Loyal to the Laird at Christmas Read online

  Loyal to the Laird at Christmas

  Scottish historical Romance

  Fiona MacEwen

  Copyright © 2019 by Fiona MacEwen.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 A Lost Heir

  Chapter 2 An Unlikely Laird

  Chapter 3 A Disappointing Arrival

  Chapter 4 The Laird’s Horse

  Chapter 5 Christmas Approaches

  Chapter 6 Treachery at Christmas

  Chapter 7 Southern Ways

  Chapter 8 An Unwelcome Return

  Chapter 9 The Reluctant Bride

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  There was nothing they could do for him, their proud and noble Laird now laid upon a bier, carried into the courtyard of the castle. Isla rushed from the doors of the keep; her face stained with tears, as the women came to comfort her. She kneeled at his side, her hands clutching feebly at his still form. Her dear husband, lying dead before her.

  “What wickedness, what horror is this?” she cried, as the surrounding men hung their heads as the rain fell heavily about them.

  “Come now, lass, let us bring yer dear James inside,” one the of the women said, her arms placed gently on Isla’s shoulders.

  “He will wake up. James, wake, my darlin’ James,” she cried, but there came no answer, for James Mackintosh was dead and on that day something of Isla died too.

  ***

  “Will ye brin’ me back a sprig of heather from the moors above?” Isla Grant asked, as she watched her betrothed, James Mackintosh, saddling up his horse.

  He looked handsome in his hunting garments, more so than usual. His well-built frame and dashing figure cut an impressive look as he tightened the stirrups and made the saddle secure.

  “Aye, lass, I shall bring ye a sprig of the finest heather I can find and ye shall wear it upon yer gown at dinner this evening,” he replied, and he took her in his arms and kissed her.

  Isla Grant had eyes for only her betrothed, and since the arrangement of their marriage some four months ago she had rarely been absent from his side. There had been other women, of course. Others who had sought to impress him and win the prize of marriage to the man who at the tender age of just twenty-two had inherited his father’s titles and lands.

  But none had been so beautiful or quick witted as Isla, or so he had said. It was as though they were made to be together and their forthcoming marriage was all that was talked of in the glen.

  “I love ye, James,” she said, and he kissed her, holding her close, as two lovers do in those first throes of delight.

  “I love ye too, Isla and I shall see ye later for the feast–and I hope with a fine hunt to impress ye with,” he said, mounting his horse and calling to the other men to make ready to depart.

  “Be careful on the hunt, the weather is closin’ in now,” Isla called after him from the stable doors, looking up at the sky which was turning black above.

  But he paid her worries no heed and turning back he waved to her. Smiling broadly as he and the others galloped out of the castle courtyard and off towards the moors. Isla stood for a moment, watching him until he was out of sight. He was everything to her and ever since their betrothal she had felt such happiness and delight as to be indescribable. The other women were jealous of course, but let them—James had chosen her over them and that was that.

  Just as she left the stables the rain began to fall, great drops splashing on the surrounding flagstones. It had been a long hot summer and now that autumn had arrived it seemed the weather was turning ferociously.

  “We are set for a storm, mistress,” one of the servant girls said as Isla hurried inside the keep, “ye will nae want to go home before the feast with weather like this.”

  “Nay, I shall stay here, the Laird will nae be long. They go only to hunt the stag up on the moors above. I will stay here by the fire,” Isla replied, patting the servant girl’s arm.

  She was a kind and benevolent woman and knew that soon she would be mistress of that castle and of the good folks who lived there. Despite her privileges she knew to treat others well, and the clansmen and women had taken to her warmly.

  Her parents, the Grants, lived in a croft about a mile from the castle and it was here that she lived, though much of her days were spent in the company of James. He worked hard and was well liked amongst his people. A good and gentle man who had vowed to place the good of his clan before himself.

  It was this which so attracted Isla to him. Not only was he handsome and with noble looks, he acted every part the Laird. A strong man, whom she found to be the most delightful company and whom she could not wait to marry and spend the rest of her days with.

  The feast that evening was being held to celebrate the harvest and Isla made her way through the corridors of the castle, past the servants ferrying food back and forth to the Great Hall. There was an air of excitement about the place and many guests had already gathered.

  “Yer James rides out on the hunt, I see,” one of the noblewomen said as the two passed one another. “I have just seen them from my chambers riding up onto the moors, tis’ a wonderful sight and make nay mistake.”

  “Aye, my James will bring us back a stag, or so he says,” Isla replied, imagining her betrothed even now chasing down the beast across the heathers.

  “Rather them than I, the weather is terrible now,” the woman said, pointing out of the window to the inky black sky, from which poured forth a torrent of rain, a low rumble of thunder now echoing around the castle.

  Isla shivered, pulling her shawl around her more tightly and wished the woman a good day. She hurried into the Great Hall where a welcome fire burned merrily in the hearth and she stood by it for a moment, warming herself. Her thoughts turned to the evening’s feast.

  She would be seated next to James at the high table, and would hold his arm as they were escorted in by the pipers. The other women would look to her with envy and she would smile and delight at being on the arm of the handsomest and most important man at the feast. For the feast was James’s, and she was his betrothed.

  “Are ye lookin’ forward to this evening’ lass?” James’s mother, Una, asked, hobbling over to her on her stick.

  She was a kindly old woman, though not long for this world. Her form almost doubled over, and prone often to bouts of illness. But she still possessed that air of authority which the wife of any Laird possessed, and Isla had always looked up to her, keen to win her favor.

  “Aye, it will be a lovely night, and I am honored to have been invited,” she replied, smiling at Una, who was breathing heavily, leaning on her stick.

  “Tis’ yer right to be invited, ye are to marry my son and that will make ye mistress of this castle and these people. The clan will want to see ye and they will take ye to heart, of that I am certain,” Una replied, smiling at Isla.

  “I would never seek to be mistress over ye,” Isla replied, blushing, and turning her face away.


  “Ach, listen to ye. I am an old woman and about as much use as lamed horse, ye are the one who must carry the torch for this clan now, tis’ a grave responsibility, but I am certain ye will have bear it well,” Una replied, nodding at Isla.

  But before Isla could reply, the doors to the Great Hall were flung open and several of the clansmen rushed in. They were crying for help and one ran towards Isla and Una, grabbing her arm, a look of horror spread across the face.

  “Come quickly, mistress, tis’ the Laird. A terrible accident has happened upon the heathers, ye must come now.”

  Isla had no time to think, no time to take in the full weight of his words as she rushed after him towards the courtyard. The castle was in uproar as the news spread around the clansmen and servants that the Laird had been injured upon the heathers. There was much rushing to and fro, much shouting and cursing, but Isla heeded nothing of it for she cared only for James, and as she emerged from the keep into the courtyard, it was a sorry sight which met her.

  There, laid upon a bier and surrounded by the clansmen was James, lying still, his head resting upon a roughly folded cloak. The rain was coming down in torrents and every man there was soaked to the skin, the water running in streams across the flagstones. Isla rushed forward, throwing herself before James’s motionless body, imploring him to wake up.

  “James, darlin’ James, what has happened to ye? Can ye hear my words, oh God, please, speak, will ye speak?” she cried, tears rolling down her face.

  Una and the other women had now emerged from the keep and James’s mother was hobbling across the courtyard. One of the women kneeled next to Isla and place her arms around her shoulders.

  “Why won’t he speak?” Isla said, turning to them all, the rain mixing with her tears, as it ran down her face.

  Una made no reply but stood looking down at the lifeless body of her son. A wound was visible across his head, the blood still running fresh and congealing on his tunic. His eyes were closed, and the men around were shaking their heads, as Isla turned to him once more.

  “James, won’t ye wake up. My dear love, will ye nae wake up …” she said, her words trailing away as she heaved heavy sobs, her head resting upon his arm which was cold and lifeless.

  “Come along inside now, dear,” one of the women, the one who had kneeled next to her, said, and the others helped her to her feet.

  Isla had no words now, but she cast a furtive glance back to the lifeless body of James, unable to believe what was so clearly before her. In that moment every ounce of happiness which she had possessed melted away, replaced with sorrow such as she had never felt before. All her hopes were dashed—but worse, she had lost the man she had come to love with all her heart and whom she knew loved her in turn.

  They led her back to the Great Hall. Her clothes were soaked through and she was shivering from the cold. Una followed, still silent in lament for the son she had just so cruelly lost.

  “What… what happened?” Isla asked, as they sat her down by the fire and wrapped a blanket gently around her.

  “A clap of thunder, lass. It caused the horse to bolt upon the crag up yonder. The Laird was thrown, and he fell down the rock face,” one of the clansmen said, shaking his head sadly.

  “But … he cannae … we … were supposed to be gettin’ married,” Isla said, her voice sounding weak and pathetic, the folly of her words a tragedy for all to see.

  “He loved ye, Isla,” Una said, sitting heavily down next to her and placing her arm about her. “He loved ye and ye loved him, but fate is cruel and unforgiving.”

  It was Isla’s turn to make no answer, as the tears rolled down her cheeks and she could find no hope in anything to come. Gradually the clansmen dispersed, leaving her and Una alone by the fire. There would be no banquet that evening, no celebration, only the sorrow of loss and a future which was bleak.

  “I … I asked him to bring me a sprig of heather,” Isla said, after she and Una had sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

  “Perhaps he brought ye one, lass, shall we go and see?” Una said, wiping her eyes and holding out her hand to Isla who tentatively took it.

  There was now something of an unspoken bond between the two women, feelings which had not been there before. Together they walked through the castle towards the chapel where the body of the Laird had been laid in state before the altar. Candles burned all around and a priest was keeping silent vigil with the body.

  The sight of her darling James brought fresh tears to Isla’s eyes, but Una led her forward and the two stood looking down at the body. They crossed themselves and kneeled, offering up a silent prayer heavenwards for the soul of the noble Laird. Tentatively, Isla reached out her hand and placed it on James’s. It felt cold to the touch, clasped as though in a final agony. But, as she laid her hand across his, she felt the prick of something protruding from his fist, and looking closer she turned to Una in astonishment.

  “In his hand,” she whispered, as Una reached out and gently turned and unfolded his palm.

  There, somewhat crumpled, was a sprig of heather from the moorlands, white, just as she had asked for.

  “I think he has sent ye a message, lass,” Una said, taking the sprig and tucking it into Isla’s gown.

  Isla smiled, for she knew that Una was right. James had sent her the heather as a gift and a sign that their love would endure beyond death and into eternity.

  Chapter 1

  A Lost Heir

  The tragedy of the Laird’s death soon gave way to practical necessities. The funeral rites were conducted some days later, and Isla stood side-by-side with Una as the two women mourned the loss of the man they had called their own. Great crowds gathered to pay their respects, for the Laird had been loved and respected across the glen.

  Isla wore a black gown and shawl, but on her broach, a gift from Una, she also wore a sprig of white heather. On that day she vowed always to wear one, and she took to walking up onto the moorlands, thinking of James and plucking heather in his memory. She visited the place where he had fallen, high above the castle on the crags. It was a lonely place, and it saddened her to think of him that it was there and not in her arms that he fell.

  Her parents tried their best to comfort her, but she moped about the croft, drifting from job to job. Some days she would visit Una in the castle, and they would sit talking for hours about James, at times almost forgetting he was dead. But the clan could not forget that it was without a Laird and it was not long before discussion began as to who should succeed James Mackintosh and be given the honor of leadership.

  It was Isla who was supposed to have born that heir, and she listened intently to the conversations taking place, as the nobles of the clan consulted between each other and consideration was given to this most important task. As women, neither Isla nor Una had any say, but each was respected, and the men were careful to cause them no upset in their deliberations.

  “And the Laird never voiced a thought upon this subject?” one of the men asked, as Isla and Una sat together in the Great Hall, some weeks after James’ death.

  “Why would he have done? He hardly expected to fall to his death now, did he?” Isla replied, shaking her head. “If asked, I am sure he might have pointed to me and reminded ye that it was to be I who bore his bairns.”

  “Aye, lass. I am sorry, but there is nay guidance in these matters. There is nay heir, and the Laird has nay brothers, nor sisters even with their own bairns. There is nay one to take his place and we fear that conflict is inevitable if we cannae proclaim a new Laird soon,” the noble replied, looking around him at the others, who nodded in agreement.

  “What of my husband’s brothers?” Una asked, looking up from her spinning wheel.

  “Dead, as far as we know, and besides, even they were alive, would ye want one of yer husband’s brothers as Laird anyhow? Dae ye nae remember yer wedding?” the noble replied, raising his eyebrows at Una, who nodded.

  “His cousins then, he had Robert,
who moved to the lowlands. Does he nae have a son? I think they call him Blayne, Blayne Gordon,” Una said, furrowing her brow as though trying to remember long forgotten family connections.

  The noble looked around him with a smile upon his face, glancing from Isla back to Una and nodding his head.

  “Aye, there was a cousin, wasnae there. Though he left these parts many a year ago. He may be dead, but the son would be nae older than dear James, God rest his soul. There is yer Laird,” he said, a triumphant look upon his face.

  Isla was puzzled. How could they just replace James like that and with a man which none of them even knew? It appeared that the only necessary criteria was a tenuous blood connection, which of course was precisely the case. But Isla was not convinced. She didn’t want a replacement for the man she loved to appear miraculously at the castle, and she decided there and then that she would take an immediate dislike to him.

  But Isla’s concerns went unheard, and it was decided amongst the nobles to dispatch riders south immediately in search of Blayne Gordon. There was little she could do but wait and see, for whether she liked it or not the Clan needed a Laird and Blayne Gordon had been declared the heir. Despite her anxieties, she agreed that the clan needed leadership and a Laird in place to bring order in the wake of tragedy. She wondered what the new Laird would be like, but her hopes were not high. No one would be like James—of that she was certain.

  Chapter 2

  An Unlikely Laird

  The manor house at Jedbergh was a handsome and homely place. It was surrounded by ample gardens and served by a retinue of servants. For years it had been home to the Gordons, descendants of Scottish Lairds who could trace their lineage far back into the mists of time to noble deeds and legends of the Highlands.

  The head of the family was Blayne Gordon, an attractive young man of twenty-two who had inherited the manor house after the death of his late father. The family were wealthy patrons and Blayne was known for his good deeds and works of charity amongst the poor of the local area. He was often seen out and about on foot, for he knew little of riding or other such pursuits, preferring to keep his own company in his library when not seeing to the affairs of the estate.