“Camden of Aragain,” the Bruce’s voice broke Camden’s distant thoughts. The King was speaking to him, and he fumbled to adjust appropriately.
“Me King,” Camden rose from his seat only to kneel before Robert the Bruce.
“Me knights have told me that ye ‘re the man who slew Lord Clifford in single combat, is it true?” The King looked down to him with a warmness that Camden has never seen on the warrior monarch.
“Aye, I slew the man,” Camden said, staring down to the flagstone floor. “Though, I dinnae need to remember it.”
“Humility is the mark of a great leader,” the King said, and Camden raised his gaze. “In recognition of yer bravery in battle, as the one who slew Lord Robert Clifford, a man who was me enemy for many long years, yet who also instructed me in the ways of war, I, Robert the Bruce, King of the Scots, grant to ye, Camden of the house Aragain, the fief of Troudel, with all her rents and tenants.”
“Me King,” Camden bowed his head again, nearly breathless. He knew many of the Lairds in the room would have killed for the keep at Troudel, and he had not thought to receive any reward in the first place. “Ye dae me a great honor.”
“Rise, Laird of Troudel,” the King beckoned Camden to his feet. “Yer family is an old and proud one, and I mourn for ye faither who fell today. I mourn for ye brothers, who marched with Wallace. I mourn for all the proud Scottish families that bleed faithers and sons.”
“So I am glad, nay, I rejoice, to take a new Laird and noble house under me arms, for now that the battle is won, we must rebuild our great country, and replace those who we have lost. For if ye had been greetin’ alongside yer faither this day, such a line of bravery and pride would be gone like so many others.”
“No more can we afford to lose whole families. So here I shall decree, that no Laird, be them without an heir or next of kin, to whom they may bestow their estates, shall yet join the army on the field of battle. Let it be known here and across me Kingdom.”
Camden tried to piece the words all together. It seemed a rather large joke on him from The Almighty, delivered straight through the mouth of the King. He had lost his family, been granted a castle, and then barred from marching in the King’s army. He could not fathom any of it, in truth, and so he silently bowed to the Bruce, unsure of what to do next.
“Be seated, Laird of Troudel, and take speed to find a wife!” the King laughed out as he raised another toast, and the feast resumed in much of its merriment as Camden sunk back to his seat, suddenly a very rich man.
He could hear the congratulations raining down upon him from the nobles around him, as well as feel the underhanded jealousy and questioning, but luckily he found their attention swayed by Robert the Bruce’s sudden announcement.
“Bring on the Englishmen!”
The room cheered again as the wounded and bedraggled English soldier was brought forth on a leash. Camden could see that the man’s drooping shoulder was a result of untreated injuries, and the thought left a sour taste in his mouth.
“Who kens this man?” the King of the Scots called out, taunting the constable.
“I ken him, me King!” a Laird shouted out, standing abruptly. “He’s Roger Horseley, I seen him over the border last winter, ridin’ out with Clifford himself!”
“Are ye a knight, Horseley?” the Bruce asked down to the wounded prisoner.
“No, your grace,” Horseley croaked. “I am a constable in my liege’s army.”
“Have his head!” a Laird shouted, and several others joined the chorus. Camden looked back into his cup.
“Me Lairds,” the King quieted the hall again. “The man before us served his King faithfully. For this, I will set him free, to seek out his own path, for allegiance to one’s King is a man’s utmost duty before God!”
“Kill the ruddy Englishman!” the call came again.
“Silence!” the King bellowed, and so the hall was still. The discontent on his Laird’s faces was clear, and Camden watched the stillness intently. Then a crooked grin crept over Robert the Bruce’s lips, and they were all suddenly reminded of his violent and conquering nature, as the King of Scots ordered that Horseley lose an eye before being sent back to the English. After the deed was done and the poor soldier taken away, the Bruce laughed on and shouted,
“Now bring on the traitor, William of Sowles! There’s a man whose head I can grant ye!”
Camden frowned and stood to leave the hall as the Lairds celebrated to see a beheading, and slipped out the great doors into Stirling Castle’s courtyard.
He walked slowly to the ramparts, looking down on the great field where flickering pyres still burned the corpses of English horses.
“Ye steady there, lad?” a familiar voice caused Camden to turn his head, and the first smile he shed all day came to his face as he saw the tall frame of Kenneth Innes, Laird of Elmiron, coming up the stone steps towards him.
“Uncle?” Camden squinted in the torch light.
“There ye ran off to,” Kenneth remarked. “Missin’ the beheadin’.”
“That’s fine enough,” Camden replied, taking his Uncle in an embrace.
“I’m sorry about yer faither, lad, he was a good man.”
“A better man than me,” Camden looked again to the smoldering field. “I have become a Laird in the blink of an eye for killin’ that bastard. I dinnae kill Clifford because I knew who he was, I killed him because he killed me father. Now I cannae march with the King because I’m the head of a noble family, and I want to avenge me brothers who fell against the English, once at a time, until I am the only one left.”
“The English will soon sue for peace,” Kenneth said, turning to share Camden’s view. “The war will soon be over.”
“The war will never be over,” Camden said, frowning.
“Nephew, breathe the still air for a moment’s time, I beg ye,” Kenneth pleaded. “Ye have been given lands and a castle from where to rule them, and told by the King to find a wife. Live that life that’s been given ye, eh?”
“And what life’s been given to all those lost souls?” Camden nodded towards the smoldering grounds before the Bannockburn river.
“Look, lad,” Kenneth turned Camden round to face him. “If ye dwell on injustice, ye will never sleep a night again in yer life. Our world is cruel and hard, full of death and darkness. It ain’t fair, and it ain’t goin’ to become so, so stiffen up, find a bloomin’ wife.”
“Yer the bloody man who slew Lord Clifford, the bane of us Scotsmen! Granted the fief of Troudel for yer bravery! There’ll be lasses callin’ from far and wide, ye will have yer pick from all of Southern Scotland! Stand up for yer faither’s memory, and yer brothers. Show them they died for more than Scotland, but for the family as well, eh?”
“You would make light out of the darkest canvas,” Camden said and sighed. “The way it seems, I have been rewarded greatly for being the last of me kin alive, and I cannae say if that is a reward I want.”
“I know ye grieve,” Kenneth clapped his nephew’s shoulders once more. “Take time, but not forever. Life is short.”
As Kenneth spoke, the doors to the great hall creaked open and the ruckus poured out into the courtyard. Camden frowned, his mood souring by the moment as he watched the drunken Lairds and their footmen parade a severed head atop a pike.
“Stirling Castle!” one of them boomed. “I give ye the traitor William of Sowles!” To which the garrison atop the castle walls cheered out and waved their banners in the night’s sky.
“Short indeed,” Camden whispered, and the newly landed Laird of Troudel walked away, searching for a quiet place to drink alone.
Chapter 1
Scotland, 1317
The road was not much more than a wide path, trodden between the tall stalks of lowland grass winding over the moor. When the road had begun at the gates of Edinburgh, it had been broad and often traveled, but turning off at the crossroads some thirty miles south of the city, the path had become the wagon-scarre
d trail that the retinue now followed.
There were some twenty guardsmen, all dressed in thick gambesons that somewhat resembled a uniform. Beside them, they held long spears as they rode, the ends of which were adorned with fluttering blue banners. In the center of the slowly moving assembly sat two distinguishable individuals, for they did not share the dress and gear of the guardsmen.
They were wealthy; anybody could see that from afar. Trotting proudly on their expensive steeds, the aging man and his beautiful daughter looked lazily on to their distant destination with a small cart of baggage trailing behind them.
“Is that it?” the young woman squinted at the castle on the horizon, and the sun reflected against her green eyes. She brushed a stray strand of her black hair aside from her face, and straightened her back to catch a better glimpse.
Sitting straight, one could gather that she was a tall woman, and her height seemed to accentuate her fine English frame.
“Mustn’t it be? Bloody wide country,” her father replied with a snort, looking between his daughter and the far away castle. “It cannot be another.”
“No, it certainly cannot,” she smirked.
“Hilda, why did you not heed my wishes and travel with the baggage? Riding on horseback …”
“Is good enough for our guardsmen, is it not so, Francis?” Hilda directed her question to the captain of their guards.
Francis was a gruff sort, wearing worn ring mail over his leather cuirass, but he was nothing more than what was expected of him. He and his company were sellswords, and they had had their share of adventures before entering into the service of Hilda’s father. Francis sported a striking scar across his cheek, a memory of wars past, and it stood out in an odd fashion as he smiled at Hilda’s comment.
“Certainly, Miss,” he said without turning back. He kept his eyes scanning about the lowland grasses, ever vigilant against what danger may be lurking. “Though it is much safer in the wagon.”
“You see?” Hilda’s father puffed out his chest. “We are in enemy country, dear, there may be brigands or scoundrels about.”
“Enemy country?” Hilda scoffed. “I see no enemies.”
“Then you ought to look closer, My Lady” Francis pointed to the silhouette of a Scottish retinue making their way to the castle, far off to the North.
“How can you be sure?” Hilda felt cautioned by the sight of another band, but she knew that no harm would come to her. Never in her life had she ever truly had cause for concern, and the sight of the distant Scotsmen excited her in a strange way.
“They are Scotsmen, there is no question,” Francis kept his eyes locked on the small group as they began to disappear beneath a slight rise.
“How many are there? Are they armed? Will they attack?” Hilda’s father shot out nervous questions as he tugged at his tunic. “How many can they be? Can we take them, Francis? Will they attack?” Hilda could see her father growing increasingly agitated by the second. There was a clear and dominating fear taking hold of him.
“Not likely, my lord,” Francis went on. “Elmiron is just yonder, and they cannot be more than ten.”
“We must hurry, in any event,” Hilda’s father looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. “I would never have come so far North had I not needed a wine buyer.”
“If you wish to remain here, I am capable of attending the event in your stead,” Hilda said and winked.
“One day you will rue your wit,” her father smiled back at her with loving warmth. “Nay, we shall press on to Elmiron, and perhaps we shall meet these Scotsmen there.”
“As you wish,” Francis bobbed his head as the party continued to move, and he glanced back to Hilda. Hilda smiled as she and the soldier exchanged half mocking glances.
As they drew upon the last rise before them, they could see the majesty of Elmiron Castle, shining out against the moor. Anyone could see that the fortress had been made ready for the feast, even from half a mile away. Banners streamed from the ramparts and parapets, and masses of wagons and common folk thronged the small town before the castle gates.
The party, at the crest of the hill, saw the last of the Scotsmen’s retinue trickle into the castle. Hilda was struck by the reception the vague Scotsman received at the gates, hailed and cheered and ushered through. He seemed to be a hero, and Hilda could not make anything out about him other than his striking red hair and his strange banner flapping above his horsemen as he rode into the castle.
“Father, who is that?” Hilda peered down onto the procession.
“I do not know,” he frowned as he spoke. “I must discover it, for he is clearly of import.”
“That’s the banner of House Aragain, milord,” Francis bit his lip and spat from his saddle. “A wolf dancing in a garden of roses.”
“Aragain?” Hilda cocked her head. “I have heard not of his house.”
“Aragain?” Hilda’s father looked shocked. “Not Camden of Aragain? They say he is the man who killed Lord Clifford.”
“So they do,” Francis spat again. “There’s a Scotsman I’d like to kill myself, if it’s not too bold, Mister Leighton.”
“Ha!” Hilda’s father laughed out as they descended into the castle town. “Well said, Francis, well said.”
Hilda frowned at her father’s comment, but knew better than to press the issue. Instead she bit her tongue, something she did quite frequently, and rode on in silence. She knew his tone would change when confronted by Scotsmen in the great hall.
They came to the gates and were met by Scottish soldiers in padded leather, their long spears standing straight at their sides. The soldiers waved the small party to a stop, and Hilda looked up to the banners of their host above them. The sigil of House Innes was a stag before a tower, a symbol of how far the noble House had risen through the war for Scottish independence.
“Hold there!” one of the soldiers spoke up to Francis. “Here for the feast?”
“Aye,” Francis looked down, and Hilda could see the visible disdain he carried for Scotsmen. “The esteemed merchant, Neville Leighton, and his daughter, Hilda Leighton.”
“Right. Go on then,” the soldiers waved them through, unceremoniously. As they passed beneath the portcullis, Hilda saw Francis lean over to her father.
“Poor excuse for guardsmen,” the soldier grunted.
“Well said,” her father agreed. Hilda sighed audibly, but her small protest was washed out by the sound of the clomping hooves.
Hilda had seen many castles in her life, and so when she looked about the bustling courtyard she was not struck by anything of import. The walls rose up around them, ringing the pocketed world of industry and festivities. They were shown to their rooms, and Francis oversaw the brief movement of baggage indoors. Then, as was expected of her, Hilda prepared for the feast with the help of a handmaiden and waited patiently in her allocated chambers until she was fetched for the festivities. Hilda hated waiting, yet she did what was expected of her.
Finally, her father appeared, dressed in his fine feast clothing, wringing his hands in excitement.
“Are you prepared, Daughter?” he walked past her and looked out of the window, surveying the castle grounds below. “This is an important evening.”
“As you have said,” she remarked, disheartened. “I am prepared for what need be.”
“What troubles you?” he turned, seemingly startled by her reproach. “All the way from London you were joyous to see Scotland. But as soon as we departed Edinburgh, I feel you began to carry sadness in your heart.”
“It is true, I took heart to see the wide North, but since arriving you and Francis have had nothing but disdain for the people here. How can you hope for me to marry one of the countrymen that you put down with perpetuity? How can that be?”
“My dear daughter,” Neville sighed, moving to Hilda’s chair. “I know that these Scotsmen can be brutish and strange. But you must understand that Scottish independence can never hold. Soon, within our lives, we will
see it fail, I have full faith, and when it does, it is the English who must own Scottish lands, or on and on the wars will spill. So when I ask you to marry a Laird, I am asking for the sake of our King and country, you understand?”
“And to find someone to distribute your wines,” Hilda rolled her eyes.
“Come now,” Neville looked cross. “You will play your part.”
“Yes, Father,” as often as she fought against it, Hilda realized her legal position as her father’s property, and so inevitably she always did his bidding.
The feast was a boisterous affair. Hilda looked around and was shocked at the blatant drunkenness and revelry as the Scotsman imbibed. All through the hall, Lairds and their brothers drank heavily, while mixing in the merriment pranced English, French, and Italian nobility of various statures.
Hilda felt trapped in her fine dress as the feast unfolded around her, unable to raise her arms above a crook in the fabric. It was claustrophobic, closing in on her, and she could barely hear the conversation her father was having with an older, clearly rich, woman.
“Yes, of course, my daughter Hilda,” Neville said, and Hilda blinked herself back to the moment.
“Milady,” Hilda preformed a stiff curtsy.
“Oh dear, you are a precious thing,” the lady smiled warmly at Hilda. “How do you find the Lowlands?”
“They are truly beautiful, milady,” Hilda fumbled, completely at a loss in the conversation. I don’t even know who I’m talking to. She saw her father shoot her a wicked glance.
“You are the most kind of hosts, Lady Innes,” Neville bowed his head.
“Please,” Lady Innes turned to Hilda, smiling still. “You may call me Marjorie.”
“You are most kind, Lady Innes, er, Lady Marjorie,” Hilda was out of her element. The expensive gowns of other wealthy ladies swirled around her, and she felt tall and brooding, standing out awkwardly above everyone of her sex.
“Your father tells me you are searching for a Scottish husband?” Marjorie took Hilda gently aside and began to walk with her through the hall. To their left, harpers played their tunes and stomped their feet, while on the right the banquet tables were being descended upon.
Highlander's Cursed Bride: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 28