Highland Grace

by K. E. Saxon

  Within moments she had gathered her villein attire into a basket and covered it with a cloth. To any who might see her, ‘twould look as if she carried bread or some other foodstuff. There would be no suspicion raised, which meant it would be several hours before the alarm would be sounded that she was missing.

  She’d leave a note, of course. Here, in her chamber. She looked around for a prominent spot where the missive would be seen immediately upon entering. The top of her chest. Aye, that would do nicely.

  She quickly scribbled out her tale; where she was headed, and with what purpose. Surely, by the morrow they would all be reunited in peace once more. And then they could spend all their energies on making her brother well again. Before she left them all to meet her destiny.

  * * *

  “My son is so big, I cannot believe he sprang so easily from my loins!” Jesslyn whispered, awestruck and happy as she held the sleeping babe in her arms and gazed upon him. It was well past noon now and she’d just awakened from her nap. She looked up, into the eyes of Lady Maclean. “But, thanks be to heaven, he did. For I believed I would labor to give him birth at least until the curfew bells that day.”

  “I as well,” Lady Maclean replied. She leaned forward and placed her hand on the back of the babe’s head. “He’s a handsome lad, this Bao Li,” she murmured. “He’s the look of his father, with that black hair and the slight slant to the eyes. But I can see you in him as well. He has your chin and brow, it looks to me.”

  Jesslyn glanced down once more at her new son and said, “Aye, he’s lovely. Bao will be so amazed! He was sure he’d have a wee daughter come Bealltainn.”

  “Aye, that he will be,” Lady Maclean agreed softly. Settling back on her perch on the mattress next to Jesslyn, she said, “I should go and check on Branwenn and see how she fares. ‘Tis not like her to lay abed this long, even while she flowers.”

  Jesslyn nodded. “Where is Maryn?”

  “She’s in her chamber, I suppose,” Lady Maclean replied, not ready to speak with Jesslyn about the possibility that Bao may have been injured, that he may now lie fevered inside the battle-torn Maclean fortress. Earlier in the day, while Jesslyn still rested, Laird Donald had given the news to both her and his daughter that one of her grandsons had been wounded. Even now, the memory of the tortured cry that Maryn had emitted before collapsing to the floor sent chills down her spine. She feared that Jesslyn would have a similar reaction and thought it best to allow the new mother a bit more rest before revealing the dreadful message to her that they had received.

  “Give her my thanks when you see her. I don’t know how I would have gotten through these past sennights without her strength, her courage, and her friendship.”

  “Aye, she’s a brave lass.” Lady Maclean rose from the bed and leaned down, kissing her granddaughter-in-law on the cheek.

  Jesslyn grasped the older woman’s hand in her own. “And I thank you as well. You’ve now brought two lovely, healthy, great-grandbairns into this world.”

  Lady Maclean squeezed Jesslyn’s hand before releasing it. “Would you like me to put the babe in his cradle before I leave?”

  Jesslyn shook her head and gazed once more at her slumbering son. “Nay. I shall place him there a bit later. I want to enjoy the feel of him in my arms a while longer.”

  Lady Maclean nodded and quietly departed, leaving the mother and son to enjoy their peaceful and innocent time together. For it would be so no longer once Jesslyn learned of the possibly fatal wounding.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon by the time Branwenn abandoned the ox-drawn cart along the southern banks of the loch. All had gone as planned and she’d managed to depart the Donald holding soon after she’d devised her escape.

  With some apprehension, now that she was so close to her goal, she steadily walked in the direction of the wood, knowing only that the prince camped somewhere on its outskirts. The camp would be mostly deserted at this time of day while the battle raged, but there would be guards manning the outer perimeter, and her greatest fear was that they might strike her down before she had proffered her surrender. Even with that dread chance, she pushed herself onward. For the prospect of ending the siege and preventing any further bloodshed was worth the risk.

  * * *

  Lady Maclean sat down on the edge of Jesslyn’s bed and handed the note to her. She anxiously watched the emotions race across the younger woman’s face as she read it.

  Jesslyn’s eyes were riveted on the final words of the note. “Fare you well,” Branwenn had written, “You will be for evermore in my heart and in my thoughts.” There was such finality in the words and in the tone, as if Branwenn expected that they’d not be seeing each other ever again. Dropping her arm onto her lap, Jesslyn limply held the letter in her hand. “But why?” she asked at last. “Why would she surrender herself into this man’s control when our allies are on their way to aid our cause?”

  Maryn, who had been standing a bit away while Jesslyn read Branwenn’s note, came over to settle on the other side of her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  Lady Maclean took the missive from Jesslyn’s limp fingers and placed it on the bed beside them. She glanced at Maryn and then turned her gaze once more to Jesslyn, her mouth forming into a grim line. “I had hoped to tell you of this on the morrow,” she finally said, “after you’d had a bit more rest.”

  Jesslyn sat up straight, alarm filling her countenance. “Wha—”

  “One of Laird Donald’s scouts arrived earlier this day with word from the Maclean fortress.”

  Jesslyn’s heart leapt into her throat. Swallowing past the pounding swell of fear that lodged there, she grasped the older woman’s arm and rasped, “Aye?”

  Lady Maclean placed her hand over that of her granddaughter-in-law’s and soothed it with a soft caress. “One of my grandsons was injured and is now battling a deadly fever.”

  Jesslyn released her hold on the other woman’s arm and blindly reached up, taking hold of Maryn’s hand instead. “The scout knew not which of our husbands is ill?”

  “Nay,” Lady Maclean replied sadly. “I believe Branwenn went to the prince’s camp in order to end the siege and get inside the fortress to see her brothers.”

  “Then we must go home as well,” Maryn said anxiously.

  “We cannot. We must first hear that the siege is done or we risk all our lives,” Lady Maclean cautioned.

  “When will we learn if he has withdrawn his army?” Jesslyn asked.

  “Laird Donald sent a scout back to the battleground the moment he read Branwenn’s missive. If all goes well, we should know by the morrow. But ‘twill be late in the day, I fear, for the negotiations will take several hours and he must wait to find out their terms in order to relay them to Laird Donald,” Lady Maclean replied.

  “So we may be able to leave day after next?” Jesslyn asked.

  Lady Maclean nodded and patted her granddaughter-in-law’s hand. “Aye. That is as I surmise, but do not be surprised if they will not allow us to return for several more days. They may want to bury the fallen soldiers and clear the war debris before we arrive.”

  * * *

  Prince Llywelyn sat inside his tent that eve going over tactical maneuvers with his marshal. He regarded the drawing of the Maclean fortress, endeavoring to find any weakness he might have missed the many past times he’d studied the illustration. “We must break through that wall!” he said harshly, slamming his fist on the table in frustration. “The demons have thus far managed to tumble two of my siege towers with their mangonel.” He looked up, his eyes drilling into those of the other man. “Destroy that mangonel! ‘Tis the only way we’ll get close enough to the wall to use the battering ram on it.”

  “Aye, Your Highness,” the marshal replied gravely. “We’ve attempted such already, but as yet to no avail. We’ll be successful this next attempt, I assure you, now that the perrier is built. The engine is easily set again and is quick to fire, Your Highness.�
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  “Pound the thing with it, then. And protect the men who man the sling with a hundred bowmen.”

  “Aye, Your Highness.”

  A shrill screech came from just outside the tent followed by the sound of an angered girl’s voice. “I have already surrendered, you idiot! Cease twisting my arm from its socket!”

  The prince and his marshal looked toward the entry to the tent just as a girl in humble dress was thrust inside, followed by one of the men assigned to guard the camp. “On your knees before the Prince!” he stormed.

  Branwenn fell forward, taking all her weight onto her knees and hands, her wrists bent and her fingers snapped back almost to their breaking point. “Owww!” she yelped, and then, unable to hold her weight with her injured wrists, collapsed face down in the dirt.

  “Pardon, Your Highness,” the guard rushed to say, “but this youth claims to be your cousin, the Lady Branwenn, but I think it the newest plot by the devil Macleans to spy upon us.”

  Branwenn gingerly lifted herself up, first onto her elbows and then up into a sitting position resting back on her calves and the undersides of her feet. “I am Branwenn Maclean,” she said forcefully, rubbing the bitter sting from her sprained appendages. “This is no sinister device to steal your war secrets, I swear it.” Branwenn gazed at her cousin, this prince who held her life, her fate, in his hands and was amazed to see that he was not the demon she’d expected him to be. He was quite handsome, in fact. And not at all the aged man with the graying hair and beard that her mind had envisaged all these moons. His hair was dark, like hers, and he did not shave the bristles from above his upper lip, instead allowing them to grow in long strips from just under his nose to either side of his jawline, making an arrow effect. His eyebrows vee’d, much like her own, above dark, penetrating eyes. He wore a tunic of the finest scarlet, trimmed in saffron, over mail armor, the hood of which rested on his shoulders and back. A crown of gold perched atop the short-cropped mass of hair on his head, intimidating her more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

  The prince sat back in his chair and lazily stretched one leg out straight in front of him under the trestle table he sat behind. There was a long scroll of parchment with a drawing on it which he held open in front of him using his forearms as braces against the curling edges. Unfortunately, it was too far away for Branwenn to see clearly, but she suspected it might be an image of her family’s castle.

  “I’ve come to surrender myself into your hands, so you may end the siege of my home.”

  Prince Llywelyn looked first to the guard and then to his marshal and cocked his head in the direction of the entrance. “Leave me with this youth.” As the two men made their departures, he studied her. “Why dress you so meanly, lady?” he said at last. And then, looking past her out through the opening of the tent, he queried her further, “And where be your Highland protectors? Had they not courage enough to meet me face-to-face when they surrendered their prize?” He glared down at the map in front of him. “There must be some secret passage that allowed exit,” he mumbled, evidently to himself.

  “My brothers know not of my purpose, Your...Highness,” she said, struggling past the appellation.

  Prince Llywelyn looked up from his musings and gave Branwenn a piercing look.

  “With some bit of stealth and cunning did I leave from my safe haven at the Donald keep. It required that I clothe myself in the guise of a villein,” she explained.

  Prince Llywelyn sat forward. “Your Highland brothers”—he sneered when he said the word—“defied the codes of chivalry and hid my prize from me?” he growled.

  “Nay! You mustn’t believe them unchivalrous, Your Highness. They only sought to protect me, and their ladies, until the victor of the siege was named. Surely, you can see that a besieged fortress is not a place for lady wives and their bairns, nor a dearly loved sister and her aged grandmother.”

  Prince Llywelyn relaxed back once more. “Aye, I can see the wisdom in that decision. If it was, as you say, only for the duration of the siege, and not a ploy to keep me from my prize.”

  Branwenn bristled. “I beg you, Your Highness, cease labeling me your prize! Else, I swear, I shall not remain the calm lady you see before you now.”

  Amused, by the girl’s show of spine, one side of Prince Llywelyn’s mouth quirked in a smile. “This, then, is how you behave when you are calm? My bones quake at what may be your behavior when you are truly roused, then, my prize,” he provoked. She was a beauty, he was pleased to discover. Not tall, and very slight. Seemingly too delicate to have made it here on her own. The fine bones of her face set into stark contrast her large violet, tip-turned eyes and fleshy red mouth. Her hair was still covered by a hood, but her brows and lashes were as dark as pitch in color. Just as her mother’s had been. Aye, Gaiallard de Montfort would be pleased with his bride. And the more pleased this relation to the Earl of Pembroke was in his match, the greater the bond between the two families, which could only translate into more power for the Prince of Gwynedd.

  Branwenn’s cheeks flamed with ire. She stood up, even though he’d not given her leave to do so as yet. “Is this how it is to be then?” she asked, her fingers curling into fists inside her chafed palms. “I am chattel and will be treated as such?”

  “Nay, lady, not mere chattel, but something of much greater worth. For, with your union to the Earl of Pembroke’s nephew, I will gain the means by which to extend my realm.”

  “And so I am to play the pawn in your plot,” she stated stiffly. “This...this nephew to whom I am to pledge my troth...is he to be so ill-used as well? Or does he also gain from this match born of avarice?”

  “It is not only greed that drives me in this contract I draw with the march lord, lady. The Cambrian people have suffered greatly at the hands of the Norman invaders. I seek to put our land, our people, back under the control of the natives. That is my first, and most desired, purpose,” the prince explained. “The man I seek to wed you to is Gaiallard de Montfort. And he gains what you gain as well: A vast demesne, its fortress, and jurisdiction over its tenants.”

  Branwenn’s heart nearly leapt from her chest. She’d believed her new husband would be a member of the march lord’s household. She hadn’t expected to be responsible for her own house. Not in Cambria. She had no knowledge of that land’s customs, nor what would be expected of the lady of the holding. “I...” she started hoarsely. She cleared her throat. “I am expected to be lady of a keep in a strange land? Does this man know I was not raised a lady? Have, in fact, only just this past year begun my training? Surely, he will be greatly disappointed in me, Your Highness.”

  A twinkle came into Prince Llywelyn’s eye as he regarded her. “Gaiallard is full aware of your upbringing, lady, fear you not. And I am more than certain that he will be quite pleased with you, lady skills or nay.”

  Branwenn’s shoulders drooped. She sighed and nodded, saying, “Then the siege is done? You’ll send a messenger at first light to convey that I have surrendered?”

  Prince Llywelyn nodded. “Aye, lady. And pleased I am that we will for home so soon since my arrival here.”

  “But I will be allowed to say my farewells to my family before we depart?” she hastened to ask.

  “Aye. And forget you not, your brother, Reys, is prisoned in that fortress you call home. I shan’t leave this land without his company.”

  “Worry not, Your Highness. My brothers have not harmed your cousin, you shall see.”

  “You are my cousin as well, fair lady, forget you not,” Prince Llywelyn admonished gently. He hadn’t expected to like the girl quite so much, but she was such a charming mix of beauty and fire, so full of spirit and wit, he found himself completely enchanted by her. Aye, she’d bring him what he desired, and in not so distant a time.

  * * *

  “Christ’s Bones!” Daniel shouted as he released his grip on his brother’s wounded thigh. He and Derek had been attempting to hold Bao still while Daniel tried to i
nspect the gaping gash left from the arrowhead his brother had yanked from his groin area where his thigh met his pelvis. “Even in his slumber, Bao will not allow me to tend this wound!” He looked up, into the worried face of his second lieutenant. “And that is the one, I fear, that is causing his fevered stupor.”

  Derek nodded grimly. “There is a stench of putrefaction in that region.”

  “Aye, it festers, that is certain.” Speaking through clenched teeth, he ground out, “I should not have waited so long to tend it.”

  “It could not be helped,” Derek consoled. “The whoreson prince sends his first volley earlier and earlier each day, and the battle was already raging by the time we discovered your brother had not come from his chamber this morn. We could not bear losing another commander.”

  Knowing Derek spoke the truth, Daniel nodded, sighing. But it still did not sooth the raging guilt he felt. “He must have received this arrow the same day he got the other one in his chest, but he never told me of it,” he said finally. Agitated, he ran his fingers through his hair. “I should have realized when he became dizzy last eve that he was ill, but he’d had uisge beatha with our meal and I thought him only a bit sotted.” He glanced at Derek, smiling slightly in spite of his worry, as he explained, “‘Tis truth that he does not hold his spirits well,” before turning his gaze back on his brother and somberly continuing, “I discovered the wound when I helped him to his chamber and then out of his chain and hose.”

  “Did he not allow you to tend it then?”

  Daniel shook his head. “Nay. He had it bound in a bloody rag, but said ‘twas only a scratch, that ‘twould heal on its own without my tending it.”