Page 5 of Highlander’s Quest of Desire

While she was musing over these unsavory thoughts, a noise in the hall alerted her to people arriving. Who could be arriving so late to the feast?

“Where’s Laird Buchan?” someone said. “I need to speak to him now.”

“He is with Laird Labert at the feast, sir. If ye’ll follow me through here—”

“Nae! I cannae have Labert hearing of this. ‘Tis urgent. Send for Laird Buchan. Tell him Leo Sinclair is here on urgent business. But be discreet, man. No word to Laird Labert.”

This was strange. Leo Sinclair was Laird Grant’s childhood friend. She could recall faintly how Bruce Grant had defended his friend when Elspeth had made mention of his English mother long ago when they were little children. But what was he doing here instead of Laird Grant?

The alliance between Grant, Buchan, and Labert had been strained over the past few years since the death of Andrew Buchan and William Grant. They had kept the spring festival tradition alive, but the deep friendships that the fathers had tried to cultivate did not translate into their children. Domnhall did not respect the Labert boys, Bruce thought himself meant for greater glory, and the Labert boys were too busy competing among each other to give the alliance much thought. Domnhall had not expected Clan Grant to show up at all. But now Leo Sinclair, a member of Clan Grant was here seeking help without his Laird.

Leo Sinclair’s temerity to arrive late at his feast and then demand a private audience could be taken as a great offense by Domnhall. But Leo Sinclair was not known to indulge in petty power moves.

Elspeth listened intently. She slid gently off the ledge and made sure her shoes were not visible from the tapestry. Pulling the tapestry slowly, she managed to make enough space to see what was going on in the great hall.

Leo Sinclair was pacing up and down the hall, very much alone. He was taller than she’d seen him last. His light brown hair glowed bronze under the candlelight; lines of worry etched across his brow. Something was troubling him greatly, and Elspeth wondered again where Laird Grant was.

Domnhall arrived, and much as Elspeth had expected, he was bristling with annoyance at being removed from his feast by an insolent guest.

“Welcome to Blair Atholl, Sinclair,” Domnhall said, taking Leo’s hand in greeting. “Come join us at the feast.”

“Thank ye, but there is nae time,” Leo said, his distress visible on his face, and through his body language. “Ye must help us. They’ve taken Bruce!”

Elspeth nearly lost her footing behind the tapestry.

* * *

The room was damp. Bruce did not mind that it was dark and rat-infested, with only a small pinprick of a window that let in a sliver of sunlight during the day. It was the damp that got on his nerves. His skin was slick like he was enrobed in a fabric woven of grimy water.

He could no longer recall how long he’d sat in that cell with only his grief to keep him company. Time lost all meaning when the rats tittered in corners like the vile English guards laughing at him.

Bruce knew the English had it out for him. They could sense a current of dissent running through Scotland like never before. Rather than crack down upon the whole of Scotland, they planned to imprison a few significant Lairds to send a message to the rest - submit or we will make you. Laird Bruce Grant was as significant as they came.

Dunnottar Castle, his home, had become his prison. He could not leave and give the English the excuse they needed.

But for one man.

News of John McLean, the Bishop of Orkney reached Bruce a month ago. His uncle was dying and wished for nothing but to see Bruce before God called him to his final rest. How could Bruce deny him that? He had left Dunnottar by way of the sea in the pitch black of a moonless night. Only a handful of his most trusted men had known of his departure.

He had raced to Orkney, praying he wasn’t late. When he had finally reached his uncle’s bedside, the man before him was a husk of the memory Bruce held dear in his heart.

“Bruce! The Honors. I have found the Honors!”

Bruce wasn’t sure if his earnest speech was the result of fever-induced delirium or knowing that the end was nigh.

He had patted the Bishop’s burning forehead with soaked cloth, but the fever burned through him. It was a fire that consumed him from within.

“Ye must nae tire yourself,” he had soothed. “We can talk of the legends once yer better.”

“’Tis nae legend, son,” he had clutched Bruce’s hand. The look of deep earnest in his eyes belied Bruce’s doubt. “I’ve found them. I traced the map to the ruins on Inchmurrin. The map will lead ye to their resting place.”

“Are ye certain?” Bruce asked, hardly daring to believe it, but when had the Bishop ever lied to him? “Did ye see the map yerself?”

“Aye,” the Bishop had wheezed, sucking air into lungs that were collapsing under the weight of living. “I have seen it with my eyes, I have touched it with my hands, I have cried tears of joy on it.” His excitement took too much from him, and he gave into a coughing fit that made his pale skin ashy and highlighted the dark circles under his eyes.

Bruce had rubbed salve onto his chest and marveled at how thin he had become. Bruce had not counted on losing another parent in his life. When his father had died he had been too overwhelmed with his new role as Laird and its responsibilities to have had time to grieve properly. His mother’s passing had been a shock in how sudden the smallpox had spread and taken her. He had been tending to the sick tenants and clan members, trying to salvage as many lives as he could to mourn her fully.

But this was different. He could feel the waning heartbeat of the Bishop under his fingertips, he could see the tears and the sheer desperation to be believed in his eyes. And Bruce’s own heartstrings fell to pieces at the sight.