British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  Mounted upon fine stallions, the knights were an intimidating lot. The animals looked grand, dressed as they were in horses’ cloaks depicting the familiar plaid cover the laird wore, a yellow background nearly covered with horizontal and vertical stripes of varying widths in red, black, blue, and green. Whenever Fayre saw the cloth, she couldn’t help but feel prideful that her father’s land was part of such a powerful and prestigious kingdom. Yet she chafed under the complete obedience the laird demanded.

  She didn’t mind so much for herself. A woman’s lot in life was to be considered nothing more than chattel. Didn’t the priest say that the heavenly Father commanded men not to covet their neighbors’ wives? If she doubted a wife’s status as property, the Lord God’s words left no uncertainty.

  She knew that several of the men in the village had an eye for her, but Fayre returned none of their interest. Her friends thought her silly and vain. They tried to convince her that marriage wasn’t about affection. The arrangement was a contract made between two families for the betterment of both parties. She knew her friends were right, but even watching them take their vows—the first one when she was twelve—left her with not enough envy of their status to convince her to follow. Why would she want to leave her father, who in his kind ways would never lay a hand on her, for a rough man who would think nothing of beating her should she oppose his will? Fayre shuddered and said yet another silent prayer of thanks to God that even though she was nearing the age of twenty, her father hadn’t demanded that she wed.

  Witta Shepherd didn’t deserve to be embarrassed, to be treated by the laird as nothing more than a stubborn beast. Fayre had never hated the tartan as much as she did at that moment. Her eyelids narrowed so much that they hurt. She could just see out of the slits they had formed. She widened them before the laird could see her sign of ire and command his men to kill her, too.

  Laird Kenneth, wearing a suit of light armor minus the headpiece, sat bolt upright, surveying the flocks and fields that Fayre’s father had tended all these many years. He placed a flat palm and extended fingers above his eyes and studied the rolling hills, covered with fine grass for the sheep to feast upon. His gaze stopped and rested upon the two-room cottage in the distance where Fayre and her father had lived as long as she could remember. She thought back to the days when her mother sang songs—happy tunes she remembered from the traveling minstrels playing in the village—as she spun wool at the wheel. Those days, the ones before Fayre’s mother went to live with the Father in heaven, were the happiest she had ever known.

  Ever since Fayre’s mother had died, sadness had followed Witta. His hair turned from gray to white almost overnight. The skip left his step. Her death extinguished the fire in his eyes. He was left with a gentleness of spirit, but one that was more resigned than joyful.

  Fayre forced herself to stop daydreaming, to bring her attention back to the present moment. The knights wore contempt on their faces, regarding Witta like a faded flower whose time to be discarded had arrived. If only he would say something, anything, to defend himself and her. But Fayre knew he didn’t dare. A serf, even an elderly male serf who enjoyed respect among the local villagers, dared not speak against the laird.

  Fayre watched Laird Kenneth’s appraisal travel from the hut to the vegetable and herb garden Fayre maintained for their subsistence. She could just make out their rooster strutting near the garden and hut. Hens clucked and scratched at the ground, unaware that one of them would be snatched for the evening’s dinner come sundown. The two goats they depended upon for milk and cheese bleated in between chomping on clumps of thistles and grass.

  Such a humble existence could hardly be the envy of a prominent laird, yet the greedy look in his eyes was unmistakable. He would gladly seize everything the poor shepherd owned so he could grant the land to one of his arrogant vassals, no doubt. The thought caused flaming ire to rise in the pit of her stomach, leaving her feeling volatile. She forced herself to put aside her feelings long enough to send up a silent prayer.

  Heavenly Father, dinna let the laird take away what little my father has left.

  At that moment, Fear tapped its icy finger on her shoulder, reminding Fayre that humble possessions were the least of her worries. The laird and his knights could easily slaughter the two of them on the spot, leaving their lifeless bodies to wilt in the sun-drenched field, undiscovered for days. Even then, Laird Kenneth and his vassals would go unpunished. Who would dare approach such an important man, a member of the landed gentry, a member of the king’s court, with accusations concerning an insignificant shepherd and his virgin daughter?

  With a renewed attitude of humility, Fayre murmured, “Blessed Savior, my divine God from whom all courage and strength is gathered, protect us.”

  “How dare you challenge me!” Rich with authority, Laird Kenneth’s voice cut through the air.

  Fayre startled. Was the laird forbidding her to utter a small prayer? She wondered how to respond until she realized the great man was looking directly upon her father. Her plea had gone unnoticed, at least by Laird Kenneth.

  “King David has a war to fight,” the laird said. “Victory will ensure he is granted his rightful position as king of France. Do you not see that by neglecting to pay your taxes, you are denying His Majesty’s army the means to fight for the independence of our fair Scotland?”

  Fayre could see the distress on her father’s face. “My laird, I would happily give every coin in my possession to the king if I were in possession of any.” He sent the laird a begging look. “Wouldst ye accept as payment my best ewe?”

  The laird straightened himself in his saddle, his body stiffening into a rigid line. “I know we settled on a ewe as payment last time, but I cannot accept an animal in exchange for your rent on every occasion. In any event, you cannot afford to give away so much livestock, and the king needs gold to exchange for supplies and men.”

  A frantic light pierced Witta’s dim eyes. “My laird, the season hasna been good. The Black Death has taken so many people that the need for wool and mutton is less. The marketplace stays empty.” He looked at the goats. “Nanny will be giving birth soon. Her new baby will take her milk, leaving even less food for us.” He bowed his head. “I beg yer forgiveness.”

  After making his plea, Witta allowed his other knee to fall to the ground. With agility uncommon for one so elderly, he leaned his head, sparsely decorated with white strands of hair, over his bent knees until his nose met the ground. Outstretched palms, touching the soil, trembled. The sight caused Fayre’s heart to feel as though it were tumbling into the abyss of her abdomen.

  “Silence!” Laird Kenneth raised his hand. “Perhaps a few weeks in the dungeon will teach you a lesson.” He nodded once to his knights.

  In haste, they drew their lances from their leather sheaths. The long poles were now trained forward in the direction of her father. The knights readying themselves to commit murder, their eyes took on a cast as cold as Fayre imagined their hearts must have been. She gasped and looked in the direction of her father. He prostrated himself on the earth.

  “Nae!” Shouting, Fayre hastened toward the men with such fury, she felt her long braids slap on her back with each step.

  The unexpected motion scared Laird Kenneth’s horse into rearing. The others startled and snorted in response. As the riders soothed the animals with comforting clucks of their tongues, Fayre was thankful she had stopped the vassals from taking her father into custody—at least for the moment.

  After his white stallion’s front hooves returned to the ground, Laird Kenneth snapped his head in her direction. His gaze caught Fayre’s, the metallic silver hue of his eyes matching the point of his javelin. His unremitting gaze left her feeling no less wounded than if she had been stricken by the forked lightning of God’s wrath. He addressed Witta. “Who is this maiden?”

  Fayre curtsied so low she thought she might topple.

  “My laird.” Though he remained in his obsequious position, her f
ather’s voice was strong as his eyes met Laird Kenneth’s. “She is my daughter, Fayre.”

  Rising, Fayre looked into Laird Kenneth’s face. Golden eyebrows arched, indicating his interest. A straight nose gave way to full lips that were parted to reveal a nobleman’s even, white teeth. Fayre averted her eyes to the reed basket in the crook of her arm. It contained a lunch of milk and a sliver of cheese, plus bread and mutton baked in ovens provided by Laird Kenneth.

  “Fayre,” she heard Laird Kenneth say. “Fair indeed.”

  Fair? Her rage and fear liquefied into curiosity and unfamiliar stirrings. How can he think me fair? I am but his serf, and my plain brown garment tells him so.

  Her doubts seemed to be confirmed by the knights’ boisterous laughter. “Aye, my laird,” one of the vassals agreed. His voice was hearty in a way that made her wish to throw her arms over her body in a vain attempt to shield herself from his lusty stare.

  Feeling her cheeks flush, Fayre nevertheless summoned the courage to hold up her head. She deliberately ignored the plainspoken knight and set her gaze upon Laird Kenneth’s face. Where she expected to see a vision of greed and desire, she saw instead the soft look of compassion and kind interest. His benevolent expression gave her the courage to speak.

  “I most humbly beg yer pardon, my laird.” Fayre wondered if her voice, soft with fright, was loud enough to conceal the sound of her racing heart. “I bring my father his food each day when the sun is high in the sky.”

  “And the flower you hold?” Like his countenance, Laird Kenneth’s voice was soft. Was that a flicker of tenderness she spotted in those steely eyes?

  She had forgotten the rose from her garden, even though she brought one to her father each day. “Fayre Rose,” Father always said. “Ye bring beauty tae the world around ye.”

  “My laird,” she answered, “the rose is from my garden.”

  “Never have I seen a rose with such brilliance, the color of the setting sun,” the knight with reddish hair observed.

  “Nor have I,” agreed the other knight.

  Laird Kenneth extended his hand to take the bloom, which Fayre willingly sacrificed. He studied its petals, touching each one with the gentleness a besotted bridegroom would reserve for his beloved damsel according to songs she had once heard traveling minstrels sing in the village. An approving smile touched his lips. “Lovely.”

  He tossed the flower back to Fayre. Too frightened to move, she allowed it to land at her feet. Filled with compassion upon seeing the bruised bloom, she bent and retrieved it. She felt the eyes of the men upon her but ignored them.

  “Do you have a brother who can tend these sheep?” the laird wanted to know.

  “Nay, my laird, she doesna,” Witta answered on her behalf.

  Laird Kenneth nodded for him to rise to his feet. “And why not?”

  “The plague,” he whispered and bowed his head toward the ground in a manner of defeat.

  “Aye.” Laird Kenneth nodded to show he understood. He redirected his attention to Fayre. “Then I fear you shall be spending less time among the blooms in your garden. You shall need to take your father’s place here in the fields. Perchance you can produce profit enough to render his debt. Only then will he be released from prison.”

  “Then he shall never be released!” Her voice rising in pitch, Fayre motioned toward Witta. “Can ye nae see my father is old? Ye, my valiant laird, are a man whose honor lies in following the teachings of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. How can ye consider taking a man so well along in years tae a filthy prison? Surely the Lord would not wish my father tae die in the dungeon! And die he will, if he maun spend even a moment among the dirt and rats!” Passion intense, Fayre stamped her foot. At that moment, she realized her hands had fisted so tightly that her fingernails dug into her palms. She knew she looked like a tempestuous child, but her anger was too great for her to exercise more self-control.

  “Then perhaps the bonny lass has favors she would care to exchange for her father’s freedom,” the redheaded knight offered.

  Fayre shivered despite the heat. She glanced sideways at Witta. Her father was too feeble to defend her. She would be forced to submit to whatever they desired. And with Witta so near, yet so helpless.

  Father in heaven, please—

  “Please!” Witta’s voice, stronger now, echoed aloud her silent prayer.

  “Enough!” Laird Kenneth’s voice slashed through the innuendo. “Have you forgotten the knight’s code of honor?”

  “Nay,” the redhead admitted. He nodded toward Fayre. “But this one is a mere serf.”

  “Do you not remember Saint Paul’s epistle to the Galatians?” Laird Kenneth reminded him. “ ’there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.’ ”

  Fayre was just as quick to recall a pertinent verse: “Hypocrite, cast first the beam out of thy own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to take out the most from thy brother’s eye.” She wished she could tell Laird Kenneth then and there about the large beam in his eyes, but her life depended upon her silence. She swallowed.

  To her relief, the laird’s words brought a shamed look to his knight’s face. “I beg pardon,” he muttered.

  Fayre breathed an inward sigh of relief. Perhaps he was a hypocrite, but the laird’s words had saved her from an unspeakable fate.

  Despite Fayre’s previous display of temper, a soft light flickered in Laird Kenneth’s eyes as he returned his attention to her. “And my apologies, Fayre. My vassals can be obtuse at times.” He paused.

  “I beg pardon, woman,” the knight said.

  “Very well.” The laird nodded to his knight. “As for the matter at hand, I do not wish the death of your father. But since he cannot pay his taxes, I fear he leaves me no other choice but to confine him to the dungeon until the debt is paid.”

  “But of course ye have a choice!” When she heard the shrewish tone of her own voice, Fayre knew she risked her life with such words. Nevertheless, she held herself upright, to her full height.

  “Nay, I do not. If I were to favor your father, every serf in the kingdom would expect leniency.”

  “Then I shall go,” Witta said.

  Fayre shook her head at her father, despite the disobedience the gesture represented. “Nay,” she whispered.

  “But the rose, my laird,” the second knight interrupted.

  Laird Kenneth turned his attention to the knight. “The rose? What of it?”

  “If I may be so bold, I am of the opinion that the royal court would be pleased by such lovely blossoms.”

  Laird Kenneth returned his gaze to the rose that Fayre held. He nodded. “Indeed.”

  “I propose we take the maiden to your estate,” his vassal said. “Let her cultivate the roses in your garden. When you present them to the ladies of King David’s court, the whole of them shall be delighted and look upon my laird with even greater favor.”

  Laird Kenneth’s expression became thoughtful. He turned back to Fayre. His eyes searched her face. “Could you do that?”

  “Aye, my laird. But …” She hesitated to raise an objection, but the thought of leaving her father alone so she could go live in a castle was not agreeable.

  “But?”

  “Ye need not cultivate the roses at yer estate,” Fayre offered. “Ye may take as many as ye desire from my garden, any time they should offer ye and the ladies pleasure.”

  “Of course. But your cottage is far away from my castle. And having such roses in my personal garden would please me more. Can you grow them for me?” His voice held more humility than she had ever imagined was capable of a laird. His question seemed more of a request, a plea, than the demands and edicts so commonly dispensed from rulers.

  Even though a feeling of disappointment engulfed her being, Fayre nodded. “I am certain of it.”

  “But my laird,” Witta objected. “The lassie did nae harm. I am the one who has wronged the king.
Take me and spare my child.”

  “Nay.” Laird Kenneth stiffened. “The decision has been made. Your daughter will go with me in your place.” He gave a nod to his knights, but before they could seize her, Fayre rushed to Witta and embraced him.

  “God preserve ye,” he said.

  “And ye, my father.” Breaking away, she looked into Witta’s aged eyes. “Dinna despair. I shall be back as soon as the first roses bloom in the garden of Kennerith Castle.”

  Before he could answer, Fayre felt the grip of a knight squeezing her forearm. Witta tightened his hand around her fingers. His eyes misted as the knight drew her closer to his white steed, forcing her to break the hold. With a nod, he instructed her to mount the horse.

  Before her bare foot reached the stirrup, Laird Kenneth intervened. “The lass shall ride with me.”

  To Fayre’s surprise, Laird Kenneth mounted his steed and then gestured for her to come near. After she obeyed, he placed his hands on each side of her waist and lifted her with an easy motion until she sat in front of him on the horse.

  Though his victories in battle were fabled, Fayre hadn’t expected him to be so strong yet still handle her with a tender touch. His gentleness was small consolation when Laird Kenneth clicked his tongue, commanding the horse to trot away from the shepherd’s field, away from the only home she had ever known. Terror knotted inside the pit of her abdomen and sent an ugly wisp to the base of her throat. Fayre turned and glimpsed her father one last time. As he waved farewell, she prayed she could keep her promises.

  Chapter 2

  Not far into the journey, Kenneth discovered that he enjoyed the sensation of his arms loosely enveloping the serf maiden. Her body was rigid, as though she was afraid if she moved, Dazzle would throw them both. As a serf, she would naturally be unaccustomed to riding upon any steed, let alone a beast of such quality and experience as Dazzle.