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

by Adamina Young

  Broden’s rhythm increased until his entire body shuddered, just as hers had a number of times now, and then a glorious heat swept through her as he released himself. She clung to his sweaty, glistening body and knew the heady feelings of love. In their breathless state they kissed each other tenderly and held onto each other as their chests heaved and they let the afterglow of love die down. It was better than Iona had ever imagined, and she laughed.

  “I hope ye are nae finding me amusing,” Broden said.

  Iona looked into his eyes and shook her head. She kissed him firmly. “Nay Broden, I’m just happy,” she said. “Utterly, completely happy.”

  And she was. She had a husband now, a place in the world, a man who wanted her more than any other. She had come to know herself more during this ordeal as well, and was more confident of her place in the world. Before Broden had come along she had only had vague, fanciful notions of what she wanted from her life, but ever since she had met him they had formed a settled vision of the future.

  She was aware of how precious it all was as well. There had been so many times when it could have gone the other way and they might well not have ended up together at all, or worse, either of them might have died. This made her appreciate it more. She vowed to never take Broden for granted or the life they could have together. She looked forward to adding to their legacies and one day having a portrait of her own in her father’s house. She had no doubt now that she was a part of the family. The only one who still bore any enmity towards her was Brice, and she had no desire to see him any time soon.

  She nestled into Broden’s chest and closed her eyes, breathing deeply to try and calm the hammering of her heart. She was glad to hear that his was as wild as hers. She clung to him and enjoyed his warmth, and looked forward to knowing that there would never be another night when she had to sleep alone.

  Epilogue

  About nine months after the wedding, a child was born to Broden and Iona. She had spent the better part of the nine months waddling around, her belly growing round and full with life. She was so big in fact that she suspected she might have twins, but when the baby was born it just so happened that he was a mighty Highland baby. He had green eyes, and his scalp was covered in fine blonde hair. Iona thought he was the most beautiful baby in all the world and she was happy that he blended the best of her and her husband.

  He wouldn’t be the only baby for long either. A few months ago Malie had announced her pregnancy with Owen’s child. Since the bandits had been dealt with there had been an upturn in fortune for the local area. Nobody was willing to admit that bandits were braver than they were, so more people had decided to shun superstition and actually head into Crow Forest. Much of what the bandits stole had been recovered and people had found that the forest was an abundance of natural resources, which they were putting to good use.

  Iona, Broden, and her family had been working hard to repair the reputation of the family after Brice had damaged it. Thankfully a lot of people took pity on them and forgave them for one bad element. Because of how brutal and swift justice from the MacCraes had been, they all suspected it would be a long time before bandits rose again, especially because now they didn’t have the cover of Crow Forest to hide behind.

  The last nine months had been idyllic and the future was going to be even brighter, Iona knew that for sure. Broden had grown into his role as Laird with as much ease as anyone who had been born for the role, and his brothers had given him respect. Broden had been worried that Artair might find it more difficult to relinquish control of the clan than he first claimed, but Artair kept himself busy with feasts and enjoying himself, and he never tired of telling stories about his life. Iona would sit there in rapture, not believing half of what he was saying, but it was entertaining nevertheless.

  Iona and Broden had been discussing various baby names ever since they learned they were with child, although as yet they had not come across one that they liked completely. Since they were living in the MacCrae castle, Iona did not have her mother on hand to offer advice whenever she wanted, but she returned home regularly and every time Freya was there to offer a kind word, although they always asked if a decision had been made about a name, and Iona had to tell Freya and Ciaran that there had not.

  In the end, they decided that they would wait until the baby had been born because they were afraid that certain names wouldn’t fit. When he came out kicking and screaming and looking bigger than any baby Iona had seen before, it was clear in her mind what she wanted to name him.

  “I think we should name him after one of ye ancestors,” Broden said, for he was quite taken with the silver hair and he knew how much it meant to her to bring her heritage over to this country. But Iona knew there was only one possible name.

  “I think we should name him Artair,” she said. “He’s certainly as aggressive as him.”

  She knew that without Artair riding in to the rescue she and Broden would never have had the chance to get married, and this was her way of thanking him. She also wanted to pay respect to the family name and reaffirm to herself that she was a part of this clan.

  When they revealed the name, Artair was there and he made a strange sound. Broden and Iona looked at him at first, wondering if he was ill, but it turned out that he was crying. Broden had never seen his father cry before and thought it an entirely strange sight. After all, he hadn’t even cried at the wedding, but it was pleasing to see that the tough old Highlander had a heart after all, and he was tender with his grandchild. Ciaran and Freya were doting grandparents too and there was no shortage of love in the little Artair’s life.

  When Iona looked down at Artair she saw nothing but pure happiness and a potential for everything lovely, but there was a shadow that loomed over the child, a worry that she couldn’t quite shake. She was certain that Ciaran had felt the same feelings when he had held Brice as a baby, and despite a child looking so innocent and pure there was always the capacity for things to go wrong and for evil to take hold. Thinking about these things was abhorrent, but she worried that if anything happened to her Artair would turn just like Brice had.

  She didn’t share these worries with Broden of course because she knew they were simply a product of her mind and didn’t have any basis in reality. Brice was responsible for his own decisions and he was the one who had allowed himself to fall into shame and disrepair, but just to make certain that Artair was never going to turn out like him, Iona decided to take the baby to the prison to see Brice.

  The prison was in a lower level of the castle, hidden from sunlight and guarded by the meanest men in the MacCrae clan. Iona was repeatedly told that the dungeons were no place for a baby, but she was determined to see her brother. When she arrived, she found Brice in an isolated cell, chained to a wall. His clothes were tattered and stained, his hair was long and unkempt, and his beard had grown to be messy and tangled. His teeth had yellowed and he looked much thinner than he had the last time she had seen him; his skin looked as though it had been draped over his flesh. The air was cold and the stone was hard and grim. Water dripped in the distance, and Artair immediately began to writhe in her arms.

  “Well Iona, I didnae think ye would come tae see me,” Brice said. One of his teeth had been knocked loose in the fight with Broden so when he spoke his words were accompanied by a whistling sound.

  “Look Artair, this is ye uncle, a bad man who could never admit his mistakes. This is the kind of man ye have tae avoid being,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s nae way tae talk tae me Iona. I did sae much for ye growing up. Ye are ungrateful. Ye should whisper some pretty things intae ye husband’s ear tae let me out. I have changed, Iona. I can make up for what I have done.”

  “Ye should have done that when I gave ye the chance. I told ye that ye should have turned the bandits in, but ye were greedy. Ye only saw one way out and that was nae the right way. Ye could have been better than ye were Brice, but ye made the wrong decisions.”

  Brice scowled.r />
  “Ye are as bad as Da,” he said. “I thought he above everyone would have understood. Naebody understands. They dinnae know what it’s like tae lose a mother.”

  “Ye need tae stop saying that Brice. People know suffering. Ye have made people suffer. Ye made people lose their homes, their possessions, their livelihoods. Ye need tae stop blaming ye ma’s death on everything ye dae and accept that it is ye responsibility. Ye are sae quick tae blame everything else, but nae once have I heard ye blame yeself. Sae I’m letting Artair get one look at ye, but he’s only ever gaeing tae get one look. I want tae make sure he never turns out like ye.”

  “Iona, wait, we can talk about things. I know I have made mistakes. Ye are right! I will listen tae ye,” he cried out when Iona turned her back on him, but she knew that he was just saying what she wanted to hear in the hope that she would take pity on him and let him out. She wasn’t about to make that mistake. She hardened her heart and walked away from the dungeon, letting Brice’s mournful cries fade into distant echoes.

  As soon as they were out of the dungeon Artair’s mood improved and he settled in her arms. She took him all the way up to the top of the castle, where she could gaze at the land around her. There were the verdant trees of Crow Forest, the mountains to the north. Spires of smoke rose from the nearby villages. Fluffy white clouds dotted the sky, and out to the east was the coastline, where the blue sky stretched out endlessly. It seemed as though the horizon led to nothing, but Iona knew there was a land out there. Her home, a place she had never seen before.

  “One day I’ll take ye there Artair. We’ll see where we come from, and maybe there are a few people who might know of Ma. I know ye cannae see it from here, but there is another world out there, another home. We’re very lucky because we have two homes.”

  She remembered what her aunt had said about a home being the beginning of the adventure. Iona could understand that a little bit better now that she had a proper home of her own, although she certainly wasn’t itching to leave anytime soon.

  While she was up there, Broden appeared and walked towards them. He kissed Iona and then planted a soft kiss on Artair’s head.

  “It’s nae tae cold for him up here, is it?” he asked.

  “I have him wrapped up, and he’s been content. I was just telling him about his other home, far out that way.” She raised a finger and pointed in the general direction of her roots.

  “Aye, and one day we’re gaeing tae gae on a grand adventure tae see where ye come from,” Broden said. It was the first time he had mentioned joining her on this, and she was thrilled.

  “Dae ye really mean it?” she said excitedly.

  “Ever since ye have been speaking about ye family I have been intrigued. My brothers can handle this land. When Artair is older we’ll take him over. I want him tae be able tae remember it. Maybe ye ma and da could come tae. I’m sure ye ma misses it.”

  “I’m sure she does tae,” Iona agreed. She looked longingly towards the horizon and felt a great anticipation towards the future, while also enjoying the present. She leaned against her husband’s chest as the cool breeze whipped around them and tugged at her hair. She arched her head back and kissed him.

  “I love ye,” she said.

  “I love ye tae,” he replied.

  Artair gurgled, as though he wanted to join in on their conversation. They both laughed and basked in the love of their family.

  Highlander’s Twist of Fate

  Prologue

  A battlefield in the Highlands, 1500s

  A sword lay alone in the grass, looking like a simple object and nothing more. Its razor-sharp edge dripped with blood. Its thirst had been slaked many times over this dark day. Around it, cries rang out, loud and sonorous. They were the anguished cries of men who fought doggedly for their lives, who wailed and shrieked when they realized that their last breath was upon them. Heavy footsteps thundered on the ground and made it quake as the armies clashed in this vicious skirmish. Steel sang as swords crunched against each other. Sharp arrows and spears whizzed through the air, and sometimes the arrows were so numerous they formed a cloud of death that blocked out the sun.

  The skirmish was a regular battle between Highlanders and the English. The borders were always fiercely contested and one side or the other usually sent forces over, just to remind the other that they still existed. There was bad blood between them and each battle was deadly with many casualties. In the midst of it, despite the hatred, many of them wondered why they were fighting, because this battlefield would be forgotten in the mists of time. This battle, this small conflict, would mean nothing in the history books. It would mean nothing to anyone except the people who fought here, and the families of those who perished in battle.

  The sword—this proud sword that had been forged by a talented craftsman—would be lost to time. The hand of its owner had been maimed, and it lay a few inches away, the hands still grasping for salvation. A crimson mist lingered in the air and the heavy smell of blood was thick and choking. Tunics were torn, leather armor was slashed away, and the screams of the dying faded into silence as the battle raged on.

  One participant in this battle was Robin Nelson, a tall, well-built man in his fifties who was battle-hardened and had seen far too many skirmishes for his liking. But his talents lay with a sword and throughout his life, he had made coin by serving the armies of the land, proving his valor and his courage time and time again in battle. His experience made up for his lack of youthful energy, but he knew in this battle there was something different, something wrong. His body wasn’t moving as quickly as it used to. There came a time in every soldier’s life when he had to face the reality that his best days were behind him and there were fewer days ahead. Rare was it for a soldier to die in his own bed, and Robin had a grim feeling that today was not going to be his day, but his resolute spirit ensured that he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

  One of the Highland villains had already managed to make him drop his sword. A heavy whack from a great club had almost shattered his shoulder and Robin had to dodge away, dropping his sword in the process. He evaded the next blow and managed to run, but it was no good being in battle without a sword. It was only a matter of time before a killing blow was struck.

  The fight was a maelstrom as angry faces snarled and growled all around him. His vision blurred as sweat dripped down his brow and stung his eyes. They all looked the same and it was impossible to tell friend from foe. Spittle flew from gnashing teeth followed by blood as people were stabbed through the throat. The warm liquid splashed over Robin’s armor and face. He tasted the scarlet drops and spat them out instantly, grimacing. Then, hope. In the midst of everything he saw a sword that had been dropped by someone. Enemy or friend, it didn’t matter. It was a weapon and it was his chance to survive one more battle.

  Robin scrambled over a trio of fallen bodies and crouched low, picking up the sword in one graceful movement. He swung it above and over his head, just in time to parry the blow of an axe that was coming to crash down upon him. He grunted as he summoned all his strength to repel the barbarous Highlander, who was as big as a bear, and Robin thrust his sword into the gut of the enemy. Entrails spilled out, followed by a waterfall of blood, as the Highlander gurgled and slumped to the ground, face down in the dirt.

  “Robin!”

  Robin turned around when he heard his name being called, but the battle was so fierce and chaotic that he couldn’t tell in which direction it had originated from. But he knew the voice—it was his old friend Alan Johnson—and a smirk tugged at his lips as he anticipated the moment when he and Alan would fight side by side again. No foe could stand up to the two warriors when they were together, and Robin was confident that it was only a matter of time before these Highlanders were put to the sword and the ground was soaked in their blood. Robin whirled his blade in his hands, getting used to the weight of this new sword, and looked around for the next foe to fight.

  But there were so many
. Writhing bodies danced around him and he had to twirl and slash to fight them all off. He felt the blade being dragged through flesh and knew he was causing damage, but there seemed to be no end to the carnage or enemies. Robin looked around, trying to find Alan, fearing that his friend had been cut down. But then, he heard Alan cry out again.

  “Over here!” Robin cried as he turned to parry the wild slash of a Highland sword. He twisted his neck quickly and thought he saw Alan coming towards him, but he couldn’t quite be sure because everything was so quick and confusing that he was forced to focus on fighting off the attackers. There were so many of them it seemed as though his whole line had been slaughtered. He couldn’t see an ally anywhere, but knew Alan couldn’t be far. The campaign was a failure and the only thing he had to fight for now was his life, and a chance to escape the battlefield and return home to his family.

  Just as that thought entered his mind, he felt a sword pierce his back. It was just like a lowborn Highlander to make such a dastardly, craven move as stabbing a man in his back. All the strength slipped from Robin’s body. A light, dazed feeling rose through his mind, like bubbles, and the pain glowed white hot in his back. He fell to his knees and although he made a conscious effort to keep hold of the sword, he felt it slip from his grasp, and once again it was on the ground.

  Robin gurgled and reached around his back, trying to find the wound. His fingers found a wet and sticky patch. Blood gushed out, but although it was warm he felt cold, ever so cold. There was a strange metallic taste in his mouth and his head slumped forward. The world spun around him and his mind turned groggy. Where was Alan? Then his mind turned to his family, to Myra and sweet Ellen, and how he was never going to see them again. A tear trickled down his cheek and mixed with the blood that ran from the corners of his mouth as he thought about them and how he was never going to see Ellen get married or grow old and watch the sunset with Myra by his side.