A Runaway Bride for the Highlander
Auteur·e
Elisabeth Hobbes
Lectures
17,0K
Chapitres
22
Chapter One
They came from all over Scotland, converging on Stirling. The young with fire and anger in their bellies, the old with steel in their sinews. They came from the Highlands and the Lowlands, the borders and the isles. They came bearing weapons and grudges and wounds. Crushed by defeat in battle, yet unbroken in spirit, the Chiefs and the Lairds gathered together.
Stirling Castle loomed on rocks that fell away steeply on three sides. It was an imposing sight by any measure, visible from miles around, far over the winding Forth River. At dusk with the sun blood red behind it, the effect was doubly striking. Flaming beacons at either side of the Forework cast eerie shadows over the six soaring towers and seemed to breathe life into the stones themselves. The Forework became a skull, the windows black eyes and the great central doorway a gaping maw ready to swallow all comers.
Sitting astride his horse in the slow procession that wound from the city huddled beneath the rock towards the great gateway, Ewan Lochmore shivered at the disconcerting image that had entered his head.
He considered himself a rational man, not given to believing tales of eldritch creatures that his grandmother had told him and his brother every Samhain Eve many years ago. Even so, as he drew nearer and nearer he was filled with foreboding that once he passed beneath the stone arch his life would be changed for ever.
He winced and clutched Randall’s reins tighter as a stab of grief sharper than the blade of any dagger knocked him sideways. He gritted his teeth, determined to betray no outward signs of his pain. His life had already changed beyond all imagining and what he would do over the coming days would only make it official.
He looked again at the castle, thinking it no wonder that he saw the face of death when Death had claimed so many Scottish lives recently.
‘You’re quiet. What are ye thinking of?’
Ewan looked at the man driving the small cart alongside him. Angus, his father’s cousin and right-hand man, was watching with shrewd eyes.
‘My father,’ Ewan answered, his voice thick with emotion. ‘And death.’
‘Aye, we’re all thinking of Hamish,’ Angus wheezed, filling the words with a depth of sorrow that matched what Ewan was feeling. Cousins who were more like brothers, Angus and Hamish had grown up the closest of allies, with Angus acting as Hamish’s retainer and answering only to him. If any man had a claim to share the grief that consumed Ewan, it was this man.
‘I found him and held him as he died, a pike still in his back,’ Angus continued. ‘Even then spitting a curse on the cur who struck him down. A great Laird to the last.’
Ewan bowed his head. ‘I should have been there,’ he muttered.
Angus shrugged, but did not contradict him, which twisted the dagger in Ewan’s conscience even deeper. The loss of his father was a blow so great he feared he might never recover from the grief. What weighed him down even more was the knowledge that the eyes of all Lochmores, young and old, rich and poor, landowner or simple yeoman, would be on Ewan as the new Earl of Glenarris. Leadership had been thrust on his shoulders in the most tragic way possible. So far he had failed to impress Angus, one of the few men now living whose good opinion he craved. Jamie, Angus’s sixteen-year-old son, who was sitting alongside him on the seat of the cart, rested a hand on the older man’s shoulder.
‘We’ll drink to his memory tonight,’ Ewan said. His tongue felt parched as he spoke. He needed a drink. Lots of them, in truth. He’d been riding long enough today and his throat was dry.
The line was moving forward and before long Ewan and his companions were through the curtain wall and into the Outer Close where visitors with their horses and transport were being admitted. Six sentinels lined the path from the gateway to the doorway of the residence known as the King’s House. A neatly dressed man in black robes stood before the door, flanked by two more guards in the royal colours. Beside him, a scribe sat at a table covered with rolls of parchment and an inkwell.
Ewan dismounted and passed the reins to Jamie. He moved to offer his arm to Angus and received a contemptuous eye roll.
‘I don’t know what sort of weaklings they have in Glasgow, but I’m no’ in ma grave yet, laddie. I can use ma legs.’
Ewan took a measured breath, reminding himself that though white haired, Angus was a man of fifty-eight who had fought and survived the massacre at Flodden, not in his dotage. His offer had been an attempt at courtesy, not to insult. He ignored the jibe against the city where he had been living for the past five years. They might walk streets rather than glens and hill paths, but there were men mad-eyed and bottle-brave enough in Glasgow to meet Angus on the battlefield.
Angus clambered down unaided. He adjusted the folds of his brat across his shoulders, and pushed back the sleeves of the yellow linen leine he wore beneath the heavy length of cloth. Ewan rearranged his own cumbersome length of plaid and straightened the more formal doublet he wore beneath. Satisfied that he was presentable enough for any royal court, he walked to the doorway and made a deep bow to the standing figure. The man inclined his head slightly in return.
‘State your name.’ The man at the table dipped his quill tip into ink. He waited, hand poised over the parchment for Ewan’s answer.
‘Ewan Lochmore of Clan Lochmore.’
The secretary wrote his name on what Ewan could see was a growing list.
‘Your business?’ asked the robed figure.
He sounded uninterested in the reason Ewan was there. His face was unfamiliar, but he was a man of some importance given the rich nap on his black robes and the jewels that bedecked his hat. He might be anyone, from a minor secretary, or an advisor to the Chamberlain of Scotland himself. He knew already why most of the grim-faced men were attending the hastily convened Special Council. The question was simply a formality.
Once Ewan said the words out loud it would be admitting to the nightmare he wished he could wake from, but with the light fading and many behind him waiting to be admitted, he could not permit himself the indulgence of delaying any longer. Ewan lifted his chin and gave the man a firm look.
‘My father Hamish Lochmore is dead and I am here to claim my title. I am the new Earl of Glenarris.’
The secretary scribbled this information, too, without raising his eyes.
‘And your servants?’
Ewan named them, managing to avoid Angus’s eye as he was described as such, and their names, too, were added to the document.
‘Stable your horse and stow your cart in the yard to the rear of the Great Hall,’ said the black-robed man. ‘You will be escorted to your accommodation. The castle is extremely full. Many of the Parliament arrived yesterday and have been meeting continuously.’
‘I have matters I wish to put before the Parliament,’ Ewan said. ‘Many men from my clan fought at Flodden alongside my father. There are tenants who lost their husbands and fathers fighting. I seek alms for them as King James promised.’
The man’s expression softened slightly. ‘That matter will be dealt and compensation will be given. The council has not yet decided the amount it can afford to spare, but rest assured, your people will be provided for.’
Ewan tried not to bristle at talk of ‘sparing’ money to support the families of those who now had no other means to support themselves. He followed the directions he had been given, promising himself he would not leave without an assurance, if not the money itself.
The rear courtyard was bustling and finding a convenient space for the cart took some time. Most of their property would have to remain on the cart. The small chest containing Ewan’s books of law, papers and other valuables was padlocked and chained to rings set into to the floor of the cart and Ewan had no fear it would be stolen or broken into. There were grander and more tempting vehicles surrounding their modest cart. He ran his hand over the top of the studded chest and another pang of misery welled up inside him. His days of studying law at the University of Glasgow were finished. When Angus had arrived bearing the news, he had left his rooms the same day, knowing he would not return.
Ewan’s eye settled on his father’s targe that was propped up at the back. The great shield had been no protection against a pike through his back. A feeling of grief overpowered Ewan. Regretting the loss of his future career seemed petty compared to the loss of his father and brother.
The three men rearranged a few rolls of cloth, boxes of dry goods and two barrels of wine, then pulled heavy sackcloth over the most vulnerable pieces of Hamish’s armour and sword. The whole cart was covered with a large piece of heavy sackcloth secured at the edges with rope. Satisfied with their work, the three men returned to the entrance and were escorted to a chamber on the second floor of the King’s House. The room was small and cramped, with two truckle beds squeezed side by side at the end of the larger bed meant for Ewan. There was barely room for the roll of clothes that Jamie carried.
‘It’s an insult to you, to be placed so high and distant from the Great Hall,’ Angus muttered, prodding his pallet with a foot while Jamie set to laying out their fresh linens.
Ewan grinned at his companion’s outrage. When they had been younger men Angus and Hamish would spend days away from Lochmore Castle sleeping in bracken under the skies. Ewan and his older brother had gone with them on many occasion, learning to hunt and snare. He sighed, remembering the good times. Not wanting Angus to see the emotion he was sure his face gave away he straightened the coverlet on his bed and realised how tired he felt deep in his bones. The mattresses were filled with sweet-smelling barley straw and looked comfier than anything he had slept on while travelling and the sheets were clean and tempting. He could gladly tumble back and pull the curtains around himself, blotting out the world.
‘I don’t mind this room,’ he said. ‘If we were the only guests I might see it as a slight, but you saw for yourself how many others are here.’
‘You should mind, laddie. It’s an earl you are now and you should remember you’re accorded respect. You should demand it!’
Ewan hid the unexpected grin that he felt forming. He was truly fond of the older man, even if Angus lived in a past where ready fists and a forehead could settle a score easier than negotiations. Fortunately Hamish had been more longsighted in his vision for his second son and, when he saw Ewan’s inclination was not for patrolling the borders between Lochmore and McCrieff lands, he had encouraged Ewan to take a place at the University in Glasgow.
‘The first Lochmore to be educated beyond reading and numbers!’ he would roar proudly, daring anyone to pour scorn on Ewan’s accomplishments.
‘Do you not think that respect is gained quicker if you don’t bluster and demand and shout?’ Ewan asked.
Angus looked at him as though the concept of not shouting was beyond him. ‘Aye, possibly here. But you’ll need to command the clan and the men will be wanting more than fancy words and polite bowing.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘You’ll need to be able to fight. Can you do that?’
This was the fear that had kept Ewan awake as much as his grief. Hamish might have valued his learning, but that mattered little to men who prized swords over quills. ‘I might spend most of my life surrounded by documents, but I can hold my own in a skirmish if I’m needed to.’
Angus nodded slowly. ‘Then make sure you show it to the court. Now, we’re wasting time while there is wine paid for by the Crown. I’m heading down to find a drink. Are you coming?’
Ewan’s mouth began to water, craving the sting of hot liquor down his throat. It would go some way to obliterating his grief if only for the night. As soon as he had stowed his belongings, he planned to make his way down and join them.
‘I will shortly,’ he said.
Angus left. Jamie stood by the window, uncertainly.
‘What would you like me to do?’ he asked.
Jamie seemed content to act as manservant. Ewan wondered if his brother, John, had intended to use Jamie as his advisor and confidant in the same manner their fathers had lived and worked together. He would never know, because John had fought and died at Flodden like their father.
‘No, you can go find something to eat. Enjoy yourself before we have to return home.’
‘I’ll do that. I saw a bonny lass with a fine arse on her and a pair of titties as big as twin babbies’ heads.’ Jamie grinned and headed out eagerly.
Ewan sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands. If his cares could be worn away between a pair of plump thighs as easily as Jamie’s could, he’d have an easier mind. Now he was alone he could indulge himself in a moment of weakness as doubt crept into his mind. He was no leader. No great chief like Hamish had been, or John had been raised to be. Ewan could pray for the strength to be a leader, but his prayers that reports of his father’s death were false had gone unanswered. He had no faith this one would be heard. He felt more alone than ever before. He and he alone would have to find the strength to be a worthy leader.
Ewan lifted his head and took a deep breath. No more time to linger here while Angus appeared alone and tongues wagged. There would be a feast that night and the drinking had already started. Had been underway for some time, from the slurring of the old ballads and the volume and variety of the curses that had flitted to Ewan’s ears as they passed by the Great Hall. He thought briefly of his father, who had commanded the eyes and attention of everyone in the room with his loud laughter and booming tones, missing him more than he thought possible. John had been the same, vibrant and charismatic, while Ewan had been content to let him. They would have been the first to table, the first to empty a cup and call for more. There was something in what Angus had said. A chief must command and be seen. Ewan would not bring shame on their memories by appearing cowed or withdrawn.
He ran a comb through his jaw-length light-brown hair and shook it out free. He shaped his plaid over his shoulder and beneath his right arm until the long, woven russet-coloured cloth hung neatly. The brat was an outdoor garment but the colour proclaimed a man’s clan allegiance and at this time the usual rules of clothing would be relaxed. He added a swagger to his step as he left the room, holding his shoulders back and head high. He would make his first appearance as Earl of Glenarris one to remember.
He descended to the ground floor and made his way outside to the Inner Close of the castle. The sun had sunk beneath the height of the curtain wall and the limewashed stone of the Forework was a warm orange. The impression was much more benign than the image of the skull that he had first thought of. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of grass mingling with tempting smells coming from the kitchens beside the Great Hall. Ewan inhaled deeply, his appetite surging back for the first time in days. Since his father’s and brother’s deaths all food had tasted like ash, but the scent of rich juices from the roasting meat were more than any man could resist. He would eat well tonight and fill his belly, knowing that he had three days’ journey to take him home to Lochmore Castle.
A few other late guests were making their way across the courtyard, taking a direct route. The cool breeze on his face and neck made his stiff velvet doublet a little more bearable and Ewan decided to take a longer route. He made his way round the path, past the Chapel Royal, and came face to face with a ghost.
