Bedded by the Laird (Highland Warriors)

Scottish Highlands 1
^st
February 1296

‘Good morning
Laird.’

Laird Alasdair
McClelland did not stir as Bridie came into the room carrying his breakfast
tray. Putting it down on the table beside his large bed Bridie walked over and
opened the heavy drapes and shutters and looked out to the magnificent morn. It
was crisp and cold but despite a fresh fall of snow, there must be thawing
higher up, for she could hear the gush of the burn in the hillside and it was
as if, not just the morning was rising, but the whole of McClelland.

The
whole of Scotland.

Bridie swallowed,
she could not stand to think of the English and all the problems the laird
faced. Not that it was just the English causing difficulties -there had been
fierce fighting yesterday with the
Glenbarachs
, a
neighbouring
clan. Laird Alasdair was the McClelland War
Chief too and wore three feathers and went into battle with his men, unlike
Laird Peter of
Glenbarach
, who stayed safe in his
castle.

Bridie let him
rest just a moment longer, her eyes lingering on the loch, painted in corals
and greys as it reflected the sunrise. It was a sight she would never tire of,
for every morning it changed - today it cast pink hues to the snow nestling in
the tree branches making them look like they were filled with the blossoms of
spring.

Bridie could gaze
on the view forever but the castle was preparing for tonight’s feast and she
didn’t want
Mrs
Moffat telling her off for wasting
time daydreaming again, so she turned and set about lighting the fire. Once it
was starting to take, Bridie approached the bed.

 ‘Laird.’
There was a cut above his eye and he was covered in bruises and her hand moved
to touch his shoulder, to wake him as she often did, yet she pulled it back,
suddenly nervous around him, only she didn’t know why.

Most were scared
of the laird, but not Bridie.

Och
, he
was fierce and a brute to look at, but despite what everyone said he was
not
a man of few words. Often he would take the time to speak with Bridie when she
brought him his breakfast and she wanted him to wake this morning for she had
important news to share.

‘Laird.’ She said
it again, but did not touch him and, as his blue eyes opened to her green ones,
Bridie’s heart fluttered in her chest as if she were about to be scolded and a
fierce blush spread on her cheeks as she saw not a brute, but his male beauty.
For the first time she properly took in the dark hair that fell to his broad
shoulders, noticed the rough of his strong jaw and she forgot to breathe for a
moment.

‘Morning Bridie.’

‘I brought your
breakfast.’ Her sing song voice was a touch more breathless than usual and her
hands were shaking a little as he sat up in his bed and did as he did each morn
- stretched and yawned, only this time she could see the muscles ripping in his
chest and thick arms, saw the scars from battle on his torso. Her hands, as the
laird took the tray, felt impatient to be idle, for there was an urge to reach
out, to feel beneath her fingers what she had never really noticed – the
dark hair on his musclebound chest and flat nipples. Her eyes drifted down to a
snake of hair that was halted by a fur rug and Bridie’s own flat nipples, for
the first time, tingled.

At fifteen, and an
undeveloped fifteen year old at that, Bridie had no time for men. Unlike her
friend and maid Mary who nursed a secret love for the Laird’s younger brother
Angus. Mary was a full year older than Bridie, and it showed, not just in the
things she said, but in her curvy body too. Bridie was straight up and down,
like a
stick,
the only volume to her was a mass of
long red curls, which surely this morning seemed pale, compared to the roar of
her skin.

‘What’s this?’ The
laird asked, picking up the little gift she had brought him, just as so often
she did – perhaps a stone she found interesting, or some flowers she had
collected and the laird would tell her about them, teach her things, but this
morning Bridie was embarrassed by her stupid, childish gift. 

‘It’s just a feather.’
Her cheeks were scalding. ‘I found it on my walk yesterday.’

She could see his
strong fingers holding it, felt a shiver inside as he stroked one side and she
had a sudden urge to run, to just flee from the laird’s chamber, though he
didn’t seem to notice her new fear, just carried on talking as sometimes he did
with Bridie.

‘It’s from a Snow
Bunting,’ he said, for the laird knew so much – taught her so much when
others did not.
Mrs
Moffat said that Bridie was too
nosey, too curious and had too many questions, but the Laird never seemed to
mind. ‘See the sandy tip?’ He asked, and Bridie nodded. ‘By the summer the
ginger
colour
will be gone and the bird will be back
to black and white.’

He took a long
drink and Bridie moved to the fire, warming her hands there, instead of asking
more questions as she usually would - just so much more aware of him now.

‘It’s
Candlemas
today,’ he told her. ‘Do you know what that is?’

‘Aye,’ Bridie
said. ‘It’s a feast day.’

‘It’s when we
start prepare for the end of winter,’ the laird told her. ‘All the candles are
blessed, there will be feasting and celebrations in the village. Soon the brown
trout will be plenty and from tomorrow you can bring
snow
drops
into the home, it’s bad luck to bring them in before
Candlemas
. Remember I told you that last year.’

‘You did.’

 ‘What’s the
weather, Bridie?’

‘Crisp and clear,’
she turned and looked at him, no longer nervous. ‘Laird, it’s the most
beautiful day, there’s hardly a breath of wind.’

‘Perhaps, but if
that’s the weather then winters not over.’

‘I know.’ Bridie
smiled. ‘You told me the saying –

“
If
Candlemas
Day be fair and bright

Winter will have another fight.

If
Candlemas
Day brings cloud and rain,

Winter shall not come again
. “’

Alasdair smiled as
she recited it. He
was
a man of few words, just not with Bridie. She was
such a bonny, bright wee thing. He’d been five years old when the McClelland
groundsman
had found her, wrapped in a blanket, by the
burn. He remembered his mother staring at the abandoned babe and
Mrs
Moffat promising Lady McClelland that she would take
care of her, that she’d be no trouble.

Bridie had been no
trouble at all – she brightened the castle, belonged to the castle
really. Everyone had a soft spot for Bridie and, in return, she loved
them
all back.

Still Alasdair had
had enough talking for one morning - his head was pounding from the beating
yesterday, but he didn’t mind for he had the consolation that Hamish, the
Glenbarach
War Chief, would be faring far worse.

‘Away now.’ He
said for he must dress and meet with Angus, but Bridie suddenly remembered her
news.

‘Laird,
the fox has had its cubs…’

‘It’s barely
February. There’ll be no cubs for a few weeks yet…’

‘But
William Hunt told me…’

‘Away now,’
Alasdair‘s head was spinning and he did not want Bridie making a fuss, as she
would if she thought he was unwell. ‘Enough of your chatter.’

Bridie hurried
off.

The day passed
quickly for Alasdair. He surveyed his land and then there was a long Mass as
the candles were blessed. Supplies were sent to the alehouse for, just as there
was to be a huge feast at the castle, he made sure the villagers could
celebrate as well. Though a fierce leader, unlike his father before him,
Alasdair was a more generous laird, treating his people well and expecting
loyalty and service in return.

It was a night of
too much whisky and too much indulgence for Alasdair and he woke to Shona, a
woman he took to his bed now and then, sleeping beside him. He was, for the
first time, just a touch awkward as the door opened, but he didn’t need to
worry for it wasn’t Bridie bringing him his breakfast but
Mrs
Moffat.

‘Where’s Bridie?’

‘
Och
, she’s nowhere to be found.’
Mrs
Moffat huffed. ‘I’m too old to be running up and down castle stairs.’ She
carried on chatting as she lit the fire, but Alasdair did not return her small
talk, he had no interest in hearing about
Mrs
Moffat’s knees. As she left he felt the hands of Shona move to him but, rarely
for Alasdair, he had no further interest in the woman in his bed, instead he
took a drink of his brew and grimaced, it was weak.

He sent Shona away
and then hauled himself from his bed and dressed in plaid. He pulled on leather
boots and strapped on his dirk and broadsword, just as he did each morn and
then headed off to survey his land with his brother Angus.

‘You look like
shite.’ Angus greeted him.

‘You
dinnae
look so grand yourself.’

They rode with
Callum
, his senior warrior, and with several other warriors
too, for there was a high price on the McClelland
brothers
heads. It wasn’t just the English they had to worry about, the long hated
neighbouring
Glenbarach
clan were
fierce in their want for more of the Lairds land and for hunting rights, but
steadfastly, just as his father and his father before him had, Alasdair refused
to relent.

Yesterday’s fight
had started when Alasdair had heard they had again been fishing for salmon in
the burn.

Well, no more.
He’d soundly thrashed Hamish of
Glenbarach
and the
point had been made.

His breath blew as
white as the fresh sheet of snow that had fallen. As they rode through the
village there were few to greet for most were no doubt sleeping of last nights
excesses – there were some lads who hadn’t made it home asleep by the
alehouse.

‘Morning Laird.’
Dougal
Blaine stood as he always did when the Laird passed
– he walked his dog at the same time each day and Alasdair stopped for a
brief exchange.

‘Morning
Dougal
, the place is quiet.

‘Aye.’
Dougal
said, which was as much conversation as you ever got
from
Dougal
. He was a mountain of a man, a simpleton,
but also a gentle soul and the Laird watched as he stooped from his great
height to give his faithful dog a tickle on her tummy as she lay on her back at
his feet.

Alasdair kicked
his horse on and rode through the village and then headed out to the fields.

‘Should we check
the burn?’ Angus asked.

‘Aye, but later.’
Alasdair said, for it was his business to think like a
Glenbarach
at times. ‘First we’ll check the traps, afore they do and we’ll...’ His voice
trailed off - there was a streak of red in snow and when he saw the tuft of
auburn, at first he thought it a slaughtered fox.

But then dread had
tightened his guts like a fist to the stomach as Alasdair
realised
that it was not a fox that lay bloodied, but a body – part covered by the
fresh snow. With mounting trepidation Alasdair kicked his horse into a gallop,
not even waiting till it halted before he dismounted, for with each stride the
beast took it became clearer that the body was Bridie’s.