Legend of a Highland Lass: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance

by Kenna Kendrick

  Rose looked up into Sean’s eyes, deeply engrossed in his stare as he looked unblinkingly back at her. Their mouths were open, lips quivering ever-so subtly as Rose’s heart felt like it began to race faster than it ever had before. It wasn’t the sexual part of her being that was drawn to him in that moment—it was her more vulnerable side, the one that, at least every once in a while, wanted to take comfort in the touch of another. It was the part of her that longed for that counterpart protector who would step in when need be to offer her solace that was making her melt. But I can’t, Rose thought. I have to tend to my people. I have to bury my dead.

  Rose blinked herself out of her trance and withdrew her hand, turning away from Sean and ascending further into the forest. “Come,” she said. “We must tell the others. And then we have to fetch back their bodies the moment those Redcoats leave that village.”

  Sean huffed. “We can’t. We will be wasting the time.”

  “We will be making the time. Those men were my clan, and I will die before I see them properly buried.”

  Sean allowed Rose some walking distance before he followed after her, saying not a word and allowing the woman to have her moment and deal with the death of her clan members as she saw fit.

  After informing the other Scots of Brandon, Lachlan, and Eamon’s demise, the Scots took several minutes to silently grieve for their lost members. Once night had fallen, the collective sound of Lord Marcus and his men leaving the village were heard in the distance. Rose waited until it had fully diminished, and then sent a scout to see about fetching the bodies of the fallen Scots. The scout had returned minutes later and said that the bodies had been tossed in the front of the village, put on display as a warning to others. After the guards at the gate took a break around the corner, Rose sent four men to retrieve the bodies, brought them back, and had fresh earth dug out on the ground of the forested area before placing the bodies inside.

  The Scots worked together to dig a grave for each man, bury them, and place the dirt back on top as quickly as was possible. They then stood around in a half-circle, Rose hanging her head somewhat as she stood in the middle and spoke to the group collectively.

  “We don’t have much time,” Rose said. “The situation has become pressing. Redcoats are thriving in this area, and the only option we have is to quickly navigate our way through and make our way to the remote area of the Highlands.”

  Rose took a quick look around at each one of the Scots, all of them looking somewhat forlorn as they stared on at the graves of their fallen friends.

  “These men,” Rose continued, “kept their oath to us. They died so that we could live. We will not let their deaths be in vain, and rest assured, somehow, be it us or God—the men who killed them will have to answer for it. Bid yer goodbyes to three of our closest friends. We will not forget them. Ever.”

  Several of the Scots crossed themselves, some cursing under their breath and the Redcoats, and the others remaining stoic as they kept their anger bottled up inside of them. After a short minute of reflection and grieving, Rose turned to the Scots and said: “Mount yer horses. We must continue our ride.”

  The Scot complied, Kelly wandering up to Rose and forcing the wryest of smiles. “Ye did well,” she said. “But the rest of them seem to grow weary. This turn of events with these Redcoats catching up to us is…I can’t even think of the word.”

  “Like I said,” Rose began, “we must keep moving. We don’t have any other choice.”

  “Aye. Let’s just pray that this doesn’t happen again.”

  Kelly departed and mounted her horse, Sean and Rose following suit as the group corralled together and rode out toward the rode. Each man and woman were looking from left-to-right, concerned that lingering Redcoats would come out and attack them at any given moment. Once they arrived on the road, all they found was the glow of the moon and the hoot of an owl in the distance were the only things keeping them company.

  “East?” Rose said to Sean.

  Sean nodded. “East,” he said as he slapped his reins and led the Scots up the road.

  The entire ride out, Rose said as silent prayer once more for her fallen companions, and vowed vengeance against Lord Marcus as the dark of night slowly engulfed the entire forest.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lord Marcus and his men arrived outside the gates of Lord Brumwald’s castle, the sprawling establishment towering in its cobblestone might 80-feet into the sky, lit throughout by torches and casting on ominous glow on Lord Marcus and his men.

  They came to a collective halt outside the rusted steel gates, Lord Marcus holding up a fist as the group came to a settle. Standing guard outside the gates were four men in chainmail, their sharp features and gaunt bodies reflective of English lineage as the man in the lead casually sauntered up to them and said: “State your business, Sir.”

  Lord Marcus flashed a smile. “It’s Lord Marcus,” he said. “But I’ll forgive the disrespect in tone, my good man.”

  The guard swallowed; his eyes wide as he forced an overtly cordial smile. “Apologies, my Lord,” he said with a bow. “I did not know it was you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Lord Marcus waved his hand through the air. “Let’s do away with the pleasantries. I wish to speak to Lord Brumwald at once.”

  The guard bowed again, quickly shuffling backward before bidding: “As you wish, my Lord,” and passing word along to his men to inform the Lord of the castle that Lord Marcus had arrived, post haste.

  The gates were opened moments later, word of Lord Marcus’ arrival spreading like wildfire throughout the castle. His men slowly trotted through the gates, walking through a spacious and well-kempt ground that included manicured lawns and the finest and freshest faces both male and female alike.

  It was clear to Lord Marcus that Lord Brumwald was living out his last days in spoil, having no doubt been gifted this land by the King along with all the finest and plentiful resources at his disposal. The stables were immaculate, the tavern was resplendent and alive with activity. After being shown to where they could post their horses, Lord Marcus then dismissed his men to indulge in a few evening drinks and vices as he was shown to Lord Brumwald’s quarters at the top of the castle.

  Lord Marcus walked down a lengthy hallway adorn in rich tapestries of maroon, emerald, and flaxen colors, the walk seemingly interminable as they came to a spiral staircase and ascended four levels to the top. They jinked a right at the end of the hallway and came outside a pair of darkened maple-colored doors reinforced with the finest and most sterling steel available in all of the Highlands. One of the escorts raised a fist and knocked once, the thud of his fist resounding throughout the chambers inside before silence once again held sway for several moments.

  “Come in,” a drunken and elderly voice called out from the other side.

  The two escorts pushed open the door, the wood creaking under its own weight with a roar akin to that of giant beasts from folklore when they stretched their jaws and emitted a primal growl. In the center of the room, a glass of wine in one hand and a finger pressed against a globe the size of a ball of hay was a withered man in the last years of his life. His posture reflected nothing short of the upper echelons of nobility, and his weathered hands and the circles under his eye evoking a rich history that was slowly coming to an end.

  Lord Marcus bowed. “Lord Brumwald,” he greeted, humility in his tone. “I bid you many thanks for indulging me at such late of an hour.”

  Lord Brumwald turned and raised his glass, slowly, carefully, a man who had to calculate his moves due to the arthritic nature of his bones. “Lord Marcus,” he said. “It has been some time. Please. Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Lord Marcus nodded and slowly ascended the wooden steps that led up to a room consistent of a large bed with regal drapes, a polished long table complete with high-back chairs, and various other trinkets and liquors only available to a man of Lord Brumwald’s wealth.

  “Pour
yourself a drink,” Lord Brumwald said with a gesture of his hand to a large cabinet. “I just acquired a distillery not far from here. I am not much for the drink of the Scotsman, but they craft what has to be some of the finest liquor I have ever manage to get my hands on.” A wry smile. “Well…the finest that I savage can make, that is.”

  Lord Marcus poured himself one finger worth of whiskey, enough to have a taste, but not too much that he was taking advantage of Lord Brumwald’s hospitality. “Many thanks,” he said as he held up his glass in a toast.

  Lord Brumwald meandered over to one of the high-back chairs facing the window. He turned it, slipping down into it slowly with a sigh as he glanced out the window looking down 80-feet into the courtyard below. “Word in the ether,” he said, “is that the Lord from Sanford was murdered. The King’s nephew.”

  Lord Marcus nodded as he sipped. “This is true.”

  Lord Brumwald’s lips curved into a slithery smile. “And I trust that he has appointed you to seek vengeance against those that committed this crime?”

  Lord Marcus huffed a quick laugh. “Not explicitly,” he said. “I am working with Lord Jessup of Renfeld to bring these savages to justice before word reaches the King.”

  “Ah. I see. So this is a preventative action to stave off what will surely be a most justified and overt reaction from the King?”

  “You could say that. Or you could say that Lord Jessup is merely trying to rectify his mistake before the King holds him to answer for the fact that he allowed these murderers to escape in the first place.”

  Lord Brumwald shook his head, raising his glass to his lips and indulging in a sip. “Lord Jessup,” he sneered. “That man us a fool. Whoever granted him the position he was in should be thrown onto a pile of hot coals for their transgression.” He gestured to Lord Marcus with his glass. “The fact that you help him in correcting his faults is most…I don’t want to say commendable. Maybe overindulgent, perhaps.”

  Lord Marcus drifted toward Lord Brumwald, looking around as he soaked in the rich history of the room. “I do not embark on this campaign for Lord Jessup,” he replied. “As was stated, once word reaches the King about the death of Lord of Sanford, he will want to burn the Highlands down just to make a point. If we find these derelicts and bring them to him before that happens, it might put of an unnecessary conflict that evokes unnecessary bloodshed.”

  “I do not begrudge you of that, my good man. It would be better to bring an end to the matter before it even begins.” Lord Brumwald leveled his gaze at Lord Marcus. “Tell me, my friend—how are you these days?”

  Lord Marcus looked away. “Let’s not indulge in frivolous conversation, Lord Brumwald. I merely came to provide my many thanks for allowing us into your castle this evening. My men and I will depart in the morning with haste. We still track these Highlanders responsible for the death of the King’s nephew.”

  Lord Brumwald began stroking his manicured beard the color of muted silver. “Tell me more about what transpired,” he said.

  “Two days ago,” Lord Marcus began, placing a hand on his hip, “a group of thieves known as the Scots encountered the Lord from Sanford and his men. All of them ended up being murdered, that was before one of them managed to identity the leader in charge. A woman by the name of Rose MacGillis.”

  Lord Brumwald’s eyes widened. “A woman? A pray that you are attempting to employ a sense of humor, Lord Marcus.”

  Lord Marcus shook his head. “Not in the slightest. The survivor, at least until he died of his wounds, was familiar with her from before. It was fate that he was able to identify her, the most fortunate kind. For us, at least.”

  “And you have not been successful yet in tracking them?”

  “Not yet, Lord Brumwald. Lord Jessup came close when he encountered them in a tavern the evening after the attack. He believes he ran into this Rose MacGillis, but those bloody Highlanders loyal to the tavern shooed him off before he could take her into his possession.”

  Lord Brumwald rolled his eyes. “That fool Lord Jessup. I should have known he would be so careless to be bested by Highlander scum.”

  Lord Marcus showcased his palm. “They have been dealt with. I burned the tavern for its transgression against the crown.”

  “Good,” Lord Brumwald said with an approving nod. “And I take it you have picked up the trail from there?”

  Lord Marcus squinted. “I have. But it is odd. I have ridden with over fifty men strong without stop to try and catch up to this group. The only direction they could have travelled in was the east. I had assumed we would catch up to them by now, but so far I only encountered three men in the village down the road from here, the one that you lay claim over.”

  Lord Brumwald stood, Lord Marcus sensing that the old man’s interests were piqued. “Three Highlanders, you say?”

  Lord Marcus nodded. “Yes. Three Highlanders. I sensed they were withholding information from me. They were properly dispatched of when I realized they would not give up their own people. I doubt they were involved, though. They seemed like mere drifters. But I don’t mind in ridding the lands of nothing more than a trio of miscreants, at the end of the day.”

  Lord Brumwald wagged his finger. “You are being hasty, Lord Marcus. You are thinking ten steps ahead.”

  Lord Marcus felt the sting of Lord Brumwald’s words. He was not a man prone to mistakes. He was the man that was sent it to repair those of others. “Come again, my Lord?” he begged to Lord Brumwald, somewhat amused.

  “You chased down these Highlanders,” Lord Brumwald said, “the one known as the Scots with full force. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “And it never occurred to you that you might have overshot them as a result?”

  Lord Marcus mouth fell open, his mind immediately running back to the memory of the twig snapping in the forest, of the lingering and abandoned horses supposedly bearing saddles that one of his men had called out. Is it possible? he thought. Did we trot right past them?

  Lord Brumwald extending his aged and liver-spotted hand and rested it on Lord Marcus’ shoulder. “See,” he said. “It wasn’t such a long walk after all.”

  Lord Marcus gritted his teeth and placed his drink down on a table. “I’m a fool,” he chastised. “There were plenty of signs pointing to this. I’ve acted with haste.”

  “Luckily for you, it’s an easy situation to rectify. These Highlanders will have no doubt spotted you. They will be adjusting their plan of flight accordingly. Luckily for you, going back in the direction from whence they came is not an option. If they are to flee properly, they still must head east. They’ll have to go—”

  “—Straight past this castle,” Lord Marcus finished with a grin.

  Lord Brumwald patted Lord Marcus on the back and stepped around him. “Fate smiles upon you, my friend. These Scot of yours will no doubt find their way past here. I will send sentries out immediately to keep an eye out for them. Take the evening off. Indulge yourself. You’ve earned it.”

  But Lord Marcus did not want to rest. He rarely did. He slept only 2-to-3 hours a night most days. He was constantly vigilant, never able to settle for more than a few moments at a time. He wanted the Scots. He wanted to complete his mission. Without motivation, without something keeping him sprightly—there was no point in anything else.

  “Actually,” Lord Marcus said, picking up his glass and taking one last swig, “I think I will take a few of my men out for a night’s ride, see if perhaps we can get lucky and cross paths with these Scots.”

  Lord Brumwald smiled. “You are always the most eager of the King’s flock,” he said. “I understand why you are as trusted as you are.”

  Lord Marcus placed his depleted glass back down on the table and bowed to Lord Brumwald. “Thank you again for your hospitality, Lord Brumwald,” he said, his voice coated with a respectful timbre. “I’ll shake make my leave.”

  Lord Brumwald held up his glass. “Spoils such as mine,” he said, “will come
to you one day if you remain as vigilant as you are, Lord Marcus. Don’t forget that…Oh, and Lord Marcus.”

  Lord Marcus stopped in his tracks.

  Lord Brumwald motioned to Lord Marcus’ wine glass. “How often are you indulging in the drink? I have lost many men to excess.”

  “Why do you ask that, my Lord.”

  Lord Brumwald nodded to the glass. “Because you drank that down ever-so swiftly.”

  Lord Marcus did not verbally reply. He simply bowed out and allowed his escorts to open the door. He slipped into the hallway, Lord Brumwald’s words staying with him as he headed toward the spiral staircase at the end of the hall: “Spoils such as mine will come to you one day if you remain as vigilant as you are, Lord Marcus. Don’t forget that.”