The Chief's Maiden (Border Series Book 3)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Epilogue
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
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About the Author
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The Chief’s Maiden
Border Series Book Three
Cecelia Mecca
To Border Ambassadors and early Border Series readers. Thank you for helping make my dreams a reality.
Contents
Get Border Bonuses
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Become an Insider
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Also by Cecelia Mecca
About the Author
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1
Brockburg Castle, Scotland, 1271
“I refuse to kill an unarmed man.”
Toren stood with such force, the heavy wooden chair toppled behind him. He began to pace between his guest and the fire, which had been stoked by a servant moments earlier.
“This is not my request,” his companion said.
Toren stopped and stared at the man sitting casually in his hall. He’d sent everyone else away to allow for a private conversation. He’d known James Douglas for many years, well before the older man had been appointed Lord Warden of the Marches. His even tone was typical of the battle-hardened baron. Douglas’s appointment had not come as a surprise to anyone. Fierce enough to confront the unruly border clans, he had earned his place and Toren’s respect. Which was all the more reason the request surprised him.
“Bloody hell.” Toren stood before the hearth looking at the elaborate carvings inscribed in the overmantel. It had likely been commissioned when the fireplace was moved from the center of the hall to its current location. Generations of Kerrs had lived here, eaten here, and fought to keep this hall their own. And he would be the one to destroy his clan.
If he dabbled in border politics a second time, Toren was sure it would be the end of them.
But if the request was not from Douglas, that could only mean one thing.
He turned and watched the man’s face, torn between sinking back into the high-backed chair, though it needed to be set straight, and tossing it across the room. He did neither.
“One does not refuse an order from his king,” Douglas reminded him.
“A royal decree,” Toren spat. “Why me?” He continued without waiting for an answer, “I can understand his wish to dispense with the English warden. But Clan Kerr stands on its own. You know that. He knows that.”
Every month, the criminals from either side of the border were brought to justice in a peaceable meeting overseen by the English and Scottish wardens. The thirty-year tradition allowed for some modicum of peace along the otherwise tumultuous border. But recent events had threatened that tradition.
“I suggested Graeme deSowlis.” Douglas shifted in his chair. “Sit back down, Toren. You’re towering above me.”
At over six feet tall, Toren Kerr, Chief of Clan Kerr, was the largest of his brothers. Indeed, the largest man in his entire clan.
He righted the heavy chair as if it were a feather and sat on the ruby red cushion, grateful he’d ordered his people to leave the hall. It wouldn’t do well for his demise to be witnessed.
“Mark me, Douglas. This will not go well. If I am successful,” he amended, “when I am successful, it will cause as much turmoil as defeat would. How do you hope to attain peace by murdering the English warden? It may calm the clans, but what good will that do if the English refuse to treat?”
“We have no other choice. You saw what happened last month. Unrest continues to spread among the border clans. If the warden can be bought, so too can his sheriffs. And if they can’t be trusted, the Day of Truce unravels.”
And chaos along the border would once again prevail. Toren knew it well.
“The English king refuses to consider a replacement?”
Toren raked his hand through brown, shoulder-length hair, knowing where this discussion would lead. He began thinking ahead to the preparations that would need to be made for his absence.
“Aye. The king will not hear a bad word against the man and vehemently refuses to even entertain the idea of deposing him from his position. As long as he’s alive, Stewart Hallington will remain English Lord Warden of the Middle Marches. A man increasingly distrusted, and one who will be the downfall of any modicum of peace along the border. Because if the truce falls apart here, the east and west marches will not be far behind.”
“Dammit, Douglas. Why me?”
His friend was avoiding the question. Shifting in his seat, the Scottish warlord looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“Hallington is traveling to the tournament—”
“Ah, Christ, Douglas.”
“The king understands this to be a perfect opportunity. He sends his most renowned warrior, an undefeated tournament champion who has never lost a battle. And he expressly forbade me to attend. But none would be suspicious of your late entry to the tourney.”
The Tournament of the North. The only other time Scottish and English border families and clans came together under the flag of peace. Toren had not participated since the death of his father. As chief, he had no use for games and role-play. His family and clan needed him too much for him to participate in the decades-old tournament.
And why was Douglas forbidden to attend? As warden, he’d be expected there. Douglas was not telling him something. “You’re full of shite, Douglas. He has plenty of other men, and why would the king—”
“There is the bit about Bristol. And deSowlis is a mite aggrieved with you as well.”
“Ah, finally some truth, old man.”
He held Douglas’s gaze. The man’s white, clipped beard and hair reminded him that his friend was getting along in age.
So the king was still upset.
Five years earlier, despite a tenuous peace along the border, the King of the Scots had ordered Toren to take Bristol Manor, an
English demesne just south of the border. At the time, their countries had not agreed on the border line, and the king had assured him that pushing south would help him secure his own holding. In truth, Toren had been given no choice.
The invasion had been doomed from the start. The lord and his wife had been killed in the upheaval, and while other casualties had been kept to a minimum, holding such a property had proven difficult. It had been a never-ending battle to prove himself to the Englishmen and women who were accustomed to the leadership of the family he’d ousted.
Toren had resented Bristol for keeping him from his home. His clan.
And then there was the situation with Catrina.
The Waryns had eventually returned to claim their rightful property. Unfortunately, they’d also discovered Toren’s injured sister along the creek and taken her captive. How Catrina had fallen from her horse unnoticed, Toren would never understand. But the tenure of her captivity in Bristol had been the longest of Toren’s life.
To this day, he wasn’t sure what was worse—that they had held her captive or that she had married the Englishman who’d taken her. She’d fallen in love with her captor.
An English lord.
“So he still blames me for Catrina breaking off the engagement to deSowlis?”
Douglas lifted a grey brow. “And mayhap losing Bristol.”
Toren scowled at the man.
“His message was clear, Toren. Kill Hallington, and the unfortunate situation at Bristol will be forgotten.”
“You mean the situation that I advised against? The one I attempted to dissuade our stubborn sovereign from in the first place?”
Douglas shrugged.
“He is the king.”
And had been wrong before. But Toren left that bit unsaid. It would do him no good to disagree with the messenger. And though he had no great desire to enter into the tournament, and even less to kill a man who was not his enemy, Toren would do both. For his king. And for peace. With any luck, it would be accomplished quickly and a new English warden would be chosen. One less inclined to take bribes that allowed criminals their freedom.
And then he could return to Brockburg and concern himself with the only things that mattered to him. His family and his clan.
“It appears I have no choice, old man. But tell the king I will find a way to challenge the Englishman. I am no murderer.”
Douglas smiled. “He expected nothing less. And he’s confident the man will not be a problem much longer.”
Toren nodded in agreement. Douglas was right on one account. He was undefeated in battle, in tournaments, and in single combat. The warden’s days were coming to an end.
“Father, please,” Juliette Hallington pleaded. “I’ve been looking forward to this for months. Surely the earl can wait until after the tournament?”
Why did she even bother?
Her father was as stubborn a man as any. And he disliked disagreements, especially when it was she or her mother—or any other female—who offered an opinion counter to his own. She loved her father dearly, but he would never be dissuaded. At least not by her.
Stewart Hallington, the second Baron Chauncy, took his duties as Lord Warden of the Middle Marches very seriously. Juliette hardly saw him, which was why she had looked forward to the tournament. Well, mayhap that was not the only reason, but it was the only reason he need know.
“Please,” she tried again, lowering her voice. They sat on the raised dais for their midday meal, in full display of their entire household. Which was precisely why he had chosen this moment to tell her they would not be attending the Tournament of the North. Instead, she would rot inside this hall, only allowed to escape if she wed her father’s choice of husband—another border lord who would order her about and insist it was unsafe to travel beyond their walls.
“Mayhap we can attend the opening ceremony, and you can—”
“You are still going.”
“What did you say?
Juliette leaned forward to catch the slow smile on her mother’s face. At two and forty, twice Juliette’s age, Lady Elizabeth Hallington was still lovely. Mother and daughter shared the same long blonde hair, although Juliette’s was streaked with light brown.
“Your mother has convinced me to allow you to travel with Lady Christina.” Her father rushed to clarify, “And her husband, of course.”
Juliette thought it best to appear calm at this bit of news. She would attend her first tournament with her very best friend! With Christina’s lands bordering her own, they’d grown up more like sisters than friends. It had always been a welcome respite to the harsh and dangerous land in which they lived this far north. She tasted the soup in front of her as regally as a queen. Or what she imagined the queen would look like. Juliette had never met the queen, of course. Or anyone, for that matter. With the exception of Christina, the nuns, and the few noblewomen who traveled this far north, she’d met few ladies in her lifetime. Her life often felt too small compared to the many worlds she’d traveled in books.
She chanced a look at her father.
“I see you’re no longer upset with me, dear?”
He was too observant by far. She set the metal spoon down very slowly, raising the corners of her mouth in a careful smile. Grateful, but not exuberant. Her father grew suspicious easily.
“I am disappointed, of course, that I will not spend time with the most magnificent, handsome, fierce—”
“That’s enough,” her father said without conviction.
“Strong knight and lord in all of Christendom,” she finished.
And it was all true. Aside from his antiquated views on her marriage, her father was quite a man. Of course, many might argue that his views were as they should be, that he was right to want to arrange his daughter’s marriage. That, indeed, the neighboring lord’s son, Lord Wytham, was a splendid match.
But Juliette knew better. The abbess taught her as much. She wanted more from marriage than a man who readily admitted he looked forward to life with a subservient wife, one who had been appalled by her penchant for reading.
“Juliette,” her mother interjected. “Your father knows you will be well taken care of. I only wish I could join you.”
The reason her mother would need to stay behind—Juliette’s carefree young brother—came bounding through the hall and only stopped running when he saw the baron’s stern glance.
“Kelvin,” Juliette admonished before her father could do so. “Walk, please.”
Her brother immediately obeyed when he saw the quick wink she gave him. That should stave off the inevitable rebuke from their father.
At only nine, her brother was full of energy. It was hard to imagine someday he’d be fostered by their overlord, a great honor, and one her father continually fretted about since the boy had difficulty attending to any one task at a time. He was bright, though, and had inherited the comely Hallington looks. And was overly coddled by her mother.
She would miss her brother, but this was her only chance to fall in love before she was properly ‘wedded and bedded,’ as the sometimes saucy abbess liked to say.
Sister Heloise was quite unconventional in that way.
“Yes, Jules.”
He skirted the dais to sit next to her. Before her father could begin the lecture on punctuality that was undoubtedly on his lips, Juliette addressed her mother.
“I wish you could come as well, Mother. But as you say, I will be well cared for by Lord Hedford and his wife.”
Juliette clasped her hands together. Attending the tournament with her dearest friend would be the most exciting thing she’d ever done. Though she’d barely eaten a bite, she had no appetite to finish. This was going to be the greatest adventure of her life. And she was determined—absolutely determined—to find a husband of her choosing. One her father would approve of, certainly, but also one she could love.
She didn’t care who thought her ideas silly. Juliette would not repeat her parents’ mistake. She would not
settle for a life of polite conversation. She would find a Lancelot at this tournament.
And she would even embrace her reputation as the “jewel of the north,” which normally embarrassed her to no end. Indeed, she would take advantage of it to change her own fate.
Her father need not know that she would not be marrying Lord Wytham. First, she must find an alternative husband.
How difficult could that be at an event that was sure to attract the finest men in all of Northumbria and beyond?
2
Condren Castle, Northumbria 1271
“You know I can’t allow you to roam the castle unescorted.”
Juliette made what she imagined to be an unladylike sound at that absurd proclamation. Her friend was taking this chaperone assignment much too seriously.
“Christina, you are being—”
“Responsible.”
Alone in Juliette’s small private chamber, the women squared off, opposites in every way. Looking at the two, a stranger might notice their outward differences—Christina’s dark hair to Juliette’s lighter locks—but that was such a small thing, really. Where they differed the most was inside. While both knew their place in the world, only one of them accepted it, a fact that maddened Juliette even now.
“So you say.” Juliette placed her delicate hands firmly on the hips of her new crimson gown. “But tell me, when exactly did being responsible work in your favor?”
Christina rolled her brown eyes and perched on the end of the beautifully appointed bed. The earl had clearly spared no expense in his furnishings. Of course, a man who could afford to sponsor such an elaborate affair as the Tournament of the North could purchase many such beds. The cost of the opening ceremony alone would bankrupt lesser lords. In the morn, the ten-day event would begin in earnest, and Juliette could only imagine the spectacle that was to come.