The Viking's Highland Lass

by Terry Spear

  When Brina reached the great hall, the conversations and laughter continued, and she hoped she could take her place at the head table without anyone noticing her much. Maybe they would think she was just one of the kitchen staff, serving the meal and ale while she made her way to the table. But as soon as Seamus saw her, he glowered at her. She had insulted him by not greeting him as a warrior coming home victorious from battle, and instead had only cared about her da’s welfare.

  She had further affronted him by not joining him straightaway at the meal and instead taking care of the men’s injuries. Everyone would know what had prompted her behavior. And watch expectantly to see how he handled a recalcitrant wife-to-be.

  He didn’t rise from the table to greet her, just watched her like a warrior who was ready to beat her for daring to insult him. She bowed her head a little to him in greeting, the conversation all around them slowly dying as she felt her heart shriveling.

  He would be like her da, only worse. With Seamus, she would have to suffer his abuse in bed.

  The chilling wind blowing the snow about, the flakes fat and heavy, Gunnolf had split off from a group of the MacNeill clansmen in the snowstorm, checking on those living farther away from the castle. They were concerned for their health in the winter storm, as Gunnolf headed for Wynne’s shieling. She was an elderly woman, set in her ways. No matter how many times members of the Clan MacNeill tried to convince her to leave her shieling and move into the keep, she had refused. She reminded him of Helga, his amma, his grandmother, the woman taking care of him as if she were his mother when he was growing up. Helga had odd ways, just like Wynne, he had soon learned. Something about the woman touched a place deep inside him, just like his amma had done.

  Maybe her reluctance to live at the keep was because of her strange ways, and she felt she would not be welcome.

  Gunnolf had been gone for over a year, staying with the laird’s brother, Malcolm, a laird now in his own right to help him with a fight with his neighbors. And then off to see Angus and the clan he now lived with. He’d only been at Craigly Castle since this morn, so this was the first time Gunnolf had seen Wynne in all that time, and he was anxious to visit with her.

  He observed the cold, stone shieling in the distance, dread worming its way into his blood when he saw no peat smoke curling above the chimney. Without a fire to warm her old bones, Wynne would freeze to death in this chilling snowstorm. She was said to have the gift of two sights or taibhsearachd. He’d heard tell of how she had seen the taibhs, or vision, concerning James and his discovering the pearl of the sea—the woman who had become his wife. That’s how the taibhsear would share a vision—in cryptic words, unclear to any of them who heard her message as to what she really meant. Despite his grandmother having the same gift, Gunnolf had been wary of believing in such a thing until the woman James had wed had been rescued twice from the rough sea.

  If Wynne could see what future events awaited them, why didn’t she look to her own future and know she would be safer living among her clansmen within the walls of Craigly Castle? Maybe her gift told her that she would stay here in her own shieling until she died.

  When Gunnolf had asked her a while back if she had ever seen a vision of his future, she’d only lifted a white brow. She didn’t think he believed she could truly have the gift. But then she had shrugged and told him he would have his own place of honor at the head of his clan. Which made no sense at all. He would never be next in line to manage Craigly Castle. If James died, his son, when he was old enough, would be laird. If James’s son died, one of his brothers or his cousin would take his place. Gunnolf would not be the head of anything there. If Gunnolf returned to his people’s land, someone else would have taken over his family’s farm by now.

  Worried, Gunnolf moved his horse into the byre. He gave Beast some oats, then strode toward the door of the shieling and knocked. No response.

  “Wynne, ‘tis me.”

  When she didn’t call out in greeting, Gunnolf opened the door. The shieling was empty, the sweet smell of heather and other dried flowers and herbs hanging from the rafters scenting the air, her bed covered in furs, neatly made. Everything was in place, the windows shuttered, the gloomy wintry light from outside spilling into the one-room home. A modicum of hope that she might have gone to stay with a neighboring sheepherder helped to settle his concern.

  The weather worsened as the snow blew around and piled up against the shieling. He made a fire in the fireplace, then went out to the byre to take care of his horse. That done, he took a walk around the cottage, calling out Wynne’s name in the whistling wind, just in case she had left her place and lost her way in the storm.

  Still no response. He went back inside and began stripping off his fur cloak to warm himself by the fire. All he could do was pray that Wynne was staying with another family, keeping warm, and telling someone else’s fortunes this blustery day when he heard movement outside the door.

  He unsheathed his sword, Aðalbrandr, and rushed to the door, yanked it open, and saw the grizzled face of the woman who lived there.

  Wynne scowled at him, her white hair covered in snow, her brown wool brat turned white from the flakes piled high on the woolen fabric. “What are you doing here?” she scolded, her voice high pitched and irritated, her blue eyes narrowed as she pushed him aside to enter her abode. He shut the door and blowing snow out. “Put Aðalbrandr away. ‘Tis no’ necessary to defend yourself against me.”

  He smiled at her tenacity. She had lived a hard life, had aches and pains, and yet she complained of naught. Even now, he saw her wince as she moved about her shieling, removing her cloak and hanging it on a peg.

  Even as old as she must be, her face had a soft, grandmotherly look about it, the bridge of her nose dotted with freckles, and despite the narrowed eyes, they were kindly, all-seeing. “I thank you for the fire, but I was staying with the sheepherder, Rob MacNeill, and his wife, Odara. And then I knew you were here, and I had to return in this weather when you are no’ supposed to be here. ‘Twas a good thing I didna lose my way!”

  He closed his gaping mouth and sheathed his sword. “I am glad to see you alive and well.”

  “Och,” she said, waving a hand at him, dismissing his comment and making her way to the fire. “I will make you porridge, but then you must be on your way. I didna need rescuing. Do you think me daft? You are a warrior trained in the art of fighting. Not only that, but you are good of heart. She needs a champion, and I am no’ that she.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  Wynne smiled a little at him, and then she scowled again. “What is the use of telling you that which you need to know if you dinna heed my words?”

  Exasperated, he said, “I will return you to the sheepherder’s dwelling so that you will stay warm and have company. Once the weather clears, I will go back to Craigly Castle to let James know you are well.”

  “You will do no such thing. You will do as I have said. Eat, then leave straight away.”

  “To where? In this storm? It would be madness.”

  She shook her head. “You are a Norseman. You live for the cold.” She motioned to the storm raging outside. “This is naught to you.”

  True. He didn’t mind the cold weather. But he did mind getting lost in it. “So I am… to rescue some woman?” He had learned long ago that even though he might not believe all of what Wynne had to say, enough of what she predicted in her cryptic way did turn out to be true, so he wasn’t going to dismiss her concern outright. “What is her name?”

  “That, I dinna know. She is frantic and I canna see her face, her hood hiding it from my view. I only know that she desperately needs your assistance. But I must warn you, she willna thank you for it. Still, I will feed you while your horse rests before you must be on your way.”

  He prided himself in doing what was right, whether it earned him thanks or not, though he would have a time of it aiding a woman in this weather, who did not wish the help. He took a seat at the
table as he watched Wynne mix oats, water, and salt over the fire, stirring it with a wooden spurtle.

  “Years ago, you fought alongside your da against the Sassenach and suffered a near-fatal sword wound and your kinsmen left you for dead,” Wynne said, continuing to stir the oats in the water to keep them from lumping up.

  He remembered waking to the horror of learning his father and many of his kin, two uncles, an older brother, and three older cousins, had died, the field strewn with bloodied bodies. Not just bodies. Family. And to his further shock, that those of his kinsmen who had survived had left him behind, the longboats slipping away into the mist-covered ocean.

  “Ja, but what has this to do with the woman?” he asked.

  Wynne waved her wrinkled hand at him again as if to dismiss his impatience. “You would not die that day, the fierce Norseman of five and ten winters that you were. You managed to steal a dead Sassenach’s horse and ride far away from the bloody battlefield, bleeding, and losing consciousness.”

  He’d never admitted to anyone the nightmares he’d had about that day.

  “You stayed in caves and a time or two in a byre, traveling for days, alone, but determined to reach your homeland.”

  Wynne had to have guessed. He never told anyone of his journey.

  “You finally reached the Borders. You continued to ride until you made it to the Highlands. And…”—Wynne paused as if trying to recall the details of his journey that she should never have known—“a beautiful young girl found you. You thought she was Freyja, your goddess of love, beauty, fertility, war, death, and more. But she wasna and bound your wounds. When she went to seek help, you were certain you would not be welcomed by her kinsmen and traveled north until you reached our keep.”

  He barely heard Wynne’s next words as he envisioned the dark haired girl, her blue eyes like pools of water, her concern still touching him today. He’d always wondered what had become of the lass.

  “We were celebrating a feast day in honor of James being named our new laird, though he was but six and ten winters. Do you even remember? You just suddenly rode into the inner bailey as if you belonged there, head held proud, steel blue eyes daring anyone to fight you for the right to be there, your hand clutching the reins, the other secured to your blood-soaked chest. Everyone just stared at you as if they were seeing a ghost. Then you let go of the horse’s reins and your face, though dirty, was wan as ash and you started to fall. James raced across the bailey and caught you, others running to help him. You were only—we guessed five and ten winters or so—due to your small size.”

  Gunnolf stiffened a bit. He had never been small.

  Wynne sighed. “Suffice it to say, all activities abruptly stopped—the dancing, archery competitions, the sword fighting, and the games the children were playing. Everyone came to see the wild Norseman in his bloody clothes, pale as death, riding a stolen Sassenach horse. Fortunately, the Clan MacNeill took you in. They treated you as family, despite how unruly you had been.”

  James, the eldest of the MacNeill brothers, had fought with him in practice battle, and Gunnolf had taught him a Norseman’s trick or two. Gunnolf had greatly admired the way the Highlanders had fought the Sassenach. So he had something in common with the clansmen.

  “Desperately, you had wanted to return to your native lands, but our lady of the keep, who had run of the household staff, insisted you stay with us until you fully recovered from your wounds. And then, longer. You fought alongside the MacNeill men against their enemies for years until you have lived here nearly as long as you had lived in the lands of the north.”

  For years, he hadn’t considered living anywhere else. Not when he’d found a home with the Clan MacNeill. He’d always been treated like one of James’s brothers. And James’s mother, Lady Akira, had regarded him as one of her sons.

  “Your grandmother was like me.” Wynne served up the porridge for him and then for herself.

  He stared at her in shock. How could she truly know these things?

  “Helga? She warned your father that he would die, and that many of your kinsmen would too. That you would find a new way of life amongst a different people. Your da didna want you to go with them then, fearing the Sassenach would take you prisoner and turn you into a slave. But you protested, saying she didna know the future. That you would be victorious. And you were. Only mayhap no’ in the way you believed. You were lost to your own people, but you found a family here with the Highlanders, a new way of life amongst a different people, aye?”

  “I must have spoken of this to you.” Maybe when he was sick with fever.

  “You know you havena. Not once have you mentioned what happened to your own kinsmen all the years you have lived here with us. You have buried the secrets of your survival. Or the nightmares you still have.”

  “No one wishes to hear of another man’s journey through hell and back.”

  “On the contrary. Everyone likes a good warrior’s tale about beating death on so many levels.”

  He let out his breath in frustration. “All right. Mind you, ‘tis no’ that I fear the weather so much as I dinna take the danger to me or my horse while traveling in a blizzard such as this lightly.”

  “You were a young lad who was badly wounded and left behind to die. You were clever enough to steal one of the Sassenach’s horses and make your way here. You had been injured and still, you were driven to complete your mission—return to your people and let them know what had happened to your da and the rest of your kinsmen. But the others who left you behind would have told them this. Instead, you were destined to help your Highland brothers win their battles and they were yours as well because you are part of the soul of this clan as much as they are. You are a grown man this time, battle-trained, and no’ in the least bit wounded. You have naught to be concerned with.”

  He wondered how she had returned to her shieling in this snowstorm on foot and was none the worse for wear.

  Wynne grabbed his empty bowl and her own. “Go, now. Find the woman and aid her. ‘Tis what you do well, Norseman. You aid those in need.”

  “What if I had returned to my homeland?”

  “It wasna your destiny to do so.”

  He didn’t care for the idea that his fate had been predetermined. He liked to believe that man made his own destiny. “Is my grandmother still alive?” He threw on his wool brat and furs.

  “What do you think?” Before he could answer, she said, “Of course she is. In your heart. Where it belongs.”

  True, he’d often thought of Helga’s words of wisdom when he was at his lowest point at times in his life, but he was saddened to think she had passed before he could see her again. “So, I will find the woman soon and return her to Craigly Castle safe and sound?”

  “I have told you all I know. Do you wish for me to do all of this for you?”

  “Are you certain I cannot take you back to Rob’s place?”

  “Nay! I am here now. ‘Twill take you in the wrong direction. Rob will check on me when the storm dies down. I will have Rob take word to our laird that you are on a mission of utmost importance. Now, go!”

  “Thank you, Wynne,” Gunnolf said.

  “You will thank me later.”

  He suspected it would be much later. And he wasn’t truly sure he’d have anything to be thankful for on this journey. Stooping, he left her abode and returned to the byre. After saddling his horse, he mounted and felt a hint of excitement and trepidation. Unlike when he was a lad, he had only one thought in mind—finding his way home. Now, he was leaving his home in the middle of a snowstorm at the advice of a woman who many said was mad. Not that he felt that way about Wynne. She was more level-headed, if not a bit cryptic at times, than many people he knew.

  Well, if he rode south and found nothing of interest, he would return to Craigly Castle, at least having given the task a chance.

  After several hours of plowing through the snow, he reached another MacNeill shieling and sought shelter, thinking that whoe
ver he would have to help would have to wait until he and his horse had warmed up a bit. It would not do to sicken his horse or himself before he found the lass. And in this weather, he didn’t believe he’d find anything but snow and more snow.

  When he knocked on the door, a redheaded woman holding a swaddled baby answered, but she was not of the Clan MacNeill.

  Where in the world had Gunnolf ended up?

  2

  Brina knew, as soon as she took her seat next to Seamus to share the evening meal with him in the great hall, things would not go well. He growled low to her, “Think you to slight me by turning your back on me after we won the battle? Think I dinna know that you are no’ happy with this arrangement? We will marry in the morn, and I will be chosen to lead Clan Auchinleck after that. If you dinna do as I wish, I will deal with you as harshly as necessary. Mark my word. If you think your da was demanding, you havena seen how I will deal with you.” His blue eyes snapped with fury as his mouth scowled even more. He hadn’t even bothered to clean up, blood spattered in his blond hair and on his tunic. At least her da always washed up after a battle and changed into fresh clothes, leaving his soiled garments for the washerwomen to clean.

  She knew nothing good would come of this. On the one hand, she owed her allegiance to her clan, to maintain the keep, to run it as well as she always had. She loved her people, the difficulty not being them. They strictly obeyed, no one daring to defy either her da or Seamus. Now that her da was gone, she knew she could never fight Seamus and her life would be forfeit once he married her.

  “Eat,” he ordered her. “And smile. You willna look like you are a precious lamb getting ready to be sacrificed for the whole of the clan.”