Margo Maguire - Bride Of The Isle

She wondered if a likely husband existed in York. There was no one in St. Oln who’d have her, especially now that her father was gone. No Scotsman would willingly take a half-English wife.

Again, ’twas no matter. There was no one Cristiane was interested in having, either, though she did yearn for a man of her own, and a family. By the age of two and twenty, all the village lasses were well and truly wed, and some already had babes and wee children playing at their feet. It hurt Cristiane deeply to know that she was never to have the same pleasure.

She knew she was different from them. Besides being half-English, she had been reared separate from the other village children. Her father had tutored her in French and Latin, and she could read. She’d also had hours of leisure to explore the cliffs, and to learn the ways of the creatures that lived here.

’Twas no wonder none of the men of St. Oln would have her.

The brazen kittiwake approached, and with its long, sharp beak, quickly snatched the bit of bread from Cristiane’s hand. Then it hopped away to pick at its food and argue with the shy one over it. Cristiane closed her hand. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

She knew she had only a day or two left at St. Oln before the earl’s men came for her. ’Twas her mother’s dearest desire that Cristiane leave this poor, unfriendly land where Elizabeth had been banished by her own father so many years before. Now that her mother was dead and buried, Cristiane was compelled to carry out her last wish.

’Twas a bittersweet promise. Cristiane had no regrets over leaving the village of St. Oln, but when she traveled to the strange land to the south, she would lose the comforting presence of the familiar birds and the wee creatures that nested on her beloved cliffs.

But she had no choice in the matter. Her English-bred mother had been wife to the Mac Dhiubh, and therefore tolerated as long as there was peace in the land, and the laird was alive. But the once-prosperous St. Oln had fallen on hard times. War with the English king and with neighboring clans had made the people suspicious of all outsiders, including Lady Elizabeth and even Cristiane inghean Domhnall. Her father’s influence was no longer a force to be reckoned with.

Cristiane had always known she had ties in England. Her mother’s elder brother was the Earl of Learick, away south in the land of York, and it had been her mother’s last wish that Cristiane remove to his estates there. On her deathbed, Elizabeth had made her daughter promise to go with the earl’s men when they came for her.

Cristiane had no idea what her mother’s connection was to the Earl of Bitterlee, or why ’twas Bitterlee’s men who would come for her. By the time her mother had spoken of these plans, she had been too ill to be questioned. It still seemed strange to Cristiane that it was not her uncle who was coming for her, to take her directly to York.

Ah, well… ’twas too late now to learn any more from her mother. Elizabeth had rarely spoken of her family until the very end, so Cristiane knew little of them. Only that her mother had been disowned by her father all those years before, and sent away to St. Oln to marry Domhnall Mac Dhiubh. Domhnall had been chosen because her Yorkish uncle had known him in Paris years before.

Cristiane sighed as the first drops of rain touched her face. ’Twas spring and the weather was fine, but the rain was cold and biting. She gathered up her thin, ragged skirt and climbed to her shallow cave, where a few of her precious belongings were stored. Since no one ever came up here, Cristiane knew they were safe.

’Twas a strange provision, Adam thought, that the Mac Dhiubh girl be allowed to adjust to Bitterlee before he made her his wife. Still, he’d allowed Sir Charles to agree to it when he wrote to Elizabeth Mac Dhiubh. After all, it suited Adam’s own purposes perfectly. This way, he would not be compelled to wed the girl if she were unsatisfactory.

Nay, ’twas lucky for him that her mother had insisted she be given time to adjust to Bitterlee before he even suggested they wed. ’Twould give him time to evaluate and adjust, as well.

Adam doubted the girl would be suitable, anyway. Even if she were half-English, she’d been raised here among the lowland Scots, barbaric people who had a decided mistrust of all things English. Clan Mac Dhiubh might even be responsible for harrying English border estates.

Adam did not need a bloodthirsty Scot for a wife.

The village of St. Oln was a poor one, he thought, as he and his escort dismounted in front of its ramshackle stone church. His leg, horribly butchered during the clash at Falkirk, pained him from sitting so long in the saddle. The cold rain hadn’t helped, either. He stood still a moment as his two knights flanked him, then he limped to the church steps, glancing around him at the village.

Here lived the true victims of the wars, he thought, the people who remained after the battles, ragged and hungry and disillusioned. The villagers gathered their children and scampered into their huts in order to avoid the three hauberk-clad English knights who rode in, just as bold as could be.

“Be ye the Sassenach lord, then?” a deep masculine voice intoned from the open door at the top of the stairs.

Adam glanced up to find a grizzled old village priest looking down at him. He gave a quick nod and started up the steps.

“I thought ye’d have been here ’afore now,” the old man said, turning to move out of the rain.

“If you would tell my men where to find Lady Elizabeth,” Adam said, grateful to step into the relative warmth of the church, “they will fetch her and her daughter here.”

They’d ridden past a broken-down, stone-and-timber keep that was clearly no habitable abode for anyone. Not even a Scot. So Lady Elizabeth must be housed in one of the hovels that lined the narrow lane. Adam hoped she was not too frail to travel, thus delaying their departure from this unpleasant town.

“Nay need fer that,” the priest replied. “Everyone in St. Oln saw ye comin’—it willna be long before the lass arrives.”

“And her mother?” Adam asked.

“Passed on a fortnight ago, God rest her soul,” the priest replied, crossing himself as he spoke. “The lass is alone…truly alone now.”

The cleric’s words added a sharp chill to the cold Adam already felt clear to his bones. What now? The agreement was for Adam to escort Lady Elizabeth and her daughter to Bitterlee, where they would spend the summer. Then, if all was favorable, the lass would become his bride. If not, he would see that the two women were transported to York.

Now that she was alone, would Adam still be expected to take Lady Cristiane to Bitterlee? Did the agreement still hold?

“Come,” the priest said, dodging the trickle of rain that dripped through the leaky roof. “Warm yer bones a bit.” He led the three men to a brazier near the altar and held his own hands out to warm them. Adam and his two men did the same. “Cristiane canna remain here at St. Oln any longer. Now that both her father and her mother are gone, ’tis only a matter of time afore somethin’ happens to the lass.

“I promised her dyin’ mother I’d see that yer end of the bargain was met. Take her to yer island home, my Sassenach lord. For the lass’s own good, and safety, take her to Bitterlee with ye.”

Adam considered the priest’s words in silence. He wondered what dire consequences would occur if Lady Cristiane remained here at St. Oln. Surely they would be minor, considering that the girl had been raised here. Her father had been head of the clan. The fact that she was half-English would be forgotten now that her mother was dead.

Harsh voices outside distracted Adam from his thoughts, and he limped to the entrance of the church to see what was afoot. The rain had let up, though there was still a salty mist in the air. The people, mostly women, had come out of their dwellings and were shouting angrily at a pair of ragged people walking through their midst, the man pulling the woman by the arm.