Duty And Passion In The Highlands: A Scottish Medieval Historical Highlander Collection

by Adamina Young

  “What about your ancestor, Mungo Bruce?” Malle demanded. “He must have been furious when Isobell spurned him in favor of another man.”

  Alan sighed. “Tis said that he put the fear o’God intae a servant there an’ she poisoned the MacEwan lassie, an’ she confessed it on her deathbed,” he replied sulkily. “Whit are ye gaunnae dae wi’ me noo?”

  Craig pushed the sword closer to his neck and a few drops of blood started coming down Alan’s throat. “Speak the truth if you want to spend your life in prison and not be a corpse right here, right now.”

  “Me father told me-” but paused while being in great discomfort under Craigs sword. Craig did not give him any space, but only a look full of hate, straight in the eyes. Trying not to move an inch and breathing carefully, he continued. “Me father had a’ ways been proud aboot how my ancestor killed Isobel and stopped yer families from uniting.”

  Malle put her hand in her mouth and tears started coming out of her eyes.

  “If that had happened the Bruces would have perished long ago. ”

  Craig knew the truth now and had to hear no more. He moved his sword up and Alan closed his eyes and turned his head away. But Malle stopped Craig’s sword from coming down.

  “Craig, please do not kill him,” she begged. “He is unarmed now, and it would be murder. I know he is a killer, but two wrongs do not make a right, and you will not lower yourself to his level. We should bring him back to your castle to stay in the dungeon until he is tried. Does he have a wife and family?”

  “A wife and a son.” Craig looked down at her and sighed. “You are an angel,” he said softly, then he suddenly he howled in pain.

  He had looked at Malle and taken his attention away from Alan for one moment. That was all that was needed for Alan to whip out his dagger and stab Craig in the foot!

  For a moment, Craig was too stunned to move, then he bent down to pull out the dagger but could not get it free in time; Alan was able to retrieve his sword.

  He was in the act of sweeping it down on Craig’s head when Malle had rushed over and pulled the knife out of Craig’s foot, allowing him to deflect the stroke. Craig stood up and took a mighty swipe at Alan, but he ducked under it, then lunged at Craig with the point of his weapon aimed straight at his chest. Wounded as he was, Craig still managed to step out of Alan’s way, then he held his sword out sideways.

  There was no more time to play, Craig would not risk again and now Malle could not save Alan Bruce.

  Without time to slow down Craig charged towards Alan. In the heat of the battle, his foot seemed to function as if it was not wounded. One, two, three strikes. Alan managed to put his sword against Craigs but the last hit was so strong that took his sword out of his hands. Alans eyes opened wide and in a brief moment he looked at Craig begging him not to kill him.

  Craig’s blade was sharp and hard enough to cut through a wooden shield without stopping. Craig moved the sword with his powerful hands without thinking twice and it bit into the flesh of Alan’s neck and clove through it as if it were butter.

  * * *

  Malle gave a shriek as Alan Bruce’s head fell to the floor with a thud, spouting blood.

  * * *

  She ran to Craig, who had sat down on the ground pushing his thumbs over the hole that the dagger had made in his foot. She fetched his cloak, tore strips from the hem, then wound them around his foot as tightly as she could. Only then did she allow herself to weep. She cried and cried, saying his name over and over while he held her, rocking her like a little child. His foot was throbbing with pain, but he ignored it, comforted by her embrace as he buried his face in her beautiful dark hair.

  At last her sobs began to ease, then stopped altogether. She lay back on the carpet of pine needles and wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingertips.

  “Are you alright, Malle?” he asked anxiously.

  “I am fine,” she replied, giving him a watery smile. “Can you ride?”

  He groaned, remembering the pain. “I think so, but you will have to help me.”

  Then he gazed at her for a moment, seeing the beauty of the long hair, the beautiful eyes and the full pouting lips, the womanly breasts and tiny waist. He had known how he felt about her for a long time, but now he was absolutely sure of one thing: he could not live without her. He was kneeling on the ground, about to get up, when the words came, unbidden, out of his mouth.

  “Malle MacEwan,” he said huskily, kissing her hand, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  For a moment, she was stunned with disbelief, then she threw her arms around his neck.“Yes, Craig, I will!” she replied joyfully. She had been hoping to be his since the moment she saw him. And now she knew she could trust him. Most of all because she felt it in her bones. This man was made for her. And she was made for him.

  “You are everything to me Craig. But...what will our parents think?”

  16

  Recovering

  “Thank you, thank you Malle!” he said fervently, and his face was lit up with happiness for a moment before clouding over with pain again. “We can worry about our parents later. At this moment all I want to do is get home.” He looked very pale and tired. He glanced up at the darkening sky, then he sighed and gave her a weary smile. “At least we know the truth about the feud, and that Fergus was innocent. I am glad to hear that, and to know that his family still has its land.”

  “Alan was a cruel man,” she agreed. “But he was too cowardly to take on a strong man. Look what happened when he did.” She looked at the maimed body, which she had covered with her cloak, and shivered.

  “I will have some men come to clear this mess up,” Craig said, with disgust in his voice. “Unless the wolves and foxes get it first. Still, Alan might have been a scoundrel, but he has answered many questions, Malle, and now we can right many wrongs.”

  “Yes,” she said sadly, “we know who killed Isobell now.” She was looking down at her hands, in which she was idly twisting a leaf.

  He tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes, smiling. “You have eyes the color of sage leaves,” he whispered as he kissed her again.

  “And yours are the color of the sea on a stormy day.” She smiled and pushed him away gently. “I found a few letters, and more entries in Isobell’s diaries. I was coming to show you. We can look through them together later.”

  Craig looked up at the sky, which was darkening with every second.

  “I think we had better go home, Malle, or back to my home, which will soon be yours.” He smiled.

  “I cannot wait,” she replied.

  She joined her hands under his unhurt foot and hoisted him up with as much strength as she could muster as he scrambled into the saddle.

  Malle had trained Arthur to kneel on command, and it would have been easier for Craig to ride the big horse, but he would not tolerate any rider but Malle. Now, it was an easy matter for her to sit astride him as he stood up, and they went back to Dunbar Castle at a slow walk. As well as his sore foot, Craig had several sword cuts, bruises, and grazes, and Malle had the same as well as a whole head of luxuriant hair in which thousands of pine needles were embedded.

  “You look like a haystack,” Craig told her, smiling painfully as he tried to put a little humor into the situation.

  “Thank you,” she replied dryly. “You look very fetching too.”

  Then they laughed, but Malle suddenly thought of what they had left behind. “At least your head is still attached to your body.” She sounded sad. “I know that he was out of his mind and a killer, but his was still a human life.”

  “Do not try to make me feel any worse than I do already, Malle.” He sighed. “It was kill or be killed.”

  “I know, love,” she replied, leaning over to squeeze his hand. “And if you had not been there to save me I would not be here now.”

  “And if you had not pulled the knife out of my foot, I would not be here either,” he replied. “So our scores are even, my darlin
g.”

  They ambled wearily back to the castle, but when they got there, Malle found that she did not have the strength to dismount from Arthur, and one of the stable hands had to lift her down.

  Craig felt ashamed that he could not help her, but he was in so much pain that he could hardly walk, and had to be helped to a bedroom on the ground floor of the castle so that he could be tended to.

  Malle, who had not recovered from her first attack before being subjected to a second one, was helped to another room and put to bed before passing out.

  Craig’s foot was washed with wine and bandaged, then Jessie, the wise woman, gave him some poppy milk for the pain. But before he slept he had to know about Malle.

  “How is she?” Craig asked anxiously. “Is she in pain?”

  “We hae gied her a wee bit milk o’ the poppy, M’laird,” Jessie answered, “an’ washed her wi’ wine. She isnae any worse than you are! Now go tae sleep.”

  Reassured, Craig did as he was bidden.

  When they got back from the horse fair, Margaret was excited to show Malle the beautiful little dappled gray mare she had just bought. Malle loved horses, and went for a ride on a daintier one now and again. Margaret wanted her advice on the choice of a name. Although Malle chose to ride on a huge beast like Arthur, she would not say no to a ride on a daintier mount. However, Margaret had purchased the little palfrey for herself, and she knew that they were going to treasure each other for a long time.

  Margaret went through to the parlor, expecting to see her daughter there, then to her bedroom and the library. She tried her bedroom, where the sheets were still rumpled from her night’s sleep, but she was not there either. Eventually she thought of the secret little room and entered it, calling out Malle’s name, but there was no sign of her there or anywhere else. It was a very big castle, she thought, but it was very unlikely that she would be wandering amongst the maze of bedrooms in the east and west wings. There were eighty of them, although fifty were occupied by servants.

  Margaret hurried out into the stables where she found Malcolm. “Have you seen Malle?” she asked fearfully. “I cannot find her anywhere.”

  “She is not here...wait.” He walked along the stable block, looking for Arthur. When he saw that the big horse was not there, he strode back to Margaret, his face thunderous. “Arthur has gone,” he growled. “She is battered, bruised, and bleeding. What on earth would make her go out in that state?”

  Margaret thought for a moment before light dawned in her eyes. “Kenny,” she said, frowning, “I hope I am wrong, but I can think of one person she might be with.”

  “Who?” Kenneth frowned.

  “Craig Dunbar,” Margaret replied, frowning worriedly. “Something inside me tells me that she loves him.”

  “There has not been a match between a Dunbar and a MacEwan for two hundred years! Are you insane? I will not allow that!” Kenneth almost spluttered on his ale.

  “I did not speak of marriage my dear,” Margaret protested. “But she is a lovely young girl, and he is a big handsome man, and I saw the way they looked at each other. Have you not noticed? I think she might be with him.”

  “No, I have not noticed,” Kenneth replied. “ And I am sure she is not with him! WHY would she be with him Margaret?.” He stroked his beard and bit his lip, a sure sign that he was anxious. “She could be anywhere! I am taking some guards and going out to look for her!” He swallowed the last of his ale and was about to stride out of the door when a maidservant came in with a letter on a tray.

  “Who brought it?” he asked as he slit the seal open.

  “A priest, M’laird,” she replied. “A wee auld man, but he left as soon as he drapped it aff.”

  “With a kind face?” Margaret asked. The young woman nodded. “Father John.”

  Kenneth was scanning the message. “It’s from Malcolm Dunbar. He says:

  * * *

  Laird and Lady MacEwan,

  * * *

  Your daughter is at my estate recovering from a fall from her horse. She is not seriously hurt and is in good hands. I have instructed my guards to let you come and see her at your convenience.

  * * *

  Regards,

  * * *

  Laird Malcolm Dunbar

  * * *

  “I told her that horse was too big for her!” Margaret growled.

  “How?...What?...We must go at once.” Kenneth was decisive, and impatient. “Malcolm Dunbar may be a good man, Margaret, and his son may have honorable intentions towards our daughter, but then again they may not. We will go to see them at once.”

  Margaret nodded, then went to fetch some more clothes for Malle. When she was ready, she came down to see her husband standing by the window looking out, tapping his feet nervously. It was the dark of the moon, and there was not a light to be seen anywhere.

  “We will have to go slowly,” he observed, “and take lanterns. It is but two miles, but it will feel more like five.”

  Margaret nodded. She was trembling already, and her eyes were glittering with unshed tears. Malle was her only child, and she felt helpless.

  Kenneth wrapped his arms around her. “Hush, wee darling,” he whispered. “We will be there soon, and she will be well.” He only hoped he was right.

  17

  Lairds and Ladies

  The next morning, having slept like the dead under the influence of a generous dose of poppy milk, Craig woke up “like a bag of cats” as Jessie was wont to say when he was in a bad mood. He almost asked if he could have his foot chopped off, since he imagined that it might be less agonizing than what he was going through at that moment. Jessie had washed it in wine and smeared it liberally with honey, then she had bandaged it right up to his ankle with so much bandage that it looked as if his foot had swollen up to three times its normal size.

  “Do you really have to do that?” he grumbled.

  “Naw, young master,” she replied sharply. “Only if ye wid like tae keep yer fit. I could jist let it go black an’ fa’ aff.”

  Craig laughed. “I am just a bit sore, Jessie,” he said, wincing. “But I know what will help to cure me—a tumbler of usquebae!”

  “Aye, cures everythin’, that stuff!” Jessie muttered and shook her head. “I wid hate tae see ye gein’ birth, then, M’laird.” Then she laughed heartily. The young laird was one of the few toffs she could laugh with, and she was not in awe of him, because he could actually laugh at himself.

  “How is Malle?” he asked anxiously. “Is she badly injured?”

  “Naw, M’laird,” Jessie replied, “dinnae fash yersel’. She has a fine big bump on the heid, cuts an’ grazes everywhere, bit she willnae die. She should rest.”

  “May I see her?” he pleaded.

  Jessie sighed. “I cannae stop ye but the quickest thing tae cure the lass is rest.”

  “What about love?” he asked, smiling mischievously.

  “I knew it!” Jessie laughed. “I knew ye were smitten!”

  “But she is a MacEwan, and I am a Dunbar,” he sighed.

  “Naw, M’laird,”—Jessie shook her head firmly—“you are a man an’ she is a wummin. Like Adam an’ Eve.”

  He smiled at her. “I hated her the first time I saw her.” He laughed. “I have never met such a ball of fire before, and she is so small. I just want to look after her.”

  “Then you are a good man, young master,” Jessie replied. “An’ that young wummin will be a good wife. I can aye tell.”

  “You are a grand lady, Jessie,” he remarked, smiling. “Now I am going to see my beloved.”

  Yer beloved is a lucky young lassie, Jessie thought as she watched him limping out.

  Malle was asleep, her cheek pillowed on her hands, when Craig did his best to creep into her room. She was smiling a little, as if dreaming about something pleasant, and he watched her pale countenance, with its pattern of bruises and scratches, wishing he could take them away.

  It was such a beautiful face, he thought, with her
long dark lashes, full lips, and sweeping dark eyebrows, and he had the urge to put his head down on the pillow to be closer to her, but he resisted the impulse in case he woke her up. He contented himself with stroking her cheek with his fingertips and whispering endearments to her.

  He had been there for no more than a few minutes before her eyelids fluttered open and her eyes looked straight into his.

  “Good morning,” he murmured, kissing her softly.

  “Am I dreaming?” she asked, smiling at him sleepily. “Are you really here?”

  “Remember our adventure yesterday?” he reminded her. “This is my home, and you are here to heal.”

  She passed her hand over her eyes. “The sword fight—oh, God, Craig. That was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. His body?”

  “I have sent some men out to collect it, and Father Brown will bury it,” he replied. “And are you still going to marry me?”

  She ran her hand down his face, loving the scratchy texture of his beard. “I would never marry anyone else but you,” she whispered. “On one condition.”

  At once he was overcome with anxiety. “Anything, my love.”

  “You must trim your beard!” she said sternly, and they both began to laugh.

  He kissed her hand. “For you, I would shave off every hair on my head,” he said fondly. “Consider it done!”

  Malle sighed with relief, and just at that moment her parents arrived. Margaret dashed over to see her daughter, then flung her arms around her and hugged her tightly. Malle groaned with pain as her bruised ribs were pressed against her mother’s body. Margaret, hearing this, gave a shocked gasp and let her go.

  “Look at you, Malle!” she cried. “Did you not have enough injuries without adding more?”