The young man bowed, backing out through the door and stepping around the corner. The fiddler in the corner, gripping onto his violin and hanging his head sheepishly, said: “Will ye still be requiring me services, Lord?”
Lord Marcus nodded. “This won’t take long, my friend. Continue to play.”
The fiddler nodded, picking up his violin, placing his fingers on the strings, and resuming the solemn piece he had been playing before the young messenger had disrupted the proceedings.
The young man returned; the knight known as Lord Jessup standing at his side. Lord Marcus, looking at Lord Jessup through his peripherals, could sense a heated and eager composure in Lord Jessup. He had met the man only twice before and didn’t care for him all that much.
Lord Jessup bowed. “Lord Marcus,” he said. “Apologies for calling at such a late hour.”
Lord Marcus motioned him inside. “Come,” he said. “Tell me your troubles, Lord Jessup. You would not be knocking on my door if the matter was not pressing.”
Lord Jessup entered the room, the young man beside him bowing before leaving and closing the door behind him. Lord Jessup took a glance at the fiddler, disdain in his eyes once he realized the man was a Highlander. “Please tell me,” he said, “that you are not paying this fool for his services?”
Lord Marcus smiled wryly; his attention still focused on the fire in front of him. “Listen to how he plays, my friend. A man of his talents should not work for free.”
Lord Jessup opened his mouth to offer another retort—but he decided against it as he moved to the tray sporting several bottles of wine and glasses. He poured himself a cup, Lord Marcus leering at him for not asking permission.
“So, what,” Lord Marcus said, “is this matter ye wish to discuss with me?”
Lord Jessup, wine in hand, took a swig. “There has been an incident.”
Lord Marcus huffed. “Let me guess—several of our redcoats have gotten drunk and did something they shouldn’t have.”
Lord Jessup shook his head. “I wish it were the case. But unfortunately, the matter is much more dire than that.”
Lord Marcus’ interest was piqued. He sat up in his chair and placed his glass of wine on the wooden end table beside him. “Go on…”
“Several of my men,” Lord Jessup said, “were tracking down a Highlander who had stolen property from the Lord that I am tasked to. He escaped before they could track him down. As they set about returning to our castle, they were ambushed not far from a Highlander village by a group known as ‘The Scots.’”
Lord Marcus drew a breath. He had heard of the savages before. He had even sent several men at various points to track them down. The Scots had crept out of the woodwork every now and again to disrupt the English campaign in the Highlands—robbing, killing, and leaving the English to feel shamed at the fact that a group of Highlander bandits had gotten the best of them.
“The Scots,” Lord Marcus said. “Yes…I know of them well.”
“Well,” Lord Jessup said, swirling the wine in his glass, “one of my men survived the attack. He later died of his wounds, but it appears that he pulled the mask off of the leader—a woman.”
Lord Marcus turned his head and leered at Lord Jessup, completely appalled at the new information he had been told. “A woman?”
Lord Jessup nodded. “Yes. A woman. I was as shocked to hear about it as you are.”
“And I trust that you have been seeking her out, as well as the rest of the Scots?”
Lord Jessup was seething, his eyes turning into slits. “I went to the local village to try and question them, but the Highlanders in the tavern pulled their weapons and threatened me and my man. We were forced to leave. I plan on going back, rest assured.”
Lord Marcus stood from his chair, moving toward the fireplace and resting his arm on the mantle. “These Scots have been quite a nuisance already…but the fact that you have come to my chambers at this hour means that they have slighted us in some way that cannot go unaccounted for.”
Lord Jessup squeezed his glass with a white-knuckled grip, just on the cusp of breaking it. “Yes,” he said. “I am afraid they have committed a significant trespass—the man they murdered, one of them men they murdered, is the nephew of the King.”
Lord Marcus turned away from the fire, his eyes wide with shock. “Lord Henry of Sanford?” he said. “They killed Lord Henry?”
A nod. “They have. Word was sent to the King’s squire several miles from here. He assures me that the King will receive word soon.”
Lord Marcus rubbed his hands together. “He will want to exact revenge for this transgression.”
“My thoughts are the same.”
Lord Marcus leveled his gaze at Lord Jessup. “And you,” he said, “have failed at your first attempts to do so.”
Lord Jessup gritted his teeth. “I was caught off guard by those damn Highlanders in that tavern. As I said, I plan on returning.”
“But if the Scots, or this woman that leads them were, in fact, there, then you have missed your window of opportunity to bring them to justice.”
Lord Jessup huffed, placing down his wine glass and turning his attention to the window—ashamed, angered.
Lord Marcus waved his hand through the air. “What’s done is done,” he said. “There is no sense dwelling on the past…Who is she? This woman that leads the Scots? Did your man happen to get a name by chance?”
Lord Jessup turned away from the window. “He was lucky on that end, yes. He said that he had a run-in with this young lass about three months ago when he propositioned her near a Highlander village. He said her name is Rose MacGillis. But he died before he could describe her to me.”
Lord Marcus squinted. “This is the first I am hearing of her. But we have a name. That will help us in our search.”
Lord Jessup took a step toward Lord Marcus. “That is why I am here, my friendd. You are the King’s most trusted knight. There is not a campaign or execution that you have carried out that has not been successful.”
Lord Marcus smirked. “And you wish for me to track down these Scots and this MacGillis woman and bring them to justice?”
Another nod from Lord Jessup. “I do. Yes. As we said, the King will want justice for the death of his nephew. By the time word does reach him, I want to have these Highlanders brought to justice. I want to show the king that we are still as vigilant as ever.”
Lord Marcus wagged his finger. “No…you wish to make up for your mistakes in that tavern. You wish to keep your job and be spared from any kind of repercussions.”
Lord Jessup said nothing—but Lord Marcus knew he was absolutely correct.
Lord Marcus took his time, still staring into the fire as he stroked his stubble and thought through his options. “It has been quiet here recently,” he said. “There has not been much for me to do. Tracking down this woman and her clan sounds…engaging.”
“So, you will help me?”
Lord Marcus turned from the fire, walked over to Lord Jessup, and placed his hands on the man’s shoulder. “I shall, my friendd. I will organize my men and set about a search.”
Lord Jessup sighed. “Thank you, Lord Marcus. You are truly the most valued of the King’s men.”
Lord Marcus motioned to the door. “I will travel to this tavern shortly you spoke of and start my queries with the people there. Rest assured, I will find this woman and these Scots. We will bring a swift end to this. Meet me here in the morning. You shall be a part of the search party.”
“The morning it is,” Lord Jessup said as he placed down his wine and headed for the door, the fiddler watching him leave as he finished his song.
“Oh,” Lord Marcus said, holding up a finger as he showed Lord Jessup the way out. “One more thing...”
Lord Jessup waited.
“If you fail like this again,” Lord Marcus said, “I would be inclined to believe that the King will have me take your head for your stupidity. In fact, if you fail again in any way s
hape or form—I’ll kill you where you stand to circumvent any wasted messages to the King. Do we understand each other?”
Fear came over Lord Jessup’s face. He nodded timidly, not wanting to question or step to the man in front of him. “I understand,” he said. “I will not fail again.”
Lord Marcus patted the man on the back before closing the door behind him. He then moved to his chair, plopped down, picked up his wine, and stared once more into the fire. “Play another song,” he said to his fiddler. “Make it more solemn than the last.”
The fiddler nodded, plucking at his strings as Lord Marcus looked upon the dancing flames and thought of the blood he knew would be spilt in the coming days.
Chapter Five
Rose squinted as the first glimpses of the morning sun peaked through the billowing clouds in the sky overhead. She breathed in the early morning air, laced with a sweet-smelling optimism that offered her a brief moment of respite. I love me home, she thought. The beauty of it all reminds me why we fight…
Rose couldn’t recall the last good memory she had. The years had been tough on her, filled with strife and sorrow. It was what drove her to live the life she did, leading her band of Highlanders throughout the reaches of Scotland to claim what was theirs, to take what they needed to survive. She was so accustomed to living the life she did that she could not recall the last time she had rested. She could not pinpoint when she felt truly at home, truly at peace. But right now, as Sean led her and her band of survivors across the Highlands, she felt that maybe, just maybe, they would finally carve out a section of the terrain for themselves, a place where they could be free and live in peace.
Rose, riding alongside Sean with the rest of the Scots in tow behind them, approached a dip in the road that narrowed and led into a forested area. Sean held up his hand, indicating to the other riders that they needed to stop.
“Why are we stopping?” Rose inquired.
Sean dismounted his horse. “I just need a moment,” he replied. “There are thieves that linger in these woods. They tend to attack at night, so we may be alright if we proceed forth.”
Rose watched as Sean squinted and looked at the outskirts of the forested area, vase and expansive, the towering trees offering concealment for the dirt path that snaked through and stretched on for miles. “Do ye see anything?” she asked.
Sean shook his head. “Not a thing. As I said, the thieves that dwell in these woods only attack at night.” He glanced at the Scots, waiting patiently on their horses. “And our numbers are greater than what they are accustomed to ambushing—they prefer smaller numbers.”
Rose nodded. “Aye. Understood.”
Sean sighed. “How will ye plan on sustaining yerselves?”
Rose squinted. “What Do ye mean?”
“When we reach the remote area of the Highlands that I am taking ye to. There is plenty of area ripe for farming. It will be able to provide ye and yer people with sustenance for countless seasons, but ye will need seed and the other necessary provisions to make that happen. We should gae, now. The sun will be setting in just a few hours.”
Sean and Rose once again mounted their horses, Sean leading the way as they headed to the outskirts of the forest and began to trek through it. The sun overhead was cut off from the tops of the trees, only slivers of the light peeking through the tops and showing only scattered areas that were illuminated.
“Tell me more,” Rose said, “about this place where ye are taking us to…”
“It is remote, as I said. It is an area about that stretches about five miles long, six miles wide. Open fields. Quite expansive.”
“How come no one has ever settled there?”
“Because the journey is somewhat treacherous.”
Rose squinted. “Treacherous in what way?”
Sean drew a breath. “We are sure to encounter resistance along the way. Small pockets consistent of thieves, beggars, the English. No one has ever been bold enough to take the journey, save for now.”
Rose turned. “How Do ye know of this place?”
“I know much about the Highlands.”
“So, it would seem. Ye have apparently traversed much of the Highlands, Wanderer.”
Sean nodded. “Nearly all of it.”
Rose scanned Sean as he turned away, looking around the area for any signs of trouble. His rugged features were strikingly handsome. There was no doubt about that. But she could still sense a vulnerability about Sean, a hidden secret, a hidden past that he buried under a thick layer of grit and determination. She could see several faint scars on his hands that had come about from years of fighting. It was more than apparent that he was a seasoned warrior—but the soft glimmer in his eye indicated a significant amount of pain that he had not confronted, a burden that he carried with him every moment of every day.
“Tell me,” Rose said. “Why Do they call ye ‘the Wanderer.’”
Sean shrugged. “Because I wander, I suppose.”
“I have not heard of ye before.” She forked a thumb over her shoulder. “Me man Brandon has heard stories about ye.”
“Aye,” Brandon called out from behind them. “More than a few tales.” He perched forward on his saddle. “Tell me—is it true ye faced off against ten English redcoats and fought them all of with yer bare hands?”
Sean said nothing—and then Brandon started to laugh.
“It is true,” Brandon said, “isn’t it? There are many a tale about ye, Wanderer. They say ye are the most ruthless Scotsman in all of the land.”
Sean shifted his weight. “Ye should not believe all the stories ye here, me friend.”
Brandon pouted his lip. “Including the one where ye murder women and children for profit?”
Sean stopped his horse abruptly, the entire group of riders following suit as Sean turned and faced Brandon. Rose saw Brandon sporting a smirk, clearly eager to get a rise out of Sean.
Sean stared Brandon square in his eyes, his jaw clenched, and head held high. “Let’s get something straight here, me friend—I do not kill women and children.”
Brandon shrugged. “That is how the story goes, is it not?”
“The stories are false.”
“How can we be sure? We know not a thing about ye, Wanderer.”
Rose held up her hand. “That is enough, Brandon.”
Brandon wagged his finger, shaking his head repeatedly from side-to-side. “No,” he said defiantly. “I have every right to question this man. We are a loyal group, and I do not trust the actions of a man who kills and steals for profit.”
“How is that different from how ye live?” Sean said.
Brandon pressed a finger into his chest. “Because I,” he said, “because we only steal from the English. We do not kill those who have not attempted to Do the same to us. We are not heartless mercenaries who Do the elicit bidding of others for profit.”
Sean looked away. “If ye wish to find this area of the Highlands on yer own, be me guest. It is not me problem that ye cannot trust me. But I am of no threat to ye, Brandon. I am merely a guide, paid to Do a job.”
Brandon hopped off of his saddle, walking up to Sean as Sean did the same. Rose could sense that a fight was imminent, and she leapt off of her horse and stood between the two men as they came within inches of each other.
“That is enough,” Rose protested. “I said it before—I will not have this be how the journey will gae.”
Brandon crooked a finger in Rose’s face, scowling and looking at her with a pensive expression. “Ye have let a wolf into our pack, Rose. Choosing this man to lead us is an act of desperation.”
“I will not have me orders questioned, Brandon,” Rose said. “We are operating in desperate times, and desperate times call for desperate measures.”
Brandon gestured to Sean. “And if this savage proceeds to rob and kill us all in our sleep, what then? I wonder what song ye will be singing at that point.”
Rose clenched her jaw. She was more than fuming at Brando
n’s insubordination. She could feel the cracks in the group’s vigilance starting to form due to his relentless inquiries. “I am not going to say it again,” she said. “Get on yer horse. Bite yer tongue. I will not have this matter be discussed again.” She took a step forward, her eyes alive with fury. “Do ye understand me?”
Brandon kept his gaze level on Rose for a moment, discontent in his expression as he shook his head. “If this man,” he said, pointing at Sean, “double-crosses us—ye will be the one responsible for having let him in here.”
“I’m willing to take that chance.”
Legend of a Highland Lass: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance Page 5
