by Alisa Adams
Mary winced as the cold, clammy, meaty paw slid over her skin. There was no power in its grip. It was like a flaccid piece of raw chicken breast. The sound of his voice distracted her from the feel of his touch.
“I, Jarvis Malcolm Henry Edward Tiberius Lancaster, Second Earl of Wavel take thee, Mary Vesta Victoria Leighton, to be my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
A golden ring slipped onto the second finger of her left hand. Mary did not look down. Feeling it was enough to remind her that she was now his. She had to muster all of her resolve not to scream. A quick glimpse of the wooden cross with the prostate figure of the Lord Jesus Christ adorning it, she steeled herself for what was about to take place.
“Father, forgive them for they know not what they are doing – I tell you the truth today, you will be with me in paradise.” The last part referred to what Jesus had said to one of the criminals on the cross next to his, sharing his fate. The man had recognized him as what he was, namely the Son of God. Mary knew that forgiveness was one of the base tenets of Christianity. It would keep her strong in the hours to come.
“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” She knew she would not die this day, but the Mary who had spoken falsely of her intent to wed was not her. She begged forgiveness for consecrating falsely in the house of God. For what she was about to say, she also had no choice. Her confession had an immediate effect – God was with her. When the priest cleared his throat and asked her a second time to declare her consent, she pressed her lips together and nodded.
Mary swallowed. The first words that came from her mouth sounded like the squeak of a mouse. As she became more confident, her voice hardened. It was the image of Alastair hovering above the altar – he smiled. Mary knew it was going to be all right. “I, Mary Vesta Victoria Leighton, take thee, Jarvis Malcolm Henry Edward Tiberius Lancaster, Second Earl of Wavel, to be my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
* * *
“May the Lord Jesus,
who graced the marriage at Cana by his presence,
bless you and your loved ones.
Response: Amen.
May he, who loved the Church to the end,
unceasingly pour his love into your hearts.
Response: Amen.
May the Lord grant
that, bearing witness to faith in his Resurrection,
you may await with joy the blessed hope to come.
Response: Amen.
And he blesses all the people, adding:
And may almighty God bless all of you, who are gathered here,
the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.”
The fire snapped and popped in the hearth. Mary had escaped the festivities that were still in full swing. She could hear the raucous bawdiness coming from the Great Hall all the way up to her chamber. A maid had already helped her remove her elaborate clothing, replacing it with a pretty night smock. Currently, she stood behind her combing her hair.
“Was it a nice banquet, My Lady? I do so love weddings.” The spindly girl with freckles on her cheeks had been assigned to Mary by the earl as her lady’s maid. From now on, she was responsible for the arrangement of her clothing, to help her with her ablutions and to dress her.
“There was a lot to eat,” replied Mary.
“Yes, the earl is well known for being a generous host. There will be so much left over. The servants will be fed on fine fare for days.”
As the maid warbled on about this and that, Mary replayed the events in her mind. She had never seen such splendor before. However, the procession of food emerging from the kitchen had had no impact on her – it had left her cold, and she had not eaten a bite. The great feast had been meticulously color-coordinated to the last detail. The first course had been in gold and green; produced by saffron, egg yolk, green vegetables, herbs and gold serving dishes.
The second course of ‘bruets’ or almond milk stews, was white, while the third – lampreys in beef gravy – was red. This was followed by a course of German stews cooked with onions and fish in batter in a green sauce, which had to be carefully judged to come out as a bright and festive green, not a somber dark green. Decorative pies had supplemented this lavish offering. The gluttonous pageant continued. Roasted boar, poultry of all sorts, kid, lamb, beef, and fish were carried into the hall on huge silver salvers. All of it was doused in rich sauces made in myriad colors. Wine had flowed by the barrel and drunk in copious amounts. Music had serenaded the guests throughout. The final course was a spectacular four-colored blancmange, in which the colors were sharply defined by cooking the four sections separately.
Between courses, there were dramatic interludes, full of elaborate symbolism, with musicians and members of the party taking part. Everywhere, the tables had been festooned with sumptuous table designs containing stuffed peacocks showing off their fanned plumage. Flowers of all sorts hung from the banister belonging to the gallery up above the hall. Hundreds of candles had given their light, making the space so bright that it seemed that it was daylight.
“Will there be anything else, My Lady?” asked the servant. Mary shook her head. “May I be excused?” With a curt nod of Mary’s head, the young lady exited the chamber.
On cue, a loud cheer erupted from the hall below, making Mary shudder. Singing and shouts followed this noise. Instinctively, Mary knew what was to come next. Her heart started to beat at double its usual rate, hammering against her ribcage with deep and vigorous thrums. She remained frozen in the chair, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She looked beautiful. Her cherry-red hair hung loose to her shoulders in an obsidian cascade of shimmering blackness. Like the night outside, it reflected her gloom.
The door to the chamber clicked. It came crashing open as the earl stumbled in. He held a goblet sopping with wine. The contents spilled onto the floor in ruby droplets. Like a blind man, he staggered a few paces in no particular direction. He stopped. Mary heard him slurping. A cacophonous burp heralded his approval of the beverage. He moved closer until the cup thwacked onto the dressing table.
“Come here, wife.”
Meaty hands pawed at her shoulders, pulling her toward his prodigious bulk. Mary winced when she felt him press his lips to her head. Snorting sounds like those of a pig snuffling out truffles in the forest soon followed. She froze when his hands started to wander over her body, probing uncouthly and roughly. As if they had a mind of their own, they entered her smock from above in search of her breasts.
Mary felt the fear of flight overcome her. Like a doe standing in a clearing in a forest, she sensed danger. She got to her feet, brushing against the front of his breeches. Biliousness seared her throat when she felt his arousal. It had not been enough – no way near enough. Mary had watched him during the dinner, refilling his goblet with wine whenever it was empty. She had been the model wife in her great care of the earl. The plan had not come to fruition. Her husband may be drunk, but he was not drunk enough.
“Come here, woman.” The Earl of Wavel tottered on his feet, unbuttoning his vest in the process. In horror, Mary watched him disrobe. “Get on the bed,” he commanded, his piggy eyes betraying his lust. He closed in on her some more. By now, he had removed his boots and breeches. He pulled on the drawstrings belonging to his breeks. Apart from his long shirt, the undergarment covering his lower body was the last piece of clothing on his grotesque flabby person.
Mary felt the side of the bed on the back of her legs. There was nowhere left to go. Her eyes snapped open when her impending fate became clearer. With a theatrical twirl on his fingers, the earl threw away his loos
e drawers that consisted of enough material to make a tent. He was naked from the waist down. Thankfully, his sex was still hidden by his shirt.
“Get on all fours on the bed. I wish to mount you like the dog does the bitch.” Mary’s husband came closer and closer. The reek of stale wine, onions, and foulness hung on his breath. The smell came at Mary like a vapor from the dark recesses of a sewer. The odor of dank sweat wafted in sickening concord with the rest. The redolence filled the room, making Mary’s vision spin. She thought she was about to faint.
Before this avenue of retreat could save her, he was upon her. A behemoth of fat darted forward like an impenetrable barrage. Greedy hands pulled on her body, flipping her around with surprising strength. Before Mary could resist, she was pinioned on the bed, her face pressed onto the coverlets. More pawing soon followed as he lifted her nightdress.
“Mm, nothing like the honeypot of a young woman to round off the evening, eh? Even though that Scottish savage has defiled you, I am going to enjoy this.” He groped for her sex with exploratory fingers. Mary tensed. She had to do something. Just as she was about to kick back with her foot, she heard a thump, followed by a guttural gurgle. Behind her, the earl slumped onto the floor with a meaty clump.
She rolled onto her back, lifting her upper body until she came to rest on her shoulders. “Alastair,” she screeched. Quicker than a fairy, she jumped up, taking three large paces. “I can’t believe it is you,” she said as she crashed into his open arms. His fresh scent overwhelmed her with tears. It stood in such sharp contrast to the stench from before. Where once putridness reigned, there was health and virility – she was home again.
“Aye, lass, I couldn’t leave ye to the foul wiles of this uncouth specimen.” He kicked the prostate body belonging to the earl to make his point. “Don’t ye cry, Mary. I am here now.”
She whimpered. Her mouth automatically found his. She released herself to him. She exulted in the feel of his strong arms encircling her shivering frame. The kiss was deep. There was no carnality, just longing, need and love. Mary could not believe that he was there, and yet, that premonition in the church during the nuptial had told her otherwise. It was that force that had made her believe. Their embrace was over far too soon. Alastair pulled away. He brushed away the wetness on her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Blossom, we have to go now. I dinnae ken for how long that fat tub of lard will remain out of it. When he awakens, we best be as far across the border to Scotland as possible.” Mary nodded. “Where are yer clothes, lass?” he asked pacing up and down in the chamber. “Ye best dress warmly. Ye ken how cold the nights can get in the Highlands even though it is fast approaching summer.”
Sensing his urgency, Mary quickly gathered her garments, donning them as fast as she could. When she was dressed, she looked around. There was nothing she would want to take with her. All of it belonged to a life which was no longer hers. “We can go now.”
Alastair nodded. He took her hand and guided her to the window. “Dinnae look down. Just follow me.” Without another word, he stepped out, pulling Mary in his wake. They crossed the entire width of the building on a narrow ledge. Mary felt dizzy. Despite Alastair’s cautionary words, she sneaked a glance down below. They hovered over twenty feet above the ground. The courtyard was void of any activity. Torches on metal supports on the walls provided some light. She heard something and froze.
“Dinnae worry. It’s only lovers frolicking in the night. Come now.” They continued shuffling along the shelf until they came to an oak. “We have to cross this branch. From over there, we will be able to climb down and run out of the gate.”
“What about the guards?”
Alastair smiled. “Dinnae ye worry. My da’s taken care of those pesky louts. Come.”
“Yer father?” Mary never got an answer. Alastair was already making his way across the branch. Steeling her nerve, she followed. If her heart had beaten quickly before in the room, it now had doubled in pace. Her eyes remained fixed on Alastair’s shadowy frame in front of her. Her limbs moved automatically, induced by the harried signals sent to them by the brain.
“Only a little further. Good, lass – yer nearly there. There, ye see; easy as making babies.”
Mary couldn’t help a giggle. The elation she felt at being back with the man she loved made her giddy with happiness. She did not know whether to laugh some more, cry or scream – there was no time. Alastair already climbed down the tree, encouraging her to do the same. When she got to the bottom, he grabbed her hand again, pulling her in the direction of the gatehouse. They ran toward the structure’s looming dark presence. Mary could see bodies on the ground. There must have been about eight of them. They had been piled into a heap under the archway.
“Hurry up. Yer father’s getting impatient. The man is about to burst a vessel. Did the two of ye take the time for a hump? Crivens, it’s been ages since ye left, Alastair.”
“Murtagh, trust you to come up with something like that,” said Mary, falling into the big clansman’s open arms.
“Stop footering about and get a move on,” hissed out Mungo, appearing out of the darkness dragging a body in his wake. “I found another one skulking about in the shadows. Gave him a right walloping over the head.”
“Hope ye dinnae kill him. The Laird gave explicit instructions not to do that,” said Murtagh, releasing Mary from his grip.
“This one’s not dead. He’ll have a big lump on his head for a while though.” Mungo dumped the Englishman’s body with the others unceremoniously. When he turned, he said, “Mary, tis a fine thing to see ye again. We missed ye, ye ken.”
It was the first time she had seen him beam at her like that. The habitually distant and harsh-looking man with the long scar across his face looked almost sweet. Mary could not help a huge grin from appearing, splitting her face in two. “Mungo, I missed you too.” She ran to him, crashing into his hard physique.
“All right, enough. We best get going,” ordered Alastair.
Mary stuck her tongue at him. “You could look a little happier to see me, grumpy chops.”
Alastair chuckled. “Oh, I’m happy, blossom. And I’ll show ye right and proper when we are away from this place. Come.” They ran through the gate on toward the next one and finally out into the surrounding countryside. It did not take them long to reach the forest nearby. The small group vanished amongst the trees. After about half an hour’s walk at a breakneck speed, they entered a small clearing.
“About time, laddie. I was about to give the order to attack the castle,” said the Laird. The moment he saw his son, he left his escort of thirty heavily armed clansmen and walked up to them. Like the size of a mountain, his advancing silhouette seemed to fill the entire clearing. This man had so much charisma and presence that it sometimes seemed that the world was not big enough to hold it. “Mary, I never thought I’d see ye again.”
“Disappointed?” asked Mary, curtseying.
“On the contrary. I am very happy. Finally, my lad will pull his head out of his arse now that ye are here.”
“Thank you for saving me, my Laird.”
“Oh, thank him,” he said, pointing at his son. “He was the one who beat me with the sword a few days ago. Made me promise to help him save ye he did – the skiving loon.” Alastair’s father guffawed. “Fine show of swordsmanship if I ever saw it. He beat me after I gave him a right thrashing.” There was not a trace of spite or jealousy on his person that he had been beaten for the first time in his adult life – pride was what he felt. He winked at Mary happily. “Ye will see the scars when ye get his clothes off, Sassenach. Well, don’t look so shocked. I ken that yer’ve already had yer way with him. And I’d wager you’re as eager as a pixy to get yer hands on my son again.” He chortled like a rampaging bull.
Blushing crimson, Mary looked to Alastair with a questioning expression on her face. “Long story,” said Alastair.
She swiveled her gaze back to the Laird and smiled. Before he could do a
nything, she stepped forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I want to thank you anyway, my Laird. I always knew you were a fine man with a heart of gold.”
“Heart of iron more like it,” added Murtagh.
“And lost for words,” said Alastair, laughing at his father whose eyes had taken on the size of plates. He was not used to such a show of intimacy from another woman other than his wife, least of all in public.
“The Sassenach has softened up the Laird right and proper,” shouted one of the men from across the clearing. The others soon joined in shouting their comments at the chieftain’s expense.
“Haud yer wheesht the lot of ye. If another of ye dozy wallopers yells another thing, I will have him strung by the goolies in front of the clan. Where do ye think ye are? There’s an English garrison hereabouts. Now come on. Let’s get a move on.” The clansmen immediately fell silent as the intrepid bulk belonging to the Laird marched up to them. He grabbed the reigns of his horse from one of them and gave the command to advance.”
11
MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS
* * *
The Highlands, Scotland
* * *
“It is the most wonderful feeling in the world to have ye by my side again, blossom. There were times back at Chillingham Castle when I thought I’d never see ye again.”
Mary tensed. Alastair had not spoken much about what had happened to him since their brutal parting months ago. She had wheedled out the bit about how he had convinced his father to help him free her. When Mary had heard the tale, she had been amazed. She had never seen the Laird fight, but she could imagine his skill and strength by just looking at him. He had been so overjoyed by his son’s dexterity with the blade that he had promised him anything no matter what – Alastair’s first request had been about Mary.