by Lily Baldwin
Tears streaming down his cheeks, Donnan knelt and showed the girls William’s sweet face. “Alex and Mary, this is yer new brother. He is ours now. Take him into yer hearts and love him always.”
Remembering that day never failed to pain Alex’s heart, but the memories also served to inspire her. For it was on that day she realized the kind of man her father was, and now, at nineteen, she was old enough to have learned that not enough men were like Donnan MacKenzie.
To her father, being chieftain was not a right of birth; it was a privilege, a call to serve. The clansmen and women who looked to him as leader also saw a friend, a parent, someone they could lean on during times that tried the soul. He also ensured that all levels of leadership within the clan held tightly to the same principles whether steward, captain of the guard, or stable master. What’s more, binding himself to a woman who embodied these same ideals had been paramount in his selection of a wife, and he had found his match in Alana.
Alex used to strive to be exactly like her mother, but as she grew she realized that no one could ever be as kind, compassionate, and as refined as Alana. Unlike her mother, Alex was often rash, sharp-tongued, easily distracted, and incapable of yielding to the demands of convention, especially when there was so much work to be done. But her mother seldom scolded her for going about barefoot or wearing worn-out tunics. Kindness mattered most to Alana, a truth she had instilled in Alex. And before Alana passed away from her illness during her daughter’s thirteenth summer, she had made certain Alex understood that the wellbeing of the people came first.
Her father had struggled with his grief for several years. Donnan and Alana had loved each other dearly and had hoped Alex might know the same happiness in marriage. The thought made Alex sigh out loud. How would she find a husband worthy of her clan’s chiefdom?
A new wave of sadness gripped her heart as she started off down the lane, this time helping Will pull the wagon to give his shoulder a rest. There had been a time when she believed she had found a worthy man. When she was fifteen her father had betrothed her to one of his closest and most trusted friends, Lord Robin Campbell, who had possessed holdings several leagues south of MacKenzie territory. Although Robin had been more than twenty years her senior, she had supported her father’s choice from the start. Robin was a man of honor, conviction, and kindness—a truly great man like her father. But like her father, Robin had been unable to sit idly by and watch Scotland fall to its knees in front of an English king, and so he had taken up the cause. He put blacksmiths to work making weapons. He ran messages and collected funds. And he fought alongside her father, raising his sword high for Scotland at the battle of Dunbar. Despite honor being on their side, the Scots were defeated. Her father returned from war on the brink of death with injuries from which he would never fully recover, while Robin did not return at all.
“Welcome home, Alex,” a raspy voice called out, thankfully releasing Alex’s thoughts from the mire of despair.
Shaking off the past, she jogged over to where an old man sat carving a piece of wood. “Good morrow, Corc. How do ye fare?”
Corc rubbed his knobby knees, which peeked out beneath his plaid. “My old bones do a lot of talking these days, but I choose to ignore them. They never have anything interesting to say.”
Alex smiled and reached down to squeeze the old man’s gnarled fingers. “Yer a brave man, Corc, but if ye’re uncomfortable, have Morag make ye up a tisane to sip in the evening.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
Alex cocked a brow at him. “Ye know ye wouldn’t be any trouble. Anyway, Morag’s always good for a laugh, and ye know how she enjoys to gossip.”
Corc smiled, revealing the few teeth he still had left. “Aye, true enough—and then I’d have an excuse to see her other than my aches and pains. I can claim it’s all a ruse to find some decent conversation—no shame in that.”
Alex chuckled. “None at all.” Then she turned to Will. “Bring along some bread for Corc.”
Corc waved Will away. “Nay, the lassies here in the village keep me fat as butter. Give that to someone else.”
Alex took the loaf from her brother’s hand and thrust it at Corc. “It makes me happy. Accept it as a favor to me.”
Corc’s face softened. Then he flashed his wide, gummy smile. “Ye know I can’t refuse now.”
“Oh, I know,” Alex said, winking.
Corc wrapped his weathered fingers around the loaf. “Thank ye, Alex. Ye’re a fine lass. Yer mother would be proud. We all missed ye while ye were away. But I think it right good of ye to visit Haddington in your father’s stead. Knowing yer father as I do, he values the time ye spend with the abbot, although I ken it must be dull for ye, cooped up praying with all those monks. The silence alone would kill me.”
Alex suppressed the smile Corc’s words prompted as flashes of her last ‘visit’ to Haddington Abbey came unbidden to her mind. Of course, few knew where she had really been. Even her escort to Haddington remained ignorant of her true purpose. Every time she went, the warriors were put to work ploughing Haddington’s fields, harvesting crops, repairing outbuildings or doing anything else to help the community. Alex, being the sole woman there, ate and slept in seclusion. Her men were completely unaware that their lady had actually left the monastery altogether.
Likewise, her most trusted adviser, Michael, steward of Luthmore, had no notion that she was an agent for the righteous cause of Scottish independence. Only Mary and her lady’s maid, Rosie, knew the truth. As far as the rest of the MacKenzie’s were concerned, she traveled to the monastery in her father’s stead, bringing his donations and taking the opportunity for prayer and contemplation within its hallowed walls.
And once upon a time this story had been true. But only once.
It was on her first visit to Abbot Matthew that she confessed her desire to take up the cause in Robin’s stead, and from that moment on, she and the abbot had been in league together. She smuggled stolen coin, delivered messages, and gathered weapons, just as Robin had done. Her most recent mission had involved a great deal of planning. The abbot had amassed a large amount of silver, which for more than two years had been hidden away within a small kirk in a village in the Highlands. Alex had volunteered to move the coin. It had not taken her long to think of the idea of lining her tunic with the silver; however, it had taken her, Rosie, and Mary an age to sew the individual marks in place. Alex’s breath caught. Remembering her coin-lined dress drove her thoughts instantly toward sky-blue eyes; coal-black hair; strong, capable hands; and full lips pressed hard against her own.
“Alex!”
She was jarred from her thoughts as a small body barreled into her. Alex smiled down into the upturned, impish face of a wee lass with tangled red curls and golden brown eyes. “Good morrow, Cassie.”
“We’ve been waiting for ye over there,” the little girl said, raising a chubby arm and pointing at the next cottage farther down the lane.
Alex turned back to Corc. “Apparently, ‘tis time for Will and me to move on.”
“Go in peace, Alex. I’ll pray for yer health and safety and for the health of yer father.”
Alex bent at the waist and pressed a kiss to his wizened cheek. Then with a smile and a wave, she started back down the path with Cassie straddling her hip.
“Good morrow, dear friend,” Alex said to the woman standing in the cottage doorway with three wee bairns clinging to her skirts.
“’Tis a fine morning now that ye’ve returned, Alex.”
Alex put Cassie down and pulled Helen into a tight embrace. “Oh, I’ve missed ye.”
Helen furrowed her brow with concern. “Are ye well? Ye look a bit flushed.”
Alex could not entirely stop the smile that fought to spread her lips wide. “I’m well enough, but I tell ye, Helen,” she said, leaning closer and dropping her voice. “I met a man while I was away that could bring any woman to her knees with a single glance.”
Alex cocked her brow at her friend. “I’m not entirely lacking in scruples.”
“I ken,” Helen said, laughing. “’Twas a jest. Thankfully, the principles of yer soul hold the rather wanton demands of yer body in check. ‘Tis a good thing too, or ye’d have lost yer virtue long ago. So, where did ye meet this man, and when are ye going to marry him and give Luthmore an heir?”
“Nay, not ye, too,” Alex groaned. “Ye sound just like Michael.” Her father’s steward never ceased pestering her about her duties as lady to Luthmore Castle—procuring a husband remained at the very top of his list, that and wearing shoes.
“’Tis high time ye settled down. Anyway, ye need to get yerself a man. He’ll help cool those flushed cheeks.”
“Ye ken ‘tis not a lack of desire to wed on my part, but who can I trust to hold authority over my people? The good men are dead or taken, and the bad ones simply won’t get past my gate. Anyway, Da’s health is not up to the task right now.”
Helen’s head tilted slightly to the side as she gave Alex a knowing look. “Is there no one who could capture yer heart?”
“I gave my heart to Robin.”
“I’m speaking of love, Alex,” Helen insisted, stepping closer.
Alex flinched. “Ye know I loved Robin.”
“Of course ye did,” Helen said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Ye respected him and admired him, and deservedly so. But, Alex, ye were never in love with him. The sight of him never made yer knees weak or stole yer breath. And don’t play innocent with me. Since ye lost him, I know ye’ve been kissed properly.”
Alex smiled but lifted her shoulders in defeat. “I’m fairly certain ladies aren’t allowed to marry for love.”
Helen pointed at Alex’s grubby feet. “Nor are they meant to go about barefoot, allowing commoners to use their Christian names, but that’s never stopped ye.” A slow smiled curved Helen’s lips as she studied Alex. “I can tell ye’re losing patience with me, so I’ll stop nagging. ‘Tis just…God forbid something were to happen to yer da. Ye’d be leaving the lot of us without a laird for protection.”
An ache coiled around Alex’s heart, nigh stealing her breath. What Helen didn’t know—what few knew—was how sick her father really was.
Donnan had returned home from the battle of Dunbar alive but forever damaged. An enemy blade had struck his head, knocking off his helmet while another English knight took a swing with a mace, crushing his skull. Rendered unconscious, he fell to the ground where horses trampled his legs, crushing the bones. Only by the grace of God did Donnan survive, but he never walked again nor did his mind fully heal. Memories from before the battle came to him with ease, but when the sun set on a new day, most of his new memories were gone come morning. Also, stolen by the vicious blow to his skull was his ability to read and do sums. With regard to his lasting injuries, the clan only knew half the story. Everyone understood that Donnan would be bedridden for the remainder of his days, but Alex, and those closest to the laird, had concealed the weaknesses of Donnan’s mind—an addle-minded chieftain meant a vulnerable clan. And so, at sixteen, Alex took on the role of laird, but her every command remained always in Donnan’s name. The rest of their kin, and most importantly, neighboring clans, believed that Donnan’s mind was sharp as ever, and that he issued orders from his chamber, which Alex simply ensured were carried out.
Alex slumped down at Helen’s table, suddenly weary, and accepted a cup of mead from her friend’s outstretched hand. “Thank ye,” she said and took a long sip, absently stroking her hand across a piece of soft, dark blue wool folded on the table. “’Tis lovely,” Alex said, admiring the fabric closer.
“Aye, ‘tis that,” Helen agreed. “I bought it from a peddler who came through the village yesterday.”
Alex straightened in her seat. “Not the same peddler who came through last spring?”
Helen shook her head. “Of course not—ye know that man would never again get within a league of MacKenzie territory.”
Relief eased the sudden tension from Alex’s shoulders as she again sat back. More than a year had passed since a dreadful beast of a man swept through town, selling rotted grain, soiled fabrics, and lewd wooden carvings. Alex had only been made aware of his presence after several villagers had come to the keep, complaining of a peddler who was trying to frighten and bully them into buying his objectionable goods. Flanked by two of the largest MacKenzie warriors, Gavin and Finlay, she had marched down and confronted the rodent—a sniveling Englishman, small in stature with greasy black hair, and cold, hard eyes. At first, she cast him from her lands in a firm but calm voice. In reply, he spat on the ground saying, “I don’t take orders from women.”
She gasped in momentary surprise. Then fury seized her. She stormed at him. “How dare ye defy me, ye miscreant! Ye addle-brained churl! Ye goatish knave!” With every insult hurled, her voice grew louder. “Ye mewling, odiferous, spotted toad!”
Eyes wide as saucers, the nasty little man turned tail and ran, pushing the poor beasts with the sorry job of pulling his wagon of spoiled goods as hard as he could. Alex liked to believe it was her fierce stance and sharp tongue that had chased him away, although she knew the accompanying effect of Gavin and Finlay unsheathing their broad swords may have contributed to the peddler’s flight.
A piercing cry brought Alex’s thoughts back to the present.
She smiled. “Wee Hamish’s wails are as strong as ever,” she said, leaning to see past Helen to the baby now awake in his cradle. “It would appear as though duty calls to us both,” Alex said before pressing a kiss to Helen’s cheek. “I’m off. I’ve still many families left to visit.” She looked down at Will who sat on the floor surrounded by Helen’s wee ones. He was handing out the rag babies Alex had found in a village shop on her return journey.
“Come along, Will,” she said, standing. Then she turned back to Helen. “We’ve brought bread and cheese for the men in the fields. ‘Tis nigh time for the noon meal.”
Helen stood and scooped Hamish into her arms. “Apparently so,” she said with a wink. “Now, make sure that husband of mine stops to eat. I swear he’s more apt to fly to the top of Torna Doon than to squeeze in time for a meal when there’s work to be done.”
Alex nodded in agreement. “Gregor is hard working to be sure, but ye’re right. He’ll do himself ill if he doesn’t rest. Ye’ve my word. He will sit, even if only for a quick bite.”
When Alex and Will resumed their progress down the village path, she decided to have Will carry on with the rounds on his own while she brought the men in the fields the bread and cheese.
“Welcome home, Alex,” Gregor called out, in between issuing curt commands to the oxen as he steered their course. Alex set the food down beside the field that had been left fallow all spring and summer and now was being turned before winter. She darted toward the men, her feet sinking into the cool earth.
“’Tis time to stop for dinner,” Alex said.
Owen, one of Corc’s many grandsons, smiled. “Whoa,” he said, pulling on the oxen’s reins.
“What do ye think ye’re doing?” Gregor snapped at the younger man. “Do ye think the soil is going to turn itself.”
Alex muscled up to Gregor and thrust a finger in his face. “He’s listening to his lady, is what he’s doing.” She held her fierce pose as long as she could before she burst out laughing. Gregor joined in, his mop of red curls bouncing while he laughed. “Let me guess,” he said, catching his breath. “Ye paid a visit to Helen before stopping by.”
Alex shrugged. “I might have. Anyway,” she said, grabbing Owen by the upper arm and thrusting him at Gregor. “Look at this lad, he’s nigh starving to death.” The laughter renewed at her jest, for Owen stood a head taller than Gregor and was as broad as a bull despite only having eighteen years to his credit.
“I
yield,” Gregor said. “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of Owen not gaining another stone by the end of the day.”
Smiling, she helped them disable the plough and remove the yoke from the team so that the beasts could graze for a spell while they enjoyed their own meal.
“And how were the monks this time?” Gregor asked, handing her a large piece of bread. Her stomach rumbled, and so she happily accepted. There was plenty to go around. Soon, the men tending the crops in surrounding fields joined them.
“They were all well. Did anything happen here while I was away?” she asked.
“Some of Malcolm’s sheep were pinched,” Owen said before taking a bite of cheese.
Alex sat up straighter. “No one told me. Who’s responsible?”
Gregor shrugged. “Tinkers most likely.”
“My lady,” a deep voice said behind her, the owner of which she did not doubt was Michael. He was the only MacKenzie who called her ‘my lady’.
She groaned softly.
“Ye’re in trouble now,” Gregor said in a quiet singsong voice.
“Gregor MacKenzie, ye must have seen him coming,” she hissed softly. “Ye could’ve warned me.”
“Nay,” he said, chuckling. “This was more fun.”
She looked down at her dirt smeared tunic and filthy toes and whispered, “What? Do ye think Michael will find something objectionable?”
“Good morrow,” the steward of Luthmore castle said, drawing near.
Shielding her eyes from the noon sun, Alex squinted up at him. “Can I assume ye’re not here to join our picnic?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Stand up, my lady, and dust yerself off. There’s a dispute to settle.”
Alex sighed and reached for a hunk of cheese. She took a bite and with her mouth full said to the men, “Duty calls.”
“A cow eats with more manners,” Michael scolded.
Alex stood up and patted him on the back. “Do not fash yerself. Ye know I clean up fine and can be as enchanting as I please, when I please.” A hiccup intruded upon her speech.