Highlander's Prize

by Mary Wine

  Clarrisa smiled, enjoying the praise more than any she’d ever received from Maud. Someone was running up the stairs, their hurried steps pounding louder and louder as they neared. They knocked only once before opening the door.

  Daphne stood there, with her face flushed but her eyes full of joy. “The king has been killed in battle, and the prince is to be crowned!”

  She was clutching a letter, and Clarrisa reached for it without thinking. “What news of Broen?”

  Daphne’s smile faded. “There is none.”

  She spoke the truth, and it chilled Clarrisa’s heart. She read the letter twice, searching the bottom for any small mark that might indicate Broen had written it but forgotten to press his signet ring into the seal.

  There was nothing. The letter suddenly became horrible, because if someone else had sent them news, it might well be that Broen wasn’t alive to see to the task.

  No news had been better, for now she felt as though her heart was breaking. A soft sob echoed inside the chamber, and she thought she’d lost control of her emotions, only to realize it was Edme. Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, the same horror Clarrisa struggled against burning brightly in her eyes.

  Was he gone? Was the only thing left to her the memory of their brief time together?

  “You were right, Edme… We do squander too many chances for joy…”

  ***

  “He may live, yer grace.” The surgeon was tired, and his apron stained with blood.

  “But ye do nae know for sure?” Prince James asked, appearing too solemn for his age. The surgeon rubbed his eyes. Well, maybe not too solemn, for the day was grim. Scot had fought against Scot, so all the losses were theirs.

  “The wound is nae mortal, but it is deep. His age is in his favor.”

  “Thank ye for yer time.”

  The surgeon inclined his head before leaving the massive pavilion. There were men dying in the dirt; the one he’d left behind at least had a bed to rest on—not that it made much difference when it came to his wound. He’d been cut as easily as the other common men.

  “My prince, there are other matters that need yer attention now that yer father is dead,” Lord Home announced.

  James turned on his mentor, startling him with how dark his expression was. “I wanted no part of causing his death.”

  “A battle cannae be controlled, no’ when so many were set against yer father due to his own weaknesses.”

  James turned to look at the man struggling to draw breath on his bed. His face was white, but he opened his eyes and stared at him.

  “Do nae look so grim, me young king. I’m nae listening to the angels just yet.”

  James sat on the edge of the bed as Lord Home came close. “Is there anything I can do for ye?”

  “Aye.” He reached inside his doublet and withdrew a parchment stained with his own blood. “I’m bound by me honor to see to this woman. Hold it for me, and see it done if I do no’ open me eyes again.”

  Lord Home took the letter before unfolding it and reading the contents. “The York bastard,” he muttered.

  “Aye…” Norris confirmed. “Yer word to see to the matter would be welcome.”

  “I shall,” James assured him.

  Norris Sutherland held the king’s stare for a long moment before his eyelids slid shut.

  “We must deal with this immediately,” Lord Home insisted.

  James turned to look at his adviser. “Laird Sutherland only asked us to see to it in the event he cannot. It is his duty.”

  Lord Home was already seated before his writing desk. He lifted the lid and retrieved a new piece of parchment.

  “Lord Home,” James insisted. “We shall respect Laird Sutherland’s wishes.”

  Home looked past him at Norris. “He is gravely wounded, most likely will not live to see the Sabbath day. Besides, his father is Laird Sutherland. It will be his sire ye need to worry about keeping on friendly terms.”

  The prince stiffened. “Then we shall search for Laird MacNicols.”

  “He stood next to Norris Sutherland when the royalists swarmed down on our line. I doubt the man survived.” Home dipped a quill into an inkwell. “In any case, the York bastard is a threat to ye.”

  “How can that be so when my father is now dead?” the prince demanded softly. He was searching for the courage to insist on his way. Home put down the quill, and the young man nodded approvingly.

  “Yes, I will go and search for Laird MacNicols. It is a simple matter, one I am certain Laird Sutherland would approve of, since it might well be his son’s dying request.”

  “A sound plan, yer grace.”

  The prince headed for the opening of the pavilion, the royal guards closing around him. Home watched him go, taking a moment to watch the prince take the helmet one of his men offered. The boy was young, too young to understand that blood ties with England were the devil’s curse for Scotland. He picked up the quill and dipped it once more. The York bastard must be dealt with.

  Such was a burden he’d have to shoulder for the young prince. Once maturity settled upon him, he’d come to understand that the woman could not be left alive.

  ***

  “Another letter…”

  It was one of the kitchen women who ran into the hall. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

  “The laird is alive! He’s sent a letter, and there’s men from the prince’s own ranks here to escort ye to his side.”

  She ran up to the high table but froze, nibbling on her lower lip as she looked between Edme and Clarrisa, trying to decide whom to give the letter to. Edme’s slip had traveled far now, and there was unlikely a single soul who didn’t know she was Broen’s mother. Clarrisa pointed toward Edme.

  “Nae.” The head of house rejected her gesture. “Ye’ll be the mistress here soon as the laird returns to wed ye. ’Tis yer right.”

  “Many things may be, but for this moment, ye are the laird’s mother and I am naught.”

  The letter still remained unclaimed, but the hall was growing silent, the MacNicols leaning in to catch each word.

  “Naught but his leman, which means something here in the Highlands,” Edme insisted. “An important position.”

  “So is being his mother,” Clarrisa muttered.

  Edme frowned, but Clarrisa bore up to the hard stare. “You did tell me you enjoyed your position here, Edme.”

  Edme grunted and took the letter. “Ye turn me words against me.”

  She read the letter and frowned when she was finished. “He’s sent for ye…”

  Daphne reached over and clasped Clarrisa’s hand, but there was a deep frown on Edme’s face.

  “And yet there is no seal.”

  Edme handed the letter over, both Daphne and Clarrisa leaning in to read it.

  The battle is won, but I suffered a wound. There are too many in need of attention. Come and care for me. I am sure it shall speed me recovery. Broen MacNicols.

  There was no seal, but she wanted to believe in the letter. “It’s doubtful he had any wax… He does say there are many in need of care. Who could take time to bring him wax while there is suffering?”

  “A reasonable thing to think. Still…” Edme tapped the tabletop, clearly debating the request.

  “It’s hardly a matter for great concern. I’ll go and help,” Clarrisa muttered. Her heart was filling with joy, and the fact that the other two women weren’t sharing it threatened to strangle her budding hope. She couldn’t bear going back to fearing Broen was dead.

  “It is a matter for concern and contemplation,” Edme insisted. “If this letter is written falsely and the laird is dead, our only hope lies in the fact that ye have nae bled.”

  “Any child I might carry would be illegitimate.” Edme slowly smiled, and even Daphne grinned. The maids near the hearth shook their heads as Clarrisa struggled to understand their humor.

  “Better illegitimate than the clan forfeited to the crown.” Edme spoke firmly. “I could swea
r that ye have been with no other and that ye were pure when ye went to his bed. It would be enough.”

  Things were happening too fast. Clarrisa felt her thoughts spinning around too quickly to catch. “Surely there is a cousin.”

  Edme shook her head. “Why do ye think me child inherited the lairdship? There is no other. And those who come after this bloodline, there are several and sure to be fighting if it comes to that.”

  “It’s why his father came to fetch me back when I refused to honor the marriage agreement,” Daphne muttered. “He knew his days were drawing to an end, and it was time his son had an heir.” Daphne reached for Edme’s hands. “Forgive me.”

  For a moment, it appeared Edme would deny Daphne her request. There was a hard look in her eyes, but she nodded at last. “I cannae condemn ye for wanting what I craved in me own life: choice. Besides, ye were correct. The match with ye was poisoning me son against his best friend. Ye’ve a fine heart for thinking of them instead of the position ye would have gained by marrying.”

  “Well… I want my choice too,” Clarrisa declared. “I am going. We are speaking as though we have been sent word of his death, when that is not so. I will not discuss the future without Broen.” She felt that remaining inside Deigh would smother her. Edme was frowning, clearly set against the idea, but Clarrisa stood. “I am going,” she insisted.

  “Ye cannae. As I think upon the matter, I do nae believe Broen would send for ye. The times are too uncertain. He’d want ye here, protected.”

  Clarrisa shook her head, unwilling to hear any further argument. “If I cannot believe he sent for me because he needs me by his side as greatly as I desire to be there, there is no reason for me to be here when he returns.” She turned, unable to stand still any longer.

  “Well, I’m going with ye,” Daphne announced. Edme slapped the tabletop in her displeasure.

  “Do nae encourage her to this rash action.”

  Daphne nodded agreement but still moved to stand beside Clarrisa. “Sometimes ye have to take rash action for the greater good. If Broen is in need of care, we cannae allow him to think Clarrisa will nae come to him. Neither should we leave him at the mercy of rough care.”

  Edme sighed. “Ye have me with that argument, but do nae tell the escort who is whom. Keep at least that much private.”

  Clarrisa felt her belly tighten. It was a mixture of apprehension and excitement. At least it meant an end to waiting. Edme’s warning drove home how easy it would be for the men waiting outside to be deceptive. Once she left the tower, she’d be at their mercy.

  “We won’t,” Daphne insisted. “They won’t know which of us is English if we keep our lips sealed.”

  It was a small amount of shelter, but Clarrisa was grateful. Tears stung her eyes, for she felt part of something at last, not just the orphan child tolerated because she might have value someday.

  ***

  “The pair of ye are the quietest females I’ve ever met.”

  Clarrisa and Daphne held their silence, and the captain of their escort shook his head.

  “No’ that I care, no’ a bit. Me duty is to escort ye, naught else.”

  He turned back to his men while Clarrisa breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Daphne echoed the sound while shooting her a quick look.

  The Highlands were behind them now, too far for them to escape back to the protection of Deigh Tower. The twenty men who’d come with the letter kept them surrounded as they marched toward the Lowlands.

  The farther south they went, the taller the crops grew. But what drew Clarrisa’s attention was the way they were trampled on either side of the road. At first, it was only a few feet, then a full yard, and then several yards on either side of the road were flattened. The destruction marked the path of an army. The fields were empty of people, making for an unsettling feeling. She could feel death on the wind.

  The horses smelled the battlefield first—tossing their heads and trying to turn around. Packs of filthy men began to pass them now, their hair marked with dirt and dried blood. They carried their wounded, eyeing their horses hungrily, but her escort held the standard of the prince, and the survivors cleared the road for them. The unlucky were lying on the side of the road where they had fallen and died of their wounds, their clansmen unable to take them home because they had no wagons. Once they crested the next hill, it was clear why there were no wagons for the survivors.

  The battlefield was strewn with wreckage. Carts and wagons lay smoldering while the bodies of the fallen were left as a silent testament to the cost of victory. Horses and men alike were twisted in the last moments of their existence. Already the stench was growing unbearable.

  “Sweet Mary…” Daphne muttered. Their escort swallowed roughly, gripping their reins tighter.

  Clarrisa struggled to hold on to her hope. She’d know if he was dead…

  Tears stung her eyes as they rode around the edge of the carnage. She was deluding herself. So many men lay staring at the sky, the light gone from their eyes. Crows circled, their cries sending shivers down her spine. Nausea gripped her, but she honestly didn’t know if it was the stench or the sight that sickened her most. Shame touched her, for the truth was that her yearning was for Broen. What turned her stomach was the fear that his was among the rotting bodies.

  I’d know… I’d feel it in my heart…

  She prayed she was right.

  ***

  “Which one?”

  The captain shrugged. “I do nae know, my Lord Home. They both came out, and they are both fair-haired.”

  Lord Home paced back and forth in front of Clarrisa and Daphne. “Who is the York girl?”

  Daphne raised her hand before Clarrisa did.

  “No, she isn’t. I am,” Clarrisa insisted.

  Lord Home frowned. “That’s a piss-poor English accent if ever I heard one.” He delivered a sharp slap to her cheek that popped loudly. Norris opened his eyes where he still rested in a bed behind Lord Home.

  “You may both die, if that is your wish,” Lord Home announced, but he was distracted by a commotion that was rising outside the tent. He walked out, disappearing from sight as they heard him join the argument.

  “Ye are still playing a dangerous game—both of ye,” Norris remarked with more strength than he appeared to have. He looked toward the tent opening. “But once more fate is siding with ye. Come here now.”

  He sat up, gritting his teeth but making no sound. He pulled a dirk from the inside of his boot. “That’s the prince raising a fuss out there. Slit the side of the tent and escape before Home soothes the youth. If yer luck holds, the royal guard will be watching the commotion and ignoring the back of this pavilion.”

  “If they aren’t?” Clarrisa asked.

  Norris leaned back on his elbow. “Ye’ll miss getting the chance to say yer prayers before Home has ye murdered.” He tugged his signet ring off. “Take this. Me men will take care of ye.”

  “Did you have word of Broen?”

  “Nay.” He pointed at the canvas wall near the headboard. “Go now, Clarrisa, or ye will nae have the chance to look for yer heart mate.”

  Daphne wasn’t lingering. She took the dirk and rent the canvas, right next to the bed so it would go unnoticed longer.

  “Go now,” Norris muttered before standing. His face turned white, pain filling his eyes, but he made it to his feet and walked toward the doorway. He stood there, providing them with the chance to leave and giving himself an alibi.

  Daphne sucked in a breath before she slipped through the slit. Clarrisa waited but heard no cry for her to halt. Daphne reached back into the tent for her. With a deep breath, Clarrisa followed. No one noticed them, because everyone’s attention was on the fight happening in front of the tent.

  Clarrisa tightened her hand around the ring as Daphne gripped her wrist and led her between other tents. The fight faded as they searched for the banners of the Earl of Sutherland.

  “There…” Daphne muttered. “Pray, Clarrisa, for I
have no faith in anything else at the moment.”

  ***

  “Where did they go?” Lord Home demanded.

  Norris shivered and looked about the tent as though searching for the women. “I… I heard ye and the prince…” he muttered.

  “Ye shall not question him further, Lord Home.” James spoke sharply. “The surgeon told ye he was near death.”

  “So he did,” Home replied, but Norris saw the suspicion glittering in his eyes. Norris played his part, lying still, as though his walk to the door had overtaxed him. In truth, he was itching to be free of the tent, but Home would follow him the moment he left. The women needed more time to escape.

  So he lay back, allowing the prince to believe him weak. But it was a dangerous game, one that might end in his death if Home decided he knew too much. For the moment, though, he had to stay put. Broen MacNicols owed him a large favor—so long as they were both among the living by dawn, a fact he wasn’t entirely sure of.

  ***

  “I’ve got to get ye both away from this camp.” Gahan Sutherland was a huge man. His hair was black as midnight, and his hands massive. He turned the ring over several times before slipping it into his pouch.

  “Strip out of those dresses.” He didn’t give them any time to argue, pointing at Clarrisa and Daphne. “And thank Christ both of ye have short hair, or I’d be cutting it off. Ye’ll dress as lads—and even that may not be enough to get ye out of this camp as more than corpses. Undress while I fetch ye some clothing.”

  He was gone only a few moments before he ducked under the rod holding up the top of the tent and threw a bundle of clothing at them. “Get into these and grab me sword and shield before ye attend me outside.”

  “So now we’re lads…” Daphne muttered as she tried to buckle the belt to hold the kilt around her waist.

  “You’ve come a far distance from life in the convent,” Clarrisa whispered.

  Daphne gasped, but her eyes filled with merriment. She smothered her amusement behind a hand. “Ye’re wicked, Clarrisa.”