The Laird's Bastard Daughter (The Highland Warlord Series Book 1) Read online

  The Laird’s Bastard Daughter

  TESSA MURRAN

  Copyright

  The Laird’s Bastard Daughter by Tessa Murran

  Highland Warlords Series – Book One

  www.tessamurran.com

  © 2019 Tessa Murran

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  Visit the author’s website at www.tessamurran.com or Twitter @tessamurran

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by http://www.StunningBookCovers.com

  To my fearless, feisty and funny daughter.

  You are, and will always be, my greatest achievement in this life.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In 1314 the supporters of Robert the Bruce, outnumbered three to one, starving and ill-equipped, faced off against a mighty English army that was meant to crush them and sound the death knell of Scottish independence. The English were confident in their superiority. They had thousands of knights, well-trained, the flower of English chivalry, all the great barons and nobles of England, astride their heavy horse, along with Welsh bowman and Irish infantry. But the Scots stood firm in the face of the English onslaught and held the lines at the battle of Bannockburn.

  Scotland’s fight for independence from England was of epic proportions. To go up against the English took guts and Robert the Bruce had them to spare. By the time the Scots faced off at Bannockburn, he had been in outright rebellion against the English for years. His bid for the throne of Scotland had already cost him dearly. His wife and child had been imprisoned, his brothers slaughtered, his lands had been taken, and he had been excommunicated.

  Bit by bit, castle by burnt castle, he reclaimed Scotland until the only stronghold standing between him and control of the country was the formidable Stirling castle, which dominated the area just north of the English border. With its garrison under siege by Scottish forces, and its resistance weakening, the English were raising a vast army to come to its aid. It was a now or never chance to meet them head on and gain the throne he had so long coveted, and Robert the Bruce determined to take it, no matter what. A grisly fate awaited him should he fail, and that same fate awaited the clans who stood beside him.

  It can’t have been easy if you were one of those lairds to choose a side. Belief in a free Scotland and belief in the Bruce’s ability to unite warring factions was all that compelled you to rush, headlong, into the carnage of fourteenth-century warfare. I don’t know what kind of man Robert the Bruce was, but I am pretty sure he was a brave one, and he would, most definitely, have been a ruthless one.

  I was lucky enough to visit Stirling Castle few years ago, on a bitterly cold day in December when the wind cut right through me. It is a daunting place, set high on a rocky plateau, visible for miles around. In medieval times it would have been a terrifying symbol of power. A fine statue of Robert the Bruce stares out from the castle gates across the valley towards the Wallace monument, a Victorian folly now home to a museum chronicling the life of William Wallace, one of Scotland’s most famous sons. He did not have the good fortune of Robert the Bruce. He did not get to see Scotland gain the freedom he fought so hard for.

  So the ghosts of these two great pillars of Scottish history stand opposite each other under the mountains and vast sky. Standing on the battlements of Stirling Castle, you really do feel the weight of the struggle these men faced. I hope I do them justice with my tale of Ravenna and Cormac’s fight to find love, as Scotland and England come to death grips at the battle of Bannockburn.

  Many of the characters in The Laird’s Bastard Daughter are entirely fictitious, but some, such as King Robert ‘the Bruce’ and James ‘Black’ Douglas, are written into history. As far as events at Bannockburn are concerned, I have tried to stay true to accounts of how the battle unfolded, but I have had to take liberties with history, here and there, for the sake of my story.

  The Laird’s Bastard Daughter is Book One in my Highland Warlords Series but can be read as a standalone book.

  Details of my three-book Highland Wolf Series follow at the end of this book.

  To find out what’s coming next check out my website at www.tessamurran.com or via Twitter, @tessamurran.

  Prologue

  Mauldsmyre Castle - Scottish Highlands

  January 1311 - St Agnes Eve

  Ravenna shivered as she loosed her tunic and let it sink to the floor. Her stomach growled as she shook free her hair, letting it fall in a dark cloud around her shoulders. It was well past midnight, and she hadn’t eaten since the night before. The hunger was bearable, but she wasn’t sure if the cold was, her body was tight and pale with it, and the small fire was barely taking the chill from the room.

  ‘Come on, don’t be shy, we all agreed to do this,’ she said to the other five girls around her. When she loosed her kirtle and let it fall, they all giggled at her nakedness, and then followed suit. Ravenna was curious about the others. All shapes and sizes they were, some plump and rosy as they blossomed into womanhood, with rounded bellies and wide, soft thighs, some skinny and delicate, with collar bones jutting out and tiny, budding breasts. Did she look different, after what he’d done? Was his mark upon her now, changing her outside as well as in?

  ‘What’s next?’ asked Beigis, soft, blonde and as wide-eyed as a fawn.

  ‘Do as I do, exactly, and no more talking or she won’t come to you.’

  Taking a deep breath, and with a little smile at her own foolishness, Ravenna walked backwards towards her pallet until the back of her ankles came up against it. She lay down naked upon it, her only covering her hair, through which her full breasts thrust upwards. How shameful they looked, those white peaks, and lush too in the moonlight streaming in through the small window set high in the wall. Shame warmed her cheeks, and she clasped her hands together and covered herself lower down. Her fingers were icy against the dark triangle of hair between her legs.

  They had already braved the cold, this group of friends, running out giggling at midnight to a nearby fallow field to throw grain upon the frozen soil, one by one. This was supposed to invoke the spirit of St Agnes, long since martyred for pledging her virginity to God and refusing to give up her virtue to men’s lust. It was a long-standing tradition at Mauldsmyre Castle that when you fell asleep on St Agnes Eve, your future husband would come to you in a dream, to kiss you. So here they all were, in a fever of anticipation.

  ‘Does St Agnes Eve have to fall on the coldest night of the year? No wonder she died a martyr if she endured even half of this,’ whispered Beigis, through chattering teeth.

  ‘It will all be worth it to see him in your dreams,’ replied Ravenna. ‘Now we must all try to fall asleep and no more talking.’

  ‘But what if he’s ugly?’ said one girl.

  ‘Or nasty and old?’ said another.

  ‘Then on your wedding night you will have to open your legs, grit your teeth and dream of someone else,’ said Ravenna, with laughter in her voice.

  ‘Like Lachlan Drummond perchance, he is so big and manly, have you seen the size of his hands?’ sniggered Eithne, who was a
bold flirt and had been carrying a torch for the big lump of a Drummond lad for quite some time. Everyone in the room knew she was not talking about his hands.

  Ravenna giggled. ‘Hush now, Eithne or St Agnes will not come, and you will never know who is to be your future husband.’

  On this cold St Agnes Eve, when she fell asleep, Ravenna was hoping to dream about a very special man. The older women around Mauldsmyre Castle all swore that if you followed the rituals faithfully, fasting all day, washing thoroughly, going naked into your bed, then on the eve of St Agnes, you would be rewarded with a vision of the man who would claim your heart and your body. It was an old superstition passed down through generations of Gowan women and Ravenna trusted in it completely. It had been easy to pull the other girls along with her as all they ever talked about was how handsome and honourable was this young man or that, and how they longed to be wed, to be a married woman with a husband for protection.

  Ravenna stared up at the firelight, licking across the ceiling and smiled. If only they knew what secrets she kept, what delights she guarded inside her head.

  All she could think about these days was him - his tall, rangy body, his agonisingly beautiful face, that of a poet and not the warrior that he was. His face was vivid in her mind, green eyes, made haunting by lilac shadows beneath, fine features and a wide mouth that brought her such pleasure. Brandan Robertson was all she would think about tonight, as she did every night since she had given her heart to him.

  He was the first young man to pay court to her, to see her as something other than the Laird’s bastard, the lowest of the low. They had started with a few sweet moments, stolen in secret, in the stables or the woods around Mauldsmyre, mouths feverishly claiming each other, bellies pressed together in rapture. Before long, his high regard had softened her untrusting nature, and she had given him her heart. Recently she had given her body too, his to do with as he pleased, and she had done so freely, loving him beyond bearing and wanting to bind him to her forever.

  They had come together awkwardly and a little painfully at first, but there had been love and tenderness too and, just lately, something building inside her as she lay with him, tantalising and powerful, just out of reach. The thought of his pale, hard body pressing urgently against hers made her face glow hot. She had to have him, she needed the certainty that he would be hers, always, and she wanted St Agnes to show it to her.

  Eventually, the other girls stopped fidgeting and giggling and Ravenna was lulled off to sleep by their soft breathing and, in the depths of the night, a dream did come to her. But it was terrifying, and the one who appeared was not Brandan, but someone monstrous, as if drawn from the pit of hell. A dark man, big, brutish, smeared in blood and screaming in anger, with eyes as dark and bleak as a tomb. The gloom around him shifted, and he was turned to a bird, a giant raven, squatting on her chest. It regarded her with a cold, black eye and then stabbed at her with its vicious beak, into her chest, again and again, until it tore her heart free of her body, wrenching it out in a gush of blood.

  Ravenna awoke with a gasp and sat upright, trembling, in her cold bed. The others were still asleep and the only sound was her ragged breathing. Something wet ran down her face. She wiped at it and was relieved to find that it was only tears, not blood. How long had it been since she cried? She never did, for she saw it as a weakness. Ravenna clutched the blankets around her and put a clenched fist to her chest, now gripped by a dull ache.

  This could not be right, this vision, it was just a nightmare. St Agnes had not come to her after all. Could it be because she wasn’t worthy? Could it be because Brandan didn’t love her?

  ***

  Come the morning, the skies had darkened, and sleet was blowing in across the moors, spattering against the walls of the keep and turning the air frigid. Ravenna headed for her spot at the back of her father’s hall, wishing she could be closer to the front nearer the fire’s warmth, but it was not her place. She sat alone, shivering in the shadows, at the mercy of the wind whining in from the open doorway behind her. Brandan was nowhere to be seen, and that just made the disappointment of last night’s ritual keener.

  Beigis came up to her and handed her a bowl of oats and milk. ‘I put honey in it for sweetness,’ she said kindly.

  Ravenna gave her a weak smile. ‘Where are all the men?’

  ‘Ridden out. There’s a threat they have to deal with.’

  ‘The English?’

  No, not this time. It’s the Buchanans again.’

  ‘Can my father not let it rest?’

  ‘When have you ever seen him do that?’

  ‘Why stir the pot now, when we’ve had peace and quiet these last months?’

  Beigis frowned. ‘I have no idea Ravenna, but I do know this much, no good will come of it.’

  Coira came sidling up to her. ‘Ravenna, father has asked to see you. He is in the solar, best not keep him waiting.’

  Ravenna could tell by the smirk on her face that whatever awaited her was not pleasant. Her pretty half-sister had never liked her and made no bones about it. As Laird Baodan Gowan’s bastard, Ravenna had to bear the barbs and petty cruelties of his legitimate children without retaliation, but, one day, she would put Coira in her place once and for all. For now though, she must endure her malice, for she was considered far beneath the Laird’s legitimate daughters and had little respect afforded her in his home.

  ‘Hurry up,’ smirked Coira, and Ravenna rushed off, happy to be out of her presence.

  When she tapped on the door of the solar and entered at her father’s command, she was stunned to see Brandan there. His face had a defeated look to it and, when his tortured eyes met hers, they held a warning.

  ‘Come, Ravenna and stand before me,’ said her father lightly.

  He was a towering brute of a man, quick-witted and clever, capable of concealing murderous rage behind a calm and reasonable demeanour. Ravenna approached him with feet of lead.

  ‘Have you anything to tell me, girl?’

  She looked him square in the eye. ‘No father, I…’

  The back of his hand met her cheek with stinging spite and almost knocked her down. She saw Brandan take a step forward, but she shook her head at him. Best he not make it worse.

  ‘Don’t lie, girl, for you have been found out in your deceit,’ spat her father, looming over her. ‘Young Brandan here has confessed all, as will you. No more lies Ravenna,’ he shouted into her face. ‘Tell me why you have whored yourself and why you have shamed me in my own keep before all the clan, after everything I have done for you.’

  Everything he’d done hadn’t amounted to much. Ravenna’s cheek was burning, there would be a mark there tomorrow for all to see and people would point and whisper about it. Her anger flared at her father’s words quickly followed by fear, but she kept her nerve, for Baodan Gowan despised nothing more than a coward, and she would never be that.

  ‘You’ve been lying with him haven’t you girl, throwing away your maidenhead for a worthless foot soldier even though it’s all you’ve ever had of value, you little fool.’

  ‘I love him,’ she spat back.

  If her father knew everything, there was no point in denying it and making his rage worse. Brandan had obviously been too honourable to lie to his Laird.

  ‘Father, I love Brandan and yes, I have lain with him. We want to be together, we wish to wed.’

  ‘T’is true Laird,’ said Brandan. ‘I love Ravenna and have offered for her. I would put this right and make her my wife.’

  His courage made her love for him swell.

  ‘You have no right to offer for her. It is not for you to choose what woman you want. She is my property, to give to whom I please, and your duty, Brandan, is to marry where your father chooses. Why, you are nothing more than a common soldier, meat for my army, a dumb animal with a shield and a sword. How dare you besmirch my daughter and have her named a whore? If I know about this unholy coupling, then the whole of Mauldsmyre Castle knows what
you have been about.’

  ‘Only because Coira has been singing the song all over,’ snarled Ravenna.

  ‘Aye, maybe she has, but at least one of my daughters has some loyalty to her clan, some sense of decency.’

  She’s no more decency than a rat, and she’s just as foul, thought Ravenna, but she bit her tongue. ‘Father, please, I meant no insult to your honour, I…’

  ‘Your very existence is an insult to my honour. I could have left you in that hovel where your low-born mother squeezed you out into the world. I could have abandoned you to the winter’s storms to die, but I took pity on you. What a fool I was to do it, bringing you into my home, raising you with my own children.’

  Where you ignored me, where I was beneath your contempt, where I was given a lowly position, cast into the shadows of an uncertain future. All the resentment and old wounds ripped open in Ravenna’s mind. Anger took her as it always did and, before she knew it, she had opened her mouth and tipped her father’s disapproval over the edge, into retribution.

  ‘If my mother was so low-born perhaps you should not have put a child in her, Father,’ she said.

  This time Baodan’s blow was almost a punch, and it hit her face with a crack and ferocity which sent her reeling to her knees. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brandan take another step forward.

  ‘You move one more inch towards me, boy and I’ll stretch your neck,’ said her father with a glance over at him. He turned back to her with one hand raised in a fist and the other grabbing hold of her hair. Spittle flew from his mouth as he bellowed at her.

  ‘I took your mother because I wanted her and she cast me off. To this day I cannot understand why she did it, but you have her to thank for your lowly position. I would have given her the world as my mistress, and yet a peasant living in a hovel spurned me, a laird’s son, and she broke my heart. You have inherited her insolence and, like your mother before you, it will be the ruin of you.