by Alisa Adams
“Skye, ye look like something insalubrious fell from the sky and just landed on yer forehead, only to drop into yer mouth. What’s the matter, lassie?” There was obvious concern etched on the laird’s features, despite the jesting nature of his query.
“I, I… It’s nothing, my Laird.” Skye stumbled some more with the words in her mouth as if a pebble was lodged there.
“Brice?” asked Alastair, directing his full attention to his eldest son. “What is the matter? Ye haven’t been rude to Skye, have ye?”
“No, Da… never. It’s something else entirely. I have decided that I need to go to my English grandfather’s lands. I need to see them for myself. I just cannae get it out of my head that it is something I need to do,” said Brice sternly.
Alastair nodded. A wan smile appeared on his face. “I see. Well, ye did ask me many times when we were back at Windsor what I thought of the idea.” He thought for a moment. “I am assuming the king’s son has something to do with yer decision to go?”
“Faîther, I am very much my own man. I dinnae need his blessing to do this. Aye, he did give me advice, but it is I who wish to go.”
Alastair raised his hand to forestall a continuance of his son’s lecture. “That I ken, laddie. Ye proved it many times… especially at the Battle of Neville’s Cross, and on the grounds of the tournament. Ye are yer own man, son.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Mary, joining in the conversation. She had turned her horse around when she saw her husband and son talking.
“I must go to your father’s estate,” said Brice, with determination in his voice.
Mary’s gaze promptly flitted to Skye. She saw the hurt there at once.
“You must, of course, do what your heart tells you to do,” she told her son, then frowned. “We are close to Newcastle upon Tyne. We should reach Leighton Manor by nightfall.”
Mary hit the flanks of her horse with her heels.
“Come on,” she yelled when she looked back to see the others still hesitating.
“Is all of this grandfather’s land?” asked Brice, riding alongside his mother at the head of the column. As Mary had said earlier, they had passed the boundary to the Leighton land a short while before sundown. That was over half an hour ago.
“Yes… you can’t see much now due to the dark, but it reaches all the way to the sea to the east of here and nearly as far as the main town we passed on our way here to the south.” Mary chuckled. “If it weren’t for the Scots, father would have acquired all of the land to the north right up to the Anglo-Scottish border.”
Brice was in awe. The property was extensive and beyond his wildest dreams. Also, it was rather close to his homeland. Of course, this could be difficult because of the never-ending hostilities between the two countries. On the other hand, he was hopeful that the English might focus most of their attention on the French thus reducing his countrymen’s ire.
“There’s the manor house,” cried Mary happily, pointing ahead to a looming, dark structure that had torches lit by the main gates and entrance to the actual house.
“Do servants still tend to everything?” asked Brice. He was somehow disbelieving because he thought that after his grandfather’s death the daily operation of the property had come to a halt.
“Of course. They depend on Leighton Manor for their livelihoods, and in many ways, they are like family.” She laughed. “And also they know that father’s two daughters still live. They fear what we might say and do should we arrive unannounced just like we are doing now… Now, come on.” She spurred her horse to greater speed until it switched from a canter into a gallop. She descended the small hillock without a fear in the world – the darkness of the night acting as no hindrance to her swift passage.
Brice shook his head in admiration. His mother brimmed with excitement. She behaved like a young girl again. “Ye heard mother – come on ye dopy wallopers,” he yelled to his father and betrothed who had ridden most of the way in sulking silence behind them.
He heeled his horse and followed his mother at a gallop in the direction of the manor house. The closer he got, the more he realized just how large the structure was. It was not as well-fortified as the castle at home, but far larger in size. The place had its roots as a Saxon hall. As time went by, one of Brice’s ancestors had obtained it as a reward for good service to the king. The gesture was from William the Conqueror no less. It was also he who had bequeathed the hereditary title of Lord Leighton onto Mary’s family.
It was a great honor to belong to such a long lineage of peers and particularly one created by the great conqueror himself. Brice’s mother had told him and his brothers many such tales of her family while they were growing up. Although he had never been to Leighton Manor before, Brice knew almost everything there was to know about this property and the people that had owned it. In a way, he somehow felt a part of it.
None of the structure’s Saxon heritage remained. The fortified manor house was mostly of Norman design now. Brice knew that the oldest part of Leighton Manor was the north tower. It had been built as a bulwark against the Scots in the early to mid-eleventh century. His mother had told him that she had always liked to play there with the son of the cook when she was little. It was very rarely frequented nowadays. Inside, the floor was covered in tiles, and the walls were full of paintings. Mary had told Brice and his brothers that she had often wondered why the place was so nicely decorated if no one ever stayed there – Brice promised himself that he would have a look at it the following day.
“Here we are,” said Mary enthusiastically, as she brought her mount to a halt in front of the main building – Brice, who had gained on his mother, soon followed suit. “In a way, I wish that your aunt was with us. It would be such a homecoming, us sisters together.” A shadow passed over her face. “It is just a shame I never got to see father before he died. I never even wrote once. I feel like such a bad daughter.”
“It’s all right, Ma. He knew that ye loved him. He just would never have understood your situation.” Brice shrugged. “Ye were abducted, ye came back, and then ye were abducted again to never come back – now that’s not easy for any patriotic English lord to understand.”
“But Elizabeth said that he regretted having ever forced me into that union with the Earl of Wavel. He so wanted to see me again.” Still sitting on the back of her horse, she pleated her brow as all of the past events circled around in her mind. Mary felt both guilty and in the right. Her son was right; it was not all her fault.
“He could’ve written himself. And it was certainly difficult for him that ye fell in love with a Highlander; I dinnae ken if he would’ve ever come to terms with that,” said Brice, breaking the silence. He coughed. “People get to be quite stubborn as time goes by and they get older. Then they finally realize that death is upon them and it is too late to change what they always wanted to change.” Brice chuckled cynically. “Ironic how people attain such clarity when there is no time left. Live every day to the fullest, that is what I always say.”
Mary smiled at her son. The maudlin mood soon lifted when she regarded him closely. It made her feel so proud – he was so handsome with his dark hair and chiseled features that had somehow become manlier since his fighting in the war and his betrothal to Skye. A grin emerged on her face as a thought came to mind.
“If I recollect correctly, those words are your brother Callum’s.”
Brice joined her when she started laughing. “I can’t help it. The man has so much wisdom for someone his age – I dinnae ken how he does it or where he finds the knowledge. He just drops such gems on a regular basis. The ones I like stick, and then I tend to use them.”
Thinking of his brother, a thought came to Brice’s mind. Making his decision, he nodded; it would, of course, take some time to be sure of what he had in mind. His mother’s presence soon drew him away from his ponderings. He would have to consider his plan when he got a moment alone.
Mary patted him on the back. At
that moment, Alastair, Skye and the rest of the troop arrived; upon Alastair’s behest, they had followed at a more leisurely pace to give mother and son a little more time to acclimatize to their surroundings and maybe share a few words.
“Why haven’t ye dismounted yet? I was half expecting a glass of wine in my hand by now,” said Alastair, looking about. From what he could see in the dark, he was impressed. “Looks like a nice place this.”
Mary smiled at her husband who still looked young despite his age of over forty. With a groan, she dismounted; the others soon followed in her example. She walked up to the thick oak door with the iron studs and promptly started to bang a clenched fist on it.
It took quite some time until it was opened with a loud creaking sound. To Brice, it seemed like forever until it was fully ajar.
“Dalton, it is so good to see you… I can see that you are still running things with the same customary flourish.” Without another word, Mary leaped forward and took the servant into her arms.
Alastair, Brice, and Skye shared surprised glances at this show of familiarity. Skye, especially, had never expected the English to be so warm with their servants. But this was Mary, her mother-in-law and the mother of the man she loved – she was different in every way. She was all Skye really knew of her neighbors to the south. Of course, there was Sir Percival, whom Skye found slightly strange, Brice’s aunt, whom she respected but could not find much affection for, and then there was the king and his son, whom she despised.
“Is that you Lady Mary?” asked the elderly man in a croaky voice.
When Mary took a step back, Brice saw his face in the weak light coming from inside of the house. It was weathered by more winters than he could ever imagine, and yet, it was wise and kind. His eyes, the color of which he could not discern, were slightly wetted. He could not tell whether this was out of emotion or just the fact that he was of advanced years. The servant had a slight stoop that was partially hidden by the stockings on his legs and the knee-length green tunic he wore.
“Yes, yes, it is me, Dalton… I have finally come home,” said Mary, causing Skye to wince at her use of the word home. Alastair remained as still as a statue. He loved Mary too much to deny her this reunion. “This is my husband, the Laird of the Clan Macleod, and my eldest son, Brice. And this is my future daughter-in-law, Skye, daughter of Mungo of the Clan Macleod. And these brave men escorted us here from my sister’s manor near York.”
“It is so wonderful to see you again after all of this time, Lady Mary.” Dalton paused for a moment in an attempt to capture his emotions. “Yes, your father did say that you had moved to Scotland. I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance, my Laird.” Dalton greeted everyone as if he was a member of the family – no one minded. This was not the time for etiquette. “I expect you will also be needing quarters for the men accompanying you?”
Mary nodded. “Yes, they will need lodging and food.”
After the introductions and Dalton’s summoning of a servant boy in the house to allocate the quarters to the escorting men, he guided them inside the manor house.
Skye shivered; she was in Mary’s childhood home. The ambiance in the large manor house that bordered on a castle immediately made her feel like a stranger. The further she got, the more uncomfortable she felt. She missed Diabaig and the loch nearby. She cast a glance at Brice. The look of veneration was written all over his face.
Skye said a silent prayer: “Lord, I pray that these Sassenach lands will not take my man away from me. I love him with all of my heart; I don’t think I could bear it if he chose these lands over me – Amen.”
“Here we are,” said Dalton. “The Great Hall.” He pushed open the large double doors that screeched and scraped in protest as they moved.
Skye gulped. She stared ahead; down the entire length of the Great Hall. It was an expansive oblong space, a magnificent structure, topped by a lovely timber roof. The hall featured three large windows in the outer wall, making it clear that even this close to the Scottish border, the owner felt safe enough to make comfort a priority over security.
“Over the years, a delightful paneled solar was added up there,” said Dalton, obviously very proud of the position he held in the house, as he began to describe the private chamber for the lord in great detail. Mary’s late father had appointed him Chief Steward after Dalton’s father’s death. In a way, he was as much a part of Leighton Manor as Mary.
“It features a magnificently carved wooden fireplace with an elaborate overmantel, boasting the family’s crest. Beyond the solar is the south tower, a severe castellated barbican to be reached only by a staircase, and designed to be easily defended,” he continued.
Brice reached out to take Skye’s hand. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”
All she could do was nod meekly at him. Her instincts screamed at her to pull him away. Scotland was so close – they could spend the night outside in the countryside. Skye even preferred the wintery cold to this place that, to her, acted like a vile spider’s web, holding her man in its silky threads. And still, the drone of the Chief Steward’s voice continued.
“To these towers, this timber-framed Great Hall was added in the course of the past century.”
It was where they all stood, looking around. At one end of the hall, a steep wooden staircase lead to chambers on the upper floor, it was an elaborate affair sawn from whole tree trunks. At the top of the stairs, the landing allowed a person to get a close-up view of the superb timber roof, reinforced by huge wooden supports.
Mary frowned. “Dalton, why is the hall empty? Where are all the knights, squires and men-at-arms that serve this house?”
Dalton cleared his throat. It was a valid question. Usually, at this hour, in such a large and important household, the Great Hall would be full of men eating and drinking. “After your father’s passing, many of the men went away with the king to France in search of fortune and fame, my Lady.”
“Then who remains here to look after the land and my father’s house?” asked Mary, looking concerned.
“A few of the older men who no longer lust after that which lures younger men, my Lady. And, of course, their squires who cannot quit their masters.” He thought a moment. “In total, we are enough. Some twenty men remain.”
“And where are they this night?” asked Mary, thinking how few fighting men remained on her late father’s estate.
“They rode out shortly before your arrival at Leighton Manor. News reached us here that there was a Scottish raid on the lands belonging to Sir Peter Ponsonby, Third Baronet of Wooler,” said Dalton, looking a little worried.
Standing behind Brice, Skye still studied her surroundings. The news that her countrymen were harassing the English warmed her heart. Maybe this might be reason enough for Brice to change his mind about staying. Leighton Hall and the whole of Northern England were dangerous places and wide open to Scottish attack. To her mind, it served the Sassenachs right. How many times had they struck Scotland, killing thousands?
“Then we must go to their aid,” said Brice with authority.
Skye nearly choked. “Ye are off yer head, laddie,” she hissed out, looking at him with her customary fierceness.
“Haud yer wheesht, woman!” Brice ignored her furious gaze, preferring to focus his attention on his father. “Faîther, will ye join me? Maybe we can save some lives on both sides. I cannot stand idly by while the men of Leighton Manor and Scotland are in peril.”
“Aye, laddie, I will join ye. Just so that ye know...” He patted his son on the shoulder. “I am proud of ye for doing yer duty, even though I think ye are off yer head and a right bampot for wanting to do this. But ye are my son, and I will help ye, no matter what.”
Brice smiled at his father. “No such false modesty; ye would’ve done the same, Da.”
“Brice, you cannot do this,” wailed Skye.
Mary put a hand on her shoulder to calm her; the gesture only made her more hysterical. “He has to do his duty,” she said
. “Those men work these lands and not to mention the men of Scotland who might perish in the attack. Do you want them all dead? There has been enough blood between these two countries to last a lifetime.”
“His duty is to the Clan Macleod and not to the bloody English,” insisted Skye. “The Scotsmen ken what they are doing – they fight for their king and country just like yer man and mine. It would be an act of treason to impede them and to aid the English, Mother.”
“I will be the judge of where my son’s duty lies and where our loyalties are best served,” snarled out the laird. “Ye, Skye, will remain here with Lady Mary while yer betrothed and I are away. We expect food and ale or maybe some wine when we return – make sure it is provided, lassie.”
Skye withered away at the bulky laird’s vehemence. In a way, he reminded her of Mungo when he got angry; the only difference being she could invariably wrap her father around her little finger.
In the meantime, Alastair had turned to his son. “Let’s go.”
Before Brice followed his father, he stopped. He looked at Skye. To his surprise, she was on the verge of tears. It broke his heart to see her like that. “I am sorry if I may have been a little harsh on ye before. But ye just can’t keep questioning my decisions like that. Especially not in front of my father… ye ken? If ye continue, he will be doing the disciplining for me; just like before. It’s embarrassing.” She did not answer. “I have to go now.” He reached out and stroked her cheek.
“Come back to me safely,” Skye said, placing a small kiss on his lips.
“Yer always at the coo’s tail when there’s a lassie about,” yelled Alastair, telling his son that he always dilly-dallies when there is a lady about. “Now come on; this was yer flaming, radge, wee shite of an idea in the first place. It would be nice if ye finally joined me for it.”
