Medieval Highlands 01 - Highland Vengeance (5 page)

“Better three hours too soon than a minute too late”

Merry Wives of Windsor (Act II, scene ii)

The Highlands, Scotland 1192

“Laird, a man on horseback approaches,” Laird Lachlan Donald’s lieutenant said as he stepped further into the great hall. “He’s near to a furlong out and has no escort. ‘Tis likely the MacLaurin chieftain you’ve been expecting these past days.”

“Good. Good. Tell me when he reaches the gate,” Laird Donald replied and watched his lieutenant depart the hall before settling on a bench at the table and taking a long pull on his ale. The MacLaurins were not well known to him. He only knew that they were a clan whose property was much further to the north than his own and whose laird was a young man of about sixteen summers.

A messenger had come a sennight past with a missive from the young laird requesting an audience with him, and Laird Donald had sent word back that he would be welcomed.

‘Twas rumored that the MacLaurin had inherited the title at a very young age, after a bloody massacre had killed the old laird, his grandfather, as well as the lad’s mother and a small number of MacLaurin warriors. He’d also heard the lad’s father was behind the murders and that the lad had later killed his father and avenged their deaths.

An all-too familiar scuffling sound came from the doorway leading to the kitchens. With a sigh of resignation, Laird Donald turned toward the sound, forcing a smile of good will upon his countenance. “Ah, Cook. Is there aught amiss?”

“Aye, Laird, and well you know its cause I’ll wager. ‘Tis the bairn. She wills not to know her place, laird. She’s all the time lurkin’ about my kitchens and gettin’ underfoot as I work. ‘Tis not fittin’ for the lass to be runnin’ ‘round with the kitchen maids.”

Giving his prized cook his best look of contrition, Laird Lachlan Donald let out a loud sigh. “’My sister swore that my daughter would quit her wild ways and settle into more ladylike behavior by her sixth summer, but clearly, ‘tis not come to pass. I shall speak to the lass forthwith. She shall be banished from the kitchens.”

Maryn lay on her stomach with her cinnamon curls dancing as she wiggled and squirmed in an effort to keep her grip on her barnyard prize. The pet was her new best friend. Being the only bairn at the holding, Maryn’s friends tended to be of the four-legged sort. As she held the thing more securely against her chest, her fidgety pet tickled her neck with its long, scratchy fingers. Maryn snickered, then clamped her hand over her mouth.

The musical sound of his daughter’s glee echoed faintly around Laird Donald. Smiling indulgently at the delightful tremolo, he looked around the hall for his wayward bairn. He’d have to chasten her for her sneakiness again, but he could not bring himself to be truly upset with her antics. For she was such a curious lass, and that was the cause of her mischief-making, he was sure. Tho’ ‘twas clear now that he’d need to rein her in a bit more, else his cook would surely revolt.

Maryn’s pet tried to leap out of her hands again. “Nay,” she chided in a loud whisper, “you must not let Papa know we are here.”

“Ah!” Laird Donald said as he craned his neck to look under his table. “‘Tis my wayward daughter that twitters so prettily! I was sure wee brownies had invaded my fortress.”

Maryn giggled. “Papa, you are so silly. The brownies only come out at night!”

The cook turned on her heel and stormed toward the entrance to the hall, muttering just loud enough for her laird to hear. “The lass is bein’ spoiled an’ needs to be taken in hand, she does.”

Laird Donald cleared his throat, taking the not-so-subtle hint. “Maryn, attend me now. ‘Twas not good of you to eavesdrop. And stay out of Cook’s kitchen.”

“But, Papa—!”

“Nay, heed me, daughter,” her papa admonished. “I know the lure of the kitchen is a great one, but Cook has little patience for wee lasses who get underfoot.”

“But,
Papa…!
” she tried again.

“Nay, lass, hear me well. She’ll quit me for sure and return to her clan—your dear mother’s clan—if you do not mind your papa and stay out of her way. And she is the best cook in the whole of the Highlands—‘twould not please me to lose her.”

Maryn’s shoulders drooped as she bowed her head in defeat. “Aye, Papa.” Brightening, she lifted her eyes to her papa’s countenance. “But might I help the other maids when Cook is not about?”

Her papa sighed and shook his head, giving her a lopsided smile. “We shall see. For now, just try and stay out of the kitchen.” His eyes narrowed. “What the devil have you got there, lass? You’re wiggling like a hooked salmon. Bring it out from under the table so I can get a good look at it, my neck’s getting a crick in it.”

Maryn scooted out from her hiding place and, carefully clasping the wriggling, clammy toad in her outstretched hands, brought it up close to her father’s face for his inspection. “See Papa!” Her papa hauled his head back. “This be my best friend, Piddle,” she said happily.

With raised eyebrows, Laird Donald replied dubiously, “Aye, looks like a good specimen.”

“I found him this morn enjoying the air inside Old Elsie’s bucket of oats. I was afeared she might eat him if I did not take him out right away.” She nodded her head. “Remember you how blind the old mare is, Papa?”

“Aye, that I do, lass.”

“Anyway, as soon as I grabbed him, he went pee-pee right down my arm—can you believe it? That’s why I named him Piddle, ‘cuz that’s what he did. What think you of that?”

Laird Donald chuckled. “I’d say that’s a fitting name for him then, daughter!”

Unfortunately, the toad chose that moment to live up to his appellation once more and sent another spray of urine down his daughter’s arm, and into Laird Donald’s lap.

“God’s teeth!” he roared, springing from his chair with a mighty yowl, he hopped on one foot as he shook the other, causing his dripping daughter to chortle with glee.

The sound of his bairn’s laughter soothed his temper and he, too, began to laugh, his eyes twinkling with mirth. Turning, he called for one of the servants to bring a damp cloth to wipe off the mess the creature had left on them.

“Daughter, you do realize that the toad must be allowed to go back to his home by the stables or he will not be happy.” His daughter’s lower lip protruded and her brows slammed together. She shook her head. As Laird Donald began washing off her arm, he explained further, “Mayhap he has a wife and bairns waiting for him to return right this very moment.”

Maryn’s grip on the creature was becoming more and more difficult to maintain as the moments passed—especially with all the washing going on. “Aye, Papa—oops!” The toad managed to slip from her hands and, making a loud plopping sound as it landed on the floor, instantly began hopping toward the entrance to the hall. A merry chase ensued. Laird Donald called out instructions as he raced to one side and Maryn darted to the other, each grabbing for, and missing, the bumpy, brown, and rapidly springing toad. They were both laughing and taking in great gulps of air at the folly by the time they had finally captured it.

Laird Donald looked into the sparkling amber eyes of his daughter as she struggled mightily to keep her grip on her friend. Leaning down a bit, he pressed the small of her tiny back as he led her towards the door. “Maryn, return Piddle back to his place by the stables forthwith before he either gets loose in the hall again, or begins showering us once more with his golden blessings.”

“Aye, Papa,” Maryn said on a sigh, and clutching her best friend to her bosom, she reluctantly walked out the door of the keep.

Laird Donald stood on the top step of the entrance and watched his daughter’s slow progression to the stables. Her shoulders were hunched forward as she spoke gently to the toad she clasped lovingly against her chest. He smiled. She was such a tender-hearted creature. He wished her mother, his dear Mairy, could have lived to know the sweet-spirited lass.

“Laird, the rider approaches the outer ward of the gatehouse,” Laird Donald’s lieutenant said from the bottom of the steps. “The badge he wears indicates he
is
the MacLaurin, as was believed.”

Jolted from his reverie, Laird Donald nodded and gave the man his instructions before turning to walk back into the hall to await his visitor.

*

Daniel MacLaurin kept his steed at a slow gait as he traveled up the well-worn gravel road leading to the Donald property. He was deliberately delaying the meeting he was sworn by duty to have with the laird of this keep. His hands were so clammy with sweat that the reins began to slide through them. He swiped them on his tunic before anxiously lifting each arm to see if the dampness there had soaked through to humiliate him and expose his apprehension. It had not, God be praised.

He’d left Angus back at their campsite along a hillside on the east bank of a burn they’d come upon the past eve. Angus had insisted that his godson do this duty on his own, without his mentor in attendance. But this would be the first meeting with another clan laird Daniel had ever had without Angus, and ‘twas possibly the most important one of his life. He felt as if he’d lost his moorings and had been set adrift on a storm-tossed sea. Though Angus had helped him construct the speech he would be giving to Laird Donald, Daniel feared his youth and callowness would be apparent to the man, should the conversation waver too far off course.

As Daniel came closer to the fortress, he studied its construction. The Donald castle was small in comparison to his own, but suitably fortified. There were four corner towers with a crenelated outer wall encircling the inner keep. It sat high on a hill, allowing the guards a full view of the surrounding countryside for miles around.

The loud clanking of the portcullis being raised as he approached the gatehouse brought him out of his meditation. As Daniel passed through the cool shadow of the arch, he saw an austere looking warrior of about twenty summers with dark hair and beard awaiting his arrival in the bailey.

Daniel tugged on the reins of his mount and halted in front of the man, who remained mute. Though a hive of bees buzzed in his stomach and his mouth was as dry as Angus’s last
uisge beatha
cask, he gave the warrior a fierce look. Imitating his maternal grandfather’s expression and voice, he said, “Tell your chieftain that Laird Daniel MacLaurin has arrived.”

With a curt nod, the man replied, “I am Jacob, Laird Donald’s lieutenant. The laird is aware of your arrival and has requested that I escort you into the hall.”

Daniel slowly let out the breath he’d been holding and dismounted. With luck, this chore would be successfully concluded in a few hours’ time and they’d be back on their way to MacLaurin land before afternoon.

He’d just handed his mount over to the stableman when a red-haired cyclone came whipping around the backside of the stables and slammed into his side. Tho’ the lass was no larger than a faery sprite, the devil-child still managed to nearly mow him down in her flight.

With a bit of effort, he regained his balance and caught the bairn by her slender, tiny shoulders to steady her before she toppled to the ground. “Whoa, lass, why speed you so from yon stable?” He looked behind her. “Be you chased by the faery hound,
cu sith
, mayhap?” he jested.

Maryn stilled. Looking up, up, up at the massive man, her eyes rounded in fear as an unuttered scream caught in her throat.

Daniel felt the barely restrained energy surging through the bairn—the nearly violent tremors that shook her small frame—and he dropped his hands from her shoulders. He’d frightened her somehow, he realized.

Covered in dirt from head to foot, with straw matting her hair and something suspiciously like horse droppings clinging to her chin, she smelled as if she’d been wallowing in the dung heap. Daniel turned his head slightly to stay upwind of the stench.

After a moment more, when the brown-eyed filth-sprite still had not said a word to him in reply to his question, Daniel shrugged, deciding she must not be in any real danger, and turned back toward the center of the bailey where Jacob stood waiting.

She had run directly into a giant, Maryn thought in horror, just like the one in her favorite story about the boy who slew one using only his slingshot. But this one was not dark and fierce—nay, he was handsome. With thick red hair that was browner than her own, and the handsomest green eyes she’d ever seen. “Be you a giant, like in the priest’s story?” Maryn trumpeted.

Daniel turned back to the little urchin, who was now clutching her muck-covered gown in her grubby hands. He wondered whose bairn she could possibly be—she was clearly allowed to run wild, if the state of her hair and clothing was any indication. “Nay, lass. I am Laird MacLaurin and I come to meet with Laird Donald on clan business.”

That reminded Maryn of her mission. “Papa!” she yelled as she hurried toward the keep at a mad run.

Daniel shook his head and walked over to Jacob. “Who is that strange lass?” he asked, cocking his head in the direction of the fleeing girl.

“She’s Laird Donald’s only bairn, Maryn. The clan adores her, tho’ she’s been allowed too much freedom and gets into mischief at every turn.”

“
She
”—Daniel cocked his thumb in her direction—“is Laird Donald’s
daughter
?” Looking back toward the lass’s receding form, he said, “‘Tis astounding that her mother allows her to become so soiled.”