Highlander's Stolen Destiny: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

“We did of course. The English army defeated a far larger French, Genoese and Majorcan force at Crécy in Northern France. Longbowmen and ribauldequins destroyed the enemy advance. I must say, the cannon dished out such carnage that the Genoese advance was halted before it could even start in earnest.” Sir Peter chuckled as he took a sip of wine. He frowned. “I didn’t think you Highlanders drank wine.”

  “I developed quite a taste for it when I was in France,” said Alastair.

  “You were in France?” This surprised Elizabeth and Sir Peter both. To them, Highlanders were an ignorant people that never went anywhere.

  “Aye, I was. I went to escort King David the Second back to Scotland. A French nobleman, I now call my friend, sends me barrels of the stuff.” Alastair shrugged. “I don’t know for how much longer – now that ye English have got yer hands on French lands.”

  “France is all but lost. They fought well at Crécy though.” Sir Peter chuckled again. “They couldn’t believe that knights could be defeated by peasants armed with bows. It is said that they hurled their men-at-arms at the English line well into the night. They were repelled every time. The Black Prince did his bit. I heard word that the king’s son fought like a lion. He defended and held the right wing of his father’s army without rest, defeating and killing the King of Bohemia in the process.”

  “No mean feat for a sixteen-year-old,” said Alastair, eyeing his sons as he continued eating.

  “He will be a fine king like his father one day. He is an honorable man. It is said that out of respect for the King of Bohemia, he took the white feathers from his helmet for his crest. The king’s words ‘ich dien’ are now the Prince of Wale’s. The young lad has foresight and great integrity. I only hope that I will be able to serve him one day.”

  “Why do they call him the Black Prince?” asked Brice, joining in the conversation.

  “Some say it is because he wore black armor on the day of the battle. Others claim that it is because he defied death against all the odds. Who knows? It’s all the stuff of legends now.” Sir Peter smiled as he tucked into his beef with hearty relish.

  “May God help us when such a man becomes king. King Edward is bad enough, but his son is as if he was forged in hell itself,” muttered Alastair to nobody but himself.

  “I suggest you pesky Scots stay in line then because when we are finished thrashing the French, we will come here to put you back in your places,” said Sir Peter somewhat too loudly, while he munched contently. He had heard the laird’s quiet words despite the hubbub in the hall.

  “How dare this man come here and insult us,” shouted a voice with authority.

  Alastair looked about the Great Hall. He recognized the voice. For a split second, he exchanged glances with Mungo who jiggled his shoulders. “Step up and show yerself,” he commanded.

  “Aye, I will, my Laird.”

  A man in his twenty-ninth year stepped away from one of the long tables. He had blond hair and blue eyes like his mother. His had an attractive face that was every bit as beautiful as Freya’s. Alick, Mungo’s stepson, never shirked away from a fight and this was an opportunity he definitely wouldn’t pass up. There was an Englishman in the Great Hall, and he would make the most of it.

  Besides, no one could speak like that to the man who had given him everything. The English had locked up Alastair with Alick’s biological father at Chillingham castle many years ago. His father had died of sickness and the loss of the will to continue living. Alastair had promised the dying man that he would look after his boys and his wife, was Alastair to survive. The Laird of the clan Macleod had kept his word and offered Alick, Bruce, and their mother, Freya, a place at Diabaig.

  Mungo, who had fallen in love with Freya the moment he first laid eyes on her, treated her two sons like his own. He raised them, made sure they were educated like noblemen and trained them in the art of the sword and war. But he gave them the greatest gift of all – he loved Bruce and Alick.

  The taciturn clansman who could scowl a blue-sky gray, never made them feel as if they were not of his flesh. He had fought alongside them in the many skirmishes King David launched along the English border. If there were another big battle, Mungo would take his stepsons there just as he would if he had a son of his blood.

  “Do you always allow your men to behave so uncouthly?” asked Sir Peter.

  Alastair shrugged nonchalantly. “He feels insulted by ye. I cannae see what is uncouth about that. Alick is of the clan and the son of one of my most trusted men who also happens to be a friend of mine. We will hear him out.” He indicated with his hand that the younger man speaks his mind.

  “I challenge that English dog to fight me,” said Alick. His face formed a rictus of anger.

  His mother shuddered. The clansmen started to hammer their cups on the tables in support. The closest of them to the high table had heard the English knight’s outburst well enough. Word had been passed throughout the hall, inviting jeers and cries for revenge.

  “The insolent swine,” shouted Sir Peter. “How dare he issue a challenge while I have been accorded roof, hearth, and table. I am a guest here, pup.”

  “Then ye better behave like one. Ye called us pesky Scots. Ye threatened English wrath should we not adhere to yer thieving ordinances. Ye are bastards the lot of ye,” hissed out Alick.

  “I will not have this. I suggest you discipline this man, my Laird.” Sir Peter tried his best not to look aggravated. He sipped his wine in an attempt to soothe his nerves.

  “I cannae do that. Young Alick here has challenged ye to defend yer claim with the sword. I suggest ye get to yer feet and get down there, lest the people here call ye craven,” said Alastair.

  “Craven – this is preposterous.”

  “Mary, this is my most trusted knight. I can’t have him fighting here as if it was a tavern brawl,” said Elizabeth, looking at her sister.

  “There is nothing I can do. This is the way of the clan. Any man who feels slighted may issue a challenge,” said Mary.

  “How can you live amongst these brutes?”

  “This is not so different to demanding satisfaction and calling someone out to a duel. We do the same in England, sister.” Seeing Elizabeth nod, she said, “Then why is it barbaric here?”

  “Because a few words over supper do not constitute a reason for it, Mary.”

  “They may be a few words to you. But to Alick, they insulted everything he stands for. Your Sir Peter should be happy the laird, Mungo or Murtagh did not call him out. Sir Peter still has an edge in terms of experience. That advantage would have been for naught against my husband and his friends,” said Mary.

  “Are they going to kill each other?” Elizabeth held the armrests on her chair until her knuckles turned white.

  “They might, but I do not think so. It’ll be until one of them yields – look they begin.” Mary’s eyes sparkled. She had to admit that Sir Peter looked impressive. However, she was in awe of Alick’s courage. Mungo and Freya had turned him into a true warrior of the clan. If he was afraid, it was impossible to see.

  Murtagh and Mungo swallowed down their nerves as if they had stones the size of apples stuck in their throats. They had both seen Alick fight but never the Englishman. The way he carried himself displayed his experience and dexterity with the blade.

  Where Alick was slim and wiry, his adversary was a mountain of steel and muscle. Not a gram of fat bedecked his body despite his age. He had wily eyes that darted all over the place. The Englishman was already casing the room for possible avenues into which he could trap Alick.

  Alick stepped forward. His antagonist sneered back at him. What Alick saw was lethal determination in the other man’s eyes. There was no emotion, just intent and the will to win. Sir Peter grinned a crooked smile, impressed by the young clansman’s display of courage. He nodded curtly, indicating that the bout was about to begin. Opposite him, Alick pressed his lips tighter as he sought out a way to get past the impenetrable wall that was his opponent.r />
  “So, boy, let’s see what you can do,” said Sir Peter, appraising him carefully.

  The two men circled each other for a while, neither one of them wanting to make the first move. Then, Sir Peter came at Alick with lightning speed. The young man’s riposte was perfect, but the force of the Englishman’s first strike jarred his arm up to his shoulder. His strength was extraordinary, as he attacked four more times before taking a few steps back.

  Sir Peter smiled evilly, his green eyes bored into the clansman like daggers. “Had enough, boy?”

  “I haven’t even got started, Sassenach,” answered Alick, spitting venom.

  The knight sneered. “That’s the spirit, boy. Let’s give these people some entertainment, shall we? Best they do not see that you are only a little boy with a chip on his shoulder.”

  His invitation worked. This time Alick was the one who attacked first. However, the skill in which the Englishman defended himself made him swallow deeply. His opponent was not even out of breath. He danced on his feet like a prancing dryad, belying his hulking size.

  There was a loud, hissing intake of air from both Mungo and Murtagh. “My laddie bleeds; he’s finished if he can’t end it soon,” muttered Mungo with concern etched on his features.

  In his fighting fever, Alick had not noticed that the Englishman’s sword had sliced a deep gash across his torso.

  “You’re first scar, lad,” said the knight, smiling.

  Seeing the blood soak his tunic, Alick suddenly felt a stinging pain. He had to force back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. For a moment, he seemed like a lost little boy in the Highlands. He looked at his fellow clansmen and saw the pleading in their eyes. His gaze then rested on his mother. Her lower lip was trembling. When he saw the fierce determination in Mungo’s eyes, he steeled himself, drawing strength from his stepfather’s formidable force.

  “I have more than one scar, Sassenach. This’ll only be another scratch, proving my bravery. You won’t be so haughty when I have ye lying on yer back,” hissed out Alick.

  “You’ll have to win first.”

  In a flash, it happened. Fast as a mamba, the knight threw all he had at Alick without showing any of his earlier reserve. Alick could barely see his blade as it clashed with his opponent’s. He reacted instinctively, time seemed to slow down, and suddenly as if in slow motion, he saw an opening and butted the other man on the head.

  Surprised and dazed, Sir Peter cried out in pain, instinctively taking a step back. Already sweating heavily and leaving the Englishman no time to recover, Alick moved forward with speed and youthful agility. Stunned, all the Sir Peter could do was trust his instincts. His defense, although uncoordinated, was efficient and the bout ended with yet another gash. This one too on Alick’s person. A flow of blood slid down his arm, dropping onto the floor.

  “Enough,” said Sir Peter. “I am not going to kill a young lad for the sake of a few words. I hazard we have given everyone here a satisfactory showing.” He turned to Alastair with a beseeching gaze.

  “No! You’ll have to kill me before I stop fighting ye. I will consider the bout forfeit if ye apologize for insulting my people,” responded Alick before the laird could say anything.

  Sir Peter nodded. The clansman’s doggedness impressed him, reminding him of when he was his age – there was no way he was going to kill him. He tipped his head slightly in an attempt to show his regret for his misplaced words earlier. Before Sir Peter could utter an apology, Alick attacked once more.

  He came in a blur of steel and flesh, as he hammered onto Sir Peter’s sword, attempting to break him. This onslaught forced him back a few paces until he halted the attack with his superior strength. Their swords were locked together in a deathly grip; the lover’s dance, twirling in circles when swordsmen clashed.

  “Go on, laddie. Ye can beat that Sassenach bastard,” shouted one of the clansmen.

  “Aye, Alick. Ye ‘ave what it takes. There’s a tankard of ale waiting for ye when yer done with him,” yelled another.

  “And I will welcome the undefeated warrior with the sweetness of my honeypot,” screamed one of the more liberal of the lassies in the hall. Her remark invited a score of ribald suggestions, forcing a smile on Alick’s face.

  Sir Peter felt the lad weakening due to his loss of blood. He could see the strain on his face despite the smile, betraying the younger man’s fatigue. He also knew that despite his youth, he had none of the endurance of a hardened veteran. With his eyes fixed like rapiers, he used the girl’s brief distraction to launch his next attack.

  “Only an amateur would let a woman distract him from a fight,” snarled out Sir Peter, lurching forward.

  He forced Alick back to the limits of the hall. Alick stumbled and fell onto his back. The knight immediately stopped his attack and gloated. “You fight well, young man. I commend you for it. It is over now.” Sir Peter moved his blade toward Alick’s neck in an attempt to make his point. He was so certain in his victory that he, for a heartbeat, let his gaze wander around the hall to the disappointed faces all around him.

  It was all Alick needed. With athletic agility, he jumped to his feet, and in a crouching motion, sliced his blade onto his Englishman’s thigh. The man yelled in consternated pain as blood seeped through the rip in his breeches and down his leg. Alick gave him no respite as he came at him with whirlwind ferocity, forcing the knight back the entire length of the room he’d only recently gained.

  With one last thrust of his blade, Alick forced him onto his back. Thinking he’d won, he beamed at Murtagh and Mungo who sat up above his position. A loud shout of jubilation erupted in the hall. Alick frowned when he saw the worry appear on Mungo’s face. He turned his head, but he was not quick enough.

  Used to the melee of battle, Sir Peter kicked the exhausted young man’s legs from under him, knocking him to the ground. Within moments he was on top of him and pressing his sword onto the boy’s neck. Alick barely managed to roll away. He got as far as one of the large tables.

  He crawled under it. The pain in his abdomen and arm had started to pulse. He felt dizzy because of the loss of blood. He knew the English knight had no such ailments. The gash he had given him was superficial. Not enough to slow him down. He saw Sir Peter’s feet as he walked toward the piece of furniture with the same steady stride as if he were strolling in the Yorkshire Dales.

  When Alick emerged from the other side of the table, Sir Peter’s blade came crashing down in his direction.

  “Yield, boy,” hissed out Sir Peter. “It is over. There is no shame in being beaten. You fought well, very well indeed.”

  Alick struggled, but there was nowhere for him to go. If he did not accept the Englishman’s offer, he would die. He felt the tip of the sword dig into his skin. Alick pressed his lips together. He would be damned if he would let the enemy get the better of him. It was more honorable to die than to accept his quarter. Alick made to unsheathe his dirk and plunge it into the knight’s foot. He could see death lurking in the other man’s remorseless green eyes.

  “Enough,” commanded Alastair. Sir Peter nodded and took a step back. Alick pulled the dirk from its casing and stumbled to his feet. Before he could attack, the laird’s sword flashed from its scabbard. “Ye will adhere to my command, Alick. Defying yer laird is a dying offense.”

  “But, but, he insulted us, my Laird,” stuttered Alick.

  “Aye, I ken. And ye stood up to him. Ye fought well.” Alastair chuckled. “Best tell ye da to teach ye a few more tricks before ye stand up to the likes of him again.”

  “Aye, my Laird. I will instruct the loon better in future,” said Mungo, walking up to where they stood. “Sheathe yer dirk, Alick. I swear if I see ye standing before our laird with a dagger ready for the kill, I will run ye through myself.”

  Alick gulped nervously when he saw his stepfather’s scar-covered face, incised with the will and ability to act upon his threat. His hair was dark and, like his laird’s, streaked with gray. Mung
o was one of the great heroes of the clan. He had fought alongside Alastair’s father at the Battle of Stanhope and later under the young laird at the battles of Dupplin Moor and Halidon Hill.

  Alick nodded. “Aye, Faîther… My Laird, I did not mean to cause offense.” He sheathed his dirk.

  “And neither did I, young man. Please accept my apology,” said Sir Peter, stepping forward.

  Alick took his hand when he saw both his father and the laird nod their approval. When he was done, he walked back to his place in the Great Hall where his brother and his mates greeted him like a conquering hero. When seated, he observed his father exchanging a few words with Mungo and the Englishman. When the three of them were done, Alastair and Sir Peter walked back to the table while his stepfather left the Great Hall.

  “It is a beautiful night,” said Skye.

  “Aye, it is.” Brice looked up at the star-studded canopy above them. A crescent moon hung in silent attendance to its celestial neighbors. He almost felt as if he could reach out and touch them. It had been a good idea of Skye’s to escape the mugginess of the Great Hall and step outside for a breath of fresh air. Brice felt a pleasant glow in the pit of his stomach from all of the fine fare he had eaten and the wine he had drunk. It still surprised him that he preferred it to ale or even whiskey.

  Skye had her head perched on his shoulder as she too gazed up at the heavens above them. Brice had his nose buried in her mane of blonde hair. He relished her scent that boasted youthful female health and fecundity. His love had agreed to marry him that very afternoon. It was all he ever wanted since for as long he could remember. Skye was the love of his life.

  For ages, he had never quite understood the way his father looked at his mother when they thought no one was looking at them. There was always such tenderness in their eyes, as if they were the only two people in the world. When Brice had started to understand that he felt the same way about Skye, he had asked his mother what love between a man and a woman truly was.

  He had an inkling that it must be similar to what he felt for his parents, brothers and even Murtagh and Mungo. Yet… it had to be more powerful than that – if that was even possible. Seeing his mother and father act the way they did, he knew that love for a woman must surpass everything and all in the world.