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Southern Scotland

Autumn

The Year of Our Lord 1349

 

                                                             Chapter One

 

            Moonlight and cool, fresh air spilled into the room through the open window of the bedchamber. The sound of giggling seeped through the wooden walls. The door opened, letting in more light from the lantern in a man’s hand. He entered first followed by a woman attached to his other hand.

            He had plans with her for the evening.

            “Send yer prostitute away, Governor Allan,” came a voice from the shadowy corner.

            The man startled so hard he dropped the lantern he carried. “Who is there?” he demanded of the darkness.

            “Tristan MacPherson,” came the deep voice, closer than it had been a moment ago. He was close enough to pick up the lantern. His face could be seen for a moment beneath a spray of black curls he kept off his face by raking his fingers through it. He had a strong, rugged jaw, a sulky, cynical mouth, and eyes as green as summer blades of grass. “Now send her away.”

            “Kate, go,” the governor commanded.

            She took off without looking back.

            “I have heard of you, MacPherson.”

            Tristan set the lantern down on a small table by the bed. “Aye? Nothin’ good, I hope.”

           “Nothing good,” the governor confirmed. “You are a coldhearted killer.”
           A sinuous smirk curled the killer’s full mouth. “Then ye know why I’m here.”

            “I will pay you double whatever you were paid to kill me.”

           Tristan moved closer and drew a small blade from his belt. “What kind of reputation would I gain if I was so easily bought?”

           “Please,” the governor begged. “Please do not kill me.”

           “I wonder,” Tristan said thoughtfully, “did Miss Allison D’Avar or Miss Elizabeth Sutter beg ye not to kill them when ye took them from their outin’? Ye didna show them mercy, did ye?”

           “The king’s court found me innocent!” Allan cried.

           “Their fathers disagreed and sent me,” Tristan told him coolly.

           “No! Please! I…I am a father—”

            The blade flashed in the lantern light and blood splattered across the wall of the governor’s bedchamber from the gaping wound at his throat.

            Tristan looked into his eyes and wiped the blood from his blade on the governor’s coat then shoved it back under his belt. He went to the door and looked out. The lass was gone. He was glad. He didn’t like witnesses but he wouldn’t have killed her. He didn’t kill women or children. Not for any price.

           He shut the door and stepped over the governor’s body to get closer to the lantern and the basin of water beside it. He washed his hands and dried them on his sleeves.

           He pulled a folded parchment from a small poke, or pouch at his waist and looked at it in the light. There were four names on it written in his hand. One was one of Glasgow’s influential lords, now deceased. The second was Governor Allan, also newly deceased, accused of killing two young women. The third was James Walters, governor of Thornhill. The bastard killed a man and took his wife. He’d had her for three months now. The woman’s captivity would end soon. Tristan would see to it.

           The fourth name on the list was Thomas Callanach, Earl of Dumfries. Callanach’s death was most important for he had committed a crime so grievous his death was ordered and paid for by a governor who preferred to keep himself anonymous.

           Callanach killed his wife and his child. He deserved to die. They all did, and Tristan would see to it, for he was their executioner.

          He folded up the parchment, returned it to his poke and left the room through the window.

                                                            #

            “My heart quickens its pace at the thought of arriving in Hamilton,” Lady Rose Callanach told her cousin as she leaned forward in her saddle. She swiped a defiant lock of dark hair out of her eyes, but it returned an instant later from beneath her hooded mantel. “We will have many adventures.”

“Aye,” her cousin, Emma Callanach, agreed with mischief dancing across her blue eyes. “Many adventures with many handsome, young men.”

            Rose’s belly did a little flip with excitement. She was twenty years, considered too old for marriage by many. She didn’t care what others thought. She didn’t think she would ever marry anyway, so why should it concern her?

Her house had been burned down with her in it when she was eight. Six years later, her mother and Jonetta, Rose’s friend and kitchen servant, were murdered in the family carriage on their way to Lockerbie, their bodies burned beyond recognition.

            Afraid that someone was out to kill his family, Rose’s father had locked up the gates of the Callanach Castle and kept Rose inside, hidden from the world. He had an enemy who showed himself by his affinity for lighting his victims on fire.

           Her father wanted whoever was guilty of killing his wife to believe Rose had been traveling with her mother and was the other dead body. No one was to know she lived. No one was trusted, save for her father’s closest guards.

Most of the servants were released of duty and sent away. All of her father’s guards, save fourteen of his men were released, as well.

           She hadn’t met anyone new since she was fourteen. No one, save those men and her uncle knew she was alive. No visitors were allowed through the gates.

           Rose’s life was very lonely. She lived mostly through books. Her father bought her every kind of writing he could find, including a lavishly illuminated psalter from East Anglia. She studied poetry and fantastical worlds, among many other things. She knew how to play chess and how to play seven different instruments. She could shoot an arrow with precision—like her father, write, sew, and more. She had no friends, no siblings. Just her father, his fourteen guards, less than a handful of servants, and a teacher here and there.

          Rose’s father had assured her many times that the only peers available for marriage were widowers twice her age, round, and red-nosed. Some of his soldiers were only a handful of years older than her, but they were all married.

Her father trusted no one to protect her and convinced her that if she had suitors, all they would do was slobber on her and make quiet crass remarks if they found themselves alone with her. They would profess their love after an hour or two, not to win her favor, but her father’s.

            Rose believed what she was told. She didn’t want a husband like any of the men her father described. Besides, she would never want any man to look upon her scarred legs.

She hadn’t minded the idea of never marrying, but then Emma began to visit with Rose’s Uncle Richard and brought with her stories of young, virile men and stolen kisses behind the stables.

            Emma had spoken about an endless forest where faeries were rumored to live and endless fields of bluebells and other colorful flowers. Rose would be happy with however the landscape looked. For it would be different from anything she’d seen in a long time.

          It wasn’t until her father’s brother arrived from Hamilton with Emma last month that a spark of hope was ignited that she might finally break free of her walls.

          After much begging and crying from her and Emma and promises from her uncle that no danger would befall her, her father had agreed to let her go to Hamilton for the winter, which was almost upon them.

They’d heard much about the Black Death ravaging England. Her uncle’s reckoning was that since Hamilton was farther north than Dumfries, she would be even safer from it.

           As far as safety while traveling went, her father sent ten of his most fearsome men to travel with her. Her uncle was the Governor of Hamilton and traveled with twenty of his own men who hadn’t been allowed entry through the heavy gate, and awaited them in the town.

          Now, on the second day of her journey, she and Emma rode in the center of thirty-one men, well protected should any thieves think to attack.

          Rose’s only regret was that her father had not come with them, but he rarely traveled. None were surprised that he would not be joining them. He hated letting her go. Rose knew it. She could see it in his tormented gaze. He was afraid for her, but this was what she wanted and because of that, he had agreed. She prayed for his safety while she was away with most of his guard, and that the pestilence would not come near him.

          “Do you think we might sleep at an inn tonight?” she asked her cousin now. “I have never—”

          “Oh, no,” Emma told her. “My father had to keep twenty men fed while they traveled to Dumfries to escort us home. He is not that wealthy, Rose. Besides, we will be home by tonight.”

She moved her horse closer to Rose’s horse. “Let us continue our discussion about what you are looking for in a husband.”

            Rose lifted her hand to her lips and laughed. She and Emma had spoken on this topic often over the last month. “My father will not let me marry, Emma. Have you forgotten so soon?”

           “No, but he let you travel, did he not? ‘Tis evidence that he can be swayed.”

           Rose didn’t dare hope, especially for a young, handsome husband. But she had her fancies. “I would like a man who is genuine and joyful, kindhearted and compassionate, perhaps a bit playful. Not vulgar and arrogant like some others I have met. I would prefer a man who is a bit more refined. As far as his appearance, dark hair and pretty eyes, not dull brown, like mine.”

            Emma snorted, “My dearest, there is nothing dull about your eyes. They are expressive, yet too dark to give any part of yourself away.”

            “Perhaps,” Rose said quietly, thoughtfully. She’d spent a lot of time with Emma since her cousin had arrived. Perhaps Emma was correct. But Rose wasn’t secretive or guarded. She simply didn’t know how to interact with people. Emma was the first person she’d gotten to know since she was fourteen. “But I would still prefer blue like yours.”

            Emma gave her her best smile and batted her lashes. Both girls laughed.

            “Ah, I’m pleased to see my niece already enjoying her time away from home.”

            “Uncle Richard.” Rose graced her uncle with a soft smile. “You know how I enjoy Emma’s company.”

            He nodded and let his smile shine full force on her. “It does my heart good to see you so vibrant and happy, Niece. I’m sure you will be happy in Hamilton.”

            “I’m certain I will, Uncle,” she replied merrily.

            “We are coming up on Crawford,” he told them. “We can rest and relieve.”

            “Perfect,” Emma announced. “I’m growing weak from hunger!”

            Emma didn’t bring up young men again since her father was close by, but the girls shared secret smiles and giggled all the way there.

            As they rode into the market village of Crawford, a small group of men rode out. Two of them were ghostly white and looked as if they might fall from their saddles if the wind picked up.

            A hard night of drinking, most likely, Rose thought with a concealed smirk and a shake of her head. She knew what her father’s men did when they weren’t fighting. Her father didn’t mind as long as they practiced and stayed alert.

She looked around, soaking in the view of everything around her. This was the fourth village or town they had stopped in. But she didn’t think she would ever get used to seeing so much in one place.

           Crawford consisted of a tall, steepled church, two mills, and vendors everywhere working under their tents, forging steel or selling wares. Dirty children ran to and fro. The smell of burning tar and the sewage-polluted town ditch permeated the air.

           Rose took it all in with wide eyes. She couldn’t remember seeing so many different faces! And the sounds! She delighted in the calls of travelers and the town criers and the ringing of the church bells.

           They dismounted with the help of two young men, soldiers of her uncle’s, who curled their lips at her and Emma. Her cousin giggled and slapped one of the men’s hands away as it strayed to her buttocks.

           Rose gave the soldier nearest her a warning glare. If he touched her so, she would not hesitate to slap his face. And she wouldn’t giggle while she did it.

            Her father’s men wouldn’t have dared touch her in such a way. She looked over at them now. Harry, John, and Alex were seasoned swordsmen in her father’s service for eleven years. She smiled and shook her head, stopping them from coming closer.

            Emma giggled again and blushed at something the guard whispered against her ear.

            Spending the winter with Emma was going to be challenging, for she seemed immensely at ease with men. She was, what Rose would consider, obsessed with them.

            Rose, on the other hand, was not. Were their differences too great to spend the whole winter together?

            So what if they were? It was too late to do anything about it now.

            They took care of first things first and then stayed close to Rose’s uncle and the men when they settled at an open tavern serving breads and stews, as well as ale.

            Rose wasn’t afraid of all the unfamiliar sights and sounds, though they were overwhelming at times. She found the journey adventurous and was enjoying every moment of it.

            They ate mutton stew and drank warm ale. Rose was used to more refined dishes at home, but she wasn’t home. She was traveling and she meant to enjoy herself!

           She was about to turn to Emma to answer a question her cousin put to her, when a man stumbled forward and practically fell on top of her and coughed directly in her face.

           Suddenly, the drunkenness wasn’t so amusing.

          “Now see here!” her uncle bellowed while he bolted to his feet. The soldiers sprang up after him. The man tried to right himself and coughed again, spraying blood across the faces of Rose’s men.

         “What do you think—what?” Her uncle went pale and backed away when the man lifted his head. “No!” he cried out. His cloudless blue eyes darted to his niece and he shook his head. “Oh, no.”

         “Oh, no, what?” she asked, rising from her seat. The drunken patron grabbed her wrist. Her uncle gasped, horrified.

         Rose’s eyes widened on the patron just before one of her father’s guards ran him through. His hand on her wrist was flaming hot. His eyes were not bloodshot from drinking. They were bloody from—

        “The Black Death!” Emma screamed and leaped closer to her father.

         The Black Death. They’d heard of the deadly pestilence sweeping through countries in the east and the south, including London. They’d heard of its symptoms; bloody eyes, large boils, high fever…no. No. She turned back to her uncle.

         He was already stepping away, tugging Emma with him. He motioned to his men. “Get the horses. Now!” He gave Rose a regretful gaze. “I’m sorry. Stay where you are, Rose.”

        What? No! “Uncle Richard, what are you—”

        “You are infected, Woman! Stay back!” he shouted. “Men! Get the horses!”

        Emma was screaming and shaking her head, her pretty blue eyes dripping tears down her cheeks.

       “Uncle Richard, are you going to leave me here?”

       “Rose, child, what can I do? You will infect us all.”

       “How do you know you are not already infected?” she screamed at him. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. The Black Death wasn’t supposed to be this far north. “Are you going to leave me here all alone, Uncle?”

        “The rest of you!” he called out to her father’s men. “Stay with her!”

       Rose moved toward her uncle and cousin but one of his own soldiers held the tip of his blade to her neck. “Stay back!” It was the soldier she’d glared at when she was dismounting.

       “Uncle Richard! Emma!” she screamed. Other people around them started running away. No one would stand next to her. Her uncle and his men were leaving. Wasn’t it just a few moments ago that she was protected by thirty men?              She couldn’t be dying!

       “Uncle Richard!” she screamed, but he kept on running, not even looking back.

       She turned to Harry and Alex and the others, who looked as horrified as she felt. “Take me home. I will ride with—”

      “You are infected, lady! John cried out. “You cannot go home! None of us can!”

      “What? No! Please, take me home. I…I am not infect…” But she most likely was. Did she want to go home and infect her father?

       She let her eyes fill with tears and turned away from them.

       After four hours of walking around the town in dazed circles, the realization finally penetrated. They were likely dying of the terrible pestilence. Rose found an inn and paid for four rooms with a ring Emma had given her. She no longer wanted it. They’d left her. It was only a matter of time before the Black Death reached them and they could no longer run.

       The men got sicker as the night wore on, as did Rose. They were all infected. Some of the men roamed the hall of the inn crying out that they did not want to die. Some of the others were quiet in their rooms, coughing, burning up with fever and swelling up in certain places.

       But Rose closed her eyes happy, at least to have a bed to die in. She didn’t worry about tomorrow. Word was, the plague didn’t take long to kill.

       Mercy, at least.

      Two days later, almost everyone in the town was dead from the disease.

      Rose still lived, though she still felt deathly ill. She tried to do what she could to help the people dying around her. She was sure this was hell. John, Alex, Harry, and all the others were dead. Everywhere she turned, there was crying and the smell which, at some point, had stopped being so continuously sickening.

       She didn’t know if she would live to return home. She doubted it. Would she ever see her father again? There were horses here. Some of them died, but not all. Rose thought about going home. But she didn’t know the way, and she didn’t want to spread the pestilence to her father.

       She wondered how long she had to live and wanted to fall on her knees and weep to God. But she had done that already. Her eyes were sore and red. She remembered the man falling on her and his bloody eyes.

       She thought it couldn’t get any worse. But she was wrong. Soldiers arrived the next morning and began burning the dead and the sick along with them. Some were alive while they are set on fire.

       No! Not fire! Rose tried to run away but fell to the ground, weak and coughing. She had no strength left in her when they carried her off and dumped her onto a pile of soft, cold bodies.

       Rose was blissfully unaware of where she was, but she knew she was dying. She knew they were going to burn her. She screamed over and over in her thoughts.

       With deepest regret, she considered all of the things she hadn’t yet done, hadn’t seen. She had never been courted or kissed. She had never been in love, nor been intimate.

      She wanted to weep but it would take too much from her. She wanted to sleep, but she was afraid that if she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t have the strength to open them again.

      Someone approached her, blocking her from the sun. A man. He didn’t have a torch. He was handsome and rugged with black hair and pretty eyes that were the same color as the treetops last summer. She couldn’t see the rest of the man’s face.

      With her very last ounce of strength, she lifted her hand to him. “Please, sir, help me.”

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