber, throwing clothing into a satchel she could strap to the saddle. She would take only a spare cloak, and wear her warmest riding dress and boots. The only way was to go overland, not by road. And that meant she would have to ride.

  Alina finished her packing and went down to the kitchens to fetch supplies. The midday meal was already almost finished. She could hear the laughter of the men-at-arms in the great hall and, if she breathed in, could smell the scent of grease and gruel, and, somewhere closer to the kitchen, fresh bread. The family was, no doubt, ensconced in the warm solar, probably wondering where she was.

  She walked noiselessly into the kitchen, looking about. She would take a loaf of bread and perhaps a little cheese. She intended to spend no more than two days on the road. Any longer would be too long. She was reaching for a loaf when Patrice appeared at her shoulder.

  “My lady! What do you need here at this time?”

  Alina looked into her dark eyes, noting she was concerned, not inquisitive. “I am going on a ride, Patrice,” she said levelly. “I need to be away at short notice. I thought to take a loaf. Do you have cheese?”

  Patrice nodded. She walked briskly across the kitchen, years of practice sending her through the crowd of pot-boys, past the dog, and to the pantry shelves without knocking into anyone. When she returned she had a small round cheese and a parcel that proved to contain hard-boiled eggs, wrapped in a scrap of cheesecloth.

  Alina bit her lip, feeling touched. “Thank you, Patrice.”

  Patrice curtsied. “Of course, ma'am.”

  Alina patted her shoulder – a gesture that was utterly out-of-keeping with her rank, but she didn't care. She was grateful and wished to show it. Then she hurried out. She had not wanted to have to explain herself any further and, thanks to Patrice, she had the supplies with no questions asked. She packed them carefully into a pannier and headed to the stables.

  Old Knox, the head of the stables, an old guardsman who had lost a leg, helped prepare her horse, a beautiful palfrey, and they headed out of the stables together.

  “You should be using heartsease for that chest of yours,” she commented, hearing the old man give a wheezing cough.

  “Aye, Milady,” he said, coughing again as he did so. “I will that. God go wi' ye.”

  Alina swallowed. “Thank you. I pray so.”

  She sat in the sidesaddle, taking the reins, and together she and Argent, her horse, rode through the gates.

  Alina bit her lip. It was not that late in the afternoon, but already the mist was gathering, making the moors around the castle a dark, menacing place. The ground below her horse's hooves was wet and slick with droplets, making it dangerous to try any faster than a trot.

  They headed down the slope towards the plain.

  When we reach the plain, we should follow the road into the forest. The route towards Inverglass was perhaps two days' ride, though the way she chose would cut off half a day. That was why she had planned it. She shuddered. The one concern of the route she chose was that it would take her close to Gormond, the seat of Camry's father.

  Wh
ist! Stop being so foolish. The man could do nothing. All you do is ride past the fort. Besides, for all she could tell, Camry Blackwell was still away. The thought of Camry, and the fear he had induced in her, still made her shiver and draw her cloak closer. She did not like the thought of riding through woods under his family's control. She bit her lip. There was no other way.

  She felt Argent slow as they reached the woodland, and made noises of approval. “Good. We need to slow now. We need to be careful.” They would ride some way through the woods and pass through into territory of the Blackwell, perhaps late that night.

  Argent snorted and Alina patted her neck. “Good. We'll slow now.” They entered the woods.

  The woods were silent. The last rain, dripping from long leaves, was the only sound. Below the leaves, the forest floor was bone dry, the leaf mold smelling of earth and ancient silence. Alina breathed deeply, feeling the strange wariness of being in an ancient forest descend on her. The place had the silence of the grave and, like the grave, a sense of waiting presences, moored on the other side of time.

  “I ride to set right something badly done,” she said aloud.

  The affirmation was for her as well as for the ancient presences that hovered in the chapel silence. If they were guarding the place – and she felt a sense of hostility, there was no doubt –that reason would surely make them tolerate her here.

  There was pause, then there was a strange sigh, almost as if a wind blew, though no leaves stirred. The light brightened in the forest, as if a cloud moved away, temporarily letting sunshine in. It was a fractional moment, only, and then all returned to normal.

  Alina felt the tension lessen fractionally, and she sighed as her heartbeat slowed again. Argent, below her, seemed to relax, too, for her ears moved from twitching to relaxed. Alina sat forward, relaxing herself for the first time since they left.

  “Easy, now,” she said to Argent. “This is the longest part of it.” She half-closed her eyes, trusting Argent to follow the forester's tracks through the woodland. She was not sure how she would explain her presence in Blackmuir lands – trespassing was the domain of trappers and trapping was a crime. No huntsman would think she was there to steal his lordship's game!

  As long as they did not ask Lord Camry.

  She dug her nails into her palm, pulling her concentration back to the present moment. The woods were dark, the rain dripping onto the canopy but leaving them dry.

  I will not worry about anything, she decided, but the present moment.

  There were enough dangers to concern her – boars, bears, other wild animals. Outlaws. She did not need to concern herself with the nebulous danger of Lord Camry. She rode steadily on. At one point, where the road opened out, they went at a canter, making up time. Then, when they reached dense trees again, perhaps ten minutes later, they walked.

  Alina rode on as the light faded in the forest, darkening to mauve and bronze and then, finally, to black. She felt her head droop forward and rode half asleep; the only thing keeping her upright was her saddle and her fingers on the reins.

  Later, she came sharply awake. She had heard a noise.

  She patted her horse's neck, but her horse seemed as nervous as she did. Alina's heart thumped.

  Wolves. She was sure it was. Why else had Argent stopped so suddenly? She cursed herself. There is nothing I can do – I cannot light a torch. I will die here. She looked wildly round. There was nowhere to go. No way to escape from here.

  She braced herself, waiting to see the shine of their eyes. However, nothing came.

  Instead, there was a sound again. A crackle of the brush behind her. She felt her heart pound. She was almost too scared to turn round. Was it a bear? A wild man? Some hideous fiend of night?

  She was too stiff to move. I don't want to see...She braced herself: she had to. Feeling her neck grate as she moved it, she turned round.

  Found herself looking at a startled verderer and then at the man on horseback behind.

  Lord Camry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IMPRISONED

  IMPRISONED

  The night was dark and cold, the morning colder still. Duncan, riding across moorland, had long ago ceased to feel his fingers.

  All he knew was that, by this evening, he would have arrived.

  He patted his horse, glad he had brought him instead of accepting his lordship's offer of a new destrier. He patted the horse fondly.

  “You know me, and at least I can talk to you.” He chuckled, thinking of Broderick.

  His brother had, perhaps foolishly, allowed his lordship to grant him a destrier as a gift. The horse was enormous, trained and bred in France for battle service. The problem was that he only spoke French. His trainers had taught him in that language, and now it was all the horse knew.

  Duncan laughed again, shaking his head. Alina would have to speak to the horse for me. Alina and her sister both spoke two languages, daughters of the French king's ambassador to the court, and it always made him grin with amazement when she spoke that strange tongue.

  The thought of Alina lanced through his heart painfully. I wonder where she is. What she is doing now.

  He let his mind build him pictures of home, of her. Sitting and sewing in the turret room, laughing at some comment from Chrissie. In the garden, the sweet frown on her brow as she thought about the treatment of a patient. In the solar, battling Heath or Brien with her wit, and often winning.

  She is everything I love. He let the thoughts of her warm him, letting his mind drift in a space far removed from gray heathland and gray clouds.

  He and his horse, Douglas, stopped for lunch. He shared the rations with the horse, knowing how much a sturdy horse like that needed in this cold. More than grass for certain.

  They rested a while and then continued on. By the time the sky was starting to darken, he could just see the outline of a fortress on a hill, a tower standing proud against the darkening sky.

  He rode across the moorland, narrowing his eyes to keep the place in sight as the light quickly fell and the shadows lengthened to night. When he finally rode up the path to the gate, he could barely see his hand in front of his face, the day an inky darkness, with the strange warmth that comes as the earth gives back its faint heat to the sky.

  “Who goes there?” a sentry challenged him at the gate.

  “A friend,” Duncan began. He thought hard. He did not want to claim any link to the Lochlann family – these people were their enemies. However, if he said his own name – MacConnoway – would they know of his brother's marriage? It was six months before. They were not that far away.

  “Name?” the man said, with a weariness that dared Duncan to test his impatience.

  “Duncan MacConnoway,” he said, a plan forming in his mind.

  “Business?”

  “I wish to speak to your laird. I have information that may be...useful to him.”

  “Wait here.”

  Duncan nodded his thanks to the guard as they led him round the side of the gatehouse. He slipped wearily from Douglas' saddle. He would give the horse a respite from him.

  Soon, he prayed, we will both be within the fastness.

  He looked around. He nodded to the other guards but they pointedly looked away, and so he shrugged and looked out of the window.

  He had often wondered what Inverglass looked like – the imposing hill-fortress was often mentioned, boasted as impossible to siege. It was well-placed, he had to admit: from the steep hill, they could charge down on their enemies, as well as sighting them for miles.

  He strained his eyes, trying to look back out at the walls. It was too dark to see the top, but he had the sense that they were tall.

  Someone tapped on the door.

  “MacConnoway?”

  “Yes?”

  “You can go inside. The laird will see you.”

  Duncan stared at him. It worked! He had not expected it to. He closed his mouth, realizing that the man thought him faintly mad, and walked
to the door.

  He left Douglas at the stables and then followed the guard who had admitted him across the path towards the great hall. At the door he was stopped.

  “Weapons?”

  He sighed. He wore a belt-knife, which he passed over. It was a good one, and he hoped he would see it again. He cast a hard eye at the man who had taken it. He was fairly sure he would find it missing when he came to fetch it back.

  Bastards, he thought angrily.

  Feeling naked, vulnerable and unsafe, he followed the dour-faced guard along the passage and upstairs towards a tower.

  The tower was icy, the wind pouring down through the arrow slits, funneling down the stairs. He bit his lip, shivering as he followed the silent man up the winding tower. For all he knew he was following him into prison. He had no idea at all where he was.

  The guard knocked at a tall, arched door, a torch guttering in the wind in a bracket beside it. He paused, and then repeated.

  Duncan barely heard the command to enter, but the guard must have, for he opened the door and showed Duncan in. Then closed it behind him.

  On the other side of the door, Duncan found himself in an office. It was warm, a fire blazing, the walls thickly covered, precious fabrics making tapestries that blocked the wind and coldness of the stone. He looked around and saw a wooden desk. Behind it sat an elderly man, white hair bright in the firelight. The old man turned and nodded tranquilly.

  “Duncan MacConnoway. Sit.”

  Duncan swallowed and nodded. He was expecting to be reprimanded. Interrogated. Arrested, perhaps. Ransoming him to gain advantages from the Lochlann's would have been a clever plan. The last thing he expected was this aloof politeness. It was, quite frankly, more terrifying than if the thane had attacked him.

  He cleared his throat, reaching for his manners. “Good evening.”