Book 1
Alex is now 70 years old, but he still has wisdom to share.
Sometimes about the English, about death, and even stablemasters…
Chapter Three
Alex as the elder, always in his favorite spot…
They arrived at the gates of Grant Castle, the wind whistling through the pines as they galloped through the meadow. The portcullis opened as soon as they neared the entrance, the men on the curtain wall recognizing them instantly.
It was a sad testament that they kept the gates locked at all times. They never knew when or if the English would attack. The cousins dismounted once near the stables, and Alasdair tossed the reins to one of the stable lads and hastened toward the keep. He passed Aunt Gracie, Els’s mother, who stopped to give him a hug before continuing on to greet her son.
“The lairds?” he asked.
“Off on a visit to our neighboring clans,” she said as she stepped away. “They’ll be back in a few days.”
A few moments later, his uncle Finlay, Alick’s sire, called out to him from the lists. “He’s in his usual spot awaiting your report.”
“Thank you, Uncle!” he said, hurrying on toward the keep. Once there, he threw the door open, found the staircase, and took the steps two at a time until he reached the top floor. He then hurried down the hall to the end of the passageway and made his way up the final flight of stairs. When he reached the top, he opened the door carefully, always cautious around the old man.
Alexander Grant, his namesake, sat in his stone chair, built into the wall of the parapets, his favorite place in the world. At nearly seventy summers, the man was ancient, but his mind was as sharp as the tip of the sword he still polished every night.
“Greetings, Grandsire.”
“Alasdair, I noticed your arrival. Tell me what you discovered. Anything new?”
“Nay. The English are bastards, but we already knew that. I fear Edward will not stop until he subdues all of the Scottish rebels. He thinks we’ve succumbed, given in to his rule. We all know better. Our quest for freedom will never die.”
His grandfather stared off over the edge of the crenellations, something he often did when a memory came to him. They’d all been given strict instructions to let him be during those times, simply because it was probably something he relished.
By the look that crossed his face, however, Alasdair guessed this memory was not one of the good ones. “Are you thinking of your first battle, Grandpapa?”
“Aye.”
His grandsire had told him the story often, so much so he could probably recite the details, and yet he said, “Tell me more about it. Tell me about the lass.”
“Why do you ask?” He brought his sharp gaze back to Alasdair, probing in his silent way, ready to pick up on any change in his demeanor. His many years had made him skilled at detecting behaviors before they appeared.
“May I tell you after?” Alasdair also liked to test the old man. He would do anything for him, including carrying him up here to his favorite spot on the parapets when he struggled. Grandpapa often cursed his old bones. Alasdair noticed the finely hewn piece of wood next to him, so he knew he’d been able to make it this time with the assistance of that wood support. Sometimeshe made it on his own, but oftentimes he needed help from one of his children or grandchildren.
“I’ll never forget it, as you know, nor the look in the eye of the lass. She looked so hopeless, so resigned to her fate. Her name was Sarah. My sire knew right away it was the English who’d done it. He said they had no honor, no morals. What they did to that poor lass…” He shook his head and stared off for a few moments.
Alasdair gave him the time he needed, leaning over the stone wall and peering out over Grant land. As a younger lad, he’d thought it stretched out forever, and indeed, the land was theirs almost as far as the eye could see. Hills, valleys, burns, the loch, and mountains. It wasn’t the most fertile land, but they’d made good use of the soil they had.
“Your question, lad?”
“You often speak of the look in her eyes… I think I saw it on our journey. We happened upon a group of travelers being attacked by reivers. There was a woman who’d been abducted. I chased her kidnapper, pulled him off his horse, and brought her back to her husband.”
His grandsire tipped his head back, a sign that he had his complete attention. “And?”
“She was a beautiful Scot, but she was married to an English fool, some baron. Not quite newlyweds anymore—they’ve not been married for long, I’d guess. I cannot explain it, but after watching him for a few moments, listening to his empty words, I knew he was a bastard.”
“Trust your instincts. He probably is. Get on with the tale.” That spark of wisdom and the beam of pride in his country flashed in the old man’s gaze, something that always caught Alasdair.
“The look she gave me…it was like she was beseeching me to help her, but it passed so quickly. Almost as if I’d imagined it.Can you make any sense of it?” He was clearly worried about her, but something was not right.
“The marriage must have been forced on her. Which reminds me. I received a message from someone who believes a lass needs help. She’s the daughter of a late Scottish laird who was an ally of mine. My friend is concerned about the lass’s new husband.”
