Marti Talbott's Highlander Series, Volume 5 Read online

  Jessup slipped her legs over the side of the bed, took his hand and stood up. Then she stepped out of the way while the two men came in and moved her bed outside. “Glenna, nothing we do calms our son, what can be the matter with him? And do not say the heat. He has been distressed since he was born.”

  Glenna felt his hard stomach and nodded. “I will show you a trick my mother used for her eight upset babies.” She followed Jessup out, waited for her to lie back down, and then nodded her appreciation to Lucas for bringing out two chairs and putting them in the shade next to the bed.

  Once they were all settled, she turned the baby over and put him face down across her lap. “When mothers are upset, the baby gets upset too, or so I have been told. However, my mother claimed she was never upset, so who knows if it is true. At any rate, Lucas will want to learn her trick as well, for I do not have good news.”

  “What?” Jessup reluctantly asked.

  Carefully, Glenna put one hand under the side of the crying baby’s head to hold it up and the other hand under his hard belly. Then with Lucas’ help, she stood up and gently began to swing the baby from side to side. In just a little while, the boy burped a hardy burp and calmed. His little eyes focused on a rock on the ground and soon the movement began to lull him to sleep. “The king did not die peacefully.”

  Jessup took a deep breath, determined to hold back her tears. “They killed him, Somehow I knew they would. Did John of Surrey take the throne?”

  “I do not know. Neil wants to speak with you when you allow it. Perhaps he knows more.”

  “Please go get him, I will hear it all.”

  Glenna turned the baby toward Lucas to show him again how she had her hands. Then she put the boy face down on his mother’s stomach so Lucas could then pick him up. “I will bring Neil straight away.”

  CHAPTER III

  “WHAT DO YOU SUGGEST we do?” Greer asked. She let go of her sister’s arm, bent down and picked a wild flower.

  “I do not know. Perhaps Neil can tell the lads to let me be.”

  “Neil is a powerful lad, but I doubt he holds that much authority. He might tell them, but they will still want to be near you. They would only be less bold about it.”

  Clare brushed loose strands of hair away from her face and frowned. “You mean they will become sleight of hand like the clerics. I could not endure that.”

  “In that case, I find no other answer save telling them yourself.”

  “Each separately or might I make a declaration?”

  “There is hardly an occasion to make a declaration, at least not that I have seen. However, once you begin a rumor there is no stopping it in this place. When it comes to gossip, the Highlanders are far worse than the English.”

  “What could this rumor say exactly?” asked Clare.

  “That, my beloved sister, we must carefully decide.”

  “We could say I am not inclined to fall in love.”

  “Aye, but it is not enough. We must give them a valid reason or they will ignore it.”

  Nearly at the corral, she glanced up and noticed three men standing just inside the fence watching her. One of them was Ben and when she looked his wife, Alison, who was not far away training one of the new colts, was glaring at her husband. Ben saw the look on his wife’s face, quickly turned away and went back to work. Just as quickly, Clare turned around and started back to the cottage. “I will tell them my heart yet belongs to a man who died recently.”

  Hurrying to catch up, Greer giggled. “Well are you not the clever one. I would never have thought of such a convincing lie.”

  Clare wanted to scream—it is not a lie! Instead, she looked away so her sister could not see the anguish in her eyes. She should tell Greer, she knew, but she was not yet able to accept Alcott’s death, let alone talk about it. No, she wanted to wait, to find a place where she could be alone, to let it seep into her consciousness and to cry where no one would see her.

  JESSUP’S BABY WAS SOUND asleep in his box, in the shade of a tree outside, when Glenna brought Neil back to her cottage. Lucas set out a third chair and they all sat down not far from Jessup’s bed to comfort her.

  “...they believe it was he who sent the lads to slay the king,” Neil finished explaining.

  Everyone expected her to collapse in tears, but Jessup was livid. “George of Leics? The throne of England is now sat upon by a callous, foul tempered, braggart of a lad who never misses an opportunity to lure some unsuspecting lass into his bed. I should have killed the lad when I had the chance.”

  Neil could not help smiling at her colorful description. “No doubt half of England wishes you had.”

  “Unfortunately, I was content to make him promise not to pursue me further. The unforgivable, loathsome, black hearted scoundrel! Half of England may wish I had killed him, but the other half has their hands in his purse. It is that half Scotland must keep in careful regulation. My beloved Henry must be turning over in his grave.”

  “Jessup, I must know—exactly how dangerous is George of Leics to Scotland?”

  Jessup closed her eyes and tried to find the right words. “Scotland should do all she can to stay clear of this lad. He is quick to anger and needs little to incite him. He is also arrogant, brutal and said to enjoy killing. I doubt he cares one whit about Scotland except to possess her.” Finally, tears began to cloud Jessup’s eyes. “I should not have left Henry, I was his only friend.”

  WICKERLY CASTLE, COMPLETE with three floors and five towers of varying heights, sat high on a hill at the end of a winding road. The bottom floor offered no windows at all, only a heavy wooden door which was rendered impenetrable, by virtue of three well-spaced iron slats with heavy iron latches.

  At one end of the great hall on the first floor, stood a canopy that denoted the rank of the inhabitants, and also shielded them from the cold drafts coming from the upper floors. It was under this canopy Alcott of Cumberland sat with his mother, his three sisters and his squire, to watch the passing parade of mourners come to bid farewell to his father, the Lord of Wickerly.

  News of his father’s death came to Alcott late in the night as he slept on a wooden box frame bed, with a grid of ropes that held up a feather stuffed mattress, a pillow and the mountain of blankets necessary to keep him warm.

  His large upstairs bedchamber had three tall, narrow windows too small for an uninvited man to gain entrance, and although wooden shutters closed off some of the cold air, they were grossly inefficient. The lack of natural light necessitated a multitude of iron, tricot candle holders situated both on his various trunks and affixed along the walls.

  And when his steward came to light the candles and interrupt his sleep, news of the death was a solemn yet joyous occasion. It meant the suffering was ended for his father. Alcott could at last collect his beloved Clare and make her his wife. How ironic that losing a father he loved meant he could finally have the woman he loved.

  The interment seemed to take forever with three days of mourning, the cleric’s elongated service and the long procession from the great hall to the family burial plot. After that, it would have been unseemly to rush away when his new title and responsibilities demanded so much of his attention. His grieving mother and sisters also needed his comfort and he was left with no option, but to send his steward to the market with a letter for Clare explaining the news and the delay.

  It was at the market on an otherwise tiresome day that he first saw the beautiful Clare. An ordinary market, it was filled with all manner of tables holding spices, woolens, foot wear, wooden platters of fresh fruits, various vegetables and flasks of wine. Gown makers showed off their needle crafts and iron workers showed off the latest latches and candle holders. Men of all shapes and sizes shouted tempting offers and a pig, let loose by a careless boy, nearly ran Alcott down.

  Clare wore dowdy clothing and a hood that half shielded her face, yet when she briefly glanced at him, she had the most pleasing blue eyes he had ever seen. Alcott set out at once to m
ake her acquaintance. The woman with her was Marlow, who often came to the market on behalf of the Abbey to barter for items not manufactured by them, such as rope, plates and goblets. On an earlier occasion, Alcott accidentally bumped into Marlow, which enabled him to gain her acquaintance, slight though it was.

  On the day he first saw Clare, Alcott quickly became interested in the goblets too and when Marlow finally noticed him, he bowed to her curtsey and held his breath. It took a moment, but she at last remembered her manners and introduced him to the magnificent Clare. The moment their eyes locked, he felt an attachment like none other. It was not just her beauty, but her soul seemed to be reaching out to him.

  Daily he returned to the market hoping to see her again, but she never returned. A week or two later, he sought a closer acquaintance with Marlow and pummeled her with questions. At last, Marlow relented—Clare was not practicing to become a nun.

  Alcott’s heart leapt for joy.

  He rode straight away to the Abbey and asked to see her, but he was denied. The reasoning of the rector seemed far insufficient, but what could he do? Alcott was not yet a man of influence and power. Not only that, he realized he could not take Clare to wife without losing his inheritance.

  If only he could forget her...but he could not. The likelihood of making Clare his bride seemed out of the question until one day he hit upon an idea—he would write and bribe Marlow to take the missive to her.

  Another week passed without an answer and all manner of suspicions crossed his mind—was she rejecting him out of hand, did she not get the letter, could she even read and write?

  Then on the eighth day her answer came. Not only could she read and write, her hand was excellent, her words intelligent and her encouragement, slight though it might be, was indeed there. He could hardly contain his elation and set out straight away to write again. For weeks they exchanged letters, each telling of their hopes and dreams until their glorious obsession suddenly came to a halt—Clare feared the rectors had found his letters and begged him to stop sending so many for fear of dreaded punishment on her part.

  “GONE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN she is gone?” Alcott had a thousand things to clear up so he could claim his bride, but his steward’s words echoing in the great hall captured all his attention.

  “Lord Wickerly, do sit down. I fear the news has drained the color from your face.” Stuart of Cumberland tried to look stately in his blue tunic with the white trim and Alcott’s father’s crest, but he was not an ample man and no matter what he did, the clothing hung loosely from his shoulders.

  “Answer me! What happened?”

  Stuart grimaced. “I took the missive to Miss Marlow as you requested and she gave the bad news. She said another letter came not three weeks past telling Clare you were dead.”

  “What? Who told this lie?”

  “You need not shout, I am getting to that.” Stuart was not always bold, but since the death of the elder Lord Wickerly, Alcott’s demeanor changed to something more threatening right before his eyes. Stuart soon determined that he best not let the man get the better of him. A battle of wits once lost was lost forever.

  “Speak up man!”

  Stuart puffed his cheeks, rubbed the back of his neck and stalled just a little bit longer. “Marlow now believes one of the priests sent the message. The man delivering it claimed he was your steward, my lord, but of course I am your only steward.”

  Standing near a wall, Alcott slumped against it and bowed his head, “Where has she gone?”

  “Her sister came to rescue her.”

  Alcott perked right up. “Greer? Clare thought her sister lost to her. But that is good news. Greer will see she is well taken care of.”

  “‘Tis not good news. With her sister came four Highlanders. They offered the price and took her away with a multitude of other women.”

  “A multitude?”

  “Aye, some thirty or forty, Marlow was uncertain of the exact number. But my lord, the news gets more dreadful still. The Highlands have suffered a severe shortage of women since the plague and they came looking for willing brides.”

  “Brides?” Alcott slumped back against the wall and closed his eye. “That is not good news. This multitude of women were willing to become brides to Highlanders they had not even seen?”

  “It was that or become nuns against their will. I myself cannot decide which would be worse for a woman. We hear such dreadful things about these Highlanders. I once heard of a...”

  “At least we know they have gone north. Someone must have seen them. One cannot move so many women without anyone’s notice. Send men to inquire and report back. Tell them there will be a great reward for the one who brings me news of a true sighting.”

  Stuart was stunned, “My lord, certainly you do not mean to go into the Highlands to find her. ‘Tis unthinkable.”

  “Living life without her is unthinkable. Do as I say, Stuart, send the soldiers and then begin preparations. I will leave you in charge here, unless you wish to go to Scotland with me.”

  “With your exalted permission, I will remain here.”

  Alcott thought about it for a moment and then smiled. “You are Scot by half and you speak Gaelic. I have changed my mind, I need you to go with me.”

  “My lord, I protest. It is too dangerous for one as feeble as I.”

  “In that case, I leave it up to you to find two of my best fighters to go with us.”

  “Four English men going into the Highlands alone? We will die on the first day.”

  “Not if I say I carry a message for the king of Scotland.”

  Stuart pondered the idea. “It might do. What message?”

  “That, my good man, will be my charge. I will go to our new king, tell him I intend to go into Scotland and ask if he has a message to give the Scottish king. He will have, naturally. Never have I known George of Leics not to have a message—no matter who the recipient.”

  CHAPTER IV

  CLARE CONTINUED TO walk with her sister up the glen toward the cottages. The pain in her broken heart was so great, she dared not even look at her sister for fear it would show. It was the first time in a fortnight she allowed herself to think of Alcott and now she actually said out loud that he was dead. With those words she managed to shatter her self-imposed illusion that somehow it was all a mistake.

  All she had of him was his last letter. The other missives disappeared and she was desperately searching for them when Marlow brought the news of Alcott’s death. Thankfully, his last letter was in the pocket of her brown robe when she was rescued and she still had it. Now, she kept it under the leather belt that held up her pleated MacGreagor plaid. It was all she had left of him—all she would ever have of him, and her heart ached so deeply she wanted to die with him.

  Clare glanced at her sister’s concerned look and pushed the painful and unwelcome thoughts of Alcott to the back of her mind. “I would like to go riding, if it is allowed.”

  “It is allowed, although Neil does not let us go without lads to protect us. It is not safe.”

  “Would Brendan take us?”

  “I will ask him, but sister you just rode most of the way here from England. Was it not enough?”

  “Not nearly. I have not been on a horse in years and I did so love it when I was learning to ride.”

  “I see. Very well then, we must have two lads to take us but Brendan will choose the other lad for us.”

  “I would also like to learn weaving, would that be allowed?”

  “Sweet child, you may do nearly anything you wish.” Greer paused to think for a moment. “Our best weaver is Kadick. Would you object to her showing you?”

  “Of course not. I hoped to become her friend on the journey here, but she was never without Donnahail. He truly loves her, does he not?”

  “I have never seen anything like the two of them. It is as though they were always meant to be together. That settles it then, we will visit Kadick and ask if she is willing to teach you.”

&nb
sp; Clare was pleased. What she needed was something to do so she could forget the constant, unbearable agony in her heart. Alcott was dead and there was nothing she could do or say to bring him back. Time heals all wounds, or so the nuns said when she was little and missed her mother. Then later her hurt turned to bitterness and the nuns taught her forgiveness, which was a much more difficult lesson to learn. Time would indeed erase the memory of Alcott, if she could manage to outlive the suffering.

  “Speaking of Brendan ...” Greer said, spotting her future husband walking toward them. She waited for him to arrive, gave him a quick hug and then let him take her hand. “Clare would like to go riding, will you take us?”

  “I will be honored, but Greer I bring bad news. The king of England was not ill, he was done in.”

  KADICK WAS MORE THAN willing to teach Clare and even asked Slade to build another loom. She went to the cottage for two days and carefully watched Kadick’s every move until she thought she had it memorized. But when she tried it on her own, it was a lot harder than it looked.

  Kadick was a good sport about it, although it meant putting her work behind, and with so many new women to clothe, the work appeared to be never ending. By the end of the second day, they decided Clare should begin the next day with smaller plaids for the children and then move up to the more difficult work. Kadick was pleasant but Clare was not convinced she had the talent necessary for weaving. If not that, what?

  As she left Kadick’s cottage, Clare had to admit she was not concentrating well and it was time. She needed to go off by herself and mourn the loss of the man she loved. It was indeed time to let go and to let herself feel something. She was no good to anyone with it all held inside so tightly.

  She did not mean to wander so far away, but once she began to walk through the forest, she kept right on going until she heard a disturbing clicking noise. She stopped, turned to face the direction she believed the noise was coming from, and tried to find its origin.