by Cathy MacRae
“Now ye will marry another, and I must set my feet on the path the Prince dictates.” His use of his sire’s title held no affection.
His hands rose to her shoulders, and he eased from their embrace. His resigned smile lit a slow burn of emotion Arbela didn’t recognize.
His manner became formal, distant. “Thank ye for your kind and wise words of support. I shall dearly miss ye. Prepare yourself, Arbela, as I fear your life will soon change as drastically as mine has.”
Still stunned by Philippe’s declaration, near panic grabbed her throat. Surely her sire had not contracted her marriage without consulting her first. Philippe shook his head at her wild look.
“I have not much to tell. My sire only says a missive has arrived for your father. It seems the baron is faced with a decision about your family’s future.”
He grimaced at her expression of dismay. “Go. My sire and yours have requested your presence. I shall see you later.”
Arbela resumed her passage through the halls, seeking her father and brother. A man she recognized as the prince’s castellan approached and bowed.
“My lady, the Prince requests ye attend him in his private chambers. Your sire and brother are already present and await your arrival.”
Arbela nodded, hiding her fearful anticipation with a tilt of her chin. “Please lead the way.”
He bowed again and motioned her to follow. They wove their way through the lavish palace, passing several guards before arriving at an ornately carved set of doors. The castellan opened the doors and bid her enter. Arbela stepped into an opulent room filled with artwork, beautiful tapestries and rugs that begged her leave her shoes at the door and tread barefoot upon them.
“My son does not exaggerate your daughter’s beauty, MacLean.”
Arbela’s attention turned to the tall man wearing a patch over his missing eye, though the patch did not cover his terrible scar. This was the Prince of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, the man people referred to as le Cyclope due to his disfigurement. She offered him a deep curtsy.
“Rise,” he commanded. “Rise and dine with us. Your sire has some news he wishes to share with ye.”
Arbela rose gracefully. “Thank ye, my lord.”
She took a seat in the heavily carved chair next to her father and Alex. Though he smiled indulgently, her father’s mien suggested his thoughts were miles away.
“What is it, Da?” she asked, her voice low.
Her words seemed to draw him back into the room, his expression one of deep contemplation. “It seems I am to be the MacLean chief if I wish to return to Scotland. Both my brothers have passed and the lairdship has fallen to this auld man.” He gestured vaguely at himself.
Though she hadn’t known what news to expect, this revelation certainly wasn’t something she’d considered. The County of Tripoli was their home. “What about Batroun?” she asked.
The Prince responded. “If your father decides to accept, we would agree upon a seneschal to oversee the holding and protect the road, but the title remains with your father. We have discussed Alexander staying behind to take control once he reaches his majority.”
“I told Father I prefer to accompany him to Scotland, but will serve the Prince if requested.” Alex nodded to their father and bowed to the Prince, telling her they’d already discussed this and come to an agreement.
Bohemond smiled at this diplomatic response and turned his intense gaze to her. “Your father has requested I assume your guardianship. Ye would live here in Antioch until a suitable marriage can be arranged.”
Arbela’s heart plummeted yet again at the mention of marriage, and the same fear that gripped her on the balcony returned with a vengeance. The thought of being separated from her father and her twin was too much to bear.
She dipped her head to the Prince, her gaze on the floor. “’Tis quite generous, my lord, but I wish to remain with my sire and brother.” Her gaze rose until it met the one eye of the Prince and held it, willing him to cede to her wishes.
His face broke into a grin, and he handed over a coin to her da. “Ye were right, MacLean. Most young noblewomen would leap at the chance to have my sponsorship and pick from among our best young noblemen. But ye know your daughter well.”
Donal winked at her and tucked the coin into his belt then turned to his liege. “Then it is settled, my lord? We return to Batroun with fifty knights to replace the ones who will travel with me to Scotland, and my sister by marriage, should she wish to travel with us. I will install Giordy as seneschal.”
“That is acceptable, MacLean. If Zora wishes to remain, she will have my protection.” The prince grimaced. “Though I do not have to tell ye, I dislike the idea of not having ye at my southern flank when the Turks finally decide to rid themselves entirely of Latins.”
Donal grinned. “Och, ye’ve gotten the best fighting years I’ve to offer. I’m more of a burden now that I’m entering my dotage. As agreed, I will recruit lads to yer cause once we arrive in Scotland. My ship will carry them back, along with what trade goods we can gather.”
“Ship? Ye have a ship, Father?” Arbela’s brows rose at this bit of news.
“Aye. A new design of Venetian construction. Ye will get to know her well, as we will spend the rest of this year and part of the new aboard her.”
Arbela inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the rich scents of myrrh and jasmine incense. A dull throb shot through her neck and shoulders as she released all the fear and worry she’d carried the past five days. However, she knew her sire, and this news merely brought her a short reprieve. More than injury or death itself, she feared facing a lifetime under a husband’s rule. She must find a way to maintain her freedom. If she failed to produce a plan, her father would eventually have his way.
Chapter 4
Four months later
Near Ayr, Western coast of Scotland
Wintery winds carried no promise of spring, though they were already three months into the new year. White mists hovered low over the sea, weakening the sun’s rays, robbing its warmth. Arbela huddled within a heavy velvet cloak lined with luxuriously fine mohair, but the damp, cold air slipped its icy fingers through the fabric as surely as a dagger through diaphanous silk. Her brocade tunic over thickly-woven silk trousers hardly provided protection in this cold, damp climate.
“Does it ever warm in this godforsaken place?” she muttered. She gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering, looking forward to a fireplace and warm bath once they reached the king’s residence at Ayr. She eyed her brother and father with disgust as they stood, feet braced apart to absorb the swell of the ship, cloaks thrown back over their shoulders, embracing the cold.
“We will be ashore soon,” her da replied, noting the discomfort she struggled to hide. He surveyed the coastline. It appeared first as a dark stain against the fog, then the breeze parted the mists, revealing the shore. He inhaled deeply, shoving his chest outward. “’Tis a fine Scottish morn!”
“Refreshing,” Alex agreed. “Though I keep waiting for the day to heat, and it ceased doing that some time back.”
“It isn’t home,” Arbela murmured sadly, adjusting her hijab to cover her ice-cold nose.
“’Tis yer home now, lass,” Donal said. Arbela frowned at the sympathy in his eyes “A right proper woolen plaide to keep out the wind and ye’ll be right as rain.”
“Do not mention rain, Da,” she moaned. “’Tis all this sky offers. Cold and rain. In more abundance than I’ve seen in my entire life.”
“Keeps the land green,” he replied cheerfully.
“I think ye would look grand in the checkered wool I’ve seen the ladies wear,” Alex teased. Arbela lunged at him, striking a glancing blow to his shoulder.
“Plaide!” their sire roared.
“I do not see ye changing your attire, brother,” Arbela groused. He wore full trousers of linen, and an overtunic of dark red velvet, embroidered in gold at the neck. His cloak was made of a heavier version of mohair
than her own. He looked dashing and youthful and vibrant—and totally at ease with his new environment.
A grin split his face. “The ladies like my clothing just fine.”
Arbela sighed. ’Twas plain to see he and their da relished the trip to their new home. And if she did not wish to be sent back to Prince Bohemond’s care and choice of a husband, she would learn to live in the cold, damp reaches of this wretched place called Scotland.
* * *
The fire roared, but its warmth dissipated only a few strides away from the hearth. Arbela had the serving girls place her tub within this space, and steam from the water rose to mingle with tendrils of smoke that escaped a poorly drawing chimney.
She was careful to keep her thoughts to herself, but her first days in Scotland were not pleasant. The other women dressed differently, their skin a pale contrast to her own dusky complexion, enhanced by the kohl she used to rim her eyes. The close-fitting sleeves of their linen-lined woolen gowns covered their arms into points down the backs of their hands, while Arbela’s full-sleeved cloak fell away reveal the intricate henna designs Zora had painstakingly applied to her hands—a decoration the court women had viewed much as if she had leprosy. She was rarely warm, and the food lacked the spices she enjoyed.
Arbela leaned her head on a thickly folded towel she’d placed on the narrow rim of the tub. Her dressing gown hung from a peg near the hearth to warm, the silk threads of the heavy brocade shimmering in the firelight. This was their last night at King Alexander’s castle in Ayr, and she knew well enough the evening would be raucous and long, with feasting going on into the night. With a sigh, she rose and began drying herself, henflesh prickling on her backside as she faced the hearth. Toros and Garen entered on the heels of the maid assigned to her during her stay. Garen stepped forward for Arbela’s pat.
“Ye are a good girl—oh!” Arbela jumped as Toros’s cold nose touched her bare backside. “Naughty boy!” she complained. “Your nose is colder now, and no more appreciated than it was when the air was hot and dry.”
The maid hurried across the room and helped Arbela into her robe. Warmth from the heated fabric enveloped her, and she breathed a blissful sigh.
“Which shall ye wear, Arbela?” Zora asked, glancing pointedly at the garments laid out on the bed. Arbela padded across the tapestry she’d pulled from the wall two days earlier and spread on the floor, hating the bare, cold wooden boards under her feet. One more thing for the courtiers to gossip about when she was gone—if they didn’t already.
She halted beside the bed, toes digging into the heavy fringe border of her invented carpet, as she perused at her choices. “Someone has offered her gown so I will feel less awkward?” she asked, eying the unfamiliar robe.
The dark rust velvet tunic was lined with fur, its linen kirtle a soft cream devoid of embellishment. Compared to Arbela’s court dress, it rested on the coverlet like a sparrow next to a peacock.
“Did my da or brother suggest this?”
Zora shook her head. “No.”
Arbela considered the only other person whose opinion she would entertain. Twelve-year-old Joan of England, bride of King Alexander of Scotland, had clapped with delight when introduced to Arbela and her finery the day before. Dizzying hours later the queen had at last tired of peppering Arbela with questions about the Levant, thrilled to hear Arbela’s tales. ’Twas unlikely the queen had invited a change of clothing.
“I will dress as befits the daughter of the Baron of Batroun,” she declared quietly. The serving girl leapt to sudden usefulness, clearing the proffered gown from the bed, setting a large candelabrum close to the table where Zora would help her dress.
Arbela fingered the heavy silk garment, finding fault with the intricately woven blue and cream pants and tunic. “I wish to wear the red.”
“But, Arbela, ’tis for your wedding!” Zora objected, shocked.
“I doubt any here will attend my wedding. And I do not intend to leave this court without making an impression. If they wish to turn up their noses at my attire, let them do so with envy. I weary of disapproval.”
With a slight incline of her head, Zora whisked away the blue salwar and thawb and produced the requested garment, brushing her hand lovingly over the heavy embroidery sparkling with tiny gold discs and precious stones.
Zora helped her into the salwar, the heavy silk brocade trousers cool against her legs. The yards of fabric fell gracefully, caught at her ankles in embroidered cuffs.
The tunic stopped mid-calf to reveal the lower portion of the trousers, its silk shimmering in the candlelight. The cloth was weighty with embellishments, the modestly sweeping neckline a’ twinkle with gold thread and pink and green stones surrounding large, perfect pearls like petals of magnificent flowers. At Arbela’s nod, Zora placed a priceless choker of pink sapphires, diamonds and pearls about her neck. Zora reached inside a chest for the matching veil, but Arbela stayed her hand.
“I will save that for my wedding.” Meeting Zora’s gaze, she indicated a deep pink hijab. “That will do. ’Tis too cold for a thin veil.”
Zora wrapped the silk about Arbela’s head and neck, nestling it beneath her chin in a narrow swath, the better to show off the incredible necklace. Pink and white stones dripped from the choker in tiers on either side of a single, spectacular pink sapphire that touched the tops of her breasts. A wide band of stiffened, embroidered fabric with a fringe of small gold beads fell across her forehead. Zora bent close, applying a smudge of kohl around her eyes.
She held up a small, framed piece of mirrored metal. “Does this please ye?”
“Yes.” Arbela’s short reply earned her a hard look from her aunt. “I am very pleased,” she amended. “And I do not believe I shall put the house of Batroun to shame.”
* * *
Late the following day, off the coast of the Isle of Mull
“Sails ahoy!”
Arbela raised a hand over her eyes and gazed upward at the man in the top castle. His arm stretched toward the south and west where two single sail vessels approached. Making her way to the weapons rack, Arbela collected her bow and climbed the ladder to the aft castle where her da and the captain of the Falcone di Mare stood.
“What is it, Da?” Garbed in a warmer version of her normal fighting garb, Arbela again shielded her eyes to better see the approaching ships.
“Likely birlinns. ’Tis similar to the pirate galleys we saw near Gibraltar. They are a long boat, low to the water with a single large square sail. Twelve to sixteen oars.”
She peered across the water. “Pirates again?”
“Aye. Without a doubt. Probably laid in wait in a cove off Mull for a lumbering merchant cog to come by. Easy pickings for men who are willing to work the oars. They’ve yet to meet a ship like our wee Sea Falcon. We shall teach them the same lesson the Moorish pirates learned.”
Her father smiled like a child full of mischief. They both knew what Captain Benicio and his ship could do. They were well prepared.
“Alex! Kade! Man the ballistae.”
Alex and Kade unlocked the machines, allowing them to be tilted and fired. Two giant crossbows mounted on stands to the aft castle deck hurled five-foot-long bolts with either iron heads, stones, or iron balls. The creak of the windlasses turning, drawing the oversized bows back, cut through all other sounds on deck. A third ballista awaited on the fore castle. They sailed prepared.
“My lady?”
Arbela leaned over the rail amidships. Shaw, her father’s squire, had attached a bucket of fire arrows she’d made to a rope hanging from the railing. She smiled at him and pulled the bucket up. One of the crew lit a small brazier for archers to light the arrows when the time came.
Ten of her father’s knights joined her along the aft rail, bows at the ready once the ships drew near. Arbela glanced at the aft mast, the triangular lateen sail taut and pushed out to starboard. This new design, coupled with the massive square mainsail, allowed the Venetian ship to sail into the wind, a
feat most ships were unable to accomplish. The wind blew mostly from a westerly direction. Since the birlinns approached from Mull, the wind was directly at their backs, allowing the smaller, faster ships to gain on them at a frightening pace.
“Steady now, lads. The only difference between these sea rats and the ones we sank in the Mediterranean is the color of their skin. Make no mistake, they have chosen the wrong ship to approach. We shall send them to a watery grave and let them explain their choice of vocation to their Creator.”
Several faces broke into smiles. ’Twas something her father did well, boosting his men’s confidence and easing the tension before the coming storm of battle. Gordon, her father’s largest knight, drew his great bow and nocked an arrow. Aiming high, he released the bolt toward the approaching ships. It landed a few boat lengths in front of the birlinn’s prow. Archers drew fire arrows and prepared to light them.
“Release the first volley, Alex.”
Alex triggered his ballista at his father’s calm order, sending the rounded stone flying through the air. The splash a few feet from the lead boat meant battle was close at hand. The windlass creaked as Alex reloaded his weapon, the sound twisting the anticipation as surely as it did the sturdy rope. The wind was to their advantage. Though the smaller boats traveled faster, their hands must continue to row while the MacLean crew could fire at will.
“Fire!” Donal MacLean roared over the thundering flap of wind in the sails. Alex’s next shot landed on the deck of the lead ship amid screams of injured men and those who were at once shocked and furious at the seaborne ambuscade racing toward them. Kade’s shot immediately followed, the creak and crash of splintering wood ringing across the water.
The first volley of fire arrows, aimed at the sails and rigging, met with partial success. Half landed harmlessly in the water, trailing wisps of steam marking their fate. Arbela refrained from firing as the distance was yet too great for her. Though she could not fire a bolt as far as the men beside her, she was as accurate as any in her da’s company.
