Bride for a Knight

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  The unexpected collapse of a narrow footbridge neither clan had been willing to refurbish, each laird insisting his neighbor made more use of the bridge and ought to dole out the coin for its repair.

  A hotheaded foolhardiness that had taken a grim toll, and now sent Aveline striding across the hall, away from her father’s black-browed arrogance.

  “You err,” she said, keeping her back to him as she wrenched open the shutters of the nearest window. “Naught in this world will ease Laird Macpherson’s pain.”

  “Mayhap not,” Alan Mor shot back, “but the man’s a good deal more daft than I thought if he isn’t at least comforted by the boons he’ll reap through this alliance.”

  To Aveline’s dismay, an immediate ripple of assent swept the hall. Murmured agreement swiftly followed by the clinking of ale cups and boisterous cheer. Alan Mor’s own self-pleased grunt.

  Aveline tightened her jaw and stared out at the misty, rain-sodden night, the outline of rugged black hills and the glimmer of distant stars twinkling through gray, wind-torn clouds.

  “God grant you have the rights of it,” she said at last, welcoming the evening’s chill on her face. “Nevertheless, I would speak out against taking advantage of a man who is down and foundering.”

  “‘Taking advantage’?” Alan Mor’s deep voice shook the hall. “You’d best speak plain, lass. And hie yourself away from that window.”

  Stiffening, Aveline kept her gaze on the silvery glint of the river winding through the trees not far from Fairmaiden Castle’s curtain walls. Older than time, the slow-moving river gave itself much more placid than the white-watered Garbh Uisge that had claimed so many innocent lives.

  And brought others to this unexpected pass.

  Herself included.

  Her temples beginning to throb, she turned from the window. Sorcha now stood in a darkened corner, her ravaged, tear-stained face shielded from the reach of torchlight. Everyone else was turned her way, her father’s face wearing an even darker scowl than before.

  Aveline squared her shoulders, then took a step forward.

  “Well?” Alan Mor demanded, his stare almost searing the air. “Are you accusing me of trying to deceive Macpherson?”

  “Nay, I—” Aveline broke off, unable to lie. Her father’s famed sleights of hand and well-oiled words were known throughout the Highlands.

  Coming forward, she sought a way to cushion her suspicions. “I would not accuse you of aught,” she ventured, hoping only she heard the cynicism in her tone. “And to be sure, I am willing to wed, am even eager for the day I might have a husband and household of my own.”

  “Then why are you looking as if you’ve just bit into something bitter?”

  “Because,” Aveline admitted, “I do not think Munro Macpherson will appreciate us meddling—”

  “So now I’m a meddler?” Alan Mor shot to his feet, the movement scattering the parchments spread before him. “Helping the old fool is what I’m doing! Did you not hear me say tongue-waggers claim he’s taken to his bed? That he fears leaving his privy chambers because he thinks the ghosts of his sons have returned to Baldreagan? Are haunting him?”

  Alan Mor glared at her, his nostrils flaring. “Munro isn’t yet in his dotage, but he soon will be if no one takes him in hand. He needs Jamie.”

  “Since when have you cared about Macpherson’s well-doing?” Aveline challenged, stepping onto the dais. “You and Munro were ne’er friends.”

  “We are neighbors.” Her father looked down, took a sudden interest in examining the colored string tied around a rolled parchment. “Knowing he’s right in his head is a lesser evil than annoying the bastard.”

  “I vow you’ll vex him mightily if you persist in this fool plan of yours.” Aveline snatched the parchment scroll from her father’s hand and held it out of his reach. “Munro Macpherson ne’er spoke fondly of Jamie. He’s even been heard to call him a dirk thrust beneath his ribs.”

  Alan Mor sucked in his breath, his surprise at her bluntness all the answer Aveline needed.

  Neither the Macpherson nor Young Jamie knew her father still meant to uphold the proposed alliance.

  “Word is, Jamie’s grown into a fine, strapping lad. A knight.” Alan Mor recovered quickly, thrusting out his chin. “He even fought alongside King David at Neville’s Cross last autumn, his bravery and valor earning him much acclaim. Munro will change his mind about the lad once he’s home.”

  “Still …” Aveline tightened her grip on the parchment. “I do not think this should be sent to Jamie until Laird Macpherson is fit enough to decide if he, too, still wishes a union between our houses.”

  To her horror, her father laughed.

  As did his inky-fingered scribe.

  “Too late!” Alan Mor’s eyes lit with mischief. “That scroll in your hand is naught but a letter to your sister in Inverness, asking of her health and thanking her for the casks of wine her husband sent to us. The many jars of their heather-tasting honey.”

  Aveline dropped the parchment. “You mean you’ve already sent word to Jamie? Without informing Macpherson?”

  The look on her father’s face turned smug. “Someday you’ll thank me. You, and that blethering fool, Macpherson.”

  “And Jamie?”

  Alan Mor snorted. “Him most of all—once he sets eyes on you!”

  His foul temper forgotten, he beamed on her. “What young loon wouldn’t be pleased with such a delicate bloom?”

  But Aveline wasn’t so sure.

  Glancing down, her gaze skimmed over her thick braid, not acknowledging how it gleamed like gold in the candlelight, but rather settling on her tiny hands and feet, the smallness of her breasts. Anything but a full woman, lushly curved and ripe, she doubted any man would find favor with her.

  Or the distasteful circumstance that would propel her and Young Jamie into a marriage bed.

  No man liked being duped.

  Long-lost son, or no.

  Across miles of darkling hills and empty moorland, thick with bracken and winter-browned heather, Clan MacKenzie’s Cuidrach Castle loomed above the silent waters of Loch Hourn, the stronghold’s proud towers and that great sentinel, the Bastard Stone, silhouetted against a cold, frosty sky.

  A chill night; icy stars glittered in the heavens and knifing winds whistled past the windows, rattling shutters and making those within glad for the leaping flames of the great hall’s well-doing log fire. Eager-to-please squires circulated with trays of hot, spiced wine and steaming mounds of fresh-baked meat pasties. Men crowded benches drawn close to the hearth, jesting and jostling amongst themselves, their rich masculine laughter rising to the ceiling rafters, bawdy good cheer ringing in every ear.

  Only one of Cuidrach’s residents shunned the comforts and warmth of the hall this night, seeking instead the privacy of a tiny storeroom filled with wine casks, blessed torchlight, and James Macpherson’s mounting frustration.

  Holding back an oath that would surely curl the devil’s own toes, Young James of the Heather, sometimes teasingly called Jamie the Small, glared at the tiny red bead of blood on his thumb.

  The fifth such jab wound he’d inflicted on himself in under an hour.

  And, he suspected, most likely not the last. Not if he meant to complete his task.

  Sighing, he licked the blood off his finger, then shoved his stool closer to the best-burning wall torch. Perhaps with brighter light, he’d have a better chance of restitching the let-out seams of his new linen tunic.

  A birthday gift from his liege lord’s lady.

  And the finest tunic he’d e’er possessed. Softer than rose petals and with a bold Nordic design embroidered around the neck opening; just looking at it brought a flush a pleasure to his cheeks, and even made his heart thump if he thought about the long hours Lady Mariota had spent crafting such a gift for him. A gift he was determined to wear to his birthday revelries later that night.

  He would, too.

  If only the tunic weren’t so t
ight across the shoulders, the sleeves a mite too short. And his fool fingers so damnably clumsy.

  Frowning, he picked up his needle and set to work again. Truth be told, there was nothing wrong with the tunic … it was him.

  Always had been him.

  He was simply too big.

  And, he decided a short while later, his hearing a bit too sharp. Leastways keen enough to note the sudden silence pressing against the closed storeroom door.

  He tilted his head, listening.

  But his instincts hadn’t lied.

  Gone indeed were the muffled bursts of laughter and ribald song, the occasional barks of the castle dogs. The high-pitched skirls of female delight. Utter stillness held Cuidrach’s great hall in a firm grip, the strange hush smothering all sound.

  A deep kind of quiet that didn’t bode well and even held sinister significance—if he were to trust the way the fine hairs on his nape were lifting. Or the cold chill spilling down his spine.

  Curious, he set aside the unfinished tunic and his needle and stood. But before he could cross the tiny storeroom, the door swung open. His liege lord, Sir Kenneth MacKenzie, stood in the doorway, flanked by Sir Lachlan, the Cuidrach garrison captain, and a travel-stained man Jamie had never seen.

  The stranger’s rain-dampened cloak hung about his shoulders and his wind-tangled hair bespoke a hard ride. But it was more than the man’s muddied boots and bleary-eyed fatigue that made Jamie’s mouth run dry.

  It was the look on the stranger’s face.

  The undeniable impression of strain and pity that poured off him and filled the little storeroom until Jamie thought he might choke on its rankness.

  Especially when he caught the same wary sadness mirrored in Sir Kenneth’s and Sir Lachlan’s eyes.

  Jamie froze. “What is it?” he asked, his gaze moving from face to face. “Tell me straight away for I can see that something dire has happened.”

  “Aye, lad, I’m afraid that is so. Would that I could make it otherwise, but …” Kenneth glanced at the stranger, cleared his throat. “See you, this man comes from Carnach in the north of Kintail. Alan Mor Matheson of Fairmaiden Castle sent him. He brings ill tidings. Your father—”

  “Of a mercy!” Jamie stared at them. “Dinna tell me he is dead?”

  None of the three men spoke a word, but the tautness of their grim-set expressions said everything.

  Jamie blinked, a wave of black dizziness washing over him. Sakes, even the floor seemed to dip and heave beneath his feet. It couldn’t be true. Naught could have struck down his indomitable father. Munro Macpherson was honed from coldest iron, had steel running in his veins. And after a lifetime of the man’s indifference, Jamie shouldn’t care what fate befell him.

  But he did.

  More than he would have believed. So much, the roar of his own blood in his ears kept him from hearing what Kenneth was saying. He could only see the other man’s mouth moving, the sad way Sir Lachlan and the courier shook their heads.

  Jamie swallowed, pressed cold fingers against his temples. “Tell me that again, sir. I-I didna hear you.”

  “I said your father is not dead, though he is faring poorly and has taken to his bed. That’s why Laird Matheson sent his man to us.” Kenneth came forward to grip Jamie’s arms. “And there has been a tragedy, aye.”

  Jamie’s heart stopped. He could scarce speak. Breaking away from Kenneth’s grasp, he searched the men’s faces. “If not my father, then who? One of my brothers?”

  The three men exchanged glances.

  Telling glances.

  And so damning they filled Jamie with more dread than if someone had leveled a sword at his throat. For one sickening moment, the faces of his nine brothers flashed before his eyes and he thought he might faint. But before he could, Sir Lachlan unfastened the hip flask at his belt and thrust the flagon into Jamie’s hand.

  “Drink this,” he urged, his face grim. “All of it if you can.”

  And Jamie did, gulping down the fiery uisge beatha so quickly the strong Highland spirits burned his throat and watered his eyes.

  The last softly-burning droplets still on his tongue, he squared his shoulders. Prepared for the worst. “Tell me true,” he entreated, his fingers clenching around the flask. “Which one of my brothers is dead?”

  “It grieves me to tell you, lad.” Kenneth drew a long breath, slid another glance at the courier. “’Tis not one of your brothers, but all of them. They drowned in the swollen waters of the Garbh Uisge when the footbridge collapsed beneath them.”

  “Christ God, no-o-o!” Shock and horror slammed into Jamie, crashing over him in hot and cold waves as eerie silence swelled anew, its damning weight blotting all sound but a high-pitched buzzing in his ears and the keening wind.

  A low, unearthly moan he only recognized as his own when lancing pain closed his throat and the wailing ceased.

  And so soon as it did, he staggered backward and sagged against the stacked wine casks, disbelief laming him. His knees began to tremble and his vision blurred, his entire world contracting to a whirling black void.

  A spinning darkness made all the more terrifying because it taunted him with glimpses of his brothers’ faces, cold and gray in death, but also as they’d been in life.

  Neill, the oldest, with auburn hair bright as Jamie’s own and the same hazel eyes. Confident and proud, he was the most hot-tempered of Jamie’s brothers. After Neill, came Kendrick, the most dashing with his roguish grin and easy wit, his ability to create a stir amongst the ladies simply by entering a room.

  Then there was Hamish, the dreamer. A secret romantic, good-natured, quiet, and most content when left alone to ponder great chivalric myths and tales of ancient Gaelic heroism. And six others, all dear to him, brothers who’d been his lifeblood in the years his father had shunned him.

  His heart’s joy and only solace right up to the day he’d struck out across the heather, found a new home and purpose as squire to Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail, his liege lord’s uncle.

  And now his brothers were gone.

  Jamie closed his eyes and swallowed. He couldn’t believe it; wouldn’t be able to accept the loss so long as he had breath in his body. But when he opened his eyes and looked into the troubled faces of the three men standing just inside the storeroom’s threshold, he knew it was true.

  Still, he tried to deny it.

  “It canna be. My brothers knew every clump of heather, every peat bog and lochan, every stone and hill face of our land,” he said, willing the room to stop spinning. “They crossed that footbridge every day, would have known if it was near to collapsing.”

  The courier shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “’Tis thought the recurrent rains of late weakened the wood. The planks were aged and warped, some of them rotted. My pardon, sir, but you’ve not been to Baldreagan in years. The bridge truly was in need of repair.”

  Jamie struggled against his pain, gave the courier a long, probing look. “You are certain they are dead? All nine? There can be no mistake?”

  “Nay, son, I am sorry.” The man shook his head, his words squelching Jamie’s last shimmer of hope. “I saw the bodies with my own eyes, was there when they were pulled from the river.”

  Jamie nodded, unable to speak.

  The words tore a hole in his heart, stirring up images he couldn’t bear. With great effort, he pushed away from the wine casks and moved to the storeroom’s narrow-slit window, welcomed the blast of chill air, the heavy scent of rain on the raw, wet wind.

  He curled his fingers around his sword belt, held tight as he looked out on the night mist, the dark belt of pines crouching so near to Cuidrach’s walls. Swallowing hard, he fixed his gaze on the silent hills, willing their peace to soothe him. But this night, the beauty of Kintail failed him.

  Indeed, he doubted that even the sweetest stretch of heather could calm him. Wondered how moments ago his only concern had been restitching his birthday tunic, and now… . He tightened his grip on his
belt, let out a long, unsteady breath just as Cuillin, his aged dog, nudged his leg, whimpering until he reached down to stroke the beast’s shaggy head.

  In return, Cuillin looked up at him with concern-filled eyes and thumped his scraggly tail on the floor rushes. Neill had given him the dog, Jamie recalled, a shudder ripping through him at the memory. But so soon as the tremor passed, he turned back to the room, his decision made.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve ne’er been one to thrust myself into places where I am not welcome,” he began, standing as straight as he could, “but I shall ride to Baldreagan, whether my presence suits my father or no. I must pay my respects to my brothers. ’Tis a debt I owe them.”

  To his surprise, the courier’s mouth quirked in an awkward smile. “’Tis glad I am to hear you say that,” he said, stepping forward. “See you, as it happens, I’ve brought more than ill tidings.”

  He paused, puffing his chest a bit. “Truth be told, I have something that might prove of great interest to you.”

  Jamie cocked a brow, said nothing.

  Undaunted, the courier fished inside his cloak, withdrawing a rolled parchment tied with colorful string and sealed with wax. “Something that might give a lift to your aching heart. See here, I’ve a letter from—”

  “My father?” Jamie asked, incredulous.

  The courier shook his head. “Och, goodness, nay. Your da is in no form to be dashing off letters. ’Tis from my liege, Laird Matheson. But he sends it in your father’s name, and out of his own wish to do well by you.”

  Jamie eyed the letter, suspicion making him wary. “My father and Alan Mor were e’er at odds. It is one thing for Matheson, as our nearest neighbor, to send word of my brothers’ deaths if my father was unable. But to pen a letter in my da’s name? And out of courtesy to me? Nay, I canna believe it.”

  “On my soul, it is true.” The courier held out the parchment. “Much has changed in the years you’ve been away. As the letter will prove. You might even be pleasantly surprised.”