Merry Medieval Christmas

by Elizabeth Rose et al.

  The woman on his right rose in an angry huff. “Let me see the brooch.”

  Dismissing Mhàiri with a turn of his shoulder, de Percy inclined his head. “Certainly, my dear.” He placed the bag in the woman’s outstretched hand. Her eyes widened as the brooch slipped onto her palm. She leaned into de Percy, murmuring words Mhàiri couldn’t hear. Her eyes flashed at his response and a fierce argument flared between them. Halted a moment later, de Percy fixed Mhàiri with a furious look.

  Mhàiri’s heart raced.

  “It is done. Take yer uncle and do not linger in my hall.”

  Light-headed with relief, she turned to William and read the mistrust in his eyes. She stepped back to his side and placed a hand on his arm.

  “Dinnae glower so. We are about to have what we came for.”

  “I trust him about as far as I could toss him,” William rumbled, his eyes on de Percy. Mhàiri followed his gaze and met the baron’s mocking grin. He bit deeply into the goose leg he’d retrieved from his trencher, tearing meat from the bone.

  Cold shimmied down Mhàiri’s spine at the implied threat. De Percy’s benevolence was an illusion at best. He was a vicious enemy and they were still at his mercy.

  She and William remained standing while Gregor Scott was retrieved from the castle’s holding cell. Mhàiri was faint with hunger and worry by the time a man, more sinew than brawn, and clothed in filthy rags appeared in the doorway.

  “Mhàiri, lass.” Her uncle crossed the room, halting several feet away, a wry grin on his face. “I’m no’ fit to give ye a proper greeting, but offer ye my thanks, nonetheless.”

  Relief swept over her to see her uncle alive and supporting himself. Grime didn’t quite hide bruises no doubt inflicted by de Percy’s order—or by guards fed up with Gregor Scott’s fiery manner—and Mhàiri bit her lip against tears welling at the thought.

  “I’ve come to take ye home,” she said, holding her hand out.

  “And how did a bonnie lass such as yerself raise a ransom my sainted father couldnae?”

  Mhàiri glanced over her shoulder at the woman now in possession of the heirloom. “My ma’s brooch. ’Tis priceless.”

  Gregor’s eyebrows shot upward. “It must be worth a fair bit. I am indebted to ye.”

  He faced de Percy. “It appears our time together is at an end.” He stepped to the head table and plucked the second goose leg from the frayed carcass.

  De Percy’s mouth opened then snapped shut. He scowled, his hold on his temper clearly slipping. “Be gone before I change my mind. Your niece and I could arrange a different sort of payment.”

  Gregor Scott drew himself up, meeting the baron glower for glower. “I havenae killed an Englishman in much too long. If ye’d like to correct that lapse, try touching her.” His smooth voice belied the reckless promise.

  “Come, Mhàiri.” William’s command broke through the ice linking the two men. Mhàiri eased toward William, willing her uncle to follow.

  A broad grin lit Gregor’s face and he spread his arms wide. “I take my leave of my host, though I must say there is little enough to encourage me to return.” He bit a chunk from the goose leg and leaned across the table to drop the bone on de Percy’s platter.

  The woman next to de Percy dropped the brooch into a pouch at her belt then used her hand to fan the air, nose wrinkled fastidiously at the prisoner’s rank smell. Gregor’s pleased smile included her reaction as he drew near. “And a farewell kiss for my hostess.”

  In a lightning-fast gesture, he pressed his palm to the back of her head, drew her forward, and planted his lips on hers. Just as quickly, he released her and bounded backward, grabbing Mhàiri’s arm as he whirled about, pulling Mhàiri and William in the force of his wake.

  The woman’s shriek of protest drowned amid the excited babble rising from the hall. Gregor picked up his pace, all but dragging Mhàiri alongside.

  “Ye had to kiss his wife,” William groused. The Kerr soldiers shoved aside a pair of the baron’s men blocking their way. “Robbie! Will!”

  Their mounts—plus a dapple gray for Gregor—stood at the threshold of the doorway. William tossed Mhàiri onto her pony. He and the others leapt into their saddles, reining the horses sharply about before setting them at a run toward the gate.

  “Someone should kiss the lass!” Gregor shouted. “De Percy is more interested in killing Scots than bedding his poor wife. They’ve only the two lads for all their years wed.”

  They bent low over the horses’ necks as voices rallied behind them. The words were unclear, but the tone did not invite Mhàiri to linger. She kicked her pony harder. Moments later, they were through the iron-studded gates and fleeing the English countryside.

  * * *

  Mhàiri’s arms and legs trembled but she resisted William’s decision as he called for a halt. They had ridden beneath the stars for hours, but clouds now hid the twinkling lights and the air had grown thick with the threat of more snow.

  “Get down before ye fall off—or yer pony collapses.” William arched a brow. “Do ye need help?”

  “Nae.” She cast a look over her shoulder as she dismounted. “Is it safe to stop here?”

  “As safe as anywhere this side of the border, but the ponies need a rest and a bit to eat.” He measured a portion of oats from a pouch into a cloth bag then tied it to his horse’s headstall, then did the same for Mhàiri’s pony. Their soft chomping filled the little glen.

  Gregor stepped over a snow-covered log. “William knows the area well. ’Tis a small copse in an offshoot of the valley where I’ve hidden cattle before. We’ll not unsaddle the horses, though, in case the snow doesn’t fall quickly enough to hide our trail.”

  Mhàiri sank onto the log. “Ye were incorrigible, uncle, taking such as risk as to kiss de Percy’s wife.”

  Gregor grinned and tossed a rounded object to her. Startled, she caught it in both hands, then looked at him in surprise as he sat next to her. “How did you . . ? Why?”

  “De Percy willnae be best pleased to find the ransom stolen from him, but not terribly surprised, either. I certainly had no other inspiration to kiss the poor woman. I dinnae expect we’ll hear from him soon, though. Rumor has it he has enough trouble with King Edward’s death a few months back, and young Edward’s recall of Piers Gaveston. De Percy has been replaced, as have other experienced commanders loyal to the young king’s sire, and is in no way pleased with his new monarch. But Robert Bruce has escaped Galloway and retaken much of the eastern portion of Scotland, forcing young Edward to summon his banished barons and earls to attempt to bring Bruce to heel. De Percy has more problems than a missing piece of jewelry.”

  He placed a kiss to Mhàiri’s forehead. “’Twas yer ma’s brooch, lass. Ye shouldnae have to part with it. I will find something to appease de Percy, should he raise a ruckus.” He squeezed her shoulder.

  “’Tis more than a piece of jewelry, Uncle. It contained a sliver of the True Cross. I’ve kept the relic, though I removed it before I handed the brooch over to de Percy. I planned to have a new reliquary made, but this will work fine. Dinnae fash. I’m pleased to have the brooch again, though I admit I nearly fainted when ye caused such an uproar in de Percy’s hall.”

  “’Twas an enormous risk ye took,” William grumbled, though the merry glint in his eyes belied his scold. “Bearding the baron in his own hall took a wee bit of spunk.”

  Gregor closed his eyes and leaned against the tree at his back. “I am the scourge of my da’s existence,” he agreed. “Give me an hour’s rest if ye can, and then I’ll want an accounting on why the Kerr is taking an interest in George Scott’s lad—and Muckle Alan’s daughter. For now, I need time to think on a proper greeting for the auld man who let me rot in an English prison for a year, and a way to repay my reckless niece.”

  William scratched his whiskers and grinned. “I believe I have a way ye can accomplish both.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Michaell stared at the snow-covered hill
s rolling gently from Lord Scott’s keep. His aim over the past hours had been to warn Mhàiri’s grandfather of his intentions and to see to the defenses. Waiting was not his strong suit with visions of Mhàiri at the hands of the notorious Baron de Percy rising before him. He’d argued vehemently against her traveling to Barnard Castle, far across the Scottish Border, but William had assured him he would guard her with his life. William and his Kerr soldiers would give Mhàiri’s quest more weight than the presence of a mere lad.

  Bah! Michaell slapped his palm on the frozen battlements. At what point did he earn the right to be counted among the men? This was no time to belittle his brother’s help, but the old scars still rankled.

  Mhàiri would return to him soon. He would better spend his time planning how to handle Richard Henderson than belly-aching about his brother’s lack of confidence.

  As always, thoughts of Mhàiri brought a smile to his face. She’d been such a sonsie lass when they’d met years ago, he couldn’t help but fall in love with her. She was always cheerful, always eager and bright. No matter what she demanded he teach her, she settled to the task with determination. He’d not seen another lass so intent on lying on her belly beside the burn, so quiet, so patient, as when he taught her to tickle a trout from its lair. Her fierceness with a dagger had surprised him. He’d caught her mimicking him with a blade too heavy for her to use effectively, and he’d exchanged it for one more her size, then taught her enough—enough so she’d saved herself the night they’d fled her home.

  He’d nearly failed her then, and swore he never would again. He’d given her his heart as a lad, and once she returned home, he would not let her go again.

  Nothing stirred on the horizon. White snow, gray now with the gloaming, met a sky heavy with storm clouds, promising more snow before morning. Setting an extra guard against surprises in the night, Michaell retired to a private chamber.

  * * *

  He tossed and turned as the hours passed. Wind whistled its winter tune through the narrow windows, the embers in the fireplace glowing and retreating in response. Finally unwilling to remain in the chamber longer, he dressed quickly and climbed the stairs to the ramparts.

  “Naught to report,” the guard nearest him said. “We will be able to see a fair distance once the snow stops, but e’en so, there has been no glimmer of torch nor fire.”

  “He would be a fool to advance in this weather without it.” Michaell spoke more to reassure himself with the guard’s response than with any great insight as to Lord Henderson’s state of mind.

  “Or verra certain he’ll catch us off-guard.”

  The reply wasn’t what Michaell had hoped, but the man’s point was valid. How angry would Lord Henderson be? Did he know—or even suspect—there was a plan afoot for his betrothed to marry another man? How badly did he want Mhàiri’s dower lands? How badly did he want Mhàiri?

  Michaell clapped the guard’s shoulder in agreement and retreated to the hall in search of a hot drink and a bite to eat.

  “It doesnae make sense there has been no word from Lord Henderson about preparations for the wedding.” Michaell drummed his fingertips on the table, mentally counting the days. “’Tis the fourth day of Yule—there are only a few days left before Gregor Scott’s time runs out, yet Lord Scott has yet to receive the monies promised.”

  Loud voices erupted at the far end of the room. A bench groaned in protest at being scraped across the floor, then tipped over amid a crash of pottery. Michaell leapt to his feet as men bobbed about. One shoved the man next to him, spilling him over the fallen bench. He rolled to his feet, fists clenched, swinging wildly.

  Euan, the Scott captain barked an order, but the two men did not immediately respond. Michaell strode closer. Euan’s second order set two soldiers grabbing each of the combatants by their arms and dragging them apart.

  “Ye scurrilous bastard!” the first man shouted, shrugging against the burly restraints. “I’ll see ye hanged for this!”

  The second man, a cut streaming blood down the side of his face, glared at his accuser.

  Michaell approached the captain. “Bring them one at a time to the laird’s chamber.” He strode away as Euan motioned one of the brawlers to follow.

  The guards slammed their prisoner into a chair, a warning for him not to rise. Arms crossed over their chests, they placed themselves at either side, hands close to their weapons.

  Michaell studied the man for a moment. This was the man who had thrown the first punch and he wanted to know what had provoked such a response—inside the hall.

  “I’m to understand this wasnae a simple dispute?”

  The prisoner glowered, then lowered his eyes. Euan kicked his chair. “Ye’ll answer as if he’s yer lord.”

  With a jerk of his head, the man tossed Michaell a feral look. “Ye’ll hang the man soon enough. He’s one of Lord Henderson’s men.”

  “What do ye mean? He’s a Scott, aye?”

  “He was. Until he was offered enough money to turn.”

  “What’s yer name?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the man growled, “Albert.”

  Michaell nodded. “Albert, tell me what ye know.”

  “Duff was a bit in his cups.” Albert shrugged as though he had little reason to defend the man beyond past friendship. “He bragged he was soon to earn a bag of silver pennies, enough to buy all the whisky he wanted. I asked him how he’d come by such, and he admitted Lord Henderson—or rather, his man—had agreed to pay him to join against Lord Scott.”

  Albert cast a side glance at Euan. “There’s a few not happy with the way Lord Scott’s treated his son. I’m not saying I’m one of ’em, nor am I pleased to learn he might not last out the year.”

  “Do ye know of others like Duff?” Euan growled.

  “Nae. None who have turned. Though, what do I know?” Albert settled glumly in his chair.

  “Did he say how he was to betray Lord Scott? What his orders were?”

  “Ye dinnae believe I plotted with him?”

  “Nae. Ye are to be reprimanded for fighting in the hall, but likely yer punishment will be amended to testifying to what ye know.”

  “He wasnae verra clear. But he said he was to open the gate if it was closed to him once Lord Henderson arrived with the lass.”

  “What lass?”

  “Lord Scott’s granddaughter.”

  Michaell sent Euan a puzzled look. “She is with William—”

  Albert glanced from Euan to Michaell. “Duff said Lord Henderson knows where she is. And has sent men to find her.”

  * * *

  Wind whipped snow about, covering their tracks as they fled the English, though it was clear enough where they headed. Only the side trails to small, hidden camps to give them a chance to thaw out and give their ponies a rest were a worry as William and Gregor were loath to lead anyone to their hideouts. But the weather seemed determined to cooperate.

  Mhàiri shivered and stretched her hands closer to the undersized fire. They had searched diligently for dry wood that would produce little smoke. The thin, pale gray wisp trailing off the end of the tallest flame mingled into the snow’s swirl of equally gray clouds. The scent would not carry far through the damp air, and William had deemed a fire necessary to keep fingers and toes from freezing solid.

  Robbie pulled a hot poker from the coals and plunged it into a mug of snow. After a moment the resulting water was warm enough to drink, and he handed it to Mhàiri.

  “So, ye and the Kerr’s youngest son wish to wed.” Gregor’s statement did not require an answer, and Mhàiri merely nodded as she sipped.

  William lifted a bushy eyebrow laden with frost. “Aye. Otherwise, I cannae see me finding much interest in rescuing ye from the hands of de Percy. Normally, I have a better sense of self-preservation than to attempt something so foolish.” William’s dry response blended with a grin and shake of his head and Gregor didn’t seem to take offense.

  “With both yer ma and da gone,�
�� Gregor continued, ignoring William, “it falls to me to ensure ye stay out of trouble, lass.”

  Mhàiri grimaced at his reminder of her loss, and the assumption she needed a keeper. “I have done well enough so far. I’ll even point out ye are now out of prison because of me.”

  William hooted and clapped Gregor’s shoulder. “She has ye there, Scott!” He sent Mhàiri an admiring look. “Canny lass. I’d marry ye myself, though I’m rather fond of my wife and am happy enough to keep her.”

  Mhàiri rolled her eyes and took another sip, relishing the small warmth it provided.

  “I am only sorry,” Gregor continued, “that I dinnae retake the keep for ye. Though I’ll admit it crossed my mind many times during the long days I sat in de Percy’s cell.”

  “Och, look at how much better ’tis now,” William argued. “This way my wee brother can tempt the lass of his dreams with the return of her childhood home. I would have thought a handful of posies or a pretty bauble would do, but Michaell is a man with a big heart.”

  “Better a man with a big heart than a lout with a big mouth,” Mhàiri growled. She rose and tossed the bits of ash and bark in her mug on the fire. The fire hissed and sizzled, and a spiral of smoke danced upward.

  Mhàiri leveled a finger at William. “He deserves yer admiration for putting up with the likes of ye. And heaven knows he deserves far more with three more brothers like ye.” With a flip of the hem of her cloak, she pivoted and stalked into the trees.

  “Dinnae get lost,” William called.

  “Mind ye dinnae stray far,” Gregor added.

  Mhàiri squared her shoulders and did not answer.

  Louts. All men are louts. Och, Michaell is different. Kind. Thoughtful. Mayhap his mother had more of a hand in his rearing than the others did.

  “I’ll nae let a child of mine grow to be a surly oaf.” She approached a shallow burn that barely bubbled beneath a layer of ice. Just beyond was a thick patch of trees where she could tend her private needs—and was also blissfully out of earshot of the men.

  “I cannae wait to get home.” She slipped on a patch of ice and windmilled her arms for balance. “’Tis about time Michaell had someone at his side who appreciates him.” The matter of her betrothal to Richard gave her pause, but then she shrugged.