The
castle
courtyard
on a snowy chrimstmas eve
Scottish historical Romance
Fiona MacEwen
Copyright © 2019 by Fiona MacEwen.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1 Homeward Surprise
Chapter 2 An Unwelcome Welcome
Chapter 3 Like Yesterday
Chapter 4 The Walk to Christmas
Chapter 5 In the Dead of Night
Chapter 6 Rude Awakenings
Chapter 7 An Opening to Revenge
Chapter 8 A Spy in the Midst
Chapter 9 The Feast Begins
Chapter 10 An Unexpected Guest
Epilogue
Prologue
Without glancing back, Duncan slipped quietly from the door of the keep, the sounds of revelry coming from behind. He crossed the moonlit, snowy courtyard, every step sounding louder than the last, and left the castle by a side door in the wall. Outside, he breathed a deep sigh, knowing this to be the first taste of his freedom, and began to walk carefully through the snow.
The tree line was in sight, just a few feet away, as behind there came a cry from the courtyard. But Duncan was already away, and he ran the last short distance into the trees. Shouts of ‘escape’ could be heard and turning he looked back at the castle which had been his prison these past eight years. He had no sorrow in leaving, only hatred for the man who had kept him prisoner these long years past. Without a second thought he ran off into the forest, his only thought being at his father’s hearth. The long and dangerous journey north now ahead.
***
It was Duncan Campbell’s first taste of war. At just twelve years old he had accompanied his father south to fight against the English. It was a game as old as the clan itself. Sometimes the Scots would gain an advantage over their southern enemy whilst at other times it would be the English who would rout their foes with the unleashing of a devastating anger. Either way, the outcome was death and suffering.
On this day Duncan Campbell and his father were accompanied by their clansmen on the raid of an English farm. It should have been an easy enough task. They would cross the border, burn the farm, and take the livestock. All before anyone could retaliate. They would return north to sing songs of victory and toast a successful skirmish.
“Dae ye think we shall see any English soldiers?” Duncan asked his father as they crossed from Scotland into England, the clansmen watching warily lest any of the enemy be waiting for them.
“Nay lad, the English are cowards, they leave their own to be attacked. They have nay honor. Yer first taste of battle will be a dull one I am sorry to say,” his father replied, as they came to the brow of a hill which looked down on the English farm below.
Duncan could see several peasants tilling the land below. Smoke rising from the chimney of the cottage and animals being herded into one of the barns. Little did they know what devastation was about to be unleashed upon them.
He was only twelve, but already he had the heart of a warrior and was proud to know that one day he would inherit his father’s title as Laird. Now, he watched as his father whispered instructions to the men. They would wait until the peasants went to their midday meal and take them by surprise. The farm would be burned and the Campbell’s would make off with their livestock. It all seemed so simple.
“Tis’ time now, Duncan. Ye follow me, ye hear? Stay close and nothin’ will happen to ye,” his father said, drawing his sword and mounting his horse.
The clansmen rallied together, and the Laird called out the charge, and then as one they rode down towards the farm. But all was not as it seemed. As they came within a hundred yards of the farm there burst forth from the undergrowth a band of English soldiers, charging them from left and right.
The Laird pulled up his horse, raising his sword as the attack came. They were outnumbered, and in the confusion Duncan fell from his horse. He landed with a thud on the ground, around him the fight turning bloody and bitter.
“Duncan,” his father cried, but it was too late, Duncan was caught up in the middle of the battle, running for his life.
His clansmen were falling on the swords of the English soldiers and the prospect of defeat seemed all too certain. The Laird rallied his men to retreat, casting a final glance behind him for his son, who was nowhere to be seen.
Duncan had hidden himself in bushes off towards the farm and he watched in horror as his father and the other Campbell’s rode off back up the hill. He was about to chase after them, paying no heed to the danger of the English soldiers around, when a hand took hold of his shoulder.
“Not so fast, young ‘un, you just wait there,” a soldier said, pulling Duncan firmly to his side.
“Let me go, let me go,” Duncan cried, but the soldier’s grip was too tight and he dragged him back towards the farm, Duncan struggling but to no avail.
“Look what we have here, sir,” the soldier said, approaching a man on horseback who was clearly in charge of the ambush.
“Well, well, look at this. These Scots certainly start them young, don’t they?” the man said, climbing down from his horse and catching hold of Duncan, who continued to struggle.
“Let me go,” Duncan cried.
“Or run you through you little runt. What’s your name?” the man said, but Duncan made no reply, struggling even more in the man’s grip.
“He must be the Laird’s son, sir. They wouldn’t just bring any boy out here, would they? He could be important as a hostage,” the soldier who had caught Duncan said.
“Hmm, yes, you’re right. It’s astonishing the way these Scots behave, bringing mere children out to battle like this. Well, his father clearly didn’t realize the trap he was walking into, foolish man,” the ambush commander said.
“What shall I do with him, sir?”
“Do with him? Well, we can always use another skivvy in the castle kitchen. He can be put to work. Come now men, we ride home, a successful ambush, wouldn’t you say?” the ambush commander said.
And that was that. Duncan was taken back to the home of the English man, whose name was Sir Hugo Sackville. The castle lay just south of the border, a great sprawling pile, well defended, for it was often under attack from the north.
Sir Hugo was a hardened commander, used to the hardships of life on the borders. He had held the King’s command there these many years past and had long held the Laird of the Campbell’s in contempt. It was quite a coup to have the young son of a bitter enemy in his hands and for the first six months Duncan was incarcerated in the dungeons.
But as time went by it was decided to put him to work and he was given a position in the castle kitchens. He was closely watched by the other servants, who were loyal Englishmen and treated Duncan badly. The young lad was always given the worst jobs and received the most meager rations. But despite such hardships he grew into a fine young
man. He was handsome and strong, and kept a noble disposition to him, knowing that his place was as a leader of men, rather than a skivvy in the home of an Englishman.
There was not a day that went by when he did not look for some means or other to escape. The castle was famed for being impregnable and no enemy had ever breached the wall, but getting out was a different matter. Duncan watched and waited, learning every nook and cranny of the castle, always seeking out its weaknesses and observing when and how he might escape.
But opportunity rarely came and for eight long years Duncan slaved at Sir Hugo’s bidding. The Englishman would often taunt him or parade him in front of his guests like a trophy. It had been a great victory for Sir Hugo and one he would not let anyone forget. Least of all Duncan’s father, who became a shadow of his former self. He vowed revenge but never had the strength of men to mount a rescue.
Once Duncan hid in a cart taking vegetable peelings out to the pigs. He buried himself beneath the mountain of scraps and had got some distance from the castle when the alarm was raised. At that moment he had scampered, running straight into the arms of the men whom Sir Hugo had sent to look for him. From that day onwards the pile of kitchen scraps for the pigs had a pitch fork thrust through it before it left the castle, and Duncan was lashed for his insolence.
But he remained determined to one day escape, and it was on the night of a particularly raucous feast that he found his opportunity to do so. Sir Hugo would often throw lavish banquets for visiting guests. The kitchens would work for days preparing all manner of delights and an endless entourage of visiting aristocrats would arrive at the castle. On these occasions Duncan kept to himself but on this particular occasion Sir Hugo was entertaining officers of the King’s militia, along with his own guard, who had won considerable victories over the border clans in recent months.
There was much revelry and raucousness that night and it seemed that every soldier in the castle had joined in with the celebrations. The Great Hall was full, and the claret was flowing freely. Duncan had been ordered to bring up fresh barrels from the cellar, but when he emerged from the spiral staircase which led down below the keep, he found the cellar man sprawled out drunk on the floor. He was breathing heavily, half asleep, and Duncan shook him gently.
The man murmured and rolled over, his set of keys jangling on his belt. Duncan startled as he saw them, knowing he had a chance to escape. Nervously he undid the man’s belt, sliding the bunch of keys out, and with them triumphantly in hand he raced back inside.
He hid the keys in his tunic pocket and pretended to be taking out an empty barrel of claret. Promising to return shortly and replenish the glasses of his enemies. But once outside he slipped across the courtyard to a door in the side wall which he knew would be unguarded.
The soldiers were all too busy getting drunk and Duncan fumbled with the keys, trying this and that one in the rusty old lock.
“Come on,” he whispered, struggling to turn another key to no avail.
He had tried eight of the keys now and all that remained was a big, rusty key with a fleur-de-lis for its handle. With his hands shaking uncontrollably Duncan placed the key in the lock, fumbling with it as he attempted to turn it. With a sudden wrench the lock gave way, making a sound which Duncan was convinced would be heard across the courtyard. He pulled open the door, looking out across the snow-covered landscape laid out before him.
Winter had hit hard that year and a great drift of snow was piled high against the castle wall. Duncan did not pause to look back but ran straight towards the tree line, the cellar man’s keys falling behind him.
He could hear cries now, shouts coming from the courtyard and keep. There was the sound of horses being saddled and the words ‘escape’ coming on the wind. But Duncan paid no heed to them. He was free, and that was all that mattered.
Once he reached the tree line he paused, watching nervously as Sir Hugo’s men rode from the castle gate. But it was clear that no one had checked the side door and the English soldiers were soon gone, chasing after their escapee along the road leading north. Duncan now wasted no time, and despite the eight years which had passed he recognized the way he should go, heading north towards his father’s home and hearth.
Duncan Campbell had finally escaped, and it was now time to regain the life which was rightfully his and seek revenge upon those who had so cruelly taken away his childhood. He set off through the forest, humming a little tune to himself, knowing that ahead lay freedom and the life of a Laird.
Chapter 1
Homeward Surprise
Duncan had walked for many days over hill and moorland towards home. His father’s castle lay far in the north and he made many wrong turns and took many strange paths before he came in sight of the keep and battlements, lying far down in the glen below.
It was just as he remembered it, at least from afar. The winter that year had been harsh and the forests surrounding the castle were covered in thick snow, the tufts of branches poking up like a thousand pins amidst the white expanse. The castle lay on a bend in the river which was set thick with ice, and from his mountain perch Duncan could just make out some men fishing through holes in the ice.
He smiled to himself, looking down in the knowledge that he was home. The past ten years seemed almost like a dream, his captivity a mirage, against the familiarity of what lay before him. He wondered what might have changed, though he wished for nothing to have done so.
Perhaps that is the lot of every prisoner, to have in his heart an ever perfect vision of what life back home might be like. To taste freedom, to return to your home, it was a feeling which now almost overwhelmed him. He found himself fighting back the tears in his eyes, as he began the descent towards the castle, his heart set upon his father’s hearth and the welcome of his hall.
But ten years is a long time, and to expect others to wait, their lives paused simply for one’s own benefit, is something which every prisoner must surely realize cannot ever be the case. Times change, people change, situations change. And whilst the castle and its battlements, its towers and gatehouse may seem the same, its inhabitants were not.
The forest was difficult to traverse, despite Duncan’s familiarity with the terrain. He kept stopping to catch his breath, the snow thick and drifting, making traversing the path difficult. As he came to the fork in the river, on the path which led down the mountainside, he found he could easily cross over the ice to the other side. There, he paused and looked around for the tree which had been the stuff of so many idle dreams these ten years past.
It was a spruce, like any other in the forest, set back from the path, but it was here, all those years ago, that he and the lass he loved had carved their initials. He spotted it almost at once and tramped through the snow up the bank towards it. He slipped several times, the deep drifts almost consuming him, but struggling on he eventually came to the top of the bank and grasped hold of the tree trunk.
It was old and gnarled, the last ten years having given it fresh bark and new branches. But, as he ran his hands around the trunk, he found the place where he and Arabel Boyd had carved their names deep into the bark. The grooves were deep, and he placed his finger into the carving, tracing the outline of their initials, the memory of that day as vivid as though it had only just occurred.
He had thought of Arabel each and every day during his imprisonment. She was a distant cousin, introduced to him when they were but children. A beautiful and bonnie lass, with long flowing ginger hair and bright blue eyes that sparkled when she smiled, and a way about her which delighted all who encountered her. He pictured her now and the surprise upon her face when he entered his father’s hall.
He had no sense that she may no longer be there, or that she may not have waited for him. That had been what kept him going these long years past, the thought of Arabel waiting for him at home. She would be just the same as she was before, all those years ago, on that fateful day when last he had seen her.
He remembered it like yeste
rday; she places a kiss upon his cheek, as they carved their initials there on the tree.
“I shall be back before ye know it,” he had told her, returning the kiss and watching as she ran off back to her mother.
That had been the last time he had seen her, and as he stood by the tree, he wondered just what he might say to her now. Would she run to him and place her arms around him? Would they kiss, declare their love for one another? It was all too wonderful to comprehend, and he stood by the tree in something of a daze, as a fresh flurry of snow began to fall around him.
“Come now, get yerself away,” he said to himself, shaking his head and smiling.
The path now led through the trees towards the castle, emerging before the gates. But as he looked up he was surprised to see the dilapidation of the castle which looked ruined in places and nothing like he had left it.
“Tis’ strange,” he said out loud, and glanced over to where once the crofters had lived around the castle walls along the river banks.
Their homes too were in disrepair, a few thin plumes of smoke rising up forlornly from the chimneys. It all seemed very odd. His father was always so proud of the castle and did his best to look after those who looked to him for protection and provided food and animals for the Laird’s household. There was no banner fluttering over the battlements either and it was as though the place was half abandoned.
Duncan’s suspicions were aroused, but he had no sword nor means to defend himself if an enemy had overtaken the castle. He was curious though and approaching the gates he called out for the guards.
“Guards, good men of the Campbell Clan, tis’ I, Duncan Campbell, escaped from imprisonment and returned to my father’s house. Open the gates and let me in,” he shouted.
There was no immediate response, the gray stones of the castle silent against their snowy backdrop. He called out again, looking cautiously up at the battlements above the gates, lest an enemy be ready to shoot. But as he was giving up any hope of attracting attention an elderly man, dressed in the armor of a Campbell, pulled himself up over the battlements and looked down.
The Castle Courtyard on a Snowy Christmas Eve Page 1