by Amanda Scott
The Mackenzies did hold Eilean Donan in 1539, but both Fin and Molly are fictional characters, and MacRaes now own the castle.
I would like to extend a heartfelt thank you to Donald R. MacRae, the present Laird of Kintail, for his help in understanding Eilean Donan’s history (and for his extraordinary patience in answering my many questions). I would also like to thank him for permitting me to “rewrite” his family history, even to the extent of letting a female shoot that MacRae arrow. When I asked if he would mind my doing that, he did suggest that for a female to use a longbow would be implausible, but when I pointed out that she had fairies on her side, he agreed that it would be possible and told me about the wee people who inhabit the woods of Kintail. It is his description that I used for the glade in the first scene with Catriona and Claud, and he is also my “authority” for the sensation of peripheral movement that one experiences when one first begins to realize that wee people are nearby.
I would also like to thank Pam Hessey, in particular, and other members of the California Hawking Club, in general, for helping me get the hunting scene right. And I must thank Nancy and Charles Williams for their unfailing support and their help in tracking down research books. Many thanks also to Suzanne and Jim Arnold of Serenery for providing so many great pictures of Eilean Donan to refresh my memories of the castle and its splendid setting, and to all the dedicated folks who man the clan tents at the numerous Scottish and Highland Festivals in California, Washington, Oregon, and Arizona who have enthusiastically assisted me in my research. Last but hardly least, special thanks go to Maggie Crawford, Beth de Guzman, and Karen Kosztolnyik, my editors at Warner, for their generous advice and encouragement when it came to blending the fairies’ world with Fin and Molly’s. It’s been great fun.
If you’ve enjoyed Abducted Heiress, I hope you will look forward to reading the adventures of Molly’s little sister, Bess, when she meets Sir Patrick MacRae. Hidden Heiress will arrive at your favorite bookstore in summer 2002. In the meantime, happy reading!
Sincerely,
Hidden Heiress
Prologue
The Scottish West March, 1530
The flaxen-haired little girl hurried silently up the dark, twisting service stairway, alert to every sound. The servants would not bother her, but other residents of Farnsworth Tower were not so kind.
She flitted past her ladyship’s solar without even peeping inside, lest her ladyship or someone else see her and give her some unpleasant task to do.
If she could get to Sir Hector’s private sanctuary, perhaps he would allow her to visit with him for a time and tell her interesting tales about the days of old. Sir Hector told good stories, but even if he was not of a mind to entertain her today, perhaps he would let her sit quietly with him while he worked. He was kind, Sir Hector was, and his company was peaceful. If he had work to do, she could let her mind wander and think up stories of her own, and no one would seek her there.
She was reaching to lift the latch on Sir Hector’s door when she heard quick, tapping footsteps coming up the main stairway at the opposite end of the short corridor. Recognizing the steps, the child quickly concealed herself in the shadows of a narrow alcove between Sir Hector’s room and the service stairs. Maidservants frequently set their buckets and mops there, but presently it was empty.
Lady Farnsworth appeared in the archway leading from the stairs and hurried toward Sir Hector’s door, thrusting it open so abruptly that the child heard it bang against the wall inside.
“You must do something about this unhappy situation at once, husband,” Lady Farnsworth declared in strident tones. “You cannot allow it to continue.” The door swung partially closed again, and the child crept close enough to peek through the crack, listening intently.
Annoyed by the sort of interruption he most disliked, Sir Hector Farnsworth unlooped the cords of his spectacles from his ears, then carefully set them in their appointed place on his writing table, where he could be fairly certain that if his temper became exercised—as experience warned him it might—he would not inadvertently send them flying across the room with a careless gesture. That had happened before, and he found it embarrassing to have to call for a lackey to help him find them again. Only when they were safe did he look directly at his wife.
He could certainly see her well enough with her stout body and several chins quivering with indignation. He could even see that her coif and the elaborate, unnaturally red wig beneath it were sadly disarranged. It was only small items right in front of him that he had difficulty making out. Poor vision was acceptable sometimes, such as when his wife insisted on invading his bed, but otherwise it was annoying to an educated gentleman who enjoyed an active correspondence and an interest in law as it applied at Stirling and generally did not apply in the unruly Borders.
Hoping he sounded reasonable and did not reveal in his tone the irritation he felt, he said, “With what particular situation would you have me deal, madam?”
Lady Farnsworth’s heaving bosom continued to display her agitation, and the unladylike snort that preceded her reply informed him that his mild tone had not deceived her and that she was very angry indeed.
“You must write to the Earl of Angus at once, sir, and command him to abide by the agreement he made with us if he wants us to continue fostering that misbegotten brat of his.”
“It would be extremely presumptuous of me to do such a thing,” Sir Hector said testily. “A man of my inferior rank does not command any earl, let alone the Earl of Angus.”
“Couch the matter in whatever diplomatic terms you like,” she retorted, putting her hands on her ample hips and leaning forward over his table. “Just make it clear to his lordship that he must send the money he promised us for her care.”
“Or?”
“Or, what?”
“That is precisely my question, madam. What would you have me do with the wee lassie if Angus refuses?”
“Why, cast her out, of course. Send her to the nuns if you like, or give her to some family in the village to raise. She should not be here, sir, associating with your daughters! It is not as if her mother had been anyone of rank. Angus may be her father, but her mother was a common serving wench.”
“Dear me,” Sir Hector said, rubbing the back of his neck and savoring the coolness of his palm against the nape. “Wee Elspeth has lived here now for nearly four years, madam, more than half her life. By now, she must look upon Farnsworth Tower as her home and upon Drusilla and Jelyan as her sisters.”
“Well, they are not her sisters, sir, and she shall speedily be disabused of that notion if she does dare to entertain it. If Angus refuses to support her, he can scarcely expect us to do so. She is his bastard, after all, not yours!”
“Madam, I do not like to hear such vulgar words on your lips.”
Her quick flush satisfied him that she retained some delicacy of mind, but her harsh tone did not alter as she said, “You may dislike the term, sir, but you cannot dismiss its accuracy. If you prefer to think of Elspeth as his natural child, do so, but it does not alter the situation one whit.”
“I would remind you that Angus is presently in exile.”
“Aye, and he has been in exile for three of the four years we have kept her, has he not? He paid for her upkeep after he fled the King’s wrath to join Henry of England, so ’tis not his exile that prevents his sending the money he owes you.”
“He may no longer have enough even for himself,” Sir Hector said.
“They say he lives higher than England’s Henry does, even in London, although he spends most of his time at the house Henry provides for him near York. Moreover, sir, I would remind you that Angus has twice managed to finance armies to attack our Borders and is said to be raising a third even now.” When he grimaced, she raised her chin, adding, “Your mother may have been proud that she suffered a connection to the Douglases, sir, but I warrant even she would not support their wretched exiled chief against the King of Scots!”
“Now, my dear,” Sir Hector said, feeling uncomfortably defensive for the first time since the interview had begun. “You know perfectly well that Border loyalties are… well… flexible.”
“We should more properly call them fickle,” she snapped. “Still, since Angus ordered you to look after his brat, he must keep his part of the bargain.”
“I shall write and remind him that the lassie requires upkeep,” Sir Hector said. “Although I will not write as sternly as you suggest, mayhap a gentle reminder will not come amiss.”
“Be as gentle as you like, sir, but find some way to tell his odious lordship that if he does not comply, we will turn the brat out to look after herself.”
“No, I will not tell him that,” Sir Hector said, reaching to reclaim his spectacles. Holding them, he idly stroked their silver wire frame with his fingertip as he added, “We will not send her to the priest or into the village. Elspeth will remain here at Farnsworth Tower.”
“Then she must earn her keep. She is nearly six years old, after all.”
“Yes, I suppose she must if Angus fails to honor his word,” he agreed. “Now, if you have naught else to say to me…”
Outside the half-open doorway, little Elspeth stood as still as a mouse, listening. Upon hearing Sir Hector dismiss his lady, she turned abruptly, eyes wide, her attitude that of a startled deer seeking to bolt from danger, only to come face-to-face with her nemesis.
“Elspeth, you wicked bairn!” nine-year-old Drusilla Farnsworth exclaimed. “Listening at my father’s door? Och, but you’ll catch a rare skelping for this!”
“That she will,” Lady Farnsworth declared harshly from the doorway.
Caught between the two of them, Elspeth stiffened with fright, but she held her tongue, knowing from experience that anything she said would only make her punishment worse.
Chapter 1
The Scottish Highlands, ten years later
Twelve ships sailed down the narrow Sound of Raasay between the east coast of the Isle of Skye and the west coast of Kintail on the Scottish mainland. At the bottom of the Sound, the ships turned east into Loch Alsh. Despite an August morning mist rising from the loch and giving the steep surrounding hills a softened gray-blue appearance, the day promised to be a fine one. The mist dissipated before the ships came within sight of their objective.
At Eilean Donan Castle, on its islet at the east end of Loch Alsh, where the loch forked into Loch Long and Loch Duich, the first warning of danger was a shout from the ramparts.
“Ships on the loch!”
The shout echoed down the spiral stone stairway to the great hall, where the constable of the castle, Sir Patrick MacRae, sat at the high table, looking over accounts supplied to him by the castle’s mistress. As usual, he checked them only to digest the information they afforded him and found no errors in her ladyship’s careful calculations. He had been about to set them aside when he heard the shout.
A tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man with dark hair and gray eyes, he leaped to his feet with the agile quickness of an athlete trained to deal with crisis and ran for the stairway, shouting at two nearby men-at-arms to follow. Halfway up the stairs, they met the watchman clattering down.
“Ships, sir!”
“How many?” Patrick demanded, pushing past him up the stairs.
The man turned to follow with the other two close behind. “I lost count but at least a half score, maybe a dozen.”
“How far away?”
“Not far enough,” the man replied tersely. “Maybe a mile and a half beyond Glas Eilean.”
“So they are still three or four miles off. How is the wind?”
“Stiff, sir, and from the northwest. I reckon we may have an hour but no more than that and probably less.”
Patrick had reached the top of the stairs, and he strode through the open doorway without replying. On the crenellated walkway, he saw at once what the watcher had seen, and the sight stopped his breath. A dozen large ships sailed toward the castle, one of them significantly larger than its companions.
“Holy mother of God,” he muttered.
The other three men crowded close behind him, echoing his dismay.
He said crisply to the two who had followed him from the hall, “The laird and his lady are in the village. Go at once and fetch them. Also, bring back anyone else who desires to take shelter within our walls.”
“Who d’ye think it be, sir?” the third man asked as the two others turned away. “Be it them wretched Macdonalds again? It be more than a year since their laird attacked us and died here, but mayhap young Donald hopes t’ take his place.”
“Those are not Macdonald galleys,” Patrick said. “I know of only one group of ships in the area. Those are Jamie’s ships.”
“The King?” A note of awe tinged the man’s voice.
“Aye,” Patrick said grimly. “I wish we had finished building our new horn work, so we’d have our cannon mounted and ready.”
“But would his grace no ha’ sent word o’ his coming, sir? Folks in Portree kent for a week aforehand that he were going to visit there.”
“He would have warned us had he desired to be our guest,” Patrick said. “They say, though, that he is collecting Highland chiefs as hostages, hoping thereby to tame an area he fears still remains hostile to him. He has already collected Macdonald of Clanranald, Macdonald of Glengarry, and MacLeod of Dunvegan.”
“But why would the King o’ Scots come here? Forbye, sir, if he be collecting his enemies, he should collect Donald Gorm o’ Sleat. After all, it were his father, Donald the Grim, who tried to take back the Lordship o’ the Isles last year and raised an army and a fleet o’ galleys against the King. Our laird remained loyal to Jamie throughout. Moreover, his own father and yours died in battle against the traitor, and it were here at Eilean Donan that Donald died.”
“Aye,” Patrick said, still watching the approaching fleet. His gut told him that his grace was not coming to thank anyone for ridding him of Donald the Grim.
By the time he saw Mackenzie of Kintail and his lady being rowed home across the narrow tidal channel between the islet and the Kintail mainland, the lead ships were close enough to make out their royal banners.
Hurrying down the stairs, Patrick had begun to issue orders to men in the hall when Kintail strode in with his wife, Molly, Lady Kintail, at his side.
“We saw them from below,” Kintail said. “What make you of this, Patrick?”
“Is it really the King?” Molly asked.
“Aye, I’m sure it is,” Patrick said, managing a smile for her. He had a warm place in his heart for his master’s wife.
Turning to the laird, who had been his close friend from childhood, he said, “As to what I make of this, Fin, it can be nothing good. If Jamie and his advisors are coming here without first sending word that we should expect them, it can mean only that they did not want to warn us of their coming.”
“But the gossips say that Jamie and Cardinal Beaton are collecting hostages,” Molly protested. “Taking Fin would be pointless. We fought against Donald. Moreover, we had planned to spend the month of September at Dunsithe!”
“I have no answer for you,” Patrick said. “One can rarely divine Jamie’s thinking, but the wind has picked up, so we’ll have answers soon enough.”
Half an hour later, men rowed to the castle in a small boat from one of the lead ships, demanding that Kintail surrender to the King’s grace. Kintail refused, albeit with respect and a suggestion that the parties first discuss the matter civilly.
Shortly thereafter, the first explosion sounded from the ships’ cannon.
MacRae men-at-arms under Patrick’s direction did what they could to defend the castle, but although Eilean Donan was impregnable to most attacks, its walls were small defense against cannon fire. Not long after it began, when a furious barrage threatened to bring down part of the curtain wall, Kintail ordered a halt.
“Take a boat to Jamie’s ship and tell him I yield
,” he said gruffly to Patrick. “Invite his grace to join us for supper and offer him a decent bed for the night.”
Patrick left at once, but the first thing he learned was that he should have paid more heed to the banners, for the largest ship was not Jamie’s. When he asked the man-at-arms who met him as he boarded to take him to the King, repeating the command in broad Scot when the man shook his head at his Gaelic, the man smiled wryly and said, “Ye’ve come aboard the wrong ship tae see his grace, sir.”
“Then whose ship is this?”
“It be Cardinal Beaton’s ship. That one yonder be the King’s,” he added, gesturing toward the second largest.
“Then I will seek his grace there.”
“If ye—” The man broke off, stiffening to attention, his gaze fixed on a point behind Patrick.
Turning, Patrick found himself facing a man he knew most women would find attractive. In his late forties, he was dressed all in red, his elegant velvet doublet and trunk hose slashed with crimson silk in the French style.
“I am Davy Beaton,” the man said. “Have you the authority to yield Eilean Donan to the King’s grace?”
“Aye, sir,” Patrick said. “I am Patrick MacRae, constable of the castle, acting at the command of Mackenzie of Kintail.” Uncertain exactly how he was supposed to address Cardinal Beaton, who was said to be one of the most powerful men in Scotland—more powerful even than the King, some said—he decided that under the circumstances, proper form did not matter.
When the cardinal said nothing to indicate that he cared one way or another, Patrick added, “Kintail bids you and his grace the King to join us at Eilean Donan for supper and to spend the night if that be your pleasure. Bring any others you care to bring, for the laird would like to remind his grace that we have ever been his grace’s loyal subjects and that this attack on a peaceful residence is unseemly.”
