Merry Medieval Christmas

by Elizabeth Rose et al.

  Mhàiri bit the inside of her lip, realizing she’d almost literally bit the only hand trying to help. “Thank ye. No one deserves a shrew for a spouse.”

  He shrugged. “Och, just a wee bit of brotherly advice. Though we have much to do before I can legally call ye sister.” He jerked his head toward the fire crackling in the clearing. “Warm yerself. Michaell willnae take kindly to my inability to keep his beloved from a chill, and would likely wish to meet his bride at the altar bearing all her fingers and toes.”

  With a half-smile, Mhàiri dragged herself to the edge of the fire where someone had pushed a fallen log near. She sank onto the frozen surface, scarcely noticing the cold against her bottom through the layers of cloth as blessed heat chased away the winter chill.

  She touched a finger to the bag tucked beneath her kirtle. Such a small thing to hold the future of so many people. Her uncle’s life, first and foremost, and then—by association—hers and Michaell’s. Would paying the ransom abolish the need for her to wed Richard Henderson? Would Richard agree to break the betrothal without rancor?

  She shook her head, suddenly feeling very lost and alone.

  The log bounced wildly as William sat beside her. She grabbed at the crumbling bark for balance, sending William a glower for startling her.

  “Here’s a wee bite for ye,” he said, offering her a stack of bannocks and dried beef pulled from a pouch at his waist. He then placed a steaming mug in her eager hands. She sighed gratefully as warmth hit her stomach and burst outward, an effective antidote to her frozen limbs. The mug’s heat made her fingers tingle painfully, but she ignored the sensation—and William’s grin—and sipped slowly.

  “How well do ye know my brother?” William asked.

  Mhàiri raised an eyebrow. “Questioning how dedicated I am to wedding Michaell?”

  “He’s my brother. I have a stake in his welfare.”

  Mhàiri lowered the mug, cradling it in her lap between her hands. “I’ve known him since I was six summers old. He came to foster with da, but he managed to spend time with me. I was at an age where I disliked being an only child, and Michaell quickly became the brother I dinnae have.”

  She smiled at the memories. “He taught me to swim and to tickle the trout in the burn. And he taught me how to use a knife.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I killed a man the night ma and I escaped the keep. I remembered what Michaell had taught me, and when the man attacked, I killed him.”

  Her hands fumbled their grip on the mug and it tilted, spilling warm ale onto her cloak. With a startled exclamation, she righted the mug, dabbing at the damp stain.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” William murmured. “I dinnae mean to dredge up evil memories.”

  Mhàiri shook her head. “Nae. It simply . . . takes me aback sometimes.”

  “Even hardened warriors remember their first kill.”

  “First?” Mhàiri’s voice shrilled. She swallowed, warding off mild hysteria. “I dinnae wish a second.”

  “I wouldnae wish it for ye, either. And if ye’ve been without instruction these past four years, well, those skills ye once had are well-rusted now. Dinnae make the mistake of thinking ye can fight a man and win.”

  “I wish I’d been allowed to train with Grandfather’s guards. But he dinnae think ’twas seemly.”

  “Yer da would’ve thought differently. I dinnae know him personally, but he was well-liked and verra respected.”

  “Michaell and he got along well. I wonder . . . .”

  “Aye?”

  Mhàiri rubbed at the stiff spot on her cloak where the ale had partially dried, partially turned to ice. “If Da had lived, would he have encouraged Michaell . . . and me?”

  “I dinnae know if yer da looked that far ahead. And Michaell was a wee lad, though a fair enough catch for a lord’s daughter once he’s grown.”

  Mhàiri gave William an arch look, annoyed on Michaell’s behalf. “He’s a grown man now. Lord of his own keep. Mayhap ’tis time ye treated him as such.”

  “I stand corrected. My brother may still have some growing to catch up with his brothers, but he is a verra capable lad, er, man.”

  Mhàiri’s ruffled feathers settled. “Ye overshadow him too much. He is capable of his own decisions.”

  “’Tis no crime to want to be sure he isnae played false by a lovely lass he would apparently risk his honor over.”

  “I would never ask him to choose between me and honor.”

  “Ye are. He would marry ye in a heartbeat, the betrothal be damned, if ye would have him.”

  Mhàiri sipped the now-cool ale and grimaced at the taste. “Aye. He would. And were I not so worried Lord Henderson will cause trouble, I would have Michaell even if it meant giving up everything.”

  William blinked. “Be damned! It might work!”

  “What might work?”

  William waved a hand. “Dinnae mind me. I must mull over a thought which has occurred to me. Sleep as best ye can. We will confront de Percy on the morrow.”

  Mhàiri wrapped a heavy blanket about her shoulders and, despite her worries, fell asleep next to the fire, the precious brooch clasped in her hand.

  * * *

  She woke to heavy mist, disoriented to discover only an amber glow near her feet amid the otherwise mostly colorless landscape. Creeping closer to the fire, she was glad to find the air clearer, the warmth of the flames reducing the freezing mist to moisture that clung to every branch and bough, falling to the earth as the drops grew large and heavy. One such drop landed on her cloak, spreading darkly across the tightly woven wool. One of William’s soldiers handed her a steaming mug, the same ale as the night before, but cherished nonetheless for its warmth, if not for its flavor.

  “Thank ye,” she murmured. He nodded and turned his back to her. Taken slightly aback at his abrupt dismissal, she frowned at his broad shoulders, draped in a heavy cloak which fell a few inches short of his boots. He hitched his feet as though settling them more firmly against the ground. The flames hissed in protest as he doused the fire in time-honored male tradition. Mhàiri’s cheeks heated in embarrassment and she whirled, seeking somewhere—anywhere—else to be. A deep chuckle taunted her ears as she fled the clearing.

  “Whoa, lass,” William admonished. Mhàiri skidded to a halt, noticing he held her pony’s reins as well as those of his own horse. Her cheeks still hot, she approached the big man.

  “Take care leaving the camp. Finish whatever ye need, then return as quickly as ye can. ’Tis a bit murky yet, but we can put a few miles beneath the ponies’ hooves before the sun breaks through this dreich morn.” He tilted his head. “Anything amiss? Ye appear a bit flushed.”

  Mhàiri nodded then thrust her mug at him. “I’ll only be a moment,” she gasped. She stepped quickly behind a large tree and took a deep breath.

  Oh, my! I suppose I never thought . . . A giggle swam up from her chest, threatening to burst through her pinched lips. I hope it dinnae freeze . . . Sudden, helpless laughter bubbled inside and she leaned against the tree trunk until her mirth subsided into faint hiccups.

  With a sigh, she walked deeper into the underbrush and finished her morning rituals, including a very brief wash in a nearby burn. Skin tingling from the cold water, she hurried back to camp. Moments later she and the others mounted and faded into the wraith-like mists.

  * * *

  The room seemed over-warm to Michaell, the odors of illness and the accompanying teas and potions heavy in the air. Lord Scott, claw-like hands gripping the edge of his blanket, lay unmoving save for the shallow rise and fall of his sunken chest.

  “Will he wake soon?”

  The healer nodded. “Aye. Though he is often delirious, he wakes frequently.” She shook her head. “He worries over his son and granddaughter. I am glad ye are here. Mayhap ye can ease his mind.”

  Michaell considered the upheaval likely in the next few days and grimaced.

  “Mayhap.”

  He took his cue from Lord Scott later
in the evening when the elderly man roused from his slumber. His eyes appeared sharp, but his tongue lagged in its speech.

  “Who’re . . . ye?”

  “I am Michaell Kerr, son of Robert Kerr.”

  Lord Scott eyed him, one beady eye glinting in the low light. “Ye . . . no’ verra . . .big.”

  Michaell sighed. “Nae. Ye’re thinking of my brothers. I’m a bit younger than they are.”

  The elderly man grunted. “Why . . . ye here?”

  “I am here because ye have betrothed yer granddaughter to the wrong man.”

  As if stung by Michaell’s words, Lord Scott jerked and twisted beneath the weight of his blankets. He shouted, hoarse and weak. The healer hurried across the room and raised him enough to place a thick bolster at his back. The lord glared at Michaell from his pillowed perch.

  “Leave . . . me!” He waved his left arm wildly and a trail of spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. His breath pumped in and out of his chest. The healer lifted a brow warningly. Michaell grabbed the wooden chair by the bed and twirled it about. He sat, straddling the seat, his arms propped on the slatted back.

  “I’m going to tell ye a wee story, and then we’ll talk about what needs to be done. Are ye following me?”

  Lord Scott closed his eyes then reopened them, but his glare did not diminish.

  “Aye, then,” Michaell said, not intimidated in the least. He’d survived the best his da had thrown at him, and a glare from Mhàiri’s bedridden grandda was naught to worry over.

  “I am the Kerr’s youngest son. I fostered with Muckle Alan as a lad and was there when his keep was taken by the English.”

  He shrugged, ignoring Lord Scott’s bluster as he spoke Alan Burns’ name. “’Tis likely reiving had something to do with it, but ’tis neither here nor there with my tale. Whilst he lived, Lord Burns took a liking to me, and I was treated more like his son than a foster lad. I got to know Lady Mhàiri and her ma—a verra sweet woman, and it pains me to know she is dead—and fell in love with Mhàiri with a lad’s heart.”

  Michaell couldn’t stall the smile as he spoke Mhàiri’s name. Lord Scott’s fingers dug into the blanket, white-knuckled.

  “The keep fell to the English that night, and it remained in their possession until the Kerr decided—with my help—it should return to Scottish hands. With a following of Kerr soldiers, I retook Siller Stane, and set about restoring it six months ago. And now comes the interesting part.”

  Lord Scott jerked his chin at a tray on the small table at Michaell’s elbow. Picking up the pitcher, Michaell filled a mug and rose to help the old man drink. Lord Scott sighed his gratitude and sank back onto the pillow, and Michaell returned to his seat.

  “My plan was to ask ye for permission to court yer granddaughter. Imagine my surprise when I found her two days ago inside the keep—without my guards’ notice. I then remembered the night she and her ma fled the fortress and the secret passage that had allowed them to escape.”

  He paused a moment. “Mhàiri is a beautiful young woman. She doesnae wish to marry Richard Henderson. If ye hadnae signed that damned betrothal contract, she would marry me.”

  Lord Scott’s breath became strident. “Ye . . . dinnae know . . .”

  “Of course I do. De Percy has threatened to execute yer son if his ransom isnae paid by the first of the year. Mhàiri told me the only way ye could raise the ransom was to sell her to the highest bidder.”

  “No one . . . her dowry . . . naught but land.”

  “Land which I now hold. If Richard Henderson marries her, he will have to fight me for it.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Exhaustion, cold, hunger, and worry combined to give Mhàiri a headache—and temper—she’d never endured before. De Percy’s guards kept them waiting outside the gate far too long, and her ire grew. When finally allowed to pass, she held her pony to a sedate walk, forcing the guards to hold the gate until the last of the bedraggled group sauntered inside.

  “I will require a hot drink and a few moments to refresh before I meet with Baron de Percy,” she commanded as she dismounted, swinging her leg over her mount’s back to land carefully, ignoring the guards’ leers.

  “Shall I rub down yer pony and give him a bag o’ oats?” the guard asked, his crossed arms making it clear he would do no such thing.

  “Nae. Robbie and Will can mind our mounts,” William rumbled, sending his man a stern look. The ponies stamped their hooves and snorted rolling white plumes into the crisp air. Robbie led them to a nearby water trough, but would not relinquish them into another’s hands.

  “The horses are hungry and tired,” Mhàiri murmured, worry coloring her voice.

  “I’d rather them hungry and ready to go than full-bellied and unable to do more than waddle should we need to leave quickly,” William retorted, keeping his tone for her ears only.

  Mhàiri’s blood chilled to admit their precarious position. While de Percy would likely do little more than harass them over their plea for her uncle’s release, they were now in his keep—and his power—should he choose to detain them. Her step faltered slightly, but she strode beside William through the thick castle walls and into the great hall.

  Shiny red berries brightened the evergreen boughs decorating the mantle over a fireplace large enough to roast two sheep carcasses. Flames leapt merrily and voices raised in raucous cheer filled the room with warmth. Bells tinkled and goblets clanked, and the aroma of the feast overwhelmed Mhàiri’s empty belly.

  The merriment ground to a halt as she and William entered the hall. The three remaining Kerr soldiers positioned themselves at the door, refusing to acknowledge the prods of the de Percy guards.

  “Welcome to my hearth!” A tall, well-dressed, dark-haired man, pointed beard bristling, rose, arms spread. Mhàiri could not help the tremble that shook her body, for this was King Edward’s favored baron, the man who had, eleven years earlier—under Edward’s orders—slaughtered more than seven thousand Scots—men, women, and children—at Berwick on Tweed. Though fraught with both success and failure in King Edward’s attempt to subdue the Scots, de Percy’s reputation had only worsened since then.

  De Percy stepped from behind the raised table that seated a number of glowering English revelers dressed in their festive finery. Mhàiri kicked the sodden, mud-caked hem of her cloak out of the way and ignored the melting snow dripping icily from the braid down her back.

  “’Tis seldom we entertain Scots in the great hall,” de Percy taunted. “But exceptions for a lady as lovely as ye can be made. ’Tis Yule, after all.” He gestured expansively to the chair to his left, and the man sporting a heavily embroidered tunic and several jeweled rings vacated the seat, sending Mhàiri a venomous glare.

  She lifted her chin. “Thank ye, but my business willnae take but a moment of yer time. I wouldnae interrupt yer feasting, yet the timing was yers.”

  De Percy inclined his head. “My man indicated ye are here to pay the ransom for Gregor Scott.” He flipped the tails of his robe to one side and returned to his chair. With deliberate delay, he peered at the various platters on the table. His hand hovered over first one, then another, before finally choosing a goose leg. He set it on his trencher then dipped his fingers in a bowl before wiping them on a piece of linen. Mhàiri fumed silently at his disrespectful tactics.

  Her knees quivered—whether from exhaustion or from fear, she didn’t know or care. She simply wanted to exchange the brooch for her uncle and go home, away from this man who had made a vow to rout the Scots, and who commanded much of the land in both northern England and the southern border of Scotland.

  “The ransom has doubled.” De Percy’s languid look flashed a dark challenge. William bristled. Mhàiri nudged William’s foot with her toe, begging him to exercise restraint.

  “’Tis yer prerogative,” Mhàiri sighed, lifting a hand in a tepid flutter as if bored. “Fifty pounds was already double yer original charge, but if ye cannae make up yer mind . . . .”

&n
bsp; De Percy’s eyes narrowed and a faint grin slid across his face. He lounged back in his chair. He perused Mhàiri with exaggerated care. “I do not see a chest of gold about ye. Tell me what ye have that ye believe will ransom yer erring uncle.”

  Willing her hands to steady, she drew the leather thong over her head. The velvet bag slipped from the neckline of her gown, swinging gently from Mhàiri’s fist. She stared at the pouch, the weight of the brooch inside testing her grip. She glanced at de Percy whose gaze riveted on the mesmerizing sway.

  Teasing the strings at the top of the bag open, Mhàiri approached the lord’s table. His eyes fixed keenly on hers as though wary of treachery, and he slowly held out his hand.

  The brooch tumbled from the bag, catching the multitude of candle and torch lights and casting it back into the room in sparks of blue and red. The gold of the brooch glowed, warm and inviting, drawing the eye to the stones which seemed to pulse with an inner beat.

  De Percy glanced up sharply. “Where did ye come by this?”

  “’Tis a legend of some repute. A brooch from the Holy Land, it has been passed down in my family as a priceless heirloom.” Perhaps not the entire truth, but it had passed from her da to her ma—and now to her. And the mystery should intrigue de Percy.

  Baron de Percy closed his fingers over the brooch then opened them, tilting his head as he stared. The stones, filled with the light of ancient fires, winked conspiratorially.

  “I will take this.” He blinked then scowled as if startled by his own words. “And remind ye the price was doubled.” He snatched the bag from Mhàiri’s hand and slipped the brooch inside. “This will do for the original ransom. I want more.”

  “There is no other brooch like this, I assure ye. And my grandfather’s coffers are empty.”

  Mhàiri grew uncomfortable with the baron’s gaze as it drifted from her face to the hem of her cloak and back. “Might I remind ye, yer ransom demands specified ye would accept trade only in coin or jewels, naught else?”

  A sneer crossed his face. “My demands can be met in more creative ways.”