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Bride of the Viking Laird – Extended Epilogue

 

Even a character, a scene, or anything. You could say no if nothing bothered you.
Even a character, a scene, or anything that you enjoyed.

Two months later…

The rain was clearing as the little group left the chapel and wended their way across the cobblestones to the castle. Grey clouds gave way to blue skies and rays of morning sunshine beamed down on them.

Although tears had been shed during Father Padraig’s Mass and the long service that followed, it was a happy occasion.

Haldor looked around at his family. The annual memorial service held for the memories of their sadly missed brother Thor and their much-loved parents, the Laird Ulf, and his wife, Ingrid, although similar in many details to the other years, was very different this year.

In the past, the celebration of lives well-lived had been tempered by bitterness and the knowledge that Thor’s killer had never been brought to justice. It was an unhealed wound on Haldor’s conscience that his brother’s murder was unavenged. The ongoing hostilities wrought by the MacKinnons had weighed heavily, standing between himself, his brothers and sister and the sense of peace and acceptance they craved, which, until now, even the holy service failed to provide.

But today, instead of the heavy pall of grief hanging over them, there was a lightness, a burgeoning sense of optimism at what the future might hold. With the death of James MacKinnon, the dues owed to their brother had at last been paid, justice was done and their enemies vanquished. At last, Haldor could hold his head up without the nagging aggravation of unfinished business that, for years, had dogged his heart.

There was, at last, an end to the long feud between Haldor’s people and Clan MacKinnon. Following the strange disappearance of Bairre MacKinnon from the ship, and with no knowledge of whether he lived or died, his clan had appointed a distant cousin to lead them. Arran MacKinnon was now the laird. He’d met with Haldor weeks ago and although both Arne and Ivar voiced their suspicions of this new leader, the encounter had gone well. On meeting and talking with him, even they were well satisfied. The man sought peace and a settling of all the affronts and offences between. The MacKinnons had suffered, as had the MacLeods, from the years of hatred and fighting and he’d made a pledge to Haldor to settle their differences and live in harmony, united with their King against a common foe.

Being able to put the past in its place meant they could move on, dealing with the more pressing issues at home and now more able to contribute their support to King Robert the Bruce.

Breathing in the crisp autumn air, Haldor waved to a small group of villagers who stood nearby to wish them well. He walked arm-in-arm with his beloved wife, the Lady Sofia who, only last night, had given him the news that their longed-for babe might well become a reality in the coming months.

Dahlia was laughing, chatting with Arne and Ivar. No longer was she forced to look over her shoulder and jump at shadows. The man she’d feared for so long would never haunt her nightmares again. Today, even Ivar had exchanged his glum expression for an occasional smile. His perpetual scowl had eased, and there had been times when his mood lifted and there were glimpses of the lad he’d been before he’d lost his twin brother.

Haldor knew it would take time for them all to completely put the years of hatred behind them, but today, for the first time, there was a thrum of optimism in the air.

He squeezed Sofia’s arm and she looked up, beaming. Would he ever become tired of gazing into her shining eyes?

The afternoon wore on with feasting and entertaining the guests who had arrived to share the celebration with them.

Laird Payton MacDonnell was there with his wife Kayla, Sofia’s sister, and their new baby, a wee boy.

Laird Mackenzie had also arrived last night for the day’s festivities. He’d sought out Haldor in his study to ask, privately, after his daughter’s wellbeing. It felt good to be able to reassure him that his marriage to Sofia was bringing them both great happiness, far beyond what he could have ever dreamed. As each day passed, he loved her more.

“I’m am glad tae hear of yer mutual happiness, Haldor. Ye ken I was gravely afeared fer me daughter’s wellbeing when we first attended here. I kent how timid and afraid she was, scarred by her abduction and the time she’d spent as a captive of those terrible men.”

Sofia had never told her father about the role Haldor had played in calming her fears, or of the fact that he’d offered all his gold to purchase her freedom. That was their secret, and it was one that strengthened the bond between them.

“Me daughter assures me she is happy, Haldor. I see a different Sofia nowadays. She is stronger, a confident lass in charge of the castle doings, fulfilling her wifely duties with a smile. Nae longer the fearful wee lass that journeyed here with me those months past, greatly afeared of yer choosing tae wed her.”

Haldor smiled at this. “Och, she is everything I could hope fer as me life’s partner.”

The older man took his hand and shook it. “I am proud tae have ye as me son-in-law Haldor and I owe ye everything fer making me daughter so happy. If ye are in need, if it should be in me power, I will only be too happy tae offer whatever ye may require.”

Haldor dipped his head in gratitude. “I thank thee. It was yer soldiers that added tae our strength and enabled us tae at last defeat the MacKinnons.”

They left the study and headed for the great hall where the minstrels were adding to the merriment and the assembled guests were raising their tankards in thanksgiving.

Haldor took his place at the high table beside his wife, his heart swelling with joy and pride as he looked around the assembled company.

Raising his goblet of wine, he rose to his feet. “Slàinte Mhath tae ye all. Me dear friends and family, ye are close tae me heart. Our future is assured.” He glanced down at Sofia who met his gaze with her own clear eyes. “And may our days be long and happy together.”

The End.

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Bride of the Viking Laird (Preview)

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Prologue

Scotland 1307, Castle Mackenzie

Sofia’s deft strokes with the thin wand of charcoal brought the outline of the unicorn to life. Before reaching for her quill and inks she placed the charcoal in its box on the table and tidied her hands, doing her best to wipe off the black residue on her fingers onto a scrap of linen.

Brushing aside a strand of her long dark hair, she left a tiny smudge on her cheek.

Then, returning to her parchment, she took up the quill and, after dipping it into the inkwell, traced over the delicate charcoal outline. Concentrating hard, the tiniest tip of her pink tongue visible between her lips, she was lost in her vision. A tall, graceful angel standing beside a unicorn. In the background a beautiful valley, a river running through it, a sky filled with birds and flowers.

Smiling to herself, she eased herself against her cushions only half aware that one of her father’s manservants had entered the solar.

Frowning at the interruption she raised her eyes.

“Begging yer pardon milady. The laird, yer faither, wishes tae meet with ye in his study.”

“Now?”

The man nodded. “I’m afraid so, milady. I believe it is somewhat urgent. He asked that ye go as soon as possible.”

While the man waited, she cleaned her quill on the cloth and placed the cork stopper back in the ink bottle. She stood, straightening her kirtle and tunic, stroking both her hands over her glossy black hair, smoothing it into neatness.

Uncomfortably aware of the man’s closeness as he escorted her through the corridors to her father’s study, Sofia found herself wishing, for the thousandth time, that her father could allow her just a little freedom. Ever since she’d been returned to him after being held captive ten years ago, he had been forever anxious and fearful for her wellbeing, ensuring she was seldom alone. Her precious time in the solar, a guard always situated outside her door, was one of the few moments of solitude he permitted her.

Passing the guard stationed at her father’s door, she entered his study. It was a high-ceilinged room lined with wooden shelves holding old tomes and rolled parchments. The plastered walls were painted buttercup yellow and decorated with brightly coloured mythical creatures, ladies, flowers, knights astride their steeds, and banners flying. A welcoming fire blazed in the enormous fireplace.

Of all the rooms in Castle Mackenzie this one always made her feel safe and lent her the sense that it was here that she belonged.

Her father, the Laird Ian Mackenzie, was seated in front of the fire. Despite the early hour, he was clutching a glass of amber-coloured liquid. The whisky decanter stood half-empty beside him on a small table. The fumes from the whisky combined with the smoky-pine smell of the fire assailed her nostrils and Sofia issued a small cough.

“Come in, child.” He gestured to the adjacent chair. “Take a seat.”

Noting with surprise that his words were a little slurred she looked at him with concern. It was her father’s habit to never take whisky, wine, or mead before noon. What on earth could have induced him to break his sternly held rule this morning?

She perched a little uneasily on the chair, her heartbeat speeding up a little, as she waited to hear why he had summoned her.

“Is there a reason ye wished tae speak with me, Faither?”

He frowned, opened his mouth and then closed it again. He waved the hand resting on the arm of his chair in a vague gesture. He appeared both worried and uncertain.

Her stuttering heartbeat spiked again.

“Is it me dear sister Kayla? Has something happened tae her? Is she ill?” Her voice rose as she roamed across myriad possibilities. Her sister was recently married, and she and her father had been planning a visit to her and her new husband Payton MacDonell at Castle MacDonell. She offered up a silent prayer for Kayla’s good health.

Och please may Kayla be well. Keep her safe from harm.

Her father shook his head, raising a hand. “Nay. Yer sister is well. Dinnae fear on her account, lass.”

She swallowed a lump forming in her throat and leaned forward. “If Kayla is well, Faither, what is wrong? I’ve never seen ye take a whisky in the morning before this day.”

He groaned and took another gulp of the liquor. He reached across to the table and seized the decanter.

It was then that Sofia noticed a folded parchment among the other items on the table. The laird poured another generous dram into his glass and returned the bottle to the table. His fingers hovered over the parchment as if he couldn’t bear to pick it up.

“Is it a letter?” Sofia’s palms had grown moist. Her father’s anxiety and fear were catching on to her.

He shook his head. “Me dearest, I need tae tell ye something. I’ve had news…” he trailed off without finishing whatever he was trying to say.

It was too much. Without further thought Sofia reached over and claimed the parchment for herself. “Is this it? Is this what’s upsetting ye so?” He made no response other than to nod his head resignedly. She tilted her head. “I shall read it.”

He shook his head as she unfolded the important looking missive, noting the royal seal as she did so.

This letter had come from the King, His Majesty Robert the Bruce.

Her father groaned as she spread the parchment across her knee and began reading.

It started off with all the usual greetings of a king to one of his loyal subjects. He thanked the Laird Ian McKenzie for his ongoing loyalty to his Liege Lord and wished him well for the continued good health and prosperity of the Laird and his family. Sofia hurried over all these formalities and read on further, eager to find out what it was that had upset her father.

As she read “ye have yet another daughter of marriageable age…” she abruptly grew silent, the words boring into her skull like red, hot drills. That the King was aware of her existence made her hands tremble. That she might have drawn his attention to her unmarried state caused a stab of pain in her belly.

Her father sighed loudly. “Continue, lass. Read what he says next.”

Sofia skimmed the rest of the letter. “He commands the maiden daughters of three of his chiefs tae make haste and travel tae the Isle of Skye, where one of the maids will be chosen as the wife of Laird Haldor MacLeod of Harris and Skye.” Her voice trembled as she read on. “The three clan chiefs he addresses are Laird Baird Fraser, Laird Alasdair MacDonald…” She glanced up at her father whose head was turned away as he gazed into the fire. “… And Laird Ian Mackenzie.”

Her hand flew to her mouth and she gritted her teeth.

Her father groaned. Sofia jumped to her feet waving the parchment to garner his attention. “Yer sole remaining maiden daughter is meself, I believe.”

He groaned again, more loudly this time. “Indeed, lass. It is ye.”

“And I am tae travel tae the castle of this… this… Laird of the MacLeods, tae be paraded like a prize cow fer selection tae wed and bed this man, Haldor MacLeod.”

Her father inhaled a sharp breath. Now she understood the reason for his imbibing whisky at this ungodly hour. This was dire news. She reached over and snatched the glass from his hand and gulped down its contents before he could stop her. She grimaced as the strong drink went down.

“I’ll nay accept such a proposal, Faither.”

Now she had his full attention.

“Ye’ve nae choice, lass. This is nae elegant marriage proposal of a lad tae wed the lass he loves. This is a command of our Lord and King and ye may nae disobey.”

Her heart sank. She’d avoided all contact with men as far as possible since her rescue from a month’s captivity at the tender age of thirteen. She’d tried to suppress all memories of that hateful time but it had scarred her. She’d made a quiet vow to herself that she would remain unmarried, never to permit the touch of any man on her body. She hadn’t told anyone what happened all those years ago and where exactly she had been. Even her own sister, Kayla, was unaware as Sofia had refused to speak about it with anyone. At one point, both her sister and her father had stopped asking, giving her the peace she so desperately needed.

So far, she’d been safe in her seclusion. Any approach made to her father for his daughter’s hand had been speedily rebuffed. She had grown complacent in the fond belief she would spend the remainder of her days safely within Castle Mackenzie in gentle contemplation, indulging in the pleasures of drawing, painting and needlework, far from the boisterous and dangerously unruly intrusion of men.

A frightful thought tumbled into her head. “This Haldor MacLeod. He is the one they call the Viking Laird, is he nae?”

Ian nodded; his mouth turned down in dismay.

Sofia let out a loud squeak of alarm. “It cannae be, Faither. The man is old. He’s fought many battles and his reputation is known far and wide. He’s a feared brute. Kent tae show nae mercy tae his foes.” She wrung her hands, nervously twisting the fabric of her skirt. “Whether they be lassies or old men.”

Her father rose unsteadily to his feet and took her in his arms. She laid her head against the warmth of his chest, yet the familiar comfort was not to be found there.

“Is there naught ye can dae?”

“Nay lass. If I disobey the King, things could go badly fer me. Fer us.”

Tears burned behind her eyes as she looked up. As much as she might protest, her father spoke truly. She understood there could be no escaping the King’s command if they were to retain the Mackenzie lands and wealth.

Ian looked deep into his daughter’s fear-filled, dark eyes. “I want tae reassure ye, child. I dinnae believe ye should be afraid. Sure, we must make the journey. And I assure ye the laird isnae that old, yet he indeed has a cruel reputation. Mayhaps this will work out fer us. This man, Haldor MacLeod of Harris and Skye, is a bold leader, his family comes from harsh Viking stock. His lust will never be ensnared by a timid, gentle, wee lass such as yerself. He’ll choose another. A rowdy, feisty lass who’ll match him with her audacity and her daring.”

Sofia sighed, hugging her father. “I pray with all me heart that ye are correct and I will be spared from his choosing. I have nae wish tae bring trouble tae ye and the clan and I ken there’s nae avoiding what I must dae. I will submit tae our Lord the King’s command without further complaints. When dae we depart fer Skye?”

“Time is short. We must make preparations at once fer the journey. We are tae attend at Laird’s Haldor’s castle in less than one month’s time.”

Chapter One

One Month later

Castle MacLeod, Isle of Skye

Glancing below, Haldor MacLean halted his steps atop the giant stone staircase leading from the sleeping quarters above to the great hall. From there he had a clear view of the crowd gathering for the formal dinner arranged for that evening.

He grunted and shook his head. “Tell me again what this is about and why I agreed tae this madness?”

Beside him, his brother Ivar muttered under his breath. “Ye agreed tae this, Haldor. Dinnae complain about it now.”

Haldor ran stained fingers through his shoulder length hair, so fair in colour it was almost white. “Aye. Aye. But ye ken I agreed because we need the support of The Bruce. Our coffers are empty. If our King wishes our clan tae unite with the wealthiest of his loyal clans, we obey.” He sighed heavily. “Me marriage is the price we pay fer the King’s army on our side against our enemies Clan Mackinnon.”

Ivar, belying his usual tacit demeanour, spoke up. “Aye. But mayhap there’ll be a lassie who’ll get yer juices racing again. Ye’ll be wed fer the rest of yer days, so ye should choose yerself a beauty tae stir yer loins, if nothing else.”

Haldor pshawed. “It’s nay me manhood, but Clan MacLeod’s wealth that I wish tae swell with this union. Mayhap one of the lasses will stir me lust, brother, but never me heart. It is already taken.”

“Ye cannae grieve fer Astrid yer whole life, brother,” Ivar looked at him and it was as if he was looking right through Haldor, so he removed his glance.

“I can and I will. She was me first love, Ivar, and I lost her so many years ago, yet it bothers me all the same. There’ll be nae other.”

Ivar shrugged. “’Tis yer life, brother. Try tae choose well.” Since the death of his twin brother Thor, Ivar had withdrawn himself into his own distant world. No matter how many times Haldor tried to crack his icy façade, Ivar stayed as closed as ever. He rarely commented on the clan’s business and if the King wished them to unite with a wealthy clan, he saw no problem in that. If Haldor’s body and soul in marriage were what it cost, so be it.

A woman’s voice broke into their conversation, as Haldor heard their sister Dahlia coming from the hallway.

“Why are ye two dallying here?” she scolded. “Ye should be dressed and ready tae meet with yer guests by now. Ye’ll be insulting the lairds who are here already and seated at the long table awaiting the presence of yer tardy lordships.”

“Dinnae fash, sister,” Haldor managed a soft laugh. “We’ll be there soon enough.”

Dahlia looked him up and down as he towered over her. “Ye look like a common serf, nae me brother the laird.”

He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I was at the training grounds, how should I look? ’Tis but the work of a moment tae wipe meself clean and throw on some new clothing. Ye go and entertain the throng. Arrange the minstrels tae sing and play while they wait.”

Frowning, Dahlia scurried off down the stairs as the brothers hastened on their separate ways, each to their bedchamber to prepare for that night’s celebration. After the feast, Haldor would choose the woman he would wed from among the three clans favored by The Bruce.

Dear Lord, how am I tae survive this evening?

Lost in thought, he failed to see the serving maid who crossed his path. The force of their collision almost bowled the young woman over. He reached an arm to circle her waist as she fell and pulled her to her feet before she struck the floor.

She was a true beauty. Her heart shaped face with its long-lashed dark eyes took his breath away. Her skin was porcelain smooth, unusual for a serving maid. Despite her rough-woven kirtle, he registered a slender waist and delicate curves. She was altogether far too elegant for a simple serving-maid. Stunned, he reacted by pulling her closer to him, unwilling to release her as her wildflower fragrance filled his senses.

The girl arched back looking at him, eyes wide with terror, before swinging back her arm and launching a ringing slap across his cheek. Her chest heaved. “Let me go! How dare ye hold me like that?!”

He instantly released her and stepped aside. “Ye ungrateful chit,” he rubbed his face. Despite her small size, the blow to his cheek was stinging. “Why would ye strike the man who saved ye from falling?”

The girl shook her head, brushing a long strand of dark hair from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. Her hand shook. “It is wrong fer a man tae touch a woman’s body without her permission.” She looked him up and down. “Especially a soldier, sweating and filthy such as yerself.” She wrinkled her finely shaped nose. “Why, ye smell bad, sir, ye should clean yerself.”

Haldor smiled to himself, amused that she’d mistaken him for a common soldier. He was sure now she was a new addition to his serving staff, probably hired to assist the castle maids to take care of their guests. Yet, he felt like he’d seen her before. “So, what would it take fer a lady tae give her permission tae a man such as meself tae lay his hands on her body?”

She gave a haughty huff. “There are nae such circumstances. I would never permit a man tae touch me.” She studied him for a moment. “But, ye are right. I was hasty and ye did keep me on me feet. Fer that, I apologize.” A tiny smile curled her lips. “But if ye’d been watching where ye were going ye’d nae have bumped intae me in the first place.”

There was something about the maid that tugged at the edges of his mind. She seemed too familiar. He pushed the thought of her out of his head. It was not in the least surprising that one of the maidservants would be someone he’d seen before. All the same, he couldn’t help thinking it was not here, in his castle, and not recently, that he’d encountered this wee lass. She was somewhere swirling in the dark recesses of his past.

And was there just the tiniest hint of recognition in her eyes, also? His insides clenched. He wanted no memories of those days intruding into his present.

“Can ye tell me what name ye’re called by, lass?”

She shook her head, her fingers playing nervously with the fabric at her neckline. She appeared about to speak but then turned abruptly and scampered along the corridor and was lost to view.

Slightly bemused by this exchange and the terrified glance the lass had cast him, Haldor swiveled and continued towards his bedchamber.

The lass was right. He did smell bad. His clothing was stained with mud and slightly torn from his training practice in the keep earlier that day. Since his sister Dahlia’s abduction, the skirmishing and fighting with Clan Mackinnon had begun, as it was essential that his fighting men were kept at the ready. That meant hours each day devoted by the MacLeod brothers, Haldor, Ivar and Arne, to training their men in sword play and archery. And for a chosen few commanders, to gain an education in the tactics and strategies of warfare.

So far, although they had succeeded in rescuing their sister Dahlia, her abductor, Laird James MacKinnon, had continued to launch sorties against them. The man had sworn never to give up his vow to make Dahlia Mackenzie his wife.

Haldor stripped and entered the warm bath prepared by the servants. Such an important evening required special grooming.

After drying himself on a towel and combing his hair, he donned the fresh clothing his manservant had laid out. He donned the long white shirt, his black woolen jerkin, the knee-high leather boots and the deep blue and green length of MacLeod of Skye plaid that made up the great kilt. He adjusted the kilt, placing the last of the woolen fabric like a shawl over his shoulder and belted it at his waist. After securing it at his left shoulder with the gold brooch bearing the Clan crest and coat of arms, he was at last ready to face whatever fate had in store.

Before leaving the bedchamber, he fastened his sporran to his belt, placed his dirk in its scabbard on his boot and strapped on his sword.

As he walked towards the staircase, he made a silent vow to choose the woman least likely to place his heart at risk as his bride. He couldn’t bear having it broken for a second time.

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely



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Bride of the Viking Laird – Get Bonus

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Bride of the Viking Laird – Prequel Bonus Scene

Bride of the Viking Laird

Early 1307, Isle of Skye,
Castle of Clan MacLeod of Harris and Skye

Haldor MacLeod was set on murdering his own brother right there and then at the training field, if he didn’t stop teasing him. Arne MacLeod gave a grim chuckle, his ice-blue eyes fixed on his face. “I cannae see any way out fer ye, Haldor. The king commands it and when the King commands, we dae his bidding.”

Haldor and his two brothers, Ivar and Arne, had been warming their bones in the frosty morning, sparring, honing their sword-play. But Haldor was not his usual lightning-fast self, seemingly preoccupied, his concentration somewhere far from this training area behind the castle keep.

They were ready to lower their swords, beads of sweat on their foreheads. Haldor growled, easily dodging his brother’s sword and parrying with a thrust of his own.

Arne threw up his hands. “What ails ye? Are ye dreaming of the buck-toothed, cross-eyed lass ye’re being forced to wed? The one who’ll nae warm yer bed fer ye but laugh at ye behind yer back?”

Without giving Arne a chance to move away, Haldor slid his foot behind his brother’s knee, bringing him crashing to the ground.

“Take that fer yer wicked teasing brother,” he said as Arne clambered to his feet. “I’ll nae care a fig what the wretched lass is like. She’ll never warm me bed because I’ll never take her there.”

Arne laughed. “Whatever ye say, Haldor. Ye’ll be tied tae this lass fer the rest of yer days. And ye’ll need tae take her tae yer bed if ye’re tae sire an heir.”

Ivar, who’d been watching his brothers sparring was shaking his head. “Arne’s right, brother. Ye’ve nae choice. But dinnae fret. An advantageous marriage will help tae fill the MacLeod’s coffers again and boost the numbers of our fighting men. We’ll need both if we’re tae prevail against the MacKinnon.”

Ivar held up Arne’s son, Thorsten, who was yet a wee bairn, less than one-year-old. Playing uncle to his brother’s baby was one of the few things Ivar took pleasure in. The boy was swaddled against the cold, but he waved his plump arms, watching his father and his other uncle rumbling together.

“Look, wee Thorsten. See yer father and yer uncle wielding their swords with all the skill of a pair of neeps? Why, if ye could hold a sword I swear ye’d dae a better job of it than those two.” He laughed and the little boy laughed too, a sweet sound in the chill morning air.

Arne walked over, grinning. He brushed away the dirt and hay clinging to his kilt, none the worse for having being bested by his older brother. Tiny Thorsten, named after Ivar’s twin Thor, who lost his life protecting their family, raised his chubby arms as his father approached.

“Dinnae tell the lad such stories.” Arne reached for the boy. “Listen to yer old Da, who’s the finest swordsman in all the Hebrides.”

Ivar grimaced as he passed the lively bundle over to Arne. “Phew. Ye’ve the reek of a polecat, brother.” He glanced at the wean’s fresh pink cheeks. “A sweet-smelling bairn should nae be up close to such a sweaty, unshaven barbarian.”

Arne chuckled as he cuddled his wee son close. Thorsten’s nursemaid, Muriel, stood nearby, tucking her plaid cloak around her and blowing on her hands to keep them warm.

A scowling Haldor collected their weapons. “I’ll take these back to the armory. After that mayhap I will stroll on the battlements. I’ve nae a thought in me head yet fer breaking fast. I need tae think about this order from King Robert and what it means. I’ve nae mind tae marry.” He heaved in a deep sigh. “But ye talk sense when ye speak of the advantage it brings tae Clan MacLeod.”

After leaving his brothers and depositing the swords, dirks, lances, leather shields and their assorted bows and arrows at the armory, Haldor mounted the steep stone steps that took him to the battlements. After offering a salute as he passed the guards standing to attention at the entrance, he strolled along the narrow stone ledge until there was no one in sight.

Spread before him was a sight that always lifted his heart. His eyes scanned across distant forests, snow-capped mountains rising into the clouds and green fields strewn with rocky terrains. In the distance, he saw the dark blue of the sea, glimmering in the glow of the rising sun. Below him was the village – a scattering of white thatched cottages, all with smoking chimneys – where figures wrapped in their cloaks and shawls were already going about their business in the fields beyond and in the narrow village streets.

This was his domain, and on succeeding to the Lairdship at the death of his father, Laird Ulf MacLeod, he’d sworn on his life to protect the lives of his Clan members and all their lands and the surrounding sea.

This was why he would marry.

Although he had no wish to bring a bride to Castle MacLeod, King Robert had decreed that he should wed a lass from one of the wealthier Clans whose allegiance was already owed to Robert the Bruce. But The Bruce, in his wisdom, reasoned that strengthening alliances between the clans that already followed him, would also strengthen his position in his battles against the English in his endeavours ensure Scotland’s freedom.

The King had even gone so far as to specify the clans from which Haldor could choose his bride. He’d offered three: MacDonald, Fraser, and Mackenzie. These were selected because each of these clans were led by chieftains who had daughters of marriageable age. More importantly, because all three held secure and extensive lands, which ensured their ongoing fortunes.

Haldor huffed, his breath steaming in the cold morning air. The King, in his generosity, had allowed Haldor to at least view each of the lassies when he could well have made the choice himself. Thank God for small mercies.

There was no way he could refute the wisdom of Arne’s words, however distasteful he found them. In his heart he understood that the marriage ordered by the King was the one thing that could save his clan from either penury and hunger, or being conquered by the MacKinnons. Or all of those fates.

He cursed aloud, shaking his head in despair. “By the blood of all the saints and martyrs how has it come to this?” He cast his mind back to the beginning of his Clan’s troubles. Ever since the chief of the MacKinnons, the Laird James, had gotten it into his mind to wed their sister Dahlia, there’d been naught but strife.

Dahlia disdained the MacKinnon. She loathed his cruelty and his arrogance, and he, apart from viewing her as his possession, cared little for her. She was a beauty to be claimed as his own, to be paraded as a trophy, evidence of his victory over the MacKinnons. Enraged, when Dahlia refused his offer, he’d stolen her anyway. Taken her against her will and kept her prisoner inside his castle.

It was during the brothers’ efforts to free their sister that Ivar’s twin, Thor, had been murdered. Ever since that terrible loss, Haldor had vowed vengeance. The death of the laird’s younger brother was a mighty stain on the clan’s honor and one which must be avenged. Since then, three years of skirmishing had taken their toll. Cattle had been stolen or killed, villagers had been beaten, their homes ransacked, fishermen had had their boats holed and sunk. Despite all their efforts, Haldor, weary from the ongoing feud and with the resources of Clan MacLeod at breaking point, admitted there was no recourse but to follow the King’s bidding.

He’d once fancied himself to be in love. But that was when he was a young lad, still wet behind the ears, knowing little about the ways of the world and that loving fiercely and passionately was no guarantee he would ever achieve his heart’s desire.

But then the lass he’d believed he loved, Astrid Jensen of the Outer Isles, had been abducted by privateers and, despite his frantic search for her, was lost to him.

That had been ten long years ago. There had been occasional rumours from travellers that she’d been glimpsed on board a ship that sailed the Baltic. One of the Hanseatic traders who had visited the castle swore he’d seen her in Hanover. But those reports were always vague, lacking the evidence he needed to seek for her in the north-east waters.

He kept the image of Astrid close to his heart. When he dreamed of a lass, it was her face he saw. When he was hard in the night and ached for relief, it was her bonny lips and breasts he lusted for. As the weeks, months and years wore on, her image had faded, but the vow he’d made to never give his heart to another, remained strong and certain in his mind.

After filling his lungs with the crisp, chilled air, he watched the steam forming as he breathed out slowly. Then he turned and made his way back along the battlements and down the stairs. He would go to his study now and prepare a message to be sent to the King, advising of his agreement with the request.

He found his brothers and sister in the great hall, where they’d been breaking their fast.

“Join us, brother,” Dahlia said, placing her hand on his sleeve. She would understand the pain of being forced to wed where there was no love most of all.

“Nay, I thank ye,” he remained standing. “I’d like the company of all of ye with me in the study. I’m hastening there now tae write a reply tae His Majesty’s demand. I would like ye all tae read it, as the lass I choose tae wed will be yer sister too. Me decision concerns ye almost as much as it concerns myself.

They trailed after him to his study without a word. The air was chill, the fire in the grate having only been lit minutes before. All four rubbed their hands and stamped their feet, pulling their plaid woolen cloaks more firmly around them.

Haldor went to the table while the others arranged themselves at his side.

Of the four, Arne was the only one attempting a smile. “I look forward tae another sister in the castle. Dahlia’s long face needs brightening. Mayhap when she has another lass tae chatter about embroidery patterns and coloured silks and which herbs to strew among the rushes on the floor, she’ll be much happier.”

Dahlia glared at him. “If ye think that’s all that concerns us lassies ye’re an ignorant bumpkin. Who d’ye think keeps an eye on the servants and manages the kitchen and all the coin that’s spent on traders and farmers?”

Arne gave a cheeky laugh. “Why our Seneschal, Thomas Urquhart. He’s the good lad who sees tae it all.”

She pshawed loudly, refusing to take his bait. Shaking her head, she turned her attention to her eldest brother, Haldor.

A manservant entered and placed two sticks of red sealing-wax, several sheets of parchment, an array of quills and two bottles of ink on the table. Haldor smoothed out the King’s message and read it aloud one more time, even though by now they all knew the words by heart.

He leaned back, studying their faces. Even Arne was serious now.

“So, I intend tae send King Robert a message that we will arrange a meeting with the lasses at midsummer. I will make me choice once they and their accompanying entourages are here. The Clan chiefs will attend. There will be a grand celebration, a feast tae mark the occasion of me choosing a bride. And within days we will be wed.”

He turned to Dahlia. “Once I have handed this letter tae convey it tae the King, ye will see tae the preparations fer the feast. And ye…” his attention swung to Arne and Ivar, “…will arrange messengers tae travel to the castles of me prospective brides, tae advise the date on which I expect them and their families tae gather at Castle MacLeod.”

Once he’d written his letter of acquiescence to the King’s command, he read it aloud. They all nodded their acknowledgment of this major turn in the fortunes of the clan.

Haldor folded the letter and heated his sealing wax before dripping it onto the parchment and pressing his seal upon the scalding wax, to be unsealed only by the hand of the King.

He passed the missive to his manservant who placed it in a small leather satchel which the messenger would bear to the King’s court at Carrick.

His siblings rose and Haldor dismissed them with a nod. Each of them well understood, without needing to hear it from him, that, even though this was a good turning point for the clan, it was a bitter moment for Haldor.

Alone in his study, Haldor splashed two fingers of whisky into a glass and sipping it, he let his anguished thoughts coalesce. He made his mind up that whatever charms the lassies might present to him, he would make it his business to select the plainest among them. One with scrawny hips, a flat chest or a fat belly, with a broad nose and squinty eyes, pock-marked skin, lank hair the colour of a mouse, and a high-pitched voice that squeaked when she spoke.

He knew his bride would never win his heart, but he’d make certain he’d choose a bride who could never arouse his lust either.

 

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