Chapter Twenty-Two
The Scot’s Betrayal
Sometimes about the English, about death, and even stablemasters…
Chapter Three
Alex as the elder, always in his favorite spot…
They arrived at the gates of Grant Castle, the wind whistling through the pines as they galloped through the meadow. The portcullis opened as soon as they neared the entrance, the men on the curtain wall recognizing them instantly.
It was a sad testament that they kept the gates locked at all times.
They never knew when or if the English would attack.
The cousins dismounted once near the stables, and Alasdair tossed the reins to one of the stable lads and hastened toward the keep.
He passed Aunt Gracie, Els’s mother, who stopped to give him a hug before continuing on to greet her son.
“The lairds?” he asked.
“Off on a visit to our neighboring clans,” she said as she stepped away. “They’ll be back in a few days.”
A few moments later, his uncle Finlay, Alick’s sire, called out to him from the lists. “He’s in his usual spot awaiting your report.”
“Thank you, Uncle!” he said, hurrying on toward the keep.
Once there, he threw the door open, found the staircase, and took the steps two at a time until he reached the top floor.
He then hurried down the hall to the end of the passageway and made his way up the final flight of stairs.
When he reached the top, he opened the door carefully, always cautious around the old man.
Alexander Grant, his namesake, sat in his stone chair, built into the wall of the parapets, his favorite place in the world. At nearly seventy summers, the man was ancient, but his mind was as sharp as the tip of the sword he still polished every night.
“Greetings, Grandsire.”
“Alasdair, I noticed your arrival. Tell me what you discovered. Anything new?”
“Nay. The English are bastards, but we already knew that. I fear Edward will not stop until he subdues all of the Scottish rebels. He thinks we’ve succumbed, given in to his rule. We all know better. Our quest for freedom will never die.”
His grandfather stared off over the edge of the crenellations, something he often did when a memory came to him. They’d all been given strict instructions to let him be during those times, simply because it was probably something he relished.
By the look that crossed his face, however, Alasdair guessed this memory was not one of the good ones. “Are you thinking of your first battle, Grandpapa?”
“Aye.”
His grandsire had told him the story often, so much so he could probably recite the details, and yet he said, “Tell me more about it. Tell me about the lass.”
“Why do you ask?” He brought his sharp gaze back to Alasdair, probing in his silent way, ready to pick up on any change in his demeanor. His many years had made him skilled at detecting behaviors before they appeared.
“May I tell you after?” Alasdair also liked to test the old man.
He would do anything for him, including carrying him up here to his favorite spot on the parapets when he struggled.
Grandpapa often cursed his old bones. Alasdair noticed the finely hewn piece of wood next to him, so he knew he’d been able to make it this time with the assistance of that wood support.
Sometimes he made it on his own, but oftentimes he needed help from one of his children or grandchildren.
“I’ll never forget it, as you know, nor the look in the eye of the lass.
She looked so hopeless, so resigned to her fate.
Her name was Sarah. My sire knew right away it was the English who’d done it.
He said they had no honor, no morals. What they did to that poor lass…
” He shook his head and stared off for a few moments.
Alasdair gave him the time he needed, leaning over the stone wall and peering out over Grant land.
As a younger lad, he’d thought it stretched out forever, and indeed, the land was theirs almost as far as the eye could see.
Hills, valleys, burns, the loch, and mountains.
It wasn’t the most fertile land, but they’d made good use of the soil they had.
“Your question, lad?”
“You often speak of the look in her eyes… I think I saw it on our journey. We happened upon a group of travelers being attacked by reivers. There was a woman who’d been abducted. I chased her kidnapper, pulled him off his horse, and brought her back to her husband.”
His grandsire tipped his head back, a sign that he had his complete attention. “And?”
“She was a beautiful Scot, but she was married to an English fool, some baron. Not quite newlyweds anymore—they’ve not been married for long, I’d guess. I cannot explain it, but after watching him for a few moments, listening to his empty words, I knew he was a bastard.”
“Trust your instincts. He probably is. Get on with the tale.” That spark of wisdom and the beam of pride in his country flashed in the old man’s gaze, something that always caught Alasdair.
“The look she gave me…it was like she was beseeching me to help her, but it passed so quickly. Almost as if I’d imagined it. Can you make any sense of it?” He was clearly worried about her, but something was not right.
“The marriage must have been forced on her. Which reminds me. I received a message from someone who believes a lass needs help. She’s the daughter of a late Scottish laird who was an ally of mine. My friend is concerned about the lass’s new husband.”
“Who sent you the message?” He couldn’t believe his grandsire still had any friends left at his age. To live seven decades was quite rare.
“The stablemaster.”
“But Grandpapa, how can you trust something a stablemaster sends you? Don’t you need a warrior’s opinion?”
“Always trust a stablemaster’s opinion. They know everything that takes place in the clan. It was a stablemaster who sent me a message about the mistreatment your grandmother was suffering. I have him to thank for all of this and all of you. He brought me to Maddie, bless her sweet soul.”
His grandsire stopped speaking and looked down at his lap for a moment. Alasdair did not need to ask why. Alex Grant missed his wife every day, even though she’d been gone around five years.
But when he lifted his gaze again, he gave Alasdair the look of a fearless leader, a strong fighter.
Of a fierce Highlander who you would never dare question.
His long peppered gray locks blew in the wind, but he never touched them, and his gray eyes settled on Alasdair’s matching eyes.
“Her name is Emmalin MacLintock and you must save her.”
Alasdair nearly fell over the parapets in shock.
“That’s the lass’s name, Grandsire. She is in trouble. I knew it.”
Chapter Four
Alex’s physical weakness shows his age, but he’s still Alexander Grant.
The door opened at the end of the hall, and their grandfather made his way through the door, slowly as if his legs pained him this morn. “We’ll not speak of any of the details we heard in front of Grandsire,” Alasdair said in an undertone. “He’ll only get upset.”
In a louder voice, he said, “Good morn to you, Grandsire.” He saw a look of pain cross the man’s face just before he crashed to the ground, his stick unable to hold his weight.
“Grandsire!” The cousins’ voices rang out together as they raced to his side, joined by anyone else within hearing distance.
“Grandpapa, are you hale? Don’t try to get up. We’ll help you,” Alasdair said, his stomach twisting in a way that made him wish to vomit. He’d already lost so much—he couldn’t lose his grandfather.
Not yet—not ever!
Aunt Kyla and Uncle Finlay appeared on the balcony above. His aunt looked stricken when she saw her father on the floor. “What happened?” she shouted. “Papa!”
Alasdair scooped his grandsire up and headed back toward his bedchamber, which had been moved down to the lower floor some years ago.
He stopped when the old man grabbed his wrist. “Nay, I’ll not go back in there to stare at the four walls.
Move my bed into the hall,” he said, his eyes fluttering closed.
Alasdair gave instructions to his cousins, who’d followed him. “Els, you and Alick move the bed out here while I hold him. Aunt Kyla, go for Aunt Gracie.” His aunt had become the healer for their clan, though she did not yet have much experience.
Once they had him settled in his bed, arranged at the end of the hall, Aunt Gracie came in and hustled over to see to him. She assessed Grandsire’s leg, which seemed to have buckled under him, but he couldn’t seem to stay awake either.
Anxious to do something to help, Alasdair found a partition and moved it over to the bed to give the poor man some privacy.
He paced and paced, praying furiously, and scratched his head as though he had one thousand bugs in his hair.
“Stop scratching,” Aunt Kyla said. “He’ll be fine.”
“Will he?” he asked, staring at his aunt as if she’d just kicked him in the belly.
She patted his shoulder, a movement he knew was an attempt to soothe him, but it wasn’t working. He welcomed any words she would offer him.
“My father is the strongest man I know. This won’t stop him.” Aunt Kyla was the spitting image of his grandfather, except she had the piercing blue eyes of her mother. The years had done nothing to dim her beauty, but only a fool would underestimate her.
She was as tough as any man.
Aunt Gracie stepped out from behind the partition. She was shaking her head, a sight that instantly alarmed him.
“What the hell does that mean, Aunt Gracie?” Alasdair bellowed, blushing at his crudeness a moment later. “Sorry, Auntie. I shouldn’t yell or curse. My thanks for coming so quickly.”
“I understand your concern, Alasdair,” she said, setting her hands on his towering shoulders. “I think he’ll be fine, he just cannot move. I don’t know what’s wrong with his leg or hip. We need Jennie.”
Aunt Jennie was his grandsire’s youngest sister, one of the best healers in the land.