They all nodded, pleased with his choice of words. And then they dropped their tokens, one by one, into the water, where they disappeared into the inky depths.
The heavens didn’t open up to let angels descend.
The air didn’t stir with the breeze of faerie wings or fill with the sound of ancient pipes.
No Viking ghosts appeared.
Indeed, the moment was remarkably unremarkable.
“What do we do now?” Caimbeul asked.
Noёl answered. “I suppose we wait.”
As the moments crept by, Ysenda became more and more despondent. Nothing was happening. The spell wasn’t working. She should have known better than to believe in magic.
After an uncomfortably long silence, she finally spoke. “Maybe we should be gettin’ back.”
“Do ye think it worked?” Caimbeul asked.
“Nae.” The word scraped across her throat, like a sword blade on a sharpening stone.
Caimbeul’s brows came together. “So what do we do now?”
* * *
Noёl’s chest was tight. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to answer that. He’d hoped, impossibly, that somehow the well would give him an answer. But there had been nothing.
“What we must,” he decided.
Caimbeul straightened, as much as his crooked frame allowed. “Whatever happens, I’m goin’ to France with ye,” he blurted out. “That is,” he amended, “if ye’ll have me.”
From the corner of his eye, Noёl could see Ysenda had clenched her jaw.
He shook his head. “I can’t take ye from Ysenda, Caimbeul. Ye may be her younger brother, but now that ye’re grown, she needs your protection.”
Caimbeul scowled, simultaneously disappointed and flattered. In the end, all he did was mutter, “I’m not her younger brother. I’m the oldest.”
There was a long, melancholy silence.
Finally, Caimbeul’s words sank in. Noёl blinked, wondering if he’d heard wrong. “What? What did ye say?”
“I’m older than Ysenda. Three years older.”
He frowned. “Ye are? And what about Cathalin?”
“I’m two years older than Cathalin.”
He rattled his head. Surely that wasn’t right. “Ye’re the oldest?”
“Aye.”
Noёl closed his eyes. Was he missing something? “Ye’re the oldest?” he repeated.
“Aye,” the siblings said together.
“The oldest, as in the rightful heir to the laird?”
“Oh. Well, nae,” Ysenda explained. “The laird has never…he’s never claimed Caimbeul as his heir.”
“Hold on.” Noёl’s heart started to race. He didn’t want to get prematurely excited. But something was awry here. “Are ye sayin’ ye’re the next in line?”
“In principle, aye, but—”
“Nae, nae, nae, nae,” Noёl interrupted. “Not in principle. In actual fact.” Now his heart was pounding. This could be his answer. “Exactly why has he not claimed ye? Are ye not his son by blood?”
“I am.”
“Are ye a bastard?”
“Nae.”
“Why then?”
Caimbeul flushed and lowered his gaze.
Ysenda answered for him. “He’s never claimed Caimbeul as his son because he’s a cripple and unfit to rule.”
“But he’s not unfit,” Noёl insisted, beginning to pace eagerly now as he considered this new piece of information. “Ye saw him on the field. Not only is he bright and clever, but he can even hold his own with a sword.”
Ysenda and Caimbeul stared at each other. Clearly, the thought of contesting the inheritance had never crossed their minds.
He supposed he could see why. The Highlands were so remote that a clan laird was essentially the ruler of his own domain. The Scottish king might lay down the law of the land. But the laird felt he had the power to bend that law as he saw fit.
In truth, however, laws were a matter of record. No man could alter what was written down by a king to suit his own wants or needs…not even a laird.
“It doesn’t matter whether the laird wishes to claim him or not,” Noёl explained. “Caimbeul is his son. As long as he’s fit to rule—and anyone can see he is—by law, Caimbeul is the true heir.”
“So ye’re sayin’ the holdin’ doesn’t rightfully belong to Cathalin,” Caimbeul mused aloud, “no matter who she weds? It belongs to me?”
“Exactly.” Noёl crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction. “Which means—”
“Which means we can all have what we want,” Ysenda gushed. “We can stay married and go to France. Cathalin can wed her Highlander…”
“And I can come to train with your men,” Caimbeul inserted, for fear he might be excluded.
Noёl gave him a slow grin. “Aye.”
Caimbeul rubbed his jaw, thinking this over. Then his brow creased. “It doesn’t seem possible. Do ye truly think ‘twill come to pass? My father is very strong-willed. And the Highlands is a long reach for the arm o’ the law.”
“Which is why the king sends men like the Knights o’ de Ware to enforce the law,” Noёl said.
“Ye’d do that?”
“Aye, o’ course. Ye’re one of us now.”
“But what about the clan?” he asked. “I don’t want war with the clan.”
“They’re my clan as well,” Noёl assured him. “When the time comes, we’ll find a way to keep the peace. Ye’re a clever man. Ye’ll think of somethin’.”
Ysenda’s beautiful silver eyes shone with hope. But there was wisdom and caution in her voice. “‘Twill all have to be kept a secret. If the laird suspects that Caimbeul has a claim to the holdin’...”
She didn’t finish the thought. But they all knew the risk. Laird Gille wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate his heir if Caimbeul proved to be…inconvenient.
“Aye,” Noёl said. “’Twill be a secret between the three of us.”
They nodded in solemn agreement.
And then, with a soft cry of victory, Ysenda threw herself into Noёl’s arms.
He chuckled with pleasure and held her close.
But as their lingering embrace went on and on, Caimbeul finally rolled his eyes and turned to leave.
“Where are ye goin’?” Ysenda asked him.
“Back to the keep,” he said over his shoulder. “There’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to do for a long while. But don’t fret. By the time ye get finished…celebratin’…ye can catch up with me.”
Noёl bid him farewell. Then he grinned and kissed the top of his lovely wife’s head. “It looks like we’ll have our whole lives to celebrate.”
“Not just our lives,” she murmured. “Eternity.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” he asked her softly. “The Viking well. It granted us our Yuletide wish.”
She nodded. Then she gazed up at him. Her smile was as sweet as mulled wine. Her eyes glowed with the warmth of Christmas candles. “For ever and aye.”
Epilogue
Leaving her Highland home to travel south with the Knights of de Ware, Ysenda had never felt so well protected. Of course, that hadn’t kept her from packing her own chain mail and weapons. Old habits were hard to break. It would be a long while before she’d grow to accept that she had an army of knights at her command and that her brother could take care of himself.
Caimbeul had certainly proved that upon their return to the castle.
Ysenda had had a lot of time to think on the way home from the well. Now that she was no longer beholden to her father, years of anger over Caimbeul’s mistreatment began to fester within her. All the laird’s past abuses—his mocking, violence, and cruelty—congealed into a single, hard knot of rage and injustice that stuck in her craw. With each step she took toward the castle, fury flowed hotter in her veins.
When they finally arrived at the keep to face her father, he was alone in the great hall and deep in his cups. His drunken sneer as the three of them approached only adde
d fuel to the almost irresistible desire Ysenda had to pay him back for all the pain he’d caused.
But she’d held her tongue as Sir Noёl explained that they wished to take Caimbeul with them to France.
Her father’s eyes lit up. “Ach, aye!” he crowed. “I’ve heard the French courts like to use dwarves and such for entertainment.”
Ysenda longed to curse her father for his brutal words.
But then she heard the echo of her mother’s voice. Above all, the warrior maid had taught Ysenda to maintain control of her emotions. Losing one’s temper was never wise. Besides, she and Caimbeul would leave soon and likely never see the laird again. There was no point in stirring up trouble. So she tensed her jaw against the urge to fire off a biting retort.
The laird eyed Caimbeul speculatively over the top of his cup. “Or maybe ye’re plannin’ to sell him along the way? The lad has a decent voice. No doubt a singin’ cripple could bring ye a good price.”
Ysenda clenched her teeth until they hurt. But she kept mentally repeating her mother’s advice. One must take a deep breath, harness all the anger, and choose one’s battles wisely.
The laird took a drink and then smacked his lips. “He’s probably got another five or six years o’ life at most. Still, ye’ll get your coin’s worth.”
That made Ysenda’s blood boil. But no matter how much she yearned to claw that smug smirk off of the laird’s face, no matter how gratifying it would be to tear the beard from his chin, no matter how her fist ached to…
Crack!
Ysenda lifted a brow as her father’s head snapped back under Caimbeul’s solid punch. The laird staggered backward, dropping his cup and clutching his nose.
As Ysenda stared in wonder, Caimbeul shook his bruised knuckles. Then he grinned in satisfaction. “That’s for a lifetime o’ sufferin’…Da.”
Those had been Caimbeul’s last words to the laird, who’d shuffled off to have someone tend to his bloodied nose. Ysenda had never been prouder of her brother. And she thought their mother would agree that he’d chosen his battle wisely.
Now they were headed to France—to freedom and to family. As impossible as it seemed, Ysenda thought Caimbeul looked taller as he traveled beside his new companions-in-arms. Perhaps he no longer felt crushed by the weight of his infirmity.
As for her husband, though his men laughingly insisted Noёl was the ugliest of the de Ware brothers, Ysenda could not have been happier to be wed to such a handsome, kind, noble, brilliant, and honorable man. Noёl had promised that when her father died, he and his men would return with Caimbeul to help him claim the Highland holding without shedding a drop of blood.
Their path from the keep took them past the Viking well. Ysenda requested a private moment before they continued on their journey to visit one last time. Gathering her cloak about her, she clambered across the snowdrifts until she reached the silvery stream and the crumbling stones of the ruin.
There, she ran her fingers over the ancient runes carved into the lid of the well. She whispered thanks to the lost lovers for granting her wish. Then she sent up a silent prayer of her own—that somehow, some way, no matter how long it took, the doomed couple might eventually have their own curse lifted.
By the time she returned to the company, the knights were speaking with a dozen strangers—travelers headed in the opposite direction. The band of ragged Highlanders said they were on their way to the keep of Laird Gille.
The wee lad at the fore licked his chapped lips and raised his beardless chin, boasting in his high, sweet voice that he was going to marry the bonniest lass in all of Scotland.
Ysenda’s brows lifted. But she wisely held her laughter. She wished she could see her sister’s face when Cathalin beheld the bridegroom she’d wanted so badly—all four feet of him.
Instead, she smiled up at Noёl, whose lips were twitching with amusement. He gave her a wink, and she sighed with pleasure.
This was going to be, without a doubt, the best Yuletide ever.
If you enjoyed this novella
read more books in this series…
The Shipwreck (a novella)
Lady Danger
Captive Heart
Knight's Prize
The Knights of de Ware
My Champion
My Warrior
My Hero
About Glynnis
GLYNNIS CAMPBELL is a USA Today bestselling author of swashbuckling action-adventure romance. She's the wife of a rock star, and the mother of two young adults, but she's also been a ballerina, a typographer, a film composer, a piano player, a singer in an all-girl rock band, and a voice in those violent video games you won't let your kids play. She does her best writing on cruise ships, in Scottish castles, on her husband's tour bus, and at home in her sunny southern California garden. Glynnis loves to play medieval matchmaker, transporting readers to a place where the bold heroes have endearing flaws, the women are stronger than they look, the land is lush and untamed, and chivalry is alive and well!
Her readers are like family, and she loves to hear from them.
For more information:
@glynniscampbell
glynniscampbell
www.glynnis.net
MacKinnons’ Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol
by Tanya Anne Crosby
Prologue
Northumbria, Aldergh Castle, December 6, 1135
“In the name of the deceased, lady Eleanore of Aldergh, dead this sixth day of December in the year of our lord 1135…”
Hugh FitzSimon hurled the newly arrived letter across his desk.
Eleanore, dearest Eleanore, was dead.
He’d kept her from their daughter all these years past, never revealing to Page that her mother still lived. Why, he could not say, but now that Eleanore was gone, the knowledge settled like a stone within his breast.
To make matters worse, King Henry was calling all his barons to Lyons-la-Foret in France and Hugh could simply not bear to face the man—sovereign or nay. Thankfully, his bastard son, Afric, had offered to save him the trip, representing Aldergh in FitzSimon’s name.
After all, it wasn’t as though King Henry could be dying.
Howbeit, Eleanore, his dearest Eleanore, was gone—her spirit flown to God.
Grief choked him about the throat.
Grief. Shame. Regret.
These now would be his bedfellows.
“Eleanore,” he whispered low—a broken sound that bounced off bare stone.
His wife had been a vision to be sure, so lovely to behold. That she’d found it in her spirit to say nay to their king had simply never appealed to Hugh’s sense of reason. After all, who could say nay to their lord sovereign and protector? Hugh himself would have allowed the man to bugger him if he’d only but asked. It made no sense to him that his meek little wife could hold her marriage vows above the wishes of their king. And despite the fact that she’d sworn she’d remained true, Hugh never found it in his heart to believe her—or to forgive her. And why? Because she’d caught Henry’s eye?
Some part of Hugh had been envious as well.
It was true.
All his life he’d aspired to become more than a lowly baron. And then he’d gone and wed the lovely Eleanore, and King Henry suddenly took notice, inviting them both regularly to court, although his attentions were always for Eleanore, none for Hugh.
Out of jealousy, Hugh had cast his lovely bride away, and pride never allowed him to bring her home. Even now, they would entomb Eleanore near the priory, and he would never again behold her lovely face.
And worse—for all the pain he’d caused, he’d made their daughter pay.
The last time he’d attempted to see Page, the MacKinnon threatened cut out his heart. And that man would do it; Hugh had very little doubt. Iain MacKinnon was not a man to be trifled with.
Ultimately, this was all King Henry’s fault, Hugh decided, although at least he wasn’t alone in his misery. The King himself had no heirs. Henry’s o
ne and only son had found his fate at the bottom of the sea, leaving the king very little choice but to name his recalcitrant daughter as his heir. Hugh might do the same for Page, except that she loathed him still.
A memory crept back to torment him, words that could never be recalled: “My son for your daughter,” Iain MacKinnon had offered, tossing Page’s shoe up on the ramparts for Hugh to behold as proof that he held his daughter for ransom.
Hugh’s heart had remained cold. “What need have I of that brat?” he’d said. “I’ve sons aplenty and the means to forge myself more.” All bastards, not a one fit to bear his name. And yet, he’d declared, “Keep her, or kill her. I care not which.”
And so MacKinnon kept her, and then he’d wed her, and FitzSimon never saw his daughter again.
A rumble of a sigh escaped him, the sound amplified in the cavernous interior of his home. What good were riches if they would be heaped upon his grave? What good was gold to a miserable sack of bones?
Aye, in truth, FitzSimon rued the day he’d sent his women away, for now who remained? He was alone, save for Afric, who’d stayed only because he hoped Hugh would enfief him some day—another bastard son to bear the Fitz name. Afric would then be known as Afric Fitzhugh FitzSimon—hardly a legacy to be proud of!
Outside, the wind raged like a wailing banshee, sending furious howls into the castle through cracks in the walls. FitzSimon hadn’t bothered with a fire in the hearth tonight. Why should he? He wore a fine, heavy cloak, lined with ermine—as splendid as any cloak worn by any king. Some day, it would be moth bait in a forgotten coffer somewhere, left to be picked over by wastrels who’d come to steal his remnants.
Heart heavy and despairing, he peered out the solar window, into the courtyard below. It was deserted now, as many of his wards had abandoned him already to spend the winter with their families.
Highlanders for the Holidays: 4 Hot Scots Page 10