try to drive ye back to yer barbaric Highlands without yer lady and her maid.
For a brief moment Sorcha considered another option. She could leave. Go far away from the Highlander’s reach. But she knew she would never desert her clan. ‘Twas not like her. She would not leave Gillis. And e’en if she did leave, she knew once the Highlander discovered her true identity, he would follow her to the ends of the earth to fulfill a dead king’s command.
The thought of leaving Gillis made her feel cold and hollow inside. She would not do it, no matter what the Highlander decreed. Gillis, who preferred the company of animals and spent time at the bee-boles, alcoves for the straw skeps that housed the bees. He also spent a lot of time alone on the beach, drawing pictures in the sand with a stick, outlines of old Viking war ships and birds.
Their father had often told them the tale of Viking raiders who had invaded these shores hundreds of years ago, plunderers from Norway who coveted gold, silver, and precious manuscripts. Nothing was sacred to the raiders, who had even invaded monasteries, killing the monks in their quest for riches, coveting jewel-encrusted crosses and chalices. There was a legend that many hundreds of years ago a monastery had once stood on these shores, very near to where the castle stood now, and the monks had hidden their gold and silver and other valuables before they were killed so the Vikings would not find it. No one had ever found it.
While the wind shrieked around the thick castle walls late at night, their father had told them the story—‘twas said beneath the floor of a vaulted basement chamber in the Douglas keep were the graves of two Viking raiders, one of whom had been seven feet tall. The keep had supposedly been built over their graves. Her father claimed, on certain moon-bright nights, the spirits of the raiders rose from their graves and searched for the buried gold and silver and jewels, and if they caught any children out of their beds, they ate them.
Sorcha and her brothers had scoured the keep but never found any graves or giant Viking bones or treasures.
Thoughts of towering Viking ghosts were forgotten as Sorcha returned to the great hall. Nessa was, indeed, about to fall face-first into her kale soup.
It was growing late. Weary men sought straw pallets, benches, trestle tables, and even stone steps to sleep upon, curling up in their plaids and trying to keep warm. Every nook and cranny would be filled this night with slumbering Maclean men.
Douglas women led their sleepy eyed children from the hall as Sorcha rounded the main table, but Nessa did not seem to notice. She helped her out of her chair.
“’Tis time we retired,” Sorcha said.
“I dunna feel so well,” Nessa groused.
“Well and ‘tis a wonder why! Ye’ve had far too much to drink. Let me help ye upstairs.”
Martha saw what was happening and waddled across the hall. “Do ye need help with…the lady?” she asked.
“I can take her upstairs. Will ye get me a torch?”
Martha nodded and soon returned with the rush light. Sorcha did not want to trip over a dog or a slumbering man on the dark stairway and end up in a broken heap. Nessa leaned on her as they slowly climbed the stone stairs, stepping over a snoring Maclean soldier who still clutched an empty goblet in his hand.
They rounded the corner and Nessa clutched her middle. “Och, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Then let us hurry to my room…to yer room now. Ye’ll need a basin.”
When they reached Sorcha’s door, she set the rush light in a pin on the wall.
As soon as she shut the door behind them, Nessa wretched into a basin. Sorcha wiped her face with a cloth and helped her out of her soiled gown and leather boots and into a night dress. She slipped the bone bracelets from her wrists and tucked them away in her trunk.
“Yer in no condition to ha’e yer hair brushed, so just lie down.”
Nessa fell onto the bed and curled onto
For a brief moment Sorcha considered another option. She could leave. Go far away from the Highlander’s reach. But she knew she would never desert her clan. ‘Twas not like her. She would not leave Gillis. And e’en if she did leave, she knew once the Highlander discovered her true identity, he would follow her to the ends of the earth to fulfill a dead king’s command.
The thought of leaving Gillis made her feel cold and hollow inside. She would not do it, no matter what the Highlander decreed. Gillis, who preferred the company of animals and spent time at the bee-boles, alcoves for the straw skeps that housed the bees. He also spent a lot of time alone on the beach, drawing pictures in the sand with a stick, outlines of old Viking war ships and birds.
Their father had often told them the tale of Viking raiders who had invaded these shores hundreds of years ago, plunderers from Norway who coveted gold, silver, and precious manuscripts. Nothing was sacred to the raiders, who had even invaded monasteries, killing the monks in their quest for riches, coveting jewel-encrusted crosses and chalices. There was a legend that many hundreds of years ago a monastery had once stood on these shores, very near to where the castle stood now, and the monks had hidden their gold and silver and other valuables before they were killed so the Vikings would not find it. No one had ever found it.
While the wind shrieked around the thick castle walls late at night, their father had told them the story—‘twas said beneath the floor of a vaulted basement chamber in the Douglas keep were the graves of two Viking raiders, one of whom had been seven feet tall. The keep had supposedly been built over their graves. Her father claimed, on certain moon-bright nights, the spirits of the raiders rose from their graves and searched for the buried gold and silver and jewels, and if they caught any children out of their beds, they ate them.
Sorcha and her brothers had scoured the keep but never found any graves or giant Viking bones or treasures.
Thoughts of towering Viking ghosts were forgotten as Sorcha returned to the great hall. Nessa was, indeed, about to fall face-first into her kale soup.
It was growing late. Weary men sought straw pallets, benches, trestle tables, and even stone steps to sleep upon, curling up in their plaids and trying to keep warm. Every nook and cranny would be filled this night with slumbering Maclean men.
Douglas women led their sleepy eyed children from the hall as Sorcha rounded the main table, but Nessa did not seem to notice. She helped her out of her chair.
“’Tis time we retired,” Sorcha said.
“I dunna feel so well,” Nessa groused.
“Well and ‘tis a wonder why! Ye’ve had far too much to drink. Let me help ye upstairs.”
Martha saw what was happening and waddled across the hall. “Do ye need help with…the lady?” she asked.
“I can take her upstairs. Will ye get me a torch?”
Martha nodded and soon returned with the rush light. Sorcha did not want to trip over a dog or a slumbering man on the dark stairway and end up in a broken heap. Nessa leaned on her as they slowly climbed the stone stairs, stepping over a snoring Maclean soldier who still clutched an empty goblet in his hand.
They rounded the corner and Nessa clutched her middle. “Och, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Then let us hurry to my room…to yer room now. Ye’ll need a basin.”
When they reached Sorcha’s door, she set the rush light in a pin on the wall.
As soon as she shut the door behind them, Nessa wretched into a basin. Sorcha wiped her face with a cloth and helped her out of her soiled gown and leather boots and into a night dress. She slipped the bone bracelets from her wrists and tucked them away in her trunk.
“Yer in no condition to ha’e yer hair brushed, so just lie down.”
Nessa fell onto the bed and curled onto
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