by Kate Forrest
“The earl will nae pleased with ye, MacKinnon,” Angus said, setting his empty tankard down on the wooden table between them.
“I know it, but I must go west,” Alex said. “If all is agreeable, I will come back when my mission is done.”
“It may be too late by then. The earl’s daughter is a fine prize; he will nae wait much longer for an arrangement.”
Alex knew what the mission would cost him, but he could not deny the Scottish king. A wealthy bride would reestablish his clan’s power and give Alex the means to build fortifications around his home. Much had been lost to the Viking raids on the isles of Iona and Mull, where his clan’s stronghold was, but little had been replenished over the years. It was no secret the MacKinnons were in desperate need of coin. But when Queen Margaret had granted the stewardship of Iona to his clan half a century ago, other clans took notice. Even when the King of Scots lost his power over Iona to Somerled, Lord of the Isles, the MacKinnon stewardship of the isle remained intact. The MacKinnons were still favored by the royal family of Scotland, and that was worth a great deal on the mainland. It was how marriage talks with the Angus clan, which hailed from the north of Scotland, even came to be.
“ ’Twould have been better for ye to have come to the earl a year ago,” the Angus clansman continued.
A year ago, Alex was still away on Crusade. Though the war had ended in 1149, Alex and some of the men stayed on to travel the Mediterranean. Most were young and eager to explore like he was; there was no rush to return to Scotland. He’d been a fool looking for adventure. He wasn’t ready to marry then, despite the push from his father to take the wealthy Angus bride.
“David’s son was alive then. Now his kingdom is less certain, as is yer standing,” he finished.
Alex’s jaw tightened, and his hand flexed at his side as he tried to control his response. “King David still reigns, Angus. Take care with your words.”
The older man’s eyes flashed briefly with panic, but then he laughed. “I mean no offense, and ye ken it. But yer sway with the next king may not be as strong. Ye ken this, MacKinnon, as does Earl Angus.”
“Then why does he consider me still?” If the earl is certain my family has no power—or that what we have will soon be lost—why would he arrange this meeting?
“The spoils of war have been taken by men humbler than ye.”
There it was. Why hadn’t Alex seen it before? When he sent word to Angus weeks ago, he’d told him that he’d done well on Crusade. By that, Alex meant he’d been successful in battle—not in taking prizes. He’d returned home with the same coin in his pocket as he possessed when he left these shores years ago. Clearly, the earl thought the poor MacKinnon had returned a man of wealth.
“That may be, Angus, but I have brought home none.” With that, Alex finished his drink and stood. “Give my regards to the earl.”
“That’s it, then?” the older man asked, standing across from him.
“Aye, that’s it.”
Alex headed out into the misty cool night and walked back to the village’s inn, run by the father of a fellow crusader. The complimentary lodging would likely be his last night of comfort for some time, so he planned to enjoy a few hours rest on his straw bed before he rode out to Stirling. That alone made the effort to sail into Kirkcaldy to meet the Angus worthwhile. He shook his head and grinned at his misfortune, for what else could he do? He’d return home with no coin and no wealthy bride. How would he care for his people? He knew not, but he would find a way. His kin had always found a way.
Chapter 2
Isobel did not know what to do. She’d sat along the banks of Bannock Burn the entire morning trying to build up the courage to walk into Stirling. The water glistened in the sun, rushing past her on its way to the River Forth. She peered down over a calm pool along the stream bank, taking in her reflection. The pains of travel were beginning to show. Her brown hair stood at all ends, and smudges of dirt covered her face. She glanced around, checking to make certain she was still alone, and with the care of a red deer coming down to the burn’s edge to drink, she splashed cool water on her face. She washed the dirt away and smoothed back her hair, keeping an eye on her surroundings as she did so. After a few minutes of work, she looked back in the burn and found her reflection much improved. Now I will not give the crusader a fright when we meet.
The plan, thin as it was, called for them to convene at the castle. But when? There was no set day to meet. How could there be? Everything was done in haste.
To make it all the more maddening, she had no idea what this Alexander MacKinnon looked like. She should have asked David for a description of the man, but in her rushed departure, she did not have her wits about her. It seemed a fool’s errand to wander around the castle looking for someone she would not recognize. Perhaps he will find me. If he’s in Stirling. What if he never received King David’s missive? Or he could have been detained.
Isobel took a deep breath, trying to quiet her fears. She could question it countless times, but there was only one path forward. She would go to the castle.
Around midafternoon, she finally forced herself to leave the burn and make her way into the city. She knew she was close when the stone fortress atop the hill came into view. One of her earliest memories of Stirling was when she was a child and David and his wife, Mattie, brought her with their family to keep court. That visit had been important, for it was when David oversaw the founding of Cambuskenneth Abbey—just to the east of the city. She’d been back countless times, but she’d mainly been confined to the castle. She knew very little of the maze of city streets she was now navigating.
The afternoon sun felt warm, but Isobel kept her wool cloak wrapped tightly around her. People eyed her strangely as she passed shops and markets. While she was not wearing her best, she was still dressed finer than many of the women in the streets. She did not look a peasant, and it bothered her. She felt a tingling at the back of her neck, warning her away, but she kept walking on with her head held high. She’d found many times in life that confidence was all one needed to seem as though you belonged. If you acted as though you should be there, people were more accepting of you. That was how she acted at court, among the peerage who looked down on the pitiful orphan child rescued by the pious king. Many felt David’s religious convictions had brought him to rescue Isobel, so they accepted his decision. But they never accepted her. Still, Isobel found a way to walk the line between the worlds she lived in—the life of a royal and the life of a commoner.
Today, she knew she looked noble, and if she spoke, her voice would confirm what they all suspected—she was not one of them. And the temptation to speak was strong when the smells from a bakery wafted past her as she made her way up the street to the castle. She did need to restock supplies, though she hoped to do so after she found the mystery crusader who was to join her. But the ache in her belly proved too strong, and she hurried into the shop.
“We’ll be closing soon, so be quick,” the baker said, dusting away flour from his palms as he paused in his work.
His short temper did not bother her. A large selection of goods remained on display, which, for the time of day, was probably what had the baker upset. He hadn’t sold much.
“Everything looks wonderful.” Isobel eyed the gingerbread and tarts. She’d seen the seal on the outside of the building, which proclaimed he held a royal warrant. This meant he was a supplier of goods to the royal household and thus had ingredients other bakers may not, such as ginger. Isobel loved gingerbread.
“Forgive me, my lady. Please take your time.”
Clearly, he’d taken note of her accent and attire. Isobel looked away from the goods and back to the baker. He’d straightened up and smiled at her.
“I’ll take twelve oatcakes, two lamb pies, and—” She glanced longingly at the sweet selection beside her. Deciding any journey could use some gingerbread, she added, “—three gingerbread slices,” for good measure.
“Of course, my
lady!” The baker hurried into action, gathering all of her requests. Once he’d collected it all, he looked at her expectantly.
A basket! Isobel forgot about the one thing every woman took to market—a basket! An unusual oversight, as the baker took note.
“No basket, my lady?” He frowned, as did she. Isobel only had a small satchel, where she kept her essential supplies. It would not do for her to present that to him. Sensing that she was unsure of what to do, he beamed back at her. “Not to fear—we have our own baskets. My wife makes them herself.” He pointed to a selection of baskets in the shop’s entryway, which Isobel had failed to notice in her rush to the counter.
“They’re all so lovely.” She examined the selection before her, choosing the most practical one: a basket with a woven lid to cover it. It was also the most expensive, which pleased the baker enormously. A short while later, with her basket filled, she continued her journey.
When she crested the hill, she took in the castle. The gray stone fortress contrasted against the vibrant green trees pressed up against the castle’s perimeter walls. Through the gates that gave entry to the castle, she could see all manner of activity going on in the yard where crowds of people moved about. How on earth will I find him? More fierce warriors milled about than she’d expected. Any one of them could be Alexander MacKinnon. Isobel examined the faces before her, thinking perhaps intuition would guide her. Then she heard her stomach growl.
Blushing, as though the sound could be heard by others, Isobel retreated from the busy scene. Her nerves had left her appetite diminished, but the sweet and savory smells coming from the baker’s shop earlier were tempting. She peeked into her basket. Just one gingerbread slice, and then I will look for this Alexander MacKinnon.
****
Alexander found her. It had to be her. What other God-fearing woman would sit alone in plain sight, perched on the castle walls, eating cake?
He rode out from Kirkcaldy early to arrive in Stirling midmorning and found no sign of the lass. He decided to give it time, so he made rounds every hour or so looking for her. He’d walked around the castle half a dozen times, checking out hiding places he knew around the perimeter, thinking perhaps she would stay hidden. He took notice of the lass sitting on the wall earlier, but he initially dismissed her. She seemed too at ease. Now, he realized, this Isobel Campbell was either fearless or just too comfortable with her surroundings.
He approached her cautiously. He could tell the moment he came into her vision, for she reached to her side where presumably she had a knife stowed away. Good lass. As he crossed the short distance to her, he took in her appearance. Her hair was dark brown. Her form was slim, but her thick wool cloak disguised her shape. She also sat facing the city below, so he could only take in her profile.
“I see you found the king’s baker,” he said, pointing to the crumbs in her lap.
She blushed and brushed the crumbs away with her free hand.
“David said the man makes the best gingerbread in Scotland. Would you agree?” Alex asked her.
When he used the king’s name, she faced him. Her brilliant violet eyes flashed with relief. She was breathtaking.
He stood dumbfounded as she asked, “Are you the crusader?”
“Aye. My name is Alexander MacKinnon, my lady.” He almost stumbled over his tongue as he took in her appearance. Pray to the kings of Alba, for she is beautiful! Those intense violet eyes were accented by gently arched brows, a heart-shaped face, and the lips of a seductress.
“How can I be sure?” She was suspicious, as she should be.
Once he regained some sense, he reached into the leather pouch at his side and pulled out the missive King David had sent him. If she knew the king as well as he expected, she would know his handwriting. He passed her the note and admired the delicate hand that reached out to take it.
She read the note quickly—with little there to read—and looked back at him. “It has no description of me. How did you know it was I?”
Alex shrugged, not wanting to explain. “We need to get moving.”
She stepped down from the wall and came around to face him. “What else do you know of this journey, Sir Alexander?”
“Alex.”
“What else, Sir Alex?”
“Only what was written in the note.” As she stood before him, the top of her head came to his chin. His large muscular frame contrasted with her slight form. The difference made Alex feel protective of her. Is she used to be being around warriors, or does my appearance unsettle her?
She frowned, looking back down at the missive. “But this only says you are to meet a woman named Isobel Campbell and take her to Iona.”
He nodded, unsure of what she expected.
“Why are you doing this?”
“My king asked it of me.”
Her violet eyes showed her hesitation to accept his answer, but he had no other explanation to give her.
“I hope I have not kept you waiting,” he said. Given the unusual plans, he wasn’t certain how long she’d been in the city.
“No,” she said. “I arrived a short time ago.”
“You came from Edinburgh?”
She nodded before explaining, “I should have arrived in Stirling sooner, but I will admit I lost my way.”
“You had no escort to guide you?”
“No, I journeyed alone,” Lady Isobel said.
“I am certain the king could have provided you with safe escort here.” How could the king send her off on her own? She was clearly part of the peerage. She’d probably never walked more than a mile a day in her life. It did not make sense.
“It was not necessary,” she said, tilting her chin up.
“Not necessary?” Now Alex was the one perplexed.
“I could have made the entire journey on my own.”
She was so sincere; it took everything he had not to react to her words. If his sisters took to such a foolish notion, he’d laugh. And once he was done laughing, he’d tell them they were mad. He sensed Lady Isobel would not take such a response kindly. She had pride. He wondered if it was a fool’s pride or born from something else.
“Whether you find it necessary or not, you are now under my protection, Lady Isobel. I will see you safely to the shores of Iona,” Alex said. “You have my word.”
“I do not doubt that you are capable,” she began, looking at his chest and arms. Color filled her cheeks as her perusal continued. Whether she was used to warriors or not, she seemed to enjoy the sight before her. He grinned at her response.
Her expression went from embarrassed to furious in a matter of seconds. “You clearly are a warrior, but I cannot trust you unless I know your motivation.”
“Iona is near my home, Lady Isobel. The MacKinnons are the stewards of the isle and the caretakers of Columba’s monastery.”
With his father’s failing health, Alex’s return was all the more important. As the future chief of his clan, Alex knew what the failed marriage negotiations would cost him with his people. They looked to him for hope—for the renewal of his clan. They would not easily forgive the foolish son who had gone off for battles and victories on Crusade.
He studied the woman before him. What is she to David? Why is she going to Iona? And why does she have to go in secret? If she was someone from court, Alex would not know. Alex had been away too long to know the women there. She had spirit, but this woman was used to the fineries in life. The journey would not be easy on her.
“And you, Lady Isobel? What is your purpose in going to Iona?”
In truth, Isobel hadn’t considered what David would have imparted to the crusader. Upon seeing the note, she’d realized he had told this man nothing about her save for her name and their destination. And now he wanted to know her motivation. What should I say? Should I lie? It was only logical for him to want more answers. She wouldn’t be able to trust the man if he didn’t have wit enough to ask questions about this unusual arrangement. Still, she could not share the
truth, and he would need something.
Isobel quickly thought over all she knew of Iona. She mulled over Columba and his monastery and then she thought of the nunnery. The daughter of Lord of the Isles, Bethoc, was recently instated as the first prioress of the nunnery on Iona. Then she thought of David’s letter—the one she was to give to the prioress upon her arrival. The letter attested to the relic’s authenticity and guaranteed she could take the holy vows, if she wished it. It also gave her the lie she needed.
“David is like a father to me,” she began. “He has wished for some time that I take my vows. The wish has become more immediate now that he—”
“Now that he is an old man with an heir barely weaned,” Sir Alex supplied dryly.
“Malcolm has just seen his twelfth spring, Sir Alex. He is not a babe.”
“David knows his kingdom is uncertain in his grandson’s hands. The Scottish nobles will control him or move against him.”
“Nothing is certain.” Isobel wanted to defend young Malcolm, but what the crusader believed was the reality that many feared. It also reinforced her purpose in traveling to Iona. “But you can see my need to leave. When David is gone, I will have no official purpose at court and no protector. It is time for me to go to the church.”
Her words were meant to conceal her true purpose, and yet, Isobel realized she’d still spoken a truth. She would soon have no official purpose at court and no protector. The time had come for her to move on.
“You could take a husband.” He moved to sit on the low wall, brushing past her as he did so.
A bolt of energy rushed through Isobel at the contact. The strangest sensation overcame her, and she could not help but look at him with curiosity. At court, Isobel spoke with many men. Most of these men, however, adorned themselves in finely ornamented clothes, possessed slim or vastly overweight figures, and were unremarkable in both stature and looks. She did not have fanciful thoughts about them, though she had waited for years to have such feelings. It took a crusading warrior for her to finally feel the disturbing flutter in the heart that weakened many ladies at court. She had never known such a dangerous feeling. He’s handsome. Of course I am attracted to him. ’Tis perfectly natural, but it does not mean anything. I am not weak because I can tell a man is clearly cut from a nicer cloth than most. And, oh, he was cut from the finest cloth in Scotland. At over six feet tall, his stature demanded attention, and his muscular build told the story of countless hours of practice, labor, and battle. The gold strands of his light brown hair glowed in the sunshine, giving him a youthful appearance, but she could count the years in his eyes. Though a beautiful grayish blue like the stormy waters of the North Sea, his eyes were burdened by the worries only a man of experience could possess. The severe lines of his face appeared to have been chiseled from the granite Edinburgh Castle stood upon. His expression was void of any softness, but she found warmth in those troubled eyes. All this physical splendor and what attracted her most was his confidence. When she looked at him, she saw a sure man—a man with no insecurities or doubts. He knew himself. She ached to feel that kind of certainty in herself. He’d even spoken of her greatest uncertainty: should she take vows to Christ or choose another path?
