Highlander's Forbidden Love: Only love can heal the scars of the past...

by Faris, Fiona

  As he approached, the Comyn had hastily drawn up his forces astride the road between Barra Hill and the Lochter bog. His unreliable feudal levies had been placed at the rear, with the more trustworthy knights and men-at-arms taking up positions to the front. The levies seem to have been given the assurance that Bruce was too ill to take to the field in person, and their shocked reaction when he came into sight explains in part why the Comyn’s army collapsed so quickly.

  The Comyn had made some attempt to steady the line, but he too soon joined the flight, pursued by the Bruce's men as far as Fyvie. The fugitive earl took his flight all the way to England, where he had died the same year.

  But it was then that occurred the episode that was to haunt Gilbert for the rest of his life and shake his conscience.

  The Battle of Barra ended active resistance to King Robert in Formartine. He had not, however, been prepared to risk leaving a potentially hostile district in his rear and took drastic action which was to trouble Gilbert for some fifty years beyond the event.

  Immediately following the battle, Bruce had ordered his men to burn to the ground farms, homes, and strongholds associated with the Comyns. Thousands of people had been displaced and ‘harried’ from the country; thousands more perished in the plagues of disease and famine that had ensued the ‘rape’ of the land and its people.

  Gilbert had struggled ever since to reconcile the justice of their cause and the virtue of their king with the scale of the senseless cruelty they had subsequently inflicted. Had he not known his king better, he would have said it reeked of vengeance rather than justice, a naked show of power rather than a political act. No doubt King Robert had his reasons for visiting such great evil upon his subjects, but Gilbert had long and fruitlessly searched his soul for the answer to what those reasons might be.

  With a sigh, Gilbert rose from Bruce’s Seat and said a silent prayer for those – both Bruce and Comyn – who had died that day. He also said a small prayer for himself. For he was also troubled by the whole affair with the Comyn chiel who had suddenly appeared in the land and captured the heart of his wife’s cherished companion, Elizabeth Bryce. Did his pursuit and persecution of them reek of vengeance rather than justice too? Had yon Duncan Comyn ever really posed a threat to himself and the king? Could Elizabeth be justly charged with complicity in treason when she was just following her heart, and when, by all accounts, whatever the daft laddie’s fantasies had been, no treasonable act had actually been committed?

  Gilbert knew that his peers, the very men from among whom he was assembling a panel to try the case against both Elizabeth and the Comyn, would argue that an example must be made of them, to deter any prospective future conspirators. But would the death of a hapless dreamer and his lover really deter others from stepping into his place? Or would it actually create a martyr, whose sacrifice would inspire other young adventurers to take his place? In any case, Gilbert felt deeply uneasy about punishing otherwise innocent parties for the possible future crimes of others. That did not sit comfortably with the virtue ethics that defined him as a knight.

  As he returned down the hill to his horse, he reflected that he was, however, no longer a simple knight; he was a statesman too, with responsibilities not just to his own honor and integrity, but also to the realm and King Robert’s rule. The dilemmas that assailed him were part of the burden of high office.

  But he could not help worrying: when he did catch up with Elizabeth and the Comyn, which of the two ‘persons’ warring in his soul would emerge victorious? Would it be Sir Gilbert the virtuous knight, or Gilbert, Earl of Errol, High Constable of Scotland?

  Chapter Forty

  Aberdon

  The Seagait Inn

  Matthew Fitt strode into the Seagait Inn.

  It was evening, and the inn was busy. Merchants and fishermen crowded the tables, and the serving wenches wound hurriedly through the throng, bearing jugs of ale and flagons of wine while swaying their hips beyond the reach of grasping lecherous hands.

  Behind the counter, Mairi’s face blanched as Matthew marched straight up to her and called for a cup of claret.

  “If you would like to take a seat, maister, one of the lassies will fetch it over to you,” she said, turning to busy herself with one of the casks that lined the deep shelf that ran the length of the wall.

  Matthew turned to go, then hesitated, turning back to the counter.

  “Mistress,” he addressed her, narrowing his eyes as if he was raking through his brains for a recollection. “Don’t I know you?”

  Mairi remained facing the casks, rubbing at some wet wine stains with a cloth.

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before. You seem very familiar.”

  “A lot of men think that, sir,” she replied over her shoulder. “I seem to have a ‘weel-kent’ face. I have traders in from the Baltic lands who swear they’ve seen me before, yet I’ve never been furth o’ Aberdon.

  Matthew shook his head.

  “But I’m sure…” he said, then he laughed. “I’ve waged war all over the kingdom; no doubt there is a tavern in farthest Galloway with the neebor of ye serving at the tap.”

  Mairi let her shoulders relax, still not venturing to turn around and face him.

  “Aye, that’s likely the truth o’ it,” she said. “As I say, I seem to ha’e a weel-kent face. The lassie will bring your wine over to you, sir,” she added, hoping his curiosity had been satisfied and he would let her be.

  “Aye.” Matthew took the hint and turned to look for a vacant table.

  As soon as he had turned from the counter, Mairi slipped quickly into the back room, which served as a kitchen, and made for the backstair that led to the upper stories.

  “Maister,” she called in a low voice, tapping on the door to Duncan and Elizabeth’s chamber.

  She heard a scuffle of rushes and clothing from within.

  “Mairi?” came Duncan’s voice. “A moment, Mairi.”

  There was further scuffling and murmured imprecations before the door opened and Duncan’s flushed face appeared.

  “Aye, Mairi, what is it?”

  “A Slains’ man has just come into the taproom,” she said excitedly. “One who came to the cottage that day; the one that Micheil laid out with the bit broken oar, afore he was slaughtered.”

  “Jesu, Mairi!” Duncan swore, his eyes wide with alarm. “Did he recognize you?”

  Elizabeth’s face joined Duncan’s at the door.

  “What is it, Duncan? What’s happened?”

  “One of the Earl’s men has just come into the tavern, the one called ‘Fitt’.”

  “Matthew?” Elizabeth’s hand rose to cover her mouth.

  “He thought he kent me,” Mairi went on, in answer to Duncan’s original question, “but I think I got away with it. I thought I’d better tell you, in case you took it into your head to venture downstairs. I’ll get one o’ the aulder lassies to take my place at the tap and make myself scarce about the house.”

  “Is he on his own?” Duncan asked.

  “I believe so.”

  “Well, at least he doesn’t appear to be here to search the place. Maybe he has just come in for a wee refreshment.”

  “Or perhaps to make discreet inquiries of the customers,” Elizabeth speculated. “Let’s hope that none has seen us.”

  “No one has seen us,” Duncan reassured her, then turned back to Mairi. “Are the lassies good?”

  “The lassies winna gi’e ye away,” Mairi said. “I spun them a tale of how you were a pair o’ star-crossed lovers, eloping to escape the thwarting o’ your love by your feuding families. They like a guid love story; they wouldna gi’e ye away even if he showed them the thumbscrews.”

  Duncan smiled.

  “Then we will just stay out of his road,” he said, “till the Frenchman comes.”

  Mairi nodded, and he closed the door.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Matthew found a
stool at a table around which the crew of a knarr out of the Orkneys was drinking copious amounts of ale. A serving wench brought him his wine, and he fell into conversation with the traders.

  But he could not concentrate; his mind kept returning to the guidwife at the counter.

  He had seen her before; he was sure of it. But no matter how hard he racked his brains, he simply could not place her. And the way she had kept her back to him all the while he spoke to her… It was as if she wanted to avoid him catching a look at her face.

  No matter, he thought, shaking the puzzle from his head, it will come to me. Maybe not that day, nor the morrow, but he would recall her. It was not a matter of great importance.

  He had other matters to think about, which was why he had left his troop encamped on the green beside the Brig o’ Balgownie at the entrance to the town to seek some peace to consider them.

  The Earl had told him that he and the Countess had had a change of heart and would not object to his wooing of the Lady Elizabeth. Of course, since her involvement with the traitor, Comyn, had been uncovered, the situation had changed. Sir Gilbert seemed determined to bring her to justice along with the Comyn chiel, which would mean her disgrace and possible execution; at best, she might hope to be put away to a convent. Whatever her fate, marriage to her was now out of the question; not only had she conspired with the Comyn, but she had also whored herself to him too. He could not countenance a future with her now.

  However, he still had feelings for her. Her sweet face kept appearing before his mind’s eye, usually at the most unexpected moments, when his guard was down. He found the idea of further harm befalling her intolerable. Yet, here he was, thirled to his liege’s designs to bring her to justice and to subject her to whatever punishment his peers determined she must suffer in their judgment of her actions. He was torn in a manner that he had never felt before. He was duty-bound to obey the Earl, but he could not throw off the compassion he felt for Elizabeth. If she were to materialize before him at that very moment, there in a tavern in Aberdon, what would he do? Would he arrest her and hand her over to justice? Or would he turn a blind eye and let her escape with the chance to find some future happiness?

  He could find no answer to that question. He could not imagine himself behaving otherwise in either case. It was what the schoolmen called a ‘dilemma’, and he had never in his life found himself caught on the horns of such a fierce one.

  If and when he had to choose, how would he act?

  He had no idea.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Aberdon

  It was three days later that Annie’s brother, Taog, returned in the early morning to report to Mairi that the French crayer had come in during the night on the flood tide and was at that very moment unloading its cargo on the quayside.

  “Thank God!” Elizabeth swore in relief when Mairi came up to the bedchamber to inform them. “I mean no offense, Mairi, but your hospitality has become unbearably tedious.”

  “It is Paradise compared to yon black hole they put me in at my last lodgings,” Duncan joked grimly. “Still, I would gladly be on my way too.”

  Mairi took no offense; she too was eager to have them out of her house and safely out on the German Sea.

  “The trick now will be to magic you onto the boat,” she said. “The Earl has joined the Fitt laddie with about another dozen men. They have set sentinels along the quayside to watch over the boats and are combing the wynds that lead down to the waterfront.”

  Duncan frowned, deep in thought.

  “They daren’t touch the Frenchman, for that would be an act of war,” he observed. “But still… if they’ve thrown a cordon sanitaire around the quayside, the ship might as well be in Calais as far as we are concerned.”

  “Ah, but I ha’e a ploy.” Mairi grinned, and she began to explain.

  * * *

  That evening, the crew of the French crayer tramped up the Seagait. They were in high spirits; after all, it was not every day that they were invited to eat and drink their fill at no expense to themselves.

  The Earl’s men watched them warily as they passed. They knew that the sailors’ spirits would only get higher as the night wore on, and they hoped that they would have no trouble from them as they returned from their spree on the town. They reckoned on giving them a wide berth as they staggered their way back down to their boat at night’s end, to avoid the risk of a fracas.

  Mairi greeted them as they entered her establishment and showed them to a table she had reserved for them at the back of the taproom. The serving wenches immediately brought them several jugs of ale and an assortment of wooden beakers, while the aroma of roasting fowls wafted from the kitchen. Soon the table was spread with an array of steaming blood and suet puddings, haggises, roast birds, bannocks, assiettes of pigs’ trotters and sheep’s feet, and other rustic delicacies. The men roared their approval and fell on the food ravenously, having survived the previous weeks of their voyage on hard tack and salted beef and the occasional fish they had hooked from the sea.

  Mairi came and sat beside the ship’s master. Soon they were deep in conversation.

  During the course of the evening, they were joined by two mates, who slipped quietly and unobtrusively into their company, one tall and well-made, the other small and slim with the bearing of a ship’s lad. They both wore fisherman’s breeks and rope-soled boots, and both were hooded and caped. The older man joined in the feasting with enthusiasm, though appeared to drink little; the lad picked at the food nervously, his head bowed.

  The night drove on with songs and the clatter of knives and dishes, and it seemed that the men found that the ale grew better the more it was consumed. By midnight, the table was strewn with the wreckage of the feast, bones and crusts and puddles of ale and gravy. The master rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Men,” he announced. “We sail with the morning tide; it is time we returned to our ship.”

  There were groans and moans of dissent. The master raised his hand and cocked his head to indicate that he did not like what he was hearing and would have none of it.

  “We have had a grand time, and I would propose a toast to the honor of our gracious and generous host.” He snatched up his beaker, only to frown in confusion when he found it empty. His eyes scanned the table, to discover that none of his companions had any drink left either. “I would,” he mumbled. “That I would.”

  The crew all nodded drowsily, acknowledging that they would too if only they’d had the wherewithal to do so. Their faces were etched with disappointment and regret.

  Mairi roused them with a clap of her hands.

  “Thank you, sirs. It is enough to know that the hospitality of my house is appreciated. Now, if you would be so kind… I would let the lassies away to their beds, and as your captain says, you have an early rise to catch the morning tide. I bid you goodnight, gentlemen, and wish you a safe voyage home.”

  The crew struggled reluctantly to their feet and made towards the door.

  * * *

  Down on the quayside, Gilbert consulted with his lieutenant, Matthew Fitt.

  “Of course, we could be chasing wild geese,” he pointed out. “There is no guarantee that they are in the town. It might only be a coincidence that a French trader put in last night. If nothing comes of this, I propose we go home in the morning once the Frenchman sails. If they were here, they would surely attempt to board the vessel. Who knows when another Frenchman might put into port?”

  “Aye, I agree, my Lord,” Matthew replied. “Unless they make a move this night, I doubt they are here. Perhaps James will have more luck up at Peter’s Head.”

  Neither said so, but both secretly harbored the hope that James had not had any more success. Both were beginning to regret the hounding of Elizabeth and her man; both were sickening of the chase. Indeed, Gilbert was only just resisting the temptation to call an end to the pursuit there and then. He was beginning to increasingly feel that his desire to bring them to justice was unwort
hy of him. He thought of Elizabeth, of her dreadful past and the sweetness and innocence that had somehow survived that past to bloom under Margaret’s care. Did she not deserve some happiness?

  He shivered against a chill gust of wind that billowed up from the river. He would see the night out and then return to Slains. He would have done enough to satisfy the demands of duty; no one would be able to reproach him for any dereliction of it. The matter settled in his mind, he wished Elizabeth and the Comyn well.