Bruce’s prediction proved to be true, and when the road broke through the cover of woodland, it stretched out ahead of them like a winding snake, cutting through soft tufted grass.
A gray streak to the east signified a freshwater river, and the shimmering black expanse beyond it was a loch. Undulating hills rose to become stone-strewn mountains, with just enough tufted grass covering the slopes for hardy Highland livestock to graze. But the sheep and goats were still in their winter shelters. Lambing season was close.
A few rays pierced through the clouds, promising more dreich rain, but not enough to enclose the glen in cold shadow. Instead, the westering sun shone dully down on the landscape, making the long shadow seem more vibrant and picturesque, even as the chill breeze nipped at the men’s necks.
“Not a bad bit o’ land,” Roald McKay, Donald’s brother, mused to himself as the scouting party left the forest behind them. “His lairdship will be pleased.”
Bruce said nothing. He did not care if the man he served was marrying a queen. As if sensing his mood, Roald reminded Bruce, “A happy laird is a generous one, Bruce, dinnae forget! Halkerston is likely to loosen his purse strings whenever a good mood overtakes him. We should rejoice that this bride comes with such rich fields attached to her dowry!”
All this rousing statement did was make Bruce Duncan grunt before ordering Roald to ride ahead to seek out the nearest smithy where Donald’s mare could be re-shoed. He led the remainder of his men slowly along the main road, looking back every now and again to make sure that Donald was able to keep up. Despite this sign of consideration, it was obvious to the men that Bruce Duncan was chafing for the journey to end.
It was not so much the fact that he thought it a great waste of his skill as a warrior to be sent on such a paltry assignment as to make sure the coast was clear for Laird Roy Halkerston, his current master, but Bruce could not admire a man who cared for his own safety more than his future bride. Bruce imagined meeting a woman who would or could be so much more to him than just another warm body in the bed: a caring mother figure for his sister, Alice; a kind nursemaid; a loving housekeeper. But who would want to take on such a burden? He must harden his heart, shoulder his burdens, and be strong for his sister and himself because no one would ever want to help him carry the load.
They reached the castle without issue or incident, and Bruce halted Maegli at the order of the guardsmen on duty at the gates. Roald was already waiting for them at the gate; he shouted over his shoulder for his brother to stir his bones and catch up with them.
The guard held out his hand for the parchment Bruce had rolled up inside his wolf pelt sporran.
“We’re here at Laird Halkerston’s order and Laird Henderson’s request.” Bruce might have been bonded into apprenticeship while he was still a boy, but the blacksmith had not allowed the youngster to neglect his lessons: Bruce knew what Laird Halkerston had written in the message.
Leaning forward over the destrier’s withers, Bruce placed the scroll into the guard’s hand.
“His lairdship follows behind in easy stages and will arrive on the morrow.”
“Ye must be that tired, lads! Come inside.” The guard stepped aside, and the heavy castle gates were pushed open by four sentries. The courtyard leading into the forecourt of the castle yawned wide in front of the scouting party. “Stables to the right, lads. Master Angus, the steward’s boy, will meet ye there and show ye to yer lodgings.”
Bruce bent his head in relief. As much as he loved the outdoors, he would be pleased for a warm meal and a soft bed. Halkerston had insisted on a very specific path, and the journey had taken them nearly twice as long as it usually would. Each section of road scouted before the laird himself might make the journey. While the laird stayed with friends and acquaintances in fine manors across the Highlands, Bruce and his men, a day’s journey ahead of him, had made camp as best as they could with only a small fire for warmth and their wolf pelts for cover. Bruce would be happy not to have to crack the frost on his plaid when he woke in the mornings.
Leading his five men across the courtyard toward the stables, there was a collective exhalation of relief, which Bruce felt on all sides. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one sick of skinny game meat and dried berries brought out of light saddlebags.
Despite the potent smell of horse that hung about all six men, they were led to one of the castle side entrances: to their right was a well-kept guard room for the men at arms who stood on night duty. As for the wide stone staircase that went up to the living quarters, it promised them the home comforts they had so sorely been denied along the frozen roads. The stone was pristine clean, the stables well organized, and the livestock that bleated out from their stalls were plump and well-fed. Several young boys ran about the place, securing bags of hay and filling troughs with fresh water.
The view beyond the stables of the castle itself was pleasing to the eye. Pennants bearing the Henderson crest and motto fluttered merrily from the turrets, and several windows displayed bunting. The structure’s only blemish was one side of the eastern block that was murky with smoke and soot as if a fire had once damaged the surface of the stone. Over its shadows, however, a brilliant green vine had begun to grow, stretching across the masonry and hiding the darkness from view.
“Sir?”
Bruce glanced down to find a young pageboy eager to take the saddlebags he was carrying.
“If ye’ll permit it, master, I think yer mount would be thankful for a rubdown. Can I tell the groom to see to it?”
Bruce grunted in the affirmative.
He could not care less about all these pointless formalities. He was to meet with Laird Halkerston at another chieftain’s estate the following morning to guide him on the last leg of his journey, and he could not relax until his mission was complete. His silence, however, was not off-putting to the boy who chattered happily enough.
“She’s the heaviest destrier I’ve ever seen! The mare’s dam and sire must have been giants!”
Bruce relented. “Aye, lad, ye’ve hit the truth there. But look at me. D’ye doubt we match up well, that horse an’ I!”
This made the pageboy laugh, “I didnae wish to mention it, sir, but aye, ye’re almost as large as yer warhorse.”
Bruce ruffled the young boy’s hair, saying he was prone to exaggeration, but the pageboy shook his head. “Nay, sir! Did ye hit yer head on the ceiling beams?”
They chatted together as the boy showed Bruce the washroom where the men might refresh themselves before supper and where they might lay down their bolsters for the night. There was no conversation about taking a pail of water to the kitchen for heating. They were Highlanders, men who would laugh at the offer of washing with warm water, even at the tail end of winter.
“I must go speak with yer smithy, lad,” Bruce said. “We did not find one in the village outside yer castle walls, an’ one o’ me men’s horses shed its shoe.” He ran back down to the stables, where he found a small group of admiring grooms standing around Maegli.
“How much weight in stone can the mare carry?” one asked. “The only other horse with such a fine bloodline is Lady Laura’s,” said another.
“Awomanhas a better horse than Maegli?” Bruce scoffed. “I think no’!”
