A Highlander’s Terror_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story

by Emilia Ferguson

  I'd rather be out here in the cold than in there with all that condescending!

  She felt impatient. She knew she shouldn't be – all Arthur was doing was being polite, after all – but she couldn't help it. His presence wore on her and she found she longed to be away from him. He was like a cage, suffocating her.

  I am not a person who can be cosseted. I am like one of our falcons, in the mews. I feel the same fierce joy as them, on being free.

  She wished somebody in her life could understand that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN EDINBURGH

  IN EDINBURGH

  You know, Seamus...I hate court.”

  Rufus – Sir Rufus Invermore – called it laconically over his shoulder as he and his steward walked up the stairs to their lodgings.

  “I know, sir,” Seamus commented. He was a thin-faced, earnest fellow, learned and capable. Rufus found him a pleasant companion. The relationship between them was more like friendship than like that of master to servant. At least, for him it was.

  “I hate the pomp, the boring audiences, the...whoops, sorry milord...the manners...” he sighed as he bumped into someone coming down the stairs.

  “Yes, sir,” Seamus said quietly.

  “I hate the...oh! Here we are,” he said, reaching a cleanly sanded door. “This is it, yes?”

  “I think so, sir. Number three from the end, yes?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Well, then!” Rufus grinned at the man and stepped back, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let's get inside! I could do with a good wash.”

  Seamus nodded and walked in ahead of his master, who had just unlocked the door – an unheard-of breach – staggering through with his armor.

  “There, milord.”

  “Yes,” Rufus grinned. “Thank you. Now, let's get that bath drawn and then go and eat! I feel like a Norseman who's been stuck up in the rigging since Norway.”

  “I don't think they had them, sir.”

  “What?” Rufus asked, raising a brow.

  “Rigging, sir.”

  “Oh.” Rufus blinked. “Well, maybe they did, maybe no. I'm very hungry! I trust the servants of Her Majesty get fed?”

  “Yes, sir,” his steward nodded, carrying his greaves to the table in the corner, leaving the heavy plate on the chest at the bed's end, where he'd dropped it.

  “Well, then!” Rufus grinned expansively. “Off you go to get a bite to eat and I'll change into something more respectable and get one of my own. See you in the hour, Seamus.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When he'd gone, Rufus sat down heavily. He sighed. He was weary after the long ride. Weary and saddle-sore. Restless as well. He stood, walking to the window. The city stretched out far below the tower, the castle itself built on the hill that overlooked Edinburgh. From here he could see the spires of the cathedral, tall, thin and majestic, and all the gray sandstone of the vast, populous town, stretching out to the margins of the woodlands. Somewhere distant, he thought he could see the sea.

  Glad I won't be on a ship again. Turns my hair white, it does. He rolled his thickly muscled shoulders under his jerkin, relieving the ache and tension of the ride.

  Turning his mind from the thought of being drowned in full armor should the ship sink, he gave his attention over to the chamber in which he found himself. It was very elegant. Wood-paneled, with a wooden floor and high, arched windows, the place was furnished with wooden clothes chests, an elegant carved nightstand and a silvered mirror. The vast bed was caparisoned and covered with a thick linen coverlet, all clean and crisp and fresh-scented.

  I haven't slept in a bed like that for a while.

  He smiled to himself. The bed was vast, too big for one person alone. He felt his cheeks lift in a smile and chuckled, softly, to himself.

  It's not likely you'll have much opportunity for bedding people here. He sighed. There was not the time to go seducing the serving-staff and he wasn't the sort to use his rank to force his attentions on others.

  “My lord?” he heard Seamus call.

  “Yes?” he opened the door impatiently. A wooden bath appeared, followed by Seamus, who was carrying it in.

  “You said a bath, sir?”

  “Ah, yes! Indeed. If you could leave it there? I trust someone's bringing water up for it?” he grinned.

  His servant rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  Rufus chuckled and took off his tight jerkin, rolling his shoulders in anticipation of a bath. When a maid appeared a few moments later with a vast pail of boiling water, he couldn't help but notice she was comely enough. He gave her a smile and she looked up at him with pale blue eyes.

  “Your bath, sir.”

  He nodded. “My thanks.”

  She looked surprised and, as he disrobed and plunged into the water, hoped someone was coming up with another kettle - this just covered his knees – that was when he realized the maid was likely not used to kindness.

  Some people, he thought, grumbling as he shifted in the water, letting the warm water soothe his aching, weary muscles. I don't understand the sort who's courteous to others, but not everyone.

  He groaned in relief and closed his eyes. When the door opened and a manservant, eyes big and horrified, came in with another pail, he nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said appreciatively as the man poured the water over him. The bath finally full, Rufus leaned back and shut his eyes, letting his cares drain away.

  The crossing from Calais is something I want to forget.

  He leaned back in the water and let it carry away the memories of the salt spray, the close confines, the misery of men used to free roaming on land confined to a deck the size of his hall. He let it all – the unpleasantness of a springtime crossing - drain from him.

  I'm here now. At her majesty's court, awaiting my marching orders.

  Returning home from the Levant was surprisingly saddening. Rufus had joined the Knights of St. James as a boy, against his father's wishes for him to stay and prepare himself for taking over the barony. He had come to love the regular, predictable life of the knight's hostel, which, for all its laws, allowed a man some freedom. He loved the blue skies and the rolling, pebble-strewn lands of the region, where one could see for miles, the blue arc of the sky broken only by the shadow of a hawk, hovering on his hunting.

  Now I'm here, in the blasted rain with the blasted snow, trying hard to keep warm.

  He closed his eyes and tried not to be angry with his father. If he wasn't afraid of leaving his lands unguarded on his demise, he would never have tried to call him back. However, he had summoned him here, which was why Rufus had chosen to join the Royal household guard, rather than simply return home to the wet, cold fortress in the pine-populated hills and the tedium of administration.

  I'm no manager. I'm a free man. It was a dark, sour thought and raised a bilious rage in him.

  He let the water wash away his worries and looked up at the ceiling above, trying very hard to let the restless anger that drove him finally pass. He didn't want to be vexed all the time. Nevertheless, he did resent his father's summons back.

  “Oh, it can't be helped,” he sighed. He noticed that the light was fading outside the window and deduced it was around four of the clock. When the cathedral bells started to peal, sonorous and distant, he realized he was right.

  He swore and jumped out of the bath, realizing that he had a meeting with Sir Ivan, the head of the Guard, almost now.

  “Oh, blast,” he said, reaching for his chest of clothes. He grabbed the first clean tunic and trews out, shaking the stalks of herbs from the folds of the best doublet. He dragged them on automatically, not worrying for the effect in his haste.

  As he turned in the doorway, wondering where his best cloak had got to, he caught sight of himself in the silver mirror.

  “Oh, for Heaven's sake.” he sighed.

  He was wearing white trews, a cream tunic and over it a bi-colored doublet of pale and dark satin. He looked ridicu
lous, even by his own standards.

  “I can't go down like that.”

  He went to the clothes chest again and dragged out his favorite dark tunic, the one someone had once told him brought out the color of his eyes, and pulled it on. The next trews in the box were black, or very dark brown – he wasn't sure, never had been sure, come to it – and hauled them on instead. Then, pairing it with a wool jerkin in a similar dark brown, he ran out with his thick brown cloak thrown over one arm. He hurried up the long hallway of the palace, heading in the direction he assumed was right.

  He was feeling the first shreds of panic as he walked briskly down the arched hallway. He saw a young priest and stopped to ask him directions.

  “That way to the receiving chamber, aye?”

  The priest looked surprised. Shook his head. “Other way, sir.”

  “Oh...” Rufus closed his eyes, knowing the words that sprang into his head were not what he wanted to say before a priest. “Thanks,” he said instead. “Much obliged.”

  The young man grinned. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Good evening,” Rufus called over his shoulder and hurried up the other hallway. At the end, he reached a tall, spiral stair.

  “Oh, no.”

  He didn't give much for his chances of getting up those stairs in a few minutes flat. They looked steep, rough, and challenging. He sighed. I'll make a run up.

  He headed up the stairs at top speed, keeping to the left.

  That was when he ran into the person coming down.

  “Oh...” he closed his eyes, holding back whatever swear word came to mind. Then he opened his eyes, preparing to give some curt courtesy to the administrator or lord or serving-man he'd knocked into. He stared.

  “Oh.”

  He was looking at a lady. The lady he was looking at was smaller than he by at least a head, with long curling black hair and red lips. She had easily the most magnificent face he had ever seen, with high cheekbones, full lips and a thin, straight nose. However, it was her eyes that made him gasp. With large, dreamy lids and thin brows, they were two sapphires so pure they would have graced the sword hilt of a Sultan. He stared at her.

  “My lady,” he said. He dropped into a massive bow, placing his hand his chest, other hand around behind his back. “Beg pardon.”

  The lady looked at him. Her lips were slightly parted and her blue eyes were wide. She looked in shock. Then abruptly her face closed. Her eyes, their radiant sapphire depths a moment ago so open, shuttered.

  “My lord,” she said thinly. “You will let me pass?”

  It was framed as a question, but it was an indirect order. Rufus stepped back before he'd even thought about it.

  “Milady.”

  He was staring after her. He knew his face must look stupid, with his mouth hanging open and his big eyes staring at her, but he couldn't help it – his chest was tight and he had forgotten how to breathe correctly.

  She walked a few paces and stopped. Turned and looked at him.

  “What?” she said.

  He blinked. His eyes must have glazed and he blinked them rapidly, and then shut his mouth again.

  “Sorry, milady,” he said, gulping for air. “Nothing.”

  She turned and walked off. Rufus stared after her.

  “I think the desert sun's finally got to me,” he muttered. “I'm seeing things.”

  They always said it would make a man go mad. Himself, he'd dismissed it as superstitious nonsense, but he knew differently now.

  Now I'm the one seeing genies in the sands.

  He couldn't believe he'd seen her. She must be some phantom, conjured out of a fevered brain. No one could truly look like that. No one had that slender, curved form, those sparkly eyes.

  “She felt real when I walked into her. She must be real.” he muttered.

  “Sir?” a voice said, from somewhere near his chin. It was a man's voice. It sounded uncertain.

  “Oh...” he closed his eyes. He was at the top of the stairs now and the man coming down, the gray-haired man in a gray tunic with flint-pale eyes and a grave face, was the master at arms. The head of the imperial Guard.

  “Sir Rufus.” he said flatly.

  “Indeed,” Rufus said tonelessly. “I mean, yes. Hello.”

  “Sir Ivan Graves,” the man said thinly. “Yer new commanding officer.”

  Rufus closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I mean, pleased to meet you. Excuse me. I'm having a long day. I think I'll retire early.”

  “Yes,” Sir Ivan said coldly. “See that you do. We start on the morrow. Five of the clock, in the chapel. For morning prayer.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rufus said dully.

  “And see that you're on time then.”

  Rufus didn't answer to that as the man pushed past him and headed quickly down the stairs. He closed his eyes and sighed. Nothing that had just happened made any sense.

  He had reported for his new placement too late. He met the cold, cheerless man under whom he was going to serve. He met him in the worst possible manner. He had made a fabulously bad first impression. He had also seen a woman made out of midnight and the cloth of his most feverish dreams.

  “I think I should go and lie down,” he said to himself.

  Before something else happens.

  As he walked back slowly to his apartment in the vast, winding hallways of the castle, he couldn't help a small smile lifting his lips. He might have had a long day. He might be tired to the point of madness. He might have just made the worst possible impression on his superior officer and lined himself up for a lifetime on probation. Yet he had also seen that beautiful lady. Now he knew that she existed. Not just in his dreams, but in the world. He knew she was somewhere in this castle. With any luck, he might even meet her again.

  That means life isn't so bad, after all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A CONTENTATION

  A CONTENTATION

  Amabel headed back to her chamber. She was shivering, head held high.

  How dare he?

  She closed the door behind her and leaned on it, trying to calm her thoughts. Her feelings were in turmoil, heart pounding in her chest. She could feel her pulse fluttering and her stomach shuddered as if a thousand wings beat there. However, she didn't feel scared or shocked. Not very, anyhow. She was mainly, if she thought about it, excited.

  She recalled the way the man had stared at her, his eyes looking into hers. Brown eyes, they'd been, deep, dark and strangely tender for all the brutish power of the man.

  And he was quite a powerful presence. His bulky body filled the stairwell, warm, muscled and earthy. Amabel had hesitated to walk past him, afraid of his strong grip. If he had been the sort who wished to harm her, he would have no cause to stop – she could not fight him. Yet he was strangely diffident.

  That was what had intrigued her. If not for his polite, almost deferential courtesy, she would have simply stalked past and felt only brief anger for his rude conduct. Instead, with that strange, almost frightened courtesy, he'd grabbed her interest.

  He's the first person who's ever looked at me like that.

  All things considered, she thought as she draped her shawl over her shoulders then sat down in the padded seat and stared broodingly into the fire, he was the first man who'd ever really looked at her.

  In comparison to the other men she knew – the likes of Arthur, Hamish, even dear Douglas – he was the only one who had looked her in the eye and met her face to face, without condescending and without dissemblance. He had been rude, but he'd addressed her as an equal, with the gloves off.

  And he'd looked at me like I stepped out of nowhere.

  It was a peculiar reaction, easily the strangest she'd ever inspired before. However, it was a reaction that made her heart thump and her blood sing in her ears. It was a good feeling. It made her feel happy.

  “I wasn't expecting much of that,” she said to herself. She reached for a poker and stirred the fire, watching idly as the sparks rose up th
e chimney with each stir. She had come alone to court – her father was settling business at his own father's estate, Buccleigh, a castle an hour's ride away. He’d join her as soon as his business was concluded, but for the moment, she was here alone. Except for her chaperone, of course. However, Glenna wasn't likely to restrict her overmuch. Older than her by only four years, Glenna was more of a companion than she would be a traditional chaperone.

  “Milady?” a voice called outside her chamber.

  “Yes, Glenna?”

  “Oh, there you are. I brought the new blue dress up...what is it?” Glenna's grave oval face was surprised. “You look...touched with fever, milady...you're not unwell.”

  “I'm very well,” Amabel said in a tight voice. She was surprised. Was she flushed? Was it that the stranger in the hallway had affected her that much?

  “Oh. Well, that's well, milady. I had news.”

  “Oh?” Amabel raised a brow. “Come, tell me the news,” she said, waving Glenna to the clothes chest at the foot of her bed. Glenna sat down shyly, and then turned to face her.

  “Well, milady, you know there's to be a masque here tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I know,” Amabel said, a tension filtering into her voice. She was not entirely happy about that. The thought of meeting Arthur, Bruce and Hamish on the dance floor was bad enough. The thought of them feeling they could take liberties as a result of wearing an excessively feeble disguise was more so.

  “Well, the master of ceremonies has said some servants may attend. It's tradition, so he said, for the high-ranking servants to come masked as well, and...” she trailed off, her big slate-colored eyes intense.

  Amabel nodded. “Of course you shall come,” she said without thinking about it. “You can have one of my gowns, of course,” she added with candid generosity.

  “What?” Glenna was staring at her, her face somewhere between disbelief and fear. “Oh, no, milady! I couldn't do that.”