“He did because we are in love,” Margaret said, looking at Hamish defiantly, as he shook his head.
“And how deep must these affections go before Rory knows the truth? I will tell him, Margaret. Ye know I will. But I have given ye a chance to dae so and dae ye must.”
A tear welled up in Margaret’s eyes, and she grabbed Hamish by the arm, imploring him to listen.
“Why does he need to know? I have escaped from my family. I am no spy, no traitor. I love Rory; I love all the Elliotts. I would never do anything to cause them trouble or to betray them. Can you not see that? You were once an enemy, a forbidden love to Evie. Yet now it is you who go to make the pronouncement of the Laird’s death to the clan. Why can you not trust me?” she said.
“Because I know the Musgrave’s. I know them as well as anyone here, and I know my family too. If one-day tis’ discovered that ye are a Musgrave and that we have kept this dreadful secret between us, then it shall be the both of us who suffer. Tell him; I will wait a few days, that I promise and tis’ nae because I daenae believe yer story. Anyone who wishes to escape the Musgraves is a friend of mine well enough. But can ye nae see what harm ye shall dae to this clan if ye are hidden here in plain sight? Rory must know, Margaret. Else all will be lost,” Hamish said, and with that, he turned on his heel and marched off, leaving Margaret alone.
What a terrible choice she faced when all she wanted was to know the love and affection of Rory. It was him that she loved, no one else. Her loyalties to the Musgraves were gone, and she could think only of Rory and the happiness he brought her.
But now, that happiness would be dashed and knew she must tell him if only to prevent Hamish from doing so himself. The thought of that dreadful moment filled her with fear, though she knew that he was right. Rory must know the truth if he was to marry her. To marry under such pretenses would only end in misery when at last, he discovered her true identity.
Slipping out of the keep, she hurried across the courtyard. Hamish was standing with the clansmen, joined by many of the soldiers, and, as he announced the Laird’s death, a great moan rose from those gathered, as the castle bell began to its solemn toll.
She made her way through the gate in the curtain wall and into the garden. It was quiet, the afternoon sun bringing out the scent of the plants, and she made her way across to the place where she and Rory had shared their kiss the night before when happiness seemed hers.
Sitting down, she sighed and put her head into her hands, a tear running down her cheek. How she longed to marry Rory and settle down here at Kirklinton. She loved this place, for here she had at last found the happiness she had so long sought. Now, it would be taken, and she would have to flee into the wilderness or find herself a prisoner at the new Laird’s pleasure.
What can I do but wait for this sad fate to befall me? I will have nothing, she said, just as the gate clicked open across the grass.
Looking up, she saw Niall McCall coming towards her, an angry look on his face. She had no desire to speak with him, and she rose, making her way across the grass and back towards the gate into the courtyard.
“Ye wait a moment, lass,” he growled, catching hold of her arm.
“Unhand me. You heard what the Laird said, soon you will be gone from here and away from us all. I shall shed no tear to see your back,” she said, struggling in his grip.
“I will go when I am ready and nae when some pretender tells me,” Niall replied.
“You are not wanted. What is your game here? What trouble and terror do you bring? There is more to you than meets the eye, Niall McCall,” she said, no longer caring for her fate, but longing to see Kirklinton rid of this wicked and troublesome man.
“As there surely is to ye too, lass,” he replied, their eyes meeting as he glared menacingly at her.
His words took her aback, and she shook his hand from her arm and turned to flee.
“I will not hear such things,” she said, “be gone,” and hurried off through the gate and back into the courtyard.
There, she found the solemn guard assembled, as Rory emerged from the keep and hailed as Laird. The clansmen and soldiers hailed allegiance presenting their swords as a pledge of their honor. Margaret watched, seeing Rory in quite a different way. He was no longer a youth, a boy who would one day be Laird. Now, he commanded the respect and loyalty of an entire clan, a clan for whom he was responsible until death.
She admired him, loved him even more for that. He had the look of nobility about him, his handsome face now set in determination. She stood by the gate and watched as he stepped forward, acknowledging his clansmen and holding up his hands for quiet.
“Men, loyal clansmen, my friends,” he began, “tis’ with great sadness we proclaim my father's death, but with it, we begin a new hour for our clan. We Elliotts are a strong and noble people, honorable and true. We shall prevail together as we have always done. Let my father’s legacy live on in our bravery, our desire for what is right, and our strength to see it through. We have many enemies, but we are united in a common hope, a hope to live in peace and to prosper. With God’s help, we shall surely dae so, and now, I ask that ye raise yer swords and salute our Laird, my father, Fraser Elliott.”
As the clan raised their swords, Rory turned and caught Margaret’s eye. She smiled at him, and he nodded, a look of trust and love passing between them. She had fallen so very much in love with him and could not bear the thought of losing him. But only time would tell and knew she must tell him the truth, sooner rather than later.
After the funeral, she said to herself, as the clansmen raised their swords again and paid allegiance to their new and noble Laird.
Chapter Eighteen
Rory took his mother’s arm and led her down the steps of the keep and into the courtyard. It was the day of his father’s funeral, and the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Autumn had arrived on the borderlands, and the long, hot summer days had given way to the chill and rain of a changing season.
The wind whipped around the courtyard, and overhead, the skies were inky and grey. A mist had descended, the rain falling in sheets, as the body of Rory’s father, Fraser Elliott, the old Laird, and master was carried from the castle on his final journey.
He was to be buried with all the ceremony afforded a man of his rank and nobility. Many clansmen had gathered at Kirklinton for the funeral rites, and a guard of honor stood in the courtyard, their swords drawn.
Rory helped his mother down the steps, followed by Evie and Hamish, Owen, and Duncan. Last of all came Margaret, and Rory was grateful for her being there. Her presence was a soothing balm, and he knew that whatever the following hours held, he could see them through with her at his side. How he looked forward to marrying her and how grateful he was to his family for welcoming here.
The news of their betrothal had come as bittersweet in the wake of his father’s death. But the family still raised a glass in toast and congratulation, assuring one another that a proper celebration would be forthcoming in time. Rory and Margaret had continued to discuss the wedding, making plans for the spring when fair weather would return to Kirklinton.
She seemed enthusiastic, but on several occasions, he had caught her gazing wistfully into the distance, and had wondered if there was still something she was keeping hidden from him. He knew so little about her, though he knew for certain that he loved her. With Margaret at his side, the burden of his new responsibility seemed lessened, and Rory knew that he could face the challenges of being Laird, his confidence now growing. He would be Laird and would see his father’s legacy upheld; a new era ushered in for the clan.
“Tis’ time now, Laird,” Sweeney said, stepping forward, as Rory nodded.
“Then lead us on, and call out the guard,” Rory said, as the rain fell heavier and the sky darker.
He glanced across the courtyard, seeing Niall McCall standing somberly amidst his father’s soldiers. He would bide his time and be rid of that man soon enough. His father’s greatest
fault had been to trust him, but Rory had no trust in his heart for such a man, only contempt. For a moment, he caught his eye, as the procession began, but Rory only scowled and turned away, as the rain soaked through his tunic and dripped down his face.
Fraser was to be buried next to his father above Lochrutton, and the funeral procession progressed along the track. The path soon turned to mud as they walked, Rory helping his mother who seemed inconsolable.
Ever since the day of his father’s death, she had become withdrawn, refusing to eat or even speak for much of the time. Evie had been her constant companion, tending to her needs. But Rory worried for the future and whether she might ever recover from her grief. He now felt the full burden of responsibility, as he walked that ceremonial march, his father’s final journey.
“Ye will speak, will ye?” his uncle Duncan asked, as they came to the graveyard.
“Aye, just as my father spoke at my grandfather’s graveside,” Rory replied.
“I remember it well,” his uncle answered, “too many memories taken, and yet still I go on.”
“And I am glad that ye dae,” Rory replied.
“This was the responsibility ye spoke of on our walks, Rory. Now ye have yer purpose, and I know that ye will use it well,” his uncle said, placing a gentle hand upon Rory’s shoulder.
He was grateful to his uncle for such words. All his life, Rory had been preparing for this moment but would have gladly changed it just to see his father again.
They came to the graveyard, and Father McKilley was there to pronounce the prayers. He was dressed in a long black cloak, bucked at the neck with a gold clasp and a hood pulled over his head. The rain was lashing down now, and the wind blew icily across the graveyard, as they gathered for the burial.
Evie, with the children at her side, now took Isla’s arm, sheltering her as much as she could from the rain, as Rory prepared to step forward. As he did so, Margaret caught his arm, a reassuring hand in his sorrow.
“God bless your dear father, I am here with you,” she whispered, and he smiled at her.
“Then that is all I need,” he said, clearing his throat and turning towards the gathered clansmen.
“And may he rest in the peace of Christ,” Father McKilley said, throwing a handful of dirt onto the coffin, as he concluded the prayers.
“And now it falls to me to speak,” Rory said, stepping forward, “ye will all know that my father was a proud and nobleman with much goodness in his heart. He led this clan through much turmoil and strife, and saw many dangers in these past years. His youth was nae as it might have been and his dear mother a mystery to him. He courted my mother in strange circumstances, and we all know of their encounter with our enemies across the borders. My father’s heart was a noble one, filled with a desire for goodness and justice. He was well known for his healin’ hands and desire to dae good. May it be with healin’ for his soul that the good Lord now receives him.”
Rory continued his eulogy for some time, extolling his father’s virtues and commending him to their prayers. But at last, it was time for the final prayer, and for the Elliotts to leave behind their Laird, as he began a journey, they could not follow.
Rory placed an arm around his mother, as together they threw handfuls of dirt into the grave and bid the Laird a final farewell. Isla was inconsolable, and Evie stepped forward again to help as tears ran down her cheeks, and almost fell to the floor with sorrow.
What a dark and tragic day it was for them all, and the only thing which Rory could find to cheer him was the knowledge of Margaret’s presence close at hand. She did not need to utter any words or do anything but simply be there alongside him. He knew now more than ever just how much he loved her, and, as the clansmen turned away from the graveside, he slipped his hand into hers as they made their way back towards the track to Kirklinton.
“A dark and sorrowful day,” she whispered to him.
“Aye, and one with little hope for the future,” he replied, for at that moment, he wondered what that future would look like.
“You will be as great a Laird as your dear father was before you, Rory. I know you shall,” she said.
“There is much work ahead of us,” he said, and she nodded.
“Then we shall face it together, you and I,” she said, leaning up and kissing him on the cheek.
He gave her a weak smile, as they walked on behind Isla and Evie, the rest of the clan following behind. It was a sad sight to see the Elliotts at their mourning, their dear Laird taken from them, a light gone out amongst them.
They had just come to the brow of the hill overlooking Lochrutton. The graveyard lay behind them, a low craggy wall separating it from the moorland, behind which gnarled old yew trees grew as a symbol of the death contained therein. Beyond them, the track stretched away towards Kirklinton, the moorlands lying on either side, shrouded in mist and cloud of the dull and unforgiving day.
Rory paused, glancing back behind him, as his uncle and Owen came following behind. They were dressed in black habits, the wool now soaked through, their hoods dripping wet. Rory nodded to his brother, who glanced back towards the graveyard and crossed himself.
“May angels lead him to the arms of God,” he said, and their uncle nodded.
“Aye, God rest his soul and …” he began.
Suddenly, there was a cry, and through the mist, emerged a sight to strike terror in Rory’s heart. On either side, charging towards them were English soldiers with swords drawn.
They had taken the Elliotts entirely by surprise, emerging like ghosts through the mist, as they walked in solemn procession back towards Kirklinton. The suddenness of the attack led to chaos, as Rory drew his sword and ushered his mother and Margaret on towards Kirklinton.
“Make haste, Evie, ye too, run to the castle with the children and summon help for us,” he cried, as the English soldiers charged towards them.
The clansmen drew their swords and charged into the fray, meeting the English on either side. But it was a vicious assault when they were at their most vulnerable in the wake of the old Laird’s burial.
Rory found himself next to Hamish, his sword drawn and a look of anger upon his face. Several of the English soldiers now charged them, but Rory and Hamish fought bravely, driving them back.
The rain was falling heavily, a strong wind now blowing across the moorlands, as the battle raged all around them. There must have been a hundred English soldiers, well-armed, and with the element of surprise in their favor. But the Elliotts fought bravely, and for every English sword, they took two, fighting for the honor of their clan in the face of such aggression.
“Someone has betrayed us,” Hamish cried, as he lunged and struck out at an English soldier who charged him.
“When we are at our weakest is the only time these cowards will dare to attack,” Rory called out, clashing his sword against another Englishman.
“And they shall pay dearly, Laird,” Hamish replied.
The Elliotts had rallied now, the English losing the element of surprise. They fought bravely, as the women retreated towards the castle, followed by Owen and Duncan, who bore no arms to defend themselves.
The fight was bloody, but Rory fought bravely, as did the others. The English were well-armed, but they did not have the bravery of the Scots, nor the sheer determination to fight to the last man.
“Come now, men, we can drive them back,” Rory cried, rallying the clansmen forward.
His anger at being attacked was soon replaced by courage, and it was as though his father’s spirit were there with him, urging him to fight and defeat their enemy. With a great cry, the Elliotts ran forward, the enemy now retreating along the track to Lochrutton. They followed for around half a mile, chasing down the stragglers and ensuring that no man was left across the border.
At last, Rory called for them to halt and band together, the sky now dark above them, and each man soaked to the skin by the relentless rain. Looking around him, breathless and weary, he could see sev
eral of his men were missing. Good soldiers, loyal to him and his father before him now dead, thanks to a wicked ploy by their enemy.
“Musgraves, of course,” Hamish said, wiping his sword upon the heather.
“The only enemy to sink so low as to attack grievin’ men and women as they mourn the loss of their Laird,” Rory replied, spitting on the ground.
“Come now, Rory. We must return to Kirklinton and see to it that the castle is secured. This is war now,” Hamish replied.
“And what of yer own folks? Ye cannae return to the McBryde castle this day. For all ye know, they may have already attacked yer men there,” Rory said, and Hamish nodded.
“We will be safer to make our stand at Kirklinton. Tis’ a formidable fortress and a place we can well defend. I will send riders home, that we may know what has happened. But I fear the borders are now a place of war,” Hamish said.
A Highlander Marked by Fate: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance (Highlanders of Kirklinton Book 3) Page 18