The Winter Stone: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  Just before he entered the cottage, his gaze snagged on a reflective object in the snow near the threshold. A small half-circle of broken glass stuck out of the white drifts.

  His breath caught in his chest. Alisoune's spectacles. They were broken.

  She wouldn't have been so careless. And she'd never go anywhere without her spectacles.

  Not willingly.

  All at once, he knew what had happened. His heart began to pound like the drums of war.

  Steeling his nerves as best he could, he wrapped Campbell in blankets near the fire and put a bowl of water nearby. But a dire thought kept echoing through his brain... If they'd poisoned Campbell, what had they done to Alisoune?

  He was afraid he knew the answer, what they'd intended all along—to burn her at the stake.

  For the love of God, he had to save her. But there was no time. And the devils who'd taken her had known that. They'd poisoned his dog, but they hadn't bothered waylaying him, because they knew a one-legged man was no match for them. They'd be done with their unholy business before he could even limp into Keirfield.

  Seething with rage and frustration, Lachlan pounded his fist against the hearth, knocking the round stone from the mantel. It fell and rolled to a stop beside Campbell.

  With a curse, he threw his useless crutch across the room. It clattered over the flagstones and landed at the foot of the steel leg Alisoune had made for him.

  At first, Alisoune had been angry with herself for falling so easily into their trap. Campbell had let himself out of the cottage, as was his morning custom, but he was gone a long while. Naturally, she ventured out to see what had become of him.

  They'd caught her instantly, gagging her ere she could cry out, tying her hands behind her ere she could fight her way free. And that was when she saw that they'd also hurt Campbell, done something to make him crumple to the ground, unable to move, unable to come to her aid.

  When they picked her up to carry her away, her spectacles fell off, and she heard a crunch as one of the men stepped on them. And for Alisoune, not being able to see clearly was almost as frightening as thinking about what they intended to do with her.

  Now, however, anger had given way to terror. She was in Keirfield proper, where a stake had been erected and stacked with kindling in the town square. While two men held her captive before a crowd of villagers, the priest went on and on about the will of God and purifying fire. He was making no logical sense whatsoever with his strange ravings about witches and demons, the heretic Copernicus and the evils of spectacles. And then, as if his lack of logic wasn't frightening enough, all the townsfolk joined in, echoing his sentiments, embracing his condemnation of her as if 'twere an absolute truth.

  If only he'd remove her gag, there were arguments she might make in her favor, scientific evidence that could prove she was no blasphemer. And yet she knew her voice would not be heard over the rabid fervor of the crowd. What men couldn't understand, they feared. And what they feared, they sought to destroy.

  As helpless as she was, she couldn't quiet her feverish brain as the men sliced her dress from her, leaving her shivering in her chemise. Why, she wondered, did the priest not just let her go? She'd been planning to leave Keirfield. Surely he knew that. He'd never see her again. So why had he brought her back to burn her at the stake? Why was he so intent on killing her?

  All at once, it came to her. The priest wasn't just killing her. He was killing science. Science threatened his control over these people. In the same way men believed the planets revolved around the earth, Father Ninian believed his flock revolved around him. He viewed Alisoune as an intruder who had upset what he considered the natural order of things. And the only way he could restore that order was to convince his flock that Alisoune was a witch, that science was blasphemy, that knowledge was evil.

  She fought back a sob as the men wrenched her forward toward the stake.

  If only she hadn't stepped outside to look for Campbell...

  If only she hadn't delayed her departure, hoping Lachlan would change his mind...

  If only she'd told him how much she loved him, how she never wanted to leave him, how she knew they belonged together and how happy she would make him...

  Now she'd never get the chance.

  Her eyes filled with tears as they tied her to the stake and acrid smoke rose from a flaming brand.

  Even if Lachlan woke to find her gone, he wouldn't be able to save her. There wouldn't be time. She'd be dead before he got halfway to Keirfield.

  Lachlan's stump hurt like hell. But now that he'd mastered the steel leg, it worked like a perfectly engineered crossbow. With a naked sword in his fist and a bloodthirsty sneer on his face, he covered the mile to Keirfield in long, determined strides.

  No battle had ever fired up his blood like this. No enemy had ever stirred such rancor in him. His force of will was sharpened to a fine edge, and nothing could turn aside his blade now.

  When he entered the town and first beheld Alisoune—a frail angel in white bound to a blackened stake—he let out a loud roar and raised his sword.

  The man holding the brand hesitated. The crowd wheeled his way. Lachlan strode forward with menace—his face grim, his manner merciless.

  Suddenly, the air was filled with gasps. Mothers grabbed their children. Men staggered backward. The secretary's jaw dropped. And Father Ninian clutched his chest.

  As Lachlan made his way through the parting crowd, he heard whispers of speculation around him.

  “His leg's grown back...”

  “'Tis a miracle...”

  “The spell of a witch...”

  “God's own hand...”

  “The work o' Satan...”

  “Impossible...”

  “Bewitched...”

  “Blessed...”

  Lachlan didn't care what they thought. He didn't care if they believed his restored leg was a gift from God or a curse of the devil...as long as they didn't stand between him and the beautiful lass he meant to rescue and hold onto for the rest of his life.

  Epilogue

  December 8

  “Slow down!” Alisoune called after Lachlan, laughing. Now that he'd had a few weeks to practice walking on his prosthesis, he sped along the streets of Stirling as if he'd worn it all his life.

  “Hurry up!” he retorted. “I want to take the stone in ere the shop gets busy.”

  She grinned and shook her head. She wasn't quite sure what he intended to do with the rainbow crystal. But she supposed he'd never get over the notion 'twas some sort of magical relic. When they'd returned to the cottage on that awful day the villagers had taken her to find Campbell with the stone under his paw, completely recovered from his poisoning, Lachlan claimed the old crone had been right. The Winter Stone had changed the dog's fate.

  Alisoune didn't really care what he believed about the crystal. She was just happy he believed in her love and in himself again.

  They'd decided to leave Keirfield forever. There was still disagreement in the town as to whether Lachlan's new leg was the work of God or the work of Lucifer. Alisoune didn't dare try to convince them 'twas just a work of engineering.

  So they sold his cottage and moved into her house in Stirling. She made spectacles in her downstairs workshop. And 'twasn't long before Lachlan's skills with the sword got him work training young lads to fight.

  “Here we are,” he announced, tugging on Campbell's leash and stopping at the shop where a wooden sign embossed with a gold cup proclaimed it John Gilder, Goldsmith. Unfortunately, the door was closed. It appeared John Gilder wasn't in residence. Lachlan frowned. “Damn. Where can he have gone?”

  But Alisoune was never one to make assumptions. She required empirical proof. So she banged loudly on the door. Sure enough, a few moments later, a key turned in the lock, and the door opened a crack. Out peered a lass of no more than fourteen, dressed in a blue smock. She was a bonnie young thing with dark hair, a dimpled chin, and big brown eyes.

  “Is t
he goldsmith here?” Alisoune asked her.

  The lass looked undecided for a moment. Then she nodded and opened the door wide. “Aye. Come in.”

  Beautiful gold pieces were displayed all around the shop, some with jewels, some with enamels, some with pearls. The handiwork was amazing.

  “I have a stone,” Lachlan said, pulling it out of his coin pouch. “I'd like to have it set.”

  “Oh!” the lass exclaimed. “'Tis a rainbow crystal.”

  Alisoune lifted a smug brow at Lachlan.

  “Can the goldsmith do it today?” he asked.

  “Today?” the lass squeaked.

  “Aye.” Lachlan had gotten very superstitious about the stone. He didn't want to be without it for any more than a few hours.

  “Well...” the lass said, casually reaching over to scratch Campbell behind the ears. “John Gilder is away for a few days.” Her eyes lit up as she confided, “He's gone to see the new queen, to present a gift to her.”

  “The new queen?” Lachlan asked with a frown.

  “Aye, sir. Have ye not heard?” She could barely contain her excitement. “The babe was born today. She's called Mary, after her mother.”

  “A lass,” Alisoune said in wonder. Both England and Scotland had possible female heirs to the thrones then.

  Lachlan sighed. “So it can't be done today?”

  “Well...” the lass said, catching her lip under her teeth. “There is another goldsmith here who could do the work.”

  “By the end o' the day?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And 'tis quality work?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir.” She fetched a tray full of intricate pins, brooches, and rings. She lifted her chin as she said, “'Tis the same goldsmith who made these.”

  He nodded his approval. “Fine.”

  As he went on to describe what he wanted done, Alisoune narrowed her eyes at the lass, taking note of her apprentice's smock. Then she asked with a knowing smile, “Would ye be the goldsmith's daughter...and his apprentice?”

  The lass gulped in guilt. “Foster daughter, aye. My name is Florie.”

  “Well, Florie,” she said with a wink, “I think we'll be very pleased with the results.”

  As it turned out, Alisoune was very pleased, particularly because Lachlan had had the Winter Stone mounted into a pendant for her. 'Twas a wedding gift, he said, which she gleefully accepted.

  If he wanted to claim that the Winter Stone gleamed bright green with peace and contentment as he fastened it around her neck, she didn't bother arguing 'twas only the prism inside that made it so. For Lachlan, 'twas a reminder that one's destiny could be altered, that all wounds could be mended, and that love was the most powerful healer of all.

  If you enjoyed this book,

  try these others by Glynnis Campbell...

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  My Hero

  The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

  The Shipwreck (novella)

  Lady Danger

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  Knight's Prize

  Scottish Lasses

  The Outcast (novella)

  MacFarland's Lass

  MacAdam's Lass

  Medieval Outlaws

  Danger's Kiss

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  Legends of California

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  About Glynnis

  When she's not writing swashbuckling historical romances and playing medieval matchmaker, bestselling author Glynnis Campbell is a cartoon voice, the wife of a rock star, and the mother of two young adults. She's been a ballerina, a typographer, a film composer, a piano player, a singer in an all-girl rock band, and a voice in those violent video games you won't let your kids play. She does her best writing on cruise ships, in Scottish castles, on her husband's tour bus, and at home in her sunny southern California garden. Glynnis loves transporting readers to a place where the bold heroes have endearing flaws, the women are stronger than they look, the land is lush and untamed, and chivalry is far from dead!

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