To Kiss A Kilted Warrior

by Rowan Keats

  He shook his head. “I know not. I only know the king is dead, and I was not man enough to prevent it.”

  Wulf turned away from the procession on the ridgetop and watched Morag. She collected her brat from the bushes on which it was drying, and tied it about her shoulders. Her fingers were still stiff and curled, but they had regained some flexibility. The sacrifices she had made on his behalf humbled him beyond measure. He did not deserve so fine a woman.

  “This plan to ride into the castle is a little mad,” he said. “I cannot ask you to accompany me.”

  She smiled. “I do not go because you ask it of me. I go because I love you.”

  He closed the gap between them in a single fluid step and cupped her face in his hands. “If the queen is not swayed by my tale, it may mean the gallows.”

  She covered his hands with hers. “I was a member of the king’s party, a weaver brought along to fashion a gift for the queen’s birthday. The guards will know me. My words will lend weight to yours.”

  Wulf kissed her. Slow and hard and deliberate.

  “Let us save Scotland together, then,” he said.

  Wulf hid Dunkeld’s body in the hollow of a fallen tree. If all went well at the castle, he would reveal its whereabouts. If his explanation met resistance, it would be better if the body was never found. Morag could vow that Dunkeld had run off, which would leave some measure of doubt regarding the events of the night.

  They mounted their horses and left the trees. Crossing the cliff top, they passed the patch of mud that marked the loss of the king, and with solemn faces they rode down the path to the castle. The portcullis was lowered, despite the early hour of the day. Armed guards met them at the gate, denying them access.

  “Begone,” the guards said. “The queen sees no one today.”

  “I come with word of a plot against the crown,” Wulf said boldly. “I need not speak with the queen, but I must have an audience with the king’s gardes du corps.”

  His forthright demand set the guards on their heels. They looked at one another, confused about what to do. But Wulf had no time to waste. He had to tell his tale before the queen had opportunity to touch the ruby necklace.

  “Fetch one of the gardes du corps,” insisted Wulf. “Now.”

  “And who are you to make such a request?”

  “Tell the king’s bodyguards that Wulf MacCurran, champion of the outlawed Laird MacCurran, is at the gate.”

  That got the result Wulf sought. One of the guards took off for the main door of the castle at a run.

  They did not have long to wait. The young sentry returned with a mail-clad knight bearing the tabard of the king’s guard. The knight eyed Morag before giving Wulf his attention. “Whatever games you play, MacCurran, this is not the day for it.”

  “I am aware that the king has perished.”

  A thunderous scowl darkened the knight’s face. “Be careful what words you toss about.”

  “The king’s brother had a hand in his death,” Wulf said.

  “You lie!”

  “Dunkeld is the one responsible for the theft of the queen’s necklace. He wore a black wolf cloak the night de Coleville and my kin were murdered, a cloak that I believe he still possesses.”

  The knight drew his sword. “Why do you trouble us with this crazed tale? Today of all days?”

  “Because the queen’s life is in danger.” Wulf held up his hands to show they were empty of weapons. “Slay me if you must, but first hear me out. The gold-and-ruby necklace the king intended to gift the queen has been poisoned by Dunkeld. You cannot allow her to touch it.”

  “A necklace cannot be poisoned,” scoffed the knight.

  “Test it,” dared Wulf. “But beware. The poison painted on its surface is potent.”

  “You are mad,” denounced the knight.

  “It was potent enough to kill the Earl of Lochurkie when he touched it.” Wulf had no proof the earl had been killed by the necklace, but it was possible. The man had been poisoned while in possession of the wretched thing. “If you value the queen’s life, and the life of her unborn child, you will search Dunkeld’s belongings immediately and confiscate it.”

  The knight stared at him.

  Then he pivoted on his heel and stalked off.

  “Were we successful?” Morag asked quietly.

  “Perhaps,” he answered. The door to the guardhouse swung open and a dozen armed soldiers spilled out. They marched toward the gate. “Or perhaps not.”

  Wulf and Morag were dragged from their mounts and led into the castle at pike-point.

  The inside of Kinghorn Castle was an opulent space. Arched ceilings, marble floors, and massive tapestries that covered whole walls surrounded them. The great hall was lit with hundreds of candles and a huge hearth that roared with a well-fed fire. Everywhere they looked there were cushioned chairs and carved tables. But the high table that would normally have seated the royal family was today serving as a resting place for the king of Scotland.

  His body had been washed and garbed in silks.

  His brown hair and beard shone golden in the candlelight.

  Next to the table, on her knees with her veiled head bowed in prayer, was Queen Yolande.

  Wulf and Morag stood silently, witnesses to her grief. Today was her twenty-third birthday, but instead of celebrating with joy, she was enduring the tragic loss of her husband. A slender woman given to wearing fine satin weaves, Yolande made no attempt to disguise the slight roundness of her belly. She was indeed quick with child, as the rumors had suggested.

  The queen genuflected, then rose to her feet with the help of her spiritual adviser, the royal chancellor William Fraser. She turned to face them and waved a slender hand to indicate that they should advance.

  With Morag’s hand clasped tightly in his, Wulf stepped forward and bowed deeply.

  “Your Grace.”

  “You may rise,” she said, her French accent thick.

  When Wulf’s gaze lifted to her face, she said, “My guards say the necklace is indeed poisoned. Had I laid it upon my skin, I would now be dead.”

  Wulf said nothing.

  “How do I know it was not you who poisoned it?” she asked.

  “The clan MacCurran has always been loyal to the crown, Your Grace. The night your necklace was originally stolen, my wife and wee bairn were slain, felled by the same poisoned soup that killed de Coleville. My laird has always maintained that the culprit was not a MacCurran, but a man wearing a black wolf cloak. A cloak that William Dunkeld has been known to possess.”

  She nodded. “Such a cloak was found with the necklace.”

  “The king gave Dunkeld his trust, Your Grace, and he was betrayed.”

  “You think Dunkeld had a hand in my Alexander’s death?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Why should I believe you? Dunkeld was a faithful brother to my husband. You are the champion of an outlaw.”

  “Was he truly faithful?” Wulf shrugged. “He had everything to gain from the king’s death. Especially if every other heir to the crown was dead. What do the MacCurrans gain by the king’s death? Nothing. Men without power do not change the fate of a nation, Your Grace. Bastard brothers to a king, on the other hand, can change everything. Ask the king’s guards who sent them back to the castle, leaving the king alone. Was it me? I daresay not.”

  “But how can we be certain he had a hand in this? Dunkeld is nowhere to be found.”

  He shrugged. “Rats will run, Your Grace.”

  The queen tipped her head toward Morag. “And you, madam? My guards have informed me that you are the daughter of a respected guild master and that you rode with my Alexander and his brother this past night. Tell me what you witnessed.”

  “I saw Dunkeld stab the king’s horse in the flank.”

  Yolande shook her head. “What reason would he have to do such a thing?”

  “I believe that Dunkeld aspires to wear the crown himself, Your Grace. He sent the guards ahead to th
e castle so he could be alone on the cliff with the king. And now the king is dead. Does that not say everything that needs to be said?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Surely the injury to the king’s mount can be verified?”

  Yolande glanced at the captain of her guard, and he nodded.

  “It appears the horse did suffer a wound such as you describe.”

  Wulf saw Morag’s shoulders straighten. “I am a mere weaver, Your Grace, and I know my word cannot stand against that of a nobleman. But I swear to you that what I saw is true. Dunkeld attacked the king.”

  “It will be up to the Guardians of Scotland to officially rule on Dunkeld’s guilt,” Yolande said. “But I am satisfied that I know the truth.” The queen wriggled a ring from her middle finger and held it out to Wulf. “You have proven yourself a worthy champion this day, MacCurran. Take this ring as a sign of my gratitude.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  She turned, intending to walk away.

  “If I may, Your Grace?”

  She paused.

  “If you believe Dunkeld guilty, a pardon of my laird’s crimes would not be undue,” he said carefully. “If you have the power to influence such a thing, I would beg that favor.”

  She faced him. “I cannot return his lands. They have been forfeited.”

  Wulf nodded. “I understand.”

  “But I can speak to the council regarding a pardon. I’ll see it done immediately.”

  Wulf bowed deeply.

  As the soft swish of her satin skirts over the marble floor faded away, he straightened. Morag rose, too, and he grinned at her. This moment held a magic that the death of Dunkeld had not. His clan no longer had to hide. They were redeemed.

  The moment they left the hall, Wulf grabbed Morag about the waist and spun her around until they were both a little dizzy.

  “Are you ready to go home, lass?”

  * * *

  They did not immediately set out for Dunstoras.

  Morag begged for an opportunity to return to Edinburgh, and Wulf could not deny her. Especially when she told him her reason.

  “You cannot solve all the ills of the world,” he said, shaking his head.

  “True enough,” she agreed. “But I can solve this one.”

  The first real test of the queen’s influence came at the cow gate. When he broke out of Edinburgh Castle, all the city guards had been given his description and told to slay him on sight. But he was no longer a wanted criminal. And his possession of the queen’s ring was enough to convince the guards at the gate of his new status.

  They scowled, but made no attempt to detain him.

  Morag sighed with relief and led them into the busy market on the High Street. She spied young Tim hiding between the breadbaskets at the baker’s, and swiftly nabbed him. “If you continue this way,” Morag scolded him, “you’ll end up in the stocks.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been worse places.”

  “Maybe you have,” she acknowledged. “But I’ll not sleep a wink for worry if I leave you to fend for yourself.”

  She handed him to Wulf. “I pray this works out.”

  He smiled at her. “Tim has nimble fingers and small hands. He’s young enough to be swayed from his thievery, and he’ll make a fine jeweler’s apprentice. Elen’s father will see him well cared for; have no fear.” Then he marched the lad off toward the east gate.

  Morag shopped while she waited for Wulf to return.

  As she wandered the stalls, apples and bread and nuts went into her bag and coins went out. She would miss the easy availability of fruit when she got home. There were no orchards in the glen, and berries were usually gone by the first frost.

  “Morag,” called a voice.

  She stiffened, but did not turn. She had nothing to say to the man. Instead she continued to peruse the offerings of the vegetable vendor, pretending she had not heard her father call her name.

  “Morag,” he said, much closer to her now.

  She paid the vendor for a small sack of hazelnuts and tucked them into her sark.

  He grabbed her arm and forced her to turn around. “Listen to me.”

  “Nay,” she said. “Whatever your story, it is of no interest to me. I grew up without a father, and I am a better person for it.”

  “You cannot believe that.”

  She glared at him. “I do.”

  He let go of her arm. “I made a terrible mistake. I admit that. I should never have left.”

  “There was no mistake. You simply started again. Everything new and fresh.”

  He raked a hand through his raven-black hair. “There was nothing simple about it. I loved you, and I loved Jeannie. But I let my pride dictate my choices. I wanted to be respected and admired for my skills—lauded for my brilliant weaves. I thought such accolades would make me happy. I was wrong.”

  “Do you think I care what makes you happy?”

  “No,” he admitted with a short, bitter laugh. “But my regrets run deep. The image of you standing in front of the bothy, watching me walk away, still haunts me. I betrayed you that day, and for that I am truly ashamed.”

  Morag shook her head. No. She wasn’t ready to forgive him.

  But deep in her gut she was still that little girl waiting for her father, and it stirred her to know he clung to a similar memory. So she offered him a tiny opening. “I am bound for Dunstoras this morn, and it’s unlikely that I’ll find myself in Edinburgh again.”

  He stared, digesting her words.

  “Perhaps someday I’ll find myself in the glen,” he said carefully.

  She softened just a bit. “Perhaps.”

  Then she walked away. If he truly did come to Dunstoras, she would meet with him. In time, with repeated meetings, there might be ground on which to build a friendship. Beyond that, she couldn’t commit.

  She glanced down at her hands.

  Especially as she would be finding a new way to make a living.

  * * *

  Wulf purchased a pair of palfreys with the coins Aiden had given him. It took them only three days of hard riding to reach Dunstoras Glen. Without the cart, they climbed swiftly into the hills and avoided the badly rutted roads. For Wulf, the journey was uneventful and tranquil, but for Morag it was exhausting.

  He saw the weariness creep into her face and regretted driving her so hard.

  But home and all its memories beckoned. When he reached the crag overlooking the glen, and the keep’s pale gray tower appeared through the trees, a thrill of familiarity rippled down his spine. He’d grown from boy into man inside that keep, training at the knee of his uncle Duncan. He could picture every face now and remember every name.

  Aye, some of the memories were bitter. But most were not.

  He urged his mount forward, picking his way down the rocky path to the floor of the glen.

  “We’re almost home,” he said encouragingly to Morag, as he tugged the reins left.

  “Nay,” she said.

  He glanced back. “What’s wrong?”

  “This is where we part ways,” she said. She pointed down the glen to the right. “My bothy lies in this direction, the keep in the other.”

  He frowned. “We must make our report to the laird.”

  “You can do that,” she said. “Every bone in my body aches, and my bottom is chafed raw. I’m certain he will forgive my absence.”

  “But you will miss the celebrations.”

  “You can tell me all about them at a later date.”

  He turned his horse around and trotted back to her side. “That simply won’t do. It is your effort that we should be celebrating.”

  She sighed heavily. “You make this more difficult than need be.”

  He arched a brow. “I am not the one who is being difficult.”

  “Go, Wulf,” she said tightly. “Go home to your son and your cousins and your honorable life.”

  “Do you not love me?”

  Morag smiled sadly. “I surely do. I
’ve loved you since those days of old when you helped me build my bothy. But love is not enough, Wulf. It cannot change the past. The villagers of Dunstoras believe me a harlot and they will always see me thus.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then edged his mount closer, until their knees were brushing. The thoughts running through her head were dark, judging by the shadows in her eyes. And she was bone-weary, barely able to sit up in the saddle. Quite beyond reason.

  He snagged her about the waist and hauled her effortlessly into his lap.

  With her snug in his arms, he turned the horses toward Dunstoras. That she failed to protest his actions was testament to how weary she was. Indeed, she slumped back against his chest, taking shelter in his warm strength in a way she rarely did.

  “We will have words about this,” she said darkly.

  “I look forward to them,” he murmured in her ear. If he had his way, there would be many conversations with Morag, shared over a lifetime. Aye, there would be challenges ahead—the grief he felt for Elen and Hugh was still fresh and painful, and the villagers held deeply seated beliefs about Morag’s promiscuity. But if they faced the future together, he had no doubt they could weather all of what lay ahead.

  His horse picked its way along the trail, the midday sun beaming through the trees. Morag’s mount plodded along behind. The sounds of spring were everywhere—in the twitter of dunnocks in the trees, in the leaf buds beginning to swell on the branches, and in the gambols of red squirrels searching for mates. Even in the long, mournful wolf howl that reverberated through the glen.

  Morag shifted in his arms.

  “There hasn’t been a wolf in the glen for years,” she said, frowning.

  “I’ve seen them in the hills,” Wulf said. “But they tend to avoid the more frequented areas.”

  “If they’ve returned to the glen, I’ll have to bring my goats into the bothy at night to keep them safe.”

  Wulf did not respond. He had hopes that Morag would abandon her bothy and come to live with him in the keep—but it was too early to ask that of her.

  They ducked beneath a low-hanging bough.

  As Wulf straightened in the saddle, he spied a man standing in the trail ahead. An old man with a long white beard, a bright green cloak, and a long hazel walking stick. Bhaltair. Spying the old druid stirred all the uneasy thoughts Wulf had about the night King Alexander had perished.