Legend of a Highland Lass: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance

by Kenna Kendrick

  Brandon huffed, turning back toward his horse. “I have me eye on ye, Wanderer,” he said to Sean. “Ye make one false move…”

  Sean mounted his horse. “I shall have to take that chance,” he said as Rose followed suit and the group resumed their journey.

  They rode in silence, the group waiting for the dust to settle from Sean and Brandon’s tiff as they journeyed further into the forest. The area grew denser the further they travelled inward, the twisted vines and roots of the trees growing more defined and aged the longer the journey went on.

  “How are we on supplies?” Sean inquired.

  Rose shrugged. “We have enough for two days. Are there villages along the way that we can resupply at?”

  Sean nodded. “Aye. We will come across more than a few. Ye will also need to stock up on the provisions necessary for sustaining yerselves long term at this location we are going to.”

  Rose shrugged again. “We shall find the necessary supplies. We will make it work. Besides, it is not yer problem. Ye are merely our guide.”

  Sean looked away, scanning the forested area once again for any lingering signs of trouble. “Fair enough,” he said. “The winters are harsh in this area we are going to. Be sure to fetch the proper attire.”

  A twig broke from off to the left, the sound piercing through and causing all heads to turn and look.

  “Ride close,” Sean said to the other travelers. “Keep a close eye peeled on yer surroundings…”

  The group rode in silence for half a mile, the sounds of birds chirping and the occasional fawn stepping through shrubbery occasionally filling the air. Rose took a look around and realized that she was not familiar with this part of the Highlands. “Where are we?” she asked Sean.

  Sean jutted his chin. “This place is called Freeman’s Forest,” he said. “The English Do not dare come here. Any time they have, they have been ambushed.”

  Rose looked at Sean. “Have ye?”

  Sean nodded. “Only once. If they are watching, which I am sure they are, I doubt they will have forgotten me. I do not think they will try and test the waters with me again.”

  “Ye are quite confident, Wanderer.”

  “The same could be said about ye…”

  Rose debated how much she should tell Sean. She barely knew the man. As much as she had stood up for him in the face of Brandon’s relentless verbal assaults—she barely knew a thing about him. It was hard for Rose to trust anyone outside of her circle. But there is something about this man, she pondered. I cannot put me finger on it. He is cut from the roughest cloth, there is no doubt about that…but I do not sense he is a threat to us. He sports that look in his eye that all Highlanders do, a disdain for the English and not his own countrymen.

  She drew a breath, wanting to give Sean just enough to work with without divulging to much information about her people and her plight. “Rose,” she said. “Me name is Rose.”

  A crack of a smile formed in the corner of Sean’s mouth. “Rose,” he repeated. “Do ye have a last name?”

  Rose shook her head. “Let’s just keep it at ‘Rose,’” she said, “at least for now…and what about ye? Do ye plan on telling me yer real name?”

  Sean took a moment to think. “Let’s just keep it at ‘Wanderer,’” he replied, “at least for now…”

  The two exchanged a subtle glance as they continued their journey through the forested area. A couple hours into the ride, the sun overhead began to descend into the west. Rose looked up, judging the time in her head based on the position of the sun. “We should stop soon. Set up camp.”

  Sean nodded. “In a quarter of a mile,” he said, “there is an outcropping. If we set up camp there, we should be safe from those who dwell inside the forest. We can make a fire, but we should make it substantially big. The greater the numbers we appear to have, the less inclined those thieves will be to try anything.”

  “How is it,” Rose said, “that ye have survived as long as ye have? A man with such vast knowledge of the Highlands has made more than one or two enemies, I am sure.”

  “Aye,” Sean said. “That I have, as I am sure ye have as well.”

  “I protect me identity. Me people and I always make it a point to clad our faces.”

  Sean looked at Rose. “Until now. Yer identity has been compromised, has it not?”

  Rose sighed. She was frustrated at her lack of vigilance, dismayed at the fact that her mask had been pulled off and her people had now been endangered as a result. The future was now uncertain for her, and she was more than positive that the English horde was riding hot on their heels to bring her to justice after having killed the King’s nephew.

  “I made a mistake,” Rose said to Sean. “All I can Do now is see that me people make it through the other side in one piece.”

  “I believe ye will,” Sean said. “I do not know that much about ye, but it is clear ye are vigilant.”

  Rose felt oddly comforted by Sean’s words. What is it, she thought, that makes this man capable of lowering me defenses? She shook off the thought, not wanting to indulge in such trivial lines of thinking. There were more pressing matters at hand, and all that mattered now was one thing and one thing alone—the survival of her and her people.

  Chapter Six

  Lord Marcus raised his fist and knocked it twice on the door leading into the tavern. The establishment had just closed, only the dull glow of a single lamp inside offering any kind of illumination.

  “We’re closed,” the voice of the tavern owner called out.

  Lord Marcus knocked again, the pounding louder and filled with intention. The sounds of approaching footsteps laced with an irritated skip were audible, and a moment later the door swung open, the tavern owner’s mouth open and prepared to tell off the late caller—but his face went pale the moment he laid eyes on Lord Marcus, as well as the four redcoats accompanying him.

  “May we come in?” Lord Marcus inquired, saying the words more like a command than a pleasant inquiry.

  The tavern owner stood aside, averting his gaze as Lord Marcus strolled inside with his redcoats following directly behind him.

  An ominous silence settled over the scene as Lord Marcus strolled up to the counter. He took slow steps, filled with intention as his four redcoats split up and posted up in the four corners of the room. They stood guard, the tavern owner looking at each man in the room with an apprehensive look in his eye.

  “Good evening,” Lord Marcus said, extending his hand. “My name is Lord Marcus Donovan.”

  The tavern owner trembled as he shook Lord Marcus’ hand.

  “Relax,” Lord Marcus said. “There is no reason to be frightened. We merely want a drink. I trust that you can abide?”

  The tavern owner nodded, still shaking as he moved to the counter and tried his best to put on a professional and cordial demeanor. “What, uh…” he stammered, “what can I fetch ye?”

  Lord Marcus looked at each of the bottles lining the shelves behind the tavern owner, pondering and pouting his lip as he decided. “Whiskey is the drink of the Highlanders,” he said. “Is it not?”

  The tavern owner nodded again. “Aye…it is.”

  “Well, then what is your finest whiskey, my friendd?”

  The tavern owner turned to the shelves, pointing to a brown bottle with a taupe label resting at the top. “It is from a local distillery,” he said. “It is our finest whiskey. No question.”

  Lord Marcus smiled. “Then that is what I shall be drinking. Two fingers worth, my friendd.”

  The tavern owner pulled the bottle and grabbed a glass resting on the countertop. He pulled the cork, poured two fingers worth, and pushed the glass toward Lord Marcus.

  Lord Marcus picked up the glass, holding it up to the lantern and studying the color of the liquid. He then pulled the glass to his lips, sniffed it, and took a conservative sipped. Lord Marcus closed his eyes, sighing with pleasure as the whiskey coated his throat and belly.

  “My, my,” Lord Ma
rcus said. “That is a fine liquor, indeed. It is from a local distillery, you say?”

  “Aye,” the tavern owner said, rubbing his hands to stave off the shaking. “It has been around for a few years.”

  “Is this your most favored brand?”

  “Aye. The patrons seem to prefer it.”

  “I can see why,” Lord Marcus said, swirling the contents in his glass. “It is quite smooth. A robust taste. You Highlanders do know how to make a fine drink, no question.”

  Lord Marcus then stared at the tavern owner, unblinking, unflinching. He watched as the tavern owner swallowed his fear, looking around again at each of the redcoats in the room. They stood there, stoic gazes on their faces and palms resting on the handles of their swords.

  “How has your evening faired?” Lord Marcus inquired.

  The tavern owner rallied the courage to speak. “It, uh…has been slow.”

  “Slow, you say?”

  “Aye. Very quiet.”

  Lord Marcus smiled, his beam slowing stretching from ear-to-ear in a kind of manic expression that instilled a greater sense of fear in the tavern owner than he already had. “Quiet, you say?”

  “A-aye…Yes, Lord…It has been quiet.”

  Lord Marcus raised a finger and wagged it. “I have heard different, my friendd. I am under the impression that quite a ruckus was stirred in this establishment this evening.”

  The tavern owner held up his hands. “I…do not know what to tell ye.”

  Lord Marcus raised his glass and poured the rest of the whiskey down his throat. He then overturned the glass, slammed it on the counter, and braced himself against the counter. “You can tell me the truth, my friendd. You know why we are here. You know why we have come at such a late hour.”

  The tavern owner trembled more than he did before, his eyelids fluttering as Lord Marcus leveled his gaze on him and did not move.

  Lord Marcus sighed. “Come here, my good man. Step around the counter.”

  The tavern owner hesitated.

  “Come,” Lord Marcus said, gesturing the man to come to him. “Please, there is nothing to be frightened of.”

  The tavern owner timidly stepped around the counter and approached Lord Marcus. Lord Marcus gestured to the table a few feet away from him. “Sit,” Lord Marcus said. “Please. You should relax. There is no need to be frightened by my presence.”

  The tavern owner slipped into a chair, Lord Marcus positioning himself across from him and leaning back in his seat.

  “A knight was here earlier,” Lord Marcus said. “A man by the name of Lord Jessup. Does this not ring a bell?”

  The tavern owner did not react.

  “Come now,” Lord Marcus pressed. “You can tell me…”

  The tavern owner paused—and then he nodded.

  “Very good,” Lord Marcus said. “He came in to ask a few questions. Do you recall this?”

  The tavern owner cleared his throat. “I do.”

  “And what questions was he asking?”

  “He…asked about a woman…a woman by the name of Rose MacGillis.”

  “And what did he claim this was in regard to?”

  “He said…he said that the woman leads a pack of thieves known as the Scots…he said that…he said that they were responsible for…for the murder of the King’s nephew.”

  Lord Marcus flexed his brow. “Quite a troublesome situation, is it not?”

  A nod. “Aye, Lord…”

  Lord Marcus leaned in. “Well, that is why I am here. You see, I have been dispatched to get to the bottom of the matter. Believe me, the man that was slain, the nephew of the king, he was, how should I put it…not from the best stock. A fool, to be more accurate. I was not a fan of the man. I felt that he hailed from privilege and did not contribute a thing to the greater good. But nonetheless, he still hails from nobility, and when a man of nobility is slain…it must be answered for. You understand this…Correct?”

  The tavern owner parted his lips, struggling to come up with a reply.

  Lord Marcus held up a hand. “It is all right, my friendd. I know that you are following me. You are clearly not a fool.” He gestured around the tavern. “You are the owner of a business, a successful one too, it seems. A fool cannot accomplish this. Only a man with a good head on his shoulders can.”

  Lord Marcus stood, walking around the tavern owner in slow, calculated steps. He came up behind the tavern owner, resting his hands on the man’s shoulder, the tavern owner shuddering as Lord Marcus tightened his grip.

  “I was told,” Lord Marcus said, “that the knight that came here and asked questions about the whereabouts of Rose MacGillis was…confronted by several Highlanders. He was forced to flee the tavern under threat of death…Yes?”

  The tavern owner closed his eyes, the pressure of Lord Marcus’ grip on his shoulders heavy. “Aye. He was.”

  “Were you responsible for this?”

  The tavern owner shook his head. “No. Several others were.”

  “Would you mind telling me who they were? What they looked like?”

  The tavern owner looked up at Lord Marcus, his lips quivering as Lord Marcus looked down on him with an authoritative and lecherous gaze. “I…am worried what will happen to me if I…betray their trust.”

  Lord Marcus flashed a smile. “I see. So, you fear of repercussions from these Highlanders if you inform me of their identity. Correct?”

  The tavern owner nodded. “Aye, Lord. Highlanders are loyal. They would not take kindly to such a betrayal.”

  Lord Marcus patted the man on the shoulders. “You’re a good man. Loyalty is a hard thing to come by these days. I commend it. Really, I do.” Lord Marcus stepped over to the counter, walking around it and folding his hands behind his back. He looked at all the bottles of liquor with a scrutinous gaze, planning and scheming. “Such a fine establishment you have made, my friendd. I can practically smell the history in this tavern.”

  Lord Marcus reached up to the bottle of top shelf whiskey and pulled it down. He examined the bottle, spinning it in his hand before stepping up to the counter and placing the bottle down.

  “Please,” the tavern owner said. “I do not wish to start trouble. I know that a transgression was committed against that knight that came here this evening, but it is not a matter that I am involved in. I am merely a humble tavern owner—”

  Lord Marcus held up a hand. “That’s quite enough of that. I understand your position. But, as I said, the death of the King’s nephew is a matter of great importance. A lot of trouble has been stirred up as a result of his death. But this…loyalty you are pledging to the Highlanders that confronted my man this evening is…foolish, tantamount to significant punishment.”

  Lord Marcus pulled the cork from the top of the bottle. He then sniffed the contents, examined the bottle once more—and then he began to pour the liquid all across the counter, dousing every inch before he tossed the bottle to the floor and smashed it to pieces.

  The tavern owner sat up in his chair, his mouth open in protest, though he could not muster any words.

  “Here’s what we are going to do,” Lord Marcus said. “I am going to ask you one more time for the names and descriptions of the Highlanders that confronted the knight by the name of Lord Jessup. If you insist on not telling me—I will burn this place to the ground and lock you inside as the flames consume every inch of this establishment.”

  Lord Marcus snapped his fingers. One of the redcoats in the corner fetched the lamp that was glowing at brought it over, handing it to Lord Marcus as the tavern owner watched the flames dancing inside the fogged glass.

  “Please!” the tavern owner insisted. “Please, do not Do this!”

  “Then give me names,” Lord Marcus said. “And this is the last time I am going to ask.”

  “Lord—”

  Lord Marcus raised the lamp with one hand, teeth gritting as he prepared to throw the lantern against the countertop doused with flammable liquid.

  The t
avern owner shot out of his chair. “I do not know of their names!” he hollered. “I swear! But there was a man and a woman. The man confronted the knight named Lord Jessup. The woman with him pulled a sword and threatened the other man. He was rugged, black hair and piercing eyes. He was dressed all in black. The woman with him was petite but fierce. She wielded her blade in the blink of an eye!”

  Lord Marcus slowly lowered the lamp. “This man,” he said, “the one that confronted Lord Jessup…who is he?”

  The tavern owner swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. “One of the patrons,” he said, “claim that he is a man that goes by the name ‘the Wanderer.’”