Highland Lover: Book 3 Scottish Knights Trilogy, page 1
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Table of Contents
A Preview of The Laird’s Choice
Copyright Page
To Debi Allen, Jody Allen, Rosemary Murray &
the many other readers who have become members
of the Aid Amanda’s Research Society,
I thank you all most sincerely!
Author’s Note
For the reader’s convenience, the author offers the following guide:
Ciara = SHAR-a
Clachan = village
Fain = eager
Forbye = besides, furthermore, however
Gangplank = the board or ramp that provides access from dock to galley
Gangway = the walkway between the rows of oarsmen’s benches on a Highland galley, birlinn (a large galley designed to carry cargo), or a hybrid
Ivor = EE-ver
Owf = not crazy but “off,” not normal
Rothesay = ROSS-y
Shoogle = roil, shake up
Strath = valley, usually a river valley
… the noo = now
Prologue
Falkland Castle, Scotland, 27 March 1402
The man she saw lying awkwardly on the dirt floor was unnaturally thin, little more than skin and bones. Even so, she could sense his pain. She sensed, too, that his parched, dry skin felt too tight for his body. His once silky, fair, shoulder-length hair was straw stiff and dull from grime and lack of nutrients.
He lay curled on one side, as if he had sought to return to his mother’s womb or felt pain in his stomach. One thin arm stretched outward, palm open, to catch cornmeal drifting down on pale beams of light that slipped through narrow spaces between planks of the mill floor high above him. The meal looked like ordinary dust motes dancing in ordinary moonbeams.
Since her view of the scene seemed to emerge from a surrounding black cloud, she was unsure of how she knew about the mill. But she was certain of its presence and certain that the drifting motes were cornmeal, not dust.
Even as that thought passed through her mind, she recognized a stronger perception that could not be hers and must be the man’s own vague awareness of meal in his open palm that he lacked strength to bring to his mouth.
His frustration seemed to add force to his thoughts, making them easier for her to discern. He was as good as telling her that he lacked even strength or will enough to lick his lips, which also bore a coating of meal. It had kept him alive for what he reckoned must be more than a fortnight now. His guards had given him water only twice. But he had known better than to trust those who had imprisoned him, and made each drop last as long as he could.
Almost wryly, he told himself that if he survived this ordeal—if a friend learned of his peril and summoned aid to him before it was too late—right after he hanged his fiendish uncle and the Douglas, he would order the royal dungeons altered. To see sunlight and moonlight only when filtered through corn dust and wood planking was more torturous than never to see light at all.
She knew that it was already too late. He lacked even the strength to acknowledge the pain in his shrunken gut anymore.
As that thought drifted through his mind… or hers… or both together… blackness followed. The last of his pain disappeared, and she felt tears streaming down her cheeks.
Sitting bolt upright to find herself alone and shaking in the familiar darkness of her bedchamber in St. John’s Town of Perth, her tears still streaming, she knew that what she had seen was no nightmare but a truth that she dared speak to no one.
Davy Stewart, the heir to Scotland’s throne, had just died.
Chapter 1
Stirling Castle, late February 1403
The English ambassador disapproved of his mission and had from the instant he’d understood its goal. However, it was no business of his to express his opinions to heads of state, not to his own and certainly not to Scotland’s Duke of Albany, who eyed him now across the large table Albany used as a desk in his audience chamber.
Clad elegantly in black, the sixty-two-year-old duke stood second in line for Scotland’s throne. He had, in fact, due to one cause or another, ruled Scotland as regent—or Governor, as the Scots called it—for many years, occasionally even when, as now, he lacked any titular right to do so.
Although his still-dark hair contained increasingly more silver, Albany was as politically astute as ever, and as ruthless.
Having long negotiated secretly with him for Henry IV of England, the ambassador knew that the duke possessed a quick, intelligent mind and was cold-blooded, unpredictable, and skilled in wielding his authority. His usual tone was chilly, but he could be affable if it served his purpose. Above all, he was a man with a deep understanding of power who did all he could to increase his own.
“You will need a royal safe-conduct for your return,” Albany said abruptly.
Reflecting on the fact that the duke had already kept him kicking his heels for a fortnight, the ambassador wondered if his safe-conduct had become an issue.
Warily, he said, “Although our countries enjoy a rare truce, my lord, one does feel safer passing through your Borders with a safe-conduct than without one. However… Pray forgive me, sir. But as his grace, the King, is away…”
When Albany frowned, the ambassador paused again, hoping he’d made his point. After Davy Stewart’s death, many having suspected Albany’s hand in it, the Scottish King and Parliament had refused to name him Governor again.
Albany had waited barely two months before demanding that the King summon his lords again and order them to do so. His grace had submitted, as usual, to Albany’s stronger will and ordered Parliament to meet directly after Easter. But would its ever-unpredictable lords submit as easily to the duke’s demands?
“No one will dare doubt the validity of a safe-conduct bearing my signature,” Albany said flatly. “Now, I’m sure you’ve arranged the details of that matter we discussed before and have everything in train.”
“Yes, my lord,” the ambassador said. “As I said when last we met, we require only the name of the—”
“I received that information yestereve,” Albany interjected curtly, reminding him that the duke also had a passion for secrecy. “Recall that you must not act as intermediary.”
“Indeed, my lord. I shall employ the courier who acted for his… um… for us before. One assumes that the promises we made about the cargo…”
Again, diplomatically, he paused.
“I care only about matters on which your master and I have agreed and not a whit about promises to his minions or about the cargo,” Albany said. “So, unless you have more we must discuss, our business is done. Collect your safe-conduct from my steward as you leave.”
“With respect, my lord, you still have not given me the name I require.”
Albany did.
The Firth of Forth, Friday, March 16
Nineteen-year-old Lady Alyson MacGillivray grasped the urgent fingers clutching her arm and tried to pry them loose, saying, “Prithee, calm yourself, Ciara. If this ship sinks, clinging to me will avail you naught.”
“Mayhap it will not, m’lady,” her middle-aged attire woman said, still gripping her hard enough to leave bruises. “But if this horrid ship drops off another o’ these giant waves as it did afore, mayhap neither o’ us will fly into yon wall again.”
Alyson did not reply at once, having noted that, although the huge vessel still rocked on the heaving waters of the firth, the noises it made had changed. The wind still howled. However, the awful creaks and screeches that had made Ciara fear aloud—and Alyson silently—that the ship would shake itself apart had eased.
“We’re slowing,” Alyson said.
The cabin door opened without warning, and Niall Clyne, Alyson’s husband of two and a half months, filled the opening. He was a handsome, fair-haired, blue-eyed man of mild temperament, whom she’d known for most of her life. He ducked as he entered, to avoid banging his head against the low lintel.
Alyson saw at once that he looked wary.
“Put out that lantern, Allie,” he said. “We must show no light aboard now.”
“Who would see it?” Alyson asked reasonably. “That tiny window—”
“Porthole,” Niall said.
“—is shuttered,” she continued. “Little light would show through it in any event. Surely, on such a dark night—”
“Just put it out,” he said. “It isn’t safe to keep a flame here in such weather.”
Ciara protested, “Sir, please, it be scarifying enough in this place with light! Forbye, in such weather, we ought never tae ha’ left Leith Harbor! Men did say—”
“An overturned lantern would quickly start a fire,” Niall interjected. “And, with no way to escape, a fire at sea would be even more terrifying than one on land.”
“But—”
“Hush, Ciara,” Alyson said, watching Niall. Although the order he’d given was sensible, she was as sure as she could be that he was relaying it from someone else. Without moving to put out the lantern, and glad that Ciara had released her arm when the door opened, she said to Niall, “We have stopped, have we not?”
“Aye, or nearly, for we’ve dropped two of our anchors,” he said. “But you must put out that light, lass. Even the storm lights on deck are dark now.”
“So we don’t want to be seen,” Alyson said. “But who would see us?”
“That is not for you to know.”
“Do you know?” she asked. “Or is your friend Sir Mungo keeping secrets from you as well as from us?”
With audible strain in his voice, Niall said, “You must call him ‘Sir Kentigern,’ Alyson. His friends call him Mungo, because that’s what friends often do call a man named Kentigern. But he is not Sir Mungo to anyone.”
“I keep forgetting,” she said calmly. “Sir Kentigern is such a lot to say. But you do not answer my question. Do you know why we have stopped?”
“I do not,” he said. “I ken only that they’ve sent a coble ashore with six oarsmen to row it. Now, will you put out that light, or must I?”
“I’ll do it. Good night, Niall.”
“Good night, my lady.” Evidently, he trusted her, because he left then and shut the door.
Ciara waited only until he had done so to say with panic in her voice, “Ye’ll no put that light out, m’lady, I prithee! ’Twould be dark as a tomb in here!”
“Do you want Sir Kentigern to come down here?” Alyson asked.
“Nay, I do not,” Ciara said. “For all that he may be the master’s friend, I dinna like him.”
“Nor do I,” Alyson said, careful not to reveal the understatement of those three words in her tone. “Lie down on yon shelf bed now and try to sleep when I put out the light. I shan’t need you to undress me.”
“I ken fine that I shouldna sleep in your bed,” Ciara said. “But I’ll take it and thank ye, because get in that hammock and let this storm-tossed ship fling me about with every motion, I will not!”
“Hush now, Ciara. Take advantage of this respite and try to sleep.”
Why, though, Alyson wondered, were they stopping?
They had left Edinburgh’s Leith Harbor at dusk, Sir Kentigern “Mungo” Lyle having insisted they could wait no longer. Mungo was secretary to the Earl of Orkney, whom Niall also served. It was on business of Orkney’s that the men were sailing to France, and since they could be away for months, Niall had agreed to take Alyson with him. Mungo had not concealed his disapproval when they’d met him at the harbor. But Niall’s insistence that he could not send Alyson all the way home to Perth, alone, had been enough. Whether it would satisfy Orkney when he learned that she was with them remained to be seen.
Alyson had met the earl, who was a few years her senior, several times. As the wealthiest nobleman in Scotland, and one of the most powerful, Orkney knew his worth. But he was not nearly as puffed up in his own esteem as Mungo was in his.
But Mungo had doubtless meant only to please the earl by hastening their departure. Storms had delayed and battered their ship, the Maryenknyght, on her voyage from France with her cargo of French wines. Then men had to load the return cargo, and the ship’s captain took two more days to make hasty repairs.
But now, whatever was occurring on deck…
“I am going up to see what’s happening,” Alyson told Ciara. “Prithee, do not argue or fling yourself into a fret, because you won’t dissuade me. We are where we are, but I want to know where that is and what they’re doing on deck.”
“Prithee, m’lady—”
“We can judge our danger better if we have information, Ciara. So just be patient and try to sleep. I’ll hold this lantern until you are safe on that bed but no longer, lest Mungo come down and dare to look in on us.”
If he did come down, he would likely run into her on her way up. But Alyson doubted that Ciara would think of that. Ciara was concerned with her own safety, which was reasonable but irrelevant when one could do naught to ensure it.
Ciara eyed her mistress measuringly. Although she had served Alyson only since her wedding, she evidently knew her well enough to see that further debate was useless, because she quickly unlaced and doffed her kirtle. Then, lying on the narrow bed in her flannel shift, she pulled the quilt over her, gritted her teeth, shut her eyes, and nodded for Alyson to put out the light.
Alyson donned her fur-lined, hooded cloak and snugly fitting gloves, then blew out the lantern and found its hook on the wall. Hanging the lantern carefully, she felt for the door latch and raised it, hoping she would not be so unfortunate as to meet anyone before seeing what there was to see.
The cabin door opened onto a narrow, damp passageway ending at a ladder that stretched to the deck. The ship’s hold lay below, no longer containing wine casks but roped piles of untanned hides and bales of sheared wool going to France. That cargo was noisome enough already to fill the passageway with pungent odors.
Wrinkling her nose but relieved to see faint light coming through the open hatchway, Alyson raised her skirts with her left hand, touched one wall with her right for balance, and moved toward the ladder.
Its rungs were flat on top and the ladder just seven feet or so to the hatchway, but ascending it in skirts was awkward. A wooden rail aided her when she climbed high enough to reach it, and she emerged in an area between the shipmaster’s forecastle cabin and a second, smaller one.
The wind was thunderous. But the hatchway, recessed between the two cabins, sheltered Alyson from the worst of it. The hatch cover was up, strapped against the cabin on her left as she faced the stern.
She wondered if it had been so all along or if Niall had opened the hatch and left it so. Surely, it should stay shut to keep the angry sea from spilling into the passageway, the two tiny lower cabins, and the vast hold below.
Above her, black clouds scudded across the night sky. Gaps between them briefly revealed twinkling stars overhead and a crescent moon rising above the open sea to her right amidst flying clouds. Those clouds seemed to whip above, across, and below the moon in a wild, erratic dance.
Since Edinburgh was behind her, she knew she must be facing east. The ship’s prow therefore pointed southward, so they were at the mouth of the Firth of Forth.
Looking aft but still to her right, she saw moonlight playing on glossy black mountains of ocean. To her left, she discerned the firth’s south coast where dots of light twinkled in the distance—perhaps the lights of North Berwick.
When she stepped forward to look due south past the master’s cabin, she had to hold her hood against the whipping wind. But the view astonished her.
At no great distance beyond the ship’s rail, sporadic moonlight revealed a precipitous rock formation looming above tumultuous waves that broke around it in frothy, silver-laced skirts wherever the moonlight touched them.
She could hear that crashing surf despite the howling wind.
Surely, she thought, no boat could land there. But why stop if not to send one ashore or wait for one coming to them? Stepping back into the deep shadows of the alcove between the two cabins, she continued to watch.
Shadowy figures moved on deck, but no one challenged her.
Not long afterward, through the darkness, she saw a boat, a coble, plunging toward them through the waves. In a patch of moonlight, she saw that it was full of people. At least two were small enough to be children.
Not far away, unbeknownst to anyone aboard the Maryenknyght, a smaller ship more nearly akin to a Highland galley than to the merchantman rode the heaving seas. Sir Jacob Maxwell, the Sea Wolf’s captain, kept his gaze fixed on the much larger ship. When its sail had come down as it passed North Berwick, he’d suspected the ship was the one he sought. When it dropped anchors off the massive, nearly unapproachable formation known as the Bass Rock, he was sure of it.
The wind blew from the northeast quarter. The merchantman had anchored well away from the rock and with its prow facing southeastward. Thus its leeward length sheltered its steerboard side when it lowered a boat.
“Be that our quarry, sir?” his helmsman, Coll, asked in Gaelic.
“It must be, aye,” Jake replied in that language.
Although born in Nithsdale, near the Borders, Jake had spent two-thirds of his life on ships. Much of it he’d spent in the Isles, so he believed he was nearly as much a Highlander as his helmsman was. Moreover, most of his men spoke only Gaelic, so most conversation aboard was in that language.
“I cannot make out her flag in this darkness,” Coll said.
“She is the Maryenknyght out of Danzig,” Jake said. “She was flying a French flag when she entered Leith Harbor, and I’d wager she flew that flag when she departed. However, it could be some other flag now.”
