The Highlander On The Run (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 1) Read online

  The Highlander On The Run

  Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

  Emilia Ferguson

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  A Personal Note From Emilia Ferguson

  Dedication

  About The Author

  THE HIGHLANDER ON THE RUN

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  EPILOGUE

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  Also By Emilia Ferguson

  Acknowledgement

  If You Have Enjoyed This Book…

  Publisher’s Notes

  Copyright © 2017,2018,2019 by EMILIA FERGUSON

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real or dead people, places, or events are not intentional and are the result of coincidence. The characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author/publisher. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover designed by Ms Melody Simmons. Author has the copyrights to this cover.

  A PERSONAL NOTE

  FROM EMILIA FERGUSON

  * * *

  To My Dearest Lovely Readers,

  There is something picturesque and dramatic about the Scottish Highlands. Not only the landscape, which is mysterious, with its own special wildness and drama. It is the people themselves.

  Scottish people are the original untamed spirits: proud, wild, forthright, in touch with their inner selves. The Medieval period in Scotland is a fascinating one for contrasts: half the country was steeped in Medieval culture - knights, ladies, housecarls and maids - and the other half was a maelstrom of wild clans people; fighting, living and loving straight from the heart.

  If the two halves - the wild and the courtly - meet up, what will happen? And how will these proud women and untamed men react when brought together by social expectations, requirements and ambitions?

  Read on to find out the answers!

  Thank you very much for your strong support to my writing journey!

  With Hugs, Kisses and Love…

  ~ Emilia

  DEDICATION

  Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be man's last romance.

  Oscar Wilde

  * * *

  This Story Is Specially Dedicated To You, My Dearest Reader!

  It is with gratefulness and gratitude that I am writing to you this personal dedication.

  Thank you once again for giving me this opportunity to share with you my creative side.

  I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much I have enjoyed writing it!

  It is with such great support from you that we authors continue to write, presenting you with great stories.

  Have you checked out my other western historical romance books series?

  Click the link below to get started

  *** AMAZON USA ***

  * * *

  Do you like what you have read?

  I want to hear from you!

  Please do get in touch with me:

  facebook.com/EmiliaFergusonBooks

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Emilia Ferguson is the pen name of an author who writes historical romance with her husband.

  When she is not writing her Medieval Historical Scottish Romance pieces, she enjoys taking long walks with her husband and kids at the nearby beaches.

  It was these long walks where she got inspirations and ideas for her stories. She credits her wonderfully supportive husband John, her great cover designer Ms Melody Simmons and her advance review reviewers for helping her to fine-tune her writing skills and allowing her creativity to explode.

  ~ Emilia

  THE HIGHLANDER ON THE RUN

  A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY

  * * *

  by

  EMILIA FERGUSON

  PROLOGUE

  Berwick Castle, 1291

  “Mo chreach, Addie!” Mrs. Miller said harshly.

  Across the table, Addie gritted her teeth, waiting for the barbed comment that would inevitably follow. Mrs. Miller was nice to everyone – everybody who was not Addie McMurrie. The air in the kitchen stiffened. Addie wouldn’t have thought it was possible it would get more tense. It was a world in turmoil, their land, and the happenings of today – in this castle – they would decide its future.

  Even so, all the servants around the table looked at her, eyes wide and anxious.

  “Yes?” she asked, making sure her voice was neutral.

  “You’d think you could get things ready better than this,” Mrs. Miller grumbled. “That tablecloth’s a fine mess. And it’s the King coming tae visit, ye hear me?”

  Addie closed her green eyes. It was not Mrs. Miller’s place to reprimand her – Addie, as special servant, tasked with doing the household’s hair, was exempt from her ordering – even though she ruled over the kitchen.

  Even so, Addie acquiesced as politely as she could.

  “Aye, Mrs. Miller,” she said. She shifted on the crowded bench, standing up. It was an excuse to leave the kitchen, one she badly wished to have. “I’ll go and see to it.”

  “No, ye willnae!” Mrs. Miller sounded scandalized. “You cannae go in there…Master’s orders.”

  “I can go in and fix the tablecloth,” Addie said calmly. She turned her back and walked out.

  “I’m just glad tae be awa’ from there – even if it means going tae the hall.”

  As she neared it, she felt her tummy tighten with fear. The whole castle had a sense of tension and terror. Rightly so – the king of England was coming here. England was – or could be – their enemy.

  A strand of her red curls had unwound from her plait, and she tucked it behind one ear and walked up the hallway. She reached the great hall and peered into it round the edge of the door. Inside, the long tables were being laid. The board covered ones, flanked with benches, stood on the floor, packed in tight. On the dais, a fine table was laid out, covered with a white cloth. Servants were already moving around it, laying out silver plate.

  “Addie!” Bonnie, one of the few friends Addie had, called out. She had a bundle of stalks in her arm – rushes, to strew on the floor. “By! It’s a surprise tae see ye here!”

  “I have to come in and check the tablecloths,” Addie said gently. Bonnie – almost ten years the junior of t
wenty-five-year-old Addie, was like a little sister to her. Addie was pleased that she’d been one of the servants John Baliol – her master – had chosen to bring with him to Berwick-upon-Tweed.

  Bonnie looked up at her with round eyes. “Aye! Everything has to be just so, ye ken? The king’s coming.”

  Addie bit back an ironic smile, “I know.”

  It was the fifth…no, the fifteenth…time she’d heard that phrase this afternoon.

  She reached the steps of the dais and stood on the bottom rung.

  “Rendell?” she called up to one of the servants who hauled a fresh plank onto the dais, repairing the far end where a section had broken off.

  “Aye?” Sweating, he was hauling a big plank, face red and crumpled. She frowned up at him.

  “Can ye give me a hand up?”

  Rendell grunted and pushed the plank into place, then reached down and gripped her wrist.

  “Ye think ye fancy, eh?” he said.

  “No,” Addie sighed.

  Rendell was already working on the dais, though. The air was filled with the scent of sawdust and wood.

  Father, she thought sorrowfully. I miss you.

  Mr. McMurrie, her father, had been the steward of the Baliol castle, and he had filled a role much like she had – that uncertain terrain between servant and household. He had understood, and besides, at least she could talk to him! He had felt the same way, it seemed to Addie, for he had taught her a little of reading, and some of the enemy language. Addie could understand English, which was something that was hard even for the noblemen.

  A crash in the hall made her glance up – there were minor pulls in the tablecloth, but nothing to merit Mrs. Miller’s censure – and she stared.

  Two workers had dropped a plank, but that wasn’t what drew her eye. It was Lord John. Tall, his long graying hair loose about his shoulders, dressed in a stiff robe, he looked across the room and his eyes met hers.

  He was discussing something with the workers – gesturing at the table – but Addie could see his eye wandering back to her and she swallowed hard, focusing on the tablecloth, trying to fix the pulls by flattening them with a finger, making herself calm down. She was genuinely distracted when she heard a voice speak above her.

  “Adelberta?”

  She jumped.

  “Yes, milord?” She shot to her feet, smoothing her hands down her woolen gown, noticing with some dismay that it had wood shavings clinging to the skirts.

  Lord John, the head of the house of Baliol, looked down at her gravely. “Adelberta? I have something to ask you.”

  Addie swallowed, her throat tense. “Yes, sir.”

  She tried to stay calm, but inside her mind was a whirl of panic. He had deemed her work not good enough. He was going to lay her off. There was need of her services elsewhere and he was sending her out to the countryside. He was sending her to live with her father’s farming relatives.

  “Move aside,” he said, gently taking her elbow. “I would not be overheard in this.”

  Gulping, Addie nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He stepped with her across the wood that was piled by the stairs, down the planks that led from the dais and into a well-lit corner of the hall. Drawing her aside, he faced her.

  “Adelberta, you are the daughter of Rowell. You’re one of the few people I can trust. And I need someone I can trust for this. You are listening to me? That’s why I chose you. I need to know you know that.”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered. What is it? She wanted to shout, tell me, before I die of fear.

  “The king of England has need of your services. I am giving you to his household. Serve him well – and do not forget the dues you owe to me.”

  Addie swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

  KING-MAKING

  Addie stood on the dais at the back of a crowd. She craned her neck between the heads in front of her – many of which she’d spent the morning styling – to see what was going on. Before the dais, on the floor of the hall, stretched a sea of spectators, heads nodding, a tapestry of velvet and fine linen in reds, whites and gold. She was looking over the hall of Berwick Castle. It was the day after the banquet, and she stood with the other selected servants behind the King’s chair.

  Breathing in through nostrils tight with fear, she stared out over the heads of lords and ladies, her throat dry, her eyes big. She tried to calm herself by breathing slow, steadying breaths.

  Adelberta! You should be happy. Whoever would’ve guessed that you’d find yourself here? In a hall with so many noblemen that if you spit, you’d hit one?

  The thought would have made her grin. Now, it simply served to take the edge off her rigid fear. She found her attention going back to the king’s speech.

  “…and it is now that I can finally announce that I have made my choice.”

  Addie tensed, waiting for the announcement. Beside her, the other servants in attendance went stiff, and in the hall itself she heard several breaths drawn. Women’s tall, veiled hats nodded forward as they leaned in, waiting to hear the words. The whole hall was so silent, you could have heard a pin fall.

  “…my choice falls on John, sixth baron Baliol.”

  Addie stared. While she hadn’t expected any other outcome, she was still speechless.

  In the front row of seats, she saw her former employer turn white as a sheet. His eyes were huge in his long, bony face and his throat worked as he swallowed. She strained to see him over the heads of the people in front. She found a gap and stared through it as he stood and walked toward the dais.

  “My lord,” he said, kneeling; his voice as tight as if he’d just swallowed redcurrant berries. “I am grateful for your favor on me.”

  Addie was not close enough to the chair where King Edward sat to hear his comment, but she heard its tone and thought it sounded noncommittal at best.

  I barely know this man, but I already do not trust him.

  Addie felt her fingers grip each other tightly. She had been given to the household of the King a year ago. Since he was very rarely in Scotland, she had not actually had the task of dressing his hair, yet.

  I pray I never do. I’d be too terrified to even think straight.

  He looked a cruel man, with a thin mouth and keen, hawk-like eyes. Taller than anybody she’d ever seen, he terrified her even from a distance. She hoped she’d never get close enough to face the full terror of his presence.

  She felt her nails bite into her palms. The pain made her attention come back to the scene before her. She looked down at Lord Baliol, where he stood, twin dust marks on the knees of his hose where he’d knelt on the dais.

  “I am honored to have your faith in me, milord,” he murmured. His eyes were huge, and Addie thought she’d never seen a man look so daunted. Her heart went out to him. “I pray for the wisdom to use it rightly.”

  “Hm,” the king commented.

  Addie looked down at her feet. She wanted to run to her former master – who’d been kind to her, at least – as seeing him look so distressed disturbed her. She knew she could do no such thing. Standing where she was, she listened as the hall broke out in shouts of congratulations and goodwill.

  “Slainte!” Someone shouted in Gaelic from the back row. Health.

  Addie felt her own fear diminish slightly, seeing the rest of the hall take up the cry: her master was at least not in danger from his own. She looked round the faces and realized perhaps she was being too hasty – there was sullen anger in some of the noble’s faces, and in some, outright rage.

  When you give a dog a marrow bone, you sometimes make him a target for the other dogs.

  A scene flashed into her mind, overlaying the scene before her – the day her father had first said those words. The tall, thin hunting dogs had been assembled with the verderers, and Addie recalled hearing them set up a fearful, eerie cry as one of the keepers tossed them scraps.

  The image of the dogs, jostling and grappling, came back to her now.

  Poor Lord Ba
liol, she thought sorrowfully. If you take one misstep, they will finish you.

  She shivered and clasped her linen shawl closer.

  The shouts had died down now, and the heralds were blowing a clarion call, as the king stood, he and his retinue making ready to depart. Addie swallowed and felt her fingers twist nervously together – she would be walking out last, behind the retinue’s servants.

  Dinnae fall. If you fall flat on your face in the middle of the hall, you’ll never live it down.

  She concentrated on the shoulders of the man in front of her, and walked carefully down the steps. Only when she reached the courtyard did she finally relax.

  “Well!” another woman – the castle seamstress – said loudly. “There’s a thing I never thought would happen.”

  Addie turned to her, frowning. “Why? Was not Lord Baliol’s claim the largest?”

  “Why, no!” the woman chuckled. “Lord Brus had as large a claim, would ye say?”