Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 03]

by Wedding for a Knight

  “The Black Stag is one of the most heavily pursed lairds in all the land,” she said at last, trying not to see the feverish glint in her mother’s eyes—the desperate plea hovering there.

  But even by the feeble glow of a lone tallow candle, the ravages of impending death stood all o’er Marjory Mackay’s once-beautiful face.

  And the truth of it jellied Juliana’s knees and brought out the worst in her.

  Such as her seething resentment that her mother, long-time hearth-mate to the laird’s unlamented late half-brother, Kenneth MacKenzie, had been forced to raise her children in a dirt-floored, one-room hovel, divided only by an ox-hide curtain. This, despite the scant monies and aid the MacKenzie laird had sent their way over the years.

  “Duncan MacKenzie has trod heavy-footed over you for all your days,” Juliana bit out, using her own booted foot to nudge a loose pebble from the hard-packed earthen floor. “He ne’er acknowledged your bond to his brother nor cared that my father sired two bairns on you—the Black Stag’s own niece and nephew!”

  Frowning, she paused to grind the pebble back into the dirt. “He holds gluttonous feasts in his stout-walled Eilean Creag Castle yet e’er left you, his own brother’s leman, to scrape the barest living from these hard hills, soothing his conscience by having a milk cow or a jangling pouch of siller delivered to us whenever he recalled our existence.”

  “He had his reasons, child,” Marjory Mackay wheezed from her pallet.

  Juliana sniffed. “I mislike that you would even consider owing him restitution.” Stepping closer to the pallet, she dabbed at her mother’s brow with a damp cloth. “I have ne’er heard aught more . . . unnecessary.”

  Marjory closed her eyes, pulled in a ragged breath. “Times were worse than you ken, food scarce. Without the MacKenzie’s largesse, you and your brother Kenneth would have had to endure an even harsher, more comfortless life. Think you I can . . . exit this world without repaying the man whose aid spared my bairns from hungering?”

  “You are not going to die.” Juliana wrung out the cloth, squeezing it tighter with each word before redipping it into a wooden bowl of cool springwater. “I will not allow it.”

  A delicately-veined hand, astonishingly strong, reached to circle Juliana’s wrist. “The good Lord alone decides when a body is to join Him, lass, but I . . .” A bout of breathlessness stole Marjory’s words and the flecks of pink-stained spittle she coughed up twisted Juliana’s heart.

  “If the good Lord or His great host of saints have any mercy in their wing-backed souls they shall work their wonders to see you well again,” Juliana snapped, the words coming sharper than she would have wished.

  “You must do as I ask and deliver the monies to the Black Stag for me. I have a missive for him as well, written when I first sensed my end was near.” Marjory half-raised herself from the pallet, her glassy-eyed gaze sliding to the rolled parchment on the cottage’s sole table. A crude and pitiful excuse for a table that wobbled on four uneven legs.

  “I do not have much longer,” she added, squeezing Juliana’s wrist before letting her hand fall back onto the plaid coverlet, the last of her strength clearly leaving her. “I would know this done.”

  Following her mother’s gaze, Juliana pressed her lips together and said nothing. She’d seen her mother laboriously scribbling away on the precious piece of parchment—the saints only knew where she’d obtained it or the inkhorn and quill now resting so innocently beside the curled missive. Such luxuries were scarce in this narrow glen where they lived, all but cut off from the outside world.

  “Duncan MacKenzie has siller enough of his own—and to spare!” Juliana glanced at the rusted, iron-latched strongbox where she knew her mother kept what coin her brother Kenneth sent to them.

  Hard-earned monies intended for their mother’s use and not to be hoarded, unspent.

  And of a certainty, the monies were not to be delivered into the hands of the notorious Black Stag for the singular purpose of adding to that one’s already overflowing coffers.

  Her gall nigh choking her, Juliana glared at her mother’s pathetically battered money coffer, resentment flowing through her like a deep and sullen river. Truth was, if her mother had put the monies to good use, mayhap refurbishing the thatch of their cottage’s leak-plagued roof or repairing the countless chinks in the stone-and-sod walls, perhaps then Marjory Mackay’s ailing would not have taken such a ferocious turn for the worse.

  As it was, Juliana could only pray to God for her mother’s recovery—or a peaceful release from her travails.

  That, and wish the Black Stag of Kintail to the lowest, most wretched of hells.

  Bristling, she hoped her vexation did not stand writ upon her face. “The MacKenzie has not sent you aid since Kenneth and I have grown. Had the man e’er desired repayment, he would have surely demanded such by now,” she said, amazed by the steady calm of her voice.

  She jerked her head toward the strongbox. “Yon coin comes from Kenneth—your son, I’d beg you to recall. And I vow, were he here, he would be of like mind. Duncan MacKenzie is a hard and savage man. He has no need of restitution.”

  Biting her lip to tamp down the flood tide of heated epithets dancing hotfoot on her tongue, Juliana paused to press the cool cloth to her mother’s feverish forehead. “On my soul, would you desire the truth of it, there are those who say Duncan MacKenzie has a devil in him and you ken he has e’er lived in fine style. I doubt he would even appreciate the gesture. So why deign him with such a boon?”

  A long, shuddering sigh escaped Marjory’s parched lips. “Are you so blind, lass? Can you not see the matter has scarce little to do with the coin—or even whether or no the Black Stag appreciates the message I would have you bring to him?”

  “I see naught but sheerest folly and would wish you to desist with such a foolhardy notion,” Juliana countered, her scuff-toed boot already worrying another pebble embedded in the well-swept earthen floor.

  “Then I have not raised you to be as far-seeing as I would have wished.” Marjory’s thin fingers clutched at the plaid covering her. “Of more import than the good man’s acceptance or refusal of my offering, is that the giving of it shall solace my mind. Whilst the breath of life is still in me, lass, I plead you to heed my wishes.”

  “Good man,” Juliana couldn’t help but scoff, her blood chilling with the implicated surrender in the words she was about to say. “Kenneth will be of sore wrath when he learns.”

  “That is as may be, but your brother is not here and we can ne’er ken when he shall choose to visit us. I would know this done now so that—” Marjory broke off to raise herself on an elbow. She fixed a determined stare on Juliana. “So that I may take my leave of this world in peace.”

  “And I cannot take myself off into the heather and leave you here alone . . . to . . . to die unattended.” Juliana dropped to her knees beside the pallet, stroked a sweat-dampened strand of hair from her mother’s brow. Fine, sunfire-colored hair, bright as Juliana’s own. “I simply cannot do it.”

  “You can and you shall, for you are strong,” Marjory argued, reaching to take one of Juliana’s fiery red braids in her hand. “Let us say Godspeed now, my dear heart, and give me the closure of your word.”

  Juliana bit her lip, shook her head in staunch denial, hot tears spilling free now, each damnable one nigh blinding her.

  “I ask this of you only so I may know peace,” her mother persisted, letting go of the braid to touch trembling, cold fingers to Juliana’s cheek. “Promise me, lass. I beg you. Swear to me that you will do this—and be on your way by cockcrow on the morrow. So that I—”

  “Pray God in all His glory, do not say it again,” Juliana surrendered at last, pushing to her feet, amazed her watery knees could hold her upright. “If this means so much to you, aye, I shall go . . . I will see to this for you, I promise,” she agreed, the words bitter ash on her tongue.

  Swallowing hard, she squared her shoulders and pulled in a long, steadying
breath. “Aye, I give you my word the deed is as good as done.”

  Later, just as darkness settled on the coast of Kintail and the quiet hush of evening began curling around the stout walls of Eilean Creag Castle, loch-girt stronghold of Clan MacKenzie, Lady Linnet, a comely woman of middle years and the same flame-bright tresses as Juliana, moved about the keep’s well-appointed solar, ill ease niggling at her, dogging her every step.

  An unpleasant and cloying chill it was, and persistent as the inky shadows laying gleeful claim to those corners of the solar not fully illuminated by the crackling fire blazing in the chamber’s fine stone hearth.

  Trying hard to ignore the frightfully familiar sensation, Linnet paused at one of the solar’s tall, arch-topped windows and looked out at the pewter-gray surface of Loch Duich far below.

  Most times, the view from this chamber soothed her. Indeed, she came here often, the lonely beauty of the empty shores and the great heather hills that stretched beyond in endless succession never failing to gentle any and all unwelcome thoughts.

  Until now.

  This night, far deeper cares than usual bore down upon her shoulders and occupied her increasingly troubled mind.

  Truth be told, she scarce noticed the heart-rending lovely world whiling so still and tranquil beyond her windows. Nor did her ears catch much of the keening wind racing in from the not too distant sea to ruffle the loch’s dark waters and whistle past Eilean Creag’s night-bound ramparts and turrets.

  For rather than the wind, the Lady Linnet heard the sound of bees.

  A multitude of buzzing bees.

  The most dread sound to e’er plague her—the sound that always heralded one of her spells.

  Her visions.

  Seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, ’twas a curse she’d been spared in recent years, but one that seemed determined to return with a vengeance this night. A night that should have been filled with naught but celebratory joy, for word had come at last that her stepson, Robbie MacKenzie, was finally returning home to Eilean Creag.

  “Ten long years.” She turned to her liege husband, Duncan MacKenzie, hoping her voice sounded level and firm. She could not tell for the din of the bees was nigh deafening now.

  A nightmarish cacophony robbing her of her wits and making her weak.

  Vulnerable.

  Moistening her lips, she clasped her hands together, lacing her fingers to stave off the trembling. “Do you think he is truly coming? At last?”

  Her husband set down the wine cup he’d been drinking from, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Think you he would dare not come? Knowing his betrothed is on her way here? Even now as we speak?”

  A chill streaked down Linnet’s spine at the word betrothed—a deep-reaching, breath-stealing cold that spread clear to her toes, enfolding her.

  Still fighting it, ignoring the telltale signs, she shivered, drew her woolen arisaid closer about her shoulders. “Think you it is wise to wed him to Lady Euphemia?” she challenged her husband. “The daughter of a man you yourself have called a scourge upon the heather?”

  Duncan waved a dismissive hand, shook his dark head. “She was chosen because she is that lout’s daughter, as you well ken,” he reminded her, coming forward to rest his hands upon her shoulders, kneading them. “’Tis a necessary alliance if e’er we are to enjoy true peace in these hills.”

  “And if the lad finds her not to his liking?” That, from a tall, scar-faced man lounging in the shadows of a window embrasure. “Would it not be more prudent to let Robbie first return home and resettle himself before fetching the lass to his side?”

  “Och, but there speaks the eternal voice of caution.” Duncan aimed a dark look at his friend and good-brother, Sir Marmaduke Strongbow. “Euphemia MacLeod is already on her way here—as you well know. To send her back now would be an intolerable affront.”

  “Such insult might prove the lesser evil if Robbie finds the maid not to his liking,” Sir Marmaduke gave back, ever undaunted by the Black Stag’s scowling countenance. Indeed, he leveled a penetrating glance of his own at his long-time friend and liege laird. “Perhaps you have acted in haste.”

  “In haste?” Duncan’s dark brows snapped together. With a huff, most decidedly issued for Marmaduke’s benefit, the redoubtable Black Stag strode back to the table, poured out a fresh measure of the blood-red wine, and downed it in one gulp.

  “The lad has traipsed about the land these last years, doing as he pleases and garnering a reputation of valor nigh as untarnished as your own,” he said, his hot gaze pinning Sir Marmaduke, daring him to declare otherwise. “Robbie gave his promise, his solemn vow, to wed the MacLeod lass before he left. Think you he would despoil his honor now . . . by refusing to accept her as his bride?”

  E’er a paragon of level-headedness, Sir Marmaduke kept his unblinking stare locked on Duncan. “I warrant he will uphold his promise,” he said, folding his arms—and doing so with enough practiced leisure to bedevil Duncan beyond endurance. “Aye, he will no doubt keep his word. And his honor. I only wish he would have had some time to . . . adjust.”

  “Sacrament,” Duncan blurted, his dark blue eyes blazing. “He has had ten full years to adjust—or sample enough sweetness elsewhere, if you have forgotten. Ten years,” Duncan said, his tone—and the rapidly beating twitch in his jaw—giving his friend no quarter. “The MacLeod lass will suit him well enough, I say you. She is pleasing to the eye and of sound wits, unlike her oaf of a father.”

  Some might argue that Robbie suffers such a sire as well, Linnet thought she heard Sir Marmaduke comment. And whether he’d spoken the words or no, Linnet’s husband gave him a dark oath in response.

  Or so she imagined.

  Not that she could hear much of what either man had to say, for the droning buzz in her ears had reached a fever pitch.

  Ignoring the men, for she was well-accustomed to their ceaseless ribbing, she turned her back on them lest they note her discomfiture, the perspiration beading her brow. Determined to remain calm, she stared into the hearth fire, peering intently at the red flames licking at the well-burning logs.

  Red flames that soon became a tall and lithesome maid’s unbound cascade of shimmering red-gold tresses. Beautifully waved tresses that spilled clear to the young woman’s shapely hips, each shimmering strand shining bright as sunfire.

  The lass stood tall and proud, untold happiness seeming to radiate from every glorious inch of her. And from someplace deep inside Linnet, a hidden corner far removed and safe from her hard-pounding heart and the sweat trickling cold between her breasts, Linnet knew she was staring at her stepson’s bride.

  A truth she would have recognized even if the lass weren’t standing in front of the MacKenzies’ famed Marriage Stone, a large blue-tinted stone incised with ancient Celtic runes, a near-perfect hole in its center. It was the main piece and pride of every MacKenzie wedding ceremony.

  A clan tradition all down the centuries.

  The MacKenzies’ most sacred talisman.

  Aye, the lovely maid with the flame-bright hair could be no other.

  Trembling now, her knees nigh giving out on her, Linnet struggled to keep standing. She reached deep inside herself to maintain her composure even as she willed the lass to turn, to glance her way, so she could see the maid’s face.

  But such visions cannot be summoned nor steered, Linnet well knew, and even as she stared, the image began to waver and fade until the bright, shimmering tresses were once again nothing more than dancing flames, the beautiful young woman and the celebrated Marriage Stone gone as if they’d never been.

  “Sir . . .” Linnet began when she could find her voice, forgetting herself in her flustered state and calling her husband by the title he loathed her to use. “Duncan,” she corrected, careful to keep her back to him, feigning calm. “You say the MacLeod lass is fetching. I would know, is she . . . flame-haired? Perchance like me?”

  “Nay, she is nothing like you.” Duncan’s answer cam
e swift and, oddly, exactly as Linnet had feared. “Euphemia MacLeod is dark. A wee snippet of a lass with dark brown hair and eyes. She will make a meet bride.”

  “A meet bride,” Linnet acknowledged, her heart sinking. But not for our Robbie.

  That last she left unsaid.

  Kintail.

  Robbie MacKenzie reined in his sure-footed Highland garron on the crest of a windswept ridge and surveyed the wide heather wilderness spread out before him. He drew a deep breath, filling his eyes and half certain his heart would burst now that he’d finally crossed into his father’s territory.

  Wild, bright, and sunlit, the mountains, moors, and glens of home stretched in all directions, rolling endlessly to a broad, cloud-churning horizon. Sweet, fair lands he’d ached to see every night of the ten long years he’d been away.

  Necessary years, needed to earn his reputation and valor, but a trial all the same. And now he was a man of full age and abilities, well able if not entirely eager to step into his puissant father’s footsteps.

  And, too, to accept the daughter of a rival clan chieftain as his bride, thus assuring peace in this rugged and mountainous land.

  “God’s mercy,” he breathed, staring out across Kintail at its springtime finest, taken unaware by the deep emotion coursing through him.

  Saints, even the thought of Euphemia MacLeod, the lass he’d agreed to wed but had yet to meet, could not dampen his spirits. Indeed, with good fortune blessing him, the Lady Euphemia might prove none so ill a match. He might even surprise himself and find her to his liking: warm, voluptuous, large-bosomed, and . . . all woman.

  And if not . . . then so be it.

  He’d make do with his lot.

  His honor demanded it of him.

  But for this one blessed moment, the most perfect noontide he could have wished, naught would mar his pleasure or steal the sweetness of his homecoming. The heather ridge he’d chosen for his outlook bore clutches of silver birches and tall Caledonian pines, whilst the hills more distant wore deep blue shadows and sparkling white cornices of snow.