Page 11 of True Highland Spirit (The Highlander #3)

Berwick, England

Dragonet huddled with his fellow French knights around a central hearth in a garrison commandeered by the French. The Scot and French army had taken the town of Berwick but could not capture the castle. They settled into a siege, but the castle was well stocked to ride out the winter, and the attackers were the ones running out of supplies. The English army would be coming soon. If they could not take the castle before the English arrived, they would be pinned between two enemy armies and forced to march against the English on the open field.

The first day of winter came with an ice storm pelting the invaders with frozen slivers of despair. Dragonet’s compatriots were unaccustomed to the cold weather. They were also unappreciative of the Scots’ rustic charm. Their initial whispers of discontent had grown into a roar of protest. The French knights wanted to go home.

The duke sat apart from the rest, warmed by a mug of wassail and the weight of the decision before him. With a sigh he stood before his knights, the elite of his force. The room silenced before his grim face.

“We have done what we could. We will now return to France. Spread the word to begin the packing.”

A cheer rose from some of the weary French knights. Dragonet did not join them. The Duke of Argitaine walked slowly back to the corner of the room. Dragonet followed him.

“Your Grace, please reconsider,” said Dragonet. “We asked these clans to join our fight. We cannot leave them to their fate now.”

“They knew the risks.” The duke ran his hand over his forehead in a single worried gesture.

“They believed we would be with them.”

“They were paid for their service,” mumbled the duke.

“Is that what you think of them? They are nothing to you but mercenaries?” A cold chill wrapped itself around Dragonet’s chest and squeezed. It was an odd feeling; he guessed it must be worry or anger or something in between.

In the waning fire’s flickering light, the duke’s face was gray and haggard. “What would you have me do? If we stay we will lose to the English.”

“Morrigan,” mumbled Dragonet. He could hear Morrigan’s words echoed in the duke’s statement of futility.

“Pardon?”

“You ignored or rejected those who warned of the dangers of this path. It was you who encouraged the Scots to invade. You who promised the prosperous alliance between our two countries would last forever.”

The duke rose as did his voice. “You would give the command to send your fellow soldiers into certain death? If we stay it will mean French blood spilled, French lives lost.”

“If we leave we are condemning the Scots to death. It is acceptable to you to spill Scot blood and lose Scot lives?”

The duke threw up his hands and began to pace. “I do not expect you to understand.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“If I march into a battle I know I cannot win, our people back home will be left undefended. It is well and good to try to be honorable but not at the expense of the mission.”

“But if you sacrifice your honor to win, what do you have?”

“You have victory. Do you think the wives of the men you would send into battle would be comforted knowing your sense of honor proved fatal?”

“I am not saying this is a battle we must fight, but let us draw back into Scotland instead. Let us not abandon them.”

The duke shook his head. “Our mission was to distract the English from France. We have accomplished our mission. We must now return to France and press the English to our advantage.”

Dragonet clenched his jaw and shook his head. He was disappointed in the man he had respected.

“You are a young man, Dragonet. Someday you will learn that sometimes the mission must come first.”

“Despite my youth I can see that winning at the price of one’s honor is a hollow victory at best. No man can truly be a knight without his honor.”

“Enough! You go too far!”

Dragonet realized the other knights had taken keen notice of their heated discussion and had gathered at a respectable distance, their eyes wide.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” said Dragonet with a small bow.

The duke stared at him with weary eyes. “You choose to stay here?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I envy your convictions, but not your decision. I give you leave to stay and wish you the best.” The duke stood and held out his hand, which Dragonet grasped. “Godspeed, my friend. I doubt I will ever see you again.”

The next morning, Dragonet watched as the Duke of Argitaine and his knights rode out of Berwick, quiet as ghosts on the fresh fallen snow. Dragonet pulled his cloak tighter around himself against the cold and nudged his mount, moving noiselessly through town on the blanket of snow. He would join the Scots. His honor demanded he not abandon those he had encouraged to join the ill-fated invasion.

Yet Dragonet was torn in his allegiances. He, too, was on a mission. He was also honor bound to serve his father, so which claim on his honor held precedence?

On an abandoned street Dragonet met some familiar faces.

“Greetings Dragonet,” called Chaumont, bundled against the chill. “I thought you had all left.” Chaumont turned back to Gavin. They were attempting to rig a pallet, with a large bundle tied to it, between their horses.

“The duke, he has left. I decided to stay a while. What is it you are doing? Looting the town?”

“You find us on a mission of mercy. Andrew has taken an arrow, and it has started to fester. We must get him to Mother Enid as quickly as possible.”

Dragonet dismounted at once to peer at the pale face of Morrigan’s brother Andrew. She would be distressed by the sight. Dragonet recalled his promise to Morrigan and it suddenly became clear whom he was honor bound to serve.

“Please allow me to help you,” said Dragonet, assisting Chaumont and Gavin in their task. “Where is Mother Enid? Close, I pray?”

“Unfortunately not,” replied Chaumont. “She is at St. Margaret’s Convent, a long journey into Scotland I fear. Yet Mother Enid has medicine we can find nowhere else.”

“St. Margaret’s—that is under the Abbot Barrick, is it not?” asked Dragonet.

“Yes,” answered Chaumont. “I thank you for your help with the litter, but I fear we would be imposing to ask for your help on such a long journey.”

“I will help see Andrew safely to St. Margaret’s. It is the least I can do.” Dragonet had two reasons to go to St. Margaret’s. His path was clear.

***

McNab Hall, Scotland

She was warm. She was fed. Her clan was happy. Things were not normal. Morrigan was on edge, waiting for everything to go horribly wrong.

“Good morn to ye, Morrigan,” said Alys, bustling into the family solar carrying a large basket. “Here, let me build up that fire for ye.”

Morrigan wanted to chastise Alys for waste, but she could not. The fuel supply had been checked. For once, they had enough. Morrigan glared at Alys. All the rampant happiness was her fault.

“How do ye like yer eggs?” asked Alys.

“The hens are still laying?”

“Aye. We built a new coop attached to the kitchen. I think they’ll be warm enough to produce through the winter.”

Morrigan scowled. The new chickens had been a gift from Campbell, thanks to his sister marrying Andrew. Morrigan wanted to return the hens when they arrived, but her clan turned murderous at the idea. Even she was not brave enough to stand between a hungry McNab and his supper, so the chickens stayed. And now they were having eggs for breakfast. When would the madness end?

“I was thinking on the holidays this year. I wish to make it special, give the folks here some joy.” Alys continued to putter around the room, picking things up and setting them down in the same places, wiping away imaginary dust. She was hatching some daft plan no doubt.

“That’s the third time ye’ve dusted that candlestick in the past five minutes,” commented Morrigan, leaning back in her chair by the fire.

Alys stopped and turned to Morrigan, a hint of blush to her cheeks. “Is it? How careless o’ me.”

“What do ye want, Alys?” Morrigan folded her arms across her chest, prepared for battle.

“Want? Me?”

“Ye’re a horrible liar, Alys.”

Alys sighed and took a gown out of the basket. She held it up for Morrigan to see. It was a dark blue silk with fine, gold embroidery through the bodice. Ribbons dressed the neckline and sleeves. It was a fine gown. Too fine.

“How much did ye pay for that?” Morrigan stood and fingered it with resentment. “Ye ken we canna afford finery as this. What could ye be thinking?”

“I dinna pay for it. ’Twas a castoff from Cait. I added the embroidery and the ribbons to give it a fresh look. Do ye like it?”

Morrigan sat down. Cait’s castoffs were better than any gown ever worn by a McNab. Not even her mother had worn that quality. Morrigan could never afford such a gown for herself, not that she would ever wear a gown. She was aware of her own perplexing jealousy and pushed it aside. She did not mind being irritable, but she drew the line at petty. “’Tis fine work, Alys. Though I dinna ken when ye would wear such a gown.”

“I have more here that are designed for everyday wearing. A red linen and a green wool.” Alys pulled the gowns from her basket and looked at Morrigan with expectation.

“Verra serviceable,” said Morrigan. Why was Alys showing her gowns?

“Ye like them?”

“I’m sure ye’ll look fine in them.” Morrigan guessed at what Alys wanted her to say. She stared into the fire and hoped if she ignored her, Alys might find another confidant for the perplexing talk of gowns and ribbons.

“Oh, they woud’na fit me. They are for ye.”

Morrigan turned toward Alys so fast her head spun. She opened her mouth but no words emerged. She was so utterly surprised she could not say how she felt. Should she be upset? Insulted? Pleased?

“Why dinna ye try one on?”

Morrigan shook her head, still unable to speak. How could Alys see her as anything other than an overbearing harpy, hopelessly ruined? If Morrigan admitted she wanted to be a lady, to get married, to have a normal life, it meant acknowledging how truly miserable she was. It was better to stay angry, and in denial than open that pretty box of grief.

“I could do yer hair too. Ye’ve got lovely hair.”

Morrigan shook her head more vigorously. Her hair was her one feminine vanity. Alys was treading on sensitive ground.

Alys sat on a bench next to her and sighed, fingering the beautiful, blue silk. “Please will ye tell me why ye winna consider wearing a gown.”

“It is too late for me.” Morrigan swallowed a large lump forming in her throat. “With what I have done, the things I have seen, I can never be a lady now.”

“’Tis ne’er too late to change, Morrigan.”

Morrigan shook her head. “Everyone knows what I’ve done.”

“What ye’ve done is provide for yer clan. Ye should be proud o’ yerself. I heard how ye fought off five English at once and captured the governor o’ Nisbet. And did ye keep yer share fer yerself? Nay, ye gave every last coin to see to the comfort o’ yer clan.”

Morrigan grabbed a poker and thrust it ruthlessly at the fire. “I hardly fought five at once, three at the most.”

“Quite so!” exclaimed Alys warming to her topic. “I see all ye do for the clan, Morrigan. Ye should be proud o’ yerself. Ye deserve a good husband, to be mistress o’ yer own home.”

Morrigan put up her hands, signaling Alys to slow down. “First ye want me to put on a gown, and now ye wish me married?”

“And why not?”

“I’ve been a raider, an outlaw since I was old enough to wield a sword. No self-respecting man would wed a lass who wears breeches and can best him with a sword.”

“So marry someone from a different clan. Ye could go somewhere else, start over. No one would e’er have to know. Look at me. I was a ladies’ maid and companion to Lady Cait for many years. I was ne’er given the opportunity to marry, and no one e’er thought o’ me as anything but a lady-in-waiting. By running away wi’ yer brother I became mistress o’ my own home.”

“No decent man would marry me!” Morrigan stood and started to pace. Alys was determined to bring it all out into the light. “Understand this, Alys. I am not a Campbell like ye. I am a McNab. A clan disliked from one side o’ this country to the other. I have no dowry. Nothing to tempt a man’s interest. Even if I ne’er dressed as a man and stole for my supper, there isna a man from here to Hadrian’s Wall who would take me. Never was. Never will be.”

“Then go beyond the wall,” Alys stated, utterly unfazed by Morrigan’s outburst. “Marry an Englishman.”

“ Alys! ”

“Alright, ne’er mind that. Bad idea. How about a Frenchman? Did ye meet any in yer travels?”

“A Frenchman,” murmured Morrigan. She brushed her fingertips over the smooth blue silk.