The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

Enya patted her mother’s arm. “I’m going to move in for a better look.”

  Mother clasped Enya’s hand. “No. Stay with me.”

  “I can hear nothing from here. I’ll be back with news.” Enya gathered her skirts, pulled on the latch and hopped down.

  “Enya!”

  If she stayed, Enya’s mother would argue until the excitement was over.

  Wearing an ornate coat of silvered armor, none other than Regent Moray climbed the steps of the tolbooth portico. He removed his helm and glared across the masses, a deep frown stretched against his black-whiskered face.

  “As you are aware, Mary, the former Queen of Scots, escaped Lochleven a week ago today. I had hoped we would capture her without bloodshed. But it wasn’t to be.”

  Enya tried to push into the crowd, but the wall of people was impossible to penetrate.

  “She raised an army and the king’s men met her at Langside. Though strong in numbers, her forces were unorganized, and after only an hour of fighting, we quashed her lawless uprising.”

  “Where is the queen?” a disembodied voice hollered from the crowd.

  “She has escaped. Fear not. Her army is deposed. She will be arrested and tried for treason.” Regent Moray gestured into the mob. Enya rose up on her toes, but could only see a line of crossed poleaxes. “These prisoners shall be tried as well.”

  Though a cool breeze blew over her skin, Moray’s cold words caused her to sweat as if in a bread oven. Holding her elbows tight against her sides, she forced herself to listen.

  The crowd erupted in boisterous shouts and taunts. Moray held up his hands, requesting silence. “But it shall be far worse for those who slipped through my hands. The Archbishop of St. Andrews, Lord Claud Hamilton and Lord Eglinton are declared traitors and their lands forfeit to the crown.”

  Enya clutched her palms against her stomach. Claud and his uncle have fled? How could all be lost in a day? She shoved against the man in front of her. “Let me pass.”

  Driven by the frantic need to see her father and to find Bran, Enya shoved her way to the front of the crowd. “Father!”

  Soldiers crossed their poleaxes and blocked her from rushing to him.

  Shoulders hunched, Lord Ross looked years older than when she’d last seen him only weeks ago. “Enya? Why are you not in the abbey?”

  “Mother sent for me.”

  Her father stared at her with a distant glaze to his angry eyes. “I did not give you leave.”

  Robert peered from behind a guard. “Go home and take care of Mother, Enya.”

  “She is with me, waiting in the carriage. What can I do?”

  Lord Ross’s knitted brows eased as if he’d come upon a plan. He grasped her wrist through the crossed poleaxes. “Find the magistrate. Tell him I will reward him handsomely for my release.” Ross looked to his son. “And Robert’s.”

  Enya shook her head. “Very well, and what of your other men?” She glanced across the crowd of prisoners and recognized a few faces, but did not see the one she desired most.

  The cold steel of her father’s ruthless eyes turned her blood cold. “They might be more lenient with the nobles, but if we make it out with our own lives, it will be a miracle.”

  “March the prisoners inside,” the sentry’s voice rang out.

  Enya reached in. “No!”

  But the pikemen kept her from holding her father’s arm, moving the prisoners along. Enya’s chest clutched tight and then she saw him, a head above the others at the rear of the mob of captives. Enya ran to him and slipped beneath the pole of a deadly pike. “Bran!”

  His bound hands cupped her face. “Enya? How in heaven’s name did ye get here?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Father told me to speak to the magistrate. I will see you released.”

  Bran’s shoulders sagged. “I doubt yer father has any notion to barter for me release.”

  “How can you say that? I will speak for you.”

  A guard grasped her arm and yanked her back. “Get the blazes out of here, you shifty wench.”

  Enya reached out. “I will fight for you.”

  Bran mouthed, “I love you.”

  A sentry slammed him in the back with the shaft of his poleaxe. “Get moving, you bastard Highlander.”

  Enya tried to break free but the guard’s grip tightened. “Bran!”

  “Sing to Griffon,” Bran bellowed over his shoulder.

  “He’s heading for the gallows, that one.” The soldier shoved her to the cobblestones. “You’d best crawl back home and be glad it won’t be yer neck in a noose.”

  A tear slipped from Enya’s eye as she watched the procession disappear behind the stone walls of the Glasgow Tolbooth. That wretched place was as notorious as the Tower of London. A term in there could sap any man’s wits, even a man as strong as Sir Bran MacLeod.

  ***

  Too late to visit the magistrate, Enya situated her mother in their rooms. Though she tried, Enya couldn’t sleep. At daybreak, she had one of the Ross footmen and Heather accompany her back to the tolbooth. After she located the magistrate’s quarters, the factor advised her to wait in a in a corridor lined with wooden benches where scraggly people sat, mostly dressed in rags, smelling as if they’d crawled out of a gutter.

  Heather sat beside her and held a kerchief over her nose. “They should at least have a comfortable pad upon which to sit.”

  Enya surveyed the long, dirty faces around her, conscious of the rich damask gown she’d decided to wear—the only one Heather had packed. “I doubt they want to encourage people from staying here overlong.”

  With little time, it was of utmost importance to make a good impression on the man who held so many lives in the palm of his hand. The deep dong of the clock-tower bell rang at each quarter-hour. The first time it hit the hour, the bell tolled nine sorrowful peals. Enya sat with her back erect, her stays cutting into her ribs. At ten tolls, she reclined against the stone walls. At eleven peals, her stomach grumbled, complaining Enya had skipped the morning meal.

  She counted another three quarter-hours when the factor addressed her. “Miss Ross, Mr. Fisher will see you now.”

  She swooned when she stood and steadied her hand against the wall. Heather scooted to the edge of the bench, but Enya held up her hand. “Stay. I shan’t be long.”

  Mr. Fisher rose when she entered, offering a curt bow. “Miss Ross. I assume you are here for your father?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit. “You are aware he laid down his arms?”

  Enya hadn’t heard about the surrender. “Ah, yes,” she hedged. “That’s what I understand.” Perhaps this news would help her cause.

  “I’d like to make this quick. I’m late for my nooning.”

  Enya’s stomach growled. A midday meal might repress the tremors in her hands. “I came to plead for leniency. My father has offered to compensate you.”

  Mr. Fisher tugged on the sleeves of his velvet doublet. “Interesting. Go on.”

  Enya had no idea what this man would expect, but it would take something substantial to allay a charge of treason. Aware of her father’s wealth, she picked a sum. “I can have a hundred gold sovereigns delivered to your office upon my father and brother’s release.”

  He smiled with a malicious curve to his lips. “If your father agrees to divulge the conspirators, I just might accept your offer.”

  “Since he willfully surrendered, I’m sure he will be eager to impart such crucial information.”

  “Most fortunate. I shall meet with him after my nooning.”

  Mr. Fisher stood and inclined his head toward the door. Enya followed. “There is one other matter I’d like to discuss.” Though he gave her a foreboding frown, she stood her ground. “You also have a Highland knight under your guard. Sir Bran MacLeod. I should also like to negotiate the terms of his release.”

  He brushed his finger across her cheek. “Ah, Miss Ross, will you have me release every rebel f
rom my gaol?” His eyes fell to the tops of her breasts, peeking over her stomacher. “Though you are tempting, I suggest you return to Renfrewshire and leave the executions to me.”

  Enya’s vision blurred and she forced herself to take a deep breath to keep her wits. “Executions? Will there be trials?”

  “Yes, the day after next, though a formality.”

  Enya leaned against a chair. “Please, Mr. Fisher. Allow me to negotiate Sir Bran’s discharge. I promise his will be the last.”

  “I’m afraid your appointment has come to an end. Unless…” He reached out and lightly brushed his finger across the flesh above Enya’s bodice. “Lovely.” His tongue shot out like a snake’s and moistened his lips. “Unless you are willing to raise your skirts.”

  Enya clasped her hand over chest. He took a step closer, reeking of tallow and lilac oil, which covered some other ungodly odor. Enya’s stomach churned as she recoiled.

  He grasped her elbow and opened the door. “I thought not.”

  ***

  Chained to the stone wall, Bran leaned into his manacles, his legs too tired to bear his weight. The stench of stale piss surrounded him, burning his eyes. A single stream of light shone through a crack at the top of the cell. The dirt floor was crowded with men huddled miserably, some rocking and some mumbling to themselves as if they’d lost their wits. In a solid stone chamber with a thick wooden door, the manacles weren’t necessary, but since it had taken four soldiers to restrain Bran, it appeared Regent Moray was taking no chances.

  Bran turned his head to the side. The only other man in chains stood beside him, his hair hung over his face, but Bran would recognize Malcolm anywhere.

  Ross’s captain turned his head. “What are you looking at?”

  “Me service for Lord Ross has ended.”

  “Unfortunate we’re in chains. I’d sooner die fighting.”

  Bran chuckled without humor. “Mayhap ye’ll feel the slice of a bullwhip on yer back afore they hang us.”

  Malcolm yanked his arms against his chains. “You ken I’m a paid soldier, just like you. I pulled you out of the pit and fetched the healer, did I not?”

  “Aye, after nearly letting me starve.” Bran ran his tongue across his cracked bottom lip. “Forgive me if me gratitude is wanting. I’ve four and twenty jagged cuts on me back to remind me of yer hospitality.”

  Iron scraped as the door unlocked and creaked open. Bran willed a splash of saliva into his mouth, hoping they were bringing food and water, but the miserable guard only replaced the slop buckets, mumbling curses under his breath.

  Bran slid down the wall and crouched, his wrists dangling in the manacles above. His head slumped forward. All was lost. He’d never hold Enya or sing to Griffon again.

  ***

  When Lord Ross entered the magistrate’s office, they removed his manacles. Ross never much cared for Mr. Fisher, a reformist, but unfortunately Regent Moray attributed a great deal of power to the man, and Ross would do whatever necessary to keep his head intact.

  Mr. Fisher didn’t rise, but eyed him from head to toe, seated behind a dark walnut table. The ass apparently harbored no respect for his betters. “Your daughter visited me this morning.”

  Having not been offered a chair, Ross opted to take the seat opposite.

  Mr. Fisher’s thin lips twitched. “She’s quite pretty.”

  “Thank you.” Enya might be a thorn in Ross’s side, but her bold spirit was of use this time. She’d negotiated a good compromise for his release. “I shall dispatch my factor to pay you a visit upon my return to Halkhead.”

  “That is most generous.” Fisher drummed his fingers on the desk. “Can you tell me who the queen’s key men were? Of course, notwithstanding your involvement.”

  “As you are aware, Claud Hamilton and his uncle were at the helm of the uprising, including the Earl of Argyle.”

  “And who else?”

  “Lord Eglinton and Lord Seaton played roles. Of course, George Douglas had a hand in her escape.”

  Fisher lifted his quill and dabbed it in his silver inkwell. Ross leaned forward and watched him record the names he’d mentioned. This was an opportunity too great to let pass. He licked his lips. “There was a Highlander who got close to the queen. She even knighted him before her entire army.”

  “Knighted, you say?” Fisher raised an eyebrow. “And whom might this be?”

  “Sir Bran MacLeod. He fights like a pack of dogs, but the men followed him—would still follow him anywhere if he were released.”

  “MacLeod, did you say?”

  “Aye, a large bull of a man.”

  “Why, I believe Miss Enya mentioned him.” He squinted as if filing through his memory. “Yes. She requested his release as well.”

  “Oh, no. That man is more dangerous to Scotland than any other.”

  “Interesting. I wonder why your daughter spoke highly of him.”

  “I apologize for her outspoken nature. I do believe she is infatuated with him—he’s quite an impressive male specimen.”

  “I suspected something afoot.” Fisher rested his quill in a silver stand that matched the inkwell. “Tell me, Lord Ross. Would you like me to take care of this problem between your daughter and the Highlander?”

  Ross folded his arms and smiled smugly. “I trust you will proceed with punishment as you deem appropriate.”

  “Regent Moray gave me two directives. First, I am to show adequate leniency, especially to the nobles. Second, I’m to select a number of commoners to be made an example of.”

  “Hopefully my information has been of assistance.”

  Fisher stood and gestured toward the door. “Yes. We will try this Highlander as well as your man, Malcolm. I suspect both have little time left on this earth.”

  The back of Ross’s neck pricked. He needed Malcolm, but if his captain’s life was part of the price of freedom, then so be it. He just needed to spirit Enya back to Halkhead before she made a damned fool of herself, asking everyone to help the MacLeod henchman. Thank God that bastard would soon be condemned and no longer be a thorn in his side.

  Chapter Twenty

  Calum MacLeod strolled along the wall-walk of Brochel Castle’s outer bailey with his cousin, John Urquhart. Together the two had sailed the waters of the many a foreign sea for nearly two decades. Calum inhaled. Enjoying the panoramic view of the Sound of Raasay, he loved the brisk air and a wind strong enough to pick up the sails of his beloved galleon, The Golden Sun.

  The hankering for a new adventure always grew stronger with a chilling breeze at his face. “When Bran returns, I want to take another run to Tortuga.”

  “Aye? Last time we sailed home with little else but our lives.”

  “Are ye going soft on me, John?” Calum swatted his cousin’s shoulder. “We need to plunder the Spanish silver before Francis Drake, the bastard.”

  “Havena we enough silver?”

  “Ye can never have enough.”

  A commotion at the lookout caught Calum’s attention. William MacLeod waved his arms over his head. “A galley approaches from the south!”

  Calum pulled his spyglass from his belt. His eyesight had begun to wane, blast it all. He practically needed the spyglass to see his ships in Brochel Cove. He scanned across the Sound of Raasay and saw it, though he could not make out the sailors. “Man the cannons. Call the archers.”

  “Ye expecting someone?” John asked.

  “Nay—mayhap Bran.”

  Calum climbed down the worn turret steps and headed to the beach. He didn’t want to alarm anyone as of yet but his wife, Lady Anne, could sniff out unease all the way from Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye.

  She met him at the heavy iron gate. “A galley approaches.”

  “Aye, do we have all of Brochel Castle on alert?”

  “Yes, of course—one can never be too careful, especially with your notorious privateering activities.” She winked. Though she nagged him endlessly about giving his seafaring activities
away and staying put, she loved him all the same.

  He gave her a fond squeeze. “Take the boys up to the solar. I’m sure ’tis nothing, but I’d prefer it if ye were safe within.”

  She crossed her arms. “Visitors come to call and you wish me to hide in the solar?”

  “Och, woman, must ye challenge me at every turn?”

  “Why yes, my laird.” She offered a deep curtsey. “Did you not know, ’tis a wife’s sole purpose in life.”

  He laughed and patted her backside. “Go inside and keep the boys safe.” Calum adjusted his sword belt and turned to John. “Let’s head down to the beach afore yer wife comes along to badger us as well.”

  “Aye. When Lady Anne and Mara join together, we’ve nay chance of winning.”

  They zigzagged down the path to the beach, arriving minutes before the galley. Calum could see clearly now. Ruairi’s henchman Rewan stood at the bow. From the frown on his face, the news wasn’t good.

  Calum bounded into the water and caught the rope. Together he and John hauled the small galley until it touched the sands. Rewan hopped over the side and faced him. “Mary’s army was quelled at Langside. Moray has Bran locked in Glasgow Tolbooth.”

  “He’s alive?”

  Rewan frowned, trudging through the sand. “Me guess is no’ for long. The regent will be looking for a pawn, and Bran’s the reason the queen got away. I watched him take on a whole cohort of Moray’s men while she fled with Willy Douglas.”

  A rock the size of his fist formed in Calum’s stomach. “How much time do ye reckon he’s got?”

  “A day, mayhap two.”

  Calum whipped around to John. “Provision two galleys, we leave at once.”

  John pointed to the bay. “What about The Golden Sun? The galleon’s got eighteen guns.”

  “Aye, but we won’t make it up the Clyde with a big ship, the river’s too shallow. Besides, I’m no’ planning to sail into Glasgow with me guns a-blazing.” Calum turned to his man, William. “Run up the tower and sound the horn. We’ll no’ be flying the MacLeod pennant—the flag of Scotland will be the only colors gracing our bow.”

  “Not the Jolly Roger?” John asked with a wicked twinkle in his eye.