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

by Alisa Adams

  “Welcome to the Tower of London,” said the Sheriff, dismounting from his horse. “Your new home until the king decides your fate.” He issued some terse commands to his men. To Brice’s surprise and to a greater extent relief, they were to be treated well.

  Once inside, they passed the lower floor where some officials worked. After passing a small chamber, they ascended to the upper floor. There was a grand hall with a wooden beamed ceiling and a little further back, the entrance to St. John’s chapel. The prisoners were directed to some chambers located on the eastern side of the structure. They entered the large room together.

  “You shall have this area at your disposal. It is the queen’s explicit wish that you may use this section at your discretion. You will be allocated time during the day during which you may promenade on the grounds. Supper will be served shortly. Make yourselves at home.” With those words, the Sheriff of York vacated the chamber and shut the door.

  Brice looked around the elaborately furnished room. He never expected that it would be so luxurious. He wondered whether William Wallace had been accorded the same courtesy. There were a four-poster bed, a table, and some chairs. Writing material had been placed at the king’s disposal, and the walls were draped with rich tapestries.

  “Not bad this,” said Alastair. He pulled a chair and sat down. “Now all that remains is to find out how long we are to remain incarcerated here.” He shook his plaid to rid it of the damp that had accumulated there.

  “I assume we won’t be going anywhere until King Edward returns,” said the king.

  Alastair nodded. “Aye, I doubt it will be all that long though.”

  “What makes ye say that, Da?” asked Brice.

  Alastair arched his eyebrows. “It will be Christmas shortly. I assume that King Edward will return to England to celebrate with his family. We will be summoned after that.”

  The notion of spending Christmas without his mother and Skye pained Brice. It was some consolation that his father was with him. He sighed. “What do ye think Mother will do once Mungo and Murtagh get back to Diabaig?”

  Alastair chuckled. “Knowing yer mother, she will travel to England in the hope of finding us. Word will have surely reached her that the king has been captured and the last place Mungo saw us was with him.” He shrugged. “She will assume that we have been taken prisoner with him.”

  “But what can Mother do when she gets here?”

  “I dinnae ken. She and yer auntie are English. They might petition the king for clemency,” said Alastair, continuing to wring his plaid that dripped with water.

  13

  The Road South

  * * *

  England, January, 1347

  * * *

  “How much farther to London?” asked Mary, scanning the lay of the land. England was far less rough than the Highlands, but also not as savagely romantic. The countryside undulated seamlessly before her in a series of hills. The ground was covered with frost, making the horses’ hooves crunch as they advanced. Since leaving Diabaig, it had been a cold journey with the winter weather as a constant companion.

  “We should be there in a few days’ time at the most. But it is Windsor where I think we should go,” said Sir Percival, steamy vapor escaping his mouth.

  “Yes, you might be right.” Mary thought of the most recent news she had received about the Scottish captives in the tavern a few nights ago. Before that, as she had predicted, news had reached them on the road that the king had been held captive at Castle Ogle for a while until his relocation to the Tower of London.

  Presently, it was rumored that King David and his companions had been relocated from the Tower of London to Windsor Castle at the behest of the King of England. Also, there was to be a jousting tournament sometime in February. She thought it strange for it to be held at this time of the year. Usually, springtime would be far more suitable for such an event. However, as it turned out, on this occasion, it was supposed to be a smallish spectacle, and more of a whim on the Black Prince’s part and a chance for him to show off his martial prowess.

  The entire trip south, Mary had pondered on her course of action when she finally reached her final destination. Could she just request an audience with the king and plea for her husband and son’s life? She was English, and so was Elizabeth. To boot, they both came from an illustrious English family and her sister had also married into one.

  “What will we do when we get there?” asked Skye, reading her future mother-in-law’s mind.

  “I suppose we will try and obtain an audience with the king,” said Mary.

  “That will not be easy,” interjected Elizabeth.

  Mary looked ahead. She pressed her lips together in thought. Already, the sun dipped toward the horizon for its final activity of the day. It showed itself occasionally between the clouds that had been slightly less tortuous on this day. Rays of an ever-deepening red stroked the clouds, making them turn pink in places.

  “I suppose we will see,” she said, feeling slightly uneasy about what she was planning on doing.

  “We will stay the night at Bedford,” said Sir Percival. “It is only a few more leagues down yonder. There will be a tavern with some food and ale to pass the evening.”

  Mary nodded as she urged her mount forward, following her sister’s man-at-arms. Beside her, Skye did the same. For the rest of the way, they rode in silence. Each one of them was lost in his or her thoughts. For Mary and Skye, these consisted of ruminations over their men. Elizabeth resigned herself to the gentle motion of her horse’s movement, and Sir Percival looked forward to a tankard full to the brim with ale. The other ten men in the grouping shared his sentiments.

  The agricultural town of Bedford was small. It consisted of the typical structures and happenings within any such medieval settlement. There was a church, a few taverns, and the wool guilds – as this was its most important trade good. The thoroughfares were no longer as busy due to the approach of dusk. Soon curfew would commence, removing the last remaining inhabitants to hearth and table.

  “I know of a tavern where we can spend the night,” said Sir Percival. “Hopefully, they will have chambers available for us and a stable for the men and horses.” He guided his steed down a narrow street, leaving the main thoroughfare.

  They had dismounted due to the traffic of people, draught animals, and pigs that roamed freely as they cluttered the street. The roads were all dirt tracks. In places, it had deep ruts from the many carts that passed that way.

  “I am really looking forward to the warmth,” said Skye, shivering. As she said it, she prayed to find just that in Brice’s arms again. It had been far too long since she had last kissed him. Yet, somehow, she felt closer to him than she had in weeks. A feeling deep inside of her told her that they would be together soon.

  “Yes, that will be nice,” said Elizabeth, wrapping her fur-lined cloak around her frame.

  “Here we are,” Sir Percival announced.

  The party stood in front of a door. Above it hung a sign with the name of the establishment: ‘The Prancing Lamb’. Skye rolled the word on her tongue.

  A gust of warm air assaulted her face when Sir Percival opened the door. The dense waft that came at her was like a moving wall made up of a comingling of cooking aroma, sweat, and an overall putrid odor. It was dingy and dark inside. A fire in a hearth and a few sconces with flickering flames provided the only lighting. Mary, Elizabeth, and Skye followed Sir Percival across the straw-strewn floor up to a counter where a short, bald man with a frowzy appearance stood with a buxom woman in a grimy dress and no older than nineteen.

  “We’ll have four of your pottages and two jugs of ale,” ordered Sir Percival, slapping a coin on the bar.

  The landlord shook his head. “Sorry, friend, but we’re closing the doors for the night. The curfew is about to begin.”

  “I forgot to mention, we’ll also be needing chambers for the night and stabling for the horses. Also, I require accommodation for ten men if you have
that available.”

  The short man studied them for a moment, his gaze resting on Skye for far too long. “Your daughter, is she?” he finally asked, licking his lips uncouthly.

  “That is none of your business,” answered Sir Percival with a snarl. “So, what of my request?” he pursued.

  The landlord scrutinized Mary, then Elizabeth, until his ferrety eyes came back to rest on Skye. It was obvious from his behavior that he approved of her appearance. Skye looked the veritable English lady dressed in her travel dress and cloak. Protruding from under her bonnet, her golden hair shone seductively in the weak light. All she did was blink back at him. If she had her sword with her, she would have stuck it to him.

  Finally, having calculated the handsome profit he would make, the landlord nodded. “It will cost ya,” he said, blinking with avaricious eyes.

  “How much?” asked Sir Percival.

  The tavern keeper shrugged. “A few coins of silver…” He wanted his prospective patron to take the initiative and hopefully give more than he asked for.

  Sir Percival took his leathern money pouch, removed a few coins and thwacked too many of them onto the counter. The innkeeper arched his eyebrows in surprise. He then hastily ferreted away the money on the wooden worktop quicker than it had materialized and before Sir Percival could even think about changing his mind. Snorting, he walked down the length of the area behind the counter, picking up two pewter pitchers on the way, which he then dipped into a large barrel, removing them brimming with ale.

  “You can sit over there,” he said, pointing at a table in the corner of the establishment. “My best room is free for the ladies, and I have another for you, kind sir.” His tone had changed considerably since seeing the moneybag. “One of my lads will take care of your horses and your men. It’ll cost you a few more of those coins though if you require the use of the barn for so many,” he said, squinting.

  Sir Percival removed some more money from the purse attached to his belt and socked the silver onto the counter for the second time. Afterward, he guided Mary and the other ladies across the low-ceilinged room that was nearly empty because of the curfew. Only one other man sat at a table close to the fire, eating his stew. He produced occasional feral grunts as he wolfed down the brew. He took no notice of the newcomers.

  “This is just what I needed,” said Sir Percival, pouring the contents of the jug into the individual tankards. When he was done, he picked up his and drained it in one. He promptly refilled it and again assaulted the drinking vessel with the same vigorous flourish.

  “Yes, traveling makes you thirsty.” Mary sipped down the beverage with far more restraint than the man-at-arms. The liquid tasted bitter and gritty, but she was parched and cold, so she did not mind.

  Skye winced at the smack in her mouth, but she too needed a drink.

  “To us finding your husband and son,” said Elizabeth, raising her goblet.

  Mary’s eyes watered over slightly. “Yes, I will certainly drink to that.”

  “And may that be very soon,” added Skye, bringing her tankard to the others.

  The three women clinked their cups, and each of them followed suit with hearty draughts of the brew. They sat in silence with the only noise coming from Sir Percival’s drinking and the audible grunts and slurps coming from the only other patron in the tavern.

  “A shilling for your thoughts, Skye. You’ve been frowning the entire time.”

  “I was wondering whether Brice still loves me.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” asked Mary, stroking her arm.

  “Well, we have been parted for such a long time. Maybe, as the people said on the way over here, the king treats them well… and I hope that is the case.” Skye took a deep breath. “But what if he has fallen for an English lady? He’s only known me, and I hear the women at court are very beautiful and far more ladylike than I.”

  “Oh, Skye… that is precisely what my son loves about you. You are the woman he loves and nothing will ever change that. He is a clansman.” Mary chuckled. “And trust me, he likes his woman just like you: a warrior at heart.”

  “Really?”

  “Listen to my sister. From the way I have seen my nephew look at you, he is smitten. There’s no need to be maudlin, my dear,” said Elizabeth.

  Sir Percival grunted. “They are right. If I were younger, I would rather have you as my wife than any of those pampered sorts at court.” His remark invited a small scowl from Elizabeth.

  “Your food,” said the curvaceous serving woman, slapping two wooden bowls on the table. She left at a snail’s pace only to return with two more and some bread, all of which she deposited in front of them with the same brash un-courteousness.

  With hesitation, Mary dipped her spoon into the brownish, congealed liquid. No matter how distasteful it looked, the aroma fanning out of the bowl reminded her just how hungry she was. Sir Percival pulled on the crust of the bread, grimacing at how hard it was.

  “This ruddy bread is as hard as a brick. Trust that ne’er-do-well to serve stale bread. I just hope it is not full of weevils to boot.” With a grunt, he freed some of the bread, which he proceeded to dip into the pottage. “Never ask what is in it,” he said with his mouth half full. “It can contain all manner of things lying about the kitchen and environ. Sometimes, they chuck in an old draft horse that was well past it. You got just about anything – blood, entrails, if you’re lucky, carrots…” he continued, ridding his mouth of a piece of gristle with his finger.

  “I thought you said not to talk about it,” said Skye.

  Sir Percival guffawed. “Well, I couldn’t resist… Now, eat up while it’s still hot.”

  They ate in silence until their bowls were scraped clean with the bread that had fortunately softened when it was left in the stew. To Mary’s surprise, it had been surprisingly savory. She felt a warm glow in her belly that made her drowsy. She was exhausted from the road. Every limb on her body ached. The food and ale had added to her tiredness. It was the same for the others. Only Sir Percival seemed as if they had not ridden a single league that day.

  “It’s time we got you all to bed before you pass out, ladies.” Sir Perceval stood up to make his point. Mary had no choice but to agree with him. Somehow, it had been far less arduous when she had last been on such a long journey. Mary put it down to the worry she felt for both Alastair and her eldest son. “I bid you good night. I will go and check on the men,” he said, bowing his head.

  It did not take the three women long to mount the stairs to the first floor where they found a narrow corridor with three doors leading from it. Elizabeth directed them to the furthest one at the end of the hallway. She opened the door with a heavy key, provided to her by the owner, and entered the chamber with Mary and Skye in tow.

  The wood beamed ceiling hung so low that they had to bend over. The building was so constructed because the limited height provided more warmth during the colder months of the year. There was also a fire burning in a small hearth. For this they were grateful. No matter the mugginess of the room below them, they still felt the after-effects of the long, cold ride throughout the day.

  “I hope that bed is large enough for the three of us,” said Elizabeth, casting a disdainful glance at the small bed.

  “A lovers’ bed,” said Skye, looking thoughtful.

  “It’s all right, my dear,” said Mary, stroking her back. “Get a good night’s sleep, and everything will look better on the morrow. We will get our men back.”

  Skye nodded. She began to strip to her petticoats. She was the first to slide under the coarse coverlets. Mary soon followed, and Elizabeth was last. They were so exhausted that they did not even manage to say goodnight. In moments, Skye heard the other two women’s steady breathing. No matter her tiredness, sleep remained elusive for a long while.

  Images of Brice and the day he had asked her to marry him raced before her closed eyes. He had looked so handsome that day. She reminisced about how it had felt to truly be his wom
an. Thoughts of their nightly lovemaking by the loch before her father’s unwelcome interruption clouded her mind. She mouthed a silent prayer that she would one day soon be with her love in that very same spot again. It was the right thought. After a few more heartbeats, her breathing evened out until it was rhythmic and deep – Skye had finally entered into the realms of sleep.

  14

  The Black Prince and the King of England

  * * *

  Windsor Castle, England, February, 1347

  * * *

  Windsor Castle stood proudly close to the banks of the Thames. The motte, the stone keep that sat on raised artificial earthworks in the center of the castle’s grounds, was the first thing that came into sight in a traveler’s eye. William the Conqueror had established the original structure as a bastion in order to control the city of London, this strategically important position on the river and the surrounding countryside.

  The castle as it stood that day was created during a sequence of phased building projects that spanned the centuries since their inception around the year 1066. The building was, in essence, an amalgamation of Norman design based on the classic medieval structure, boasting impressive fortifications.

  The entire edifice was divided into three wards – an upper one, a middle one and a lower one. The lower part was where St. George’s Chapel was located. In the center lay the motte with the main keep. And the upper part was where the royal residences were situated.

  Brice walked with King Edward the Third’s son, the Black Prince, in the grounds surrounding the castle. A group of soldiers followed in their wake. Ever since he, the king and his father had arrived after their summons by the King of England, the two young men of a similar age had developed a kind of friendship. It was based on mutual respect and kindred spirit.