“So… am I to wish ye felicitations?” Archie’s head peeked into the doorway.
“Yes, thank you,” said Dragonet with a great smile.
“Why did ye wish to speak to my brother?” asked Morrigan.
“To get my blessing on his asking ye to marry him,” announced Archie, clapping Dragonet on the shoulder.
“I would have wed ye even if Archie said no,” murmured Morrigan. “And Archie would have married me off to any man who could draw breath.”
Archie laughed. “Verra true! Come in everyone! ’Tis time to celebrate!”
“I ken how I wish to celebrate,” whispered Morrigan to Dragonet. Her body came alive when touching his. Colors were vibrant, sounds were like music, and his physical closeness sent ripples of excitement coursing through her. “We need to find a priest before the sun sets.”
“Did I mention how much I love you?” Dragonet kissed her sweetly on her smiling mouth, then pulled her close to do more serious work.
“Andrew!” called Archie. “Go find that hermit we got lying around and tell him m’sister needs to get herself wed before she is utterly debauched on the floor o’ the hall.”
“At least the floor is clean, dear,” said Alys, wiping a tear from her eye.
“No’ quite what I was worrit about, but good to know nonetheless,” said Archie.
Morrigan heard very little of the rest, focusing instead on the growing desire Dragonet was building inside her. Unfortunately the hermit, who was sometimes called upon to do the work of a priest, could not be found until after supper. An eternity to wait for the anxious lovers.
Finally, the hermit was able to hear their vows. Admittedly he was not a formal priest, but one was not required by Scottish law to wed. One did not need a hermit either, but it was tradition for the McNabs, and added a nice touch of formality to the proceedings.
“I do,” said Sir Dragonet with great sincerity.
“I do, too! Be quick, man!”
“I now pronounce ye—”
Morrigan grabbed Dragonet and locked her lips to his. Dragonet swept her into his arms and carried her to the stairs without breaking the kiss. By the time they reached the fourth floor, Dragonet was breathing hard but Morrigan was still in his arms. He staggered over the threshold and into Morrigan’s chamber, slamming the door closed behind him with his foot and collapsing onto the bed with Morrigan.
“I hope ye have not worn yerself out,” laughed Morrigan. “I have a busy night planned for ye.”
“I am yours to command!”
Morrigan lay on her side next to Dragonet, who was stretched out on his back. “I canna believe that for once being in bed wi’ ye is where I am supposed to be.”
“I hope that does not lessen the appeal.”
Morrigan looked over his muscular lean body, his full lips, the promising bulge in his breeches. “Not at all.”
“Good. For as a wedded couple we have a certain mandate we must follow.”
“And what is that?”
“We shall become the one flesh, as it says in the Bible, and never deny the other the… er… benefits of the flesh.”
“I defer to yer superior wisdom of the Scriptures, and I am prepared to do my wifely duty.”
Dragonet smiled. “God is good.”
“Indeed! Now let’s get these breeches off ye.” Morrigan jumped up and pulled off Dragonet’s boots. She unbuttoned his surcoat, winning herself a lazy smile from Dragonet.
He slowly sat up, removed his surcoat and tunic and turned her around to undo her laces. After several minutes Morrigan began to curse. “Take a bloody knife to it! Get me out of this thing!”
“And incur the wrath of Alys? I think not. Patience, my love.” He slipped one hand down her bodice, which kept her happy for several more minutes until he could undo her properly. She took out her hair pins, placing her poisoned pin far from reach, and removed the gauzy veil, much to his appreciation. In a few moments they both stood before the other in the same condition in which they entered the world.
“You are beautiful.”
She shook her head. “Nay, no’ me.”
“I say you are, and as you can plainly see, I get two votes.”
Morrigan giggled. He put his hands on her waist and lay her down in the bed. She cuddled up to him, her head on his chest, her thigh over that second vote he claimed for himself.
He made a happy groaning sound and ran his hand down her back and squeezed her backside. He rolled her over and kissed her until she saw stars. She watched them circle about as he worked his way down her neck to her breast. She arched her back to him, giving herself wholly to the experience, saving nothing. She was where she was meant to be. He was her lover, her husband, her home.
“Speak to me in French,” she purred.
“Je t’adore.” He shifted attention to her other breast.
“I adore you too.”
“Qu’est-ce que je ferais sans toi?”
“Hmmm?”
“What would I do without you?”
“Be miserable I suppose.” Morrigan ran her hands up and down his back. She could feel the rough edges of the scars his father had given him, yet another reason to be pleased he had not given that bastard the relic.
“Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi. I cannot live without you.”
“Good we are married, then.”
Dragonet lifted his head to look at her. “I cannot believe we are truly the man and wife. I feel as if I should stop now and run for the hills before your brother finds us.”
“I swear if ye stop now…” She wrapped her legs around him and held him tight.
“Not a chance, mon cœur, my heart.” He kissed her lips, her neck, her dangerous earlobes, sending tingling sensations swirling through her.
“More,” she breathed.
“Oui, mon poulet.”
“Did ye just call me a chicken?”
He moved forward and claimed her for his own. Her breath caught with pleasure, and she forgot all about French. He moved slowly, building sweet tension.
“More!” she demanded.
“Je vis d’amour et d’eau douce. I live on love and fresh water.”
“Why are ye speaking nonsense? Move faster. I want more!”
“Tu me rends fou,” he growled, but moved faster until their bodies took over all reason. She closed her eyes, lost in the sensation until something exploded within her, and she clutched him, screaming her release. He drove into her with much force, shuddered, and collapsed on top of her, panting hard.
“Canna… breathe…”
“Sorry.” He rolled off her and onto his side, still holding her close. “Je t’aime.”
Morrigan breathed deep. She did not need that one translated to know he said he loved her. She was exactly where she was meant to be. She was loved. For the first time she could recall, everything was how it should be. It was good. Except… “What did ye say?”
“I love you,” he murmured sleepily.
“Nay, before that. Ye said ‘too muh ron foo.’”
Dragonet chuckled. “You make me daft.”
“What? And I thought it was a term of endearment.”
“It was. It is.”
“Doesna sound like it.”
He drew her closer. “Get some sleep. In about an hour I may call on you again to perform your wifely duty.”
Morrigan closed her eyes with a smile. After lying awake for a few moments, she nudged her husband.
“Has it been an hour yet?”
Author’s Note
One of the things I enjoy about writing historical novels is doing the research. I often discover things I never knew. For example, in the middle of the fourteenth century, France sent a contingent of knights to Scotland and paid the clans to attack England, essentially to distract England from France (which was busy losing the Hundred Years War). When I discovered French knights were running around Scotland, I knew I had the setting for my next novel.
In True Highland
Spirit, I tried to stay true to what is known about the war. During the year of 1355, the French/Scot army took Nisbet and the important town of Berwick, but were unable to take the castle. King Edward III of England quickly withdrew from France and marched to Berwick’s rescue with eighty thousand experienced and well-trained troops. Knowing they could not withstand a direct attack from the English troops, and growing tired of the rustic charm of the Scots, the French troops abandoned the Scots to their fate.
King Edward was then determined to take the whole of Scotland. Early in 1356, King Edward declared himself the king of Scotland and marched north to take control. The Scots adopted a defensive posture and used a little trickery. They sent the Earl of Douglas to negotiate their surrender and gained ten days of a truce. When Edward finally marched into Scotland, he found it devoid of any food for his troops. The army had to rely on supply lines from England, which were routinely ambushed by the Scots.
King Edward was enraged and marched into Scotland, burning and destroying everything in his wake. Even the beautiful abbey at Haddington, called the Lamp of Lothian, was burnt down and utterly destroyed. This initiative was later known as Burnt Candlemas (so named because it occurred during celebration of Candlemas). Unable to supply his troops, King Edward was forced to retreat, and Scotland was once again saved from being conquered by its more powerful neighbor.
Though I have Morrigan fight in these battles, I must concede it would have been highly unusual for a woman to fight as a knight. Even more unlikely, however, is the story of a French teenage peasant girl who somehow convinced the king of France to let her lead his armies—and won. So if it could happen for Joan of Arc later in the Hundred Years War, I figured it was plausible for Morrigan… and because it is fiction, I was able to give Morrigan a much happier ending!
Another important component of this book is the Templar treasure—doesn’t every good medieval novel need a little Templar treasure? Religious relics were big business in medieval times, and churches actively sought valuable relics for the prestige and income from pilgrims they would bring. In this story, the relic in question is a shroud, now known as the Shroud of Turin.
The Shroud of Turin contains the image of a man who appears to have wounds consistent with crucifixion. The origin and meaning of this shroud has been the subject of heated debate for hundreds of years. Some say it is the true burial cloth of Jesus Christ; others contend it is a medieval forgery.
The actual history of the Shroud of Turin before the fifteenth century is a bit nebulous. One theory contends that it was taken from the Holy Land by the Templar knights during the Crusades and later revealed in France by the surviving nephew of one of those knights. Some historical evidence indicates the shroud was in the hands of the French knight Geoffroi de Charny, in the town of Lirey during the 1350s. Interestingly, a Templar knight with a similar name was burned at the stake in 1314, leading some to draw a connection between these two knights and the shroud. According to some accounts, the shroud was displayed in Lirey and declared as a fake by the bishop of Troyes.
For the purposes of this story, I have embraced the Templar theory (though I acknowledge there are many others). While there is no evidence to suggest the shroud was ever in Scotland, we do know that some of the Templars fled to Scotland to avoid persecution… so hey—it’s possible!
The Shroud of Turin continues to spark debate. Although many theories exist, no one has been able to definitively determine how the markings found on the shroud were made. Whether or not this cloth has any connection with the historical Jesus of Nazareth may never be known. Regardless of the shroud’s authenticity, many believers view the image as a representation of the sufferings of Christ who died for the forgiveness of sins and the promise of eternal life. Here’s wishing you the peace of Christ and that most dangerous of all emotions… hope.
From The Highlander’s Sword
Gascony, France, 1346
If they caught him, he would hang. Or perhaps, he mused with the detached calm born of shock, he would be eviscerated first, then hung. Best not to find out. Sir Padyn MacLaren ran through a throng of shocked ladies-in-waiting to the tower stairs before his fiancée screamed in fury. Or rather his ex-fiancée, since the lovely Countess Marguerite had just made it clear she intended to marry Gerard de Marsan. The same de Marsan who had tried to slit MacLaren’s throat and now lay on the floor—dead.
Soldiers from the floor below rushed up the stairs to their lady’s aid. MacLaren wiped the blood from his eyes. The slash down his face was bleeding something fierce, but he gave it no mind. He needed to get past the guards, or his bloodied face would be the least of his troubles.
“Hurry!” MacLaren said to the first man up the stairs. “Gerard de Marsan has attacked the countess. To her, quick! I will fetch the surgeon.” The guards ran past him, and he dashed out the inner gate before the alarm sounded and soldiers poured from their barracks. MacLaren raced toward the outer gate, but the portcullis crashed down before him. Turning toward the stone staircase that led to the wall walk, he ran to a young guard who looked at him, unsure.
“Who attacks us?” MacLaren asked the young man, who stammered in response.
“Go ask your captain. I’ll keep watch.” MacLaren ran past the guard up the stairs to the battlement. Without stopping to think or break his stride, he ran through the battlements over the embrasure and into the air. For a moment he was suspended in time, free without the ground beneath him, then he plunged down the sheer drop to the moat below. The shock of cold water and muck robbed him of breath, and he struggled to the other side. MacLaren scrambled up the embankment and crawled into the brush, bolts flying toward him from the castle walls. Rushing through the thicket to the road, he pulled a surprised merchant from his horse and rode for cover.
MacLaren raced from Montois castle without looking back. Along the road, a dusty figure of a knight rode toward him. MacLaren drew his sword and charged. The knight reined in and threw up his visor. It was Chaumont, his second in command.
“Marguerite has betrayed us to the English,” Chaumont called.
“She told me that herself,” growled MacLaren, pointing to his cut face. “We need to get to camp and warn the men, or they will all be put to the sword.”
Chaumont nodded. “I got word of her betrayal shortly after you rode for Montois and commanded the men to pull back to Agen.”
“Ye’ve done well.” MacLaren exhaled.
“Indeed I have. Nice of you to notice.”
The thundering riders approaching cut short their conversation. They abandoned the road in favor of an overland route through dense forested terrain in which they hoped to lose the pursuing soldiers. They traveled many hours into the night, until they finally felt safe enough to stop by the shores of a small black lake.
“You need tending, my friend,” said Chaumont.
“Have ye a needle?” MacLaren asked grimly.
MacLaren stood without flinching while Chaumont stitched the gash on his face. MacLaren focused on the dark water before him, unbidden memories of the day’s events washing over him. He had faced the English to protect Marguerite before they could reach her castle at Montois. The hard-fought victory had been won, but his closest kin had been lost.
“Patrick died for nothing.” MacLaren’s voice shook as he struggled with the words. “What an utter fool I was, trusting that deceitful wench. I should be dead on that field, not him.” MacLaren clenched his jaw, holding back emotion. “There is nothing left for me here. ’Tis time I take my men and go back where I belong.”
“What is it like, this land of your birth?” asked Chaumont, finishing his work.
MacLaren closed his eyes, remembering. “Balquidder. ’Tis a wild place, full of wind and rain. It can be a hard life at times, but I’m never more alive than when I’m in the Highlands.” He turned to the young French knight. “Your friendship is the only thing I will regret to leave behind.”
Chaumont looked at him intently. “Take me with you
.”
“Your place is here.”
Chaumont shook his head. “If you had not given me a chance, I would still be some rich man’s squire, polishing his armor and servicing his wife. I have served you in times of war, and I will serve you still, if you will have me.”
“It would be an honor.” MacLaren clasped his hand to the Frenchman’s shoulder. They embraced the way men do, slapping each other hard on the back.
“Urgh!” Chaumont made a face. “You smell like the devil’s arse.”
“I swam through the moat to escape the castle. Now I know exactly where the garderobes empty into.” MacLaren turned back to look over the lake. “That water was like Marguerite, a beautiful exterior, but underneath, naught but a filthy sewer.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before he was pushed hard and he fell gracelessly into the cold clean lake. He came up sputtering, only to hear the Frenchman’s laughter. MacLaren bathed in the cold water and emerged the better for it. He pulled himself swiftly up the bank and tossed Chaumont into the water for good measure. It was time to go home.
“Step along now,” MacLaren called to his soggy companion. “Come to the Highlands, my friend, and we shall feast like heroes.”
***
Balquidder, Scotland
Shrouded in the winding cloth of the dense mist, a shadowy apparition of a horse and rider stood on the high peak of the Braes of Balquidder. Built into the side of the craggy rock, Creag an Turic, the abandoned tower house of the MacLarens, loomed stark and black against the pre-dawn sky. Below, the small village of Balquidder slept by the shores of Loch Voil. The MacLaren fields lay mostly fallow, brown and grey in the early morning gloom. Without its laird, misfortune and neglect had befallen the clan, leaving it vulnerable to raids from its neighbors. Few clansmen remained, scraping out a living as best they could.
In the valley below, a young boy stood in the doorway of a farmhouse. He gaped up at the ghostly figure and blinked—horse and rider were gone.
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