The Highland Hero (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  They were in a corridor, the floor flagstones, the roof wooden. There was a torch in a sconce lighting up the corridor, and it led up and forward. Her captors walked along and she, still slung over the man's shoulder like a bolt of linen, followed them.

  They stopped. Chrissie, her head hanging, could not see why. She waited.

  “Alec?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Is his lordship about?”

  “Yes. He's inside. He said not to disturb him.”

  “I think we need to.”

  The man's voice was grim and, whoever it was on the receiving end seemed to take it seriously, for Chrissie heard a door creak and the man disappeared inside, his footsteps ringing out hollowly before the door shut and everything went silent.

  At length, the door creaked open. “Go in.”

  Chrissie held her breath. They were on their way inside. To see whoever was the lord of this fort. She prayed it was not Leonard.

  “My lord,” Bruce said, suddenly sounding respectful.

  “What do you have?” The voice was cold, detached. Chrissie swallowed, feeling her gut churn with fear. Her heart beat fast and her breath was rasping. She did not think she had ever been quite so frightened before.

  “A girl, sir. A lady,” he corrected ironically. “We found her in the woods, at night.”

  “Put her down.”

  “She's wounded, sir. Cannae walk.”

  “I said, put her down. I want to see her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man dropped her unceremoniously to her feet and Chrissie cried aloud when her foot touched the ground. She felt herself slipping and grabbed the man's arm for support. She stood, wavering, her one leg bent so she did not need to rest her weight on it.

  She found herself facing a tall man. He had a long face and a long nose, long hair which was going gray. It was difficult to tell how old he was, for his face did not seem that lined, though his hair was almost white in places. He stared at her out of dark eyes that were strangely dead. He looked emotionless, as if he had seen much of life and had long ago lost interest, preferring the cold implacability of death. The look in them could have been interpreted as sadness, had they not been so terrifyingly blank.

  Chrissie gulped. “I ask your protection, sir,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I am Chrissie Connolly. I was riding in the forest when my horse bolted, and I...”

  “Where from?”

  Chrissie gaped at him. “Sorry, sir?”

  “Where had you ridden from?”

  “Lochlann. Oh...” Chrissie covered her mouth with her hand. The moment she had said the name, she saw those dead eyes sparkle with interest and she knew she had guessed wrongly. Horribly wrongly. She cringed back, clawing her captor's wrist in an effort to keep upright and keep away from this man.

  “Lochlann,” the man said, and he rolled the name in his mouth, as if it was something to be appreciated, like wine.

  “I mean, I don't actually live there,” Chrissie demurred. “I'm a servant. A ladies' maid. I...”

  The man laughed. “A ladies' maid. With her own horse. Riding in the forest unassisted. I think you know how unlikely that is.”

  Chrissie swallowed, feeling stupid. She had already given him all the information he needed. This man was clearly someone who hated her family. Someone who would give a lot to destroy them.

  “You're McDonnell,” she breathed. It suddenly made sense. The most recent thane had died, and he had been replaced by his uncle. This must be him. The uncle's name was Leonard.

  He laughed. “Well done!” he looked quite pleased.

  Chrissie shrank back. She was shivering, and she clutched her captor's arm so tightly that he stiffened and pulled back, making her wince.

  “Lady Chrissie,” the man said, giving a mocking bow. “I think we have a lot to discuss. You may go,” he added to her captor, looking at him briefly.

  “Sir...”

  “Out.”

  The man stepped back and Chrissie fell backwards, grabbing at the nearest thing to steady herself, which turned out to be a cornice. The man facing her smiled. Under those dead eyes it was almost as terrifying as if he had scowled. She shivered.

  “Come, sit down,” the man invited. “We have much to discuss.”

  Chrissie looked across at where he indicated--a settee and some chairs near a blazing log fire in a vast hearth behind them.

  “I can't walk.”

  “Oh,” the thane said. He reached out and took her wrist. Chrissie hated the way his cool hand felt on her skin...it had a lifeless feeling to it, the grip limp and the skin cold.

  “Thank you,” she said nevertheless as he led her to the settle. He waited for her to sit down and then sat facing her on one of the chairs.

  “Right,” he said firmly, the instant she was sitting comfortably. “Tell me your home's weaknesses.”

  “What?” Chrissie stared at him as if he had gone mad.

  “The military strengths of your home's defenses, and what I can do to overcome then,” he explained patiently.

  Chrissie stared at him. “I...I don't know!” she stammered, which was almost true. “How would I?”

  He sighed. “True,” he commented. “You're no soldier. Nevertheless, you can tell me something. Is Laird Brien prepared for war?”

  “Laird Brien's always prepared for everything,” Chrissie said staunchly, praying inwardly that it was true. She had no idea if he was ready or not, only that, if he was not, she would have to try and escape this place and get word to him, and soon. “He is never not ready to face your kind in the field, winter or no.”

  The older man laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

  “Well, then,” he said quietly. “I suppose I shall have to accept that...somewhat biased...opinion of Laird Brien.”

  “Yes,” Chrissie said in what attempted to be a flippant way, “You will.”

  He laughed. “You have a fighter's spirit, young lady. You are Brien's niece, yes?”

  Chrissie paused. Here, she was in dangerous water, with no idea of whether or not her identity would protect her, or put her in danger. She knew nothing of the McDonnell, besides that they had a longstanding feud with her family, the origin of which had been lost with time. Would he kill her for who she was? She took a guess.

  “No.”

  “Oh?” The man's brow went up. “If you are not, how, then, are you a lady from Lochlann? I thought all the young ladies there were nieces of the wily old scoundrel. Am I wrong?”

  “I'm...I'm fostering there,” Chrissie lied. “I'm from across the valley.”

  “Oh!” The man sighed. “And so you came last week, with the party from Dunellen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bruce!” he called. Chrissie's heart sank.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  Bruce had appeared remarkably fast, Chrissie noted. Apparently he had not wandered off too far.

  “Did you see this lady in the party from Dunellen?”

  “No, milord.”

  Chrissie looked at the floor. She wanted to weep. It didn't matter very much whether she did or not, she decided, so she let herself cry noiselessly, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Thank you. You may go now.”

  When Bruce had left them, his lordship stood and circled her chair. Chrissie tensed, fearing something terrible was about to happen.

  “So,” he said softly. “You thought you could lie to me. You are his lordship's niece. I know that now. And you thought to hide it. Well,” he came to the front of the settee and looked into her face, his own, with its blank eyes, inches away. “I don't like people who try and make a fool of me.”

  “Please,” Chrissie whispered. She was frightened. Things had ceased to feel real to her. This couldn't possibly be happening. She was dreaming. That was it. This was a dream from which she would wake tomorrow. It would be something she could forget with a mug of warm milk and some porridge. Warm, creamy porridge, like Cook made, with s
alt and a little bit of butter to melt into it, smelling of oats and warmth and milk...

  “I have decided what I'm going to do,” Lord Leonard spoke, startling her out of her warm dreams of breakfast. It was not a nightmare. It was real.

  Chrissie said nothing. She stared at him, willing him to disappear and be replaced with the familiarity of her bedchamber.

  “I am,” he continued, “going to have you killed. We will slit your throat and leave you at the gates of Lochlann. That ought to stir the hornet' nest.”

  “No!” Chrissie whispered. No. No. He couldn't be saying this. He couldn't mean it. She wasn't going to die. She wasn't. She wasn't...

  She tried to scramble to her feet, but her ankle gave way and she stumbled, slipping. She fell on the flagstones, but she couldn't lie there. She had to get up. She had to leave here. Had to...

  She was crawling on hands and knees over the flagstones, scrambling too fast to even think about the pain, the cold, the stiffness. She had to reach the door. Had to...

  “Got you!” Leonard shouted triumphantly. He dragged her back to the settee, lifting her as easily as if she weighed nothing. Chrissie screamed and kicked out, her wounded ankle connecting his boot. He had lined them with metal strips to protect against sword strokes, and the pain jarred up her leg and she whimpered.

  “Please,” she said, tears streaming down her face as he carried her to the settee. “Please. No. No. No...”

  He said nothing. He held her on the settee at arm's length and regarded her coolly.

  “I don't enjoy this, you know,” he confided. “I don't hate it. Don't love it. I don't really care either way. I do it and I go to bed and wake and nothing gives me pleasure and nothing saddens me. Nobody, anyway.” he shrugged.

  Chrissie swallowed. There was something very odd about this man. She cringed back from him but he wasn't looking at her, his eyes on some distant horizon. She blinked. If she reached out, she could grab his dagger and...

  “Guards!” he shouted. As she moved, he caught her wrist. Chrissie cried out, more in rage than fear. Her last hope had gone. The guards were there now, surrounding them both.

  “Yes?”

  “Take her to the turret. We'll do what has to be done tomorrow. This should bring matters to a swift conclusion.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Chrissie did her best, shouting, howling, kicking, and trying to make them let her go, but they resisted quietly, subdued by their fear of their master as much as anything else.

  They reached the turret room and locked her in. None of them looked happy about what they had to do. Chrissie considered pleading with them, but one look at the face of their leader – resigned, cold – let her know it would be impossible.

  The turret room contained nothing but a bucket and a blanket. Chrissie, shivering with cold, drew the blanket around her shoulders and curled up on the floor, which, mercifully, was of wooden slats. The thick stone walls kept out the chill here below the slit of window, and that, at least, meant she would not die of cold that night. Why, though, would she be preserved from cold, only to die here in the morning?

  If she died, she would never see any of them again. She would never see Alina, or hold her baby in her arms. She would never see Amabel and her bonny children, or Aili. She wished she was here with her wise counsel. Journeys. She had warned her. Well, this journey might prove to be her last, for Aili had not promised any future after. She couldn't forget Blaine. Laughing, smiling Blaine, his rugged features wrinkled temporarily by a big grin. She would never see Blaine again. Never hold him, kiss him. Never wed him – even if that were to somehow become possible.

  “Blaine,” she whispered into the silent turret room. “Blaine. I love you.”

  At that moment, in the remote silence of the turret, she knew that it was true. She only wished she had not only known it now. When it was far too late.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DARKNESS FALLING

  DARKNESS FALLING

  “Right.”

  Blaine had followed the tracks all night. It was, he guessed, almost morning. Perhaps three or four hours before the first light would break forth, and the birds would start to call. He could already feel the night drawing back.

  He had arrived, he and the two horses, at a wall. It rose out of the moorlands on one side, the forest on the other clinging to the dark stone like a cloak.

  “A border fort?” he asked the horses. Bert snorted and Blaine considered. They had ridden west, and perhaps they had gone far enough to reach the start of McDonnell lands? In which case...

  “Chrissie!”

  She was here, captive in the hands of her enemy. What was happening to her..? He shuddered. He had to try and get her out of there.

  If she is still alive.

  Blaine dismissed the thought from his mind. Of course she was still alive! People didn't just murder high-born lasses, didn't just...

  Don't think about it. Just get her out.

  Blaine bit his lip, brow crinkled with a frown. He rode back a little way, contemplating the fort. As yet, he could make out no sentries on the top, at least not on his side.

  “Let's go round,” he told the horses. It did not look like a large fort, and part of it was hidden in the trees. He set off to his right, keeping a wide berth on this side where the sentries might catch sight of him on the open moors.

  He completed the circuit in perhaps fifteen minutes. It was a very small fort. High walls, but small in diameter. It held perhaps forty men. An outpost.

  “They'd only use a fort like this if they were setting out into our lands,” he thought. Why had he not sent men up here to check weeks ago? With these rumors, this should have been the first place they went! He shook his head, feeling like a fool.

  “Stop wasting time and think.” The cold was making it hard. It made it necessary to speak his thoughts aloud, lest they become as confused and garbled as his head threatened they would. “We can't go in from the right. They'll see us.” Sentries had already appeared on the wall there, and Blaine shrank back into the treeline, praying they would not notice him.

  There was no way, he thought mournfully, that one man could get into that fortress alone. He would have to send for reinforcements, which would take hours, and by the time they returned, who knew what could have happened? If they saw him, they would have cleared off long before he had a chance to come back.

  “Please,” Blaine said, unsure of to whom he prayed, but he prayed anyhow. “Let me find a way in.”

  Choosing a direction at random, he went left, into the woods. As he rode there, he heard something. Water.

  “Where does it go?” he asked himself aloud. The horses, scenting it, instantly became alert. Blaine sighed and slipped off Bert's back, allowing them both to drink while he scouted ahead. He came back, shaking with excitement.

  “There's a gate. A water gate.”

  He couldn't believe he had missed it the first time, though thinking back over it, that should not have surprised him. It was low to the ground – so small he would not contemplate it unless he was desperate – and the water was a small, still stream.

  “If I can pry out some of the bars, I can get through.”

  Drawing his longsword, he crept forward. He lay on his belly, gritting his teeth against the icy water that soaked his chest and robbed his body of strength and warmth. He stabbed forward with his sword, and then let out a hiss of triumph. The grille over the small arch – just high enough for his head and shoulders and, he prayed, his buttocks and his feet, to pass through - was wooden.

  Working at the grille with the tip of his sword, he found the wood was mostly rotten. He could break it down. He thought he heard sentries on the wall and worked faster, sweating with nerves. If they looked down, they would see him, and then all would be lost...

  At last, the grille broke. Not hesitating, he lay on his belly on the slick, stony stream bed and wriggled forward. His head passed through, and his shoulders. His sword went ahead, he
ld in a straight right arm. His back slid out as he clawed forward, and then his buttocks, when wriggled, followed suit. His legs and feet came through behind, boots scraping on the stone. He was in!

  Pausing to say a prayer of thanks, he looked around. He could just see the far side of the small courtyard in which he found himself, the walls towering above him. He shrank back against the wall, slipping sideways towards a patch of shadow. He froze when he heard running feet.

  “Fearrick?”

  “Aye?”

  “Master said upstairs. Now.”

  “I'm going, I'm going,” the first man grumbled. “Dunno what he's making such a rush for,” he added. “People die quick from a cut throat and won't go faster for us bein' there.”

  Blaine froze. Whose throat was cut? Whatever was happening, these men knew their way into the castle. He followed them, slipping soundlessly behind them, keeping to the wall, grateful for his years of training with their chief verderer, his mentor in stalking.

  He slipped through the door behind them, noting that no guard was there to hold it or check who came in. Clearly they did not expect intruders inside the fort, and why should they when it was so remote?

  The fort inside was as gloomy as it was without. He strained his eyes, grateful for the darkness which meant he could follow the men unnoticed as they climbed a spiral staircase. Keeping well behind them to avoid being seen, he followed them upstairs.

  He found himself in a long room between two turrets. There, a man stood at the end, near the further one, in which he could see a door. He was a tall man, clad in a dark cloak, with dark hair, slightly graying.

  “...I bring you here to tell you what you must tell our enemies,” the man said. Blaine frowned. Lord Leonard? The McDonnell? What was he doing here?

  “...and you must tell them how she struggled. How bloody the death was. We need to stoke their hate!” his lordship was saying. Blaine froze.

  She. He meant Chrissie. Suddenly, he understood. These men had captured Chrissie and brought her here and now they planned to kill her, as some sort of draw to provoke Lord Brien into open warfare? He shuddered. It was barbaric! Where was she?