~ Disinheriteds: Scottish nobles who’d supported the English in the Scottish Wars of Independence and then lost their lands through the Treaty of Edinburgh in 1328 when England accepted Robert Bruce as king of an independent Scotland. Bruce died shortly thereafter in 1329 and these ‘disinherited’ nobles then returned to Scotland with English support to reclaim their lands – or as I had Logie do, rampage and seize property at will.
~ Faery Fire Stones: Made up. That said, there probably isn’t a stone (or blade of grass) in Scotland that can’t lay claim to some kind of magical power. In my travels there and research, I’ve come across so many fascinating accounts of charmed stones. So Devorgilla’s stones could well be out there somewhere. Who knows?
~ Fortingall Yew: Real. This ancient worthy stands in the very center of Scotland (in Perthshire) and is said to be anywhere from 3,000 to 9,000 years old. My bet is 5,000. The tree hailed as the ‘oldest living thing in Europe’ has a storied past and is blessedly tucked away in its remote little kirkyard where it will hopefully remain safe for many more centuries. It survived the Victorians who hollowed out part of its massive girth for tea parties, so the yew has a stout heart and clearly endures. If ever you are in the Loch Tay area, make the side trip to see this very special yew and its tranquil surroundings.
~ Sassunach: There are several spellings for this Scottish word for the English. Sassenach is probably the most popular. The Irish use Sasanach. I prefer Sassunach with ‘u’ because it is the spelling I’ve come across most often in my nonfiction research books on medieval Scotland. After decades of ‘feeling at home’ with this spelling, it would feel odd to me to use another version.
There’s so much more I could share from this story. But doing so would require a new book. So I’ve picked out a few tidbits and hope they prove of interest.
Last word…
In Master of the Highlands, Iain and Madeline take a journey that visits many of my own personal favorite sites in Scotland. That made the writing of the story special because every day when I’d sit down at my desk, my day’s work would whisk me back to places so dear to my heart. I touched on my love of these places in the dedication of the original edition.
Likewise mentioned was my inspiration for Iain. He was loosely based on the medieval ancestor of a Highland friend. This medieval Highlander was also named Iain and his life wasn’t a happy one. He had a good heart and was actually quite heroic, but seemed to lurch from one disaster to the next, ending badly.
I was deeply touched on hearing his sad tale and wanted to create a medieval Iain who, though similar in hard luck, would triumph and enjoy a happy ever after.
Here’s Master of the Highland’s original dedication…
“For the love of wild places, the roots in the land, and quiet moments. For ancient yews, old stone, and Highland sunsets, the splendor of golden afternoons. And for Iain, a long-ago Highlander, whose lot in life should have been as bright and shining as his noble and valiant heart.”
That’s it for this one. Thank you so much for reading Master of the Highlands. I hope you enjoyed joining Iain and Madeline on their journey.
Wishing you Highland Magic!
Sue-Ellen Welfonder
(aka Allie Mackay)
About Sue-Ellen Welfonder
“Sue-Ellen Welfonder brings legends and love to life.” – Fresh Fiction
USA Today bestselling author Sue-Ellen Welfonder won Romantic Times Best Historical Romance Award for her debut title, Devil in a Kilt. Many of her books have been RT Award nominees, and have received RT Top Picks and K.I.S.S. Hero Awards. She is thrilled to be a winner of InD'Tale's RONE Award. Her favorite reader compliment is that her stories transport them to medieval Scotland, the setting of most of her books. She is also known for her strong heroines, Alpha heroes, and weaving Highland magic and humor into her tales.
Sue-Ellen also writes as Allie Mackay, penning contemporary paranormals, mostly set in the Scottish Highlands.
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Copyright
Copyright 2003 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
E-book Edition Copyright 2018 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
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CHAMPION OF THE HEART
A Medieval Romance
Laurel O'Donnell
Champion of the Heart Copyright
Champion of the Heart
Copyright © 2011 by Laurel O’Donnell
www.laurel-odonnell.com
Published by ODONNELL BOOKS
ISBN# 978-0-9848895-5-6
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All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its author, Laurel O’Donnell.
The characters and events portrayed in this historical romance novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Champion of the Heart Dedication
Dedicated to all my loyal readers who have continued to support me, and to all my new readers who have found me through the magic of ebooks.
Prologue
England, 1323
Dark demons cast by the dying fire in the hearth danced over the cold stone walls of the solar room. Lord Frederick Mercer sat on the bed, lifting his arm to tighten the straps of his plate armor. Beside him, Michael shifted his position, bowing his blond head. Fox, five years older than Michael, paced the floor before the bed.
“I don’t understand, Father.” Fox Mercer scowled in confusion as he looked at his father. He was thirteen, but today he had enough pain in his heart and enough torment in his soul for a man five times his age. “Just tell the king who did it.”
“I can’t, Fox,” Frederick Mercer said, bending to slip his booted foot into a spur. He was quiet for a moment, staring at his boot. “I can’t.” He reached for his other boot and slid it on.
Fox paced the drafty room, desperately searching for a way out of the terrifying predicament his father was in. For a brief, horrifying moment the shadows of the waning fire took on the shape of an executioner, his face masked in a dark hood, his thick arms clutching an enormous axe. Fox quickly looked away from the black silhouette on the wall. No one was worth this sort of protection, not with such disastrous consequences. Fox’s gaze fell on his younger brother. Michael sat on his father’s bed, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. His brother’s blond hair hung forward to obscure his face. Michael had been quiet for days now, unnaturally silent.
The chink of chainmail made Fox turn back to his father. As he looked at the man who loved him, who always gave him hope for the future, he clenched his teeth, making his jaw ache with the effort. His small fingers clenched into fists so hard it made his arms shake. Why would his father give up everything to keep the identity of a murderer secret? Fox began to pace again. He moved back and forth, back and forth, fighting to keep his emotions in check, fighting to remain calm just as his father had taught him.
But today this was a battle Fox would not win. He stopped and whirled to face his father. “Don’t you care about what happens to us?” he asked in agony.
Lord Mercer straightened in his chair. “Of course I do. I care...” He took a deep breath. “I would do anything to protect you and Michael. Anything.” He shook his head and resumed his preparations, standing and reaching for his belt. “I only wish I had killed the baron myself.” He lifted haunted eyes to stare at Fox. “He was a horrible man, Fox.” He turned to Michael on the bed beside him and tenderly stroked his hair. “A horrible man.”
Fox scowled. “But I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. We will not speak of it again.” His father picked up his sword and gazed at it for a very long moment.
Fox couldn’t stop the anger that burned in his chest. What kind of man was the murderer to remain silent while his father took the punishment for him? Had he no honor? Fox’s jaw clenched. Whoever had murdered the baron would pay. It was a vow he was determined to keep, no matter how long it took him.
His father slid his sword into its sheath and then headed for the door.
Fox looked at Michael. His brother stared at him with large eyes. They were the saddest eyes Fox had ever seen. He took his little brother’s hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly. Together they left the room, shadowing their father as he moved down the corridors and through the stone tunnels that made up Castle Mercer’s hallways. They descended a dark spiral stairway that led to the Great Hall.
The noise coming from the Hall was a jumble of tones and timbres, some somber weeping and sad words of mourning, some dark laughter and sinister words of support. His family’s doom waited in the room. Some of the gathered throng dreaded what was to come, while others approved and eagerly waited for the king’s response.
Fox’s heart started pounding faster in his chest. His hand tightened around Michael’s, his palm slick with nervous sweat.
His father did not hesitate at the room’s threshold. He moved into the Great Hall with his customary strong stride, his head held high. Fox and Michael followed. Fox was careful to keep his eyes on his father’s back; he didn’t want to see the satisfied look in some of the gathered nobility’s eyes. He didn’t want to look at their disgust and their disapproval of the great man who walked proudly before him. They were all wrong in their merciless feelings for his father. All wrong.
Fox shifted his gaze to the front of the room. Normally, the raised platform situated there would hold the table for him and his family. But on this dark day, the table was gone. In its place was a row of seated people dressed in finery and velvets. One man drew his attention: King Edward of England. He was seated in an ornately decorated chair in the center of the row of nobles. He sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, surveying Fox’s father with obvious disapproval, and absently rubbed his chin with long, slender fingers.
Fox’s father stopped before the rise, bending one knee to the floor and bowing his head. Fox did the same, having to pull Michael down before the King.
A disgruntled snort came from the King, and Fox lifted his head slightly to see his reaction. The King studied his nails, announcing, “Rise, Mercer.”
A murmur ran through the room. The King had not used lord Mercer’s rightful title.
Fox rose after his father, the insult and degradation not lost on him. Fox clenched his fist, careful not to hurt Michael’s hand.
The King flicked his wrist. Two men in chainmail came forward and took Fox’s father’s arm, leading him onto the rise. They turned him to face the crowd of nobles assembled in the room. A herald stepped down from the platform, clutching a rolled parchment. He was a thin man with a graying, manicured beard. The herald waited a moment for the room to become silent. Then he unrolled the parchment, cleared his throat, and read the king’s decree.
“Frederick Mercer has been found guilty of official corruption,” the herald proclaimed, his voice echoing from one side of the Great Hall to the other.
Behind Mercer, the two knights lifted large metal hammers and brought them swinging down, arcing them at the back of his heels. Kchang! The grating, harsh sound of metal striking metal filled the large room. The abrasive noise echoed from wall to wall, as if chasing the herald’s ricocheting words. Kchang! The second blast of noise overtook the ghost of the previous metallic clang before it completely faded away.
His father’s spurs cracked under the heavy blows.
Fox stood immobile. Beside him, Michael sobbed and Fox felt the same anguish twisting his stomach and churning his throat. It took all his willpower to stand still and not rush to his father’s aid.
The herald looked back down at the unrolled parchment he held in his hands. “Frederick Mercer is stripped of his lands,” he announced.
Murmurings spread like wildfire through the Great Hall.
Fox shifted his glance to King Edward, who lounged in his chair, calmly sipping a golden goblet full of ale, impervious to the destruction he was causing. He was an imposing man, large in presence, but slim in girth. He radiated power and authority with a mere glance and a gesture. Today, his eyes were dark, his expression calmly hiding his fierce anger, except for the grim set of his lips. The King scanned the mass of people in the Great Hall, as if sear
ching for someone.
Why can’t you tell him what he wants to know? Fox silently asked his father. Fox’s jaw clenched with agony and anger. Just tell him!
Kchang! The spurs finally broke away from the heel.
“His lands will be forfeit to Lord Vaughn,” the herald droned.
Lord Vaughn! Evan’s father. Fox’s jaw clenched tighter. Evan. My friend, he thought bitterly.
The two knights finally ceased their attack and stepped away from Lord Mercer. Each grabbed a fallen spur, one knight tossing a spur left and the other tossing a spur to the right.
Another knight clad in chainmail stepped forward with a sharp dagger.
Fox straightened instantly as the room became quiet, the murmuring dwindling into a prolonged stretch of complete silence.
The herald cleared his throat and re-positioned the parchment in his hands. Finally, he read the last, chilling sentence written on the scroll. “Lord Frederick Mercer is no more.”
Terror washed over Fox. Would the King allow his father to be killed? he wondered as the knight with the dagger ominously approached Frederick Mercer. The knight seized Mercer’s leather belt, the belt holding his sword and scabbard about his waist, and raised the dagger. With a sharp, violent swipe, the knight cut the belt clean through. Frederick’s sword fell to the floor with a loud, hollow clang. The knight picked up the sword, pulled it from its sheath, and lifted it high above his head.
Fox lunged forward.
But he was too late. The knight brought the weapon down, smashing the blunt part of the blade over his father’s head with such force the weapon broke in two. Frederick swayed under the brutal strike, dropping forward hard and fast to his hands. He swayed for a moment, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head, but he did not topple to the floor.
Love Conquers All: Historical Romance Boxed Set Page 78
