The Highlander's Welsh Bride: Book 5 in the Hardy Heroines series Read online

  Their da had taught them both woodcraft and how to hunt at an early age, something all Cymry learned, even nobility. She speculated they’d spent more time in the woods than on their small holding while growing up. Cymru’s mountainous terrain was unfit for farming, though they grew enough crops and livestock in their small vale to allow them and their tenants to prosper. Like Mal and his family, they’d kept sheep, pigs, chickens and a few goats.

  Hywel tapped her on the shoulder. “Sister mine, ’tis time to find our rest and allow these fine people to sleep.”

  Carys nodded and sat upright, blinking against the red glow of the banked fire. She must have dozed. “My thanks for yer generosity,” she murmured.

  “Ye are welcome to sleep before the fire. ’Tis too cold in the barn this time of year,” Mal said.

  Carys smiled. “We’ve slept on the ground the past several nights. Yer barn will be a welcome comfort. Besides, we’ll be off afore light and do not wish to disturb ye.”

  “Here, at least take some laverbread for yer journey,” Alis said as she handed Hywel a linen-wrapped bundle.

  He accepted the gift. “Dduw bendithia eich teulu,”

  Mal smiled. “May God bless your family as well.”

  Carys and Hywel settled deep into a straw-filled stall and tucked their cloaks and blankets around them. Carys nestled into her seal fur-lined cloak, a wedding day gift from Terwyn. He’d taken her wool cloak without her knowledge and his mother and sister had sewn the hide of a seal he’d killed into the wrap. Too flustered by the details of her wedding day, she never realized the cloak was missing until he’d offered the sumptuous gift. Tears brimmed her eyes as Carys recalled the joy of receiving something so thoughtful and practical. More than a warm garment, it was a sign of a caring husband and of acceptance by the women in his family.

  From her pocket, Carys fished out the ring she’d claimed earlier in the day from the dead man. She took her own ring, the thin gold band Terwyn had given her at their wedding, and placed it on the chain with the other. She then drew them around her neck, the cold metal soothing against her skin. The delicate filigree circlet was obviously a woman’s ring and she wondered who it had belonged to. Had the soldier purchased it as a gift for his wife? If so, there was an Englishwoman soon to be grieving the loss of her husband. Her mother told her once, men went to war while women bore the burden of it. Carys hadn’t understood what she meant at the time. She did now.

  Rising before the sun, she nudged her brother awake. “Time to be on our way, Hywel.”

  Hywel stretched and walked to the back of the barn to relieve himself. Gathering their weapons, they resumed their journey. Breaking their fast with a piece of laverbread as they walked, Carys recalled when her mother taught her how to make the staple. Boil seaweed for hours until soft, then chop it fine and roll in oats before baking or frying. Alis had baked this batch, making it harder, ensuring it traveled well. Carys carefully tucked the memory of her mam away and sent a silent blessing to Alis for her thoughtfulness.

  Though unlikely the English were nearby, Hywel set a brisk pace to devour the miles between them and the coast.

  “Where exactly are we headed?” Carys asked, eager to learn of his plan.

  “Aberystwyth is the nearest port of any size. We should reach the Rheidol River today. It will lead us to Aberystwyth and to the sea. From there we can find a ship to take us to either Éire or Scotland.”

  “Which has better forests?” Carys wondered, anxious to return to a familiar life.

  “Scotland, I think. ’Tis the larger of the two. Vikings and their decedents still hold parts of the northern end. We can either buy passage when we sell the sword and the daggers ye took, or we can hire on as crew for a merchant vessel. Either way, ’tis time to find another home, though it pains me to say.”

  Carys frowned as she considered their future. “We’d die within the year battling the English if we remained. I do not fear dying but would rather not throw my life away fighting for a hopeless cause.”

  Hywel dipped his head. Treachery among their kinsmen had cost them dearly.

  As predicted, they met the Rheidol by noon and followed it toward the sea. They exchanged two grouse and a pheasant for another hot meal, more laverbread, dried meat, and a night in a barn. The third morning they encountered the coast.

  Carys and her brother stood on a hill overlooking the seaside hamlet of Aberystwyth. The sun lay just behind the mountains to the east, sending orange and pink streaks to announce the day’s arrival. The briny smell of the ocean filled her nose. A crying seagull wheeled in the brisk wintry air. She saw no sign of English soldiers, nor were any naval vessels moored nearby. The small fishing village appeared to be awakening to a new day as if unaffected by recent events.

  “Come, sister mine. We will need to find a ship quickly as they will want to sail with the tide.”

  They trotted toward the docks where fishermen—their nets at the ready—launched, and merchant vessels—both large and small—loaded goods.

  “Wait for me here,” Hywel said, handing her his bow and javelin.

  Her brother’s easy style gained the attention of the old men gathered around the pier closest to them. Hywel said something to make the men laugh then shook his hand in greeting. One old man pointed toward another dock. Her brother patted him on the shoulder and strode back to her. Carys grinned.

  “What?” Hywel asked as he approached, his smile mirroring hers.

  “Ye could charm the Almighty Himself if given half the chance.”

  “Mayhap, but I have found us a boat. The captain sails around Scotland, trading as he goes.”

  She nodded approval and stepped in behind him, the hood of her cowl pulled low. They passed taverns and inns, the aroma of cooking food in the air.

  “Wait, here, Princess,” Hywel teased, “and I will sell the steel we took from the English to yon blacksmith.”

  Carys punched his arm. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

  His eyes softened “Aye, I do, but ye are a true princess of Cymru.”

  “As ye are a true prince, Brother.”

  Hywel offered a sad smile and removed the signet ring given him by their father, a symbol of his place in the royal house. The heavy gold ring was embossed with the Dragon of Cymru, Llywelyn’s symbol.

  “Keep it safe with yer others,” he bade, then strode toward a building, smoke rising from its stone chimney.

  Carys surreptitiously placed the ring on her chain and watched Hywel enter the smith’s shop, her nose twitching at the scent of baked goods. She spotted a vender selling fresh meat pies and bought four bundled in a cloth.

  A gnarled hand grasped Carys’s arm. “Ye’ve the stench of death on ye, lass.”

  Carys wheeled, meeting the gaze of a half-blind old woman, her milky eyes staring from a deeply wrinkled face.

  “Aye, nain,” Carys replied kindly. “I’ve just come from battle where our beloved prince was struck dead by the English.”

  The old woman clucked her tongue. “Dreadful news that is, indeed. What I sense is not simply the death behind ye, though there be plenty, but the death afore ye.”

  A pit gaped in Carys’s stomach at the thought of more loss. “What shall I do?” she asked, her voice a choked whisper.

  The old crone patted her arm. “It matters not, fy merchd. Stay or go. Death follows ye like a hound. Though if ye leave this day, ’twill send yer own death into the distant future.”

  Stunned by the prediction, she absently handed the old woman one of her meat pies and settled a brief kiss on the wrinkled brow. “God be with ye, nain,” she whispered.

  “And with you, daughter.” The woman accepted Carys’s gift and blended into the crowd.

  Carys strode toward Hywel as he left the smithy and handed him his pies.

  He gave her a pleased grin. “The English may be a curse upon the land, but their steel isn’t. The blades fetched a good price. Hmm, this is good,” he mumbled around a mouth
ful of lamb and root vegetables as he took a bite.

  “If we are to be at sea, there’s no saying when we’ll have an opportunity to eat anything other than fish for a while,” Carys replied distractedly, still stunned by the prophecy she’d received.

  Finishing their pies, they hurried to the pier as one vessel prepared to sail and two others finished loading.

  Hywel approached a sturdy man whose shock of red hair gleamed in the morning light. “Captain Ferguson?”

  “Aye, I’m Murdoc Ferguson,” the ruddy man replied. A sandy-colored Cymru Shepherd marked with a black saddle and white belly bounded next to Ferguson, its front paws on the rail. The man placed a hand on the dog’s head. “Easy, Dewr.”

  Carys pulled her cowl low over her face to hide her features and smiled at the dog’s name—brave in her native tongue. Dewr was much like the dogs their father’s sheep herder kept.

  “I was told ye are in need of hands,” Hywel said.

  “Do either of ye know yer way around a boat?”

  “Aye. Our uncle was a fisherman at Holyhead. We grew up fishing the bay.”

  Though not completely the truth, it wasn’t a lie, either. The two of them did have an uncle who was a fisherman and they did go out many times, but neither was much of a sailor.

  “Are ye handy with those bows?” the captain asked, eying their weaponry.

  “We both recently were archers in the prince’s service, and I can shoot an Englishman betwixt his eyes afore he ever hears me,” Hywel said with a wink.

  “And yer brother?” Ferguson asked.

  “This one?” Hywel patted Carys on the shoulder. “This one has always been a better shot, though I win on distance.”

  Captain Ferguson nodded once. “I sail through the day, hugging the shore, then land at night. I make me way up the coast of Éire, then the Scottish Lowlands, Highlands, and the inner isles. Depending on how well the weather holds and the trading goes, I’ll be gone three months or more. Does that suit ye?”

  “Aye, it does, though we aim to stay in the Highlands. Will that leave ye in a bind?” Hywel asked.

  Ferguson waved a hand in the air. “Nae. This fight with the English has taken all the lads I’d usually hire here, so I’ll take the two of ye and be glad of it. We should be able to find more hands along the way.”

  He named their wages and duties. The ship was a single-masted birlinn with a square sail and ten oars, though there were only twelve hands plus the captain, leaving four oars unmanned. The work would be hard, but it would take them beyond Edward’s reach.

  Hywel and Carys shook hands with the captain then assisted the other men loading the boat, rolling barrels across the gangplank and stacking them mid-ships. Her height and the calluses she’d gained drawing a bow and swinging a sword helped Carys pass as an older lad. None paused to peer through her disguise. The dog, however, gave them both a good sniffing.

  “Dewr likes to get to know her crew,” the captain noted. “She’s canny as a selkie and protects the boat. When we’re a’port, she’ll keep a weather eye on the ship fer us.”

  Carys smiled at the mix of Gaelic and Cymraeg the captain used while speaking. She’d traveled enough to have developed an ear for Gaelic, Erse, and a smattering of English. Ferguson’s speech gleaned words from each.

  A sturdy red-haired boy of perhaps fifteen summers, a splatter of freckles across his sun-burned nose, approached them with a friendly grin. He stuck out his hand in greeting. “I’s Tully. ’Tis me da’s boat. I love boats,” he said in a manner more befitting a lad of four or five rather than one at the cusp of manhood.

  Hywel shook his hand and gave the lad a warm smile. “’Well met, Tully. I’m Hywel and here’s my younger brother.”

  Tully nodded vigorously, his smile widening. “S’times they call me, Stew. I ken how to make stew. I’s thirteen summers, though da says I’s big for me age.”

  Carys’s heart immediately warmed toward the boy. Though it was plain to see he was simple, he had a good heart and a strong back. The fact Ferguson brought his boy along instead of hiding him away made her respect the captain more.

  “Tully m’lad, leave them be to finish their work so we can shove off,” Ferguson bellowed.

  “Aye, Da,” the boy replied, undaunted by his father’s loud rebuke. Tully snapped his fingers and Dewr followed him to a bench where he took his place at an oar.

  Once loaded, they pushed off and raised sail, catching the outgoing tide and morning breeze, leaving the small bay behind.

  A large ship emerged on the horizon. “Bloody English,” Captain Ferguson spat.

  Hywel quickly recounted the events of the past month to the captain and crew.

  “To oars,” the captain shouted. “I dinnae wish to give the bastards a chance tae get close. The Seabhag can outrun their lumbering cogs any day. That’s it, lads. Show the bloody English who rules these seas.”

  Carys sat on the bench beside her brother, grasped the oar and mimicked his movements. The oar wasn’t terribly heavy and she was strong from her years with the long bow, but she doubted her ability to row for hours on end. They settled into a steady rhythm, moving the Seabgag swiftly across the water. One thing was certain, she would be stronger after this trip. With the wind and tide in their favor, they kept the English ship at a distance and ceased rowing once the cog abandoned the chase and made for port.

  Hywel leaned over and whispered, “How’d ye fare?”

  Carys shrugged. “’Tis nothing I cannot and will not do daily. I only fear not being able to keep up with you when we have to row for most of a day.”

  “Don’t worry. Ye’ll grow stronger as we go along, and the wind never ceases to blow this time of year. Besides, he needs the hands. Ferguson will see how hard ye work. By the time he realizes ye’re a woman, we’ll be either in Éire or Scotland. If he insists we leave, at least we’ll be a few coins richer and farther away from the English.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MacLean Castle

  Morvern, Scotland

  Birk shifted in his chair, steadying himself against the urge to dismiss the entire council arranged before him in the great hall. He resented being recalled to MacLean Castle like a disobedient lad. Managing the improvements to Dairborrodal Castle overlooking the Sound of Mull from a promontory on the Ardnamurchan Peninsula kept his mind off both the past and the future. With the elder council calling him to task once again, he could deny the future no longer.

  “They look a right solemn bunch,” Dugan noted quietly with a short nudge to Birk’s ribs.

  He and Birk both glanced up as a dark-haired woman approached the table, her rounded belly giving her a bit of a waddling gait. Rising to pull out the empty chair to his right, Birk seated his older half-sister carefully. She lowered herself to the chair with one hand pressed to the small of her back. The council rose to its collective feet, a short bow to Gillian instead of the words of rebuke Birk had grown accustomed to.

  “They are solemn,” she shot back at Dugan. She adjusted her sights on Birk. “And if ye would only come down from that ancient pile of stones on Ardnamurchan long enough to take a wife—and breed an heir—I wouldnae be drawn into this.” She sighed heavily. “’Tis nae enough my husband is away on the king’s business and cannae attend this council in my place, but I am still weeks away from delivering this bairn, and as such, my discomfort means little to these auld men gathered.” She indicated the elder council with a curt nod.

  Birk covered her hand with his in a comforting gesture. “I would not have agreed to have them send for ye, even if ye are the only other remaining MacLean. Though I mean no disrespect to Ma or Signy.” He managed a grin at the thought of his other half-sister, completely unrelated to Gillian, who had lived with them for only a handful of years before marrying a man from the Isle of Mull. Despite her short time at MacLean Castle, she and Birk had been very close for she had treated him as the brother she’d lost to the Scot raiders who’d destroyed their village years earlier.
Though their da, Alex, had been able to bring Signy home to his grieving soon-to-be wife, nothing had ever been heard of Sten, and a memorial stone had eventually been quietly placed in Hanna’s garden.

  Gillian sent him a pensive look. “They have grown more determined since Da passed away. I dinnae know how ye keep from dispensing with the lot of them.”

  The twinge of guilt he always felt when reminded of his da’s passing bit then was gone. No matter how much he wished it otherwise, his da had lived long past the years given to most men, and the lung fever had not been an enemy he could defeat.

  “Mayhap they will offer ye the lairdship. Ye already have two heirs growing nicely at home.” He cocked his head. “And from the looks of ye, mayhap twins this time.”

  “Perish the thought—on both accounts. ’Tis unlikely they’d offer it to a woman, and I have enough on my hands, thank ye verra much.” She frowned. “I can think of things I’d rather have offered me—a trip across the sound in a storm, for one. Which reminds me, we’ve had verra strong tides of late. I hope none of yer ships have been inconvenienced.”

  Birk shook his head. “Nae. I’ve none reporting damage or mishaps. Weather worry isnae new.”

  “And ye have good captains,” Gillian replied, rubbing a hand across her belly.

  “Is something bothering ye?” Birk asked, offering faint courtesy. Though he’d two bairns of his own, Rose hadn’t invited his interest in the proceedings. As always, thoughts of his deceased wife inspired a frown and a swell of anger. At least he could face his daughters with the knowledge they were his and not another man’s. They’d inherited their dark hair and slightly olive colored skin from him, and did not resemble their red-haired, pale-skinned ma at all.

  As if Gillian sensed his train of thought, she patted his hand.

  “How are my nieces? Did ye bring them with ye, or did ye leave them in that pile of rocks at Dairborrodal Castle?”

  “Abria and Eislyn send ye their love,” Birk said. “They are with their grandma if ye wish to see them.” He tossed her a mischievous look. “You should ask her how she, the dowager baroness, managed to escape the council’s summons.”