True Highland Spirit

by Amanda Forester

  “To fight the English on the open field is folly. We shall lose,” declared Morrigan.

  “Traitor!” cried a man in the crowd.

  “Knave!” called another. The crowd was getting murderous.

  “Please, gentlemen.” The duke raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “This man has spoken his mind. He is incorrect, but I wish him no ill will. Since you have no faith in our plans, I invite you to leave the camp and return the coin ye were given to arrive here tonight.”

  Morrigan bowed without saying a word. She had said enough. The fact that the duke would never see those coins again was not a discussion she chose to have at that time. Or ever. Men glared at her and began to close in. Morrigan turned toward the door and fingered her sword hilt.

  “I shall see that McNab leaves camp,” said Dragonet, his voice stern. In a moment he was behind her, his hand on her shoulder, guiding her out of the tent. The men stepped back, allowing them to pass. They exited the tent, and Morrigan breathed deep of the cool night air, a refreshing change from the hot, stifling air in the tent.

  Dragonet continued to walk beside her, saying nothing. Morrigan was not sure what to think of his silence. They tramped through the large camp until the tents were not quite so crowded and they drew nearer to the outskirts, where the McNabs had been assigned a small bit of land. She had to tell the men to stop unpacking and start packing. By the saints they were going to hate her.

  “Are you healed?” asked Dragonet in an undertone.

  “Aye, ’tis well.” Truth was her shoulder was still healing and it pained her to move her left arm. Fortunately her left arm was not as necessary as her right, given her current occupation.

  Dragonet stopped in a small, open space between the clan camps. He frowned down at her, tall and serious. “Why are you here? Why did you not go home? Do you not have all you need for your clan?”

  “Aye, we are no longer in a desperate position, thanks to the ransom and the duke’s coin, which, by the way, he’s going to have a hard time ever seeing again.”

  Dragonet shrugged. “So why not go home?”

  “I made an oath. Perhaps you noticed that the McNabs are no’ well thought o’ in these parts. The least I can do is keep my word. I wanted to regain some honor for my clan.” Morrigan looked away into the dark gloom of the night.

  “By getting yourself killed tonight?” he asked, a mischievous light in his eye.

  Morrigan’s lips twitched up in spite of herself. “I suppose ye’re going to tell me ye saved me back in that tent.”

  “No, no. A knight never boasts of his accomplishment. However, as an accomplished minstrel I may put the adventure into a ballad.” Dragonet smiled and his form relaxed, like the easy minstrel he once was. Morrigan returned his grin before recalling that she never smiled, unless it was to mock one of her hapless brothers.

  “You told the duke to send me home.”

  “But of course,” replied Dragonet without a hint of apology.

  Morrigan shrugged. Perhaps it was better that way. She had offered to fight, they had refused her. She could leave with her honor intact, at least in her mind if not in those of others.

  “Was I incorrect in my assessment of their invasion plans? Do I lack understanding of the finer points of war?” asked Morrigan.

  Dragonet looked up at the clear night sky. Stars were in abundance, scattered across the sky like lost jewels. The silver moon cast the landscape in shades of gray. “Your conclusions, they are correct.”

  “Then why was I thrown out o’ the meeting?”

  “You say the things nobody wishes to hear. The English are strong, well trained, and well equipped. To have a hope of success, you must believe it is possible to win. You robbed people of this belief.”

  “But going out wi’ a poor strategy is daft!”

  “War is daft. A sensible person would not do it.”

  Morrigan paused. It was not the answer she expected. She had been raised on the stories of glorious battles, of brave heroes and valiant warriors. “Ye are a knight. Are ye not?”

  Dragonet turned back to her, his face in shadow, his eyes black. “I am many things.”

  A cold wind blew against her, and she wrapped her cloak closer. “What happened to glory and honor and valor and all that rot?”

  “I have known many brave men. Most lie in their graves.”

  A shiver slid up her spine as the wind snaked through the sea of tents, rustling the flaps. It was the only sound. The men had retreated away from the cold into their tents, leaving them quite alone. She took a step closer.

  “So why are ye here? Why no’ return to France?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “To be fed and housed in the winter, it is a significant improvement over being hungry and cold.”

  Morrigan nodded. “Yet surely this canna be the only way ye can provide for yerself. Why no’ go back to being a minstrel?”

  Dragonet gave a lopsided smile that reminded her greatly of his more casual minstrel days. “I was never truly a minstrel, I confess. I was on the orders from the duke.”

  “Aye, but what keeps ye from becoming a minstrel in truth?”

  “Ah, the worn-out excuse: glory and honor and valor and all that rot.”

  Morrigan smiled back into his dark eyes. “Ye are pitiful.”

  Dragonet inclined his head and leaned toward her, speaking in a low tone. “Most men are, my lady.”

  Despite the cold wind, Morrigan was surprisingly warm. And growing warmer with every inch she leaned closer to Dragonet.

  “I, well, I should go.” Morrigan’s feet made no attempt at movement. Instead she leaned closer. Dragonet remained still, his face unreadable in the darkness.

  Morrigan’s heart pounded, drawing her toward him, drowning out all rational thought. This is where she wanted to be, close to him. In vain she tried to remind herself of all the reasons she distrusted people in general, and men in particular. This man was different. He slid past her defenses. He saw her, the real lass beneath the bitter disguise, and he did something no man ever did, he accepted her. Maybe he even liked her a little, or at least he was not repulsed by her, and that was good enough.

  Without stopping to think, Morrigan wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth. At first he did not move, then he returned her embrace and held her tight. Morrigan relaxed into him, warm and happy. Yet it was dangerous to kiss him in open camp. If they were caught…

  A small noise caused them both to jump apart. Morrigan glanced around, but no one was in sight. Morrigan took several large steps back. Had she gone daft? What was wrong with her?

  “I must go. I must!” Morrigan turned and stomped away.

  “Wait!” Dragonet caught her hand and spun her back into his embrace. “Promise me you will leave this place. Promise me you will go home now.” His words were raw, his grip was tight. He was no longer holding back.

  “I… Andrew is still here, I canna leave him.”

  “Campbell will look after him. He was nowhere near the heat of the battle last time.” Dragonet leaned close, his lips a whisper away from hers. “Unlike you.”

  Morrigan’s heart thumped hard against her hauberk. She slowly wrapped her arms around his neck but as much as she wanted to feel his lips against hers, she refused to close the gap.

  “I will watch out for him too, as I am able,” added Dragonet.

  “Thank ye,” whispered Morrigan. “Dragon.” Heat surged through her clear down to her frozen toes. “Perhaps the name does suit ye.”

  Dragonet touched his lips gently to hers but did not kiss. “Promise to me you will leave.” He spoke the words on her lips.

  It was impossible to think clearly with his arms around her and his lips touching hers. He was warm and strong and speaking some nonsense about something in the future, when all she cared about was happening right now.

  “Promise,” he whispered again, his soft lips moving on hers. She longed to press herself into him, but waited, taking plea
sure in the sweet torture.

  “I promise,” she said, licking her bottom lip and his as well.

  His kiss was hard and urgent, nothing like what they had shared before. Morrigan held him tighter, eager for more. He grabbed her tightly and lifted her closer so that the toes of her boots barely touched the ground. His kiss invaded her mouth in a manner new and shocking, his touch a steamy contrast to the night’s chill.

  Suddenly he stepped back, removing her hands from around his neck. “Forgive me. I forget myself.” His voice was shaky, his hand in hers trembled. It appeared their kiss had affected him as powerfully as it had her. So why was he pulling away?

  Still dazed, Morrigan said nothing, hoping the sweeping dizziness she was experiencing would not lead her to do something as embarrassing as falling at his feet.

  “Farewell, my friend.” Dragonet squeezed her hand, then released her and placed his hand over his heart. “I will never forget you.” He bowed and turned back into the dark camp and was gone.

  Confusion and disappointment cut through her cloak, yet deep within a spark had lit her soul.

  Eleven

  Berwick, England

  Dragonet huddled with his fellow French knights around a central hearth in a garrison commandeered by the French. The Scot and French army had taken the town of Berwick but could not capture the castle. They settled into a siege, but the castle was well stocked to ride out the winter, and the attackers were the ones running out of supplies. The English army would be coming soon. If they could not take the castle before the English arrived, they would be pinned between two enemy armies and forced to march against the English on the open field.

  The first day of winter came with an ice storm pelting the invaders with frozen slivers of despair. Dragonet’s compatriots were unaccustomed to the cold weather. They were also unappreciative of the Scots’ rustic charm. Their initial whispers of discontent had grown into a roar of protest. The French knights wanted to go home.

  The duke sat apart from the rest, warmed by a mug of wassail and the weight of the decision before him. With a sigh he stood before his knights, the elite of his force. The room silenced before his grim face.

  “We have done what we could. We will now return to France. Spread the word to begin the packing.”

  A cheer rose from some of the weary French knights. Dragonet did not join them. The Duke of Argitaine walked slowly back to the corner of the room. Dragonet followed him.

  “Your Grace, please reconsider,” said Dragonet. “We asked these clans to join our fight. We cannot leave them to their fate now.”

  “They knew the risks.” The duke ran his hand over his forehead in a single worried gesture.

  “They believed we would be with them.”

  “They were paid for their service,” mumbled the duke.

  “Is that what you think of them? They are nothing to you but mercenaries?” A cold chill wrapped itself around Dragonet’s chest and squeezed. It was an odd feeling; he guessed it must be worry or anger or something in between.

  In the waning fire’s flickering light, the duke’s face was gray and haggard. “What would you have me do? If we stay we will lose to the English.”

  “Morrigan,” mumbled Dragonet. He could hear Morrigan’s words echoed in the duke’s statement of futility.

  “Pardon?”

  “You ignored or rejected those who warned of the dangers of this path. It was you who encouraged the Scots to invade. You who promised the prosperous alliance between our two countries would last forever.”

  The duke rose as did his voice. “You would give the command to send your fellow soldiers into certain death? If we stay it will mean French blood spilled, French lives lost.”

  “If we leave we are condemning the Scots to death. It is acceptable to you to spill Scot blood and lose Scot lives?”

  The duke threw up his hands and began to pace. “I do not expect you to understand.”

  “I understand perfectly.”

  “If I march into a battle I know I cannot win, our people back home will be left undefended. It is well and good to try to be honorable but not at the expense of the mission.”

  “But if you sacrifice your honor to win, what do you have?”

  “You have victory. Do you think the wives of the men you would send into battle would be comforted knowing your sense of honor proved fatal?”

  “I am not saying this is a battle we must fight, but let us draw back into Scotland instead. Let us not abandon them.”

  The duke shook his head. “Our mission was to distract the English from France. We have accomplished our mission. We must now return to France and press the English to our advantage.”

  Dragonet clenched his jaw and shook his head. He was disappointed in the man he had respected.

  “You are a young man, Dragonet. Someday you will learn that sometimes the mission must come first.”

  “Despite my youth I can see that winning at the price of one’s honor is a hollow victory at best. No man can truly be a knight without his honor.”

  “Enough! You go too far!”

  Dragonet realized the other knights had taken keen notice of their heated discussion and had gathered at a respectable distance, their eyes wide.

  “I apologize, Your Grace,” said Dragonet with a small bow.

  The duke stared at him with weary eyes. “You choose to stay here?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “I envy your convictions, but not your decision. I give you leave to stay and wish you the best.” The duke stood and held out his hand, which Dragonet grasped. “Godspeed, my friend. I doubt I will ever see you again.”

  The next morning, Dragonet watched as the Duke of Argitaine and his knights rode out of Berwick, quiet as ghosts on the fresh fallen snow. Dragonet pulled his cloak tighter around himself against the cold and nudged his mount, moving noiselessly through town on the blanket of snow. He would join the Scots. His honor demanded he not abandon those he had encouraged to join the ill-fated invasion.

  Yet Dragonet was torn in his allegiances. He, too, was on a mission. He was also honor bound to serve his father, so which claim on his honor held precedence?

  On an abandoned street Dragonet met some familiar faces.

  “Greetings Dragonet,” called Chaumont, bundled against the chill. “I thought you had all left.” Chaumont turned back to Gavin. They were attempting to rig a pallet, with a large bundle tied to it, between their horses.

  “The duke, he has left. I decided to stay a while. What is it you are doing? Looting the town?”

  “You find us on a mission of mercy. Andrew has taken an arrow, and it has started to fester. We must get him to Mother Enid as quickly as possible.”

  Dragonet dismounted at once to peer at the pale face of Morrigan’s brother Andrew. She would be distressed by the sight. Dragonet recalled his promise to Morrigan and it suddenly became clear whom he was honor bound to serve.

  “Please allow me to help you,” said Dragonet, assisting Chaumont and Gavin in their task. “Where is Mother Enid? Close, I pray?”

  “Unfortunately not,” replied Chaumont. “She is at St. Margaret’s Convent, a long journey into Scotland I fear. Yet Mother Enid has medicine we can find nowhere else.”

  “St. Margaret’s—that is under the Abbot Barrick, is it not?” asked Dragonet.

  “Yes,” answered Chaumont. “I thank you for your help with the litter, but I fear we would be imposing to ask for your help on such a long journey.”

  “I will help see Andrew safely to St. Margaret’s. It is the least I can do.” Dragonet had two reasons to go to St. Margaret’s. His path was clear.

  ***

  McNab Hall, Scotland

  She was warm. She was fed. Her clan was happy. Things were not normal. Morrigan was on edge, waiting for everything to go horribly wrong.

  “Good morn to ye, Morrigan,” said Alys, bustling into the family solar carrying a large basket. “Here, let me build up that fire for ye.”


  Morrigan wanted to chastise Alys for waste, but she could not. The fuel supply had been checked. For once, they had enough. Morrigan glared at Alys. All the rampant happiness was her fault.

  “How do ye like yer eggs?” asked Alys.

  “The hens are still laying?”

  “Aye. We built a new coop attached to the kitchen. I think they’ll be warm enough to produce through the winter.”

  Morrigan scowled. The new chickens had been a gift from Campbell, thanks to his sister marrying Andrew. Morrigan wanted to return the hens when they arrived, but her clan turned murderous at the idea. Even she was not brave enough to stand between a hungry McNab and his supper, so the chickens stayed. And now they were having eggs for breakfast. When would the madness end?

  “I was thinking on the holidays this year. I wish to make it special, give the folks here some joy.” Alys continued to putter around the room, picking things up and setting them down in the same places, wiping away imaginary dust. She was hatching some daft plan no doubt.

  “That’s the third time ye’ve dusted that candlestick in the past five minutes,” commented Morrigan, leaning back in her chair by the fire.

  Alys stopped and turned to Morrigan, a hint of blush to her cheeks. “Is it? How careless o’ me.”

  “What do ye want, Alys?” Morrigan folded her arms across her chest, prepared for battle.

  “Want? Me?”

  “Ye’re a horrible liar, Alys.”

  Alys sighed and took a gown out of the basket. She held it up for Morrigan to see. It was a dark blue silk with fine, gold embroidery through the bodice. Ribbons dressed the neckline and sleeves. It was a fine gown. Too fine.

  “How much did ye pay for that?” Morrigan stood and fingered it with resentment. “Ye ken we canna afford finery as this. What could ye be thinking?”

  “I dinna pay for it. ’Twas a castoff from Cait. I added the embroidery and the ribbons to give it a fresh look. Do ye like it?”

  Morrigan sat down. Cait’s castoffs were better than any gown ever worn by a McNab. Not even her mother had worn that quality. Morrigan could never afford such a gown for herself, not that she would ever wear a gown. She was aware of her own perplexing jealousy and pushed it aside. She did not mind being irritable, but she drew the line at petty. “’Tis fine work, Alys. Though I dinna ken when ye would wear such a gown.”