by Alisa Adams
“I think he is rather handsome.” Elizabeth tittered when she saw the consternated look on her sister’s face. “Not as handsome as the one they call the young Laird. I think he likes you, you know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Elizabeth. He’s only interested in my value as a bargaining chip and nothing more.”
“Oh, I don’t know. He couldn’t take his eyes off you last night. He’d sure make a better prospect than the earl, wouldn’t you agree? A strapping man like that would surely…”
“Hush up now, Elizabeth. I will hear nothing more of it.” Mary scrunched her brow. She had to agree with her sister that Alastair was attractive. However, the thought of thinking of a savage in those terms went against everything she was brought up to believe. But was he a savage? He had surprised her when he had spoken French and claimed to also be proficient in Latin. In England, only aristocrats, clergymen and a group of people called the intelligentsia spoke those languages. Alastair was no simple barbarian, she realized. In some respects, he was a lord also, like her father.
The sound of horse’s hooves shook her out of her thinking. Mary got to her feet with her sister following suit. The man called Murtagh came racing back to where they stood. The three of them waited patiently for the fourteen horsemen to enter the campsite that had jutted into action as the men of Scotland primed their bows in preparation against any treacherous act.
At the front of the column, Mary could make out Alastair who rode next to her father. Amongst the Scotsmen were six men-at-arms all wearing the colors belonging to the earl. Mary gulped. There he was, her betrothed. He looked like a giant ball bouncing up-and-down on the horse’s back. She was right – the man was as corpulent as she had thought him to be.
“There they are, My Lord,” said Alastair, expertly bringing his mount to a halt in the center of the camp.
The Earl of Wavel eyed the sisters lecherously with his piggy eyes that nearly vanished into his fleshy face. Rolls of flab hung down from his neck, disappearing into his elaborate clothing. The garments were of silk, velvet, and damask. Fur lined his thick coat and tunic. Covering his lower body, he wore trousers, part of which entered into his leather boots. Around his neck, he sported a thick golden chain that hung about his chest. The man sweated profusely despite the cold.
He wheezed a few coughs before tossing a heavy leather bag at the chief clansman. Alastair caught it expertly. He untied the laces and peered at the gold inside. Once he had ascertained that the amount was correct, he nodded at the earl. The Earl of Wavel panted a few orders at his men who made to move forward.
“Not so fast,” said Alastair, lifting his hand. “We keep one of the women until we cross over onto Scottish territory where she will be provided with a horse to return to you.”
“Are you mad? My daughter could be attacked while in passage. The roads are riddled with brigands. She’d never make it,” intervened Lord Leighton.
“Two of my men will escort her.”
The earl nodded his agreement. “I have no quarrel with the young Laird’s suggestion as long as we get out of this disagreeable cold as quickly as possible.” He eyed the sisters closely. “I presume you will be taking the one called Elizabeth?”
“No, My Lord. We will be taking Mary.”
“It doesn’t matter. They both look alike. Ye wouldn’t ken the difference,” said Murtagh, inviting laughter from the clansmen.
Mary gave him a contemptuous stare. “So much for thinking that you are nice,” she hissed out.
Murtagh chuckled. “Where’s yer sense of humor, lass?” He beckoned to another of the clansmen to guard Mary. When he was in position, he grabbed Elizabeth’s arm, forcing her forward to the English. “There you go, My Lord,” he said, bowing theatrically.
Lord Leighton helped his youngest daughter up onto a free horse one of the members of the earl’s escort had coaxed forward. When he was done, he turned to face Alastair. “If anything happens to her, I will hunt you down.”
“As will I,” added the earl in his squeaky voice. His jowls wobbled with his every utterance. Yet, somehow, his threat did not sound overly convincing.
“Aye, as I would expect of any faither.” Alastair nodded at Lord Leighton before turning to his men. “Brothers, we head for home, to the lands of MacLeod.”
A raucous cheer followed his words. He shouted a few more commands that the men start to break camp. On cue, they began stomping out the fires and gathering their gear. There was not much because the Highlanders did not use tents or anything else for that matter. They slept out in the open with only their plaids to keep them warm. Foodstuffs were transported on their persons, and when that ran out, they hunted game from the land. It was a hard life that only very few men could endure.
The French with whom they shared a common cause, namely the defeat of the English that also harried their realm, were always curious what the Highlanders’ secret was. Why were they physically so superior to other men? Where did they obtain their great prowess? Why were they larger, stronger and able to defeat much larger groups of enemies in hand-to-hand combat? Those were the questions that they often asked themselves.
The answer was simple. These men of the north possessed incredible endurance, which enabled them to march sixty miles over steep, roadless hills and fight a battle afterward, all in one day? They could recover from horrible wounds that would have been fatal to most other men. It was not just due to their hard physical labor, because all the peasants of Europe and other parts of the world did that. The difference was in their diet. While the majority of the people of Europe ate a plant-based diet of grains and vegetables, the Highlanders ate mostly animal foods, just like their ancestors did.
The Highlands of Scotland was an elevated land, full of hills, mountains, streams, and valleys. The soil was not particularly conducive for agriculture, but it provided for excellent grazing pastures. These hard men based their diet, first, on the raw milk of their herds. They kept large herds of small, agile cattle, and large flocks of tiny sheep, and large herds of goats. All of these animals produced milk, which was drunk and added to uncooked porridges and made into raw cheese and raw butter. The cheese and butter were used at all times, but especially in the harsh, cold winters. During the spring and summer, wild game of all kinds, including the native red deer, were hunted and eaten. Fresh fish was a vital part of the diet throughout the year, as the many rivers and streams were rich with salmon and many other kinds of wild fish. And beef was also a part of their staple diet.
Mary walked up to her father and sister under the close scrutiny of Murtagh. Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked up at them. She swallowed a few times before she spoke. “Farewell, father… Elizabeth. I will hopefully see you both soon.” She ignored the earl who looked down on her imperiously.
“Be well, daughter,” said the lord.
Elizabeth was having just as much trouble holding in her emotions. She sniffed audibly. “Mary, you will be fine,” she said, not really believing her words.
Mary nodded. There was nothing more to say. She was about to depart with a group of clansmen in the direction of their homeland. Alastair had done nothing dishonorable so far, so she had no reason to doubt his word, but deep down, she felt that she wouldn’t see her family again for a long time. Sensing Murtagh becoming impatient beside her, she turned to him. His face was impassive, hardly betraying any emotion, but Mary was certain that she sensed a degree of compassion play on his weathered face.
“Och aye the noo, are ye ready, Murtagh? We’re leaving noo. We have a long road ahead of us, and I’d like to cross the border and be well on our way north before nightfall.” Alastair pulled on the reins of his mount that was skittish, sensing the excitement of the impending departure.
“Aye, Alastair.” Murtagh touched Mary’s shoulder lightly. “It is time, lass.”
Mary nodded. She gave her father and sister one last look before following the clansman to his horse. He mounted first and held out a calloused hand to h
elp her up. Once astride the animal’s back, there was hardly any time to get a glimpse of the family she left behind. The group of Scotsmen urged their horses into a trot that quickly changed into a canter. It was the beginning of a journey into the great unknown, and the prospect frightened Mary.
She stole a glance at Alastair. Hate immediately coursed through her veins for the man who had disrupted her life so. Her destiny may not have been of her making, but somehow, she felt, at that very moment, that being the earl’s wife was better than being in the presence of these men.
3
THE VOYAGE NORTH
* * *
Scotland, two days later
* * *
“You broke your parole. You are nothing but a blackguard. I despise you for breaking your word to my father.”
Mary’s entire frame shook with anger. Alastair had not made arrangements for her to return to England after they had crossed the border as promised. Mary had not been aware of this at first, but as the sun broke the horizon, announcing the second day of their voyage, she had realized that something was afoot. She had heard the clansmen arguing the night before around the fire. She could not make out the words because of their accursed foreign tongue. Not even Murtagh, who had somehow been assigned to her as her guardian, would divulge any information. All she could tell was that the one they called Mungo was vehemently opposed to what his young master was telling him.
Mary knew that the border had been close to their point of departure. Yet, Alastair had made no preparations for her to leave. Before she knew it, they had penetrated into lands that became more rugged with every hoof fall. When one of the men had uttered the word ‘Glescae’ that morning, she instinctively sensed duplicity. Mary had asked Murtagh what it meant, and he had promptly answered that it was the town of Glasgow to which they were referring. That was when she had marched up to Alastair with a perplexed Murtagh in her wake. The tirade of insults that followed would have made many a fishwife blush.
“How dare you kidnap me. That was not the bargain. I knew that you could not be trusted,” shouted Mary.
“What does it matter? Ye should be thanking me. Would you really prefer to marry that fat old earl?” Alastair held his hands up to protect himself from another of Mary’s onslaughts. Her antics and his dodging had the men in hysterics.
“Ye better watch yerself, brother. That one will have yer bawsack and yer welly off,” shouted one of the men, venting his mirth with deep grunts and snorts.
“The lass’s up to high doh, she is,” yelled another.
“I ken. Stop hanging about and prepare to continue the ride, ye bunch of skiving wallopers,” retorted Alastair in an attempt to get his men busy.
No one moved. The spectacle of seeing the Laird’s son receive a berating from an English lady was just too good to pass up.
“A pretty face suits the dish-cloot. Yer a soft, Alastair. She’s got ye by the goolies,” said a clansman, alluding to the fact that Mary’s beauty had robbed Alastair of his manhood.
“Awa’ an bile yer head,” snapped Alastair, telling him to shut up.
“If I were a man, I would fight for my honor and skewer you with a sword.” Being partially true to her word, Mary shot forward and pulled a long claymore from a scabbard resting against a tree. The clansmen had become lax in their sense of security at being back in their lands. Mary lifted the blade that was far too heavy for her. She managed to stumble a few paces toward Alastair.
He was too distracted by his men’s abuse to react fast enough. The cold steel came down at him in an arc from above. How she had managed to lift it was beyond him. Primal instincts took hold. He darted to the left, rolling on the grass, as the blade whistled past his right ear. Alastair quickly sprung to his feet with the agility of an acrobat. A sneer crossed his face when he saw the woman struggling with the sword that was buried in the dirt.
Mary’s face was red with the effort. No matter how hard she pulled, she could not get the steel out of the ground. She looked up with eyes filled with venom. Not even the angry grimace on Alastair’s face frightened her. She was beyond caring. All she wanted to do was hurt him. The bloodlust had claimed her so much that she didn’t care what would happen should she succeed. With a cry of triumph, she freed the vane. She stumbled back a few paces until she regained her footing. Like a caged animal, Mary turned, dragging the sword over the ground to face him once more. It was too late.
“I’m going ta skelp yer wee behind,” yelled Alastair.
“She’s in for it now,” commented Mungo who received a hostile glare from Murtagh.
Alastair slapped Mary’s hand, making her drop the weapon on reflex. He lurched forward and grabbed her, lifting her up and wedging her under his arm as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“Put me down, you beast. How dare you. I am the daughter of a lord…”
“Ye certainly don’t behave like one. Yer aff yer heid, woman. You could’ve killed me.”
“Shame I didn’t,” hissed out Mary, trying to breathe under the tight grip of the burly clansman.
“I am gonna teach ye some manners, lass.”
With those words, Alastair marched to a rock where he sat down. Holding Mary in place with one hand effortlessly, he fumbled with his heavy belt.
Mary could not believe the man’s strength. Murtagh had been strong when he had held her by the carriage on the day of the ambush, but the force exuded by Alastair was beyond belief. No matter how much she struggled, he pressed her down with one arm as if she were as meek as a swaddling babe. His strong masculine scent was everywhere, invading her nostrils with heady bouts of virility. It did things to her brain and senses that she had never before encountered. It angered her even more because the man she despised was having this effect on her body. Even that betrayed her now as she swam between wanting to be free of his iron grip and wanting to stay pinioned to his lap. Before she could question her emotions and bodily deceit any longer, she screamed.
THWACK, THWACK, THWACK!
Alastair whipped her backside thrice with his leather belt, and Mary immediately ceased struggling. She remained still on his lap, whimpering.
“That’ll teach ye some manners and to show respect to a clansman. If ye were my wife, you’d have gotten far worse.” Alastair got to his feet and pushed her to the ground. Mary remained where she fell as the tears slipped down her cheeks. “Murtagh, make sure she’s ready for travel. We leave now.”
The men had finished laughing. A few of them sniggered, but the majority were taciturn. It was common practice among the Highlanders to beat their wives when they misbehaved or acted disrespectfully toward their husbands, but it was a private affair that took place behind closed doors. The cries of anguish were sometimes heard, but none of them had ever witnessed the beating of a woman by another man, save perhaps their fathers doing it to their mothers.
“Weren’t ye a little rough on the lass, Alastair?” asked Mungo.
“Ye saw what she did. She was doo-lally. She could’ve killed me with that sword.”
“Aye, I ken.” Mungo looked over at Mary who was being helped to her feet by Murtagh. He smiled wanly to see the thickset man behave so gently. “The lass has got spirit. She could be one of ours, ye ken.”
“Aye, that she could, brother. I dread to think what that woman would do to the man who will one day be her husband if she caught him frolicking about with another lass. She’d have his welly off with his sword before he could drop his kilt.”
Deep laughter rumbled out of Mungo’s mouth like the advent of a thunderstorm as he mounted his horse. “Aye, I’ll be sure not to cross Lady Leighton in the future.”
4
“How are yer thòns, lass?” asked Murtagh, referring to Mary’s buttocks.
“My what?”
Sitting on a horse’s back for over six hours had rubbed her backside raw after the thrashing Alastair had given her. She swore to herself that she would never forgive him for it. The way he had sneered at her w
hen she had begged for them to stop by a stream so that she could dip her bottom into some cold water had infuriated her. He had not even deigned to give her an answer. Instead, he had spurred his mount forward to the head of the party. Mary did not know why she felt so intensely when she thought about him. It was unlike her to feel anything much for a man, not that she knew very many. But Mary knew herself, and uncontrolled anger or hate were not things she had ever succumbed to in her life. On the contrary, she was composed and in charge of what she felt. That was something she realized was impossible with the Scot. The mere sight of the man made her blood boil over.
“Yer thòns, lass,” repeated Murtagh, wiggling his backside on the saddle to make his point. When he still did not get a response, he slapped himself there for good measure.
“Oh, my…”
“Aye, your thòns. I pray they hurt not too much.”
“Yes, they are, it is fine. Thank you for asking.”
“That’s good then. Then, I am sure Alastair thrashed ye well.”
“Thrashed me well?” Mary felt the heat of anger rush up her neck to her face.
“Aye, a good beating entails not leaving any marks long thereafter.” Murtagh shrugged. “It would be a shame because I am certain that ye have a fine pair of ‘em down there.”
Mary couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Despite the topic, she could not help but like Murtagh. He meant well in his crude way. “I never knew that there was a difference,” she said at last.
“Oh, there is, lass. Ye see, when a bloke breaks the skin it leaves scars. Now, if you’re careful and make sure that you administer a clean whipping by only leaving light red welts, it just hurts, but the bruising goes away after a time, leaving no scars. Only a stupid husband leaves those. It sort of ruins the view, if ye get my meaning, lass, when yer coupling.”
