His to Keep: A Medieval Romance

by Sherrinda Ketchersid

  ’Twas no small feat to bear Phillip’s full weight. His comrade was almost as big as Ian himself. Sweat rolled down his face, and he blinked against its sting in his eyes.

  Phillip pulled himself into the shaft and gagged.

  “Shh.” Should Phillip retch while a guard passed overhead, they’d be discovered. He should have insisted Phillip plug his nose with cloth before climbing into the malodorous space. Whispered cursing reached Ian’s ears.

  Ian gathered the rope from Phillip and draped it over his shoulders before continuing his climb. He quickly learned to test his hold onto the stone casing, as caked feces crumbled in his hands, dusting his body. He didn’t know what was worse—dung squished between his fingers or flakes clinging to his sweaty face.

  He gritted his teeth and pushed upward with his legs. The darkness overhead lightened as he neared the opening. Almost there. He climbed another couple of feet and touched the smooth board covering the opening. Running his hand along the board, he found the hole that had been cut in the middle. He grasped the edge and pushed up, lifting the board from its mount.

  Faint light from the cloudy night sky filtered through the windows on either side, allowing Ian to gain his bearings. The wooden door straight ahead was closed. He pushed half-way out of the shaft and placed the board on the ground, careful to not make a sound.

  The door burst open and light blinded Ian. His foot slipped, sending him downward. His fingers barely grasped the top of the hole and stopped his fall. Muffled cursing sounded from below, and he squinted against the light of a blazing torch.

  “You crawled into my castle reeking like the refuse that you are.” The red-haired beauty stood in the doorway, flanked by two guards.

  “You left me little choice, lass.” Ian began to crawl out of the chute.

  “Stay where you are!” She waved the torch.

  Ian flinched and stilled his movements. “I only want to show you proof from my king.”

  “As we discussed earlier, I am not subject to your king.”

  “Even if the plan was designed by your relative? Queen Ermengarde de Beaumont of Scotland?”

  Maid Beaumont’s brows drew together as she scrutinized Ian.

  “Albeit, she is a distant relative, but she is mentioned in King William’s letter. May I show it to you?”

  “I should force you back down the dung hole.” Her front teeth sank into her full bottom lip, as she slowly shook her head. “But I would see the missive if only to satisfy my curiosity.”

  Ian bit back a triumphal grin as he climbed out of the shaft. No need to raise her ire.

  “Clean the Scot of his filth, and then escort him to the great hall,” said Maid Beaumont to her guards. Then she turned and walked down the passageway, her soft steps fading away.

  “I could use aid here!”

  Ian turned to the plea for help. Phillip’s hand grasped at the edge of the shaft, his slimy fingers slipping off the worn stone edge. Ian clutched his friend’s forearm, hauling him upward until he climbed out.

  “Saints, Ian. This has to be your worst plan yet.” Phillip held out his filthy fingers.

  Ian looked at his own hands and grimaced. He wiped his hands on a pile of moss in the corner of the garderobe and tossed a handful to Phillip. “This should help.”

  “’Twill not rid me of the foul stench in my nose.”

  “Soon to be remedied, my friend.” Ian tossed the used moss into the shaft and then dusted himself off and shook out his hair.

  “Hand over your swords.” The tallest guard in the hallway waved his blade at them.

  “There is no need. We come in peace and only want to speak with Maid Beaumont.” While his words were true, Ian dinna want to go in unarmed.

  “Drop your swords or back down the dung hole you go.”

  Ian unbelted his scabbard and laid it on the floor. Phillip did the same.

  After their weapons were collected, Ian and Phillip were taken to a room downstairs with a couple of tubs on the floor filled with dirty water.

  A guard pushed Ian forward. “Clean yourself.”

  Ian took in the dark water, wondering at the unidentified blobs floating on the surface scum. “Could you not spare us some clean water?”

  “Only to dirty it up with your filth? I think not.” The guard placed the tip of his sword against Ian’s back. “In you go.”

  Ian glanced at Phillip, whose look of disgust mirrored his own. “At least we won’t reek of dung anymore.” Ian removed his boots and entered the tub fully clothed. Phillip did the same and they washed as best as they could with the small amount of soap the guards gave them. Once they had finished bathing, they dried off with a large cloth, still damp from previous use. “Come,” said one of the guards. “Maid Beaumont is waiting.”

  The guard led the way, and two others brought up the rear as they traversed the dark corridor lit only by the leading guard’s torch. The walls seemed secure, not marked with age or disrepair. One thing to brighten the end to this frustrating day.

  That, and the fact that he’d gained an audience with his intended. Getting to know her might sweeten the disappointment in the condition of his inheritance. He was known to make the ladies smile. Surely, Maid Beaumont would follow suit, and he’d soon be in her good graces.

  Chapter 2

  Claire Beaumont strode down the corridor, her heart strumming a heavy cadence as she considered the Scot’s words. What did Queen Ermengarde have to do with giving a Scot her land? Of course, ’twasn’t her land, but her late guardian’s, left in her care by Whitfield’s daughters who had married men with grand estates of their own. Neither wanted anything to do with their father’s pile of rubble, as they called it.

  ’Twas now her rubble to see after. ’Twas home to her.

  So what was the Scottish Queen’s role in all of this supposed inheritance, and what did it have to do with Claire? While the queen was related through her father’s line several generations back, they had no dealings with that side of the family from what she knew. How did the Queen even know of her? And if she did, wouldn’t she want Claire—her own blood—to inherit Whitfield instead of putting a Scot in charge?

  Claire descended the stairwell and entered the great hall. A servant had stoked the flames in the large fireplace set in the wall to the left. She sank onto one of the chairs next to the blaze, letting the warmth seep into her body, cold from the brisk spring night. The heat didn’t touch her heart, which remained chilled from the appearance of McGowan.

  “Maid Claire.”

  Claire started, her gaze shooting to Noah who stood a few feet away, his russet hair tousled and his eyes bleary. Though he assisted Toly in the stable, he also helped with whatever she needed around the castle. One of the guards must have called for him.

  “Might I get you drink? Or for your guests?”

  “Nay, thank you. They will not be staying.”

  Noah bowed his head and stepped back against the wall while he awaited her orders.

  Finally, footsteps sounded in the stairwell, and James, the head guard, led the Scot and his man across the great hall. Wet from a bath, the Scot’s physique was powerfully built with broad shoulders and a thick chest. He strode across the room like a mighty warrior, regal and strong. As he came to stand before her, he towered over James and the two guards standing on either side of him. His long chestnut hair was pulled back in a queue, and his dark eyes sparkled in the flickering light of the fire.

  Claire put a hand to her chest as if she could still the racing of her heart. The handsome man smiled, revealing a small dip in his left cheek. Faith! She shifted her focus away from him and came to her feet, pushing her shoulders back. She wouldn’t be intimidated by the man and his overpowering presence or be swayed by his pleasing countenance. “I would see the missive from your king.”

  “’Tis glad, I am, to offer you proof of my claim.”

  The man’s brogue, rolling the r’s of his words, sent a warmth through Claire. She clasped her
fingers in front of her, then dropped her hands to her sides. Stop fidgeting!

  He pulled a pouch from beneath his shirt and carefully withdrew a folded piece of parchment. He stepped forward.

  “Nay. Stay your ground.” James brought his sword in front of the Scot, halting his progress. He then took the missive from him and gave it to Claire.

  She turned to catch the light so she could read the words inked on the page.

  To Laird Hammish McGowan,

  In accordance with the wishes of King John of England, you are hereby granted the land and holdings of John Whitfield, recently deceased. Whitfield’s heirs, Lady Elizabeth Newport and Lady Ellen Paget, as well as their respective husbands have passed on the land. To further good relations between our countries, King John is giving Whitfield to the next living male heir through Thomas Whitfield who married Mary McGowan, two generations past.

  As an addition to the inheritance, Laird Hammish McGowan is to wed Claire Beaumont, ward of John Whitfield and relative to my queen, Ermengarde Beaumont of England, to bring further unity among our people.

  Possession of Whitfield and marriage to Claire Beaumont should take place within one month, or Whitfield will return to King John’s authority.

  Signed by my own hand,

  King William of Scotland

  Claire struggled for breath as she read the words once more. Dear Lord in heaven, she was to marry? She rubbed her forehead, her temple beginning to pound in earnest. This could not be happening. She was to wed Hammish McGowan. She glanced from the missive to the Scot. “You are not Hammish.”

  “Nay, I am Ian McGowan, youngest son of Hammish. My father and brothers passed Whitfield on to me.”

  “The missive clearly states Whitfield is to go to Hammish. You are not he, as stated by your own words.” She folded the paper in her shaking hands and handed it back to James, who returned it to McGowan. Her words sounded hollow even to her own ears. Logically, she knew an inheritance could be refused and passed down. Hadn’t Whitfield’s own daughters refused Whitfield, preferring their own grand estates to Whitfield’s hovel? But she couldn’t marry a Scot. She wouldn’t. She’d be betraying the murdered lives of her parents to marry one of his ilk.

  Sir McGowan drew out another paper and handed it to her. “Here is the missive I received from my father. This should further prove my identity and claim on Whitfield.”

  Claire squeezed her eyes shut. If she took this paper, she would undoubtedly read the words sealing her to a fate she’d rue the rest of her days. While Lord Whitfield lived, he’d talked of marrying her off, but he had no dowry to entice any man to take her. When he died, she had assumed she was safe from marrying a man she didn’t know—didn’t love. The paper in the Scot’s hand would cast her from the safe cocoon of managing Whitfield alone—her only solace being she remained with servants who had become like family. She stepped forward and gingerly took the missive from McGowan, refusing to meet his eyes in case he might see her fear … her dread.

  Claire unfolded the paper and read the few words within.

  To Ian McGowan,

  I, Hammish McGowan, and your brothers, Brian, Niall, and Gordon, pass to you the property of Whitfield. No piece of land on English soil is worth taking. Do with it as you will.

  Your sire,

  Laird Hammish McGowan

  Claire slowly folded the paper, resisting the temptation to cast it into the fireplace. ’Twas difficult to refute the letters Sir McGowan brought. She glanced up at the man, his clear eyes glowing in flickering light of the flames. While his visage pleased the eye, she wondered what sort of man he was. He didn’t seem the savage she’d thought Scottish men to be, but then, how could one really know from a few moments of time?

  She did not want to marry a Scot, but she had no choice in her future, ’twould seem. What woman did?

  Claire thrust the missive toward the Scot. “While I understand that you are following your king’s orders, I never received any communication from mine. Until then, you are not welcome here.” Perhaps she could bide her time and figure a way out of the situation. While she wished to remain at Whitfield, finding work elsewhere was preferable to wedding someone of Scottish descent. She was good with herbs and ointment and could find work in another village as a healer. Anything to escape her present circumstance.

  Claire nodded to James, who stepped in front of the Scot. The other two guards moved behind McGowan and his man.

  Sir McGowan raised a brow. Claire shifted on her feet but refused to look away. She wouldn’t give in to his mighty presence—his authoritative countenance.

  “I willna leave,” said the Scot.

  “I’ll have you thrown into the dungeon.” Claire wouldn’t tolerate his presence any longer.

  “Whitfield boasts a dungeon? We wondered, did we not?” The man cast his comrade a look of surprise and smiled.

  “You shall have an intimate knowledge of its foul depths if you refuse to leave.” Claire shuddered. She wouldn’t wish the horrid dungeon on anyone.

  “I dinna wish to argue with you further, but ’tis my home and I am here to stay.”

  “So be it.” She motioned to James. “Seize them and throw them in the dungeon.”

  James aimed his blade at McGowan. “Resist and I will run you through.” The other guards brought up theirs blades and circled the two outsiders.

  Sir McGowan lunged for James, knocking the guard’s sword away. He butted his head against James’, and the man slumped to the floor unconscious. The Scot scooped the guard’s fallen blade from the floor and charged the other two guards.

  Faith! McGowan’s skill with the sword put her guards to shame. What should she do? Why hadn’t she insisted that all the guards be present? She was daft to think even her three best guards could handle the intruders.

  The Scot quickly thrust his sword at Ralph, her second-best guard, and she cried out. “Do not hurt them!” They were more than guards to her—they were like kin.

  With a flip of his wrist, Sir McGowan disarmed Ralph and then struck him on the head with the hilt of his sword. McGowan’s man grabbed the sword and entered the fight against the last guard.

  The Scot turned; his gaze focused on her.

  Fear clutched at her throat like talons, causing her breath to cease. She turned and ran, panic pumping her legs, spurring her on. A strong arm caught her by the waist. Whipping her around, the Scot pointed his sword at the three guards rushing into the great hall.

  “Do not come closer.” His voice, loud and rough, echoed in the large room.

  The Scot’s man stood with his sword raised, the third guard lying at his feet. Nay! Claire’s hope of gaining time to determine a plan for her future, one without marriage, crumbled at the sight before her. Three of her guards were unconscious. Three others looked unsure—and frightened, if she were honest.

  The guards hesitated, and after a nod from Simon, the oldest of all her guards, they began to spread out.

  “Nay,” the Scot shouted, tightening his hold around her. “Cease your movement.”

  The guards stopped and looked to Simon. He tilted his head toward Claire, a question in his eyes.

  What was she to do now? She could not stomach marriage to a Scot and would rather die than be bound to one of the ilk that had murdered her parents. But defying McGowan could very well mean death for her guards. She couldn’t put them at risk. Why had God put her in this impossible situation? Hadn’t she been through enough?

  “Do as the man says. I will not put you all in danger.” She pulled at the Scot’s arm around her waist. “Release me.”

  “How do I know you willna run?”

  The low rumble of the Scot’s voice vibrated against her back, while his breath tickled her ear. Bumps pebbled her skin. By all that is good, she must get away from this man. “You don’t. You must trust me.”

  Laughter rumbled through the Scot, but he loosened his grip and stepped away.

  Relief flooded through her, and she rushed to
her fallen guards.

  “They are unharmed,” said McGowan.

  “They are unconscious!” Claire moved from James to Simon, feeling for a pulse.

  “They are not injured overmuch. Only hit on the head.”

  The Scot spoke truth. No blood had been spilled. The only damage was nasty lumps on their heads, which would bestow horrendous headaches upon them when they awakened. At least they still drew breath. She rose. “You spared their lives. Why?”

  “Why would I not? They are my men now.”

  Claire blew out a breath, exasperated by the continual argument regarding his supposed inheritance. She put her fingers to her temple, pressing against the throbbing ache. “It seems we are still at an impasse.”

  “I beg to differ. While I dislike pushing you into a marriage you dinna want, I will do everything required to gain my land. Two se’ennights have already passed since the decree, giving us two se’ennights to marry, or we both shall be without a home.”

  She wanted to scream in frustration. Was there no hope for her? For her people? Where was God?

  The Scot sheathed his sword and moved toward her. Would he force himself upon her like the Scottish brutes who took her mother? She jumped over her fallen men and dashed to her guards who stepped forward, swords drawn, barring Sir McGowan from her.

  “I dinna want to harm your guards, Maid Beaumont.”

  “Then leave.” She just wanted the two intruders to be gone and leave her free to live in her home in contentment with her people as before.

  “You ken I canna do that.” The Scot drew his sword. “Drop your swords.”

  “We shall protect our lady.” Simon addressed McGowan.

  “So be it.” With a cry, the Scot swung his sword at Simon and a battle ensued.

  Claire backed away from the fight. Would the Scot spare their lives or consign them to death this time? He was fierce with the sword and quick as lightening. “Nay,” she whispered, as another of her men dropped to the ground. Only two guards remained.