Chapter 1
“Y
e must consider changin’ yer name to Calvin, lad. After all, ye’re half Calvin on yer mither’s side an’ me only heir at the end o’ the day,” Laird Calvin said to his grandson in an encouraging tone.
William Lachlan MacNair had been sent to his grandfather’s Castle to learn how to act in a more lairdly manner.
The tall, muscular man with dark red hair was Wee Willie no more.
He had inherited little from his mother’s side of the family beyond her red hair and a certain lightness of spirit compared to his father’s naturally dour nature.
He was named for his uncle, Will Fearguson, the blacksmith.
After the master blacksmith came to live with his clan, everyone in the family began to fall into the habit of calling Wee Willie by his second given name, which made even more sense after Willie had his thirteenth summer pass by and began to shoot skyward at an alarming rate as his muscles bulked out, honed and defined by hours of sword practice, horse riding, and swimming.
His father, Laird Callum MacNair, had taken him aside at MacNair Castle only last week to tell his eldest son he was to go stay at the Calvin Castle.
Some of the bailey villagers had complained about Lachlan and his brother Asher’s behavior.
The two young men had been carousing in the village tavern and accidentally fallen into a vat of ale.
The batch of small ale was ruined, and his father had been livid.
Lachlan’s mother, Lady Meria MacNair, had shrugged with loving carelessness when she heard the news.
“Ye ken I have never bothered me head over our sons’ antics, Husband,” Lady Meria had told her husband, and then gone off to see what silk pattern her friend Ailsa was creating in the weaving house, taking her two daughters, Tessia and Helena, with her.
Asher had been punished already, sent to their neighbor, Laird Gray, to train with the common soldiers in the barracks, with no special privileges or title to make his life easier for him.
Lachlan hoped he did not look too sullen as he waited to hear his father’s pronouncement, but when he did, he frowned, growling the words, “It was a wee fight over a wench, Faither! Let me stay here to train me troops. I’m a warrior, no’ some weakling courtier.
Ye ken I find it deadly dull an’ boring at Grandfaither’s Castle. ”
Laird Callum shook his head, saying firmly, “Nay. Last week it was a brawl at the tavern and the week before that it was a squabble over who owned the best horse. Ye’re five and twenty now, Lachlan.
I was already setting out to be a mercenary at the same age.
It’s time ye went an’ vented yer spleen at yer grandfaither’s Castle.
An’ I don’ want to see ye back here until ye’ve sown all those wild oats o’ yers. ”
Lachlan had grumbled, “I like me wild oats; what’s wrong with a young man havin’ fun with his brither?”
But he had hastened to do his father’s bidding. Laird Callum was a fiercely disciplined man who had no tolerance for those who imbibed too much whiskey and then set about fighting.
He had been at Calvin Castle for ten days now, and it was proving to be just as boring as Lachlan had predicted.
After breaking fast each morning, he would be made to sit with his grandfather and listen to petitioners.
Anyone who paid rent money or crop tithes to the laird had the right to seek justice or ask for a boon to be granted them when they approached the dais in the great hall.
Also, in times of famine or war, taxpayers had the right to be fed and seek refuge within the Castle gates.
After listening to the petitioners, they would break for dinner, usually a frugal meal of bread and cheese with possibly some mashed turnips on the side.
When Lachlan had complained to the kitchen staff about the plain repast they served to the high table, the cook had told him rich meats and wine inflamed the laird’s gout, so they were ordered to keep the food bland.
“I’ll coddle ye some eggs in cream if ye like,” the cook offered the handsome young man, “or I can bake ye a milk puddin’?”
As grateful as he was for the cook’s kindness, all these foods made Lachlan shudder with distaste.
Every afternoon, the laird and his grandson went riding over the estate together, with Lachlan smothering his yawns as Laird Calvin showed him the thick wheat growing in the fields and the fat kine grazing the grass.
“Yer faither has two sons, don’ forget, Lachlan.” Laird Calvin told him. “So if ye dinnae want to live here, I’ll give all o’ me rich land to yer brither, Asher. How will ye feel if he goes on to be the one to grow wealthy an’ prosper?”
This threat only made Lachlan grunt. “Och aye, Grandfaither. But I’m no’ a farmer, ye ken.
I’m a warrior. An’ with me faither bringin’ peace an’ prosperity to the lands, I’ve been spoilin’ for a proper fight for years.
That’s what makes Asher an’ me so branglesome—we want to test our metal against another man’s.
All this swordplay an’ nonsense we do at the barracks cannae replace the real thing. ”
Then it was Laird Calvin’s turn to grunt. “So ye say, young cockerel, but I can promise ye will come to appreciate the warmth of the fire and comfort of havin’ food in yer belly without havin’ to kill a man to get it when ye’re my age.”
“I don’t want to get auld, Grandfaither,” Lachlan said firmly. “It’s more noble to die in battle. P’raps me soul will end up suppin’ with our Norse ancestors in their Valhalla, where warriors go after death. I’ve always fancied the idea of tamin’ one o’ those Valkyries they tell tales about.”
Laird Calvin scoffed, “Ha! Ye’re all about the fightin’ an’ the wenchin’, are ye, Lachlan?
Well, it might interest ye to ken that if ye look after those who pay yer tax an’ listen to yer petitioners when they make a reasonable request o’ ye, ye’ll never have to fight another battle in yer life.
And that is something ye’ll appreciate when ye get to my age!
Yer faither chased off all the brigands an’ pirates for a reason, lad.
Folks should have the choice when it comes to livin’ or dyin’.
We have enough problems on our hands with disease an’ accidents in every corner ye look, without us going and looking for trouble.
But on the Calvin estate, no trespasser has the right to take a person’s life away from them without sufferin’ the consequences. Just remember that!”
“I want to die with a sword in me hand, I tell ye.”
Lachlan was champing at the bit for a chance to launch his perfectly honed body into battle.
He felt ashamed that his father had battle scars when he did not.
Combat training was not enough for him anymore; he wanted to feel the rush of excitement a man got when his opponent swung a sword at him in earnest. But by the time he had become a strapping youth, able to hold his own in a battle or skirmish, every bandit for miles around MacNair Castle knew to avoid the lands if they wanted to live.
Other folks might have found this change in circumstances comforting, but not Lachlan.
The visit to Calvin Castle was not entirely intolerable, however. Grandfather and grandson had a deep and abiding affection for one another at the end of the day. They were happy to agree to disagree on the matter for now.
“Ye’ll change yer mind about war mongering once ye get yerself a nice wife an’ a quiverful o’ bairns hangin’ on yer coattails, laddie.” Laird Calvin chuckled.
The next day, Lachlan found it hard to get out of bed.
What’s the point? I will be forced to eat that disgusting food, only for me arse to go numb while I sit with me grandfaither as he listens to all those moaning petitioners o’ his. Faugh!
The day would be as bleak and boring as the previous ones, of that he had no doubt.
The cook had laid out some summer fruit preserves on the breakfast table for Lachlan, and it put a little sweetness into him, enough for him to mount the great hall dais with no complaint and settle himself down into the hard-backed wooden chair with a semblance of tolerance.
The sentries opened the doors at the back of the hall, and the petitioners filed inside.
Nothing new was to be seen there, and Lachlan was not surprised as the farmers, tradesmen, and artisans lined the walls, waiting for the steward to call them forward.
The purser sat at the table with the laird and his grandson, waiting to be told how much compensation to give someone if their petition involved payment in coin.
The steward did not usher the first man forward, however. He signaled to the sentries, and they opened the doors again. An old woman and a young girl walked into the hall, straight up the middle of the room, which gave Lachlan the chance to have a good look at the strange pair.
The elder was obviously descended from Pictish blood.
She was wizened and bent, but it was not solely from age; some affliction of the bones was causing the old woman to suffer great pain.
Her once-black hair was shot through with white streaks, and her small stature was frail.
She held a staff with a crooked hand, but her main prop came from the young girl who held the elderly woman’s elbow.
Without asking permission whether she might approach the laird, the young girl whispered something into the old woman’s ear and then left her standing in front of the dais, leaning on her staff.
The girl strode up to the dais, and after giving a brief curtsy to the laird, she poked the purser on his upper arm. The man was bemused, but not for long.
“Let’s be havin’ that nice chair o’ yers for me mither, please, Master.”
The purser stood up, and the girl dragged the chair off the dais and set it in front of the table in the middle of the great hall, helping the elderly woman to sit in it before going to stand behind the chair.
This gave Lachlan the perfect vantage point for observing the young girl to his heart’s content while the purser stepped off the dais to go looking for a stool. Lachlan liked what he saw.
The girl’s hair was bright red, startlingly red.
The red of sunsets and fire and glowing embers.
The top of her hair was bleached blonde by the sunshine, but the shining locks became a darker and richer red as the hair grew closer to her slender neck.
She was a proud-looking girl, made to look all the prouder because of the shining mantle of straight hair that fell past her waist, reaching almost the back of her knees.
It was a screaming beacon, telling men that she was unmarried and a maiden and no man had yet tamed her to cover that crowning glory of hair and keep it for his eyes alone.
But her hair was not the girl’s only beautiful feature.
As for her face, the girl was newly come to womanhood.
Lachlan put her age at anywhere between seventeen and eighteen years.
Her winsome features were fresh as a daisy, and her eyes were as green as summer grass.
If only she would lose that haughty expression on her face and smile a bit, the effect would be dazzling.
Lachlan felt his loins stir at the young woman’s beauty, but he suppressed himself.
Laird MacNair was an upright father and would cast off any son of his who messed with a pure girl’s maidenhead.
Laird Calvin gave the women the signal to speak.
The elder looked up at her daughter and moved her hand to show her daughter to do the talking for her.
Lachlan was intrigued when he heard the girl’s voice.
It was as sweet as honey and light as the chirruping of the birds in the trees.
Would the pretty young girl prove to be as pleasant as he hoped she was?