My father turns to me, and my hands are lost in his large, calloused grip. He gives me a soft smile.
“I will order the kitchens to lay a feast tonight,” he says. “And we shall enjoy a meal together.”
“I’ll look forward to it then.”
He gives me a slight bow and another smile before turning and striding off down the corridor that leads deeper into the castle. Off to a meeting with my uncle and brother, no doubt. I walk up the sweeping staircase that leads me to the second floor and walk down the corridor headed towards my room. Turning down the corridor that leads to my room, I quicken my steps when I see my door. Closing the thick oak door behind me, I throw the bolt and shut myself away inside.
It is truly nice to have my father here. It seems as if my uncle and brother are on their best behavior when he’s in residence. They tend to ignore me rather than go out of their way to berate and belittle me, which makes for a nice change of pace.
I lean against the stone still and gaze out the window. From my room, I can see over the wall that surrounds the bailey and can look out onto the gentle rolling hills that surround us. In the distance are the steep, green slopes and craggy peaks of the hills the locals refer to as the Galloway Hills. From up here, everything looks so peaceful. So serene. It is sad to think about how much blood has been spilled over those distant peaks.
All my father’s talk of marriage and matches brings a familiar melancholy down around me. I must admit, being up here north of the Wall has helped keep the issue of my marriage at bay. I’m not a fixture at Court, and being so far from London, people seem to have forgotten that I even exist. Which is just fine as far as I am concerned. I am in no rush to find a match and be married off.
Oh, there was a time when I dreamed of being married and having children of my own. When I was younger, I daydreamed about having enough children to fill a castle. But when I grew old enough to understand that my eventual marriage would be based on political and financial expediency rather than on love – mind, this was before our family’s loss of esteem – I grew less enthusiastic about the prospect of marriage at all.
When I think about marriage, I want to share a connection with my husband. I want him to make me think, make me laugh, and be my equal in every way. I want my husband to actually love me for me, rather than for what my family can do for his. I have many strange notions of what marriage should and shouldn’t be – one of them being that I desire my marriage to be based on mutual respect and love.
Ladies at Court would no doubt find those sentiments childish and appalling.
Turning away from the window, I walk to the small table where I keep some personal items. I pick up a small lacquered box and run my hand over the surface of the lid, admiring it as I always do, the intricately carved ornamental scrollwork. It’s a beautiful, one of a kind piece that my father gave me on my sixteenth birthday.
The hinges are well oiled and make no sound when I open it up and set the box back down. Plucking the flower out of it, I hold it up. Ten years old, and it still seems as new as the day it was given to me. Almost anyway. Time has taken a bit of a toll and has dulled some of the vibrancy. As did the fact that I had it specially preserved in lacquer and wax. But the fact that it looks as good as it does after ten years is nothing short of a miracle.
I think back to that day and to the cheeky, brash, beautiful boy who’d made me laugh. Who’d been so bold and carefree. I bring the flower to my nose, and even though it has long since lost its aroma, a smile still touches my lips as I think back through the years to that day in the market and feel my stomach flutter all over again.
Not for the first time over the past decade, as I hold the flower he gave me in my hand, I think back to the boy – Malcolm Dunbarr – and wonder whatever became of him. And also not for the first time, I wonder why he vanished the way he did. It’s that thought that puts a slight frown on my face and lets a wave of melancholy wash over me. Our meeting was brief and restrained, but I truly felt a connection with him I’ve never felt with anybody before. Or since.
I wish, more than anything, that I could have seen that brash boy again.
Chapter Five
Malcolm
The day is cool, the sky the color of slate, and the market is covered in a fine mist. It’s a fine Scottish day that hasn’t stopped the flurry of activity though. People are bustling about, some are crowding around stalls, loud voices fill the air as people argue or hawk their wares, and two men are throwing punches in the middle of an avenue, working out some disagreement between them.
All around me is the chaos and tumult of the Weykirk market, proving to me that some things never change. And it brings a smile to my face.
One thing that has changed though, is the sheer variety in the color of the tunics my people are wearing. It’s a very small thing to notice, but when I was sent away, most everybody still wore the same rough saffron-colored tunics. Now though, the tunics of my people seem to be of a better cut and quality. And they are in every shade of the rainbow. It shows me that despite the constant threat of war with England, my people – under my father’s leadership – have somehow still managed to thrive and prosper. Dyes for fabric are not an inexpensive commodity.
I stroll down one of the aisles, enjoying the flood of memories, and see so many familiar faces. But their eyes glide over me, nobody seeming to recognize me. Others stare at me openly, their gazes hard. Highlanders don’t typically trust outsiders, and I suppose to them, that’s what I am. I see old Craddock sitting behind his booth of product, smoking his pipe, and glaring at the unruly hordes. It is such a familiar scent; it truly is like looking through a window to the past. I give him a nod as I walk past his booth, and he gives me a scowl.
Ten feet down the aisle from his booth, I produce the apple from beneath my plain brown brat that I just filched from old Craddock and take a bite, quietly laughing to myself. I munch on the apple as I walk along, memories of my childhood pouring into my mind. Looking for a break in the chaos around me, I turn down a narrow row of booths and find myself standing before a small clearing, where I feel my breath catch in my throat. A woman sits upon that well-worn stump with a crowd of children around her feet. The wee ones sit in rapt attention as she tells them some grand tale.
But as I come down out of my nostalgic haze, I see the woman is blonde. She’s in a homespun, shapeless saffron-colored dress with a plaid brat around her shoulders. She looks to be twice my age and has a jagged scar that runs from the corner of her eye to her chin. I watch her tell fictions to the children as I finish my apple though, a dull pang of disappointment beating in my chest, then toss the core into a pen that contains some goats before walking away.
Although very little has changed about the market itself, I see that there has been a lot of change in my time away. There are quite a few more permanent structures than I remember there being. It’s as if an entire village has sprung up around the market. Turning down a wide avenue, I see a large stone and wood building seated at the far end.
“Well that’s new,” I mutter to myself.
Seeing the number of people coming and going from the building as well as the thick knots of people clustered about outside piques my curiosity, and so I head that way to see what all the fuss is about. As I approach, I see the wary, suspicious looks being cast my way and grin. I recognize the men in these old, cragged faces I see, but none of them seem to know me. It’s amusing but at the same time, sends a lance of pain straight through my heart knowing I’ve been gone so long, I’ve been forgotten. Erased from the recollections of everybody within my clan. And it makes me wonder if even my father will recognize me.
A flag bearing the crest of Clan MacDonaugh, my clan, hangs above the door to this grand new hall. The flag itself is a triangle of green, and our crest is a white rose wrapped around a long dagger situated above our clan words, Neart, Moit, Urram – Strength, Pride, Honor. The hall itself bears a striking resemblance to the Great Halls of the Northmen, the Vik
ing raiders who once ran roughshod through these lands. I wonder if it’s a conscious nod to a shared heritage or if the designer of this building did not know where their inspiration came from.
I mount the steps to enter the hall and find my way blocked by two men who look nearly identical. And it’s not just that they are dressed alike − they both wear black tunics cinched tight about the waist with a leather belt on which the sheaths for their swords hang, and dark-colored brats over their shoulders. But both have shaved heads and thick beards that fall to their chest. They’re thick, brawny, and look to me as if they were poured out of the same mold. Except for one thing – the man on the right has a thin scar that runs from the lobe of his left ear to his nose. Other than that, they could be mirror reflections of each other.
I don’t recognize them though. They must have come to the clan while I was abroad. But it seems clear that neither of them are interested in letting me through the door. Though both wear short swords on their hips, they have a spear in one hand and a buckler in the other. It hardly seems fair.
“What is your business here?” says the man with the scar on his cheek.
“Well I suppose that would be my business then, eh?”
The two men scowl at me and step closer together, forming a human wall between me and the door. Moving as one, they take a step forward, forcing me back down the stone steps. Soon enough, I’m standing in the yard before the building, and the clusters of people have moved away, giving us a nice clear space in which to conduct our business. I give them both a grin. They don’t realize it yet, but I have them right where I want them.
“You best be on your way, lad,” says the one with the scar.
“Lad?” I chuckle. “Why, you can’t be more than a few summers older than I.”
“You heard the man. Best be on your way,” repeats the one without the scar.
“Tell you what,” I say. “If I can put you both on the ground and take your spears, I get to go in there.”
“And if you can’t?” asks the scarred man.
I shrug. “Well, I suppose I’ll just lay in the dirt and bleed then.”
This brings chuckles from the gathered crowd. The tension in the air about us has lessened as people seem to realize I’m not here to do violence – this is just a bit of sport. The two men exchange a look and a grin. The scarred man circles around behind me, his spear and buckler held at the ready, his brother adopting the same pose before me.
As if they share some sort of bond between their minds, the one in front rushes toward me, howling like a banshee. The noise he’s making, of course, is to distract me from the sound of his brother rushing up from behind. I let them close in before I spin and dance out of the way. They stop and turn in unison, scowls on their faces. I flash them both a smile.
The crowd has started to cheer and laugh, some of them hurling insults at the two men – Colban and Patric. Not that I have any idea which is which. They split apart and rush me, one from the left and one from the right. I drop and roll out of the way as they close, but they are quicker than I gave them credit for. One of them catches me in the midsection with a heavy kick that drives the air from my lungs. This brings a raucous cheer from the crowd, and I’m able to roll away a moment before the butt end of a spear would have caught me in the head.
I’m back on my feet, still smiling but sucking in deep breaths as I try to gather myself. These men are big, strong, and quick. They’re formidable opponents, to be sure. But they’re not me. When the scarred man rushes me again, I know his twin will be a second behind – they are hoping by staggering their attack, I will be too distracted by one to deal with the other. It’s not a bad strategy – unless you know what to expect.
As the scarred man closes, I spin to the side and catch hold of his wrist in one fluid movement. I wrench it backward, and he lets out a yelp of sheer agony. I catch the spear he drops and use the shaft to sweep his legs out from under him. He lands with a heavy thud, and I drive my foot into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs, which will buy me the moment I need to finish this.
When his twin rushes in a couple of heartbeats later, I use the butt of the spear to knock his to the side. I then bring the shaft up and grip it in both hands as I drive my hands forward. The thick wood connects with the man’s nose, and there is an audible snap that draws a gasp from the crowd. Blood flows down the man’s face, and he looks at me with pure rage in his eyes. Using the same move I did on his twin, I use the spear to sweep his legs out from under him, putting him on the ground – unarmed.
I hold my arms up in victory and am met by little more than stunned stares and glares of outrage. Apparently, my little display did not endear me to the crowd. They look at me like I’ve somehow murdered something precious to them. But then I hear the echoing sound of one man clapping from across the yard. I turn to the doorway of the building and see my father standing on the top step, applauding me. As if that’s some cue everybody had been waiting on, the crowd erupts in applause and cheers.
I walk over to the scarred man and grab hold of his hand, yanking him to his feet to show there is no ill will. He glares at me for a moment but then smiles and laughs. He claps me on the shoulder and shakes his head.
“You’re a quick little shit, aren’t you?” he grins.
“Quicker than you,” I laugh.
He responds with a good-natured punch to my midsection. I walk over to his brother, who’s sitting up and holding his nose. I haul him to his feet and clap him on the back.
“Sorry about the nose,” I tell him.
“You got the better of me,” he replies. “I deserved it. Next time though, you should be expectin’ to have your balls kicked up into your throat.”
I laugh and see my father crossing the yard to me. He pulls me into a tight embrace, gripping the back of my tunic so hard, I’m afraid he’s gonna tear it off me. When he finally releases me and takes a step back, he grips my upper arms. His eyes are red and watery, but there is a smile on his face.
“I feel like I must be dreaming,” he says.
“Ask your boys there if they feel like they’re dreaming,” I laugh.
He laughs and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me tight next to him. He looks out at the crowd gathered around. There is a sense of anticipation or expectation in the air thicker than the fog that comes down through the mountain passes hovering over us all.
“The clan hall is closed to new business for today,” my father announces. “I intend to spend some time with my son, who has returned to us at long last.”
I hear the gasps and the excited murmurs from the crowd. And as my father turns and steers me back to the great hall, with Colban and Patric falling into step behind us, I can’t help but see the curious stares from the people in the yard. A few people look openly skeptical, as if I am not the man my father proclaims me to be.
“Some of them look at me like I’m an English assassin here to murder everybody,” I say.
My father gives me a sympathetic smile. “Arriving unexpectedly after a decade away does tend to make people suspicious,” he says. “And we’re just a naturally skeptical people anyway.”
“That is very true.”
“How?” he asks.
“My Aunt Heloise died. Her heart gave out,” I say. “I could have stayed, but I felt like there was nothing left for me there. This is where I belong.”
He claps me on the shoulder again, a tight smile on his face. “Heloise was a good woman. I’ll mourn her,” he says. “But I’m glad you came home, lad.”
We go through the doorway, and I look around in awe. “Did you build this place?”
My father nods. “I did.”
Obviously paying tribute to his Norman heritage – my father claims to be a descendant of the famed Viking Leader Rollo, the first Duke of Normandy – he had this building constructed in the style of a Viking longhouse. Two rows of intricately carved columns run the length of the wood and stone structure with sconces for tor
ches on every one of them. The carvings pay homage to my father’s ancestry as well as to our clan. The columns themselves support a high gabled roof made of a thick thatch.
There is a large rectangular fire pit that cuts the front part of the room in half with tables and benches set on either side of the fire pit. The rear half of the great hall is made up of the petitioner’s area. The chair of the clan chief sits on a raised dais against the back wall, and I see a second chair one step down. Seeing just one chair sends a stab of pain through my heart because I know it means one of my brothers is dead.
There is a smaller, round fire pit set in front of the dais, and the rest of the area is filled with scattered chairs and nothing more. This area is set aside for the petitioners and for any other clan business that needs to be discussed.
But my eyes keep drifting to the one solitary chair on the second tier of the dais, and that shard of guilt is driven deeper. My father looks at me and clears his throat, obviously intuiting my thoughts.
“Who was it?” I ask softly.
“Ian,” he says, not needing to ask me to clarify. “Three summers ago now in a battle with the Duke’s men. He fought valiantly.”
There is a note of pride mingled with the sadness in his voice. I look over at my father and see that he suddenly looks older. Much older. The lines in his face are deeper, and there is a weariness in his eyes that breaks my heart to see. When I look at him, it seems as if I’ve been gone for a century rather than just a decade.
My father guides me through a door in the rear wall, and I find myself in a small field that backs up to the forest. And in that field sits a house that looks very much like our family home. With stone walls, a thatched roof, and a thin streamer of smoke curling out of the chimney and floating away into the sky, I can almost make myself believe it’s home.
The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance) Page 4
