Bride of a Scottish Warrior Page 2

  “Ye will not cut off his leg,” she repeated.

  “I am the one in charge of Sir Alastair’s health. Therefore, I am the one who will make that decision.” The monk’s eyes narrowed. He sounded furious.

  But Grace would not relent. Still, she hesitated before speaking again. Men never liked to have their authority challenged. She moved toward Douglas, searching for an ally. “Can we not allow God to decide Alastair’s fate?”

  Douglas met her eyes, his face scored with genuine concern. “We must do all that we can to save him.”

  “Butchering him willnae save him,” she dared to whisper.

  The expression of compassion and concern faded from Douglas’s face. “Aye.”

  “Do ye agree, Roderick?”

  Grace could feel her legs shaking, her heart pounding, and she had the distinct feeling that she was turning red. Yet she fought hard to keep her voice calm and firm, lifting her chin in defiance. She would not acquiesce without a fight. Not when so much was at stake.

  Shadows of flickering daylight softened Roderick’s face and for a moment Grace dared to think he understood why this was so important. But ever the warrior, Roderick bristled against even the smallest hint of weakness. “We must do as Brother John commands.”

  His words chilled her. They had each acknowledged it was hopeless, yet still refused to allow Alastair a peaceful death. She sank gracefully into the hard, wooden chair and folded her hands on her lap. This battle would not be won with words or reason. She would have to find another way.

  Grace sat silently as the men spoke in low tones to each other, and gradually she returned to what they expected her to be. A quiet, placid, and obedient female, content to peacefully accept what she was told, to willingly follow the dictates of men. Yet inside she seethed.

  She reminded herself that there would be a price to pay for her interference. In this world and most likely the next, when she would have to stand before God and account for her earthly sins.

  Yet was this a sin? Granting her husband’s last wish, easing his unbearable suffering?

  Three days. She had but three days to figure out a way to peacefully end her husband’s suffering and hasten his leap from this life into the next. Her eyes burned and for a brief moment she was afraid she was going to cry. She curled her hands into fists, tightening them until the nails bit painfully into the soft flesh of her palms, blinking several times until the burning vanished.

  Brother John turned and she heard the distinct rattle of the bottle of medicine hidden within the pocket of his robes. He had told Douglas that too much of the elixir would cause serious harm. Or perhaps death?

  Grace’s chest tightened. It was hard to breathe. But she knew now what she had to do.

  The sun shone high overhead, yet the warmth of its golden rays did not reach the long line of weary travelers plodding across the barren landscape. The winter cold seeped into their very bones, the chilling wind stinging any exposed flesh. Sir Ewan Gilroy glanced down at the crudely drawn map, searching fruitlessly for the landmarks that would indicate they were getting close to their journey’s end.

  “We should have turned right at the pile of jagged rocks,” an amused male voice declared.

  “Shut up, Alec.” Ewan squinted again at the map, annoyed to realize his close friend and captain of his guard was right. It would take nearly an hour to turn around, making their arrival before nightfall unlikely.

  “The valley below is protected from the wind,” Alec mused. “A good place to make camp fer the night. Do ye agree?”

  “I suppose,” Ewan grumbled.

  “Here, let me see.” Alec held out his gloved hand and Ewan reluctantly handed him the map. ’Twas a sad man indeed who could not lead his people on a true course, but Ewan was too weary to protest. Alec had ridden at his side through seven years of war and two years before that—he was the closest thing to a true brother Ewan would ever have and he trusted him completely. He also had, to Ewan’s great annoyance, a skill in map reading that many, including Ewan, lacked.

  “If we turn a mile up ahead, we can easily reach yer land from this side,” Alec proclaimed. “Actually, it might even be a shorter route.”

  “Stop gloating,” Ewan said with an affable grin, raising his arm to give the signal to turn.

  The long line of exhausted travelers wound around like a giant serpent as they changed course, turning directly into the wind. Heads down, the group plodded onward, Ewan in the lead, Alec by his side.

  They remained silent for the next few hours, alone with their thoughts as they battled the elements. At last Ewan caught sight of the five mountains indicating they were drawing near. The news spread quickly down the line, reenergizing everyone. Despite his determination to remain calm and keep his expectations realistic, Ewan’s heart picked up speed as he urged his mount forward. Finally he crested the rise and got his first look at the valley below.

  The sight took his breath away. Unmoving, he stared silently, barely acknowledging Alec’s presence beside him.

  “Mother of God,” Alec swore beneath his breath.

  “Indeed,” Ewan answered.

  He had not expected King Robert to bequeath him a grand estate. Those riches were rewarded to men of higher standing and legitimate birth. Truth be told, he was humbled to have been given any land by his king, for Ewan was one of thousands of knights who had fought to secure the crown on Robert the Bruce’s head. Yet Robert had taken a liking to Ewan and he understood that rather than a trunk of gold, a true reward to a bastard son would be a property to call his own and the chance to create a lasting legacy for his progeny.

  Though most of the western Highlands had supported their king’s rise to power, some areas had resisted and suffered mightily for it. Apparently Ewan’s new holdings had been one of them.

  The valley below was stark and barren, the dry, dusty soil swirling like a cloud. On the far side, perched atop a large hill, stood the remains of the small castle, its crumbling stone walls and charred beams visible even from a distance.

  “The mountains on either side create a natural defense,” Alec offered.

  “One would think,” Ewan muttered. “Yet clearly they were not enough to hold back Robert’s troops.”

  Blackened areas where cottages had stood marred the peaceful view. Most of the structures that were intact looked as though a strong wind would blow them over. There was no smoke from any cooking fires coming from the cottages, no sounds of livestock or people, no signs of any life at all.

  “Do ye think it’s entirely deserted?” Alec asked.

  “’Tis best to assume that some still reside in this godforsaken place,” Ewan replied. “Just to be safe.”

  Ewan drew his sword. A select band of his best warriors did the same. Falling in beside him, they rode into the valley, leaving the rest of the party to wait until they were summoned.

  As they drew closer to the keep, they discovered a cluster of cottages in somewhat better condition, most boasting four walls and sturdy roofs. Without warning, two frightened pairs of eyes suddenly appeared in a cottage window, then disappeared in an instant.

  “Did ye see that?” Alec asked.

  “Aye,” Ewan replied. “There’s more than a few pairs of eyes trained upon us. Yet I dinnae fear we are riding into an ambush. From what I can see, ’tis mostly young faces and women peering out.”

  The slightly improved conditions of the property vanished once they reached the drawbridge of the castle. The thick oak door had been smashed to pieces, most likely with an iron-tipped battering ram. The stone steps leading to the battlements were scattered throughout the bailey, the rooftops of each of the four corner towers charred and splintered. A few rusted swords were ground into the dirt, testament to the fierce hand-to-hand combat that bespoke of the intensity and carnage of the final battle.

  The gaping hole at the entrance to the great hall allowed Ewan to see clear through to the other side and he quickly realized it was uninhabitable. Additio
nal holes in the roof had left the interior exposed to the elements for years; it would take a crew of men weeks to make the necessary repairs before anyone could live in it.

  Once gathered in the bailey, the men dismounted. Ewan turned in a complete circle to view every inch of his domain. Despite the disappointment at the appalling conditions, his heart pummeled in his chest. Mine. My castle. My lands. My legacy. It was exhilarating, intoxicating to realize how far he had risen in the world. From a starving, neglected, discarded bastard son of an earl to a laird of his own lands. An impossible dream for most, yet he had somehow achieved it.

  With a blood-chilling battle cry, Ewan thrust his sword into the ground, then lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head. His prayers for the future were silent and heartfelt. Let us have peace and prosperity and a wee bit of fun.

  When he was finished, Ewan rose and regarded his men. “Ye four go out to the cottages and rouse the village folk. ’Tis time we all met.”

  One of the men leered a smile. Ewan sent him a warning glare and added, “Dinnae draw sword or dirk unless ye are challenged. We want to live among these people, not scare them witless.”

  Ewan waited patiently for the men to carry out his orders. It didn’t take long for them to round up a sad-looking collection of old men, young children, and frightened women. Dressed in little more than rags, they stood huddled together inside the crumbling bailey, their eyes darting suspiciously in all directions.

  “Is this everyone?” Ewan asked one of the old men.

  “Aye,” he answered, straightening his crooked back. “Though there will be far fewer alive once the winter sets in fully.”

  A flash of pity burned in Ewan’s gut. ’Twas a harsh life, and though he vowed to try his best, he knew he could not alleviate all the pain and suffering that came with struggling to survive in such a brutal place.

  “I am Sir Ewan Gilroy, newly appointed laird of these lands and Tiree Keep,” he shouted, his deep voice rumbling through the ruins. “At the bequest of our great King Robert, my men and I have come to rebuild this property and renew the bounty of the land. I will accept the pledges of all those who are willing to remain here and swear allegiance to me. In exchange, I vow that ye shall live here in peace and prosperity under my rule and protection.”

  There was complete silence, then a few murmurs of fear and suspicion rumbled through the air. Ewan stood tall and proud, waiting for the first brave soul to break ranks and declare his intentions. He stared hard in turn at each of the old men, but surprisingly it was one of the women who stepped forward.

  “What happens if we choose to leave?”

  A raw tension stretched through the bailey at the bold question. “Ye’ll have till daybreak to pack what ye can carry and be gone from my land.”

  “Ye’ll not force us to stay?” she asked, the doubt clear in her voice.

  “Nay.” Some might think that a foolish answer, but Ewan calculated that if they had somewhere better to go, then they would have already fled. Besides, a pledge freely given had far more potency than one forced at sword point.

  Nervous whispering among the villagers began and then slowly, one by one, they dropped to their knees and bowed their heads, until each and every one was prostrate. A rush of triumph seared Ewan’s soul at this first clear victory, accomplished without harsh threats or bloodshed.

  “Wonderful,” Alec drawled beside him. “More mouths to feed.”

  “Ye’ll be glad they are here come spring when the crops need to be planted,” Ewan said beneath his breath.

  “That’s assuming we’ll still be alive in the spring,” Alec grumbled, yet he smiled in irony as he spoke.

  Ewan gave him a sobering look, then turned to the villagers. “Tonight we will feast together on the fresh game my men and I hunted this morning,” he announced with quiet authority. “Tomorrow, we will start to rebuild the castle and yer cottages.”

  The mood of the crowd changed in an instant. The stiff tension eased and cautious smiles appeared. Not a bad beginning, yet Ewan knew he would have to prove his intentions with deeds, not empty promises.

  The bailey soon came alive with the sounds of preparations. Carts were unloaded, tents erected, sleeping quarters discussed. Ewan stood in the midst of it all, enjoying the commotion and activity, until he spied his mother gingerly making her way across the bailey, her pinched-faced maid at her side.

  “I dinnae understand why you gave the order to unload the carts,” Lady Moira Gilroy said with annoyance. “Ye cannae possibly intend fer us to stay here tonight.”

  “We shall sleep in our tents, as we did on those nights we couldnae find shelter during our journey here.”

  Lady Moira stared blankly at him for a moment, then laughed aloud. “Surely ye are jesting, Ewan.”

  “Do I look amused, Mother?”

  “Nay, ye look like a simpleton, preening like a proud peacock. Well, ’tis no great favor King Robert has done ye, my son, granting ye a pile of burned out rubbish and calling it a reward. ’Tis disgraceful.”

  Ewan sighed. “I’ll be sure to share yer opinion of his gift the next time I’m in the king’s presence.”

  “This place is a hovel,” she declared, turning up her nose. “If you stubbornly insist on staying, then we must take up residency in the cottages. I noticed a few of them were not completely destroyed.”

  “I’ll not be turning folks out of their homes.”

  “Ye are laird here now.” His mother took hold of his arm, her expression anxious. “Ye must establish yer authority or else ye’ll never be respected and obeyed.”

  Ewan gently patted his mother’s wrist. Life had been unkind to Moira Gilroy. Raised to be a lady, the life she had envisioned never materialized. It vanished when she became pregnant and bore an illegitimate child. Cast out by her family, disgraced and forsaken by the father of her only child, she had struggled to keep herself and Ewan alive.

  “Ye have to trust me, Mother. I know what I’m doing.”

  Her reply was a disbelieving snort. Ewan refused to acknowledge it. With a reassuring smile, he turned to direct his men, though deep in his gut he was silently wishing he possessed at least half the confidence of success he so brashly portrayed to the world.

  Chapter Two

  Grace turned at the sound of her bedchamber door opening, relieved to see it was Edna. In her hands the maid carried Grace’s midday meal, but Grace had no interest in the food. Even if she had, she knew it would be near impossible to eat, for in the week since Alastair’s death her stomach seemed to be tied in a permanent knot.

  Sadness, everyone said. The result of respectful mourning from a pious wife and gentle lady. But Grace knew the truth. ’Twas guilt over the part she had played in her husband’s demise, mixed with a strong measure of fear, that kept her stomach churning and her nights sleepless.

  “Well, ’tis finally decided,” Edna huffed, as she set the plate of warm food on a small table. “Douglas will be the next clan chief.”

  “How did Roderick take the news?”

  “Poorly.” Edna nudged the bowl of stew closer to Grace. “His face was a thundercloud when it was announced and he stormed from the hall cursing a blue streak. A group of his most loyal men followed behind.”

  Grace turned her back on the food and sighed. “Will he challenge his brother?”

  Edna shrugged. “Who knows? Some say he will, but most dinnae think he will be so foolish.”

  Grace frowned. She had little faith in the good sense of men, especially when they were angry. Especially when they were denied something they wanted so badly.

  A noise at the chamber door distracted her. Lifting her head, Grace barely stifled a shriek at the sight of Roderick in the doorway. He glanced at Grace with narrowed eyes, then gestured to Edna. “Leave us.”

  The maid scurried closer to Grace. Though grateful for the support, Grace could see the gesture only succeeded in angering Roderick. “Please fetch me some wine, Edna,” she said, dismissing the ser
vant.

  Roderick moved toward her the moment they were alone. “Ye’ve heard the news about Douglas?”

  “Aye, Edna just told me he’ll be chief.”

  “Does it please ye?”

  “I’m glad it has been settled, for the sake of the clan.”

  Roderick’s eyes turned suspicious. “Would ye be as glad, I wonder, if I had been named chief?”

  “Of course.”

  “I dinnae believe it.” He leaned in close, his face nearly touching hers. “I’ve some questions I want answered about the night that Alastair died.”

  Grace backed away and averted her eyes. “’Tis a raw and painful memory and much too soon to speak of that tragic night.”

  Roderick reached out, grasping her chin in the palm of his hand and jerking it upward. “Is that a guilty look I see?”

  “Ye are speaking nonsense,” Grace bristled. She kept her eyes upon him, though his searing look made her skin crawl.

  “I think not.” Roderick squeezed his fingers and a sharp stab of pain shot through Grace’s jaw. “Tell me true, are ye in league with Douglas?”

  “Nay!” Grace shut her eyes to gather her composure. ’Tis no more than I deserve, dear Lord, and yet I ask fer mercy.

  “Dinnae look so surprised by the question.” Roderick’s face tightened with annoyance. “No one can deny that Douglas benefited from Alastair’s quick passing. And ye, milady, were the only one with Alastair when he died.”

  Grace held back a gasp. Quick? The poor man had suffered mightily for weeks. “’Twas hardly unusual that I was with my husband when he died. I stayed at his bedside throughout his illness.”

  “I spoke with Brother John the morning of the funeral. He told me that ye insisted he leave the chamber that night. Why?”

  Grace twisted out of Roderick’s cruel grip and stepped away, turning her back to him. It was too hard to answer these questions under his sharp, accusing gaze. “Brother John was clearly exhausted. I merely suggested that he take a few hours to rest before returning to care fer Alastair.”