Highlander’s Wrath by Adamina Young
The Facade Crumbles
Coira was tired of being jostled and bumped by the coach. They had been on the road for nearly a week now, and the journey still showed no sign of ending. Laird Barclay had been quick to blame this on Coira when she had asked him when the interminable expedition would reach its conclusion.
“We would even now be there if ye had nae insisted on stopping on Saturday.”
Coira was outraged. “Never tell me that you travel on Sundays—for that, I will not believe!”
Laird Barclay simply drew his lips into a thin line at these words, saying, “I will travel on whatever day I please, lass, and I’ll no’ have anyone tell me different, be it priest or pastor!”
When they had set out from the hostelry this morning, Laird Barclay had taken pity on the pale and pinched face she showed to the world when he had handed her back into the coach. He noticed the shiver of revulsion she gave as she mounted the steps.
“Are ye still angry with me, Coira?” he asked. “‘Tis no’ I who makes the road so bumpy, I assure ye.”
She had given a tiny sniff and replied, “Nay, sir, ‘tis only that I have never been so far away from home nor spent so much time in one confined space. And Miriam is not the most stimulating companion, you realize.”
Laird Barclay had stolen a glance at Coira’s stolid traveling companion and understood.
“I tell ye what. Dinnae show me that pitiful face again this day, and I’ll tell yer maid to ride up top with the coachman while we play a game of chess or two inside the coach. Would ye care for that?”
Coira’s smile at this suggestion was all that he could have wished for, so he handed his horse’s reins to the outrider, telling him to lead the way with Lancer, his gelding, instead, and Coira and he spent an enjoyable morning playing chess and cards in the coach. They whiled away the time in between chess moves or the turn of a card, talking about Laird Barclay’s household and life in the Scottish Highlands, and she was moved by his account of how troubled his son’s life had been since his mother had died.
When they broke their journey before dinner, Laird Barclay cocked an eye at the weather when he stepped down from the coach.
“How many more miles to Barclay Castle?” he asked the coachman. He recognized the mountains in front of him but had not ridden these southern roads enough to gauge the distance.
The coachman, a Sassenach through and through, replied, “The toll gate attendant told me we should reach there tomorrow at the latest, your lairdship, but I don’t like the look of that weather up ahead one bit. I think we should stop at the nearest hostelry and batten down for the night, no matter what the milestones tell us. You would not care for the lady to freeze.”
Laird Barclay knew all about the unpredictable Highland weather once travelers got this far up into the mountains. It was not yet past noon, and the mists were already creeping over the heath and through the woods.
“Aye, all right. Pull over the equipage at the next place. The outrider we took up at the last inn should ken the way to the closest hostelry. He’s from these parts.”
As happy as Coira was to hear they were to break their journey early that day, she could not help showing some impatience at the necessity.
“But there is still at least half a day’s worth of sunlight remaining,” she said to Laird Barclay as he handed her out of the coach, “and this inn looks exceedingly dingy and dirty.”
Hamish gritted his teeth and bit his tongue so as not to say the irritable words he wanted to shout out to this ungrateful girl. He was stopping their journey so she would be warm and comfortable for the night, for goodness’ sake!
But Coira was to be proved right. The inn was a hovel dedicated to serving ale and providing back rooms for wenching rather than being a well-to-do hostelry. The innkeeper was not impressed when Laird Barclay told him he was laird of the castle less than one day’s ride to the north.
“Aye, aye, I hear ye, but this is Laird MacDougal’s land hereabouts, ye ken, so it’s more than me life’s worth to hand ye bedchambers reserved for his men.”
Laird Barclay had never been spoken to in such a disrespectful fashion by anyone.
“I don’ care who yer liege laird is or who owns this land! Ye will turf someone out of their bedchamber now to make room for the lady and me! How dare ye refuse me request!”
Hearing Laird Barclay’s raised voice, Coira entered the taproom, where the conversation was taking place.
“Miriam can sleep on a truckle bed in my bedchamber, and I don’t require my own parlor. Just a hot bowl of soup sent up to my room will suffice my needs.”
The innkeeper shook his head. “I can offer ye a bed off the second landing. The boots boy sleeps there most nights, but he can make do somewhere else for now. But ye’ll have to share the bed with yer maid as it’s already a truckle bed; we hide it under the wardrobe during the day.” Here, he turned to Hamish. “As for ye, ye and yer men can bunk in the alehouse after the tap’s been shut or make do in the stables.”
Not bothering to reply, Laird Barclay ran out into the courtyard to tell his men not to unharness the horses, but it was too late in every sense. The coach horses were being led off to the stables already, and the weather looked likely to turn to icy sleet. True to his prediction, the skies lowered, and tiny shards of ice began to break upon his face. Fuming, he turned to go back into the inn.
When he found Coira inside thanking the innkeeper for his hospitality and preparing to climb the stairs with Miriam, his anger knew no bounds.
“And where d’ye think ye’re going?” he demanded of her. “Ye’ll no’ set one foot further up those stairs until we have been given bedchambers appropriate for our dignity!” He turned to the innkeeper. “If ye don’ have Laird MacDougal’s men out of the best bedchambers and my own baggage inside them within the next few moments, I will no’ be responsible for the consequences. Do ye hear me!”
His voice rang out so loud, several footmen and farmers came into the entrance hall to see what all the fuss was about. It also happened to bring Laird MacDougal’s steward and soldiers out of their bedchambers.
“What’s to do?” the men inquired.
The innkeeper made the mistake of shrugging his shoulders and rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Losh, Carnavon, ‘tis only that this fine gentleman—Laird Barclay from up north—wants yer bedchambers for his very own and bids me turf ye out—”
He did not get to finish what he was about to say. Laird Barclay had hauled the innkeeper up by the sides of his coat flaps, and his grip was tightening around the man’s neckerchief.
“What. Did. Ye. Say?”
The laird had lifted the poor innkeeper so high, the man’s face was parallel to his own while the toes of his shoes hardly touched the ground. The quaking man was given every opportunity to stare into Laird Barclay’s steely grey eyes and see the unbridled wrath in them.
Instinctively, Laird MacDougal’s soldiers stepped forward. One man foolishly drew his sword.
In one fluid motion, Laird Barclay swung the innkeeper around and flung him at the soldier with the sword. Both men collapsed in a heap on the floor, and Hamish used this chance to bend down and pick up the soldier’s sword. He held it in front of him, saying, “Right, who’s next?”
All the men cowered backward. They might not know the exact location of Barclay Castle, but its owner’s reputation as a dangerous swordsman preceded him.
Coira, who had been watching the events unfold from the stairs, shouted, “That’s enough!” She came down the steps, her body rigid with disapproval. “Leave these poor men alone, sir! They came before us, fair and square, and have every right to sleep the night in their bedchambers. Can you not see they have no wish to fight?”
Laird Barclay gave her a glance but did not lower the sword in his hand. “I don’ care who was first. I want a bed.”
Coira snorted with derision. “Then have mine! All this fuss over somewhere to sleep! I will be just as comfortable resting in the alehouse on a pallet. And I suppose you have not even bothered to consider where your own men will be spending such a cold night?”
At these words, Laird Barclay hesitated and then, finally, lowered his sword. He placed the blade point in his left hand and threw the sword hilt first toward the fallen soldier and innkeeper. “They are nae my men, ye realize,” he said, turning to Coira. “I hired them to bring ye back here…” He saw her start to frown. “But, I will go and find them somewhere to sleep first, so dinnae fret.”
As he left the hallway, a collective groan of relief was given by all the men.
“Ye should watch what ye say, Barstow,” Carnavon, the MacDougal steward, said to the innkeeper after wiping the sweat off his forehead. “That ‘fine’ gentleman’s kind facade crumbles whenever he does nae get what he wants. Do ye no’ ken who that is? That’s Blackheart Barclay ye’re messing with!”