Reckless Scotland: A Scottish Medieval Romance Bundle

by Victoria Vane

“’Tis surely my faither and brother,” she stated in a choked whisper. One of the men had lifted the smallest of the bundles and was about to drop it into the grave.

  “Ewan?” she inquired tearfully.

  “Was that yer brother’s name?” Domnall asked.

  “Aye,” she declared. “I want to see him… I must see him!”

  “Nae!” Domnall clutched her arm in an attempt to restrain her, but she jerked out of his grasp and bolted, throwing herself headlong at the man who held her brother’s body. Knocked off balance, they both tumbled backward to the ground.

  “What the devil is this?” Fitz Duncan’s voice boomed as he strode toward the hysterical girl, scooping her up with one powerful sweep of his arm.

  “Let me go!” she cried, struggling to escape his hold.

  “You interfere with my men’s work,” he replied.

  “But I want to see my faither and brother! ’Tis my right!” she insisted between sobs.

  Fitz Duncan’s face softened only infinitesimally. He gently set her down on the ground, but continued to hold her firmly by the shoulders. “Look at me, lass and hear my words,” he commanded, his voice stern and his mouth grim. “I found their bodies in pieces by the road. They were butchered like animals.”

  Her gaze widened and her skin went instantly pale.

  “’Twas a difficult sight for a hardened soldier to behold,” Fitz Duncan continued, “let alone an innocent young lass. Do you comprehend what I am saying?”

  “What if it was someone else ye found?” she asked with a look of desperation. “How can I belive they are really dead if I dinna see them?”

  “I knew Rémin of Crailing,” Fitz Duncan assured her. “I have no doubt ’twas his face I beheld. And ’twould be far better for you to keep that face in your memory.”

  She nodded in silence while tears streamed down her face, washing away a narrow trail of dirt and soot. Domnall’s heart squeezed with pity for her plight. Her entire family had been murdered, but allowing her to see the bodies would surely only make matters worse. He feared the vision of their piked heads would forever haunt his own dreams.

  “How do ye ken my faither?” she then asked Fitz Duncan. Her eyes were narrow with lingering suspicion.

  Domnall could hardly blame her. Trust would come hard to anyone whose entire world had been torn apart as hers had been.

  “He fought under me in the great rebellion,” Fitz Duncan answered. “’Tis how he came to be lord of these lands. This entire place was his reward for his loyal service to the king.” He made a wide gesture to encompass the smoking tower and the lands beyond.

  “But it’s all gone now,” she stated softly. “My family. My home. All of it.” Her voice cracked as she asked, “What will become of me?”

  “You are, of this moment, a ward of the king,” Fitz Duncan replied. “’Tis he alone who will decide your immediate fate. But since you are now the sole heir, this estate will be yours when you come of age.”

  “But there’s nothing left of it,” she wailed.

  “In time, ’twill all be rebuilt,” Fitz Duncan declared. “I swear in your father’s name ’twill be done.”

  *

  HOURS LATER, DAVINA’S eyes fluttered open to disorienting darkness. Where was she? The night was eerily quiet, cold and moonless, the silence broken only by the occasional murmur of voices that were too far away to comprehend their words.

  At first, she could see little beyond the white vapor of her own breath, but after a moment her eyes adjusted. The shadowy forms of sleeping men lay haphazardly scattered around several smoldering campfires.

  She shifted onto her side on the bed of pine branches. She and Domnall had laid them under a makeshift shelter after she’d refused to sleep any closer to the fires, her fear still lingering given her near brush with a fiery death. As she lay alone in the darkness, she wondered if she would ever know safety and security again. Fitz Duncan had posted sentries, but she still didn’t feel completely safe. She hated the darkness, but dreaded the daylight as much as the night.

  In the morning they would depart for Carlisle where the king currently held court. What would he do with her? She had no close kin to take her in. Her father had been a mercenary before joining the king’s army and most of her mother’s family had been killed in the Highland rebellion.

  She feared the uncertainty of her fate. The more she thought about it, the heavier her heart grew until it became a crushing weight that threatened to snuff any remaining life out of her. She didn’t want to leave her home and she ached for her family, a pain that ran bone deep—an agonizing anguish that welled up inside her and screamed for release.

  Though she fought them as hard as she could, the tears began again. But this time, it was no silent trickle. Jerking upright, Davina threw her head back and shrieked to the heavens, keening like a banshee, until the sobs that racked her body eventually choked her throat and stifled her cries.

  *

  HIS BODY SHIVERING and teeth chattering, Domnall pulled his plaid tighter around his body. The night was bitterly cold and the wind cut like a dagger through his plaid, but there was naught to be done but huddle closer to the fire. He’d given his bearskin mantle to Davina whose need was far greater than his own.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to lose everything, as she had. He was once more filled with pity for the lass who’d borne tragedy and misfortune with such brave stoicism. He supposed he even admired her for it. She was a braw lass, this Davina.

  Watching the feeble flames die down to glowing embers, Domnall pushed himself to his feet to throw more wood on the fire. Without conscious thought, he found himself walking toward the tree where he’d helped Davina to build a shelter.

  He was only a few yards away when a blood-curdling scream pierced the air, waking the camp, and sending dozens of men wildly scrambling for their swords. Fitz Duncan was swift to appear, rebuking his men and quelling the chaos while Domnall sought out Davina. He found her kneeling on the ground, sobbing hysterically and tearing at her hair. He instantly threw himself down beside her to offer his comfort, only to become a target for her rage.

  “Ye promised nae to leave me,” she cried, battering him with her fists.

  “But ye were asleep,” he protested, hands raised in surrender while she continued her assault.

  “And ye left me all alone!”

  “’Tis v-verra c-cold this night. I only left to seek the warmth of the fire.”

  “God’s blood!” Fitz Duncan appeared with a scowl directed at the sobbing girl. “Are you trying to wake the dead?”

  Her head instantly jerked up to his face. “Mayhap I am,” she retorted with a bloodshot glare. “Do ye think ’twill work?”

  “Dammit,” he groaned. “’Tis not what I meant to say,” he confessed in a halfhearted attempt at an apology. “You have every right to grieve,” he added more softly, “but I canna have you disturbing the whole camp. The men need their rest as do you. We leave at daybreak.”

  “B-but I dinna want to go with ye!” she sniffed, rubbing away the stream of snot and tears with the back of her hand, as hiccups came upon her like aftershocks.

  “It matters not what you want,” Fitz Duncan replied. “You will be going with me.”

  Domnall recalled the nearly identical exchange he’d had with his father at Castle Kilmuir. Was it only a week ago? It seemed so far away now.

  “Now go back to your bed.” Fitz Duncan commanded, then turned his back and walked away.

  “I canna sleep,” Davina protested with another soft hiccup.

  “I will stay with ye until morn,” Domnall offered.

  “Do ye promise?” she asked, her voice was hoarse but she seemed to have finally regained her self-control.

  “Aye,” he replied solemnly. “I promise I willna leave ye alone again, Davina of Crailing.”

  Domnall lowered himself to the ground beside her shelter while Davina crawled into the warmth of the fur.
Domnall raised his plaid to cover his head as well as his body but it was only a few minutes before his teeth began chattering again.

  “Have ye only the plaid for warmth?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he said with a shrug.

  “’Tis nae enough on this bitter night,” she said. “Ye can sleep hither with me.” She pulled back the bearskin in invitation.

  Although sorely tempted, Domnall still hesitated. She was a lass and he was a lad. It somehow didn’t seem proper.

  “Come,” she urged, patting the place beside her. “The pine needles make a fine mattress and there is surely room under this great fur for twain. When we were younger, my brother and I often slept together to keep warm.”

  Her reasoning made perfect sense. Two bodies sharing heat were always warmer than one and he was very cold. He surrendered with a sigh and joined her under the bearskin where, huddled together, he drifted off to sleep.

  *

  ALTHOUGH IT MADE her feel more secure to have Domnall beside her, Davina’s mind was still too uneasy to allow her to rest. Domnall, however, had begun to softly snore. Was he already asleep? The sound was steady and soothing in a strange way. He also smelled strongly of horses but she didn’t mind that either. She’d always liked their earthy scent.

  Eventually, Davina closed her eyes but sleep was elusive. “Domnall… are ye awake?” she whispered after a time.

  “I am now,” he mumbled.

  “When we get to Carlisle, what do ye think the king will do with me?” she asked.

  “I dinna ken,” he replied.

  “What kind of man is the king?” she asked.

  “I dinna ken that either,” he replied grumpily. “I have ne’er seen him.”

  “But dinna ye say yer father is his kin?”

  “Aye, but I dinna ken much of my father either until a few days ago,” Domnall said.

  “What do ye mean?” she asked, feeling confused.

  “I havena seen him for nearly four years.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “I dinna want to talk about it,” he said. “I want to go back to sleep.”

  “But I canna sleep,” she insisted.

  “’Tis a long story,” he said.

  “I dinna care,” she replied. “I like stories. Before she died, my máthair used to tell me stories every night. Will ye please tell me yers?”

  “All right.” Domnall groaned. “If I tell ye the tale, will ye then let me sleep?”

  “Aye,” she replied.

  “Long ago there was a fierce and ruthless King of Scotland named Malcolm Cenn Mór, who was much more feared by his people than beloved. As a warrior king, his life and death bore witness of the proverb, live by the sword, die by the sword, as he had taken the throne by might. He was an ambitious man, obsessed with expanding his territory, and met an untimely end when he and his eldest son, Edward, were both murdered by his enemies.

  “Although this king had seven living sons by two wives, ’twas the king’s brother, Donald Bane, who claimed the throne. He was backed by the Highlanders who resented the influence of the King Malcolm’s second wife, the Saxon Queen Margaret.

  Fearing for their lives, Malcolm’s sons sought the protection of Henry of England. Perceiving the opportunity to control Scotland, King Henry of England sent a vast army north with Prince Duncan at its head. Duncan routed his uncle’s forces and took the throne of Scotland… Duncan was my grandfaither.”

  Davina digested his words in stunned silence. It seemed too incredible to believe, but why would he lie about such a thing? “Forsooth, he was really the king of all Scotland?” she asked.

  “Aye,” Domnall said. “He was the elder half-brother of King David. Duncan took the thorn but he was nae ruler of all Scotland,” Domnall clarified. “My máthair’s faither, Aedh, ruled the northern Kingdom of Moray.”

  “Yer máthair’s faither was also a king?” she asked with growing skepticism.

  It couldn’t possibly be true, but Domnall spoke as if it were a well-known fact and nothing out of the ordinary. But the more she puzzled it out, the less sense it made to her. “If what ye say is truth, why isna yer faither the king?”

  “’Tis complicated to explain. Didna I tell ye, ’tis a long story?”

  “Aye and now I would ken the whole of it,” Davina prodded. She’d never met the grandson of a king before, let alone two! She still wasn’t sure whether to believe him, but Domnall had no reason to lie to her.

  Domnall sighed. “King Duncan only reigned for seven months before he was murdered by the men who backed the same uncle he’d overthrown. Donald Bane was restored again to the throne but his reign was short-lived. Within a year, he was killed in a revolt led by Duncan’s half-brothers, Edgar, Alexander and David. The three brothers then took back the throne. Backed by Henry of England, Edgar, was proclaimed king, followed by Alexander and then David, who now wears the crown.”

  “If yer faither was King Duncan’s son, shouldna he have been next to follow?” Davina asked, still trying to piece it all together.

  “Aye,” Domnall said. “But he was a mere lad of four years. He was taken under King Alexander’s wing. Upon Alexander’s death there was a great rebellion led by the Highlanders who resented England’s control of the Scottish throne.

  “Many of them would have supported Fitz Duncan had he pressed his claim but, instead, he sold both his sword and his soul.”

  “Sold his soul? I dinna understand,” Davina said.

  “Rather than fighting for what was rightly his by birth, Fitz Duncan betrayed his own countrymen and led a great Norman army to put down the rebellion, slaughtering thousands of his true countrymen, to include my máthair’s brother.”

  “David then rewarded Fitz Duncan with the lands of Moray. He took my máthair to wife only to claim her faither’s title and lands. A few years later, Fitz Duncan left the Highlands to join David’s war with England. Once more, he was rewarded with lands and titles… and a new wife.” He ended his story with a shrug. “Now ye ken why I havena seen my faither in four years.”

  “Oh.” Davina hardly knew what to say.

  “All he cares about, all any of the Normans care about is lands, titles, and power.”

  “Not all Normans!” Davina protested. “My faither was a good man. He was loyal and brave and he loved my máthair verra much.”

  “Yer faither was Norman and yer máthair was a Highlander?” he asked.

  “Aye. How do ye ken she was a Highlander?” she asked.

  “Because ye bear a Gaelic name and speak the tongue. How did yer faither acquire Crailing?” Domnall then asked.

  “I dinna ken,” she answered.

  “Did he swear fealty to David?”

  “Aye. He was the king’s man,” Davina said.

  “After quashing the Highland rebellion, the king rewarded many of his Norman knights with Scottish lands,” Domnall said.

  Davina swallowed hard. She was becoming uncomfortable with the path of logic Domnall was forcing her to take. “Mayhap he fought in David’s service, but he didna betray his own people.” Davina protested.

  “Aye, I’ll allow ye that,” Domnall replied.

  “If ye despise Fitz Duncan so, why did ye come with him?” she asked.

  “I had nae choice,” he replied. “He has the power to make life verra troublesome for my family. He only uses me to control my máthair and uncle. He mistrusts them and fears another rebellion. In sooth, I am little more than a hostage.”

  “Mayhap ’tis nae all as ye think it is,” Davina suggested softly. “If he cares naught for ye, why would he seek ye out after all this time?” Davina asked. “Mayhap he cares more than ye ken?”

  “I dinna believe it,” Domnall snorted. Domnall then turned his back to her, abruptly ending the exchange.

  Though he tried to act like he didn’t care, she could read the pain in his eyes.

  “What will happen after we get to Carlisle?” she asked after a time.

  �
�Ye promised to let me sleep,” he grumbled.

  “But—”

  “Dinna fash yerself, Davina,” he said. “All will be well.”

  Although his words were meant to reassure her, they only roused more questions. What was to happen to her now? Where would she live? And what about her home? Would she ever be able to return? Davina’s mind continued to race until, eventually, the emotional and physical exhaustion overcame her, and she, too, slept.

  Chapter Seven

  THEY RODE OUT just as dawn was breaking. The sun had chosen to come out this day, stretching out long fingers of heavenly light that heated the land and melted the snow. Was this perhaps a sign of God’s mercy after all the suffering she’d endured in the darkness of night? Choosing to accept it as a Divine blessing, Davina closed her eyes and upturned her face, allowing the sunlight to bathe her in its warm glow.

  She rode behind Domnall with her arms around his waist. But they had spoken little, both seemingly content to simply take in the changing scenery. Davina’s breath caught and Domnall stiffened in in the saddle at their first glimpse of the burgh of Carlisle.

  The gate to the city was manned by numerous armed soldiers who acted upon a mere nod from Fitz Duncan to swiftly open the gates. He must be a man of great importance, this Fitz Duncan.

  Entering the city, Davina immediately felt very insignificant and small. Having never ventured further than Jedburgh, she was overwhelmed by the imposing walls of stacked stone that enclosed a multitude of buildings, more structures than she had ever seen in her life. A curious mix of imposing sandstone structures abutted numerous more humble abodes constructed of wattle and daub. And people! They were everywhere in greater numbers than she had ever seen in one place. And towering above them all was the castle.

  Carlisle Castle dwarfed her home of Crailing, the place she’d once believed the greatest and safest place on earth. How wrong she had been!

  Domnall seemed as awestruck as she was as they ventured across the great square toward the entrance. Once more, the gates opened to them without prelude but, this time, their party splintered into two groups. The larger commanded by one of the captains, rode off, presumably toward the barracks, while a team of young men rushed out to meet Fitz Duncan and took charge of his party’s horses.