Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts Book 5)

by Cynthia Wright

  Grandfather reached over to pluck at Lennox’s sleeve. “Has it ne’er occurred to ye that ’twas your openly expressed discomfort with the clan that stopped me from fixing a brooch to your sash?”

  Lennox stared. Perhaps that had crossed his mind, but now it seemed everything he’d once casually considered had been twisted with new meaning. Even Dunvegan Castle, the fortress at the center of his life, felt unstable today.

  “’Twould seem I do not belong here on Skye,” he murmured. “Perhaps I never did.”

  A loud knock sounded at the bedchamber door, and Lennox crossed to open it. There stood Ciaran.

  “I could not bear to wait another moment,” his brother said. “What have ye learned?”

  In spite of everything, Lennox was heartened to see the emotion in Ciaran’s dark face. “Very little, as ye predicted, but I may have one clue. Do ye remember that old Isbeil had a brother? Da says it was he who took them away in a galley, when ye were but a babe.”

  “Her brother?” Ciaran looked past Lennox to lock eyes with his da. “Were ye speaking of Duncan?”

  “Oh, aye,” Magnus nodded. “I remember now. Duncan.”

  “He labors for me in our shipyard,” said Ciaran. “His cottage is nearby.”

  Lennox’s heart leaped. “We must find him. If Duncan was with them, he may have the answers I seek.”

  * * *

  Twilight was gathering as Violette came into the hall of Spirit Tower, followed by Old David who carried a tray of glasses and an open jug of wine.

  “This is my favorite time of day on Skye,” Violette said in her charming French accent. “The light is sublime, don’t you agree? Pink and gold.”

  “Aye,” agreed Ciaran, sending a conspiratorial smile to Lucien. “’Tis the faeries’ doing.”

  As Lennox watched them, his thoughts drifted. As soon as he could tear Ciaran away from his little family, they would go together to visit Isbeil’s brother, Duncan. What would the old man tell them? Lennox couldn’t help imagining the stories he might hear, of his mother arriving at a grand castle, of the scene when she had met his father. The notion that Duncan might point at the man in the miniature and say his name aloud made Lennox feel oddly dizzy.

  Across the room, Fiona began to show Lucien how to roll a ball for the new family puppy, a brown-and-white ball of fur called Gaston. Once she could see that her little son was feeling confident, she returned to the group at the table. Old David had just entered the hall with a platter of venison pie, roast carrots, and spring peas.

  “I thought we were going to see Duncan,” Lennox said as he watched Ciaran help himself to a wedge of pie. He knew he sounded edgy, but what did they expect? His whole life seemed to hang in the balance this evening.

  “Aye, and we will,” Ciaran replied evenly. “But first we must eat.”

  The thought of food made Lennox’s stomach clench. “For years ye have kept the truth from me, and now that I have stumbled across it, ye still delay helping me to find more answers.”

  Ciaran sent him a stormy glance. “If I go without food, my temper will be as foul as yours.” He pushed the pie across the table.

  “And where the devil is Da, I would like to know?” Lennox complained as he grudgingly cut himself a wedge of venison pie. “He is more to blame than anyone, for he has known the longest, and yet he could not be bothered to come with us tonight.”

  Fiona patted Lennox’s shoulder, looking worried. “I have never seen you like this before.”

  Before he could reply, there was a loud bang at the tower house door, and it swung open with a loud groan. Lennox looked up and was surprised to see Magnus entering the hall. Close behind him walked a wiry man with a grizzled beard, an old tartan bonnet pulled down over his ears.

  “Da!” Ciaran rose and went forward to greet the two men. “Who’s this with ye?”

  “I’ve brought Duncan, Isbeil’s brother,” said Magnus, leading the older man forward. His eyes held a naked plea as he looked at Lennox.

  The others rose to greet the visitors and call for additional refreshment, while Lennox struggled to quell the emotions that rose up inside him. It was so much easier to feel resentful and angry toward Da, to silently compile a list of grievances, but this simple demonstration of love from the only father he had ever known brought stinging tears to his eyes.

  Magnus came to sit down on the bench beside Lennox. “Here then, Duncan, take a seat.” He patted the place on his other side and turned back to Lennox, speaking to him in a low voice. “This is what ye wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, Da.”

  “ I know ye feel I’ve failed you, lad. All I can think of now is to try and make it right, going forward.”

  Fiona leaned over to make eye contact with Lennox. He knew she wanted him to embrace Da and tell him all was forgiven, but Lennox’s heart, usually quick to warm and forgive, resisted. Instead he nodded at Magnus, mumbling thanks, and turned to Duncan.

  “Our nurse, Isbeil, was your sister, was she not?”

  “Aye. May the saints be with her.” Duncan raised his glass and drank to his departed sister.

  “Is it true that ye came to the aid of our mother, when she and Isbeil had to travel from the Isle of Skye? Our da remembers that ye were the one who took them over the water to…” He let his voice trail off, hoping that Duncan might quickly supply the answer he sought.

  “Aye, I did help them. ’Twas many years ago.” The old man glanced at Ciaran and smiled nostalgically. “This proud warrior was but a wee bairn. I recall that he took a liking to my old hound, Rufus. They’d curl up together in the bow of the galley, like kittens.”

  Feeling impatient, Lennox leaned forward. “Tell us more. Where exactly did ye take them?”

  Duncan removed his bonnet and scratched his balding pate. “As I recall, we traveled to a tower house, where your ma was welcomed.”

  “Was it Hilltower?” Lennox supplied, holding his breath. That was the name of his mother’s ancestral family home, north of Edinburgh.

  “Could be. My memory’s not what it once was.”

  Da poured some whisky into the man’s cup. “I wonder where it might have been?” he asked. “Near Edinburgh?”

  “Nay. By the western edge of Scotland, closer to Oban, I think.” Duncan drank again and looked at Magnus. “Ah, now I recall. There was a big lass staying there who might have been kin to your lady. A sister?”

  The MacLeods exchanged glances. “Aunt Tess,” breathed Lennox. Of course! His ma had always turned to her older sister for guidance and love.

  “What else can ye tell us?” Ciaran asked.

  Duncan shrugged. “Nothing more. Your ma declared she would ne’er return to Skye, and so I left them there and sailed home alone.”

  Magnus had gone pale as a ghost, but Lennox could spare no sympathy for him tonight. In a voice hard as stone, he said, “I must find Aunt Tess.”

  It was Fiona who spoke first. “Just this week, I had a message from our aunt, in reply to the news that Lucien and I would soon travel to join Christophe. She wrote to say she has been named a lady-in-waiting to Queen Mary! The royal court always spends Easter at Stirling Castle, so we will be together there soon.” She came over to rest a hand on his shoulder. “The way forward is quite clear. You must come with Lucien and me to Stirling.”

  Lennox thought of the miniature, tucked inside a pouch at his waist. In his mind’s eye, he clearly saw the man who resembled him so closely. Was it possible that the truth could be revealed when he arrived at Stirling and spoke to his aunt?

  “Aye,” he said softly. “I’ll go, Fi.”

  She threw her arms around him. “How wonderful it will be to travel together! Christophe has been worried for our safety.”

  Darkness gathered outside Spirit Tower as they made plans for the three of them to depart on the morrow, but Lennox felt strangely disconnected from this family he’d known since birth. Candles flickered in iron sconces set into the stone walls, illuminating the newly-
painted mural of a birlinn on the waves near Duntulm Castle. Lennox stared at it. Originally he had imagined it to be a scene of homecoming, but now it seemed to hold a very different meaning.

  Perhaps, without even realizing it, he’d painted a galley sailing away from Skye, bound for an unknown future.

  Chapter 3

  April 1541

  Stirling Castle, Scotland

  Nora paused at the tall leaded-glass window and emitted an appreciative sigh. Stirling Castle was set high on a soaring stone plateau, and Nora’s perch in the tapestry work room offered a breathtaking view of the charming village and emerald-green countryside that encircled the fortress.

  “Oh Father, I’m so glad we came here,” she said, smiling.

  William Brodie was hunched over a richly colorful tapestry spread over the surface of a worktable. “We had no choice,” he rumbled, peering through tiny spectacles at one section of the beautifully woven tapestry. “The Scots king needs me, now more than ever, since the Hunt of the Unicorn tapestries have arrived from France.” William frowned. “See here, another area that is imperfect.”

  As Nora looked at the place indicated by his long, knobby finger, she silently gave thanks that King James V had purchased the magnificent set of tapestries. The six works of art depicted a unicorn hunt, from the first sighting of the mythical beast and ending with the dead unicorn being brought to the castle in triumph. Woven in Flanders, the tapestries were a gift from King François I, intended to decorate and warm the walls of the new palace still under construction. In addition to the priceless tapestries, the king had also sent a huge loom that had recently been assembled in this newly-renovated workroom. It was the first loom of its kind in Scotland, and Nora’s father had great plans for it.

  “Ye must care for not only these newest treasures, but all tapestries in the royal collection. Cleaning, mending, storing, hanging…” William was describing the work Nora would be doing as a tapestry keeper, known as a tapisier, for the royal court of Scotland. She seemed to only hear half of what he said. He slanted a proud glance her way. “Perhaps, if ye prove yourself, ye may be allowed a bit of true restoration. With the proper supervision, of course.”

  Before Nora could reply, they were interrupted by a knock at the open door. “Mistress Brodie?”

  Nora looked over to see Grant Carsewell, a tall youth with expressive gray eyes who had extended a hand in friendship since her arrival at Stirling Castle in early March. “Hello, Grant. How nice it is to see you.”

  Her father cocked his big head. “We are laboring, young lad.”

  Grant beamed, looking only at Nora. “I’ve come to say that ye two are invited to sup with the royal court tonight. The king and queen are in residence, and they wish to celebrate the arrival of the new tapestries!”

  “How thrilling it would be to dine in the great hall of Stirling Castle,” Nora said, feeling a rush of excitement as she imagined the scene.

  Grant smiled as he crossed the floor to peer at the tapestry spread over the worktable. “Oh, ’tis splendid indeed! Did ye help to weave it?”

  “Nay.” William shook his head. “Grand tapestries like these are woven in the lowlands of Flanders.” He paused. “By those who have devoted their lives to perfecting this art.”

  “But aren’t ye a weaver yourself, sir?”

  Nora could see that her father’s patience was running low. “Although I am quite capable of performing all the weaver’s tasks, my real gift is drawing the pattern for a tapestry. It is called the cartoon, and it can take many weeks to create.”

  “And what of Nora?” asked Grant. “Will she do the drawing or the weaving?”

  “Neither. She is a lass.” William adjusted his spectacles and returned his attention to the tapestry, effectively ending the conversation. “Great weavers and cartoon artists have always been men, and the best among them reside in Flanders or France. ’Tis virtually impossible for a lass in Scotland to achieve such standing.”

  “But I do intend to become a master weaver,” Nora dared to say. “It is my dream.”

  “Ye are gifted and will doubtless achieve more than other lasses,” William said gruffly. “But we live in a world of rules. We must accept what is possible.”

  Nora bristled but made no reply. Long ago, her Flemish mother, Ada, had advised, “Your father is a rigid man. He finds comfort in structure. Life will be much easier if you simply do and think as you please without challenging him.” A year later, when William announced they were moving to England to look after Henry VIII’s growing tapestry collection, Ada simply refused to go. Nora had felt torn between her two parents. Although barely ten years old, she already saw herself as a weaver, and in the end she felt compelled to accompany her father. Although she’d not seen her mother for more than a decade, she had never forgotten her advice.

  “Father,” she said now, “I am going outside for some air.”

  He frowned. “Ye know well enough that our work leaves nary a moment for leisure.” William gestured toward the red velvet bed hanging that servants had delivered to them just an hour ago. In raised work of gold and silver, it was decorated with a hunter and a stag, and it was meant for the king’s own bed. “Ye should feel honored to bring your needle to repair a hanging like this one. Do not tarry!”

  Nora wasted no time. She caught Grant by the sleeve of his blue doublet and led him out of the cavernous workroom. When the door was closed behind them, she sighed. “I have a deep regard for my father, but he can certainly make me yearn to escape,” she confided.

  Grant was watching her as they walked down the broad curving staircase. “Ye put me in mind of a bird I saved when I was but a lad. Eventually, I realized if I truly loved him, I wouldn’t keep him in a cage.”

  “Exactly.” Nora laughed softly and lifted her skirts. “Of course, I owe Father everything, and he has been a wonderful teacher. But as much as I respect him, I am determined to make my own way in the world. One day, I will be a weaver, creating magnificent tapestries for royal courts like this one.”

  They emerged into the bustling, walled inner close, and Nora sensed Grant’s skepticism even before he spoke. “I suppose dreams are a good thing, and I admire your determination,” he allowed. “But it seems that men have the power, and the truth is, a lass must be governed by their rules.”

  “You are very young,” Nora replied, turning sober. “And you have not known me long. I am not like other women. I have lived in Europe, England, and now Scotland. I have seen the world, and I mean to have my way with it.” She paused, her body growing taut as a bowstring. “I will not be constrained by my father or any other man. The only true obstacles between me and my dreams are my own talent and strength, and I know they can overcome anything.”

  For a moment, Nora thought she saw stars in his eyes. One day, the lasses would be flocking around Grant Carsewell, but for now he was suspended on the precipice between adolescence and manhood.

  “I want to be like you,” he said.

  “It’s easy enough! Repeat this, morning and night,” Nora urged. “I alone am master of my own future.”

  Just then they were interrupted by a female voice calling Grant’s name. He turned his head and gave a cry of delight. “Look there, it’s Fiona!”

  Nora realized that these people, who had the look of newly-arrived travelers, must be the friends Grant had told her about. His stepfather Bayard de Nieuil, she knew, was one of the French masons working with Christophe de St. Briac on the construction of the new palace here at Stirling.

  Grant now turned to Nora, beaming. “Will ye come to meet my friends?”

  He drew her along with him until they reached the small band of travelers, but he released her arm in order to embrace a young brunette woman with a warm smile. The newcomer wore a traveling gown of slate-blue wool that seemed to enhance her beauty in spite of its simplicity.

  “This is my friend, Fiona MacLeod,” said Grant. “And the wee bairn is Lucien, her son. They are the family St.
Briac has been waiting for.”

  Although Nora smiled and spoke words of greeting, she felt awkward. She was taller than Fiona, and her curling mass of reddish hair struggled to burst free from the long braid down her back, while Fiona’s ebony tresses were coiled neatly at her neck.

  “Hello, Grant.” The deep male voice spoke from a distance.

  The speaker was a tall, broad-shouldered Highlander who stood apart from the others. He wore a belted plaid that revealed lean-muscled legs, but Nora’s gaze was drawn to the man’s wild, golden-tawny hair.

  “Lennox!” exclaimed Grant. His face lit up. “Are my eyes deceiving me? How did ye come to be in Stirling?”

  The man called Lennox smiled broadly in response. “I brought my sister and nephew from the Isle of Skye,” he said, glancing her way as he explained. “And, as it happens, I’ve some business of my own.” As Grant chattered in reply, Lennox slowly turned to look at Nora. His eyes were a startling shade of sea-green, and he lifted sun-bleached brows in a question. “I do not believe we’ve met, my lady.”

  To Nora’s consternation, she felt her face grow warm. “There’s no need to address me as if I were nobility. I am simply Nora Brodie.”

  Grant drew her closer to Lennox and made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Yet there is nothing simple about this fair lass,” he proclaimed. “Nora is a gifted weaver of tapestries! She and her father have come from the Tudor court in London, at the behest of King James himself, to look after the Crown’s priceless collection of tapestries.”

  Lennox angled an ironic glance between Grant and Nora. “Since my young friend can speak of naught but you, Mistress Brodie, it seems I must make my own introductions. I am Lennox MacLeod, from the Isle of Skye, brother to Fiona.”

  Under his warm regard, Nora became aware of a stirring deep inside, a restive yet pleasurable tingling. This was a part of her she’d taken pains to keep buried, for female instincts only interfered with her dreams—nay, goals. And so she steeled herself and, with a backward step, gave Lennox MacLeod a polite smile. “I hope you will enjoy your time in Stirling, sir.”