The Reluctant Highlander

by Scott, Amanda

  “I do want to explain matters, sir,” Àdham said. “But my squire, my equerry, and another lad, who follow me with our baggage, will soon be seeking me.”

  “Your men can find the alehouse by asking anyone,” Ormiston said. “And you need only follow this road until it ends at the Mercat Cross in the High Street. But I’ll have one of my lads show you the way after we have talked.”

  “Then you leave me naught to say, sir, save thank you,” Àdham said.

  They had reached the little arched bridge, and the narrow port stood open beyond it, so he gestured for Ormiston to precede him. Only as he followed with the horse did it occur to him that his lordship was unlikely to walk the streets of any town unattended.

  Glancing back to see two men quietly following, some twenty yards back, he murmured, “Are the two men behind us yours, sir?”

  “They are. Neither his grace nor Father Prior likes the idea of armed men visibly guarding the monastery. So, although James has protection, the royal guards keep themselves and their weapons hidden. My two men awaited me in the shadows of those trees by the portico. When I saw you two tonight, I told them to stay there. Then, when we left the monastery, I signaled them to follow at a distance.”

  “I was certain you would want my head, sir.”

  “That remains to be seen, does it not?”

  Unable to find reassurance in that response, Àdham wondered if he had misread Ormiston and had a fleeting wish that he’d not left his own men behind.

  That thought fled the moment it formed, though. Had he not ridden on ahead, he’d have missed meeting the lady Fiona, who—whether she would ever admit it or not—might well have found herself in worse trouble than she faced now.

  “What do we do the noo, Hew?” Dae asked his cousin when their quarry had gone inside. “Must we try again? We ha’ lain here four nights, as it be, since ye heard she had come outside the wall, and then only tae walk by yon river.”

  “I doubt the lass will come out alone again,” Hew muttered in a near growl. “If I dinna mistake the matter, that man wha’ met them were Ormiston hisself.”

  “And the younger one? Who were he?”

  “How d’ye think I’d ken him, Dae?” Hew muttered. “He’s a big, braw lad, and dresses as we Highlanders all do. But I couldna see his features any more than ye could. Sakes, I dinna ken if that thick beard o’ his be black or brown.”

  “Then what’ll we do?” Dae repeated. “I ken fine that Sir Ro—”

  “Whisst now,” Hew interjected harshly. “We name nae names.”

  “But ye said the lass be our key tae open Tantallon and free Alexander, aye?”

  “Aye, sure, for when we capture her, her da will do aught that we tell him tae do. This be but a wee hindrance, Dae. If nae opportunity arises afore this Parliament be done, most o’ them lairds will go home. We’ll likely find another chance then.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “I dinna ken. But I ha’ other notions, too. I’m thinking tae get m’self shaved and dress like a Lowlander. But dinna be prating about this tae any save me.”

  Wide-eyed, Dae gaped at him. “I wouldna, Hew!”

  “See that ye don’t.”

  Giving thanks to the Fates that her father had not noticed her wet hair or that her cloak concealed a wet shift, Fiona had bidden Brother Porter good night and hurried up two narrow flights of stairs to the tiny bedchamber she had cordially disliked until learning that she would have it all to herself.

  Entering and shutting the door, she was glad that she had left the stone cresset burning. Its golden light made the tiny chamber seem warm and inviting.

  The thought that Ormiston might order her henceforth to share a room with another of the Queen’s attendants struck her then with unwelcome force.

  Hearing an indignant meow outside the door, she opened it to let Donsie in. As she shut it, a calmer second thought suggested that her father was unlikely to call such attention to what he clearly viewed as her misbehavior.

  “He will more likely make me feel small and irritating whilst he scolds me, Donsie,” she murmured as she moved the lute she had practiced playing earlier from her bed into the woven-willow case where it belonged. She knew she had disappointed her father, but he would not endanger her position with the Queen.

  She was nearly certain that, as long as he remained one of the King’s closest and most trusted advisers, he would want her to be near him, albeit perhaps more closely guarded than before. Her service to Queen Joanna usually assured that she would be near Ormiston, because the King kept his beloved wife and their four wee daughters with him unless he had to be away with the royal army.

  Drying herself with a towel, Fiona shifted Donsie aside and got into the narrow bed, wriggling under its covers to get warm. Then, listening to the cat purr as it nestled close to her, but certain the night’s adventure would keep her awake, she tried to imagine how Sir Àdham was faring with her father.

  To think that he was a knight and she had as good as called him a barbarian!

  He was educated, even somewhat civilized if one discounted the odd clothing that Highlanders wore. At least, he had worn breeks and boots and had not complained about getting them wet. He had a nice smile, too. His teeth were white and strong looking, unlike those of many men she had met.

  Thinking about him and her father, she felt a new stab of guilt.

  Sir Àdham had tried only to rescue her, and for his effort, had to defend himself to a powerful lord. That was likely a new experience for him and, sadly, one for which he would not easily, if ever, forgive her. Still wide awake, she came just as sadly to realize that her father might be more than disappointed in her.

  If Ormiston truly believed that she had slipped out into the moonlight a-purpose to meet Sir Àdham, he would also believe that she had betrayed his trust.

  That Joanna or Lady Sutherland, her grace’s mistress of robes, might believe the same thing caused less concern. Joanna was kind, and although the rules for her ladies were strict, she understood that some needed more freedom than others. She knew, too, that even at Blackfriars and other such residences, the large retinues and other residents made finding solitude with any sense of space nearly impossible.

  Lady Sutherland was less understanding. But Fiona’s adventure would cause ructions only if others had seen her with Sir Àdham before Ormiston joined them.

  She would have little defense then, because no matter how many times she had assured herself that naught could happen because she had never seen anyone walking on or near the Inch so late at night, Sir Àdham had done so.

  A mere hint of scandal could prove her undoing. But, even if Joanna dismissed her, Fiona doubted that Ormiston would send her home. Nor would the King demand it, because he depended on Ormiston. The trust between the two was strong, and James had reason to distrust many other members of his court.

  Again, she wondered how much Sir Àdham would believe it necessary to tell her father. Could she trust a man—a knight, aye, but a semibarbaric one—who had said that although he would not willingly betray her, he would also not lie for her?

  Chapter 3

  The wynd that Àdham and Ormiston followed forked almost immediately after the red port, one branch leading into town, the other rounding a garden wall to their right. Large houses lined the row, and Ormiston led him to the second one on the right, its gardens visibly extending from the house to the town wall behind it.

  It was smaller than some of its neighbors, but Curfew Row’s residents were clearly wealthy. Not that Àdham had expected otherwise, for if the Mackintosh had taken a house nearby, he would likely have demanded even finer accommodations.

  “My men will see to your horse,” Ormiston said, gesturing to the two following them. “The stables lie behind the house.”

  “Thank you, sir, but they need do naught save tether him.
I’ll be on my way soon after we have talked.”

  “In troth, lad, I’ve been thinking, and I am strongly inclined to suspect now that I may be beholden to you,” Ormiston said. “If that should prove true, you are welcome to sleep here tonight and rejoin your clansmen in the morning.”

  The invitation was tempting, but Àdham shook his head. “’Tis kind of you, sir,” he said. “But you owe me naught, and if I fail to reach the alehouse, men there will raise a hue and cry for me.”

  “Not if I send someone to tell them that you’re with me,” Ormiston said. “But, if you would feel discomfited . . .” He paused, then added dulcetly, “That alehouse is said to be a gey noisy place.”

  “’Tis true that I’d welcome a quiet bed,” Àdham admitted. “If your man will take a message for my squire and equerry that will bring them to me in the morning, I’d be fain to accept your invitation . . . if you still hold by it after we talk.”

  Having given the necessary orders to his two men, Ormiston led the way inside and through the house to a cozy chamber in the rear, where a fire burned cheerfully on the hearth. Taking a jug and two pewter goblets from a shelf, he poured what appeared to be claret into each and handed one to Àdham.

  Then, gesturing to a table near the hearth where a pair of back-stools faced each other, he said, “Take that nearer seat, lad.”

  As Àdham obeyed the command, Ormiston stepped past him. Shifting the other back-stool a few inches closer, he sat and looked directly into Àdham’s eyes, goblet in hand, for a long, silent moment, before saying gently, “Perhaps now, you will tell me exactly how you came to be in company with my daughter at such a late hour.”

  Taking a moment just as long and silent to gather his thoughts but seeing no way to describe their meeting without laying blame on her ladyship, and having no wish to do that, Àdham realized he had only one course to take.

  “With respect, sir,” he said, “you must ask her ladyship about that.”

  His jaw visibly clenching, Ormiston gazed sternly at Àdham, but Àdham met his gaze with long-practiced calm and sipped his wine.

  “I believe,” Ormiston said, “that you owe me an explanation if only to maintain your knightly sense of honor.”

  “My honor is in no danger, sir. I would willingly explain aught of mine own behavior were there aught more of import to explain. However, I cannot speak for her ladyship. I have told you where I was this morning and that I reached the North Inch shortly before you saw us together. She took no harm from me.”

  “Your hair, tunic, and breeks are still wet, lad,” Ormiston observed quietly.

  My boots, too, Àdham thought unhappily. Thankful that they had stopped squishing as he walked, he said only, “Aye, sir, I did enjoy a brief swim.”

  Ormiston sipped his wine, observing Àdham over the rim of the goblet.

  To Àdham’s astonishment, the man’s hazel-gray eyes began to twinkle. “Your goblet must be empty or nearly so, lad, and I doubt I’ll sleep yet a while,” he said. “Moreover, his grace will not convene tomorrow’s session until an hour or so before midday. Would you like more of this excellent claret before we retire?”

  “I would,” Àdham agreed, “if I may take your offer as a suggestion that you need ask me no more about what happened tonight.”

  “Aye, for the present,” Ormiston said. “Sithee, I know my daughter well.”

  Deciding to let that statement stand without comment, Àdham said, “I ken little of what may be happening in the Parliament, sir. I do know that you serve as one of his grace’s advisers. I’ve also heard that ructions may arise, so if you’d liefer not discuss such things with me, I’ll understand. But if you can tell me aught of value, I would be grateful.”

  “Naught of much importance has occurred yet, although ructions have arisen. However, his grace by custom lets his lord chamberlain deal with such discontent until a particular issue is formally introduced for discussion,” Ormiston said. “The issue stirring the most fractiousness so far concerns landowners’ heritable rights.”

  “I do ken something about that,” Àdham said. “Such rights are of concern to all Highland chiefs. They believe that his grace, in desiring to institute one rule of law throughout Scotland, means to trample on ancient, established jurisdictional rights that historically have been theirs, such as our lairds’ courts and rights of the pit and gallows.”

  “And any other rights that pertain to inherited lands,” Ormiston said. “Many lords in the Lowlands and Borders likewise object to losing such rights, believing that lawlessness, and thus chaos, will result.”

  “I tend to agree with that,” Àdham said. “’Tis our chiefs and chieftains who maintain order in the Highlands. So, why does his grace disagree?”

  “Because power-hungry men can manipulate our current system to serve their own wicked goals, rather than the good of their people or their country,” Ormiston said. “His grace points out that we have seen what happens when an evil man inherits or otherwise contrives to seize vast power. His unscrupulous uncle, the Duke of Albany, did just that and ruled Scotland for nearly four decades without ever being King of Scots, first as Regent for his aged father, then for his older brother, and then—as James and many others believe—by arranging for the English to capture James.”

  “I had not heard that,” Àdham admitted. “Only that he had been a captive.”

  “The English held him for nineteen years, until Albany died,” Ormiston said. “But tell me more about yourself now, lad. If you are with Clan Chattan, you must be kin to the Mackintosh.”

  “Malcolm is my liege lord. I live with my uncle, Fin of the Battles, at Castle Finlagh above Strathnairn, which is the valley of the river and town of Nairn.”

  “If you fostered with Fin of the Battles, then who is your father?”

  “I’m the youngest son of Ewan MacGillony Cameron of Tor Castle, which lies a mile or so beyond the western edge of Glen Mòr, not far from Loch Lochy.”

  “I’m not as well-acquainted with the Highlands as I should be,” Ormiston admitted. “I do know that what we Lowlanders call the Great Glen divides them from Inverness in the north to the sea in the southwest, but I have not visited the area. Even so, just as I knew of your knighthood, I also know that you acquired it by persuading a host of Camerons to support his grace at Lochaber two years ago.”

  “Just one Cameron, sir,” Àdham said. “I chanced to see my father as the tide of battle was turning and I recognized his banner. I urged him to support the King and he persuaded others. See you, the Cameron Confederation, like Clan Chattan, has many factions. Clan Chattan controls most of the area east of the Great Glen, whilst the Camerons bide mostly west of it as far as the coast. So, the Lord of the Isles is nearly always a greater threat to them than his grace is. I do count Castle Finlagh as my home, though, so the Mackintosh is my liege, and our loyalty is and long has been to his grace. But this is the first time I have come to the Lowlands.”

  “I see,” Ormiston said. “I know that Clan Chattan has kept loyal to James, but Alexander must have expected all Camerons to remain loyal to him.”

  “In troth, sir, he expected all Highland clans to welcome him and therefore believed that no Cameron or Mackintosh would side with his grace. He might also have thought that even if one confederation did, the other would not, because they had long been enemies. But Malcolm has been Constable of Inverness Castle for five years, and the confederations have kept a much longer, albeit uneasy, truce.”

  “I like Malcolm,” Ormiston said. “He is a fine and venerable leader, so I am pleased to make the acquaintance of another Clan Chattan man.”

  Àdham nodded, wondering if Ormiston was aware that many people more likely believed that his having been born a Cameron meant that he must always be a Cameron and not, in their view, a true man of Clan Chattan at all.

  Fiona awoke the next morning at dawn to hear the mo
nastery bells ringing the hour of Prime. Her door opened moments later, and quick footsteps crossed to the narrow window near the foot of her bed.

  “Good morrow, m’lady,” her maidservant, Leah Nisbet, said cheerfully as she turned from the window to push back the bed curtain and tie it in place. “Lady Sutherland said her grace will no attend the Parliament this morning wi’ his grace but will attend Lady Mass here at the monastery instead. Since she will have Lady Sutherland and Lady Huntly tae attend her, ye need see only tae your own prayers and morning duties till they return.”

  “They have not left already, have they?” Fiona asked, sitting up. She knew she must not go into town, even the short way to Ormiston House, without proper permission and a gillie to attend her.

  “Sakes, m’lady, her grace ha’ no left her bed yet, as ye should ken fine,” Leah said. “She will say her morning prayers and break her fast afore she walks round tae the monastery chapel.”

  “I would speak with Lady Sutherland before then, Leah. Prithee, go and ask her woman if her ladyship will be kind enough to see me before I break my fast. I shall wear the emerald green gown with my horned headdress and the ruched white veil,” she added, knowing that the green dress was Ormiston’s favorite. “I shall also want my fur-lined cloak, because I must visit my lord father this morning.”

  “This smock be damp, m’lady,” the maid said, lifting the garment from the low stool onto which Fiona had cast it the night before.

  “I would not wear that one in any event, Leah,” Fiona said, hoping that her cloak, which she had hung on its hook, was not also still damp. “I’ll wear my white silk shift with the embroidered edging round its neckline.”

  Quickly washing her face and hands, she donned the silk shift and gown, waiting only for Leah to lace up the back of the gown before shooing her out to find Lady Sutherland and relay her request.