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Chapter One
If someone asked Nimue, she would tell them that there were many things wrong with her father, Laird Robert MacLellan, just like every other man. He drank too much; he ate too much, and he listened too little. He liked to fight and shout. He knew nothing about looking presentable; and he didn’t know how to be a host.
But his worst characteristic—and the only one that Nimue couldn’t forgive—was his loyalty to the British and to a Crown that didn’t care for him or their clan. Whispers of war were spreading fast around Scotland, and if there was one thing that Nimue knew for certain, it was that the other clans would need their help.
And yet, her father seemed to have other ideas.
“I dinna wish to hear another word about it!” the Laird said, slapping his hand down onto his desk. His cup, full to the brim with wine, rattled and shook, little drops of alcohol flying over the papers that were scattered around him.
Nimue paced back and forth in the room. She had never liked being in her father’s study, with its dark, heavy furniture and dark red walls, the very color of the wine that he was drinking. She had never been allowed in there as a child unless it was to be reprimanded, and now, at twenty-four years old, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow done something wrong.
If supportin’ me people is wrong, then so be it.
“If ye side with King Charles, our people will suffer!” Nimue said, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. She had been trying to make her father understand the consequences of his actions, but she was not surprised to see that he refused to listen. “Na one else is on their side, Faither. Na one. Are we to be the only clan to support the English over the people of Scotland?”
“Dinna forget that we have ties to England, just as much as we have ties to Scotland,” the Laird said.
Nimue sighed, a heavy, displeased sound. She had heard that very same phrase before, many times. It was no coincidence that she had such an unusual name, nor that her sister was called Guinevere and her brother, Tristan. Though very much a Scot, as he had been born and raised there, their father had always been fascinated by England and its myths and tended to cling to his English roots. It was something that Nimue had never understood. In her eyes, they were nothing but Scottish, and it was Scotland that they needed to help and protect.
“Ach, Daidie, I ken all about our roots, but ye seem to forget that more than anythin’ else, we are Scots,” Nimue reminded him. “We dinna owe England anythin’. We owe it to our people to protect them.”
“To protect them from what?” the Laird asked. “The English willna do us na harm. Why would they? They dinna have an issue with us. They only have an issue with those who oppose them, especially those up in the Highlands.”
“Scots, ye mean,” Nimue pointed out. “They are Scots. Why ye would support a Catholic king is beyond me, Faither.”
“I dinna expect ye to understand. It was yer maither who made ye so fond of yer Scotland.”
Nimue knew that her father missed her mother more than anything. She knew that he was still hurting from her death, just like the rest of their family. But the way that he spoke, in such an accusing manner, talking as though her mother’s pride in Scotland was nothing but foolishness, made Nimue’s blood boil in her veins. Her lips twisted into an ugly grimace, just as sharp as her father’s words, and she walked up to his desk, hands on her hips as she glared at him.
“Ye speak of Maither as though she didna ken what she was sayin’,” Nimue spat out through gritted teeth. “As though she didna ken perfectly weel where her loyalties lay. She kent; and I ken. I will never support the king; I will never support the war he is bringin’ upon us. I will never follow a king who wants to disregard our people, our traditions, the Kirk!”
“Enough!” the Laird said, standing up and staring Nimue down before she could utter another word. “I told ye that I willna hear any more of this. Yer me daughter, and ye’ll do as I say.”
“Oh?” Nimue asked. She wasn’t afraid of her father. She knew that deep down, under all the shouting matches and the stubbornness, he loved her dearly, and she doubted that he would do anything to hurt her. Growing up without her mother had been hard on them both. Ever since her death, her father had become overprotective, not only of Nimue but of all three children. “And what, precisely, is that?”
“Ye’re to marry the Earl of Stanford.”
It was not what Nimue had been expecting. She had thought that perhaps her father would simply insist on her supporting the English and their king. Or that he would forbid her from saying another word on the matter. Forcing her to marry a man she didn’t even know, an Englishman at that, went too far.
“I will do na such thing!” she said. “Ye canna force me to marry him!”
“Aye, I can,” her father said. “It’s already been arranged. Ye’ve been promised to him.”
Nimue scoffed, shaking her head. It was all too much for her, knowing that her father was so willing to give her away to a stranger. As far as she was concerned, she had no ties to England, and she wanted nothing to do with the place. How could she be expected to marry an Englishman when she was certain that they didn’t have a single thing in common?
“I dinna care what ye promised him,” Nimue said. “Ye didna even ask me first. Ye didna consult me at all. It’s me own life, Faither, that ye’re tryin’ to throw away.”
“Throw away?” her father said, and Nimue could see that he was getting angrier by the second. Perhaps he was used to being challenged when it came to political and religious matters, Nimue thought. Still, he wasn’t used to being challenged when it came to giving orders to those around him. He was the Laird, after all. “Is that what ye think I’m doin’, lass? I arranged a marriage with a man like the Earl, and ye think that I’m throwin’ yer life away? Listen to yerself . . . so ungrateful. The time has come for ye to marry, Nimue, and the Earl of Stanford is better than any man ye could find in our neighboring clans.”
“I verra much doubt that,” Nimue said. “Do ye even ken anythin’ about him? We ken our fellow clansmen. We ken the clansmen of the neighboring clans. I grew up with them. If ye wish for me to marry, then I shall marry one of them, but na an Englishman.”
“Ye will marry the Earl, and that’s the end of it,” her father said. “And ye’ll keep yer mouth shut around him about this war that ye always talk about. I willna have ye embarrass me with yer ideas and yer fancies in front of the Earl.”
Nimue looked at her father, eyes wide in disbelief. She never thought he would treat her in such a way. That he would care so little about her and her wellbeing that he was prepared to sell her off to the English for an alliance was nothing but traitorous. Her father was betraying not only her, his own daughter, but also Scotland. It pained her to see it--to know he had no regard for the clans with which their own clan had been allied for as long as anyone could remember. He was prepared to betray them and their trust, all because of the English.
Nimue was certain that the English would let them all perish if it came down to it. Clan MacLellan was an influential one in those parts. Still, she doubted any other clans would support them if they sided with the Catholic king. Were the other clans to band together to fight the MacLellans, their clan would be doomed, and the English would be of no help.
“Ye’re makin’ a big mistake, Faither,” Nimue told the Laird. “Ye may na want to listen to me, or to anyone else for that matter, but ye’re takin’ us down the wrong path. Na only me, with this foolish marriage, but our entire clan. Our people. I dinna ken what else to tell ye to convince ye. Perhaps there is na a thing I can say to convince ye but trust me when I tell ye that I willna be dragged to the altar without a fight.”
