Beloved Ruins, Book 1 Read online

  “Truly?” she gasped.

  Charles grinned and folded his arms. “The lads found it under the floor of the Great Hall.”

  Mesmerized, McKenna removed her right glove, and then gently opened the book. “‘Tis in English?”

  “Aye,” said Charles, “Forgive me, but I could not resist and took a spell to read a part or two.”

  “Oh, Charles, wait until Hannish and Cameron hear this. ‘Tis almost worth losin’ the castle to find it.”

  “Are there any more boxes?” Nicholas asked.

  “We have yet to find any, but the lads are excited to see if they can. This one holds three books. One thing though...”

  “Go on,” McKenna said.

  “We was wonderin’ if you might let us all have a listen. ‘Tis our history too.”

  McKenna couldn’t resist hugging her old friend again. “Of course it is. I shall arrange it somehow.”

  “I knew you would,” Charles said.

  McKenna giggled and then turned her attention back to the castle. “Can the stones truly be saved?”

  “Aye,” Charles answered. “‘Twill take a good bit of cleanin’, but... Oh, I near forgot. The last time the castle was built, the lads marked some of the stones.”

  “Do you mean some remain from the very first castle?”

  “We cannae think why else they would be marked.”

  Nicholas put the book back in the box and reached for the lid. “Tomorrow, I shall see about getting the telephone lines reconnected. Perhaps you might build some sort of temporary shelter for the telephone so we can stay in contact.”

  “We shall see to it directly. Will you be seein’ to the buildin’, Mr. Mitchel?” asked Charles.

  “Unfortunately, I am a judge not a builder. I shall help where I can, and see that the men get their pay.”

  Charles grinned. “I gladly give that chore over to you.” He picked up the box and carried it to the automobile. “We’ll let you know first thing if we find any more books.” When Nicholas opened the back door, Charles set the box on the seat.”

  “Thank you,” said McKenna.

  Charles tipped his hat, and moved back a step. “Tell Laird MacGreagor we thank him for the work. It could not have come at a better time.”

  “I shall,” said McKenna. “We brought drawings of what my brothers wish to be in the rooms, particularly in the Great Hall. The castle is to have the best money can buy.”

  “What about the statue?” Charles asked.

  McKenna looked once more through the hole left by the missing doors. “Perhaps we might ask a craftsman to have a look at it. He might know how to clean it.”

  “That reminds me,” said Nicholas. “Have you posted guards to keep it safe?”

  Charles chuckled. “Mr. Mitchel, if any five lads together can lift it, I’ll gladly shake each of their hands.”

  McKenna had not forgotten the workers, several of whom she knew, took the time to greet each of them, and then let Charles help her into the Benz. This time, as her husband drove them back down the lane, she noticed the graveyard where her parents were buried.

  Nicholas reached for her hand. “You may cry now, my love. I’ll not tell a soul.”

  She half smiled, looked back out the window, and let the tears run down her cheeks.

  KENTIGERN MANOR, THE Scottish home Charles secured for McKenna and her family to live in was a grand affair befitting the sister of two very wealthy brothers. Completely furnished, it offered a drawing room, dining room and even a library. Nicolas immediately fell in love with the study and the gardens surrounding the house, both of which would help keep him busy now that he had no occupation of record. Spring promised a full array of flowers and the fruit trees that were already in full bloom were delightful.

  The house included nine bedrooms, three bathrooms and a room specifically designed for the butler. As well, it had plenty of room for storage and even a separate breakfast room. Stables and a pasture in the back allowed room for horses, which they had yet to buy. McKenna was not fond of having a pond that little boys could fall into, but the nanny and the housekeeper Charles hired seemed watchful enough.

  That evening after dinner when both their sons were fast sleep, McKenna and Nicholas settled down on the davenport in the drawing room where she could hardly wait to open the book.

  The first page was blank, but on the second page she read:

  “In the Year of our Lord, Thirteen Hundred and Seventy One.

  I am Gustof Verrall, grandson of the half Scot and half Englishman Balric Verrall, Scribe. Upon reading the first MacGreagor stories as was told to my grandfather by Laird Michael MacGreagor, I have taken the opportunity, when time allowed, of copying them from parchment to the paper we now use, which shall last a good deal longer, I pray. As I have been privileged to know the ancient stories, I can fully attest to the way the passing of time changed the MacGreagor Clan, both for the good and the bad, and I tell you what I know so far, and that when I pass, I shall leave the practice to my son, who is not so very versed in English, but ‘tis promised he shall be. I shall often refer to the MacGreagors as we. Although I honor my father by retaining his surname, I was indeed born of a MacGreagor grandmother and mother, and therefore am a proud member of such an honorable, and for the most part, forthright clan.

  I know not precisely when the MacGreagors thought to sell their goods rather than freely share them with other members of the clan, but I suspect it came with the advent of the metal coins we now use, although we yet barter as well. Nevertheless, the marketing of animals, wool, shoes, yarn, cloth, pottery, and leather belts has occurred and we are the better for it, expectantly.

  Thus I begin where my grandfather left off.

  The years of Laird Nicol MacGreagor numbered forty-seven, during which the clan built a very fine stone castle for he and his family, upon the same location as the keep. It was a grand castle...” McKenna stopped reading and caught her breath. “Was? I believe we are about to know when the castle burned the first time.”

  “I suspect so,” said Nicholas.

  She cleared her throat and began to read again, “It was a grand castle, made of wood and stones the same as any other, yet of a superior design that included iron spires of varying heights in front, and, windows on the lower level that were far too small for any but the best archers to successfully shoot fire arrows into it. As well, it had both an outer and an inner courtyard, with intermittent places for large pots to be situated at intervals atop the high walls, from which the lads could pour hot oil on the English if they dared to come back. The second and third floors were kept for bedchambers, and guards were regularly posted in the two high towers, one on each end of the castle, to watch for friend and foe alike.

  Laird Nicol MacGreagor greatly objected to the building of it, for he needed not a castle to live in and many were the trees cut down to build it. Yet, he was persuaded and when complete,‘twas large enough to protect the clan should they again come under attack.

  At that time, the Queen over all of Scotland was Margaret, Maid of Norway who was but three years old.

  As was tradition, Nicol’s eldest son became laird, but his days were shortened by a dreaded illness, leaving the position to his brother, Connor. Laird Connor MacGreagor was laid to rest in the MacGreagor graveyard, having given his life in William Wallace’s War. A good number of brave warriors suffered the same fate, leaving the clan painfully short of lads. Not long after, Scotland had not one king but two, although Balliol was exiled to the French, or so was told. Even so, the MacGreagors cared not, for their time of grief soon gave over to thoughts of survival, and most had no ambition to fight in any other battles. Thus, with the remaining lads needed to work the land, there fell a heavy burden to Connor’s eldest daughter, Althea, who became laird. Once her younger brother was old enough, she gladly gave over the duties to Galio, who was the father of Agan.”

  From the silver service on the table, Nicholas poured a cup of tea and handed it to
his wife. “Careful, my love, it is hot.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She set the book aside, lifted the cup and saucer with both hands, and blew across the top of the liquid to cool it. Still too hot, she took just a sip, set the cup back on the table, and then picked the book back up.

  “It was in the days of Laird Agan MacGreagor that a great pestilence fell on the land. The heavens were to blame, said some, for when it began, three of the brightest stars were wrongly aligned. The putrid boils came up from the lands in the far south and before the plague reaped the last of its harvest, thousands of Scots were dead. Some died soon after fingers and toes turned black and some lived on in spite of it, being maimed for life just the same. The pestilence challenged the hearts and minds of all Scots, so much so, that few MacGreagors cared, when rumors of yet another pending war reached them.”

  “The black death,” Nicholas muttered as he set his cup down as well. “I believe that was in 1348, if I am not mistaken. It lasted two years before it stopped and was blamed on the lack of cleanliness.”

  “Listen to this,” McKenna said without acknowledging her husband’s history lesson, “The graves of those lost to the pestilence are marked with a leaf, so as to see they not be forgotten,” she read. “Is it not delightful? I wondered what the leaves on so many stones meant and now we know.”

  “Read on, my love, read on.”

  McKenna took another sip of tea and then cleared her throat. “They had little time for ailments or wars, for in spring there were crops to plant, horses to train, sheep to sheer, and cows to milk. Dogs, cats, and chickens were mostly left to their own devices. As the kingdom of Scotland multiplied, the hunters found it harder and harder to shoot game, so they turned to new and more profitable endeavors, one of which was pottery, the masterful skills of which were handed down to the next generation.

  The years allotted to Agan numbered thirty-nine before he was thrown from a horse and died. The task of caring for the MacGreagors then fell to his only child, Michael and in Michael’s time, Scotland was not at war.

  ‘Tis Michael’s story I tell you henceforth, as was told to me partly by Kester’s grandson and partly by my grandfather, the first MacGreagor scribe.

  From his father, Michael learned to be guarded in matters of the heart, wisely held dear the ancient edict, and did his best to keep the clan out of battle. Yet, no lad could have prevented the kind of battle that was yet to come.

  “‘Tis said, ‘twas no moon the night the lass escaped into the darkness. She...”

  CHAPTER 2

  NORTHERN SCOTLAND, 1371

  Seona Dalldon, an exceedingly striking woman by all accounts, gladly left behind her blue wedding gown, the crown made of orange blossoms and her veil of purity. Instead, she donned a heavy black cloak, covered her red hair with the hood, and quietly opened the door of her fourth floor castle bedchamber. Cautiously, she peeked out, looked first left, and then right. Assured no one was there, she grabbed her satchel, slipped out the door, and quietly closed it behind her. If all went well, she would be long gone before anyone discovered her missing.

  Well-fortified, the Dalldon Castle was almost completely surrounded by the waters of a loch, allowing only two possible entries – one in the front by land and one in the back of the castle by water. A daunting watch tower stood on each of four corners where guards were constantly stationed to protect Dalldon from intruders. Of all the Scottish lairds, Dalldon was the most feared as well as the most hated, for he cared not who he had to trample to raise his standing among Scotland’s nobility. Of those he trampled, it was Laird Swinton who hated him most and whom he feared most, yet there were many others who saw his favor with the king of Scotland as unjust.

  Unfortunately, he was as impatient with his two children as he was with his guards and his peasant farmers. To him, a daughter was for marrying off in order to better his standing, and when the king suggested a marriage between Seona Dalldon and a Marquis in an effort to secure an alliance with the French, the Laird was happy to oblige.

  His daughter was not.

  Three weeks in the planning, Seona was well aware escaping from her father’s castle would not be easy. To ensure a quiet exit, the desperate bride-to-be wore no shoes. Still, she tiptoed down the stone hallway, paused at the corner, and then leaned out only enough to see around it. Just as she hoped, the guard had fallen fast asleep in his chair. With only an inch or two to spare, she soundlessly eased past him and when he remained asleep, she hurried down the first of four flights of stone stairs, and then darted around the corner. Again and again, she slipped past the guards, sped down hallways to more stairs and then continued her descent – until at last, she arrived at the final doorway to her freedom.

  Just as she was about to pull down the handle, the door abruptly started to open. With a wildly pounding heart, she darted behind it and then held her breath. A guard burst through, moaning and in such discomfort as to cause him to hold his stomach, and dart away without so much as a glance in her direction. Before the door could close, Seona dashed through, and just in case he looked back, quickly pulled it shut behind her.

  Even then, she dared not breathe. The final staircase was narrower by half, smelled musty and offered only intermittent light from candles in wall holders. She waited a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness, and then started down the cold, stone steps. In sight of her much coveted freedom, even occasionally stepping in slimy moss with her bare feet did not persuade her to turn back. Determined, she continued on until she reached the bottom.

  Seona ignored yet another dark staircase that led down to her father’s dungeon, and instead found a spare candle lying next to a lit one on the small table. Next, she held the tip of her candle into the flame until it too caught fire. If all had gone as planned, a boat would be waiting for her on the other side of the last door. She drew in a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out.

  No boat waited for her.

  She tried not to panic and gently pulled the door closed behind her. Unless it was cleaned regularly, moss made the platform slippery too, so she tested each step before she took it. In the stillness of the dark, brooding night, she heard not a sound, save water lapping against the castle’s outer walls.

  Her father kept a large boat tethered not far away in case he and his guards needed to escape, but it was too dark to see precisely where it was. Besides, it was too large for her alone to manage. Consumed by the fear that she had been forgotten, or worse, tricked, she anxiously whispered, “Where are you?”

  The candle was to be her signal, but just now she feared it might be the very thing that would secure her capture. Even so, she slowly moved it from side to side as she was told to do, and then tossed it in the water. Although the water was cold and lights in the windows of the village on the other side of the loch looked very far away, she was prepared to swim if she had to. She waited and waited, and as time continued to pass, her fear turned from being forgotten to worry that the guard would return.

  Still, she waited and still she saw no sign of a boat.

  Seona was about to toss her bag in the water and take off her heavy cloak when she heard the faint sound of an oar splash. At last, the side of the small rowboat scraped against the castle stones and stopped right in front of her. Even then, it was so dark she was not sure if it was friend or foe. She felt for the edge of the ledge with her toes, decided she could without falling, and took one last step. A hand took the satchel out of her hand, and a moment later two hands encircled her waist and pulled her aboard. The man waited just long enough for her to sit down before he used an oar to push the boat away from the wall.

  “Osgar?” she whispered.

  “Aye.”

  She heaved a soft sigh of relief, hung onto the sides of the boat as he turned it, and then watched as the light in the window of her bedchamber began to fade in the distance. Still afraid to breathe for fear someone could hear her, she searched the darkness for other boats and listened for shouting cas
tle guards, but the night remained quiet and undisturbed. A touch bolder because of it, she took her shoes out of the satchel and put them on.

  “Hold on,” Osgar whispered just before the rowboat landed on the shore with a jolt. He quickly let go of the oars, hopped over the side into the water, and then pulled the boat further onshore. As soon as she stood up, he helped her out, took her bag, and together they crept toward the village. A short time later, they disappeared down a darkened street.

  PROUD OF HIS CASTLE, his escape-proof jail in the dungeon below, and his six identical deerhounds, Laird Dalldon walked the length of a bedchamber that was four times the normal size, turned, and started back. Dressed in the finest blue silk leggings and belted tunic money could buy, he had his hands clasped behind his back and absentmindedly toyed with a gold coin, flipping it back and forth between the tips of his fingers.

  Afraid to move, the dogs sat in a row watching the unmistakable scowl on Dalldon’s face, while the laird’s son, Tam, stood nearby with folded arms and one shoulder leaned against the wall. He too was formally dressed in preparation for a wedding that now might never take place. Earlier that morning, his father’s bellowing could be heard all over the castle, rattling the nerves of even the fiercest warrior. Seona was gone, no one in his employ managed to prevent her, and the price to pay for such a failing promised to be a heavy one indeed.

  As soon as the guard knocked on the door and then entered, the laird stopped pacing and glared his most threating glare. “Well?”

  “We have searched everywhere. She is gone.”

  “Gone is she? How dare she humiliate me in this manner?” He got no answer and expected none.

  “I sent men to seek her out in the village,” said the guard. “She cannae have gotten far in the dark.”