Chapter Two
A mid the clatter of the castle kitchen, where scullery maids busily scrubbed pots and the air was rich with the aroma of roasting meat and freshly baked bread, Fiona sought the counsel of one wiser than most. Her gaze swept past the bustling activity, settling on the familiar form of her mentor nestled in a quiet corner. The cook for the castle, who held the additional distinction of being her grandmother.
The old woman stood in front of the stove, stirring a huge pot of rabbit stew. “Are ye looking forward to the games, lass?”
Fiona watched her grandmother for a moment, noting how the flickering light of the hearth danced across the wise lines etched into her face. There was timeless knowledge within her, a depth of understanding that came not from books, but from life itself.
The weight of Fiona’s troubles lessened ever so slightly in her grandmother’s presence. Here was one who knew the burdens of duty, the sacrifices required by those born into a lineage where the needs of the many often eclipsed personal yearnings. Yet, even as the political tides surged and pulled at Fiona’s sense of self, she found solace in this place, where love for family interwove with the responsibilities vested upon her by birthright.
Fiona closed the distance between them. With a gentle grace, she enfolded the diminutive figure of her grandmother in an embrace, the solidity of the old woman surprising with as small as she was. “Granny,” Fiona began, “I find myself confused about the games. I am in need of your guidance.” Having lived her entire life without a mother, she often went to Granny when she needed something.
Granny continued to stir the stew and peered up at Fiona, the lines around her eyes crinkling as a smile spread across her face. She laid a tender hand on Fiona’s arm, a touch that held the strength of generations. “Come, lass. Sit down,” Granny beckoned, gesturing toward a wooden chair pulled close to the hearth.
With a nod of gratitude, Fiona settled onto the offered seat, the sturdy wood creaking beneath her weight. Her gaze lingered on the cookfire’s glow, the flames casting a golden hue upon the stone walls of the kitchen.
Granny deliberately turned back to the bubbling pot. She tore a generous piece of a crusty loaf of bread and handed it to Fiona. “Eat, child. A full belly steadies the heart when the mind is troubled.”
Fiona accepted the bread and bit into it, the simple act grounding her as she prepared to unravel the threads of her quandary before the woman who had borne witness to her life since its very inception.
“Now, tell me what’s troubling you, child.”
Fiona took a deep breath. “As you know, the games will start tomorrow. I will compete along with my sisters against the men of other clans. My father says that he is watching the games closely this time, trying to find a man worthy of being both laird of the clan and my husband.”
Granny’s gaze softened as she considered Fiona’s words. A knowing twinkle danced in her eyes as she met Fiona’s troubled gaze, and she spoke with a voice as soothing as a lullaby.
“Lass, the path ahead may be shrouded in uncertainty, but remember this—your heart knows truths that even the wisest minds may overlook,” Granny reassured her. She reached out and gently held Fiona’s hand. Fiona’s heart grew as warm as the hearth fire beside them.
“Fiona, you are more than a prize to be won in a contest of strength and skill. Your worth lies not in the outcome of these games but in the steadfastness of your spirit and the depth of your love. Do not let the expectations of others dim the light that burns within you,” Granny continued, her words carrying the weight of experience and wisdom that had weathered many decades.
Clarity washed over Fiona. The weight of expectation, the looming specter of political machinations that threatened to overshadow the joy of the games, began to recede like morning mist under the sun’s gentle caress.
With a newfound resolve shining in her eyes, Fiona met her grandmother’s gaze. “Thank ye, Granny,” she whispered. “I will not let the expectations of others dim my light. I will compete with all my heart, but I shall follow where my heart leads regarding matters of love.”
Granny beamed at Fiona, her eyes alight with pride and affection. “That’s my girl,” she murmured, a note of approval filling her voice. “In the days of my youth, my heart was as wild as the land, untamed by duty or promise.”
Fiona leaned forward. Her grandmother was the best storyteller around, and if she was going to tell a story, Fiona would listen intently.
“Ye ken, there was a time when I stood where ye stand now, Fiona,” Granny continued. Her gaze settled upon Fiona with an intensity that bore the weight of experience. “Love came to me in glances that spoke to my heart. It was a force that could not be denied, yet it conflicted with duty, and no matter what I chose, there would be a measure of sacrifice.”
Fiona’s eyes, the color of the stormy sea, shimmered with a fusion of emotions. Curiosity flickered within her, while determination etched itself into the lines of her face.
“Following one’s heart,” Granny’s voice dipped, “is a journey fraught with peril and exaltation in equal measure. It is the silent whisper of the loch, calling the soul that dares to listen.”
Granny’s voice carried a haunting quality as she delved into the depths of her own past, drawing Fiona into a world where duty and desire intertwined. Her eyes glistened with memories that spanned many years.
“When I was but a lass,” Granny began, “I stood at the edge of a precipice, torn between two hearts that beat as one yet belonged to different realms. One was a warrior, fierce in battle and tender in whispers by moonlight. The other was a son of noble blood, bound by oaths forged in steel and sealed with the wax of ancient pacts.”
Fiona leaned in closer, her breath caught in the tapestry Granny spun with each word. The fire crackled beside them, casting flickering shadows that danced upon the walls like specters of the past.
“I loved them both,” Granny murmured, her voice laden with the weight of reminiscence. “One offered me the wild expanse of the moors, where he pledged his sword to protect and cherish me. The other beckoned with the promise of lands and titles, a life of comfort and prestige. Duty whispered in one ear, while desire sang in the other.”
Fiona’s eyes widened, reflecting the flames that cast a warm glow upon her face. She hung on every word, her grandmother’s tale weaving a spell around her, stirring echoes of uncertainty and longing within her own soul.
“I stood upon the precipice,” Granny continued, her gaze distant yet piercing as she relived those moments from a lifetime ago. “My heart was torn by the tug-of-war between love and obligation. The warrior offered passion that set my soul ablaze, while the nobleman offered a future paved with golden promises.”
And yet, amid the turmoil of emotions that threatened to engulf her, Granny spoke of a decision that would shape the course of her destiny. “In the quiet depths of night, I sought solace in the ancient oaks that whispered tales of those who came before. Their branches intertwined like lovers bound by fate, their roots delving deep into the heart of the earth, grounding me in a reality where love and duty collided like titans at war.”
Fiona’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the strength and vulnerability in her grandmother’s gaze.
“I made my choice.” Granny’s voice was as steady as the mountain that loomed in the distance, unyielding yet ever watchful.
Fiona listened intently, her breath held in anticipation of Granny’s next words. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the cozy cottage. The scent of lavender and sage hung in the air, soothing her restless heart as she awaited the continuation of Granny’s tale.
“I was but a young lass, much like you, Fiona,” Granny continued. “And I found myself torn between two paths, each leading me to a different destiny. One was paved with the stones of duty and honor, where my hand was promised to a man of wealth and power, a union meant to forge alliances and secure our clan’s future.”
Granny paused, her gaze distant as she delved into memories long buried but not forgotten. Fiona could see the flicker of sadness cross the woman’s face. “In the end, I followed the destiny set out for me by others, but I still wonder what would have been had I followed my heart and married my warrior.”
“No!” Fiona cried. She must sound like an overly romantic child, but she couldn’t imagine leaving the man she loved for the one her father chose for her.
“Ye must ken, lass, the weight of a name, the burden of blood,” Granny spoke, her hands still for a moment. “It is no’ just yer own heart ye carry, but the hopes of all who share yer crest.”
The air thickened with the truth of those words. Fiona furrowed her brow, the warrior within wrestling with the specter of obligation that loomed large in her thoughts. “But how does one measure the worth of their desires against the call of duty?” she asked.
“Ah, Fiona, ’tis the question that has echoed through the halls of time.” Granny’s gaze held the flickering candlelight. “Yer heart is yer compass, yet ye must be careful to honor yer destiny. I don’t look back and wish I’d made a different choice. If I had, I wouldn’t have had ye nor yer mother.”
The silence that followed was not empty but laden with contemplation. Fiona absorbed her wisdom.
“Granny, when the clan’s needs press heavy against me own wishes, where do I find the strength to honor both?”
“Within, child. Within.” The old woman’s eyes met Fiona’s, clear and deep. “Ye are of my blood, and strength runs fierce in our veins. Ye’ll ken the right of it when the moment comes. Trust in that and let nae man sow doubt in yer mind.”
“But how do I know?”
Granny’s gaze held a flicker of mirth. “Ye must ken that the heart has its own voice, Fiona,” she spoke with gentle firmness. “It’s a wild thing, not easily tamed by logic or duty. Ye’ll do well to listen when it whispers, for it speaks truths that the mind may try to silence.”
Fiona kneaded the bread absentmindedly. The scent of yeast and warmth from the hearth mingled, comforting yet stirring a restlessness within her. Her grandmother’s words fanned the embers of possibility, breathing life into the smoldering sparks of her deepest hopes.
“Be open to the winds of change, my child,” Granny continued, reaching across the worn wooden table to cover Fiona’s. “Remember, the most enduring love is oft found in the glens and shadows where ye least expect it. It’s there, hidden among the stones of ancient ruins, where dreams entwine with destiny.”
Courage surged in Fiona’s chest. Granny’s assurance was a beacon, guiding her through the fog of uncertainty that had settled upon her spirit. “I am grateful for your guidance, Granny. Your words bear the weight of truth, and purpose anew stirs within me heart.”
The room seemed to hold its breath, the crackling of the fire the only sound as Granny nodded, her expression a tapestry of pride and affection. “There is a fierce light in ye, Fiona McAfee,” she whispered, yet her words carried the strength of stone. “Let it shine and let naught dim its brilliance.”
“Aye, Granny,” Fiona replied softly.
“Remember this, my child.” Granny’s whisper echoed through the hallowed kitchen. “Ye are the blood of the McAfee, born of courage and compassion. Dinna let the world make ye forget who ye are, and never forsake yer principles for the fleeting promises of power or passion.”
In her grandmother’s wisdom, there was no room for doubt, only the unwavering certainty of one who had walked the path of life with honor and had emerged tempered like steel in the forge of experience.
“Thank ye, Granny,” Fiona replied reverently, rising from the wooden chair.
As she stood, Fiona felt as if the entire lineage of the McAfees’ was focused on her, waiting for her to make the right decision—a lineage that whispered of battles won not only with sword and shield but also with cunning and conviction.
“Ye have given me more than guidance this day,” Fiona said. “Ye have reminded me of the strength that lies in staying true to myself, no matter how the tempest rages.”
Fiona stepped across the flagstone floor, the hem of her tartan skirt whispering against the cold rock with each measured step. Her grandmother’s teachings clung to her mind. Each word settled deep within her, a comforting weight that grounded her despite the tempest of uncertainty that loomed beyond the castle walls.
Fiona put her hands on her grandmother’s shoulders from behind and gave Granny’s weathered cheek a kiss, a tribute to the woman whose spirit lingered in the warmth of the embers. “Ye have armed me well for what is to come,” Fiona murmured. At that moment, love and duty intertwined within her.
*
Fiona McAfee stepped out from the shelter of her father’s keep, admiring the bustling encampment where tents rose like a field of vibrant wildflowers. Each standard fluttered in the gentle breeze, signaling the presence of allied families and honored guests.
Clad in her plaid, which announced to all that she was a member of Clan McAfee and one of their hosts, she regarded the weight of her bow and quiver, a familiar comfort upon her back. Fiona moved with purposeful grace. Her stride was one borne of many years pacing the cobbled paths that wound like serpents through her ancestral lands. It was here that the McAfee legacy had thrived.
As she navigated the throng of kinsmen and visitors, Fiona gazed upon three figures adorned in the distinctive plaid of Clan McClain. There were many others in the plaid as well, but these three were probably the leaders. The middle of them stood as if he had been chiseled from the highland stone itself—broad-shouldered, imposing, yet undeniably human in his bearing. His hair was dark, but his eyes… his eyes were of the purest blue loch she had ever seen.
A sudden stir within Fiona’s breast gave rise to the unbidden desire to approach, to engage the McClain son in discourse, perchance to glean insight into the mind that had orchestrated victories that were sung of in hushed tones beside hearth fires. Yet, as quickly as the impulse surfaced, it was quashed by the remembrance of her grandmother’s counsel, words steeped in the wisdom of generations: “Remember, child, the fate of our clan rests not on the whims of the heart, but on the strength of our lineage.”
With nary a glance nor gesture to betray her turmoil, she pressed onward, past the men of McClain, silently acknowledging the sacrifice that came with being the laird’s eldest daughter. For it was not the allure of comeliness in a man that could sway her from her path, but the steadfast duty to her bloodline, the unwavering commitment to be the proud daughter her father—and all the McAfees—expected her to be.
Fiona joined her sisters at the far end of the field, where the targets had been erected for practice. She took her stance with an assured grace, nocking an arrow to her bowstring as she had done countless times before. With each measured breath, she loosed her arrows. The satisfying thrum of the bowstring and the swift flight of feathers cut through the cool air.
Beside her, Ailis stood poised, the glint of her blade catching the weak rays of the sun. She threw the knife with deadly precision, punctuating the silence with a thud as it found its mark in the target. Her concentration unwavering, Ailis embodied lethal elegance.
To Fiona’s right, Moira practiced with her sword, the blade an extension of her own fierce determination. The youngest McAfee’s movements were a whirlwind of strength and agility, her vibrant energy a stark contrast to the steadfast focus Fiona and Ailis maintained.
As she retrieved her arrows for another round, Fiona sensed someone gazing upon her. It bore into her back, a tangible pressure that appraised her every move. She knew without checking the source of this scrutiny. The intensity was all too familiar, reminiscent of the sight of Alisdair in his McClain plaid. Yet she resisted the urge to seek out the onlooker, her mind anchored by the heavy mantle of duty that draped her shoulders.
“Let them watch,” Fiona whispered to herself. She must embody the proud daughter her father expected, a paragon of the McAfee clan’s storied heritage. Her form was impeccable, her shots true. The clatter of arrows piercing wood a testament to her skill and discipline.
There was no room for distraction, not when the eyes of clansmen and rivals alike judged not only her prowess but her family’s.