Highlander's Stolen Destiny: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  Brice and his father rode out in the direction Dalton had explained to them – they followed a young page, who worked in the household, and was assigned to the late Lord Leighton by one of the better families in the area. They wished for him to learn the ways of a lord and a gentleman, and so to eventually become a knight himself when he comes of age. With them came the men from York, provided to them by Sir Percival. They, of course, were eager for some Scottish blood and maybe some plunder. Alastair and Brice, on the other hand, were not exactly sure what they were going to do when they got there. Preferably, they wanted no blood on their hands at all. Also, they had to keep an eye out for the other men that head left Leighton Manor.

  “The laddie seems to ken his way perfectly under a half moon that is occasionally blotted out by the clouds,” said Alastair.

  “Aye… How far to Wooler Manor, laddie?” asked Brice.

  The young boy, who was no older than nine, hitched his shoulders. “It is over the next hill,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Alastair raised his hand for the column to come to a halt. “Shush,” he hissed out when some of the men started to talk. “Listen for any sound of fighting.”

  There was no sound other than the heavy breathing of the horses because they had ridden at a fast pace all the way from Leighton Manor. The sound covered any clinking coming from the equipment.

  “Listen!” Brice looked at his father. “I can hear swords clashing coming from that direction, I think.”

  “Ye think right, son. Ye take part in only one major battle, and ye are already a flaming veteran. Mungo and Murtagh would be so proud of ye – as am I.” Alastair swiveled his bulk in the saddle. “Laddies, the raiders are past that hill.” He turned to the page. “Is there any concealment in the form of trees and bushes in front of or near to the manor house? That would greatly help our chances of getting them by surprise.”

  The boy thought a moment. After a very short while, he nodded his little head with the scruffy tuft of blond hair vigorously. “Yes, we have to go ‘round the hill over there and enter that small valley between the other hill. There’s a copse there that will provide the cover we need all the way up to the field beyond.”

  “What will we find there?” asked Brice.

  “Wooler Manor, sire. The coppice almost opens up right in front of it.” The lad was obviously very excited, judging by the little high-pitched squeaks he made.

  Alastair ruffled his hair. “What’s yer name, laddie?”

  “Aiken, sir. My ma says that it means made from oak trees, sir.”

  Alastair chuckled bronchially. “Aye, that ye are, laddie. A veritable English oak.” He leaned in closer to Aiken. “And if ye ask me, ye are as brave and stout as an oak.”

  The boy beamed at him. “Thank you, sir.” He almost immediately fell serious. “Shouldn’t we make haste and attack these ruffians that harass these lands? I know Sir Peter Ponsonby, Third Baronet of Wooler, personally. He is a close friend of my family. I wouldn’t want anything untoward to happen to him or his family.”

  Alastair laughed again. “Ye are right. We have been doing too much chatting and not enough fighting.” He looked back at the English escort again. “Are ye ready, laddies, for a little evening knock-about?”

  The men-at-arms growled their agreement. “Yes, Your Lordship,” they said, addressing Alastair in the English manner.

  “Good – we will do as the boy suggests. Head for those trees at a silent canter – if ye can manage it and wait for me there,” ordered the laird. “Laddie, where do ye think ye are going?” he asked of Aiken when he saw him making to go with the men.

  “I am your guide, but I am also a page, and I am here to learn the ways of the knight. I can’t very well do that hanging in the rear and in safety, my Lord. If I have your permission, I would like to take up my position at the head of the troop in order to guide them to where they need to be.”

  With arched eyebrows, Alastair nodded reluctantly. The boy needed no further incentive – he was gone in moments.

  “That laddie’s got some pluck,” he said, shaking his head in wonderment. “He reminds me of ye when ye were young.”

  “A bawsack of steel then,” said Brice, with a grin splitting his face.

  His father guffawed. “Something like that. Now, let’s go before all of those blighters start killing one another. We have to try and find a way to save as many as possible.” With those words, he urged his horse forward.

  Ten minutes later, the small posse stood at the edge of the grove, facing Wooler Manor. A group of men was exchanging sword blows in front of the building. The clash of steel against steel and the grunts of men and on occasion their screams filled the airwaves. The torches from the main house provided some light for the hidden band to see that no more than five pairs of men obstructed the way. Still, there was no sign of the other men from the Leighton lands.

  “There must be more fighting inside of the manor house. We have to get inside, lest they kill yer mate, Aiken.” The young guide nodded solemnly. “All right, ye, ye, ye and ye.” Alastair pointed at various troopers in his command. “And I will deal with the men fighting outside.” Alastair turned his large head to his son. “Ye, my boy, have the place of honor this night. I want ye to take the rest of the men and deal with any enemy inside of the building and save this Ponsonby fellow and his family.”

  Brice’s teeth gleamed at his father in the weak light. “Thank ye, Da, for putting so much faith in me.”

  “Ye have earned it, son.” The next part was for everybody’s ears. “And remember, laddies, we are not here to kill. Maim them at the very most if they pose a threat to ye. I want ye to get between the fighting men and break them up – is that understood,” he growled out. When the men gave him their affirmation, he gave the command to advance.

  Like a swarm of wraiths from the darkest reaches of Hades, the small but deadly party of Scotsmen, Yorkshiremen and a young boy advanced on the unsuspecting combatants from the tree line. They came on foot, leaving their horses tethered to the trees.

  “What the he—”

  It was too late. Before the English man-at-arms could finish his sentence, Alastair was upon him. The Scotsman facing him was equally surprised. Seeing Alastair’s attire, the latter man feared for his life, for the laird was still dressed in the English clothing provided to him by the king. Without waiting for Alastair to press on his advantage, the Scot ran off in a northerly direction, thinking the new arrivals reinforcements.

  “That was too bleedin’ easy,” said Alastair, taking deep swallows of air to recover from the sprint across the field.

  “What in the name of God is this treachery?” hissed out the Englishman. “You are a bloody Scot dressed in English clothing.” The soldier began to raise his sword.

  Alastair raised his weapon in response. “I wouldn’t be doing that if I were ye. I am here with Lord Leighton to help ye laddies out. From what I saw, from my wee run over here, ye were very much in need of it.” He couldn’t believe that he had just referred to his son as the Lord of Leighton Manor. It made him feel decidedly uneasy in his gut.

  The Englishman hesitated for a moment. He scrunched his brow under his helmet. “There is no Lord Leighton. The old one died without an heir… Everyone around here knows that,” he sneered out, gnarling his teeth.

  “That would be the only the local news then. But he has three grandsons, one of which is inside the manor house trying to fend off the rest of the raiders. Now, I would very much like to join him in this attempt,” said Alastair. “And yer help would be very much appreciated.”

  After some initial confusion and thanks to Aiken, Brice and his men had found the quickest way inside Woolen Manor. There they soon found six English men-at-arms and eight Scots dead on the ground in the entrance hall. It was eerily quiet.

  Brice looked to the left and right. Then an idea came to him. “How many men were there fighting outside?”

  “Five on either side, sir,” responded Ai
ken with lightning velocity, as the adult men still tried to make up their minds.

  “If we tally up the corpses in here, we have a total of thirteen Scotsmen in their party.” He turned to look at Aiken closely. “How large is Sir Peter’s guard, Aiken?”

  The young boy pleated his brow into a nearly non-existent frown. “I would say about thirty, sir.” When he saw Brice’s disappointment, he quickly added, “But sir, many of his men are in France with the king…”

  “And the Scots would’ve known that… How many went to France? Do ye ken that?”

  Aiken frowned again. “Ken, sir?”

  “Do ye know… ‘Ken’ means know. Sorry, laddie,” said Brice, chuckling. Of course the English boy didn’t understand any Scottish brogue.

  “I would say at least more than half of Sir Peter’s total force left for France.”

  Brice got to his feet with great haste. “Crivens, there must be more Scotsmen about; they would surely attack with a superior force. Where are the sleeping chambers, laddie?”

  Aiken pointed ahead toward the Great Hall. Promptly, Brice and the men in his party bounded forward.

  They stepped up to the Great Hall and paused by the open doors very carefully. Noises were coming from the inside. They consisted of men’s laughter, and occasionally, there was whimpering coming from women. It was all Brice needed to hear. Without waiting, he barged into the hall and marched down the length of it.

  “Who the hell are ye?” asked one of the Scottish raiders. Judging by the way he stood close to what Brice perceived as Sir Thomas, he was the leader.

  For a heartbeat, Brice had trouble deciding who he was. Was he Brice the future heir to the lairdship of the Clan Macleod or Lord Leighton?

  “Lord Leighton at yer service,” he said at last, thinking it the wiser choice.

  The Scots exchanged consternated glances and then burst out laughing. “If ye are a bleedin’ English laird, then I am King David himself.” The leader of the group bowed theatrically. “What a load of shite!” he added, shaking his head with continued mirth.

  It was just what Brice needed. In their Hilarity, the Scots had dropped their guard and no longer directed their full attention to the two women on the floor and Sir Peter. If he and the men could get to them in time, and with an element of surprise and shock, they could engage the enemy while their prisoners slipped away. All that was needed was to hold them long enough until the hostages made an escape and Brice’s father arrived with reinforcements. It would bring the odds in their favor because currently the enemy Scots outnumbered Brice’s command.

  Brice’s opponent just had time to deflect his attack. All around him, Sir Percival’s men engaged the Scots. Brice’s checking of his force provided ample opportunity for his antagonist to launch an attack. He forced Brice to take a step back, then another, and then a few more. Before he knew what was happing to him, Brice fell to the ground with a meaty thump, the air escaping his lungs. Before him, he could see the toothless grin belonging to his enemy. When Brice turned his head, he saw the frightened face belonging to Sir Thomas lying on the floor with him; he realized that he had stumbled backward over his crawling body. Under the table to Brice’s left, lay the man’s wife and daughter, shaking.

  Brice felt the tip of cold steel press against his throat. A loud barked command soon followed. It was the Scottish group leader ordering the others to stop fighting: “I have yer commander lying by my feet. Drop yer weapons, and he shall not be harmed. If ye continue to harass my men, I will stick the bastard without a moment’s hesitation.”

  Sir Percival’s men, one of whom was wounded, looked at Brice who shook his head. The next moments seemed to last forever… Until a loud feral bellow belonging to the Scot encouraged the clatter of swords to the stone floor in the Great Hall. The shuffling of feet soon followed as Brice’s men were bullied into a small group by the far wall where the high table was located.

  “Do ye ken what I despise more than the English?” asked the leader of the troop. Brice did not bother to answer. The feel of the tip of a sword on his neck and the wellbeing of his men and the hostages was everything that was on his mind at that moment. “A Scot pretending he is some sort of Sassenach laird. Ye must take me for a right ole bawbag to think that ye could get away with that pathetic ruse.” He hacked out a feral laugh, inducing his men to join him. “Now, what are we going to do with ye? What do ye say, laddies?”

  “We should kill the blighters and right quickly too,” said one of the attacking Scots.

  “Aye, it’ll give us more time to enjoy the women,” intoned another.

  “What about the father?” asked one more.

  “Ye can have him, Roderick,” said another, with great hilarity in his voice. His remark invited hoots of laughter from the gathered Scots.

  “All right, all right, my laddies. I agree that we need to make haste…” He returned his scrutiny to Brice and grinned. “Be prepared to meet yer maker, my Laird.” He added pressure to his sword arm, slowly breaking the skin on Brice’s neck. A small globule of blood seeped out of the wound, and then more as the pressure of the weapon’s point grew. “Ye haven’t got much longer now, Laird Leighton,” he said mockingly to further remarks of encouragement from his men.

  Brice closed his eyes. He felt his chest burn even though he knew that it should be his neck that hurt. Despite his imminent death, he felt calm. Yet, a deep sadness hung over him. It was not so much the prospect of the loss of his life, but the fact that he and Skye had left on bad terms. He had been harsh to her, and that would be the last thing she would remember of him. It would not be of them frolicking on the hill near their home or them swimming in the loch, but of him shouting at her. As that thought manifested itself even more, Brice felt a tear slide down his cheek.

  A vertical tunnel that was more of a pit opened up before his eyes. He felt as if he was falling. Brice looked up. Peering over the edge were his mother, father, Skye and his three brothers. He looked down. There was nothing but blackness. Suddenly, he was afraid. He would never see those he loved again…

  ‘Pull yerself together ye radge wee shite.’

  ‘Aye, the laddie has become a lass. That’s what happens when we’re not about. I told Mary that we were needed on this trip.’

  It was Murtagh and Mungo shouting to him to hold on a little longer. Brice slowly opened his eyes and immediately felt pain, only this time it was physical. His nemesis still stood above him, relishing in the prospect of Brice’s imminent death. Blood flowed down his neck and over his tunic freely.

  “Ye shall stop this madness at once. If ye kill my son, I promise ye that ye will soon follow him to the grave.” Brice managed a wan smile. It was the cherished voice of his father at last. He had come to save him if it wasn’t already too late. In his heart of hearts, Brice knew that no one stood in the laird’s way when his blood was up. “I shall not say it again.”

  “And who might ye be? The King of England returned from France?” The marauding Scots howled their mirth for possibly the hundredth time that evening. “But then again, that can’t be possible because, like this little shite, ye speak with a Scots’ tongue. So, what’s it to be, eh?” He showed surprising courage, for his predicament was worsening by the second, as more and more men entered the Great Hall; they also included the other twenty men from Leighton Manor that had finally arrived. It appeared Aiken had shown Alastair and his party a secret route, hence their speed.

  Then, Alastair saw his courage leave him. It was immediately replaced by fear that started to play in the other man’s eyes when he realized that he was most probably outnumbered three to one.

  Alastair straightened his posture. “I am Laird Alastair of the Clan Macleod. I am finally returning home after fighting for my king and the Kingdom of Scotland at Neville’s Cross.” He lifted his hand to forestall the other man’s interruption. “I demand to ken who ye are?”

  The opposing Scotsmen dithered a moment under Alastair’s ferocious scrutiny. “Th
e name’s Ramsey and these are my laddies,” he said finally, finding his voice.

  “Well, Ramsey, I suggest ye let all of these people go, and ye may leave in peace,” said Alastair, moving closer and closer.

  By now only a few more paces separated him from his son. His domineering personality and natural aura of power had kept his opposite spellbound. He had not noticed the ruse that was being played against his favor.

  “I will not,” insisted Ramsey. He lifted his sword to make his point.

  It was just the opening Alastair was looking for. He lunged forward the last few steps and knocked his shocked opponent to the ground. Moments later, Alastair’s sword found its way to his neck.

  “This’ll teach ye not to hazard south of the border and harass good folk,” said Alastair, nicking Ramsey’s neck with his sword. The other man howled in protest as blood began to trickle down his neck.

  In the back, by the high table, the captured men in Brice’s command overwhelmed their captors because of their shock at seeing their leader succumb so easily. Sir Peter’s men and Leighton’s men-at-arms rushed forward to make sure the hall was secure.

  “Well, laddie, ye looked fair puckled.” Alastair helped his son to his feet. “Are ye all right?” he asked when he saw how pale Brice was from the loss of blood.

  “I’ll be fine, Da. Had ye come a few moments later, then that might not have been the case.” Brice stepped forward and took his father in his arms. “Thank ye, Da. I love ye.”

  “I love ye too, laddie.”

  “My Lord, my Lord…” Father and son stepped apart to see Aiken standing there with Sir Thomas, his wife, and his daughter. “I would like the honor of presenting Sir Thomas and his wife, Lady Helen, and their daughter, Margret,” said Aiken with flourish. He had obviously learned a thing or two at Lord Leighton’s house in terms of etiquette.