James fathered several children with his wife, the Danish Queen Anne. His eldest son, Henry, died in his teens. His second son became Charles I, executed in 1649 during the English Civil War.
THE DACRE GATE
The Dacre Postern is to be found at the northwest corner of the inner ward at Carlisle Castle, and also sits amongst the ruins of Queen Mary’s Tower. It consists of a few remnants of what would have been a heavily defended entryexit point to the city. The postern also incorporates the remains of the original Norman entrance into the castle. The gate was blocked when the outer gatehouse and the Captain’s Tower were built in the 1160s. All that remains is one single jamb of the gate, with its portcullis groove and some holes where a door or a gate would have been affixed.
There are excellent pictures at
www.matthewpemmott.co.uk/2014/11/carlisle-castle-dacre-postern.html
CARLISLE CASTLE
A Google search will bring up lots of sites. Scroll down on this page, www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/carlisle-castle/history/description/ and click on Download A Plan of Carlisle Castle. Fantastic information. For 500 years, until the English and Scottish crowns were united, Carlisle Castle was the principal fortress of England’s northwestern border with Scotland. A mighty stronghold in the frequent conflict between the two countries, and the base of the lord wardens attempting to control an unruly frontier, the castle has endured more sieges than any other place in the British Isles. Unlike most medieval castles, it has been continuously occupied since its foundation by William II (Rufus) in 1092.
DARLING ABBEY
Actually known as Sweetheart Abbey; you can find more information at
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweetheart_Abbey
ELIZABETH MELVILLE
The first book written by a woman and published in Scotland was Elizabeth Melville’s Ane Godlie Dreame in 1603.
CAERLOCHNAVEN CASTLE
Based on the Maxwell stronghold, Caerlaverock Castle, south of Dumfries. You can view great videos on YouTube. There is, however, no Roman bath at Caerlaverock.
MINGARY CASTLE
www.mingarycastletrust.co.uk/mingarycastletrust/
WARDEN OF THE SOLWAY
A figment of my imagination, as is Glenkill Tower.
BIRLINN
There is an engraving of one of these galley-style boats on the medieval walled tomb of Alasdair Crotach in the church on Harris. Developed from the Viking longship, the craft was the basis of all power in the Hebrides for centuries. These open boats had sails and oars for propulsion and were very well suited to the waters of the area whether for military, piracy, trade or fishing uses.
SLING
Also known as a shepherd’s sling, it was used as long ago as Neolithic times, and possibly even before that. It was common all over the world. Famous as the weapon with which David slew Goliath.
HIPPOLYTA
The Amazonian Queen of Greek mythology. Obtaining Hippolyta’s magic girdle was one of the labors of Hercules.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hippolyta
MAUD
A black and white checked plaid once worn in southern Scotland and northern England.
Please enjoy an excerpt from Kilted at the Altar.
Jilted
Sleat Peninsula, South Skye, Inner Hebrides, 1601AD
Perhaps his bride’s horse had gone lame.
Or the MacRains had been ambushed en route from Dungavin and now lay stone-cold dead in some ditch.
Or they’d come by boat to avoid the rugged Cuillin Hills and gone aground…or foundered.
Fuming over these and other possible reasons for the tardy arrival of his betrothed, Darroch MacKeegan stood in the open doorway of the musty kirk with his legs braced and arms folded. For more than two hours, there’d been no sign of riders on the dusty track that wound its way to the north. Indeed, the only person in sight was his round-shouldered father pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back.
Nothing for it but to wander over to the altar and revisit the unlikely excuses with the sweating priest.
“The terrain can be tricky for even the most sure-footed horse,” he said.
The elderly cleric swiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Aye, ’tis for sure the reason.”
Darroch raised an eyebrow. “This marriage alliance was meant to end the bitter feud between the MacKeegans and the MacRains, so an ambush is unlikely.”
The priest smiled weakly, nodding like an imbecile. “Aye. Very unlikely.”
“The waters are calm for once, the weather fair. A shipwreck would have caused an alarm to be raised before now by the sentinels posted on the cliffs.”
The cleric swallowed hard. “Aye.”
Darroch hadn’t wanted to marry Isabel MacRain, but anger tightened his gut as he grappled with the inevitable truth. He’d been…
“She’s jilted ye,” his red-faced father declared, filling the narrow doorway with his glowering presence. “Away. We’ll nay wait any longer.”
The priest scurried off like a rat deserting a sinking ship.
Darroch had affixed a sprig of juniper to his clan badge as a token of respect for his unwanted bride. He ripped it from the pin and crumpled it in his fist. The juice from the berries stained his palm. “So too will run the blood o’ the MacRains for this insult,” he swore.
He left the kirk, threw down the mangled shrub and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot. Jaw clenched, he strode through the silent gauntlet of his fellow clansmen, already mounted and ready to leave. They’d come to congratulate a newly-married chief’s son, but now knew him as a man who’d been snubbed by a MacRain.
His humiliation would be the talk of the Isles. No doubt, they’d snigger about it in crofts as far away as the MacRain strongholds of Harris and Lewis.
He mounted Barra, dug his heels into the gelding’s flanks harder than was necessary and galloped back to Dun Scaith Castle, not caring a whit that the riders behind him were obliged to eat his dust.
*
Dungavin Castle, North Skye, Inner Hebrides
Isabel gripped the worn arms of the upholstered chair when her stepmother entered her chamber without knocking. The woman put her on edge at the best of times. She’d hoped her father would come to commiserate. “Any sign of them yet?” she asked, already knowing the answer and hating the desperation in her voice.
“Nay,” Ghalla MacRain replied with a weary sigh, patting her immaculately-braided jet-black hair. Isabel suspected her aging stepmother used some concoction to produce a color more suited to a younger woman, but she constantly boasted ’twas natural.
“Yer father’s fit to be tied,” Ghalla droned on, her voice dripping censure. “The hall’s full o’ kin waiting to move to the chapel for the nuptials. It’s been three hours, the whisky’s all gone and they’re getting restless. Many are whispering ye’ve been jilted.”
Isabel got to her feet and paced awkwardly in the heavy red gown she planned to burn at the earliest opportunity. Clutching at a straw, she gave voice to the unlikely possibilities she’d considered. “Perhaps his horse has gone lame, or his boat run aground if they came by sea to avoid the mountains.”
Her stepmother sat heavily in the chair she’d vacated and studied her fingernails. “They reckon there’s been no ships sighted at all and the sea’s as calm as a pond. Yer father’s seething with humiliation.”
Isabel came to an abrupt halt. “He’s humiliated? How does he think I feel?”
Ghalla picked invisible lint off her grey skirts. “Weel, cook keeps pestering him about what to do with the copious amounts o’ food prepared for the wedding banquet later, and yer father reckons if ye hadna made such a fuss about not wanting to wed Darroch MacKeegan…”
“He blames me for this?” Isabel exclaimed, suspecting her scheming stepmother had likely planted the notion in her father’s head.
“Wheest, everyone from Skye to Lewis kens yer low opinion o’ the mon. Mayhap, he’s decided he doe
sna wish to marry a lass with a waspish tongue.”
Isabel clenched her jaw, infuriated by Ghalla’s insinuation. It was true she’d complained loud and long about being betrothed to a man she’d never met, but many a chief’s daughter faced the same fate. She’d only repeated what many said of Darroch MacKeegan; that he was a pirate who raided ships plying their trade up and down the Minch and that he’d swived every lass from the Isle of Mull to the Shetlands.
“A laird’s son doesna renege on a marriage alliance arranged to settle a long-standing feud—unless he wants to perpetuate the conflict,” she muttered.
“Weel, goes to show ye canna trust a MacKeegan,” Ghalla gloated.
“He’s nay much of a mon if a few brickbats from a mere lass can upset him,” she replied spitefully.
Ghalla heaved her broad behind out of the upholstered chair. “I’d best go see what I can do to calm yer father—and the cook.”
Isabel glared at the heavy oaken door as it closed behind her stepmother. What Rory MacRain saw in the woman and her sniveling son, she’d never understand. Isabel could well imagine her mean-spirited stepbrother eagerly spreading the rumor she’d been jilted. A shiver stole up her spine every time she glimpsed a glint of something evil that lurked in Tremaine’s dark eyes.
“Ye’re more concerned with the cook than ye are with my broken heart,” she muttered.
Sharing the Pain
In normal circumstances, Darroch could happily ride for miles on his beloved Barra. The wind off the sea and the grandeur of the snowcapped Cuillins always blew away whatever ills plagued him. However, the distance from the kirk to his home was too short and he was still seething with anger when he espied Dun Scaith. Perched high above the sea, the brooding castle could never be considered welcoming. Its stark grandeur suited his mood. He fumed that he’d paid scant attention to the rumors of Isabel MacRain’s complaints he wasn’t a suitable bridegroom. Clearly, the wench never had any intention of honoring the betrothal. The whole scheme was designed to embarrass him and his clan.
His horse clattered across the walled bridge between the rugged shore and the rock on which the fortress sat. Many a steed balked at venturing onto the arched bridge, but the roan was used to it. Paying no mind to the white water swirling over the crags below, Darroch dismounted on the drawbridge and threw the reins to Michael. “Take him,” he said gruffly.
The fury on his face was evidently enough to banish the stable lad’s usual grin. After all, the servants were expecting the return of newlyweds.
He thrust open the creaking door and took the stone steps up to the castle proper two at a time, pressing his hands against the rough walls to hasten his ascent. At the top, he strode into the Great Hall. The servants preparing for the wedding banquet ceased their chatter and eyed him with puzzled expressions.
“’Tis cancelled,” he declared, hoping his voice didn’t betray the humiliation burning in his gut. He gestured to the trestle tables laden with platters of mutton and venison. “Clear this lot out.”
They might not be aware of the reason but knew better than to question Darroch MacKeegan when he was in a temper. They scurried immediately to gather up trenchers and tankards—until his father’s gravelly voice interrupted. “Nay. We’ll sup first. Then plot our revenge.”
The thirst to retaliate rose like bile in his throat; but not yet. Ignoring his dust-caked father, he turned on his heel and left, desperate to pour out his heart to the one person he knew would listen.
*
Determined not to cry, Isabel sat in the chair, staring into nothingness until the shadows lengthened and the wind suddenly ceased howling. She noticed absently that her fingers were smudged brown from the bare stem of a sprig of heather. Spirals of purple flowers lay in her lap. She must, at some point, have unpinned the MacKeegan clan emblem from her plaid and torn it to shreds. She tossed the twig into the empty hearth, shook off the petals and wiped her hands on the red silk gown.
She may have maligned Darroch MacKeegan, but, in truth, like any young lass, she’d looked forward to being a married woman, daunting as the prospect was.
She began pulling out the innumerable hairpins keeping her long braids coiled precariously atop her head. She’d protested that she had too much hair for such an arrangement, but Ghalla had insisted. The resulting headache only added to her torment. Perhaps once the pins were out, the numbing fog might clear from her brain.
The first tears threatened as the last hateful hairpin was finally removed, and the braids loosened, but her spirits lifted when she heard Blue whimper out in the hallway. At last, someone who would understand her pain. She roused from her stupor, chuckling as she opened the door to allow the boarhound entry. “I’m thinking o’ ye as a person now,” she confessed, bracing herself.
As expected, the beloved dog landed two gigantic front paws on her shoulders and swiped a rough tongue across her face.
“Danmhairgis,” she whispered, hugging him close.
He tilted his head and perked up his ears, apparently curious as to why she’d used his proper Danish name and not the nickname everyone called him because of his blue coat, unique to the breed.
“My one true friend,” she said. “Ye can always bring a smile to my face. Even today.”
She eased him down, wandered over to the bed and collapsed atop the pale green damask counterpane, too weary and sick at heart to take off the hateful gown. In his usual dignified manner, Blue easily levered his big body onto the mattress and lay beside her.
“He didna come, the MacKeegan,” she confided, stroking the dog’s smooth coat.
Her pet nuzzled her hand.
“Ye ken I didna want to wed him, but ’tis humiliating just the same,” she confessed. “I wish to marry and have a family, but now…” The words stuck in her throat. “Who kens what Da will do? Whatever Ghalla tells him, I suppose.”
Blue growled.
“Ye’re right,” she said. “The woman’s a menace.”
*
Darroch paused at the planked door of his private chamber and inhaled deeply. Hand on the latch, he rehearsed what he might say to blunt Kyla’s disappointment.
As soon as he entered, she left her nanny’s side and ran into his arms. He lifted her, calmed by the scent unique to little lasses. She snaked her arms around his neck and clamped her legs around him.
“Nighean,” he whispered, not certain how to tell his daughter the mother he’d promised wasn’t coming.
She leaned back and frowned, as if sensing something was wrong.
“Isabel MacRain changed her mind,” he explained, heartbroken when she cupped his face in her hands. It intensified his resolve to wreak vengeance on the woman who’d undermined his daughter’s faith in his promises.
The bairn brushed her thumbs beneath his eyes, as if he were the one who needed consoling. Her love for him was humbling.
“We still have each other,” he rasped.
She kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them to his mouth.
An hour or two spent with the bairn would soothe his ruffled feathers and help clear his muddled thoughts, but vengeance called. He pried her arms from around his neck. “’Twill be for the best if ye and Nanny Margaret sup in the chamber this night. The hall will be no fit place for ye.”
Nodding her understanding, Margaret took the child.
Kyla held out her arms, tears welling in green eyes wide with pleading.
“I’ll come to kiss ye goodnight later,” he promised, wishing he could stay.
Jaw clenched, he shut out the sound of her wailing and strode back to the hall, wrestling with the irony that he found more joy in conversations with a bairn who never spoke than with anyone else of his acquaintance.
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About Anna
Thank you for reading KILTY PLEASURES. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the book, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.<
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Please visit my my Facebook page, Anna Markland Novels and my website, www.annamarkland.com, where you can download a FREE novella.
Tweet me @annamarkland, and join me on Pinterest. Follow me on BookBub and be the first to know when my next book is released.
In my bestselling, page-turning novels passion conquers whatever obstacles a hostile medieval world can throw in its path.
Besides writing, I have two addictions-crosswords and genealogy, probably the reason I love research.
I am a fool for cats.
My husband is an entrepreneur who is fond of boasting he’s never had a job.
I live on Canada’s scenic west coast, but I was born and raised in the UK and I love breathing life into history.
Escape with me to where romance began.
I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.
I’d like to acknowledge the assistance of my critique partners, Reggi Allder, Jacquie Biggar, Sylvie Grayson, and LizAnn Carson.
Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3) Page 21
