The Laird's Daughter

by Temple Hogan

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Laird’s Daughter Copyright © 2013 Temple Hogan

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  Also Available from Resplendence

  www.resplendencepublishing.com

  The Laird’s Daughter

  A Scottish Love Songs Story

  By Temple Hogan

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

  The Laird’s Daughter

  Copyright © 2013 Temple Hogan

  Edited by Delaney Sullivan and Cait Green

  Cover Art by Adrian Nicholas

  Published by Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  2665 N Atlantic Avenue, #349

  Daytona Beach, FL 32118

  Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-656-1

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Electronic Release: May 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  As always to my wonderful husband Steve, who tolerates my erratic writing schedules and dust on the furniture, to the terrific people in my writers group whose encouragement and support is a lifeline and to my wonderful editor, Delaney Sullivan, whom I’ve never met but love anyway.

  Prologue

  “What is this travesty?”

  Father Cowan glared at his hapless pupils as if they had brought about the bedlam erupting beyond the chapel doors. Gray beard trembling, black robes flapping, he hurried to the stout, front portals and peered out.

  “What is it, Father?” asked Anna MacDougall for she knew she was bolder than the rest.

  The priest turned his head to glare at her, but she refused to be intimidated. He had never liked her, as well she knew. He’d made it clear that as the laird's daughter, she was spoiled by an overly indulgent father and had no manners. Furthermore, he accused her of hurrying through her prayers for no other reason than that her knees hurt from kneeling so long on the stone floor. In short, he found her wanting in every way.

  Now the good father’s usual disapproving scowl seemed not to be directed at her at all. Screams came from the courtyard, and his expression crumbled in horror.

  “’Tis the Campbells. Hide, children, quickly,” he called, but they stood huddled and silent.

  Anna stared at the old priest, remembering all the things he’d told them. For weeks, sanctioned by the newly crowned Robert the Bruce, the Campbells had laid siege to Dunollie, the stronghold of Ewan MacDougall, one of the king’s bitterest enemies. The laird and his men had fought bravely to repel the Campbells, but on this bitter day, even the beloved stone walls of Dunollie Castle had given way to their superior forces. Now, the old priest’s eyes filled with tears. Anna rushed to the door and peered out in time to see Campbell men pour into the bailey, their swords flashing with death and MacDougall blood. Her father, it seemed, would pay well this day for his rebellion against the king.

  The frightened children began to weep, but the old priest ignored them. Through the cracked door, she could see into the courtyard where a woman screamed and a man fell beneath a blade. Sounds came to them, cold and deadly. Steel clanged against steel. Men died with curses on their lips. Father Cowan shuddered and crossed himself, and his old body shook as with the ague. He held out a trembling hand as if to give a benediction then let it fall ineffectually against his thin chest.

  The weeping children caught his attention, and he turned to them. Anna looked at him with a growing sense of terror. She knew he’d brought them to the chapel at her father’s request, ostensibly to lead them in prayer and drill them on the teaching of the church, but she’d guessed it was to hide them. Her father must have feared the castle would fall this day. Suddenly, the urgency of what was happening washed over her.

  “Run, children,” Father Cowan cried urgently. “Run and hide.”

  Anna made no move to do as he bid. Neither did she cry out as the others had done. Father Cowan’s eyes held a flash of approval then it was quickly gone.

  “Go, Anna.”

  “Father?” She tried to run out the door into the courtyard, but the priest’s old arms stopped her.

  “No child, you must hide.”

  “I want my papa,” she gasped, twisting in his hold.

  “Not now, little one.” His voice was strangely gentle, not at all the rough, impatient tone he normally used. He tried to turn her head away so she wouldn’t see the bloody massacre taking place beyond the heavy oaken door.

  The castle gate gave way and Campbell men poured into the bailey. Guards and servants alike were mowed down with mighty thrusts of enemy claymores. Fierce looking men garbed in Campbell plaids were slaughtering the helpless villagers who had sought refuge within the castle walls. Young women were thrown to the ground, their clothes ripped from their bodies, their struggles stilled by hammer like fists as men took what they wanted, careless of the injury they caused.

  Anna couldn’t breathe. Small animal sounds emitted from her mouth, but her eyes never turned away from the carnage she witnessed beyond the chapel door.

  Suddenly, a plump woman with a snow-white apron tied around her ample waist, ran across the bailey. The ends of her kerchief, which framed her face, flew behind like the wings of a sea gull. She gasped from her exertions but didn’t hesitate to push her way through the mayhem. Blood stained her plain cogs and the hem of her woolen skirts.

  “Lady Anna,” she screamed as she clambered up the steps to the chapel, her eyes rolling with fear and apprehension for her charge.

  “Sophia,” Anna cried, straining to free herself from the hateful clergyman, but he held tight.

  Sophia’s face brightened when she heard Anna’s voice, a grin curving her generous lips, but her eyes darkened in pain and surprise even as she gazed at Anna. Anna saw the love in Sophia’s eyes and cried out again. Slowly, the nursemaid fell face down on the stone steps. An enemy claymore had cleaved her head half off her body. Blood gushed down the stairs and stained the white apron red.

  “Sophia!” Anna screamed.

  Strong arms lifted her, though she was tall for her eight years. Dimly, she perceived she was being carried through the church, her thin screams echoing against the walls, wilder and keener than the highest bell.

  “Hush, child, hush,” Father Cowan whispered.

  He shoved her to the floor behind the altar then slid back a panel. Anna stopped screaming, although helpless whimpers escaped her clenched lips. Her anguished gaze fixed on his face

  “Get inside, child. You must hide. If you don’t, they’ll kill you too, for no other reason than that you be the Laird’s daughter.”

  She only stared at him, struck dumb by all she’d seen, but she didn’t resist when he pushed her shivering body into the small wooden space.

  “Don’t make a sound,” he admonished. “Don’t say a word.”

  His bushy eyebrows drew together in a fierce line, and his blue eyes crackled with anger. She knew she must obey. She nodded and scooted deeper into the ca
vity. He slid the panel closed, and she was shut away in darkness. She smelled the incense and thought this must be how it felt to be entombed. The thought brought no more terror than what she’d already seen. She clasped her hands over her mouth and closed her eyes.

  At first she lay quiet and trembling, trying her best to hold back the occasional hiccupping sob that escaped. But then she heard sounds and turned in the darkness. Through tiny slits in the altar, she could see the front of the chapel. A man had entered, his sword drawn, his stance wary. He looked around, his head swinging from side to side.

  “Anna!” His deep rich voice rang in the smoky air.

  “Papa.” She wriggled, trying to escape the tight space, but she was stuck fast. She saw his tall, broad figure and his handsome face with his dark hair falling across his brow.

  “Anna, lass, where are you?” he called urgently and her fear passed.

  “Here! I’m here, papa.” She beat feebly against the wood panel, but he seemed not to hear her.

  Someone else had entered the chapel, a warrior armed with shield and claymore and covered with blood. His black hair stood out around his face in wild disarray, and the light in his eyes was that of madness. He reminded her of the drawings of the ancient Picts come from Ireland to take Scotland as their own. She drew back in fear, feeling the wood panel against her back. She hadn’t cried earlier, but she did now as a black fear washed over her.

  “Please, not my papa,” she whispered without taking her gaze from the tableau beyond the altar screen. “I’ll always say my prayers no matter how long, and I won’t complain how hard the floor is.” She crossed herself and held her breath.

  “Ewan MacDougall.” The man moved warily toward her father, his blade at the ready. He was at least as tall and broad as the laird. “We meet at last.” He tipped his claymore mockingly.

  “God rot your soul, Campbell,” MacDougall cried hoarsely.

  He launched himself forward, his claymore gripped in both hands. Campbell dodged the killing blow and pivoted, his own claymore cutting through the air with a mighty roar. Anna screamed, but the sound was lost in the clang of steel blades.

  The battle was evenhanded with both men well versed in the use of their weapons. They parried and thrust with fury. Campbell’s arm dropped, and Ewan seized the opening. His blade flashed, plucking out the eye of his adversary. Campbell screamed and clamped his hand to his face. Blood gushed from behind his thick fingers.

  The sound of fighting had brought forth another enemy who ran into the chapel with a drawn sword. Believing Campbell disabled, Ewan MacDougall spun around, his attention momentarily diverted. Campbell took full advantage, stepping forward with all the weight behind his thrust, and drove his blade into Ewan’s back. Anna screamed again as her father slid to the floor. Campbell didn’t turn toward the weak sound, apparently oblivious to it. He let out a victorious roar and bent to sever Ewan’s head from his shoulders. Holding the bloody prize aloft with one hand and his claymore with the other, he staggered out of the room to the chapel steps.

  “Ewan MacDougall is no more. Dunollie is ours,” he bellowed, so even Anna heard him in her cramped space. “Kill every MacDougall you find. Hang his head on the castle wall, so all may see what happens to those who oppose King Robert the Bruce and Archibald Campbell.”

  Hidden behind the altar tapestry, Father Cowan bit his tongue not to cry out when Laird MacDougall fell. Now he heard Campbell’s decree and thought of the girl hidden beneath the altar.

  “Lie still, child,” he prayed silently. If need be, he’d leave his hiding place to protect the laird’s daughter. For now, he held his breath and waited, knowing that to reveal himself in this moment of bloodlust would be certain death. Cautiously, he peered from behind the tapestry.

  Two of Campbell’s men had entered and paced around the chapel, using their bloodied weapons to push over statues and send candles tumbling from their niches. When they reached the altar, one of them swung his mighty blade, using both hands, to clear the gold, gem-encrusted chalice and crucifix from their Holy place. The old priest shuddered at the barbaric act and gripped the drapery fold, ready to fling it aside and confront the looters, but the men turned toward the door, and the good father breathed a relieved prayer and made the sign of the cross.

  Quick as a sly cat, one of the men turned and drove his blade through the open slat work of the altar. Horror and disbelief left the priest speechless. The man withdrew his claymore and plunged it into the altar yet again.

  No sound came from behind the panel. Had the girl gotten away when he wasn’t looking, the priest wondered and prayed it was so.

  Satisfied, the men left the chapel. From his hiding place, the priest observed the wanton destruction in the chapel. The smell of death hung heavy on the air.

  He remained hidden until long after dark. Beyond the broken door, he could see the shadowy figures of the drunken revelers staggering about in the light of their bonfires. Now and then a captured woman screamed piteously as a blood-crazed marauder spent his lust on her against her will.

  Finally, he could no longer cower in hiding while his flock suffered untold atrocities. He must do something, at the very least, see to the laird’s daughter. Cautiously, he crept from his hiding place and knelt behind the altar. Heart pounding with dread for what he might find, he slid back the wooden panel and peered into the hidden space. In the dark shadows, two great eyes, once brilliantly green as the moss along a creek bank, stared back, unblinking and fathomless.

  “Child, are ye all right?” he whispered. “Have ye been cut by the blade?”

  Mutely, she gazed at him, and since she showed no sign of pain or distress other than mental, he made no attempt to examine her. Her ragged wheat-gold hair had fallen loose from its braid and spilled across her face and shoulder. She lay on her side, her head resting on her bent arm. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and he divined she had fallen into a stupor born of terror. Only the dull eyes gazing back at him blankly showed she was alive. Observing the death of her father had traumatized her, he thought and clicked his tongue against his teeth.

  “Sleep, child,” he whispered. “Close your eyes and rest while you can. You’re safe for a while.”

  She made no sound, gave no indication that she’d heard him save to lower her lids. Whether she slept or not, he could not tell. He sighed and lay down on the floor behind the altar. The cold stone hurt his aching joints, but he made no move to shift and ease his pain. Somehow, he blamed himself for all that had befallen the laird and his child. He had failed them, and he must do penance. He took the child’s small, chubby hand in his and lay staring at the chapel dome with its painted frescos.

  He thought of the monastery, St. Peter and Paul, where he’d served his youth before going out into the world to preach the Holy Word. Of late, he’d thought often of returning there to finish his last days in a sun-dappled peaceful retreat where the only requirement made of him was that he worship and serve his brothers. He lingered on his memories of those tranquil walls and the hushed serenity within them. Oh, to be there now. He sighed. How his soul longed for such an ending, but he accepted his lot for was it not God-given?

  He must serve the girl. See to her safety. He owed the laird that much. He thought of Ewan MacDougall lying dead in this very room, without benefit of the Last Rites. He must see to a proper burial for the laird and the return of his head.

  Exhaustion claimed him and, knowing there was little safety for them beyond this tiny chapel, he settled behind the altar and dozed, finding comfort in the remembered sounds of laughter, the rich smells of the fire in the great castle hall and the generously laden table where a tired and hungry priest was always welcomed. He remembered his friendship with the laird and the shared confidences of castle business over cups of wine. That world was gone forever. Beyond the chapel door was chaos and ruin, death and destruction, and fear of an unknown world. At least, for now, there was some safety. Having already ransacked the chapel and with a dead
man lying guard, no one was likely to enter again.

  When he woke and checked the girl, he found her awake, her eyes blank, her face pale. He’d never particularly liked this girl because he didn’t much like children. She’d been too inquisitive, bolder than was proper for a girl, and that had been the laird’s fault. He’d indulged and petted her beyond the norm. But now the priest felt a tremor of pity for her, though he made no effort to express it.

  “Come, we must go from here,” he said. “’Tis a place of death now.”

  He took hold of her arm and half-dragged her from beneath the altar. At first she resisted, her eyes going dark with terror, but he tugged harder and she slid out onto the stone floor.

  “Get up, now,” he ordered. “We must do something to save ourselves.”

  The girl stood. Her clothes were dusty from her hiding place, and he could see ragged tears where the Campbell blade had slashed her skirts, so closely had death stalked her. Her brilliant hair was dirty and unkempt, its long unruly strands hiding her face. Just as well, the priest thought. He took her arm, and she followed docilely as he moved out of the chapel and into the bailey. Bodies littered the courtyard. Stables and sheds had been torn apart for their wood, to feed the bonfires. Slaughtered stock and game lay bloating in the mud. The priest stopped often to close the eyes of the dead and say a final prayer. Then he came to the body of a peasant girl who had tended the geese and herded the lambs. He lingered while his mind sought a safe answer for the laird’s daughter and himself.

  “Look here,” he instructed the girl, taking her face in his hands, so she was forced to gaze on the dead girl.

  She cried out a guttural denial and looked away.

  “Look,” the old priest whispered, shaking her slightly.

  She stared at him, but her eyes were unfocused, and he wasn’t sure she actually saw the dead girl. Still, he had to try. Her life depended on her understanding and complying.