Highland Spy: Highland Chronicles Series - Book 4

by Rose, Elizabeth

  Chapter 12

  “Bridget, where have ye been?” asked Caleb’s sister, Trea, as Bridget entered the great hall with her father.

  “The king has been callin’ for yer faither and is no’ happy,” added Caleb’s youngest sister, Finnea. While Trea had dark hair, Finnea’s locks were more like her mother’s, being a reddish-brown.

  “Well, we’re here now,” said Bridget, feeling extremely nervous. Everyone was watching her. Her father mumbled some nonsense to himself, and she was afraid he was going to start seeing hallucinations and screaming again. If that happened, they would be doomed.

  “Trea, my da is no’ doin’ so well today,” Bridget whispered to the girl.

  “Here is some more of the tincture that will calm him.” Trea slipped a small glass vial to Bridget. “It’s a strong batch so be sure to only use a drop or two in his wine. Any more than that and he might fall flat on his face and go into a deep sleep right at the table.”

  “I understand,” said Bridget, slipping the vial into her pouch as they got seated. No sooner did they sit down than Logan sat across from her at the trestle table. The raised dais was being used for the king, and also Storm and Wren. Also sitting up at the dais were the five other men who were to compete in the finals. “Where is Caleb?” asked Bridget curiously, her eyes scanning the crowded room.

  Servers busied themselves carrying large trays above their heads, loaded down with venison in a thick brown herbal gravy, haggis, and loin of lamb with a mint and rosemary sauce. The most ornate dish being served for the king was a peacock stuffed with chunks of buttered and grilled white bread. It was surrounded by sautéed root vegetables glazed with honey. The bird had its feathers reattached and spread out in a beautiful array of colors. The sight was breathtaking and almost too pretty to eat.

  The servers placed the food on the dais table. Then, a boy carrying a big pot and ladle poured cockaleekie soup into bowls that were made of etched metal. Tall, gold goblets graced the table and were filled by the cupbearer with the king’s favorite – heather wine. It was a delicacy of the Highlands.

  “Ah, there’s my chronicler,” said the king, spotting Bridget and her father. “Brigham, I hope ye’ve been fillin’ my book with wonderful stories.”

  Bridget’s back was to the king, and her father sat across from her, but faced the king. He looked up, seeming confused.

  “Da,” whispered Bridget. “Say somethin’ to the king.”

  “Ye’re an ass,” her father called out, with a crazed look in his eyes. He obviously had no idea of what he was saying or whom he was saying it to.

  Logan was drinking, and spit the ale across the table when he heard her father’s words.

  “What’s that? I canna hear ye,” called out the king. Thankfully, the room was too noisy and the king hadn’t heard her father. Brigham opened his mouth, meaning to call the king an ass again, but Bridget grabbed his hand and stared menacingly into his eyes.

  “Dinna say another word,” she warned her father. Then she stood up, stepping over the bench, and made a grand show of curtsying to the king.

  “Yer Majesty,” she said. “My faither has a frog in his throat today, so I’ll repeat his words. He said, ‘I’m glad ye asked. And I assure ye that the Highland Chronicles are bein’ filled with many amazin’ and interestin’ stories for ye’.”

  “Ah, thank ye, Bridget,” he said with a satisfied nod. “I hope yer faither’s throat gets better.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will . . . in a matter of time,” she told him. “He’s been afflicted with a temporary bout of . . . seasonal symptoms. This happens to him every summer when the flowers are in bloom.”

  “Egads, I hope it isna contagious.”

  “I’m sure it’s no’,” she assured him.

  “Just the same, I need him well to record the events of the competition. Brigham, go back to yer room and rest until the games begin.”

  “But Yer Majesty –” she started to protest.

  “That’s an order,” commanded the king. “Bridget, ye’ll go with him and make sure he gets what he needs.”

  “Of course, Sire,” she said with a curtsy.

  She was about to leave when the king stopped her. “Wait,” he called out.

  “Yer Majesty?” she asked, not knowing what he wanted.

  “Leave the book.”

  “The . . . book?” Her heart sped up, drumming in her ears. She didn’t expect him to say this.

  “The Highland Chronicles,” said the king. “I want to read what yer faither’s been recordin’ for the past few months.”

  “Wouldna ye like me to read it to ye while ye eat?” she asked, always being the one to read from the chronicles in the past.

  “Nay, there’s no need for that.” He put out his hand and snapped his fingers. “Page, get the book from the chronicler’s daughter and bring it to me, anon.”

  “Aye, Yer Majesty,” said the boy, running over to Bridget and holding out his hands.

  Bridget didn’t like the idea of leaving the book with the king. Not yet. She hadn’t had time yet to rip out the page with the nasty things written about Caleb. She only prayed King Robert would read the good things she wrote about Caleb instead.

  She handed the book over to the page and was about to leave the table with her father when Caleb hurried into the room, taking the seat that she had just vacated.

  “Where have ye been?” growled Logan under his breath.

  “I decided to just bring Slink along so he wouldna get frightened if the other lairds were in our room.” His pine marten poked its head out of the bag he carried. “Bridget, where are ye goin’?” asked Caleb, looking disappointed that she was leaving so soon.

  “The king ordered her to take her faither to their chamber to rest,” Logan answered for her.

  “Caleb, the king has the Highland Chronicles,” said Bridget nervously.

  Caleb looked over his shoulder, seeing the king open the book and flip through a few of the pages. “Aye, so he does. Guid.”

  She bent over and whispered in his ear. “I havena had the chance yet to tear out that page with those . . . bad things I wrote about ye.”

  “Och, nay, Bridget! Ye promised.”

  “Mayhap he willna see it,” she told him. “After all, I have three pages written about ye that are all guid. So hopefully, he will read those instead.”

  “For both our sakes, I hope that’s true,” said Caleb as Bridget and her father left the room.

  Caleb kept looking over his shoulder at the king, praying that the man wouldn’t read bad things about him in the book. Something kept the king’s interest. He kept reading while he ate.

  “Logan, I need to get that book away from the king,” Caleb said in a low voice to his friend.

  “Why?” asked Logan, wrapping a cloth around a leg of lamb and sticking it in his bag.

  “What on earth are ye doin’?”

  “It’s for Jack,” he said. “Rhoswen is sittin’ over by the lassies and said she’d take Jack some food, but I told her I’d do it. It’s no’ appropriate for her to be walkin’ around with a leg of lamb in her grasp.”

  “And it is for ye?” Caleb shook his head.

  “It’s no different than ye bringin’ yer weasel to the table.”

  “Slink isna a weasel,” said Caleb, looking down to see his pet sitting atop his trencher, gnawing on a hunk of venison. “Slink, it’s no’ polite to eat my food before I’ve had a chance to taste it.”

  Caleb picked up a goblet of wine and was about take a drink when he heard the king calling out his name.

  “Caleb MacKeefe. Where are ye?” asked the king.

  Caleb had never met the king personally, so there was only one reason he’d be calling for him now. He must have read those bad things about him in the book. Caleb froze, not sure what to do.

  “Caleb, didna ye hear the king? He calls for ye,” said Logan with urgency in his voice.

  “Caleb MacKeefe?” the king called out again.


  “He’s right here,” said Logan, pointing to Caleb.

  “Thanks a lot,” Caleb mumbled, getting up off the bench.

  “Come here, lad,” said the king. “And bring that little weasel of yers with ye.” The king chuckled, as if he were amused.

  Caleb turned back to get Slink, mumbling under his breath, “It’s no’ a weasel.” Cautiously making his way to the dais, he kept Slink in the crook of his arm, stopping in front of King Robert.

  “Yer Majesty,” he said, bowing to the man.

  “Why do ye look like ye’re scared out of yer skin?” chuckled the king. “I only wanted to meet the man who graces the pages of my book with his name.”

  “Sire?” he asked, glancing back at Logan. Logan shrugged his shoulders.

  “Yer heroic deeds have been noticed,” said the man.

  “My son is bein’ noticed by the king?” Ian MacKeefe, Caleb’s father, looked up from his position at the trestle table. His mother, Kyla, smiled at Caleb proudly.

  “I’m talkin’ about Caleb MacKeefe – the one who has a pet weasel,” said the king. “Is that ye, lad?” the king asked Caleb.

  “It – it is,” said Caleb, not able to deny it since he was holding on to Slink. It irritated him when people called his pine marten a weasel, but he didn’t dare correct the king.

  “So, ye really sound like the most remarkable MacKeefe of all,” said the king.

  “He does?” Storm looked over at Caleb in confusion. “Yer Majesty, are ye sure ye read the pages correctly? Mayhap ye’ve mistaken Caleb for me?”

  Storm was their chieftain and had a lot of remarkable feats under his belt, but didn’t like to have anyone outshine him. Caleb didn’t know what the king was talking about, but whatever Bridget must have written about him surely caught his attention.

  “Read it for yerself,” said the king, handing Storm the book.

  Storm took the book and glanced down at the pages.

  “Out loud,” added the king.

  Storm cleared his throat and the room became silent, wanting to hear the words written in the Highland Chronicles that had the king acting so excited.

  “Caleb MacKeefe is by far the hero of the MacKeefe Clan,” read Storm, furrowing his brow. “He risked his life, swimmin’ against the current and fightin’ off the creatures of the river when Bridget Ogilvy almost drowned. If is wasna for him, the angry waters would have consumed her, takin’ her breath and her life on this earth would be ended right now.” Storm looked up at Caleb. “Creatures? In the river?” he asked.

  Caleb started feeling very embarrassed, and didn’t answer.

  “Keep readin’,” said the king. “I want to hear the part about his skills with archery and the caber toss again.”

  “What?” asked Caleb, shocked to hear this. Storm was the champion of the caber toss, and Caleb, being one of the smaller men of the clan, often had a hard time just lifting the blamed thing, let alone tossing it end over end.

  “Caleb can toss a caber like a giant from the Greek myths,” continued Storm, looking like he couldn’t believe what he was reading. Actually, Caleb couldn’t believe it either. “His aim with a bow and arrow can only be compared to that of Eros, the god of love, since watchin’ him use the weapon will cause any lassie to fall deeply under his spell.” Storm scowled and shook his head. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “Give me the book,” said the king, snatching it away from Storm. “Ye are obviously jealous, MacKeefe, and canna read my chronicler’s words without it showin’ in yer voice.”

  “I assure ye, Sire, I am no’ jealous of Caleb MacKeefe in any way or form,” Storm told him.

  The king looked down to the book and read aloud. “Caleb has the speed of a dozen horses when he runs, and the stealth of ten of his pine martens when it comes to intellect. He is wise beyond his years. His unselfish attitude makes his actions often go unnoticed. However, he is the true underlyin’ spirit of the MacKeefe Clan and the strength by which the clan depends on to make the MacKeefes such a lovin’, givin’, close-knit family.”

  “Aye, that’s Caleb,” called out his mother.

  “He’s my son,” shouted his father.

  These actions were too much and if Caleb had to stand here another minute and listen to any more of the unsung praises that Bridget wrote about him, he was sure he was going to die.

  “Yer Majesty, I really dinna want to be the cause of a cold meal,” said Caleb.

  “Och!” The king slammed shut the book and handed it to Caleb over the edge of the dais. “There ye go again, thinkin’ of others before yerself, even when yer king is praisin’ ye. I like that, Caleb MacKeefe. I like that a lot. I think all of the clans here today could take a lesson from the likes of ye.”

  “Thank ye, Sire,” said Caleb, bowing and backing away. His parents beamed with pride from one end of the room, while Storm and the rest of the lairds on the dais shot him daggers from their eyes, looking like they wanted to kill him. Logan, seated behind him, tried hard to hold back his laugh.

  “Minstrels, I want music with my meal,” called out the king, clapping his hands in the air. “Everyone, we drink to Caleb MacKeefe, the true unsung hero of the MacKeefes.” He raised his goblet high. No one really wanted to acknowledge the king’s praises for Caleb, but since he was the king, they didn’t refuse.

  “To . . . Caleb,” said Storm, almost choking on the words as he slowly raised his cup in the air.

  “To Caleb,” the lairds ground out as they reluctantly all raised their goblets to drink to the man the king now held in such high respect.

  Thank goodness, the music started playing and the conversations became a dull roar as the food was consumed. Caleb turned around, clutching the Highland Chronicles in one hand and Slink in the other.

  “To Caleb, the god of miracles,” said Logan with a chuckle, raising his goblet in front of Caleb’s face.

  “Stop it,” ground out Caleb. “I have never been so embarrassed in all my life.”

  “Then ye shouldna have written those things in the book,” said Logan nonchalantly, taking a drink of wine.

  “I didna!” spat Caleb under his breath. “It was Bridget who did it,” he ground out.

  “Bridget wrote those things?” Logan almost choked on his wine.

  “Aye, and I swear I am goin’ to wring her neck.” Caleb turned and took off at a sprint for the door. He hurried down to the corridor to Bridget’s chamber, fuming. She’d really done it this time, and when he got there, she was going to have hell to pay.

  Chapter 13

  “Lay down, Faither, and drink this. It’ll make ye feel better.” Bridget put a few drops of the herbal potion in his ale and her father instantly seemed to relax.

  “I could go for a nap,” he said with a yawn. He laid back on the bed and started snoring.

  Bridget sniffed the potion, corked up the bottle and put it on the table. “That works well,” she said aloud. She was thinking about going back to the great hall to collect the Highland Chronicles when the door to the room burst open and Caleb stormed in.

  “What is the meanin’ of this?” he shouted, holding the book up in the air.

  “Oh, guid, ye brought the book back. I didna like leavin’ it with the king.” She took it from him and laid it on the table. Caleb put his bag down on the table and Slink slipped out and explored the items scattered about.

  “Bridget, how could ye say those things about me?” he asked loudly, seeming very upset about something.

  “Shhh, keep yer voice down,” she told him. “My faither just fell asleep.”

  “I have never been so embarrassed in all my life.”

  “Oh, nay, did the king see the part about yer rock-hard arms? I’m sorry I didna take that page out yet.”

  “Nay, he didna see that,” said Caleb through gritted teeth. “But mayhap it would have been better than all those other things ye wrote about me.”

  “I dinna understand,” she said, thinking Caleb was acting o
dd. “We had a deal and I stuck to my end of it. I only wrote guid things in the book about ye, Caleb.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “Ye . . . didna like the guid things I said?”

  “Nay, I didna.”

  Tears started welling up in Bridget’s eyes. “But I did what ye asked.”

  “Ye made me sound unreal,” he told her. “How dare ye make me the laughin’stock of the MacKeefe Clan.”

  “People laughed?” Her brows dipped. “Why?”

  “The only one who laughed was Logan. Everyone else was too angry about it to even smile, except for my parents who were too proud about things I never even did.”

  “But . . . but ye did save me from drownin’, Caleb. And I do think ye’re the spirit of the MacKeefe Clan. I meant all those things I said.”

  “When have ye ever seen me toss a caber or even shoot a bow and arrow?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Well, mayhap I havena, but I have seen yer muscles and I’m sure that ye’d be guid at all those things. I dinna understand why ye are so angry.”

  “Bridget, the king thinks I’m some kind of god-like hero now because of what ye wrote.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. But isna it a guid thing that the king admires ye?”

  “For things that I’m actually capable of doin’, aye. But now he’s admirin’ me more than our chieftain, and that is never a guid thing, I assure ye. Bridget, I could never be the man ye wrote about, no matter how much ye want me to be.”

  “I’m no’ askin’ ye to be anyone other than who ye are, Caleb.”

  “Ye just made my life horrible and now I wish I’d never asked ye to put me in that damned book at all.”

  “I’m sorry.” Emotions welled up inside her and tears dripped down her cheeks. “I never meant to hurt ye, Caleb. I only wanted to make ye like me again like ye used to. But now I see ye dinna care for me at all.” With that, she ran from the room crying.

  “Bridget,” said Caleb with a sigh, realizing that he’d hurt her and that was the last thing he had ever wanted. “Stay here, Slink, I’ll be back,” he said, running his hand over his pine marten. “I’ve got a lot of damage to undo, and now a reputation to live up to that would be a miracle if I ever could.”