A Highland Pearl (Highland Treasures Book 1)

A Highland Pearl

The Highland Treasures Series

A Novel

Brenda B Taylor

A Highland Pearl

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without written
permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in reviews.

Copyright © 2014 Brenda B Taylor

ISBN: 978-0-9888105-0-1

Published by Bethabara Press

All scripture is taken from The Holy Bible, King James
Version. Public domain.

© Cover Art by Cora Graphics

© Photographs by Period Images/Brenda B. Taylor Photography

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used
fictitiously.

Dedication

This story is dedicated to Duncan Munro
who followed his heart and left Scotland to settle in the Cape Fear, North
Carolina area, then ventured to Alabama and settled there. It is also dedicated
to John Anthony Monroe, Duncan’s son, who left Alabama after the Civil War and
brought his family to the neutral territory of Louisiana.

“Who when he had found one pearl of great price, went and
sold all that he had, and bought it.” Matthew 13:46

Chapter One

The
Village of Drumainn, Ross-Shire

Scottish
Highlands 1508 A.D.

Maidie rode behind the young warrior on a horse galloping
toward the castle. She removed one hand from around his trim waist to pull her
wrap closer against the biting wind then secured the kertch trying to fly from
her head. The old Cameron scarf was the only one she could find before rushing
out of the cottage when Tavish pounded on her door. She replaced her hand, trying
not to mind his grimy clothes and gamey smell, and held her bag of precious
herbs with the other. Tavish guided the horse between several tenant crofters
coming and going from the castle.

The wind whistled through large birch and oak trees lining the
road. Leaves of gold, red, yellow, and brown rustled in the wind then floated
to the ground. Maidie enjoyed the walk to the castle this time of year, when a
lass needed a midwife, but today she could not think about the beauty. She
looked back at Sven, who rode behind
Maighstir
Tam, and held to a small leather bag filled with various implements she used in
her work. A chill ran through her, not only from the wind, but also from the
dread of seeing the terrible wounds of the injured.

They pulled to one side of a wide wooden bridge leading to the
outer bailey of Fàrdach Castle to let a wagon pass. Tavish waved to the guard
in the barbican as their party entered through the large, steel-studded oak
gates, under the portcullis, and into the outer bailey. The bailey teemed with the
life of humans and animals. Their various buildings, dwellings, and shelters
lined the curtain wall.

Tavish steered his horse dodging roughly dressed people, went through
a second gate in the curtain wall, then across a bridged moat to the quieter inner
yard. He waved to a guard on the rampart, and guided his horse to the door of
the castle’s keep. Stable boys rushed to take the reins of both horses. Tavish
quickly dismounted, then helped Maidie to the ground. She held her bag with a
firm grip. He then assisted Sven and Tam from their horse. Large green eyes in
the ashen face of her wee son searched hers. She patted his small hand and
rubbed his mass of red hair. He tried to smile, giving her a small gift of
comfort.

“All will be well, Sven,” she said to reassure him. Not since
watching his father die from wounds he received in a battle with Clans
MacKenzie and Cameron had she seen such fear in her son’s eyes.

“I dinna wish to go inside, Mam.” The boy drew back from her
touch.

“You may stay out here then. Just dinna leave the bailey.”
Maidie took Sven’s bag then handed both to Tavish. She cupped the small boy’s
chin in her fingers and kissed the lined forehead. “Stay close. Mayhap there
are other children close by.”

“Yes, Mam. I will.” His half-smile gave her a sense of relief.

“Just stay close.” Maidie turned and walked toward Tavish who
held the heavy wooden door open. Tam followed as they entered the great hall of
the keep.

Tavish closed the door with a thud. Maidie stood for a moment
so her eyes could adjust to the dimness. Light rays from the small upper
windows glinted off the weapons, armor, and heraldry displayed on the stone
walls. Lifeless eyes in the heads of boar with long tusks and red stags with
huge racks of antlers stared at her from above the weapons.

Although a large fireplace with a glowing fire stood on each
of the four walls, the air felt cold and damp. The smell of dirt, blood, human
waste, and unwashed bodies blended together into a noxious odor causing a
revolt in her stomach. She swallowed a rush of nausea with a gulp. Wounded
warriors lying atop rush pallets lined the floor. A servant rushed to the
maighstir
, pulling him toward a blood-soaked
pallet where an unconscious man lay.

Tam began administering last rites to the warrior. Loud groans
and cries came from the wounded. One pallet lay apart from the others. Angus
MacKay, the castle physician, hovered over it. The laird must be lying there.
He made no sound.

Tavish pushed her toward the pallet. “The laird needs your
help, Madam.”

She hesitated. “Angus is there with him.”

“His brother asked for you. You must help now.” Tavish grabbed
her arm with his free hand and pulled her toward the stricken laird.

She resisted. “So many others need my help.” She counted only
three other servants and the laird’s sister, Davina, caring for the wounded.

“Angus can help them.” Tavish tugged on her arm once more. She
reluctantly followed. “The tanist said Laird Andrew asked specifically for you
to come to his aid.”

“He asked for me?” Maidie pulled against the arm holding her. “He
looks unconscious.”

“He’s only resting now. Angus gave him a potion to ease his
pain.” Tavish jerked once more.

Maidie reluctantly let him pull her to the pallet that held
Andrew Munro. Angus turned to her when they approached, his face covered with a
scowl. The castle physician left quickly, making his way to another of the
wounded men.

A voice came from the darkness on the far side of the bed. “Thank
you for coming Maidie Cameron Munro. As you can see for yourself, my brother
needs your attention.”

Maidie’s hand went to the very first thing a Munro noticed—
her kertch of Cameron colors. The large form of Gavin, tanist of the clan, rose
from the shadows. Filth caked the russet hair tied away from his grimy face with
a leather thong. A dirty linen
léine
hung in shreds from his shoulders and arms. The upper end of his great plaide,
now stained with gore, wrapped around broad shoulders with a long
dagger
sheathed on a wide leather
belt at his waist.

“I fought many wearing those same colors this verra day,” he
said with heavy brows knit together in a dark, frightening scowl.

Maidie could only shake her head in response. Her stomach
churned at the sight and sound of him. Then she looked down at the man lying on
the pallet. His face held the green pallor of death she had seen before on the
dying. His body, covered with a filthy plaide, trembled. Long black hair,
fanned about powerful shoulders. She knelt beside the trembling form, and
lifted the plaide. A hand went to her mouth when she uncovered the gaping wound
across his abdomen.

A loud gasp escaped between Maidie’s fingers. “Ach! Saints in
Heaven! Why didn’t Angus stitch this wound?” She pushed the plaide away from
the open wound, leaving it to cover only the lower part of the chief’s torso.

His powerful dark-haired chest lay bare, rising and falling
with labored breathing. Maidie noticed the large legs bulging with muscles from
the constant training for battle and fighting required for survival. The same
dark hair spanning his chest covered his legs and arms. She understood why the
local people called this laird,
An t-Seabhag Dubh Ferarann Dhòmhnaill
,
The Black Falcon of Ferindonald.

“Andrew wanted your good stitching to bind his wound. I
suppose he remembered the fine job you did on Davina’s arm when she slipped and
fell against the rock.” Gavin searched Maidie’s face.

“Why isn’t Davina here?” Maidie looked across the hall at the
younger sister of the Munro brothers.

“She’s lending her aide to Randal. He’s dying.” Gavin licked
his cracked lips. A look of anguish crossed his face. He turned to Tavish. “Thank
you for fetching the lady.”

Tavish nodded, placed the bags next to Maidie and turned to
leave.

She caught his arm. “Thank you, Tavish. Will you take these
herbs to the kitchen and ask the cook to grind them into powder, then mix all
except the mint together with just enough water to make a paste. The mint is to
be steeped in a tea and poured into two cups.” She handed the larger bag to
him.

“Yes, Madam.” He turned to leave with the sack in hand.

She sat the smaller leather bag down on the rushes covering
the hard earthen floor. “May I have a stool, please, and some hot water with
soap and towels?”

“Fetch the things for the lady and make haste.” Gavin told
Andrew’s
servant
,
who
stood next to him. Others of the
luchd-taighe
or household men, stood close by watching their chief.

Maidie examined the instruments Angus set out for her—a
needle, silk thread, and a small dirk—while Gavin stood by watching. She
turned the dirk over then handed it to him.

“Would you take these away, please? I will use my own.”

The tanist nodded his head toward a large, dirty warrior. The
man grabbed the implements and took them to Angus, who assisted the wounded
across the room. Angus snatched the devices, and then turned to glare at
Maidie.

The
gille
soon returned with a stool. Davina came close
behind with a kettle of boiling water and a bowl. A maidservant followed Davina
carrying towels and a small piece of lye soap. The articles were placed on a
clean linen cloth beside Maidie, who reached into her bag and drew out the long
needle and thread. She placed both in the boiling water. When satisfied they
were clean, she took them out, placed them on a clean linen cloth, then washed
her hands.

Davina discretely removed the soiled plaide from Andrew’s body
and replaced it with a clean towel, covering only his private parts.

“I’ll need someone to hold him so he doesn’t move.” Maidie
looked up at Gavin.

He motioned toward two of the larger servants. “Help hold the
chief.”

The two knelt beside the laird and held his shoulders. Davina
knelt on the rushes to hold Andrew’s legs while Maidie began washing the chief’s
abdomen around the wound, being careful not to let the water seep into the open
gash.

“Angus washed his wound,” Davina told her.

“Doesn’t hurt to be too clean, Davina,” Gavin said. “A wound
like Andrew’s can easily fester.”

“Do you have some whisky?” Maidie searched his face. The
question was unnecessary. Many of the lairds distilled whisky on their lands.
The liquor provided libation for the residents of the castle, but most went to
the burghs, generating income for the estates.

Gavin nodded his head toward one of maidservants standing
beside Davina. The girl left and returned with a cut-glass flask of amber
liquid. She handed the flask to Maidie who wet a clean cloth with the whisky
and rubbed a large area around the wound. Gavin’s eyes followed her every move
as she carefully threaded the needle to begin the tedious task of stitching the
gash, one small stitch at a time. He probably wanted to make certain she did
nothing to further endanger the chief’s life. Andrew moaned, turning his head
from side to side, but did not open his eyes.

“If he wakens, try to put a drop or two of whisky between his
lips,” Maidie said glancing toward Gavin. “And hold tight to his shoulders and legs.
I dinna want him moving even a wee bit.”

Maidie worked tirelessly. Her neck began to ache. She
straightened and rubbed an especially sore spot. Gavin left to check on the men
Angus and his assistants attended. Only Randal had wounds more severe than those
of the chief. The warriors would recover to fight again, and mayhap lose their
lives in the next battle.

Randal died.
Maighstir
Tam gave last rites in time. Now, the tanist must go to Anne and tell her of
Randal’s death. They were newly wed, Randal and Anne, with a bairn on the
way—another bairn with no da. Gavin’s father, Chief William Munro, had
been killed three years prior in the same battle her beloved Kenneth was
mortally wounded. The clans seemed determined to carry on the feuding. The
thought gave Maidie pause. Gavin turned to stare at her as the
maighstir
covered Randal’s face with the
warrior’s plaide. Maidie felt heat rush to her throat and turned back to the
stitching of the chief’s wound. She must not let anything distract her. The
chief’s life depended on her skills.

Maidie straightened, glancing toward Gavin. He squatted down
and patted a warrior’s arm, then spoke to the wounded lad who moaned at his
feet and tried to speak, “Save your strength, lad. You fought a good fight this
day. We’ll soon have you home to your family with properly tended wounds.” The
young man managed a half-smile. Gavin gave him another pat, then stood and
returned to stand over her. She could feel his eyes.