by K. E. Saxon
Her papa sighed and shook his head, giving her a lopsided smile. “We shall see. For now, just try and stay out of the kitchen.” His eyes narrowed. “What the devil have you got there, lass? You’re wiggling like a hooked salmon. Bring it out from under the table so I can get a good look at it, my neck’s getting a crick in it.”
Maryn scooted out from her hiding place and, carefully clasping the wriggling, clammy toad in her outstretched hands, brought it up close to her father’s face for his inspection. “See Papa!” Her papa hauled his head back. “This be my best friend, Piddle,” she said happily.
With raised eyebrows, Laird Donald replied dubiously, “Aye, looks like a good specimen.”
“I found him this morn enjoying the air inside Old Elsie’s bucket of oats. I was afeared she might eat him if I did not take him out right away.” She nodded her head. “Remember you how blind the old mare is, Papa?”
“Aye, that I do, lass.”
“Anyway, as soon as I grabbed him, he went pee-pee right down my arm—can you believe it? That’s why I named him Piddle, ‘cuz that’s what he did. What think you of that?”
Laird Donald chuckled. “I’d say that’s a fitting name for him then, daughter!”
Unfortunately, the toad chose that moment to live up to his appellation once more and sent another spray of urine down his daughter’s arm, and into Laird Donald’s lap.
“God’s teeth!” he roared, springing from his chair with a mighty yowl, he hopped on one foot as he shook the other, causing his dripping daughter to chortle with glee.
The sound of his bairn’s laughter soothed his temper and he, too, began to laugh, his eyes twinkling with mirth. Turning, he called for one of the servants to bring a damp cloth to wipe off the mess the creature had left on them.
“Daughter, you do realize that the toad must be allowed to go back to his home by the stables or he will not be happy.” His daughter’s lower lip protruded and her brows slammed together. She shook her head. As Laird Donald began washing off her arm, he explained further, “Mayhap he has a wife and bairns waiting for him to return right this very moment.”
Maryn’s grip on the creature was becoming more and more difficult to maintain as the moments passed—especially with all the washing going on. “Aye, Papa—oops!” The toad managed to slip from her hands and, making a loud plopping sound as it landed on the floor, instantly began hopping toward the entrance to the hall. A merry chase ensued. Laird Donald called out instructions as he raced to one side and Maryn darted to the other, each grabbing for, and missing, the bumpy, brown, and rapidly springing toad. They were both laughing and taking in great gulps of air at the folly by the time they had finally captured it.
Laird Donald looked into the sparkling amber eyes of his daughter as she struggled mightily to keep her grip on her friend. Leaning down a bit, he pressed the small of her tiny back as he led her towards the door. “Maryn, return Piddle back to his place by the stables forthwith before he either gets loose in the hall again, or begins showering us once more with his golden blessings.”
“Aye, Papa,” Maryn said on a sigh, and clutching her best friend to her bosom, she reluctantly walked out the door of the keep.
Laird Donald stood on the top step of the entrance and watched his daughter’s slow progression to the stables. Her shoulders were hunched forward as she spoke gently to the toad she clasped lovingly against her chest. He smiled. She was such a tender-hearted creature. He wished her mother, his dear Mairy, could have lived to know the sweet-spirited lass.
“Laird, the rider approaches the outer ward of the gatehouse,” Laird Donald’s lieutenant said from the bottom of the steps. “The badge he wears indicates he is the MacLaurin, as was believed.”
Jolted from his reverie, Laird Donald nodded and gave the man his instructions before turning to walk back into the hall to await his visitor.
*
Daniel MacLaurin kept his steed at a slow gait as he traveled up the well-worn gravel road leading to the Donald property. He was deliberately delaying the meeting he was sworn by duty to have with the laird of this keep. His hands were so clammy with sweat that the reins began to slide through them. He swiped them on his tunic before anxiously lifting each arm to see if the dampness there had soaked through to humiliate him and expose his apprehension. It had not, God be praised.
He’d left Angus back at their campsite along a hillside on the east bank of a burn they’d come upon the past eve. Angus had insisted that his godson do this duty on his own, without his mentor in attendance. But this would be the first meeting with another clan laird Daniel had ever had without Angus, and ‘twas possibly the most important one of his life. He felt as if he’d lost his moorings and had been set adrift on a storm-tossed sea. Though Angus had helped him construct the speech he would be giving to Laird Donald, Daniel feared his youth and callowness would be apparent to the man, should the conversation waver too far off course.
As Daniel came closer to the fortress, he studied its construction. The Donald castle was small in comparison to his own, but suitably fortified. There were four corner towers with a crenelated outer wall encircling the inner keep. It sat high on a hill, allowing the guards a full view of the surrounding countryside for miles around.
The loud clanking of the portcullis being raised as he approached the gatehouse brought him out of his meditation. As Daniel passed through the cool shadow of the arch, he saw an austere looking warrior of about twenty summers with dark hair and beard awaiting his arrival in the bailey.
Daniel tugged on the reins of his mount and halted in front of the man, who remained mute. Though a hive of bees buzzed in his stomach and his mouth was as dry as Angus’s last uisge beatha cask, he gave the warrior a fierce look. Imitating his maternal grandfather’s expression and voice, he said, “Tell your chieftain that Laird Daniel MacLaurin has arrived.”
With a curt nod, the man replied, “I am Jacob, Laird Donald’s lieutenant. The laird is aware of your arrival and has requested that I escort you into the hall.”
Daniel slowly let out the breath he’d been holding and dismounted. With luck, this chore would be successfully concluded in a few hours’ time and they’d be back on their way to MacLaurin land before afternoon.
He’d just handed his mount over to the stableman when a red-haired cyclone came whipping around the backside of the stables and slammed into his side. Tho’ the lass was no larger than a faery sprite, the devil-child still managed to nearly mow him down in her flight.
With a bit of effort, he regained his balance and caught the bairn by her slender, tiny shoulders to steady her before she toppled to the ground. “Whoa, lass, why speed you so from yon stable?” He looked behind her. “Be you chased by the faery hound, cu sith, mayhap?” he jested.
Maryn stilled. Looking up, up, up at the massive man, her eyes rounded in fear as an unuttered scream caught in her throat.
Daniel felt the barely restrained energy surging through the bairn—the nearly violent tremors that shook her small frame—and he dropped his hands from her shoulders. He’d frightened her somehow, he realized.
Covered in dirt from head to foot, with straw matting her hair and something suspiciously like horse droppings clinging to her chin, she smelled as if she’d been wallowing in the dung heap. Daniel turned his head slightly to stay upwind of the stench.
After a moment more, when the brown-eyed filth-sprite still had not said a word to him in reply to his question, Daniel shrugged, deciding she must not be in any real danger, and turned back toward the center of the bailey where Jacob stood waiting.
She had run directly into a giant, Maryn thought in horror, just like the one in her favorite story about the boy who slew one using only his slingshot. But this one was not dark and fierce—nay, he was handsome. With thick red hair that was browner than her own, and the handsomest green eyes she’d ever seen. “Be you a giant, like in the priest’s story?” Maryn trumpeted.
Daniel turned back to the l
ittle urchin, who was now clutching her muck-covered gown in her grubby hands. He wondered whose bairn she could possibly be—she was clearly allowed to run wild, if the state of her hair and clothing was any indication. “Nay, lass. I am Laird MacLaurin and I come to meet with Laird Donald on clan business.”
That reminded Maryn of her mission. “Papa!” she yelled as she hurried toward the keep at a mad run.
Daniel shook his head and walked over to Jacob. “Who is that strange lass?” he asked, cocking his head in the direction of the fleeing girl.
“She’s Laird Donald’s only bairn, Maryn. The clan adores her, tho’ she’s been allowed too much freedom and gets into mischief at every turn.”
“She”—Daniel cocked his thumb in her direction—“is Laird Donald’s daughter?” Looking back toward the lass’s receding form, he said, “‘Tis astounding that her mother allows her to become so soiled.”
“Her mother died giving birth to her. My laird has raised her on his own,” Jacob explained.
“Most men would have given their babe to one of their female kin to raise,” Daniel replied as he studied her more closely.
Jacob nodded. “Aye, the Laird’s sister and her husband had wanted to take Maryn to raise, but the laird would not allow it. He said that, as he’d already lost his wife, he could not bear to lose their only bairn as well.”
“Ahh,” Daniel said, nodding.
In silent accord, the two young men turned and resumed their walk toward the keep, each lost in his own thoughts.
Daniel’s were centered on the coming meeting with Laird Donald. He would follow his mentor’s advice and be honest in his dealings with the man—and pray that his words would be enough to convince the older laird to give him aid.
Just as they approached the steps of the keep, the red-haired lass and a rather round man of medium height with a rusty beard and thinning tawny hair came barreling out the door toward them. This would be Laird Donald, Daniel decided. The bairn had the laird by the hand and, dragging him behind her as she zoomed past, shoved Jacob aside in her haste. She was talking fast, her words tumbling over each other. There was a serpent involved…and—had she just said it would eat piddle? Nay, surely he’d misheard her.
“Laird Donald—this be…Laird Donald!” Jacob said, setting out behind the pair.
Daniel chuckled as he jogged to catch up to the man.
Maryn led her father over to the far end of the stable where a feed bucket and a large mound of straw were located. She pointed to a dim corner. “See you, Papa, there be the serpent. Just like in the Garden of Eden tap’stry my mama sewed for you! I told you I saw one. Please take him outside so he will not eat Piddle.” Maryn skipped over to the bucket and picked up her friend. “Worry not, Piddle. Papa is going to take that old serpent away from your home.”
Daniel’s mind eased when he saw the lumpy creature in the wee lass’s grubby hands. For he’d begun to believe the lass—and mayhap the father as well—were as daft as two loons. Suddenly struck by the whimsical rightness of the toad’s name, a broad grin split his countenance. “The bairn has a blithe wit,” he whispered to Jacob.
Jacob grinned back. “Aye, that she does.”
“Maryn, my wee one, this is only a harmless slow worm,” Laird Donald explained as he picked up the reptile. With long strides, he carried the legless lizard over to the gatehouse and asked the guard to place it outside the walls of the keep.
Jacob and Daniel met up with Laird Donald as he strolled back toward them, then Jacob left to return to his duties. “Come,” Laird Donald said, motioning for his young guest to walk with him as he moved in the direction of the keep, “‘Tis eager I am to learn the reasons behind your request to meet with me. But first, I shall see your thirst quenched and your belly filled.”
“My thanks, Laird Donald,” Daniel replied gratefully.
Maryn sped to catch up. She must protect her papa from the dread giant. If the fearsome monster-man decided to hurt him, she knew just what to do. Placing her hand inside her father’s rough one, she craned her neck and looked up, giving the giant the meanest squint-eyed expression she could make—just to let him know she was not fooled by his handsome smile and warm green eyes.
Laird Donald looked down at his bairn and smiled. “Laird MacLaurin, allow me to introduce to you my lovely daughter, Maryn.”
Cocking a brow at the strange look he was receiving from the grime-covered lass, Daniel explained to his host, “We met earlier, just after I arrived.” Clearly, a parent’s love must make them blind, he thought wryly. The bairn might be somewhat agreeable to gaze upon when she was freshly washed, but at this moment she looked a fright—like something his hounds might drag in after a hunt. And that godawful stench rolling off of her! God’s truth, she seemed to enjoy the filth. “Good day to you, lass,” he said to her. “‘Tis pleased I am that your friend will not become a meal.”
All at once, Maryn was overcome by shyness as she looked upon the giant’s comely visage—and the pleasant smile she was receiving from him. Scrunching up her shoulders, she hid her face inside the folds of her papa’s tunic.
Laird Donald leaned down and planted a kiss on the crown of her head. “Be a good lass and greet our guest,” he murmured to her.
Daniel fought to keep his lip from curling in disgust. Did the man have no ability to smell? At a loss for further words, yet comprehending he’d not said enough, he resorted to the query he’d gotten most when he was a bairn. “How many summers are you?”
Maryn pushed further into her papa’s side.
“Maryn,” Laird Donald gently prodded, “give Laird MacLaurin your answer.” He’d never known his daughter to be so reluctant to speak—she usually spoke to anyone who would listen.
Keeping her face half-hidden in her papa’s tunic, Maryn peeked out at the handsome giant and shyly held up the correct number of fingers. “I’m this many,” she said softly.
Laird Donald patted her back. “That’s a good lass.”
Maryn smiled brightly at her papa’s show of approval. But when her eyes fell upon the massive dirk that was sheathed in the giant’s belt, they widened in horror. ‘Twas the biggest, fiercest dirk she had ever seen. And the monster-man might use it on her papa! Roughly pushing away from her father, she propelled herself into a mad, wild dash away from the two men. Into the keep she flew, up the stairs and down the passage to her bedchamber, in avid pursuit of the magical weapon she knew could slay any giant.
*
“My daughter is a bit fey, but she has a good heart,” Laird Donald explained to his bemused guest as they entered the great hall. “I pray you, do not judge her too harshly.” He turned toward his steward, saying, “We are ready for our light repast, now. And we shall require some ale while we wait.”
After sharing the food and drink and hearing the details of Daniel’s journey, the older man motioned for the trenchers to be cleared and said “‘Tis time for us to get down to the business that has brought you here, lad.”
Daniel’s heart pounded. Clearing his throat, he began haltingly to tell the laird the story that defined his life.
When Daniel paused to take a long pull from his tankard of ale, Laird Donald asked, “You are the son of Jamison Maclean? How have I not known of you before now?”
Daniel shrugged. “My existence was kept secret for my own safety. I only learned of this concealment upon the murder of my family.”
Laird Donald placed his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, leaning toward his young guest slightly. “Please, continue with your tale.”
Daniel did as requested. Long minutes later, shaken and drained, he came to the final scene with his father. “It took several sennights to hunt him down. He had been living on the outer margins of society, using his influence with friends to gain access to shelter and food. He’d also continued freebooting; robbing and stealing his way through the Highlands.
Daniel stood and began to pace. “I found my murdering sire’s trail w
ith little effort, but he proved elusive, I always being just days behind him.
“Then one morn, I bought a draught of ale from an ale wife in a small village not far from the MacGhille holding and learned that the devil had been there until only a few hours before. I rushed to my steed and took off in the direction the wife had indicated. And within only an hour, I stumbled upon fresh hoof prints, as well as the still-glowing embers of a small, abandoned campfire by a burn.
“I remember falling to my knees as the realization that all I’d been striving for was just minutes from my grasp.” He turned to his host. “I confess, in those moments, I was filled with dread as well as anticipation.”
Laird Donald nodded. “‘Tis natural to feel such, I trow.”
Daniel began to pace again. “And, tho’ there was still within me some deep disillusionment that the father I’d always believed to be heroic, was, in fact, devil not saint, it was the horrific images of the man’s vicious rampage that filled my mind, fed the hatred in my heart, and strengthened my desire for vengeance in those moments.”
Daniel absently thrust his fingers through his hair and felt the raised scar on his scalp. “I…I was sweating…my face drenched with it”—he halted, a look of chagrin on his countenance—“God! I was such a fool! I took my helm off—only for a moment—just to cool my skin. My sword was resting on the ground at my side.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he continued, “I heard a rustling sound. I took hold of my helm and my sword, and twisted around, rising to my feet at the same time. My sire stood behind me, his sword raised as if to strike. ‘This is the day you die, Maclean!’ I yelled.” With a quick glance at Laird Donald, Daniel explained, “‘Twas an oath, an incantation, I’d used while I trained all those moons earlier.”
“Godamercy,” Laird Donald intoned. “How ever is it that ‘twas you who survived and not your sire?”
His eyes cast downwards, unseeing, as they studied the floor, Daniel shook his head. “I know not.” After a short pause, he picked up the thread of his tale once more. “But this I do recall, very clearly. My father smiled”—he looked at his host—“and it was venomous. And then he said to me, ‘I wonder: Should I kill you now, or amuse myself a bit—just for a good day’s sport—before I send you to meet your Maker?’