Page 127 of Highlanders for the Holidays
Chapter 2
November, 1426
The Highlands, near the Forth of Moray
Connor MacCallen lookedout the small, narrow window of his private study at the beauty of his lands: rolling hills covered in brown grass which had yet to see a touch of winter snow, lay dormant and quiet. Not far from the keep was a small hill, a bump really in comparison to the larger, grander hills that lay beyond. There, just outside the gardens, at the top of that bump, stood three wych elms. During the warmer months, mothers did their sewing as they sat on bright blankets watching bairns play at their feet, or the older children chase one another. Now, the space sat empty. But he knew that, come spring, the hill would be filled once again with mothers, babes, and bairns. And none of those women or children would belong to him. He had no wife anymore. No children of his own.
On the west side of the keep, his men trained for battle. He could not see them, but he could hear the distinct sound of metal clanking against metal, commanders shouting at the younger men—their grunts, curses and laughter.
Inside the keep, his people were excitedly preparing for the upcoming Yuletide. Evergreens and holly were hung in nearly every room, special foods were being prepared, and soon, he and his brothers would carve a special log to be burned on Yuletide’s eve.
No matter the time of year, these lands were paradise, heaven on earth, no others more beautiful or more serene.
’Twas also the most lonely of places.
With arms crossed over his broad chest, he leaned his blonde head against the sill as he continued to stare with a heavy, melancholy heart at his lands.
These tranquil moments would not last long if he could not broker a peace accord with the Randalls. How long their clans had been at war was anyone’s guess. Decade after decade of warring for a reason or reasons no one could now remember. Now ’twas up to him to find a way to end it. He could only hope that Alec Randall wanted peace as much as he.
If only their new King, James the First, would leave them all the bloody hell alone, Connor was certain peace could be had.
“Are ye ready?”
The question, he was certain, had little to do with where his mind had been. He needn’t look to see who was standing behind him. ’Twas his grandminny, Bruanna, a woman as old as dirt.
With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the window. “For what?”
When she furrowed her brow as she was now doing, it deepened the lines of age that creased a once quite beautiful face. Light from the candles that were scattered here and there, glanced off her pewter hair. Tapping her walking stick once against the stone floor, she said, “To go to the wishin’ well, ye daft boy!”
God’s bones, be it that time already?
“I cannae take ye this time. Ask Braigh,” he told her.
She cracked the stick against the floor again, this time a wee more forcefully than last. “I will nae ask Braigh!”
“Grandminny, I have too much to do this day.”
She’d not give in. “Ye ken why,” she reminded him. “Ye and Imustgo today.”
He let loose a breath of frustration. They’d been taking the same trek almost every year for the past 28 of his life—minus the time he spent fostering with the MacKinnons. A trek that took nearly half a day now, because she refused to ride a horse or be carried by wagon, and insisted they walk. “Grandminny—”
She cut off his protest. “Do nae tell me how busy ye be. I ken ye be chief and I ken what it involves. I be no’ some dimwitted auld woman who cannae even chew her own food or does nae ken the day of the week. We must leave now or we’ll miss the time.”
Every year was the same. Every year, on the anniversary of his grandfather’s birth, they would go to the wishing well to make special wishes. They had to be at that blasted wishing well before the four o’clock hourelst the wish will nae come true,or so Bruanna believed. Connor didn’t give much credence to wishes or fairies or any of the other things his Grandminny believed in.
He tried again to reason with her. His words fell on deaf ears.
“We must go today,” she told him, undeterred. “This may verra well be me last chance.”
’Twas the same ploy she’d been using for years now.I be gettin’ on in years. I dunnae ken how many more days I have left.
Years of experience with the woman who had helped raise him, who had outlived all of her own children—and rumor had it was there when Christ was born—told him arguing was futile.
“Verra well,” he said with a measure of resignation. Arguing with Bruanna was as pointless as trying to move a mountain of dirt with one hand. “But let us nae tarry long, fer Idohave important work.”
Her frown evaporated instantly, replaced with a smile that showed three missing bottom teeth. “Thank ye, grandson. Have I ever told ye that ye be me favorite?”
Taking her gently by the elbow, he smiled. “All the time, unless I have vexed ye, for then Braigh and Ronald are yer favorites.”
