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

by Alisa Adams

  Cumberland, England

  * * *

  “Don’t look so put out, Mary. The Earl of Wavel is a good man. He will make you a fine husband.”

  Mary’s father sat across from her in the coach. He did not ride on his destrier because he suffered from a fit of gout. The ailment caused by too much fatty food and alcohol made it difficult for him to walk unaided. Elizabeth sat next to him. She took no notice of her sister. Their relationship had poisoned in the months that passed. They barely spoke to one another anymore.

  It did not matter for Mary spent most days thinking of Alastair. She asked herself the same question every day: Was he still alive? Even though there had been no word and her father had been less than forthcoming with any information, she instinctively knew that he still breathed. The feeling came to her at night when she would dream of him. They always kissed. It felt as if he was in bed with her like on that night in Inverness. How Mary wished she could turn back time. She would gladly give her life just for one glimpse of him.

  She stared absentmindedly out of the window of the carriage. There was no leather covering. It was already late spring. About and beyond, the lush north English fields boasted blooms in all colors. Once more, like in the winter when she had last traveled that way, the River Tyne was her constant companion. She recognized the spot where it turned south, becoming the River Tyne South. She smiled wanly. A few more leagues ahead lay the spot where Alastair and his posse had ambushed them.

  How Mary wished he would be there again. This time, she would give no struggle. She would run to him and flee back to Diabaig with him. She was certain that they would convince the Laird of their love. No matter how harsh he seemed, Mary knew that he had a soft core. She had seen it when he had looked at his wife with adoring eyes. No man who could gaze at his spouse so could be bad. The chieftain of the Clan Macleod Wallis knew love and of its importance.

  Somehow, it was cruel how the mind created hope. It was such a fickle and slippery emotion. Sometimes, it could prompt heady bursts of optimism that lasted for days, only to come crashing down again when reality usurped its crown. Mary had been up those peaks and down those troughs many times. It was her life now. Currently, she wallowed in the deepest hollow for she was on her way to her betrothed – they would be married in a few days’ time, and there was nothing she could do about it. Fate was inexorable in its machinations, delivering her this sardonic twist.

  There was finally peace in the land. On the first of March 1328, at a Parliament at York, Edward III had issued letters patent, which set out the core of a new agreement. Nearly three weeks later, on the seventeenth of March, the negotiations had ended, and a formal treaty was signed in the King's Chamber of the Abbey of Holyrood in Edinburgh. The English Parliament at Northampton had ratified the Treaty on May third – the war was over after thirty years of bloodshed.

  The King’s mother, Isabel, and her lover, Mortimer, had agreed in the treaty that they, in the name of King Edward III, renounced all pretensions to sovereignty over Scotland. Joanna, the six-year-old sister of Edward III, was promised in marriage to the four-year-old David, the son of Robert Bruce. The marriage was planned for the seventeenth of July the same year.

  In the quitclaim of Edward III of March first, preceding the treaty, Edward endorsed that the Anglo–Scottish border would be maintained as it was in the reign of Alexander III of Scotland. The Kingdom of Scotland was so defined by the English King:

  “Scotland shall belong to our dearest ally and friend, the magnificent prince, Lord Robert, by God's grace illustrious King of Scotland, and to his heirs and successors, separate in all things from the kingdom of England, whole, free, and undisturbed in perpetuity, without any kind of subjection, service, claim or demand.”

  In return for this, the Scots had to pay one hundred thousand Pounds sterling to England. This huge amount was raised by a special peace levy. As part of the treaty negotiations, Edward III had agreed to return the Stone of Destiny to Scotland. This was not in the treaty. It was planned to include this in a concurrent agreement.

  It was everything Alastair had wished and fought for. His homeland was free once again. More importantly, they had beaten the English after many defeats. How a change in power on the English throne had played into their hands. After the death of Edward the Longshanks, English dominance had waned under his son. Only when the young English king, under the regency of his mother, ascended the throne did some form of sanity and aptitude return to London.

  To Mary, it seemed that history passed her by without her taking part in it. She felt like a pawn on a chessboard. Her father was the player, her master in everything. Sitting with him was the earl. Their opponent was life and providence itself. Each move they made brought her closer to a place she did not want to be. All it would take was for life to strike her off the board, and she would forever be a small expendable figurine languishing by the side as life sped on without her. For a heartbeat, she thought that dying would be a more appealing option. At least that avenue would give her freedom.

  She lost herself in the passing trees and lush pastures. Her father and sister were talking. She did not hear the words. What they said was of no importance to her. All she wanted was to hear his voice – to hear Alastair one more time. Again and again, she asked herself, “What has happened to him?” Mary did not even know whether it would be preferable to uncover his fate. What if he was held captive somewhere? What if it was at Chillingham Castle? She had heard of it. No one ever came back from that place alive.

  “We are here,” said her father.

  Mary’s gaze focused as the vehicle crossed over a bridge above a wide moat and into a gatehouse. The first structure was more of a castle in its own right, so large was it. They passed another gatehouse, entering a large courtyard. Two defensive walls were surely impressive. Not many castles in England boasted such fortifications.

  The carriage came to a halt in front of a separate fortress within the surrounding fortifications. “Come along, ladies. It is time to greet the earl,” said Lord Leighton.

  Mary felt an icy chill slither down her back. She was finally there. The place she had so narrowly escaped from so soon after Christmas past. It was surely a very short-lived gift. It would be her home from now on. She said a silent prayer before descending from the conveyance.

  There he stood in all of his sagging and bursting splendor – the Earl of Wavel. He appeared to have grown even more corpulent since Mary had last laid eyes on him. His neck no longer consisted of ringlets of flab but was now one trunk that entered his elaborate clothing. The tight pantaloons he wore only enhanced his size, making him look like an apple perched atop a spike. His face had flushed redder. Ruddy patches on his face betrayed his penchant for copious amounts of wine and food.

  “Welcome to Wavel Castle,” he squeaked out, tipping forward theatrically like a Humpty Dumpty falling off a wall.

  Mary gulped when he approached her. The way he licked his lips lasciviously told her what she feared most. This rotund specimen of human flesh was, to her great misfortune, still sexually active. For the life of her, she could not imagine how that was even physically possible. He greeted her with a flutter of his hand like he was waving away an irritating fly. Her sister received similar treatment. Only their father was welcomed enthusiastically. Without another word, the sisters were told to rest and freshen up while their father and their host would devote their attention to the contents of the earl’s wine cellar, which was said to rival that of the king.

  It was Mary’s first act, as in a play. She was the lead cast. The script had been written. All of the scenes that were her life already meticulously planned. Her stage was Wavel Castle. As she entered the main building, she asked herself whether God would remain a part of the audience or maybe, just maybe, he might get up and turn everything into a puppet show? Mary would gladly let him become the puppeteer as long as he directed her to Alastair again.

  10

  DESTINY IS INEXORABLE
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br />   * * *

  Cumberland, England

  * * *

  “Yer a treacherous bampot. If ye were not my son, I’d call ye a bastard. Ye run off in the middle of the night, disappearing. Ye don’t leave a word. Yer mother nearly died of worry. Not to mention yer betrothed.”

  Alastair watched his father march up and down in the Great Hall of the manor house just outside of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. It had been allotted to them for the duration of the treaty negotiations and beyond. He had never seen him so angry. His face had taken on the red hue of their banner.

  “If I had not had the foresight to demand a list of all of the Scottish prisoners held in the dungeons in the north of the English realm, ye might as well still be languishing in the shite. Once I saw yer name, I demanded all prisoners of war be set free. Thanks to ye, we had to offer the same courtesy to the English. Now, there’s more of the blighters about to threaten our borders.” He placed his hands on his hips. “What in the name of God was it all for, eh?”

  Alastair looked at Murtagh and Mungo who stood a short distance away. Mungo managed a wink. Murtagh grinned knowingly. When the Laird snapped his head in their direction, they, with alacrity, both adopted serious miens. Normally, this would have made Alastair laugh, but the current situation was too serious. He trod on thin ice as it was. Further angering his father would not help his case.

  “I had to take her home, Faìther. It was I who kidnapped her in the first place. Mary was not happy… ye were not happy with the arrangement.”

  “Ye dozy, dim-witted walloper, I had it all settled. The lass’ father was going to pay for her. I got the bleedin’ letter three days after ye left. She could have gone home with an escort of my finest men, instead of slinking aboot in the night with my son. Thanks to ye, I look a fool in the eyes of that arrogant English bastard.” He started pacing up and down again. “Well, come on. Keep talking. Ye will talk until I am satisfied ye have talked ye way out of this – even if it takes the whole bloody night.”

  Alastair inhaled a deep breath. What could he tell him? “Well, when we made it to the English border, I decided to make camp. It was already dark, and the sky had the looks that it was about to burst. We made a fire and ate. The English caught us while we were asleep.”

  “That’s the biggest load of shite I ever heard.” Murtagh sniggered. “Haud yer wheesht, Murtagh, lest I offer ye to the English. I wonder how you’d like the hospitality of Chillingham Castle, eh? I hear they have the vilest torture chamber in the land.” His threat had the necessary effect. The color on the clansman’s face went the lighter shade of a sheet. “Right, yer telling me, ye didn’t even keep watch like I taught ye as a boy? By God, lad, you’ve had the instruction.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “You didn’t think because ye had yer welly so far up the lass’ honeypot that yer wasn’t able to think. And if ye deny it, I will personally chop it off and feed it to the pigs.”

  “Faîther, I…”

  “How dare ye speak! I saw how ye ogled the Sassenach lass when ye could’ve been well bedded with a fine Scottish lass. Crivens, loon! I dinnae ken what else to say. Aila’s a fine woman and from good stock to boot. She has the bones and shape to give ye many healthy bairns. What were ye thinking?”

  “I—”

  “Ye shared yer chamber with Aila for the better part of two months. Now, ye probably gonna tell me ye haven’t bedded the woman, I suppose.”

  “Faither…”

  The Laird waved his hand in front of his fast-moving bulk. By now, he had walked the entire hall six times over. “At yer age, I’d have had the lass any which way possible…” He forestalled his son’s next attempt to speak with another wave of his hand. “I dinnae believe the rumors that ye have not fornicated with yer betrothed. Aila spoke to me in confidence before I came down here to represent Scotland in the negotiations – she said that ye both have been intimate.”

  “Faîther, I protest – she lies,” yelled Alastair.

  “There’s no need to raise yer voice. I may be old, but I am not deaf.” He frowned. “So, ye claim that her words bear no truth, eh?”

  “I do.”

  “Mm, well, it’s her word against yers. If ye are a telling the truth, then why not sleep with the lass?”

  “Because I dinnae love her.”

  “She’s yer betrothed, that’s all that counts.”

  “I never placed a ring of reeds or any other material, vile or precious, on the young woman's hands in jest, so that I might more easily fornicate with her. I never joked, or pledged myself to the burdens of matrimony or any other kind of union with Aila… I behaved honorably, Faither. I adhered to the sanctity of my love for Mary, and I upheld Aila’s virtue.”

  “Did ye now?” The Laird scoffed.

  “Aye.”

  “Well, let me tell ye this. I am yer faither, and my word pledged ye to her on the day of the feast. It was done in the eyes of God in front of the entire clan. What greater guarantee of marriage is there than the Laird’s promise, eh?”

  He was stuck. His father had made a promise, and it would take an act of God to force him to break it. Alastair had meant every word. Before meeting Mary, he might have behaved like a cad and bedded Aila without emotion. Mary had changed all that. He knew that by coupling with Aila, he would have concluded his father’s promise in the eyes of God. A church was not needed for two people to join in matrimony – only the consent of the man and woman involved – the joining of the flesh was sufficient grounds to conclude that transaction.

  The past months raced through Alastair’s mind in quick-fire fashion. Most of the images were of darkness, however, occasionally, the odd image of Mary’s face came into focus. She had been the only thing that had kept him alive in that living hell. The knowledge that she loved him was the one force that had got him through the ordeal. Finlay had been there too, but the pleasure of his company had been taken from him far too soon.

  The day the guard had ordered him to wash and dress in fresh clothing, he had thought he was going to be sentenced to death. When he had left the fearsome battlements of Chillingham castle behind him, his escort had taken him to Newcastle-upon-Tyne where Mungo and Murthagh awaited him. Alastair never thought that anything other than Mary could have made him happier. However, that day had been the exception. After a few formalities with the magistrate, he had been acquitted of the crime of sedition. His father had greased the official’s palm concerning the other alleged matter.

  Alastair waited while his father ranted on about how much gold he had to pay, the worry and anything else that came to his mind. With his heart beating faster as the tirade metamorphosed into gale storm proportions, he waited for the one thing that had not been mentioned yet.

  “Now, Alastair. I will ask ye only once and ye better be telling the truth. Ye ken that I ken when yer lying.”

  Alastair swallowed.

  “Are the accusations true that ye raped the Sassenach wench?” The Laird placed his fists on his hips to make his point.

  “No, faîther.”

  The Laird pleated his brow as he studied his son for what seemed like an eternity. “Then what’s all this about ye being fair buried inside of the woman when the patrol came running up yer arse?”

  The hall seemed to spin into nothingness. Calming himself, Alastair looked to his friends. They both nodded. He pressed his lips together. They were right. He had to tell his father everything if he ever wanted a chance of seeing Mary again. “I love her.”

  “Ye what?” snapped the Laird.

  “I love Mary, faîther. She is the woman I wish to marry.”

  At first, the head of the clan just stared at him. He walked a few paces to the hearth. He stared at it with his hands clasped behind his back. Nodding his head, he turned. “Ye ken that a union with a Sassenach is impossible even if I would countenance such a preposterous notion.”

  “Aye, I ken.”

  “Then ye ken that it can never be. Get the lass out o
f ye head, boy. She’s too thin anywae.” He smiled wanly. “Aila’s yer betrothed. She need not ken about this little affair. Eh, ladies?” His last words were directed at Mungo and Murtagh with a ferocious stare. They both nodded hastily.

  “No, Faither, I cannot. I promised Mary I’d marry her when we got to England. I will keep my word.”

  “What about yer word to Aila? Yer handfasted to the woman.”

  “Precisely. Handfasted. It means nothing other than a trial marriage, which can be terminated after one year and one day.”

  The Laird’s lips began to quiver. His walking over the flagstones took on epic proportions as he marched this way and that in the large room. When he finished his turn with a few ripe oaths, he came to a halt in front of his son. “Ye will not marry a Sassenach hoer. Is that clear?”

  Alastair felt as if he was about to explode. The heat of rage coursed through his blood, bulging the veins on his neck. Without thinking and consumed with anger, he sprang forward, slamming his fist into his father’s face.

  The Laird staggered back. A sneer materialized on his features. Blood seeped from his nose, down onto his mouth. His injury and the feral grimace on his face made the large man look even more savage than usual. “Not bad for a whelp. Me and Doogle taught ye well. But not well enough.” He walked over to the table where Mungo and Murtagh stood. He grabbed two claymores in scabbards. Walking back to his son, he tossed one at him.

  Alastair caught the weapon expertly. He weighed it in his hand. It was a good blade made by the smithy in Diabaig. He knew what would come next when his father started to speak again.

  “We’ll fight until one of us is forced to yield. Ye may draw blood. I suggest ye do it too because I will be thrashing the living daylights out of ye. Crivens, boy, ye need some sense whipped into ye.”