To Love a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Mirabelle took another sip of wine. Her Highland curiosity would give her no rest until she discovered the reasons behind such an intrigue.

  So she set down her cup and turned her entire attention on Maili. “You said Sorley saved the King on the journey to Holyrood?”

  “He did, aye.” Maili took a linen napkin from another table and dabbed at her mouth. “There was an ambush, planned by a small troop of English hunkering in a thicket of whin and broom. The underbrush and mist hid them well, but Sorley spotted them just as one of the archers aimed at King Robert. Before the assailant could loose his arrow, Sorley fired one of his own, piercing the man’s wrist.

  “The archer fell, his arrow flying wild and slamming into the heather.” The girl’s face lit, her excitement catching. “His men yelled and burst out of the thicket, armed with flails, light spears, and swords. But the King’s men were warned and ready, making short work of the Sassenachs. By e’en, when the royal party reached Edinburgh, Sorley’s feat was on all lips, his fame sealed. From that day onward, men called him Sorley the Hawk.” Maili swiped at her cheek, her eyes glistening. “Had it not been for his keen eyesight and sharp aim, our good King might not have lived.”

  “It’s a fine tale.” Mirabelle found her throat thick, her voice not as steady as she would’ve wished. “I’m not surprised, given the high praise I’ve heard when castle folk speak of him. Tell me”—she had to know—“does he come to the Red Lion often?”

  In a blink, the brightness slipped from Maili’s face and she darted a glance at the archway. Men’s voices could still be heard, Mirabelle’s father’s the most dominant as he continued to praise the virtues of the learned order of MacBeth physicians and Celtic medicine. The clatter of cutlery and the chink of ale cups proved that the men were still eating, not yet ready to clamber onto the inn’s roof.

  Turning back to Mirabelle, the serving girl drew a long breath. “Aye, well, Sorley does look in now and again. Most men hereabouts do, lest their womenfolk forbid them a cup or two of ale and…” She blushed, and then shrugged. “A bit of comfort such as they don’t enjoy in their marriage bed, as you surely knew.”

  “I do.” Mirabelle didn’t lie. “All men need more than a plaid to warm their bones of a cold, dark night.”

  Maili’s face warmed with a smile. “You are unlike any gentleborn lady I’ve ever met.”

  “I am myself, no more.” Mirabelle flicked an oatcake crumb off the table linen. “Life can be hard in the Highlands. We don’t have time or inclination to fool ourselves or put a gloss of nicety on things that simply are. Women learn early to accept the ways of men. They are all driven by desire.” Mirabelle glanced at the room’s one window, just catching the tail end of a horse riding by on the road. “Highlanders understand a man’s need for a woman, his thirst for land, and the love of his own glen, the drive to protect kith and kin.”

  “I do not think Sorley cares about land, but he is well-lusted, my lady. Such a man is to be celebrated, if only because he joys in living.” Maili moved to a nearby table, nipping its guttering candlewick. She waved away the rising smoke, then turned back to Mirabelle, her tone conspiratorial. “If I didn’t think of him as a brother, I’d have lured him into my bed years ago. Word is one night in his arms spoils a lass for all other lovers.”

  “So I have heard.” Mirabelle couldn’t count the number of times she’d caught such whisperings.

  “And you?” Maili peered at her with a considering eye. “Why are you interested in him?”

  “Because”—Mirabelle decided to speak true—“I believe he is the beggar I spoke with when we arrived at the inn.”

  “Och, nae.” Maili shook her head. “Sorley takes great pride in his appearance. His raiment is as fine as any courtier’s. Ne’er would he slink about garbed in rags, no’ after having to suffer wearing castoffs and worse as a lad.”

  “I don’t know…” Mirabelle glanced at the fire, seeing more than the orange-glowing peats. “More than one Highland chieftain has been known to walk his hills in a wayfarer’s robe, the hood pulled low to hide his face. When trouble is about, sometimes a humble soul is able to see and hear more than could e’er be learned on a chiefly ride through the glen, pennants waving and pipes blaring.

  “We of the hills and glens ken that much is not as it seems.” She looked back at Maili, sensing she could trust her. “I believe Sorley is more than he appears. Indeed, I am sure—”

  She went silent as the inn door banged open. Both women glanced at the archway just as a man called a good morn to the men in the long room.

  “Ho, stranger!” William Wyldes greeted him, full of cheer and welcome. “Are you wanting a room or just ale and a warm meal? We’ve other comforts if you’re cold and weary from your journey.”

  “I’ll be needing a bed, aye,” the man answered, his voice carrying. It was a deep voice, low and rich, thick with the lilting tones of the Highlands. “A few nights, mayhap more, I cannae say. An ale and some of that stew I’m smelling would suit me fine.”

  Maili glanced at Mirabelle. “A Highlander,” she whispered, full of awe.

  “Aye.” Mirabelle’s heart leapt at the soft dialect of her home.

  “He sounds bonnie.” Maili smiled.

  Mirabelle watched her slip over to the archway and peer into the public room. She didn’t tell her that even Highland graybeards and dotards spoke so beautifully.

  “Saints a mercy!” Maili glanced back, her eyes round. “Ne’er have I seen such a man,” she spoke low, her cheeks blushing. “Come take a peek.”

  Curious, Mirabelle stood and crossed the little room. She saw at once why the serving girl was so intrigued with the big Highlander sitting alone at a corner table near the long room’s peat fire.

  Mirabelle had never glimpsed such a man.

  Big and burly as were many Highlanders, this one looked fierce. Clearly a fighting man, he had unusual smoke-gray eyes, wild black hair, and a great black beard, braided with silver beard rings Mirabelle knew warriors made from the weapons of slain enemies.

  “Oh, my…” She gripped Maili’s elbow. “He is a sight, isn’t he?”

  “If he weren’t so dark, I’d think he was a Viking.” Maili leaned in, whispering in her ear. “Don’t they also wear wolf pelts slung around their shoulders? Isn’t that a Thor’s hammer at his neck?”

  “It is.” Mirabelle narrowed her eyes to better see the shining silver talisman that glinted against the warrior’s mailed shirt. “Perhaps he’s a mercenary, passing through?”

  “I hope he’s in a mood for company.” Maili was eyeing him up and down, her excitement palpable. “I like a big, rough-looking man…” She let the words trail off, frowning when William Wyldes strode over to the newcomer’s table, plunking down a steaming bowl of meaty stew and a large tankard of ale. “Botheration!”

  Mirabelle understood the girl’s frustration.

  A large man himself, the innkeeper blocked their view of the huge, big-bearded Highlander.

  Hovering in the shadows of the archway, the two women watched as the innkeeper stepped back, planting his hands on his leather-aproned hips. They still couldn’t see much of the Highlander, only the edge of his broad, wolf-pelt-covered shoulders. The sword and war ax he’d propped against the wall behind his table, the weapons proving they’d guessed rightly that he was a warring man.

  One who possessed the courtesy to remove his arms without having been asked, even if they remained within easy reach.

  Mirabelle also spotted the top of dagger’s hilt peeking up from his boot.

  Still, something about the solemn-faced giant told her he wouldn’t leap up and attack the innkeeper, or her father and his party.

  Though rough-hewn, he was a good man.

  That much she could tell.

  “I should go offer to top his ale.” Maili stood back, dusting her skirts, arranging her low-cut bodice to dip even more. “Suchlike as him will surely drain his tankard in one draw.”

  “W
ill you be having aught else?” William Wyldes’s voice boomed then.

  Maili paused, waiting just inside the door arch.

  She slid a glance at Mirabelle, winking. “He’ll be asking for a warmed bed. That means—”

  “I hope so, for you.” Mirabelle returned her smile, knowing well that a “warmed bed” at the Red Lion included a soft and naked female body to comfort the traveler.

  “Aye, I’d have a word with you,” the Highlander returned, not giving the innkeeper the response Maili desired.

  “Later, fine.” Wyldes thumped the table, good-naturedly. “I’ve business yet this day with thon group of nobles.” He jerked his head toward Munro MacLaren and his guardsmen. “I’ll sup with you at gloaming, what?”

  “That’s good enough.” The Highlander lifted his tankard in salute. “I should be back at the inn by then.”

  “You’ve dealings hereabouts?” The innkeeper hovered.

  “Aye, of sorts.” The man set down the tankard, leaned back in his chair. “I’m Grim Mackintosh of Nought Castle in the Glen of Many Legends. I’m looking for a man rumored to frequent this inn.”

  “Who might that be?” Some of the friendliness left the innkeeper’s voice.

  “A Stirling man.” The Highlander met Wyldes’s gaze, his own calm and steady. “He’s a court bastard by all accounts. His name is Sorley the Hawk.”

  Chapter Five

  We part ways here, my friend.”

  Sorley gave Roag a look that brooked no argument as they drew their horses to a halt well before the string of hovels that were all that remained of the once-thriving riverside settlement belonging to the Abbey of St. Mary.

  “So we do.” Roag slipped down from his beast, stroked the aged horse’s neck, and gave him a carrot. Glancing at Sorley, he flashed an annoying smile. “Dinnae think I’d have gone any farther.”

  “I’d no’ have let you.” Sorley glared at him, irked that he hadn’t thought of bringing a treat for his horse. As always, Roag strove to outdo him.

  Proving it, the lout fished a second carrot from inside a small pouch fastened to his saddle and sauntered over to offer it to Sorley’s beast.

  He didn’t look at Sorley, his attention on feeding the horse. “Truth is, I’m no’ riding any deeper into thon village because I prefer that as few folk as possible see me in these dung-rags. You, though…”

  He stepped back from the horse, eyeing Sorley up and down. “I do believe they become you.”

  “I’ll stuff them up your arse when we’re finished here.” Sorley slid off his own horse, taking the same care as Roag had done. Wyldes swore the creatures were sturdier than they looked, but he wasn’t convinced.

  He did know the abbey ruins and the sad little hamlet tore his heart.

  Set in a broad loop of the River Forth, the ancient holy site was a maze of tumbled walls and rubble. Thorn bushes, bracken, and stinging nettles raged where magnificent arches and spires should’ve soared to the heavens. The marauding English had even savaged the sanctity of the abbey burial yard. Ornamental grave slabs were toppled everywhere, their highly carved surfaces barely visible through the thick deer grass choking the ground.

  Proud effigies had fared no better, some of them defiled, missing sculpted heads and feet. Even several of the Celtic standing crosses had been knocked over, moss and mud marring their sacred stone.

  “Hurts the eye, what?” Roag tucked his thumbs into the corded belt of his beggar’s robe.

  “For once I agree with you.” Sorley felt anger brewing inside him and almost whipped back his own cloak to draw his sword, Dragon-Breath. Named for the man who’d gifted him with the blade, a battle-hardened knight who styled himself Dragon and aye had onion breath, the brand would serve Sorley well when he reached the traitor, Lockhart. The King trusted him to put a sure end to the faithless noble’s treachery, and he would. Fenris work was swift and silent, always efficient. But until he went toe-to-toe with Lockhart, he’d keep his fury at bay.

  This particular Fenris mission required a humble, subservient mien.

  A shame he wanted to throw back his head and roar at the cloud-chased sky.

  Roag strolled over to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. For once, the lout knew better than to rile him. “Fiends didn’t leave much of anything.” Roag glanced toward the Forth, where a large stone slab slanted at a weird angle near the river’s edge. In better times, it’d been part of the abbey’s watergate. “I’m no’ sure I want to wait there, seeing how thickly the nettles are growing o’er the ruins.”

  “You can hie yourself back to the Red Lion.” Sorley let his gaze travel down the narrow beaten-earth road that curved through the hamlet. “Maili is aye glad for your attentions. You’ll find no such comfort here.”

  “Must you aye think the worst of me?” Roag leaned round to peer into Sorley’s face, affecting an expression of injury. “My bones tell me you’ll be glad I’m along this day.”

  “Mine say if I cannae take a swing at the English, I sure can make Lockhart scream like a woman.” Sorley spat in his palms and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Nae, make that ten women.”

  “See?” Roag straightened, sounding amused. “We are again of the same mind.”

  “A rare exception.” Sorley kept his gaze on the low, rough-stoned cottages lining the road. Built of more turf than rock, they looked more like cow byres than anyone’s home. He was sure herds of mice lived in the roof thatch. Worse, the wind had changed, bringing not just the smell of rain but the reek of the communal cesspit.

  Still, enough folk went about their daily chores. He even noted trade on the rotting wharf. Several clunky, blunt-bowed cargo ships were tied to the remaining posts, their hulls rocking in the strong-flowing river.

  Chickens and goats ran between the hovels and along the road. A cluster of stout, work-worn women carried wicker washing baskets down to the river. And a big-bellied, red-faced man hawked bowls of stewed mutton and ale, drawing a fair crowd to his little cart.

  Sorley wished the man well.

  He also knew the largest gathering would be around the bend in the road, near the old market cross where Sir Henry Lockhart plied his deceit, calling down miracles while passing on the King’s secrets.

  “Do you think he truly floats in the air?” Roag had his thumbs in his belt again, proving as so oft that he could read Sorley’s mind. “Folk claim he’s touched by the gods.”

  Sorley snorted. “The only thing that’ll touch him this day is the cutting edge of Dragon-Breath.”

  “Many men have witnessed the wonder.” Roag shrugged. “He may be a traitor, but he must also be a wizard.”

  “If he is, the beady red eyes of every pig in the land will turn into spears of flame and sear the first farmer who tries to make them bacon.”

  “Good men have said—”

  “I say he’s a crafty fraudster.” Sorley flashed a glance at his archrival, amazed he’d allow that Sir Henry could sit in midair.

  He wasn’t about to share how Sir Henry hovered about the ground.

  Or that he’d pried the answer from the sweet-bottomed daughter of an English ironsmith who lived just across the border from Scotland. The smith helped Sir Henry in interest of his own land and loyalties, making him blameless.

  Sorley turned toward Roag. “If you dinnae interfere with my work, mayhap I’ll show you how—”

  He broke off, for Roag was already leading their horses to a patch of grass near one of the still-standing Celtic crosses. He watched as Roag tethered them, once again treating the beasts to a handful of carrots. Then he turned to Sorley and touched the rim of his beggar’s hood, a half-smile on his face.

  “Gods save me,” Sorley swore beneath his breath as he returned the salute, annoyed there were times he almost liked Roag.

  Above all, he enjoyed righting wrongs.

  Eager to begin, he tossed one last look at Roag.

  True to his word, Roag was perched atop the slanting slab of stone that w
as once part of the abbey’s watergate. He’d drawn up one leg and let the other dangle free, somehow managing to look like anything but the tatty-robed wretch he was supposed to portray.

  Anyone would recognize him for what he was.

  A cocky bastard.

  Hoping he’d stay put, Sorley drew a deep breath and adjusted his cloak. Then he assumed his best humble mien and a suitably crooked posture and limped over to the road, easily melting into the crowd.

  “Blessed saints, have mercy on these good folk. Lift their cares, cure their ills! I call upon your greatness. Reach through the veil of mysteries to heal them, bringing wonders as only you can!”

  Sorley stood at the edge of the crowd, paying scant heed to the ringing words of the raggedy-cloaked monk he recognized as Sir Henry Lockhart, traitor to the crown. The fiend had whitened his face, no doubt to better conceal his identity. Not that any of the clamoring villagers would guess he wasn’t a wandering friar, gifted with God’s ear. They’d never suspect he was a deep-pursed, land-rich courtier who allowed greed to govern his loyalty.

  All they heard were promises of miracles.

  What they saw convinced them he could deliver.

  Why would anyone doubt when the noble appeared to sit in midair, floating high above a colorful tapestry spread across the muddied ground?

  Guised as a monk, his hooded face lowered and his berobed legs crossed, he clutched a long staff as if to steady himself against the wind. He did present an astonishing spectacle. If Sorley didn’t know his trick, he’d have also found himself with his jaw on the ground.

  Gullible country folk believed what their eyes showed them.

  They were also tossing their hard-earned coin into a battered bronze cauldron Lockhart had set atop the brightly woven rug.

  Sorley’s blood boiled, watching him.

  Deceiving and stealing from those who scratched a living out of the cold, bitter earth was a worse sin than selling the King’s secrets to the English.

  No king had to worry that his children went to sleep hungry at night.

  His bile rising, Sorley willed the rage from his features and then began to limp forward, taking care to appear as bent and distressed as possible.