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

by Alisa Adams

  “Mungo, where is Alastair… where is Brice?” the words tumbled out of her mouth in an incoherent jumble. Mary’s eyes stung as tears threatened to overwhelm her. She felt Skye trembling next to her and suffering the same helpless thoughts as she did. Freya also had walked up to stand next to her daughter and Mary. The sight of her bedraggled sons and the man she loved softened even her habitual strong bearing.

  Mungo straightened his posture when he saw his wife and daughter – the expressions on their faces were an amalgamation of relief and shock. He wanted to take those final steps and take them both in his arms. He needed comfort as much as they did after all he had experienced the past ten days since the Battle of Neville’s Cross. His gaze flitted along the high table. A small smile appeared on the burly clansman’s face – Effemy blinked back at him. God, how he had also missed his youngest daughter. She appeared frightened. Unlike her mother and elder sister, she had not moved to the center of the table. Her feet remained glued to the spot as if she was in shock to see her father again.

  Besides his veteran comrade in arms, Murtagh looked the fittest of the small group. Mary’s sons, Doogle and Callum, looked fatigued. Standing with them, it seemed that both Alick and Bruce might topple over like skittles. Mary wanted nothing more than to run up to her sons and take them into her arms. Before that could happen, she needed to ascertain the situation and play her role as the temporary head of the clan. It was what was expected of her.

  Mungo cleared his throat. “The laird was taken at Neville’s Cross, my Lady – the battle was a disaster, the English defeated us and slaughtered most of the army. The king and yer son were with yer husband at the time; they fought bravely in the thick of the skirmish before they fled the scene to bring the king to safety.”

  “Those radge twally-washers, the Earl of March and Robert Stewart, betrayed the king by not committing their forces in the crucial moment. After that, the line broke while the cowards fled back to Scotland,” growled out Murtagh. He still felt the stab of duplicity sear his innards.

  “You were betrayed?” asked Mary, not quite believing that possible.

  “Yes, Mother. It was a forlorn cause after that. It was political, to say the least. As ye ken, Robert Stewart is the next in line in the succession. If the king is dead, then he will become our new sovereign,” said Callum.

  “We dinnae ken whether anything untoward has happened to the king or Brice and the laird for that matter – we need not worry quite just yet; for all we ken, they just might be alive and well. Brice, my Lady, gave the order for me to leave the battlefield and seek safety with yer two other laddies and mine and whatever men I could save. After that, we were on the run all the way to the Anglo-Scottish border where the pursuit came to an end. We didn’t halt once after that so that we could get back here as quickly as possible, allowing for the wounded of course, and bring ye the tidings,” said Mungo.

  “What of the clansmen that rode south with you?” asked Mary, alluding to the other warriors in the posse. A few gasps and sobs eddied around the Great Hall, as all of the women present had loved ones in the troop that had left with their laird. “How many have returned home with you, Mungo?”

  “Only thirty-seven including us survive, my Lady,” said Mungo, creasing his brow as if in pain.

  His answer brought on wails of anguish from the hundreds of women in the hall. In moments, they started howling questions at Mungo, each woman in the hope that he might tell them something that proved that their man was alive and well.

  “SILENCE!” shouted Mary. The authority in her voice dampened the cries, reducing them to a mere hushed murmur. She again focused her attention on Mungo. It was the fourth time since she had met the indefatigable clansman that he looked on the brink of tears. The first time being when he had stood next to his wife, Freya, on their wedding day and the second and third times when his two daughters were born.

  Mary had to get her head around the quantity of the dead; it was enough to make her feel sick – the paltry number that had returned out of the over two hundred proud clansmen of the clan Macleod was a disaster. Mary’s only consolation was that her youngest son was back home and not on his way to Rome and Doogle was still alive as well.

  “Do we have any word on the laird?” asked Mary, doing her best to stay focused on the task at hand. Her instincts as a mother wanted her to give the order for Callum, Doogle, Alick, and Bruce to be given food and wine and then put to bed to rest until the next day. But she couldn’t do that. As the lady, Mary had to remain resolute and determine the clan’s business before motherly duties could be adhered to.

  “There are rumors that he was captured by the English soon after their escaping the battlefield, but we can’t be sure if they are true,” said Mungo.

  “I see,” is all Mary could say. “What, in your view, would be their fate if they have fallen into the hands of the enemy?”

  “They would be taken to the Tower of London,” answered Callum.

  Mungo was still busy trying to figure out an answer.

  Mary frowned. “How can you be so sure of this, Callum?”

  “It is where all political prisoners of a certain standing are sent. It was where William Wallace resided before his trial and eventual execution,” said Callum, detailing all of the facts perfectly.

  “Does that mean our laird will be hanged?” asked Mary, bringing her hand to her mouth.

  Next to her, the color on Skye’s face had gone completely pallid. “Brice,” she whined almost without noise.

  Mary took her hand and held it tight.

  “No, Mother, I very much doubt it,” said Callum, who had now taken over the discourse from Mungo. “The king and my father are far too useful as bargaining chips. King Edward will use our king in order to obtain a hefty ransom. The amount will be so high – so high indeed that we will be unable to pay it. And from what I have come to learn about the English king, that is what he would want all along for, after years in captivity, King David will start offering him the Scottish crown as recompense for his freedom.”

  “You are saying that the laird will remain in captivity for years?” asked Mary, feeling slightly sick.

  “It is possible. However, I think Brice and Father will be set free at some point, should the hostilities between our two countries die down.”

  Mary pressed her lips together. “Well, we won’t find out whether they are alive or not by sitting idly here. I will travel to England myself to hear the gossip. I am certain that by the time I reach Newcastle upon Tyne, what we need to hear will have seeped down the grapevine.”

  “And I will join you, sister. Sir Percival and his men will act as your escort,” said Elizabeth, finally feeling confident enough that she could contribute something to the conversation.

  Mary turned and nodded at her solemnly. “Thank you, sister. An English escort will be invaluable on this journey.”

  “And I will join ye as well,” said Mungo with authority. “Ye will need clansmen of the clan Macleod with ye for protection against the Sassenachs. I can’t wait to give them some cold steel after what they did to us.”

  “Aye, that we will for I am coming too. And when we get there, I will personally poke the King of England in the arse with my sword,” said Murtagh, chuckling for the first time since he returned home.

  “I will come too… I can’t let ye two bampots have all of the fun,” said Doogle.

  This remark invited hearty slaps to his back from both Mungo and Murtagh.

  “That’s the spirit, laddie. Ye have the makings of a fine warrior,” said Mungo.

  “Ye fought as if ye had a swarm of bees up yer kilt, Doogle. Excellent performance for ye first battle,” said Murtagh proudly.

  “None of you will be coming with me.” Mary raised her hand to forestall a protest from Mungo. “You three would stand out like sore thumbs when we are in England.” Her gaze shifted to Doogle. “I need you, Doogle, as my second eldest son, under Mungo and Murtagh’s careful watch, to be t
he head of the clan while I am gone. Your brother, Callum, will be your chief counsel. Listen to him because I know that he has his head screwed on in the right place.”

  “I, of course, will escort ye, Mother,” said Skye.

  “Ye most certainly will not,” growled out Mungo, taking a large step toward the plinth.

  “Haud yer wheesht, husband. The man she loves is held captive by the bleedin’ Sassenachs. There’s no way ye are getting in the way of a woman in love; she needs to be with Brice if he is alive,” said Freya.

  “They are just rumors that they were captured,” said Mungo. “It is too dangerous for our daughter.”

  “Well then, it is about time someone found out whether they are true,” said Freya, giving her husband one of those looks that did not broach argument. “She is a Scottish lass and can hold her own just as well as a bloke.”

  “I agree… Skye should join me. After all, it is her betrothed we seek out as well.” Mary held up her hand again when she saw Mungo about to blow a cap in another attempt to vent his disapproval with the decision. “I am sorry, Mungo, but this time, you have to let your daughter handle her own fate. She will be in good hands.” She turned her head to face one of the guards. “Send for Sir Percival. Tell him we leave for England.”

  12

  The Tower

  * * *

  London, England, December, 1346

  * * *

  King David had recovered from his wounds considerably during his time at Ogle Castle. Although headaches did still plague him occasionally; it would be something that would remain with him for the rest of his life as a sort of reminder of the Battle of Neville’s Cross.

  Time had passed by rather quickly for the prisoners despite their captivity. To Alastair’s surprise, it was nothing like when he had last enjoyed English hospitality at Chillingham Castle. It appeared that getting caught with a king had its benefits. The food was ample and fresh. There was wine, as much as they wished for. Also, they had free reign of the grounds, naturally under careful guard due to their proximity to the Scottish border.

  Shortly after the battle, when Queen Philippa, the king’s wife, had heard of David's capture, she requested that John de Coupland bring him to her at once. He refused, stating he would only surrender his prisoner to the King of England himself. Incensed by this defiance, Queen Philippa then wrote to King Edward III, who was still in Calais besieging the town, to inform him of Coupland’s actions. Before the king could summon him, Coupland gave the order to his men to secure King David, Alastair, and Brice in Ogle Castle. He rode to Dover then continued to Calais by sea.

  When Coupland met with King Edward, he had explained that he meant no offense to the queen but that his oath was to the king alone, thus his refusal to turn King David over to the queen. The king recognized that Coupland’s deed outweighed his trespass and told him to return to England and hand over King David to the queen. The king then rewarded Coupland by making him a knight baronet and giving him a stipend of five hundred pounds a year for the rest of his life, along with one hundred pounds for remaining in his service with twenty men-at-arms.

  With great haste, Coupland had returned to England, gathered his men and took King David and his companions to the queen at York. The queen was content and gave the order for King David to be imprisoned in the Tower of London. Thomas Rokeby, Sheriff of Yorkshire, was responsible for transporting King David and his companions from Coupland’s custody to London.

  It was where they were now. The group of men on horses gradually entered the city. Brice had trouble getting his head around it all. More than a thousand miles separated him from Skye. He had only once been so far away from her when he had accompanied his father to France to escort the king back to Scotland. But that had been different. Back then he had known when he would return. This time, there was no telling when that would be.

  He cast a glance at the sky above – there was nothing there that reminded him of the Highlands. It should be blue like the color of Skye’s eyes that looked like the water in Loch Torridon on a sunny day. In vain, he sought out something that would make him remember something beautiful. The killing during the Battle of Neville’s Cross and his capture had snuffed out any remaining sweet thoughts – he needed Skye to believe in beauty again.

  Instead, the winter heavens were dark and vengeful. Steaming shrouds of cloud coiled and writhed, amalgamating further until they became a single racing entity. An unearthly caterwauling sound filled the air. The wind picked up, shrieking and keening between and around the alleyways in the city. It induced any loose rubbish on the streets into a frenzy of uncoordinated travel. Up above, the clouds continued to gallop across the sky, thrumming with charged energy, bulging them almost to a bursting point.

  The deluge that followed started with big, sopping drops of moisture that were wild and indiscriminate plump missiles that splattered the ground. Within moments, the topsoil on the makeshift thoroughfare turned into slushy goo as the dirt and excrement turned into a quagmire. It was as if God in the heavens vented his wrath on the world below. All around them, Brice watched the rain pour down in sheets. The feeling of the cold increased with the ferocity of the wind and the deluge. Like the way he felt, everything around him had something morbid about it.

  There was still a bustle of activity in the streets despite the storm. It was apparent that the place flourished. There was a shipyard. Furthermore, it was a thriving port, exporting produce such as wool, fur, and hides. Getting closer to the river, Brice saw the first stages of a new bridge being built across the River Thames. Wooden scaffolding encased the birthing stone structure. It was a city that one day would grow to become the largest in the world.

  The group of men on horseback continued down a narrow street toward the Thames. They had to dismount due to the traffic of people, draught animals, and pigs that roamed freely, cluttering the street. Every aspect of the city astounded and shocked Brice. Some parts of the road were made of stone, but for the larger part, dirt trails crisscrossed London. In places, they had deep ruts from the many carts, people, and animals that passed their way. What he noticed the most was the smell of humanity and filth. It stood in such contrast to the freshness of Diabaig. In London, the proximity of so many people gave off an almost stifling air. Not even the rain added any freshness to the air.

  “Look out, laddie.” Alastair pulled his son to one side before he nearly stepped onto a pile of leftover food and other substances he recognized as very unsavory when he looked down. A little further afield, he saw a woman chuck the contents of a chamber pot onto the street. It was generally frowned upon as the town’s council forbade it, but there was no authority in place to counter the act.

  With slovenly purpose, the captives, under the ever-watchful eye of the English, moved forward. The guardsmen at the front of the column issued terse commands to London’s inhabitants that they disperse as they approached.

  “So that is where we are to reside,” said the king, pointing ahead.

  Brice looked up. He gasped. He had never seen anything so vast. It was the place called the Tower of London. Two Scotsmen of note had already graced those thick walls with their presence. One of them was William ‘le hardi’ Douglas, the onetime governor of Berwick-upon-Tweed; he had been murdered there. The other was the famous William Wallace, whose fate ended with him being hung drawn and quartered. Thinking about it made Brice’s spine tingle with foreboding.

  The Tower loomed up above them as the street opened up onto a square. The structure was orientated as the strongest and most impressive defenses overlooking London. It visually dominated the surrounding area and stood out to traffic on the River Thames. The castle was made up of three ‘wards’ or enclosures. The innermost ward contained the White Tower, which was the first part of the castle ever built. Encircling it to the north, east, and west was the inner ward, built during the reign of Richard the Lionheart. Finally, there was the outer ward, which encompassed the castle and was built under Edward the Fi
rst, otherwise known as the Longshanks. Although there were several phases of expansion after William the Conqueror founded the Tower of London, the general layout remained the same since Edward I completed his rebuild in 1285.

  “Is that where they are taking us?” asked Brice, still feeling a shiver of trepidation sliding down his spine.

  “Aye, laddie… it appears that is to be our new home for God only knows how long,” said Alastair. He had never been to London before. He looked to his left and right. The people that were still on the street despite the weather looked at the large men dressed in plaids as if they were denizens from another world.

  “There’s no need to worry. They wouldn’t have dragged us all of this way to execute us,” said King David.

  “They made an example of William Wallace,” said Brice, remembering what Callum had told him.

  “Aye, that they did. But I very much doubt that we will suffer the same fate,” said Alastair.

  “What makes ye so sure?” asked Brice.

  “Because the king is too valuable a pawn to the English alive.”

  “That does not include us.” Brice’s brow creased.

  “I will not let anything happen to ye,” said the king.

  Thomas Rokeby, the Sheriff of Yorkshire, announced their presence to the gateman when they reached the perimeter that consisted of almost impregnable walls surrounding the main castle. It did not take long for the portcullis to be raised and they continued their advance into the cavernous structure.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” said Brice.

  His father patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, laddie. We will be all right.”

  For the remainder of the way, the three captives walked in silence. Looking at the solid Norman architecture of the White Tower looming before him, Brice could imagine that it was a one-time royal residence. At the western corners of the building square towers were located, while to the northeast, a round tower housed a spiral staircase. At the southeast corner, there was a larger semi-circular projection, which accommodated the apse of the chapel. The larger part of the building was built out of Kentish rag-stone.