The Highlander’s Dilemma (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Hello, Uncle.”

  “There! That wasn't so hard, was it?”

  Leona laughed and he kissed her, first on one cheek, then the other, then the brow. It was a formal reception, for all the watching staff, acknowledging her as his kin.

  “Niece!” he announced. He looked down at her. “Be welcome in my home. My Heavens, but you look like Louis. It takes my breath away.”

  “I do?” Leona was surprised. Louis was her grandfather, father of Alina. She had not thought she looked anything like her mother.

  “You do. The eyes are different, but the set of your face, that fine nose, proud jaw...” he stopped, sighing. “Louis would be proud of you, of that I'm certain.”

  Leona felt her throat tighten and swallowed, touched. “Thank you,” she said tightly.

  “Not at all, niece. Not at all. Sweet, charming and polite!” he announced to the empty hallway. “What a combination. How Annecy will love you! To say nothing of our friends. They'll celebrate you from here to the Loire, my dear.”

  Leona felt her face flush with shy pride and she giggled.

  “Will Monseigneur Montaigne join us?” she asked.

  Danton looked up at her, eyes warm as if he was grateful she’d remembered and acknowledged him.

  The count laughed. “Niece! You do me shame. I have clean forgotten my manners. Of course! Danton and I have much to discuss. Come, sir!” he waved to the man. “Come! Let us dine.”

  Leona followed him through a vast, point-arched doorway and into a hall. She looked around in wonder. Everything in the house seemed so different from her own home and the dining hall was no exception. She feasted her eyes on the beauty of it.

  “It's stunning,” she breathed.

  Her uncle flushed. “Oh, niece! I'm honored my humble home meets your approval.”

  Leona looked around in wonder. A dining table of precious dark wood took up almost the entire side, high-backed carved chairs set all around. On the other side, windows stretched from floor to ceiling, all set with priceless opaque horn panes. The place was not as large as the great hall, but the sumptuous nature of it made it twice as impacting.

  “Come, sit!” he said, waving a hand at the table. “Ferriers?”

  “Yes, my lord?” a footman stepped gravely forward.

  “Go down and fetch dinner, my good man! We dine early.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Leona was surprised by the servants and her uncle's attitude. At once offhandedly friendly, he also ignored them as if they were not human. A man drew out her uncle's seat and he didn't even notice him, taking a seat as though this was all natural.

  Leona copied his example, taking the seat that had been drawn out for her. Uncle Marc stared back at her.

  “I still cannot quite believe you're here,” he confessed as the servants moved about, filling their bowls with soup. “Or how much you resemble my brother.”

  “I was sorry to hear of his loss,” Leona said, suddenly remembering, with a flush, why she was there. “My mother and aunt were deeply shocked.

  “Louis is missed by all of us,” Uncle Marc observed. “He was a great man.”

  They all lapsed into silence then. Uncle Marc raised a hand, waving it at the table. “Let us not dwell on sadness! Eat! Please! Be welcome. It is a pleasure to have you here – both of you,” he added, with a smile at the castellan, Danton, who sat rigidly beside Leona.

  “You usually use this dining hall?” Leona asked, copying Danton, who had taken a slice of bread, which she laid beside her bowl of soup and then tasted it. Warm, slightly spiced and rich, it was delicious.

  “Usually,” her uncle agreed. “Usually when I have company, that is. Eh, Danton?” he added at his silent deputy. “Not that I do all the time, mind. I confess to bad habits. First, of being more reclusive than I must, and, second, of eating in my office. Too much work.”

  Leona giggled. He was so open, so readily-welcoming. She couldn't help liking him. “I think those are grievous confessions, milord,” she said.

  He laughed. “Most grievous! Though I hope you will remedy me.”

  “Oh?” Leona asked, sipping delicately off the ladle as she had been taught to do. “How, milord?”

  “Well, I am too reclusive, as I said. Too reclusive.” He broke off more bread, using it to scrape around the soup bowl thoughtfully. “Now we shall have parties.”

  “Oh?” Leona frowned. She felt a sudden flame light inside her. She did love parties. Here in the manor they seemed ideally placed. She shut her eyes, imagining the hall full of guests. It was exciting.

  “Of course!” her uncle exclaimed. It seemed a favorite expression, for he'd used it at least four times in the half-hour she'd known him. “My lovely young niece comes all the way from distant lands...of course we shall celebrate! And every night, at that. Cheers, eh, Danton?”

  “To much celebration, my lord,” he saluted with the glass.

  “Celebration,” her uncle agreed, tipping back a generous mouthful of wine. “And lots of 'em, too.”

  Leona smiled. She was already starting to like her uncle, and the house was beautiful beyond her imagination. She felt at home here. It was beautiful, as Danton had said. And it had about it a certain delicacy to which she was unaccustomed, but which she already felt she appreciated considerably.

  “Come, then!” her uncle exclaimed, rinsing his hands in a bowl brought by a servant, and drying them on a crisp linen square the man held out to him, “let us partake of the next course. I believe perch is on the menu today; fresh from the river. Sounds good, eh?”

  Leona nodded and did as he directed, plunging her hands into the water a servant held. It was warm and, when she breathed in, scented delicately with oil of citrus, a smell that wafted up to her and made her feel even more peaceful than before.

  She dabbed her hands with linen, then widened her eyes in surprise as the next course was presented on a platter. Her uncle carved the delicate river fish and set it on the trencher before her.

  “Thank you,” she said gravely. It smelled rich and wonderfully-cooked. It was.

  “Well, nothing too good for my niece,” her uncle said absently. “Now, I was thinking. You'll need new gowns while you are here. This is a house of mourning, but we are three months past the funeral, so I am sure half-mourning is acceptable, or purple. If you wish?”

  Leona looked up, feeling bemused. No one had ever offered her a choice like that so spontaneously across dinner. She frowned. “If purple is acceptable, uncle, I'd be delighted.”

  “Oh, good. Purple it is. You'll look wonderfully well.”

  Leona blushed, lifting a square of linen from beside her plate to dab at her lips. She felt warmth toward her uncle – he was already being so kind to her.

  “You are so kind to me,” she murmured.

  “Nonsense, niece,” her uncle dismissed vehemently. “You are my kin. My own family. I never had a daughter, or a son, and so now you are my own.”

  Leona smiled at him fondly. She could, she realized, really come to like her uncle. He was generous, inclusive and seemed to be fond of her already.

  “Thank you, Uncle,” she said warmly.

  “Well, then,” he said, waving a hand at her again, dismissing her praise as lightly as he dismissed the offer of a second refill of his wine glass, “we should plan! I have a seamstress here at the manor, though we should check through the stores of cloth. Danton, anything from Bruges?”

  “I don't think so, milord,” Danton said.

  “I receive some of the trade from Flanders and beyond,” he explained to Leona in a low voice.

  “Oh,” Leona nodded.

  “Well, then,” her uncle said, drawing their focus back again. “We'll have to ask Leblanc to get the chests down and see what we can find, eh? See what we can find.”

  Leona smiled at him and turned her attentions to her plate.

  Three more courses later, feeling replete and sleepy, Leona ate a slice of delicious cheese and list
ened to her uncle and Danton talk. As the meal progressed, the conversation had become more technical, focusing on the business he had to address with Uncle Marc.

  At length, the steward appeared, evidently summoned by her uncle.

  “My lord?”

  “Leblanc – if you could go to the attic and have the chests of fabrics moved? My niece will need to see them to select some.”

  “Very good, milord.”

  Leona soon found herself, the dishes cleared away, in a room in the upper reaches of the manor, looking at chests upon chests of cloth as LeBlanc, the steward, gravely opened them.

  Her uncle and Danton had retired to another room, discussing the business they had. She was alone with the steward and a ransom's worth of cloth.

  “...and what thinks my lady of the damask velvet?”

  “It's unparalleled,” Leona said demurely. “But I must choose purple. For mourning, yes?”

  “Of course, milady,” the man said evenly. “I think we have some silk from Venice. Ah, here...”

  Leona could not help but draw in a breath as he revealed it. It sparkled like the depths of ocean, lustrous as rainclouds, as changeable with the play of light. She felt it and closed her eyes.

  “It is beautiful,” she said, amazed almost beyond words.

  “Very good, milady.”

  Later, when he had gone, the chests packed away, Leona tiptoed to the mirror and held it up. The sheer fabric fell from chin to floor, and caught the evening light and the glow of the candles and spun it back, mulberry dark. The rich purple harmonized with her eyes, making them seem pale blue. It brought out the soft red of her hair.

  “It is beautiful.”

  She was stroking it hesitantly when she heard someone cough in the doorway. She spun round to see her uncle.

  “You chose well,” he said approvingly.

  “Oh, Uncle! It is beautiful! I can really use this one? Really?”

  Her uncle laughed. “It was bought for a lady as beautiful as you,” he said gallantly. “I just have never seen one before now.”

  Leona beamed at him. “Oh, Uncle!”

  He smiled. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  They smiled at each other hesitantly, and then her uncle excused himself to bed. Leona sat with the silk flowing over her body long after he'd gone. She was in a distant country, with people she barely knew. Yet she was happy. She felt loved. She was very happy indeed. If Conn was here, everything would be perfect in truth.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DANGER ON THE ROAD

  DANGER ON THE ROAD

  Conn rode quickly down the rain-slicked cobbled street. He felt the slide of his horse's hooves under him and shuddered, knowing that he had taken the corner too fast. He slowed.

  I don't like this street.

  He was perhaps an hour outside Edinburgh. It was cool, it was wet; a summer storm. He shivered in his wet cloak, though it was not just the rain.

  This road is dangerous.

  His father had warned him about it before he left and, during the journey, he had heard the same from many travelers. The home of brigands and outlaws, the forest beside the road had a fearsome reputation. Conn, riding alone, was worried.

  He was a perfect target.

  As he rode, Conn reached behind him to finger the hilt of his great-sword. He wore it slung across his back, the easier to draw it while riding. He was reassured each time he touched it. Not that it would be a great help to him if there were too many foes, however.

  “We'll just have to ride fast and hard, boy.”

  He patted the neck of his horse. This was one of the sons of Bert, his father's Clydesdale. White and delicate and lovely, Barra had been Conn's choice the moment he saw him. Now, he gripped with his knees, glad he was riding him and not a new horse. Barra was an ally.

  “Come on, boy,” he said gently. The horse seemed to know he was nervous, for he was looking around, ears swiveling as he strained to catch small sounds.

  Conn was not sure why he felt so nervous. The reputation of the stretch of road, probably, combined with the fast-approaching summer dusk. He was glad he was armed, and he still wished he had fallen in with a group of traders or merchants, seeking safety in having companionship on the road.

  “We're almost there,” Conn said encouragingly. He felt his mood start to lift a little. It was pale dusk and he could hear a nightingale. The air smelled cool, like dew, and his spirits lifted as he relaxed. The countryside was different to what he was used to; more broad-leafed trees, the land more rich and arable.

  He heard a rustle in the bushes and tensed. Listened harder. Barra snorted. Conn patted his neck in reassurance. “We should go.”

  He gripped with his knees, encouraging a faster pace; a brisk trot. He did not want to go too fast: they had still a long ride ahead and the road was wet and slippery. He drew in a shaky breath and clung to the horse, heading off as fast as he dared to go.

  “Ahoy, my lad!”

  Conn turned, startled, as he heard someone hail him from the roadside. He turned and found himself looking at a tall, shabbily-dressed man standing on the road-side. He was gaunt and bony. He had a sincerely unpleasant look about him and Conn hesitated only a moment. Then he hurried on.

  “What's the hurry?” the man shouted.

  Conn shivered and went faster. He tried to shake off the unpleasant feeling that he was riding into an ambush.

  Stop being so jumpy, Conn McNeil. Relax. He was just a simple farmer...

  At that moment, something waved from the roadside. Something white and wavering – a bed-sheet, perhaps, Conn thought dimly. However, it was too late to do anything, as Barra shied, stepping sideways to avoid the apparent threat.

  Conn yelled in alarm as he shifted sideways, clinging to the reins, his horse sliding on the icy road. Then something hit him hard on the back of the head and he was battered forward and sideways, losing his purchase on the saddle.

  He shouted in alarm, reaching for his sword. Snarling and howling, he fell to the ground, the sword coming loose from the scabbard as he did so.

  He found himself in a group of three men, sword in hand. They all looked at him, wary to strike first. Barra was snorting, rearing as a man grabbed at his bridle, this fourth man trying to lead him away.

  Conn screamed a wordless war-cry and rushed at the tall man in the plaid cloak; the one who had hailed him initially. The man ducked the blow that had been aimed at his head and struck out with his dagger. It glanced off Conn's cloak, or it would have been a lethal blow. This close, swords were useless; no room to swing them. Daggers were dangerous.

  Remembering in time, Conn stepped back. The men were circling him warily, each trying to draw him out, make him step in too close for the sword to be useful.

  “You fight like a grandma!” one of them yelled derisively.

  Conn ignored it. Don't ever be drawn into a fight. His father had told him, and the armorer had taught him the same. He would not let himself be annoyed enough to rush someone, no matter what they said.

  “Barra,” he whistled. “To me!”

  His horse heard his whistle and neighed, walking to him, pulling on the reins where the man sought to lead him. When he saw him raise a hand to strike his horse, Conn lost patience.

  “Enough!” he screamed. He ran at the man holding the reins, his sword raised in a killing stroke. He brought it down and the man fell, shoulder cleaved through. Conn felt a stab of remorse when he heard the man hissing in pain, and brought the sword down on the back of his neck, killing him there. Better here than two weeks later from that wound I dealt him.

  The other three – no, four, a fourth had joined them now – looked at him warily. Conn stepped back. “No more of you need to die!” he shouted. “Give me my horse and leave us be.”

  They looked at him. Then they began a hasty conversation in their own group.

  “We should let him go. He's right. Stay back.”

  “Nonsense! There's only one of him. W
hat's he got in those saddlebags?”

  “Let him go? Why should we..? Who are we? The brotherhood of thieves, or courtiers?”

  “No! Let him go.”

  While they were arguing, Conn inched back toward Barra. His horse, standing patiently at the roadside, needed no further encouragement. He ran to Conn.

  “Hai!” Conn screamed in wordless triumph as he ran for his horse, sword still in hand. He used the battle-leap to mount up into the saddle. His father had taught it to him more for fun than actually believing he would use it. He himself had learned it from an old tribesman; the way they’d fought centuries before. It worked in his favor.

  Seeing him, the men shouted at each other.

  “He's getting away!”

  “Stop him!”

  Conn felt a wild elation fill him as he gripped with his knees, spurring away down the road. The sword in his hands was heavy and dragged at him and he slowed as soon as they were a good distance away, lifting his arm to thrust it into the scabbard.

  Only then, walking with Barra, praising him for his rescue and support during the fight, did he realize how exhausted he was. He was shaking. The effort and tension were taking their toll on him. His hands were shuddering and his whole body twitched. And he felt tired. So tired.

  “We need to stop,” he said to Barra. The thought of a place in the warmth and something to eat was almost overwhelming. He knew they had half an hour more to go at least, but he was not sure he would hold out that long.

  “We need an inn.”

  Talking to Barra, letting them both go at a sedate walk, Conn proceeded along the road. He fought to calm himself.

  It's only six miles. Only six miles more.

  He clung to the reins, the sunshine slowly warming him as they rode on their way toward Edinburgh.

  Two miles along, they reached an inn. Conn heaved a sigh of relief. They would stop here for an hour or so; time for Barra to recuperate and for him to find some peace after the fight.

  He dropped from the saddle and walked briskly past the stable hand who came to fetch Barra.

  “A rub-down and bran mash for him, please,” Conn said quickly, feeling in his pocket for his coins. He handed them over to the youth, knowing that the exchange would ensure Barra got the best treatment. Then he went inside.