Highlander's Stolen Wife: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  An errant tear escaped Mary’s left eye. She was in that state of sleep that can be described as wakefulness, but not truly so. It was when a person swayed between full consciousness of the mind and the advent of sleep that hung so close, and yet, was so far away. Mary thought she was actively thinking of the story, but she wasn’t. It did not steer in the direction she willed it to. Each time she tried to create a thought, it disappeared into a dream that was delivered to her by her subconscious awareness. It was the wakeful dream of two people so madly in love that they were too far gone to experience that love to the full. It was the legend of Tristan and Iseult retold.

  Wavy shimmers cast their spell before Mary’s eyes. She tossed and turned on the bed in her room in the castle. She tried to find sleep and the solace that oblivion would provide her. It was fruitless. Without her wanting it, the wispy image of Iseult appeared. Mary could not see her face, but she knew who it was as the words uttered from the troubadour’s mouth rose and fell in his unmistakable cadence.

  She was promised to Tristan’s uncle, King Mark. That was when she ingested a love potion in the hope that it would make her love a man she did not know and did not want to marry, but she must. The king had sent his nephew to convey his precious charge to him. It was Tristan. He was the first man she saw and not the king. In an act of duplicity and in fear of her emotions, she convinced him to take the vial containing the tonic.

  They fell madly in love on the way to the Kingdom of Cornwall. It was a love that could never be. Both of them knew it. At first, Tristan was successful in thwarting her attempts to convince him otherwise. But when Iseult finally married King Mark, the love potion made it impossible for the lovers to resist each other. They pursued their affair clandestinely until the king, Iseult’s husband, finally caught them. They narrowly managed to escape death, but Iseult was forced to return to Mark and resume the marriage.

  Heartbroken, Tristan left Cornwall. His wanderings took him across the Irish Sea where he married another woman also named Iseult. When a poison lance mortally wounded him while trying to save a maid from six marauding knights, he called for his only true love. The man he sent to fetch her was supposed to hoist white sails when Iseult was on board the ship and with black when she was not. Lying on his deathbed, Tristan asked his jealous wife for the color of the sails. She lied to him. Tristan died of despair, convinced that Iseult did not want to come to him. Iseult, upon arrival, died of grief after finding her lover dead. According to legend, a briar tree grows above Tristan’s grave and a rose tree above Iseult’s. To this day, their branches intertwine.

  The symbolism denoted what her sister had said during one of her amorous ravings –tempus fugit amor manet; time passes, love stays. Was that the way it was going to be for Mary? Would she forever love a man she did not know she loved yet and never have him?

  A loud crash and yelling catapulted Mary out of her duplicitous slumber. She sat up on the bed with a start. A door slammed in the next room, and the shouting continued.

  “Yer not a man. Yer nothing but a useless drunk. Look at ye – not even able to couple with me since the day of the announcement…”

  No response came, no protest, it was as if the recipient of this abuse did not care. Mary clambered out of bed and walked to the other side of her chamber. She pressed her ear against the cold stone wall in an attempt to hear the words more clearly.

  “Our fathers arranged it so that we could be together before the marriage. We are to live as man and wife and yet ye do nothing. This is what we always wanted, Alastair,” screamed Aila. She referred to the practice of handfasting that was put into place to strengthen inter-clan ties. It was a kind of trial marriage, which lasted for one year and one day until the actual nuptials took place. During this period, man and woman could engage in their conjugal rights without incurring the wrath of the church.

  “Just my luck that they had to put me in a room right next to them,” said Mary in barely a whisper.

  “Tis what ye wanted, Aila. I never wanted this,” said Alastair.

  More screams and the crashing of items against the walls and floor followed. “And now ye gonna tell me that ye love the Sassenach wench. I have seen how you look at her. Yer a taken in by her spell. She’s a witch I tell ye.”

  Mary tensed. Her relationship with Aila had taken on an entirely different turn in the past weeks. When once the Scotswoman did her utmost to make her feel at home, she recently ignored her. When she did cast a glance in her direction, it was full of hate and envy.

  Mary could bear no more of it. She went back to her bed with the vain hope that she might find the sweet embrace of slumber. She blocked out the yells as she wrapped herself in the quilted blanket. She placed her hands over her ears and closed her eyes. With surprising alacrity, sleep found her, taking her over the crags, burns, and glens of the Highlands. She soared like an eagle in the heavens. Her wings took her higher until she could see the ruggedness of the landscape change into a softer backdrop. What she saw in her dream could never be. How? Why? It was Mary standing before metal bars.

  Time passed Mary by in the Highlands as if she was in a dream. Sometimes, she felt the same as during that night when sleep could not find her. It was a state of almost wakefulness. The place where a person was present physically but abroad in mind. It was what she needed to remain sane in this strange world with the guttural foreign language that hurt her ears when it was spoken. It amazed her how a people so different to her own could co-exist on the same island. She put it down to the fact that the diverging climes contributed to this diversity.

  The weather had gotten colder, and the snows had fallen, covering the landscape with a hoary shroud. To her, the countryside looked magical. The mountains were no longer a greenish brown with white peaks, but silvery-white with the occasional dash of green from the pine trees coating the rocky inclines. Some of the lochs had frozen over, and thick chunks of ice hung aloft above the flow of water in the burns. On the occasions Mary roamed the hills, she looked down at the Minch Sea and castle Diabaig. In these moments, she tried to imagine spending the rest of her life in the Highlands. It was a prospect that always daunted her. It only spurred her intention to escape and get back home to England.

  It was early morning, and Mary walked through the small town close to the castle and loch. It was a sunny day and the first in weeks. Her breath left a steamy white vapor as the warmth of her body came into contact with the cold. She pulled her plaid around her shoulders. Fortunately, her ermine coat was in one piece for added comfort against these harsh conditions. Also, it was a reminder of England and the life she had left behind.

  The activity all around her boasted of the industriousness of the clan’s people – the vendors at the market shouted at the top of their voices, peddling their wares to the passersby. The heavy clink of the hammer on the anvil came from the blacksmith’s workshop. Smoke from the fires eddied out of the front of the structure. Walking on, Mary crinkled her nose when the pungent stench of urine invaded her nostrils from the tannery nearby. Children threw snowballs at one another as their mothers haggled with the tradesmen.

  Murtagh was with her. He had been her only loyal companion since her arrival at the borough. She no longer needed his protection but not a day went by without him spending time with her. It was some comfort to know that at least one person in the clan liked her. He had introduced her to some of the inhabitants. Yet, like in the towns back in England, the people were skeptical of a stranger, especially one that spoke with a foreign accent – the accursed English one.

  Mary came to a halt by the well on the town square. She could not fail to notice the furtive glances in her direction by the townspeople. They invariably fell into bouts of whispers in their Gaelic tongue. Mary knew they spoke of her even though she did not understand the words. After having spent more than two months in the Highlands, it no longer bothered her as much. She just felt the heavy burden of loneliness on her shoulders. If it hadn’t been for Murtagh, she wou
ld have thrown herself into the sea.

  Her daily walks gave her time to think. She thought of home and whether her father and sister missed her. Had he made any effort to try and locate his abducted daughter? Was the earl still her betrothed after all of this time? A spark of hope that this was not the case burnt within her. Maybe when she got back to England, she would be free of that obligation.

  Thinking about marriage, Mary thought of Alastair. They had not spoken much in the months that had past. He was always present in body. Yet in mind, it seemed that he floated on a different plane. It was apparent that his shock betrothal to Aila weighed heavily on him. She often caught him looking in her direction. When their gazes met, he would hold it for a heartbeat and then look away. Mary knew there was a connection, something that bound them, but she could not put emotions to thoughts, let alone words. All she did know was that they were bonded. It only remained to be discovered in what way.

  The Laird and Lady had been good to her though. Every evening, she shared food with them at their table. As a new member of the family, Aila was always present. Her disposition had gotten far worse. She and Alastair hardly spoke a word. It was even rumored that he slept on the floor in their chamber. There had been no more altercations like the one Mary had experienced that one night. This was due to the fact that Alastair never ascended the steps to the sleeping quarters with his wife-to-be. He preferred to remain with Mungo and Murtagh in the evenings when they would often indulge in a drink too many. Only when certain that Aila was asleep, would he join her in their chamber.

  The sound of horses’ hooves pounding on the frozen ground came closer to Mary and Murtagh’s position. When she looked at him, she saw that he had a huge grin on his face.

  “What is it, Murtagh? You look like you just received a barrel of ale and a shank of beef.”

  The burly Scotsman chuckled. “Better, Mary. There is to be a hunt. The Laird approaches.”

  Mary looked down the narrow lane leading up to the square. He was right. On it, a group of over twenty horsemen approached. As they drew closer, Mary could make out the Laird and his son riding in the vanguard. Alastair had two free horses in toe behind him. And every man carried a long, thick spear.

  “Fancy a bit of sport, Murtagh?” shouted the Laird, peering down from the back of his large steed.

  “Aye, My Laird. I was wondering when we would next hunt.”

  “Good. The Sassenach can come with us.”

  Mary swallowed heavily. “What is it that we will be hunting, My Laird?”

  “Boar. There are too many of the blighters near the toon. If we don’t cull their numbers, we’ll be having some trouble time spring comes. No time to lose. Mount up.”

  He pulled on the reins, jerking the horse’s neck around as the beast chomped on the bit. With a powerful kick of his heels, he induced the animal into motion. Behind him, the hunting party followed.

  “These are for ye,” said Alastair to Murtagh and Mary as he held out the reins of the two free mounts.

  “Don’t footer about. Let’s get going. We have a lot of ground to cover until we reach the huntsman and the lymer,” said Mungo who never left Alastair’s side.

  “Will we be breaking fast when we get to the meeting point?” asked Murtagh, rubbing his belly.

  “Trust ye to think about food. Now, come on.”

  It took them the better part of an hour to reach far enough into the forest to where the boars roamed. Already, the other hunters stood in groups chewing on dried beef, fruit, and bannocks. The mood was light, aided by the drink the men were consuming.

  “Finally, I could eat a horse and drain a loch full of whiskey,” said Murtagh, quickly dismounting and walking up to the spot where the food was served.

  “How are ye holding up, Sassenach? Ye better get some sustenance in ye. You’ll be needing yer strength for the chase. From here on out we go on foot,” said Alastair.

  It was the first time in weeks he had said a full sentence to Mary. She offered him a nervous smile. “On foot? That sounds dangerous.”

  “Aye, it is. But there’s no honor in killing a boar with a bow and arrow from the safety of a horse’s back. We do force hunting here, and we kill it with a spear.”

  Mary nodded. “I see. And I will be accompanying you on this little jaunt?”

  “Aye, lass. There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll be with Mungo, Murtagh and me. Come. Let’s eat and drink.”

  Mary followed him on foot to where the others stood. Murtagh had already devoured nearly an entire bannock and numerous sticks of cured meat. Seeing the rubicund flush on his cheeks, Mary deduced that he had also indulged in quite a bit of whiskey in the short time.

  The men congregated near the Laird who stood with the head huntsman and the lymer. They inspected the spoor and the droppings left by the animal.

  “We will split up into groups and take up the trail. Release the dogs,” commanded the Laird.

  On cue, six large shaggy-haired hounds darted forth. They stopped briefly, milling about on the spot, sniffing the ground. With a howl, the lead animal led them away until they vanished in the woodland. The only indication of their whereabouts was the sound of their barking that grew fainter as they drew away.

  “May the hunt be a good one. Slàinte,” said the Laird, holding up his cup.

  “Slàinte,” repeated his men.

  Before Mary knew it, she was in the midst of the three Highlanders stealthily advancing through the forest. The trees stood tall and eternal all around her. An eerie silence prevailed. Each footfall cracked twigs and crunched on pine needles. It sounded almost cacophonous to her. Mary looked around apprehensively. She had never seen a boar up close before. However, Mungo had been more than generous with his description of the animal during the ride up.

  He had said that the wild boar was one of the most dangerous creatures in the land. They were vicious and very hard to kill. A boar could run on for miles with grievous wounds, merely fueled by its adrenaline and aggression. They were even worse when it was the mating season that lasted from November to January. Mary was grateful that was not the case. According to Alastair, who had chimed in, they had missed it by a month.

  The small group came upon a little glen with a stream running in the center. As the men analyzed the ground for signs, Mary walked a few paces to the rushing water. Behind her, she heard Murtagh and Mungo say that they were going to scout ahead. She thought nothing of it as she descended toward the water. She dipped her hands in the icy, clear liquid, cupping them as she lifted it to her mouth. It tasted like a magical elixir. She could almost feel the strength returning to her with every gulp.

  Mary heard the bushes rustle close to her. She stood back up and remounted the knoll. Looking around, she saw no one. A stab of fear pierced her innards. It felt as if her abdomen was about to implode and her entrails had turned to water. She swiveled her head from left to right – nothing but thickets and dense brushwood. She looked up. The sky was a mere point in the canopy of the trees. The dense foliage roofed her in above her head. All around her, it felt as if the shrubberies and tree trunks closed in on her.

  “Alastair. Are you there?”

  Her voice squeaked, betraying her nerves.

  The rustling shrubs became more prevalent. Mary prayed that it was because of the wind, but the branches and leaves hardly moved.

  “Alastair,” she called again.

  Her gaze remained on one spot in the impenetrable verdure before her. Mary did not know why she picked that particular place. It just felt right. Her gaze remained fixed on it. Time turned into heartbeats, each passing moment a memory birthed and imprinted onto the brain. It seemed like the world had come to a halt. Nothing moved. There was no sound. One, two, three, four heartbeats passed – the rustling again and then silence.

  “Alastair! If you are playing some prank, it is not funny. Alastair… ALASTAIR!”

  With a crash, a bulky, massively built entity with short and relatively thin legs shot
out of the bushes exactly where Mary had been staring. It seemed impossible that something of that size could squeeze its mass through the body-hugging scrub. At first, she did not register what it was. A sprint of at least fifty paces still separated them. The dark thing stopped, scraping its cloven hooves on the shrubbery. It made no sound other than its tussling.

  Mary took a step back. Her foot came to rest on a dry twig that snapped. The sound seemed almost jarring in the otherwise silent forest. Time seemed to stand still as both human and creature remained frozen on the spot. The shadowy animal lifted its head as if it could see something before it. Mary remembered what Mungo had said earlier. The boar had very bad eyesight, only being able to discern objects at a very short distance. She did not move a muscle.

  Without any advance warning or a reason apparent to Mary, it darted forward, growing in size as her heart beat to the rhythm of its steps. Despite the fear coursing through her veins, Mungo’s earlier words were clear: “The boar has middle hooves that are larger and more elongated than the lateral ones, allowing for quick movements… It can run at a maximum speed of twenty-five miles per hour and jump to a height of fifty-five inches…

  “The beast’s trunk is short and massive, while the hindquarters are comparatively underdeveloped. The region behind the shoulder blades rises into a hump, and the neck is short and thick, to the point of being nearly immobile. The animal's head is huge, taking up to one-third of the wedge-shaped head and body's entire length. The structure of the head is well-suited for digging, acting as a plow, while the powerful neck muscles allow the animal to upturn considerable amounts of soil – and maybe a human if the situation so warranted.”

  All of Mungo’s wisdom filled her head in a rush of quickly spoken words and images. None of it gave her much hope. When threatened most was one thing - the boar was a killer.

  As it got closer, Mary got a good look at its winter coat that consisted of long, coarse bristles underlaid with short brown downy fur. The length of these bristles varied along the body, with the shortest being around the face and limbs and the longest running along the back. The specimen before her boasted long back bristles that looked quite like a mane – they stood erect, displaying its agitation – the boar before her was a male.