by Ruth Langan
When next he awoke he lay very still, listening to the voices raised in excitement. He opened his eyes. The family was gathered around the table, examining an assortment of items which Lindsay had just removed from her cloak.
“It used to take the entire day to walk to the village and back. Now, with a horse, I can make it back in half the time. And look at all I can carry. Six eggs from the widow Chisholm.” Lindsay held them up with the sort of reverence usually reserved for gold.
“What’s this, Lindsay?” Brock lifted the hide pouch.
“Fresh milk. You and Gwen will have enough for a week or more if we’re careful.”
“Did you barter the weapons?”
“Aye.” Her smile faded a bit. “Heywood Drummond gave me three gold coins.”
“Three.” Gordon Douglas exploded in a fit of temper. “They were worth at least a score. Why, just the sword with the jeweled hilt was worth a king’s ransom.”
At his words Morgan whispered a curse. It was his sword they were discussing. Of that he had no doubt. It had been a gift from his father. One he had proudly carried into battle. And now it had been bartered for a pittance.
“There was no one else in the village who would buy them from me, Father. I had no choice but to accept.”
“Aye. And Heywood knows that. He’s no better than a thief.”
Lindsay placed a hand over her father’s. “The gold was enough to buy a sack of flour from the miller. And there was enough left over to buy you this.” She handed him a small folded square, which he unrolled to reveal a small mound of tobacco.
His tone softened. “Bless you, lass.”
She leaned over to kiss his brow. When she straightened, she noticed Morgan watching her.
She walked closer. “I see the opiates have worn off. Do you require anything?”
Morgan nodded and felt his head swim from the effort. “Water.”
“Gwen.” She turned to the girl. “Did you and Brock fetch the water from the stream while I was gone?”
“Aye.”
A silent signal passed between them. The lass reluctantly reached into a bucket, then approached the pallet carrying a dipper.
Morgan noted that she watched him as a fawn might watch a predator. While he drank his fill, she darted glances toward the others.
To put her at ease he managed a smile. “I’m grateful. Is Gwen short for Gwynnith?”
She shook her head, sending red curls dancing. “Guinevere.
“Guinevere. A lovely regal name fit for a queen.”
Her eyes widened and her lips broke into a smile. “That’s what my father used to say.” She accepted the dipper from his hand, then crossed the room and began to help Lindsay prepare their meal.
While he drifted off, Morgan found himself wondering about the child’s father. Was he off hunting? Or perhaps fighting? What sort of man left a wife and children struggling on their own, bartering whatever they could just to survive another day?
And what of the old man? Though he was now crippled with age and infirmity, there was a faded dignity about him. A tone of voice that spoke of command, and a haughty bearing that made one think he had once lived a life far grander than this humble existence.
Most intriguing of all was Lindsay. Despite the coarse gown and shabby cloak, she was a rare beauty, who would look far more at home in a palace, giving orders to a staff of servants. Yet here she was, going off to the village alone. Did she not understand what could befall a lone woman who fell into the clutches of the outlanders?
It wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself as he began to slip further into sleep. As soon as he was strong enough to ride, he would hasten to the fortress, to assure his father that he was safe. Then he would lead another company of warriors to drive the barbarians from his beloved Highlands forever. But, though it was a pleasant enough thought, he found his mind drifting back to the woman. Lindsay Douglas.
It was her face he saw as sleep overtook him. Her voice that played through his mind, blotting out the sounds of battle that usually tormented him. Her touch that soothed the fire that raged through his body. And her scent, like a pine forest, that filled his lungs with each ragged breath.
Chapter Three
Morgan sat on his pallet, a length of the old man’s shabby plaid fastened at his waist for modesty. Several days and nights had passed in a blur of opiate-induced sleep. Whenever he woke, Lindsay was just leaving, or just returning from some far-flung village or battleground. It seemed to him that she worked from sunup to sundown just to keep her family fed for another day.
Despite their bleak existence, she was amazingly cheerful. There was always time to hug the lad, Brock, or kiss the cheeks of the lass, Gwen. As for her father, she always brought him some little treat that would lift his spirits and make him forget, for a while, about his crippled legs and weak lungs.
During this enforced idleness, Morgan had come to a decision. He would not reveal his identity as son of the laird, for to do so would embarrass these proud people. He would, instead, accept their hospitality, and find a way to show his gratitude. But how he wished he’d held on to his pouch of gold. It would make life so much easier for these good people.
“Ah, Morgan. I see you’re strong enough to sit up.” Gordon Douglas hobbled into the hut and squinted in Morgan’s direction. “Can you stand?”
“I think so.” With great concentration Morgan pulled himself up, then leaned against the stone mantel and waited until the dizziness passed.
“Good. Come on, then. We’ll sit in the sunshine awhile.”
With the old man leading the way, Morgan made his way outside. The two men sank down in the grass, resting their backs against a fallen log.
Minutes later the two children came into view. Brock was hauling a bucket of water in each hand. A load, Morgan thought, that would make a grown man stagger. Beside him Gwen had filled her pinafore with something that she carried with great care.
When they drew near they seemed surprised to see the stranger up and about.
“Lindsay didn’t think you’d be strong enough to walk for another week,” Brock called.
Morgan shot him a grin. “I won’t be walking far. But at least I didn’t embarrass myself by falling down.”
“What’ve you got there, lass?” her grandfather called.
“Herbs. From the stream. Lindsay wants to make more of her healing ointment tonight. She said old Widow Chisholm could use some on her hips.”
The old man sighed. “I don’t know when my lass manages to sleep.”
As the children started into the hut he called, “Brock. Bring me my pipes and tobacco.”
“Aye, sir.” The boy disappeared inside, returning minutes later with the things his grandfather requested.
The old man shook a frugal amount of the precious tobacco into each pipe, then offered one to Morgan. The two men leaned forward as Brock held a flaming stick to their bowls.
Drawing smoke into his lungs, Gordon leaned back and sighed with contentment. Morgan did the same, deeply touched by the old man’s generosity.
The boy settled himself in the grass at his grandfather’s feet. Moments later his sister joined him. They sat in companionable silence while the men smoked their pipes and the thin winter sun warmed their faces. While they rested, Gordon taught his grandchildren how to write new words in the sand.
“You can read and write?” Morgan asked him.
“Aye. It’s necessary for all warriors to be able to send missives to their comrades. I’ve seen to it that Lindsay and my grandchildren can do the same.”
Morgan sat back, watching and listening while the children completed their words.
At last the old man turned to him. “How long have you been a warrior, Morgan MacLaren?”
“Since I was ten and four.”
“So young?”
“Aye.” Morgan nodded. “My mother, God rest her, begged me to wait another year. But the outlanders were spilling across our borders and inflict
ing their mayhem. And I was eager for vengeance, since my father had been severely wounded in an earlier battle with them.”
The old man sighed, remembering. “I know what that’s like. I did the same for my father. And then again, years later, when I fought beside the laird himself.”
“You fought with my…with the laird?” Morgan turned to study the man beside him.
“Aye. In those days I was the leader of our clan. Ours was a proud family. And we had a long-standing bond with the MacLaren Clan. It was to our mutual advantage to stand together in the event of an attack. So when the outlanders came, we fought with courage. But we were badly outnumbered.” He touched a hand to his leg. “That’s where this happened. By battle’s end I could no longer stand, but I could still sit a horse. And I fought beside the laird of the MacLarens until the barbarians were finally driven off. The laird said that without our help, all would have been lost. And he gave me his word that from that day on, the MacLaren Clan was sworn to protect us for as long as we lived.”
“And has he lived up to his bargain?” Morgan asked.
“Aye. And praise heaven for it.” Gordon Douglas lowered his voice. “More than half my clan was killed in that battle. The rest were like me, so badly wounded, we knew we’d never fight again. Without the protection of the laird of the MacLarens, we’d have been overrun and would have all but disappeared from the land. When we returned from battle there was much weeping and mourning in these Highlands, by the widows and orphans left behind from that bloody mess. But we were to learn that we were the lucky ones.” His tone betrayed the pain, even after all the time that had passed. “When I returned to my home, I discovered that most of my family had been killed by the retreating outlanders. They slaughtered my wife, my son and his wife, and would have killed these two and Lindsay, if they had found them.”
Morgan noticed that the children drew closer together. The mere mention of that time brought fresh pain. And more than a little fear.
“How did you manage to escape?” he asked the lad.
“Lindsay took us from our beds and hid us in the forest,” Brock said matter-of-factly. “We were cold, for it was winter, and hungry and frightened. We often woke in the night crying, but she soothed us and warned us that we mustn’t make a sound, no matter how much we suffered. She stayed with us in the forest for long months, until Grandfather was able to return.”
“How old was she?” Morgan asked.
Gordon pondered a moment. “The lass couldn’t have been more than ten and two at the time. But she knew that she had to do whatever it took to save the lives of her brother’s children.”
Morgan found himself thinking about his own life at that age. Despite the fact that he, like all the lads, had begun training for battle, it had been a happy, carefree time. Food in his father’s fortress had always been plentiful. And even in winter’s chill, he had always had warm clothes and a cozy fire. “What did you do for food and shelter, Brock?”
The lad shrugged. “Lindsay would go off after dark, and return with whatever we needed. I never thought to ask where she got it. But I suppose it was much like it is now. To this day she prowls the battlefields and villages until she finds whatever she can barter for the things we need.”
“Lindsay.” As a horse and rider broke into the clearing, Gwen jumped up and raced forward to greet her. The love she felt for her aunt was shining in her eyes.
“What did you bring us today, lass?” her father called.
“Not much, I fear.” The slender woman slid from the saddle and began untying ragged bundles.
“Did you find any weapons today?” The lad’s eyes were eager. “Any treasures?”
“Nay. Perhaps I’ll have better luck tomorrow. Take the horse, Brock,” she called softly. “See he’s fed and watered. Gwen, come with me. It’s time we got a meal started if we hope to sup tonight.”
As she turned toward the hut, Morgan studied her face. Though she smiled and answered their questions as patiently as possible, she looked pale and drawn. He could detect circles beneath her eyes.
No wonder, he thought. This lone young woman was responsible for the survival of a lad, a lass, and a crippled old man. Not to mention the added burden of a wounded stranger.
He found himself marveling at her quiet strength. And vowed he would do all he could to ease her burden.
The sun slipped behind a bank of clouds, causing Morgan to shiver. He got slowly to his feet, then helped the old man to stand. Together they made their way to the hut, where inside, the wonderful fragrance of meat sizzling over the fire, and bread baking on the coals, made him realize that his appetite had finally returned.
The old man sank wearily into his chair. “You’ll join us at table, Morgan MacLaren?”
“Aye. Thank you.” Morgan took the seat indicated, and watched as Lindsay set a platter of venison on the table, then returned to the fireplace to retrieve the bread, and then again to fetch the kettle for tea. Finally she lifted the platter and offered him some meat.
He surprised her by taking it from her hands. “I can serve myself, my lady. Here. Sit and fill your plate.”
The children watched with matching looks of surprise and amusement.
Gwen’s eyes rounded. “You speak to our Lindsay as though you were addressing a queen.”
“She is finer than a queen, lass. It’s because of her that I’m alive.”
Lindsay felt her cheeks grow hot as she settled herself beside him.
Their knees brushed and she experienced a pleasant warmth.
Enjoying himself, Morgan held the platter out to her. She was forced to serve her plate under his watchful gaze. When she had taken what she wanted, he filled his own plate, before passing it on to the others.
After one bite he gave a sigh of pleasure. “I don’t know when I’ve tasted anything so tender. What did you do to this?”
“Nothing special. I just cooked it the way my mother always did.”
“Then your mother must have been an angel. This food has surely come from heaven above.”
Lindsay saw the children staring and lowered her gaze. “It only seems that way because you’ve gone so long without food, Morgan MacLaren.”
“Nay.” He shook his head. “I’ve eaten in the finest castles and the finest cities. Even in the queen’s own residence at Holyrood House. But nowhere have I tasted finer food.”
“You were in Edinburgh?” Brock’s jaw dropped.
Morgan cursed himself for his lapse. “Aye.”
“But why?” The boy’s food was forgotten.
The others seemed equally intrigued.
“Our clan has pledged its loyalty to our queen. We were the first to come forward and stand with her. And so she insisted that we come to Edinburgh to be recognized.”
“What is it like there?” Gwen, usually so shy, was positively glowing with excitement.
“It’s very grand.” Morgan sent her a wink that had her blushing. “And being in the presence of the queen is awesome indeed.” He turned to Lindsay. “But Edinburgh is filled with noisy vendors. Horses and carts clog the streets. And there are so many people, many of them choosing to dress like the English.” He leaned back, sipping his ale, and feeling his strength slowly returning. “I much prefer my simple life in the Highlands.”
“Is your home like this?” Gwen was clearly enthralled by this worldly man and his travels.
He thought of the soaring castle-fortress built of massive timbers, large enough to house an entire village during an attack. His mother, rest her soul, had commanded an army of servants to keep the fires stoked and the tables set with food fit for royalty. The rushes that lined the floor were always fresh. The larder full. The linens edged with the finest lace and embroidery. But he merely said, “Not so fine as this. For the food could never measure up to what I’ve just sampled at the hands of your aunt.”
The children giggled while Lindsay blushed clear to her toes.
Needing something to do Lindsay shoved
back her chair and started to clear the table. “Come, Gwen. Give me a hand before you go off to your bed.”
“Aye.” The lass was still grinning broadly as she lifted the now empty platter and followed Lindsay to the warming pan of water.
“Come, Morgan MacLaren.” Gordon Douglas led the way to the settle pulled in front of the fire.
While Lindsay’s back was turned, he winked and poured a bit of ale in both their glasses, then stretched out his stiff legs toward the heat. With a sigh of contentment he leaned back. “You’ve not spoken much about your family.”
Morgan sipped his ale and stared into the flames. “My mother died while I was away at battle. I’ve always regretted that I didn’t have one last visit with her.”
“Aye.” The old man nodded, thinking about his own wife and family, brutally taken while he was off fighting. “And your father? Was he a warrior as well?”
“He was. And like you, to this day he bears the scars of many battles with the outlanders. He has been slowed by infirmity, but he would still stand tall against an enemy.” Morgan’s voice held a trace of reverence. “Though I have many friends, my father is closest to me. He is my teacher, my brother, my hero.”
The old man looked at him with new respect. “If my son had lived, I would have asked for nothing more than the words you just spoke.”
He drained his glass and made his way stiffly to the ladder leading to the sleeping loft. Then, thinking better about it, he crossed to his daughter and leaned close to press a kiss to her cheek.
At this unexpected display of affection she looked up in surprise. “What was that for, Father?”
“For all the things you do for us, Lindsay. It shames me that it took a stranger to remind me.” He turned to the children, who were staring at him in stunned surprise. His voice took on its usual tone of gruff command. “If your chores are finished, help an old man to his bed.”
“Aye, Grandfather.” After calling good-night to Lindsay and Morgan, the boy and girl followed him up the ladder to the loft. But not before turning to grin at their aunt.
Lindsay watched them go, then turned to see Morgan staring into the flames. On his face was a look of intense concentration.
