by Julianne Lee
The local music sounded a little like the entertainment he’d heard in the army camps of Robert and Edward Bruce, but only a little. What Alex heard on Barra was closer to what he might have expected to hear in a St. Patrick’s Day parade. Though he’d seen pipes during his months fighting in the south, the ones in the household of the MacNeil laird were larger and louder than those. One of the bags looked like an entire lamb filled with air. The castle piper did make lively music with it, though, and he was obviously skilled.
But what really interested Alex were the stories. Tales of Scotland’s past, of Scottish kings and the glories of Gaelic culture, brought visions of tough, brave, and resourceful men. Men who were his own forebears, and that made them all the more exciting. More and more, awareness of his Scottish blood stirred and it was no longer the vague perception he’d had of kilts and whiskey. Now he knew why he was coming to identify himself as a Scot. Lindsay had been right, and so had the old ghost; a couple of centuries was not a long time, and two hundred years of American history was only a thin veneer laid over the millennia of his Celtic heritage. He listened, rapt, to bloody, violent stories of glory won in battle by MacNeils against other Scots and all Scots against the English, and before them the Saxons, and before them the Romans, told with a relish akin to sports announcing.
The MacNeils taught him of the recent English atrocities that had led to the war they now fought. Of the massacre at Berwick led by Edward I. Of Scots disinherited and their lands given over to Englishmen. Of entire towns put to the sword, where women and children were chased down by knights and cut open to lie, dying, in the streets before their homes. Of the weak reign of John Balliol, who had been the puppet of Edward I. Of the bravery and martyrdom of William Wallace, who had been tortured to death for standing up to the foreign king.
Wallace was a favorite subject around the MacNeil fire, and Alex learned every detail of the depraved execution from Alasdair Og, who had been there to witness it. It had been an imaginative torture thought up by the English king, so brutal the telling of it made even the sturdy MacNeil men go pale and quiet. Alex glanced over at Lindsay, who listened from the fringes with others of her rank, and saw her face pale. Her fingers pressed to her lips as if she might vomit, and a sheen of sweat covered her forehead. Quickly, he reached for the cup that was making the rounds, drained it, and raised it high to be refilled. Lindsay leapt to her feet in service of her master, took the cup, and hurried from the room. He didn’t expect her return until this particular story was finished, and it was well over before she came back with the cup filled with mead. As she handed it to him, the soft look of gratitude on her face warmed him.
He knew how she felt; the story had been hard on him as well. The horror in Alasdair’s voice had brought home to Alex the reality of the death in a way the depiction on film had not, and he had found himself wanting to follow her from the room for some air.
At the same time that the story made him queasy, it also fired his blood with anger. The movie he’d seen as a teenager had told a story distant and unclear, and, he realized, in many ways inaccurate. Now he realized the horrible execution had been an offense not just to one man, but to all of Scotland.
If the ghost of the former laird was correct, that included himself, and for it he wanted retribution. After six months of battle against forces loyal to the English crown, he hated the English as much as the rest of the MacNeils did.
In fact, as winter wore on he itched to get back to the fight. Occasionally he’d see men working in the frozen fields of the island, spreading manure behind small carts pulled by tiny horses led by wives or children, and he counted himself fortunate to be a knight. Soldiering was his profession as it always had been, and fighting was all he was expected to do here. In fact, he was honored for it in ways he’d never experienced back home. Frequently in the evenings, he was asked to tell stories of his battles and of the blood he’d shed. Nobody here ever asked him how it felt to kill someone, probably because most men already knew and the women knew they didn’t want to know.
However, as much as he enjoyed hanging out and telling stories, after a couple of months sitting he was ready to return to the fray against King Edward.
He knew James Douglas was more than likely still harrying the Borderlands at every opportunity, and that sounded like where he wanted to be. Alex thought long and hard about riding into England. Besides the wealth to he had there, he was now aware of the need to protect Scotland from incursion from the south. He was pleased to have sent Lord Clifford’s men to their maker, for they certainly didn’t belong in Scotland.
“What are you doing?” Lindsay returned to the bedchamber from somewhere, where she’d been doing squire stuff Alex didn’t care much about. Probably grooming horses or cleaning the tack, for though it was Colin’s job, she liked to get out of the living quarters from time to time and needed something to do.
Alex was sitting in one of the chairs by the fireplace, with a piece of paper and a board rested on his knees. “I’m drawing a coat of arms. I’ve been carrying that English shield around for half a year; I want to stop looking like a limey.” He glanced up at her, then quickly slipped his foot from his mouth. “I want to be identified as myself on the field.” He wanted the English to know who they were up against, and hoped they would be frightened.
“You want them to think you’re Scottish.”
He gazed blandly at her for a moment, then said. “Aye. I do.”
“Even though you’re not.”
His attention returned to the drawing before him, and he ignored her remark, saying, “Hector tells me I can base my design on the one he inherited from his father. That’s it there.” He pointed with his chin to the shield leaning against the foot of the bed.
Arms crossed, standing hipshot, she was about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. He was sure of it. “You realize if you do that you’ll have to indicate your illegitimate status.”
Oh, good. He already knew that. He sighed. “Yeah. Hector made certain I knew how to do that. Blue-and-silver border. Got it. My father must be turning in his grave. I mean, if he were born yet, and then...you know...died. I can’t even imagine what Mom would say.” He held up the paper. “So, see what I’ve got.”
It was a simple design, the better to not have to draw a lot of pictures. Inside the border of alternating silver and blue, which he’d made as thin as he figured he could get away with, the interior was divided into two parts. Below was a sailing ship of black on a background of gold, and above was an eagle with wings spread, gold on a background of red. He liked that the red and gold happened to echo the colors of King Robert’s arms as well as those of MacNeil. “See, I used the ship from Hector’s shield.”
“Nautical and aeronautical. That’s you, all right.” Lindsay pointed to the eagle’s neck, where the color of the body ended in a jagged line, and the head was an outline not filled in. “That’s a bald eagle.”
“It is.”
“They don’t exist here. Nobody here has ever seen one.”
“Yup.”
She chuckled. “You’re such an American.”
He sat back and grinned at her. A smile twitched on her lips, and her eyes shone so his heart swelled. “You love it. It gives you something to rag me about.” He took her hand, and drew her close so he could kiss her.
Alex had his shield painted by the armorer, then hung it on the wall of his chamber with his swords until he would need them. Gazing at it, all gold, black, and red, he almost trembled with the urge to get back to the action in the south.
But winter hung on, and the Sea of the Hebrides was too dangerous to cross to the mainland. February passed. March came, rainy and as cold as February. Days were gray and boring, but nights were filled with warmth and comfort. Alex had never been married, nor had he ever lived that way, and now he wondered how he’d ever been able to stand sleeping alone. Even the nights when they only slept, to have her there, warm and breathing beside him, eased his so
ul in ways he didn’t truly understand. He knew only a need to touch her before sleep. To touch her, hold her, make love to her, or just to have an arm against hers, and then he could rest.
She seemed to need it, too, and reached for him as often as he did her. Sometimes when he rolled toward her, he was quickly pressed over onto his back again and told to lie still for her to take him into her mouth. It happened only twice before he figured out why, and when he realized it was the only form of birth control available to her, he also realized his feelings about it were mixed.
She was right, of course. Pregnancy would be at best difficult to explain. But on a level deep inside, where lurked the uncertainties he never let show, he wondered whether it was children she didn’t want, or only his child. When he let himself think about it, the absent and therefore idealized Derek rose to mind and he knew how out of luck he himself would be if Lindsay was ever able to return to the fiancé.
But now was not the time to press the issue, for the question was moot. They were each faced with the lives given to them and the likelihood one or both would die in battle one day. He was pleased enough to let this winter pass in the comfort of Lindsay’s body and not think about the future until it would arrive.
Then as spring blossomed, drill with swords resumed. An expanse of pasture outside the castle was given over to lines of men, some whacking at each other with blades covered in leather, others with pikes or maces. Alex was glad to be active again, for the relentlessly greasy and starchy food of this century was catching up with him. He felt horribly out of shape, and his body made him regret sitting around by the fire all winter. Softness had set in around his middle and he could no longer find his abs without poking with his fingers. On Lindsay a little extra flesh was okay, for he liked her soft and giving in his hands, but for himself the flab had to go.
The aching muscles of the first few days were nearly a pleasure, for the pain made him feel alive. Overcoming it made him feel capable and strong, able to master whatever the English—or anyone else in the world—might send against him.
Today he worked with Lindsay in the castle bailey, taking the afternoon to spar with maces. She was quick, and slung the wooden haft and its curved flanges with deadly accuracy. A smile came as she backed him up against an animal pen. He set his teeth because she was refusing to pull punches, taking advantage of her knowledge he would lose rather than hurt her. He knew it, she knew he knew it, and there was nothing he could do about it short of actually hurting her. And that he wouldn’t do.
“I’m gonna come back at you,” he said, breath coming in gasps.
“So come.”
“Be ready.”
“Listen to you, warning your opponent you intend to fight him.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. You know it.”
“I know I’m beating you.” She hauled back and swung harder, but he dodged and she only whacked an upright pole. Thatching overhead rattled, and bits of straw and dried bracken fluttered down like snow.
As she yanked the mace flanges from the wood, he came around behind and tried to goose her with the spiked end of his mace, but she was too quick for him and parried. Laughing, he danced backward, then bounced on his toes, his weapon at his side to invite careless attack.
Lindsay hauled back to swing, but only feinted. When Alex tried to parry, she lunged to the side to goose him and succeeded.
That made him roar with offended dignity. “You limey!” he teased.
“You Yank!”
Then he laughed and lunged to goose her as well, taking the both of them into a whirling, circling flurry of trying to poke each other in the rear with the mace heads, laughing so hard they could hardly stand.
“Limey!”
“Yank!”
Finally they both dissolved in laughter and gave up the contest. Lindsay laughed so hard she doubled over, and Alex reached to steady her. Her eyes were bright with amusement, and he looked deep into them to share it.
Then they stepped back from each other, and Alex’s heart froze to find the Dowager Lady MacNeil watching from an open window above the pens, entirely too intrigued by what she saw. The old woman’s face was set hard, her chin pulled in and her eyes alive with hatred. For a brief, appalling second, Alex thought he saw the hooded, elfin figure standing beside her, leaning in to speak near her ear. But the image blinked out too quickly for him to be certain what he saw, and it left him staring into the face of a woman who by her expression would be happy to see him dead.
He then realized what this looked like to those who thought Lindsay was a boy, and said a bit more loudly than necessary, “Enough play. The English won’t be so amused, and will kill you for your lack of discipline.”
A puzzled look of betrayal crossed Lindsay’s face, then he muttered, “Curious onlooker, six o’clock high. Don’t look, just let’s drill.” Mace raised, she fell back into drill mode. Alex faced off with her once more, and hoped he’d caught the situation in time to keep Mama MacNeil from thinking unclean thoughts. However, he knew what he’d seen. She hated him too much to let this go, and so did that elf. Alarm fluttered in Alex’s gut.
It took only one day for Hector to come to him, cantering up behind him as he took a ride along the cliff overlooking the rocky shore. Eschewing the French circumspection of the Lowland nobility, the laird came right to the point, his voice of firm command that would brook no argument. “You must reveal your squire, and quickly.”
Alex laughed, imagining what Lindsay’s reaction would be to that suggestion. Probably laughter, as well.
“‘Tis no matter tor hilarity. My considered opinion is also that you should marry her straightaway.”
“She won’t have me. Besides, wouldn’t it appear strange if I married my squire?”
“You think it’s less strange to be making eyes at him?”
Alex lost his smile, and reined in his horse to gaze seaward as he thought of what to say. None of this was up to him. Lindsay would never reveal herself as a woman. He said, “One indiscretion.”
Hector’s horse nervously circled Alex, picking up the tension between the men. “One is sufficient, I think. It’s my opinion you must either convince her of the need for honesty in this, or else force her into a dress and then into wedlock,”
Alex turned to peer at his kinsman. “Force?”
“Aye. Distasteful, but ye must do it.” Hector seemed completely in earnest.
“Are you nuts?”
A wry smile lifted the corner of Hector’s mouth. “Nae. Are ye nuts yourself? You run a high risk here with the men. And with His Majesty, were he to learn of the rumor. As pious a man as he is, he’d not only give the order for ye to be burned, but he’d light the wood himself.”
“I can’t force her to marry me.” He boggled at the idea, and wondered if Hector might be having him on. Forced marriage? Rape he could comprehend, but the mechanics of forcing marriage to an unwilling woman were impossible to grasp. It couldn’t possibly be something people ever actually did. Or even wanted to do.
But Hector showed no signs of humor. “She’s no brothers, nor father. Has she any male relatives at all? Uncles? Cousins?”
Alex shook his head, not sure if that was a wise thing to admit but unwilling to start up yet another lie he might have to lay cover fire for.
“If she’s without kin I don’t see why you hesitate, nor why you think she’d object. Get her to a priest, and make her yours. You want her, that’s plain. It’s so plain ye cannae hide it from a woman who doesn’t even know you well.”
Hector’s mother. Alex wanted to ask what lies the old bat was spreading, but the woman was the laird’s mother and argument there was a minefield.
Hector continued, his voice flat with authority. “It’s plain you don’t want to simply reveal her as your mistress, or you’d have done it long ago. Your path is clear.”
“But she doesn’t want to get married.”
Hector laughed, a short, derisive bark. “And how should that matt
er? A woman must marry, or be a burden on the world. It would be a blessing to you both, as well as to everyone around you.”
“You don’t think she’s pulling her weight as a squire?”
“Oh, aye, she’s pulling far more than her weight in that. You being a MacNeil and all, I’m dead certain you keep her busier than any squire on the island, particularly at night. But that’s neither here nor there. She is in fact a woman, and as such is causing trouble among the men.”
“I think it’s your mother who is causing the trouble.”
Hector fell silent and glared a warning, then replied, “The Dowager Lady MacNeil is concerned for the welfare, and for the immortal souls, of her people. Further, she’s not the only one who has noted your attraction to the imposter. She tells me she’s been visited by a man who has voiced concerns about you.”
“What man? Who?”
“He is called Nemed, after the ancient king. He came to my mother to speak to her of rumors he’d heard of you and your squire. Said he knew the two of you at Galashiels.”
“Do you remember anyone called Nemed in Galashiels?”
Hector grunted. “Nae.”
Who was he, then? “Where is this man? I’d like to confront my accuser.”
Hector shrugged. “He hasn’t lingered. He came only to tell what he knew. By now he’s gone on his way.”
That was fast. And convenient timing. Realization crept in, and Alex’s heart went cold. “He wears a hooded cloak?”
“Aye.”
“Did your mother see his ears?”
“I cannae imagine what his ears might have to do with aught, but of course not. ‘Twas a hooded cloak.”
The elf. “How did he get onto the island? I thought the water was not yet passable.”
Again Hector shrugged. “A determined man who feels he has something important to say might take risks I do not. But this is all unimportant, and I’ll tell you what is of consequence. Your squire is causing trouble for you, and without anyone even knowing her sex. She’s no right to dress or behave like a man. God made women the way they are for good reason, and trying to cheat Him of what He’s decided for her is sinful and wrong. It can do naught but end badly. Take away her man’s clothes, take her to a priest, and make her know who she really is. Once she’s settled down, and realizes it’s where she belongs, she’ll he a good wife to you. But even if not, you’ll at least be alive. And any wife is better than none at all for a man’s comfort.”