Excerpt of Highland Magic: The Macleans - The Highlands Trilogy by K.E. Saxon

PROLOGUE

Cilgerran Castle, Southern March Region, Cambria

The Betrothal Feast, July 1205

Gaiallard de Montfort settled back in his chair and studied the chaos all around him. This betrothal would bring him the demesne he'd been craving, but at a price for which he was growing more resentful as each day passed. He was expected to wed an awkward rustic, a mere girl! He, whom the ladies of the court had given the title ‘golden wolf', both in and out of the bedchamber. Oh, she was pleasing to look upon. Her dark hair framed her face in a becoming enough manner and accented her most attractive asset: her large eyes bore the color of kings in their amethyst depths. But even his young sister had more curves than this boyish girl. And she was as green as his page—and just as unschooled in the ways of the court, mayhap even more so. How many times now had he been humiliated in front of his comrades by her graceless overtures and simple dress? If he had not given her, as a betrothal gift, the lovely purple velvet dress she now wore with the gold embroidery edging the square neck and sleeves, or the gold silk chemise beneath it, he had no doubt she'd now be wearing that godawful saffron woolen thing she'd worn to at least five of the seven previous evening meals this past sennight. Had she no understanding of the place she would be taking, had already been expected to take by his side? She was no good representative of his position in the hierarchy. In fact, she had made him a laughing–stock at court. And last eve, when she'd stumbled upon him with his sister—well, she would simply have to grow accustomed to such encounters as they were a well–established part of life amongst those of noble birth. He clenched his jaw to keep from groaning aloud in frustration. Why, oh, why had fate not been kinder to him? If all had gone as he'd planned, he'd even now be presiding over the demesne of Castell Crychydd with his chosen mate, Caroline de Montrochet. Now, there was a beauty, a perfect example of nobility, virtue, and womanliness. Gaiallard's eyes were drawn once more to the trestle table below where the lady in question now sat nibbling a portion of sea fowl.

* * *

Branwenn watched her betrothed from the corner of her eye. He'd made it plain these past days that he was not as pleased with this match, with her, as he'd first pretended. And last eve—last eve! She'd stumbled upon him in his sister's chamber. The poor lass had been in a distressing state, her gown torn and hanging from her shoulder, exposing red marks on her tender arm and chest where the drunken knave had abused and beaten her. Would he have gone further still—done the thing Branwenn feared had been his true purpose, if she had not interrupted his savage attack? And ‘twas clearly not the first time the lass had been the outlet for his violent lust either, for there had been older bruises in plain view as well. She turned her sight on the lass, Alyson, who even now sat much too quietly with her silver–blond head bowed and her hands demurely folded in her lap. The poor dear had barely touched the food on her trencher, nor the wine in her goblet. She was far too young to have been exposed to such lechery, for she surely was not more than twelve summers. Aye, ‘twas truth that according to tradition, she was a woman full–grown, capable of becoming a wife, should her father contract such an arrangement, but in Branwenn's view, ‘twas much too young an age to be expected to perform such duties.

Reys ap Gryffyd dipped his head and whispered in her ear, "Have you second thoughts so late in the game, then, Branwenn? If so, you've dallied too long, my little dove, for your vows will be heard before the bishop and all this fine assembly in but a few hours' time at the morrow's morning mass."

Branwenn bit her lip and turned her troubled gaze to the dark–haired, blue–eyed man she'd only discovered to be her kin a mere seven moons past when he'd been the first to cross the threshold of her heart–family's keep, the Macleans, after the feast of Hogmanay. He'd come there to find her and bring her back to Cambria to wed this flaxen–haired Norman nephew thrice removed to the Earl of Pembroke that sat at her other side. For the marriage would make a blood alliance between her Cambrian cousin, twice removed, Prince Llywelyn, and the Norman usurper, Guillaume le Maréchal, the Earl of Pembroke. And tho' she liked Reys well, even from their first meeting, she still did not feel the same strong bond with him that she felt for Bao Xiong Maclean, the man who'd raised her, the man who, in her heart, was her brother in truth. Should she tell Reys of her discovery? She'd been debating that very question these past hours since finding her betrothed with his sister. And tho' the hour was late, she needed some guidance, some words to soothe her worry. "Brother, I have something I must speak with you about in all haste, but it must be in privy, for I have no wish for any here to learn of what I must tell you."

Reys had been jesting with her, believing that she was merely uneasy, as any new bride would be, at the prospect of her wedding. He sat forward and truly studied her worried countenance for the first time that eve. With a brief nod, he said, "Meet me in the chapel after supper. ‘Twill be empty, as all here will be enjoying the pipers and players afterward. Say that you wish a few moments alone to pray and light some candles. No one will say you nay, even this eve before you wed, for your desire to pray will be seen as an act of true piety, a great virtue for a new bride."

Branwenn's shoulders relaxed for the first time that eve. With a sigh and a nod, she said, "My thanks."

* * *

An hour later, Branwenn, on her knees in the chapel with her head bowed and her eyes closed, felt someone settle beside her.

"We are alone now—all are in the great hall enjoying the players. Tell me what troubles you, Branwenn," Reys whispered.

Branwenn slowly opened her eyes and, settling back to rest upon her calves, she dropped her clenched hands to her lap and turned her gaze upon this almost–stranger who just might give her the heart's–ease she so desperately craved. "I know not how to begin...."

Reys placed his hand over hers. "Begin by telling me the thing that is giving you the most dread."

Branwenn dropped her gaze to her lap and nodded. She took in a deep breath and released it on a sigh. "Aye, ‘twould seem to be the best place, I trow." She cleared her throat. "Last eve..."

When she didn't immediately continue, Reys dipped his head in an effort to see her countenance. "Aye, last eve—what happened?" he prompted.

"I came upon my betrothed in his sister's bedchamber,"—she lifted her gaze to her brother's once more and said in a rush—"he had beaten her, Reys! There were purple and red marks on her chest, her shoulders—even her arms! And her gown was torn, it looked as if he'd ripped it away to expose her breasts. And what is more, I could see other, older bruises on her flesh as well. Godamercy, Reys, I do believe he intended to...to...bed her!" There, she'd said it.

Reys's eyes widened even further in shock and disgust. Why, the lass was barely out of swaddling clothes! He'd known Gaiallard to be a man who enjoyed the sexual privileges bestowed upon him due to his noble birth, but he'd had no true understanding of how dissolute, how morally corrupt, the man had become until just now.

Branwenn's eyes misted with unshed tears. "I knew not what to do—I fled the chamber and have said naught about it to anyone, not even Gaiallard."

"You cannot wed him, then. You must away this very night." Reys pressed the base of his palm into his eye.

Branwenn grabbed hold of his wrist and held tight. "But how can I not? ‘Twould mean war—war with not only the Earl of Pembroke, but with the King of England himself, for he has decreed that this match must take place!"

Reys nodded and turned his gaze upon his sister once more. "Aye, and forget not that our cousin will surely skin me alive before hanging me on a gibbet to rot—and he'll lock you in the tower gaol for all eternity, I doubt it not." He turned and faced Branwenn fully. Taking both her hands in his own, he said, "But we must at least try to release you from this contract. I will speak with our cousin forthwith. There must be a way to delay this wedding, at least until I can procure our cousin's agreement to free you from this bad bargain."

Branwenn dipped her head and gazed down at their clasped hands. ‘Twas no use. Her fate was set, and there would be naught to stop it. For, she knew her cousin would never agree to such a thing; his empire was much more important than she in the scheme of things. "My thanks, brother, tho' I know not how you shall manage such a feat." All at once struck with an idea, she lifted her head once more and gazed, wide–eyed with hope, into the midnight–blue depths of Reys's eyes. "I beg you, do not be angered—or hurt—by the proposal I am about to make, for I mean you no injury—"

"Aye?" Reys said anxiously, "have you a plan then? Tell me quickly, I swear I shall listen without prejudice."

Branwenn tightened her grasp on her brother's hands and leaned forward a bit as she said, "Would it not fulfill the spirit, if not the letter, of the contract were you to wed Alyson instead?"

"Wha—?"

"Nay, hear me out before you balk. Do you not see? This is the best solution for all. The lass clearly needs a protector and you—well, I know you do not like speaking of the recent tragedy that befell your poor wife and bairns,"—Reys looked away, his mouth set in a grim line, and Branwenn brought her hand up to his cheek and gently forced him to look at her once more—"but you know that you are now free to wed. And you told me yourself, when first you found me in the Highlands, that the contract would have been fulfilled whether you'd found a brother or a sister, for the brother would have been contracted to wed the niece. You were not free to wed then, and I, for my own reasons, agreed to return to Cambria with you."

Silence reigned for many long seconds as Reys struggled to breathe past the heavy pain of guilt and longing that now gripped his chest.

Branwenn remained still, fearing that any movement on her part would send her brother fleeing from this sanctuary, from her, leaving her honor–bound to fulfill the terms of the contract.

At last, Reys gave his answer. "Gather only the most precious of your belongings, only what you can easily carry, and meet me in the stables in half an hour's time."

"You will arrange this thing, then?"

"Aye." He rose to his feet and brought her up with him. "As you said, ‘twill fulfill the intent of the contract, if not the actual terms set down in writing."

"How will I get past the gates—to what destination will I travel?"

"Dress in those same lad's clothes you wore as a disguise when you traveled to our cousin's war camp on the edge of the Maclean holding last spring. I know you kept them, so pretend not otherwise. The disguise will aid in your escape."

"But to where?"

"I shall tell you more when we meet later. For now, suffice to say, you shall be safely out of Gaiallard's influence by the time the ceremony is to begin. Now, make haste to your chamber."

Branwenn nodded and, without forethought, flung herself into her brother's embrace and held tight. "I do believe I shall miss you," she said, wonder in her voice.

Reys smiled and gave her a bit of a squeeze. "And I you as well, you little midge."

"However will I repay you for such a sacrifice?" she whispered brokenly. She kissed him on his cheek and fled without waiting for a reply.

* * *

Reys watched her leave before collapsing onto the bench directly behind him and covering his face with his hands. Branwenn was right, this was the best solution. For, he no longer cared who he wed, as his heart had died with his love, his wife, and his sweet little girls, in the fire at the convent where they were staying two moons past. And he must wed—he must have offspring, a son, to inherit his position, his property. ‘Twas the way of things, and he was honor–bound to fulfill his duties. At least he liked the young lady. And by wedding her, he would not only free her from her brother's wicked clutches, but give both himself and her a few years' time to heal before embarking on the more amorous aspect of the wedded state. Surely the lass would appreciate a bit of a reprieve from such duties—at least until she was older.

And he would not subject his sister to the same type of evil that their dear mother had been forced to endure the last moons of her life, the same evil even Branwenn in some indirect way had endured as well during that exact time—for his mother's kidnapping and enslavement at the hands of the murderous Highlander, Jamison Maclean, had occurred while she'd carried Branwenn in her womb. ‘Twas for the sake of his mother's sweet memory that he had at last settled on the decision to, in effect, embark on this act of treason by securing his sister's safe passage away from her betrothed and her signed contract to wed. He must somehow find the words to convince his cousin and the Earl of Pembroke the propitiousness of this change in plan.

Reys rose to his feet and hurried towards the front entrance of the chapel. But first, he must get his sister as far from Gaiallard's clutches as possible—and to a place no one would ever think to search for her. For ‘twas no feat of reason to imagine the tirade that would ensue when Gaiallard realized he would lose his chance at the demesne he so coveted.

* * *

The bar across the door lifted with less effort than Branwenn had been expecting, but with more sound. Anxiously looking over her shoulder at the still–slumbering maid settled on a pallet only a few feet from where Branwenn now stood, she breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door to her bedchamber. ‘Twas just past midnight and the corridors were dark. Tho' it chafed her to do so, she took a valuable moment to stand with her back against the wall as she allowed her eyes to become adjusted to the much darker outer perimeter of her chamber. Oh, how she'd love a candle at this moment, but she dared not risk it. Nay, ‘twas much better that she remain quiet and hidden as she descended to the lower level of the keep. The way down to the courtyard of the castle would be manned with servants and, mayhap, even soldiers, but she would not quell her intent to escape this place this very night.

Twenty minutes later, she'd made it to the stables. "Reys?" she whispered into the darkness.

"Aye, over here." he whispered back.

Branwenn moved in the direction of the voice. "Where are you? ‘Tis as dark as pitch in here. Will you not light a taper?"

"Nay, ‘tis too dangerous. The stableman that was left to guard the horses slumbers in the corner, but we must be careful not to wake him. The sleeping herb I put in his ale will not last long, I fear."

"I see—Oh!" Branwenn stumbled over a rise in the straw–covered earthen floor.

Reys swept his arm around her middle to catch her before she fell. "Watch your step," he cautioned. He led her to her mount then and took her hastily–packed satchel from her nerveless hands. "I shall travel with you as far as the coast and then I shall return here, for I must be back by sunrise."

"The coast?" Branwenn asked dazedly.

"Aye, the coast. There are trade ships there. One of which will take you to my wife's cousin in Ulster on the northeast coast of Ireland. None will think to look for you there, for no one knows of my friendship with the man."

"But I thought...I believed you'd be sending me back to Aber Garth Celyn, to our cousin's estate."

"Nay, ‘tis the first place Gaiallard will look for you, youngling."

Branwenn's brows drew together in confusion. "Why would Gaiallard look for me—he shall surely be relieved that he will not be forced to wed a ceorl such as he clearly believes me to be."

"Because he shall lose the demesne he was to gain with this alliance, tho' I do not believe he is aware of such now. I think he is under the belief that he is to be given sovereignty over the demesne, no matter what lady he weds, that he was just to receive it sooner, if he agreed to this alliance."

"I see." Branwenn felt dizzy, her thoughts spinning madly about inside her skull like one of the Persian dervishes her brother, Bao, had told her of. "You will not be traveling with me?" she said weakly after a moment.

"Nay, I cannot, for the meeting with our cousin and the Earl cannot wait. Surely you ken, ‘twould not be good for them to discover you gone before I explain the new scheme to them. And the bishop has traveled many miles to be here—as have most of the guests." He shook his head and sighed. "Nay, the wedding must take place, and at the time originally planned. The only difference will be that ‘twill be I and the Earl's niece who wed for the sake of the alliance instead of you and that devil Gaiallard de Montfort." He'd said the name as if it were the bitterest of tinctures upon his tongue. Reys placed his hands on her waist and lifted her onto her mount. "We must away in all haste; there is no more time for discussion, else I'll not be back in time to stand before the bishop and exchange vows with the lady Alyson," he said as he walked the animal out into the courtyard.

Branwenn was surprised to find his mount already saddled and ready to go. How had she missed seeing the animal earlier? She shrugged. No doubt, her mind had been much more occupied with not getting caught at the time.

After Reys mounted his steed, ‘twas not as difficult as Branwenn had anticipated for them to depart the holding. The journey to the coast took two hours.

The wharf was dark and dank. More abandoned than Branwenn had been expecting, even at this dim hour of the morn.

"Stay upon your horse," Reys cautioned as he handed her the reigns of his own mount, "and do not move more than a pace or two from this spot until I return, for I shall not be long. I must negotiate your safe passage with the captain of this vessel."

"Aye," Branwenn replied with a nod of her head. After her brother had been gone a few minutes and she was convinced that she'd not be accosted by any wayward, drunken seamen, she relaxed a bit and took stock of her surroundings. The wharf had the smell of the sea—no surprise. But there was the smell of something else as well. ‘Twas as if the sea creatures had crawled to the shore to die, for the smell was caustic, harshly bitter, the air filled with the smell of rot.

In another moment, Reys came into view once more. His expression was somber as he briskly walked up beside her mount. "I've secured passage for you on the Irish ship, the Maighdean mhara mhear." He took hold of Branwenn's hand. "I wish there were another way, but there is none."

"I care not—"

"Branwenn, heed me well. These are men of the cloth—monks from Strangford Lough on the coast of Ulster. They are just returning from Cumberland with more stone and iron ore for the abbey they are building. If all goes as planned, you shall arrive there in a matter of days. I have claimed corody for you as a kinsman of Prince Llywelyn, so you may stay with them until all is settled. I will come for you then, so do not stray from that place until that time. ‘Twill not be long, I vow it."

Branwenn's heart pounded in her chest. Tho' her hand trembled with fear, she managed to slip it from her brother's embrace. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her spine, and showing more courage than she felt, she said, "Worry not, I shall do as you say. For, where else could I go without fear of discovery? I do not dare go back to the Maclean holding, as I wish no harm to come to any there—nor do I wish for them to ever discover that I was almost wed to such a man as Gaiallard de Montfort."

"We must make haste, then, for the barge will sail in but a quarter–hour's time. These mariner monks use naught but the sun's bright beam during the day and the star's light that twinkles in the northern sky at night to guide them. But fear not, they've assured me they've made this same journey many times since their patroness, the wife of John de Courcy of Ulster, founded their abbey but a few years past."

Reys took the reigns of his and Branwenn's mounts and led them to the ship's loading plank. After helping her to dismount, he placed the scroll in her hand and settled his own long–fingered hand over hers. "Use this document as your introduction to the abbot. The letter explains that you are my brother and that you are also the cousin of Prince Llywelyn.

"But—"

Reys lightly covered her mouth with his fingertips. "Nay, my little dove, it cannot be helped. You must continue in your disguise until I come for you, else you will not be allowed to remain at the abbey—corody, or nay. And do not take those clothes from your frame at any time during the voyage, not even to bathe, for ‘twould not do for these men of the cloth to discover that a member of the fairer sex is on board their vessel."

With a stiff nod of the head, Branwenn turned and gazed at the huge sailing vessel she was about to embark upon. The ship was long, with at least 25 to 30 oars on each side and a long mast that hung suspended over the entire length of the deck.

"There is more I would give you before you are gone," Reys said, turning and rummaging inside the leather satchel he had attached to his saddle. A moment later, he was lifting her hand, palm up, and placing a small leather purse upon it.

Branwenn's brows drew together. "What is this?"

"There are silver coins inside—enough to purchase several more moons of shelter and food for you than what I have arranged already with the monks."

"But, you said you would return for me soon...."

"Be at ease, little one. I shall take not one moment longer than I must, but I cannot allow you to travel so far—and with strangers, tho' men of the cloth they be—without some bit of coin, just in case. Do you see?"

With a long, forlorn sigh and a shrug of her shoulders, she sadly nodded her head. "Aye. I do see. My debt to you is growing greater and greater."

"Nay, you owe me naught. I beg you, trouble yourself no more on that score." Reys took hold of the hand she held the purse in. "Look inside," he coaxed, loosening the string that held the neck of the pouch closed. "For you will find something of our mother's which I wish for you to keep. I planned to give this to you on the morrow, as a gift to celebrate your wedding, but, I confess, I am much more pleased to give it to you now as a token of my great affection for you as my sister."

Still holding the scroll, Branwenn managed—rather awkwardly—to place two fingers inside to find the object he spoke of. She discovered it immediately and drew the cold, circular band of gold metal and amethyst gemstone out of the pouch.

"'Twas our mother's betrothal ring. The same ring, in fact, that Bao gave the priest at the kirk he had our mother buried in. The ring was left with the priest as a means to prove that ‘twas truly her grave, should her family come searching for her there."

Branwenn's hand began to shake with more violence and her eyes filled with tears. "This was my mother's?" she asked brokenly. ‘Twas lovely. The small, polished, oval stone was set high on the narrow gold band.

Reys took the ring and settled it on her finger before Branwenn's next thought had time to form. "There now, I knew you were a near twin to her, but now I have proof. See how nicely it fits you?"

"Aye," she replied wonderingly, "I thought it surely too small for my hand." She looked up, into her brother's eyes and said, "I thank you for this memento of my mother."

Reys gave her a brief nod. "We have tarried long enough, I trow," he said abruptly. "Come," he continued in a softer tone, "we must find the captain and get you settled in the space he's allowed you in the hold before the ship sails." And with a bit of gentle pressure to the base of Branwenn's spine, he prodded her to begin ascending the rough, wooden plank of the ship.

* * *

The vessel had been at sea for no more than three days and three nights when brigands, pirates of the sea, rammed into the side of their ship sometime around the chimes at midnight, bombarding it with large stones flung from a mangonel, and sending missile upon missile of fire–tipped spears and arrows onto the deck, killing many of the men who were unfortunate enough to be on duty at the time.

"GET YOU DOWN BELOW, LAD!" The grey–robed captain pushed Branwenn toward the stair leading into the hold. "‘Tis the safest place for you. Fear not, we will rout these robbers in little time."

Branwenn did as she was told, fearing she'd be more cumbrance than aid were she to stay above and attempt to fight.

Despite the captain's assurance, she was still not free of doubt that all might be lost. And if it were not for the tempest of severe proportions that howled down upon them with a deafening force mere moments after she'd settled in her snug nook below deck, making the pirates' fiery offense upon them moot, Branwenn was certain that she and all who were still alive aboard the vessel would have been doomed to a watery grave at the hands of the greedy robbers.

The sounds of attack now silenced, Branwenn went directly against the captain's orders and, after slinging the long strap of her satchel, which held her dearest possessions, around her neck and over her shoulder, went topside.

The brigands' much smaller vessel slipped away into the darkness on thievish feet and in moments, the monks' galley was once more alone on the sea. Unfortunately, it had sustained quite a bit of damage in its hull and the vessel began to take on water. In minutes, it lurched to its side, sending anything that was not nailed down slamming against the railing. Branwenn had barely stepped two paces away from the stair leading below deck when she was sent flying against the railing herself. She only had time to grab hold of a stray plank of wood before she was swept off the ship and into the dark, cold, unforgiving depths of the frigid, briny water.

Tho' the wood acted as a buoy in the violently tossing sea, she was still buried beneath the crashing waves, forced down, down, down, into the unrelenting dark chasm. She held tight to her anchor in the storm, and, after long, terrifying seconds, she was finally thrust back up, like some volcanic spew from an island mound, until she at last broke free of the surface of the abyss and was once more able to draw breath into her burning lungs. When her mind and vision cleared, she realized the tide had propelled her much too far from the vessel to be seen or heard.

Holding tight to her plank of wood, she allowed herself to drift, fearing that if she fought the tide, she'd only end up at the bottom of the sea. For the next few hours, she could do no more than wait. Wait for the light of dawn and keep her mind occupied with any thoughts other than the terrifying ones that niggled at the edge of her mind. Nay, she refused to think upon what sea monsters might even now be skimming under her and around her dangling feet. Nor would she think upon what she would do if she did not find land soon. Instead, she filled her mind with happy thoughts, dear remembrances of the merrier times. Like dancing—dancing for the very first time—around the Hogmanay fire this past winter. How gleeful she had been then. Until, of course, that pompous man, Callum MacGregor had spoiled it for her. Nay, she would not think of him. Instead, she forced her thoughts back to more pleasant aspects of that night. Aye, had not the hall been lovely, with the mistletoe, holly, and hazel adorning the trestle tables, and rowan branches above every door? And the scents! Of roasted swan and berries, of juniper, of ale. Aye, that was a happy time.

At long last, dawn arrived in a mist–shrouded glimmer of mauves, pinks, and blue–greys. As the sun came up over the horizon and lit the world around her, Branwenn studied her surroundings. Her heart pounded with joy in her chest, for there, in her sights, was land! And she was near enough to the shoreline—of whose sovereign soil, she knew not—to paddle the rest of the way inland.

* * *