Chapter Three #3
Donnan had returned home from the battle of Dunbar alive but forever damaged.
An enemy blade had struck his head, knocking off his helmet while another English knight took a swing with a mace, crushing his skull.
Rendered unconscious, he fell to the ground where horses trampled his legs, crushing the bones.
Only by the grace of God did Donnan survive, but he never walked again nor did his mind fully heal.
Memories from before the battle came to him with ease, but when the sun set on a new day, most of his new memories were gone come morning.
Also, stolen by the vicious blow to his skull was his ability to read and do sums. With regard to his lasting injuries, the clan only knew half the story.
Everyone understood that Donnan would be bedridden for the remainder of his days, but Alex, and those closest to the laird, had concealed the weaknesses of Donnan’s mind—an addle-minded chieftain meant a vulnerable clan.
And so, at sixteen, Alex took on the role of laird, but her every command remained always in Donnan’s name.
The rest of their kin, and most importantly, neighboring clans, believed that Donnan’s mind was sharp as ever, and that he issued orders from his chamber, which Alex simply ensured were carried out.
Alex slumped down at Helen’s table, suddenly weary, and accepted a cup of mead from her friend’s outstretched hand. “Thank ye,” she said and took a long sip, absently stroking her hand across a piece of soft, dark blue wool folded on the table. “’Tis lovely,” Alex said, admiring the fabric closer.
“Aye, ‘tis that,” Helen agreed. “I bought it from a peddler who came through the village yesterday.”
Alex straightened in her seat. “Not the same peddler who came through last spring?”
Helen shook her head. “Of course not—ye know that man would never again get within a league of MacKenzie territory.”
Relief eased the sudden tension from Alex’s shoulders as she again sat back.
More than a year had passed since a dreadful beast of a man swept through town, selling rotted grain, soiled fabrics, and lewd wooden carvings.
Alex had only been made aware of his presence after several villagers had come to the keep, complaining of a peddler who was trying to frighten and bully them into buying his objectionable goods.
Flanked by two of the largest MacKenzie warriors, Gavin and Finlay, she had marched down and confronted the rodent—a sniveling Englishman, small in stature with greasy black hair, and cold, hard eyes.
At first, she cast him from her lands in a firm but calm voice.
In reply, he spat on the ground saying, “I don’t take orders from women. ”
She gasped in momentary surprise. Then fury seized her. She stormed at him. “How dare ye defy me, ye miscreant! Ye addle-brained churl! Ye goatish knave!” With every insult hurled, her voice grew louder. “Ye mewling, odiferous, spotted toad!”
Eyes wide as saucers, the nasty little man turned tail and ran, pushing the poor beasts with the sorry job of pulling his wagon of spoiled goods as hard as he could.
Alex liked to believe it was her fierce stance and sharp tongue that had chased him away, although she knew the accompanying effect of Gavin and Finlay unsheathing their broad swords may have contributed to the peddler’s flight.
A piercing cry brought Alex’s thoughts back to the present.
She smiled. “Wee Hamish’s wails are as strong as ever,” she said, leaning to see past Helen to the baby now awake in his cradle.
“It would appear as though duty calls to us both,” Alex said before pressing a kiss to Helen’s cheek.
“I’m off. I’ve still many families left to visit.
” She looked down at Will who sat on the floor surrounded by Helen’s wee ones.
He was handing out the rag babies Alex had found in a village shop on her return journey.
“Come along, Will,” she said, standing. Then she turned back to Helen. “We’ve brought bread and cheese for the men in the fields. ‘Tis nigh time for the noon meal.”
Helen stood and scooped Hamish into her arms. “Apparently so,” she said with a wink. “Now, make sure that husband of mine stops to eat. I swear he’s more apt to fly to the top of Torna Doon than to squeeze in time for a meal when there’s work to be done.”
Alex nodded in agreement. “Gregor is hard working to be sure, but ye’re right. He’ll do himself ill if he doesn’t rest. Ye’ve my word. He will sit, even if only for a quick bite.”
When Alex and Will resumed their progress down the village path, she decided to have Will carry on with the rounds on his own while she brought the men in the fields the bread and cheese.
“Welcome home, Alex,” Gregor called out, in between issuing curt commands to the oxen as he steered their course.
Alex set the food down beside the field that had been left fallow all spring and summer and now was being turned before winter.
She darted toward the men, her feet sinking into the cool earth.
“’Tis time to stop for dinner,” Alex said.
Owen, one of Corc’s many grandsons, smiled. “Whoa,” he said, pulling on the oxen’s reins.
“What do ye think ye’re doing?” Gregor snapped at the younger man. “Do ye think the soil is going to turn itself.”
Alex muscled up to Gregor and thrust a finger in his face.
“He’s listening to his lady, is what he’s doing.
” She held her fierce pose as long as she could before she burst out laughing.
Gregor joined in, his mop of red curls bouncing while he laughed.
“Let me guess,” he said, catching his breath.
“Ye paid a visit to Helen before stopping by.”
Alex shrugged. “I might have. Anyway,” she said, grabbing Owen by the upper arm and thrusting him at Gregor.
“Look at this lad, he’s nigh starving to death.
” The laughter renewed at her jest, for Owen stood a head taller than Gregor and was as broad as a bull despite only having eighteen years to his credit.
“I yield,” Gregor said. “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of Owen not gaining another stone by the end of the day.”
Smiling, she helped them disable the plough and remove the yoke from the team so that the beasts could graze for a spell while they enjoyed their own meal.
“And how were the monks this time?” Gregor asked, handing her a large piece of bread. Her stomach rumbled, and so she happily accepted. There was plenty to go around. Soon, the men tending the crops in surrounding fields joined them.
“They were all well. Did anything happen here while I was away?” she asked.
“Some of Malcolm’s sheep were pinched,” Owen said before taking a bite of cheese.
Alex sat up straighter. “No one told me. Who’s responsible?”
Gregor shrugged. “Tinkers most likely.”
“My lady,” a deep voice said behind her, the owner of which she did not doubt was Michael. He was the only MacKenzie who called her ‘my lady’.
She groaned softly.
“Ye’re in trouble now,” Gregor said in a quiet singsong voice.
“Gregor MacKenzie, ye must have seen him coming,” she hissed softly. “Ye could’ve warned me.”
“Nay,” he said, chuckling. “This was more fun.”
She looked down at her dirt smeared tunic and filthy toes and whispered, “What? Do ye think Michael will find something objectionable?”
“Good morrow,” the steward of Luthmore castle said, drawing near.
Shielding her eyes from the noon sun, Alex squinted up at him. “Can I assume ye’re not here to join our picnic?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Stand up, my lady, and dust yerself off. There’s a dispute to settle.”
Alex sighed and reached for a hunk of cheese. She took a bite and with her mouth full said to the men, “Duty calls.”
“A cow eats with more manners,” Michael scolded.
Alex stood up and patted him on the back. “Do not fash yerself. Ye know I clean up fine and can be as enchanting as I please, when I please.” A hiccup intruded upon her speech.
“Aye, ye’re a vision,” Michael said dryly. “Come on. Even though ye may not look or sound like Lady MacKenzie, Lady MacKenzie is needed just the same.”