THE KING'S DAUGHTER - Prologue (The Stranger )

Scotland, year of our Lord 1247

She stood atop the hillock, looking wearily upon the castle that rose up from the granite mountainside. A faint smile graced her blue lips as she paused her trek to the remote keep. Recognition of her surroundings soaked into her mind like the rain did her cloak. The fortress was to be her salvation from the rain that beat down on her, salvation from the winds and cold.

Ancient monoliths littered the land while the lightning and thunder played around her. A few feet away, a zig-zag of lightning struck the ground, making the earth tremble. Ozone hung in the air, as well as the singed smell of pine needles. Thunder rumbled above, seeming to scream that the last lightning bolt missed her. She gathered the ragged woolen edges of her cloak to her body and tried to keep herself from freezing on the bloody cold Highland night. While the wind whipped and tore at the cloth with its invisible fingers, she walked the last leg of her expedition. She had her hands up, holding tightly to the hood of her cloak, for the wind which tore at the clothing, tried to steal her hood from her head.

The landscape was gray for the most part, with splotches of white snow melting on muddy knolls. Outlining it all were tall pines, still green, and naked oaks, their summer leaves blown off by winter’s icy kiss. She picked her way on the steep muddy road, carefully trying not to slip downhill in the sludge, making slow progress to the gatehouse of the keep. Each step became bogged down in partially frozen mud churned with snow; each stride was colder than the last, yet the thought of a warm fire and piping hot food tempted her more than the seeping cold, willing her to make a bed in a snow bank and sleep away into nothingness. Her toes had long since gone numb, and her shins were soon to follow. She paused mid-step and toyed with a small oval citrine pendant that hung from a tarnished silver chain about her slim neck. She held it up to her eye and turned in a complete circle, until the moss captured inside the citrine matched a patch in the landscape. She smiled more now, knowing exactly where the Oaken Gateway was. Whipping about again, she gazed at the place she was to enter. Looking as if it was carved out of the mountain, the castle's only color relief were sodden banners hanging from a few of the windows. A few worn gargoyles smiled toothily from their perches, like mischievous sentinels. Upon reaching the edifice, half blinded by the torrent of rain, the woman called up to the posted guard who watched her arrival to the castle's doorstep.

“Good sir! I ask for sanctuary from the storm. Will you allow me admittance?” The bellow was almost lost in the wind.

“Woman, ye are mad tae be wanderin’ the heath at night! Are ye courtin’ death then? Hold a moment, to let me notify Lord Fergus of yer arrival, since ye don’t speak like a beggar. Who are ye?” He called back.

“A bard, good sir, in seek of shelter.” The wind had blown her cloak’s hood off, causing her long hair to whip about her face and shoulders. She hurried to raise the hood again and cover herself from the downpour.

Deciding that the woman looked harmless enough, the guard turned and yelled to a young servant, “Keevan, tell Lord Fergus that there is a woman bard at the gate, wantin’ admittance. Ask if I should turn her away. Hurry now! If the Lord says tae let her in, he would be pissy if his guest caught inflammation of the lung because some idget took too long.”

Keevan smiled and replied, “Dylan, keep yer helm on! I’ll be back befur ya notice I am gone!” The tow-headed boy gingerly crept down the slippery stone steps then took off at a sprint through the courtyard’s slush, leaping over puddles.

Dylan turned his attention back to the bard, observing her for a few moments, probably wondering what kind of dunderhead traveled in such a wicked storm. He couldn't see her face for the hood of the cloak hung limply on her head; however the tattered hem of her tunic dress was clearly visible. It was embroidered with white threads on green, rather like a springtime breeze in the midst of deep winter. Glancing at the unrelenting sky before looking down from his perch, he heard a call from behind him.

“Lord Fergus says to let her in. He’s in a foul mood, an’ he’s looking fer a diversion.” Keevan ran up the steps as fast as he dared and pointed to the wooden wheel that raised the iron portcullis. “May I?”

“Aye lad, ye can.” Dylan then called to the woman, “The lord says yer tae be comin’ in.”

To be back at Dunloch Keep! Oh, how it had changed since the last time she wandered past. Was she really this close to the Oaken Gateway? Thanks be to the Gods! She looked up when she heard the groaning rumble of the portcullis as it was hoisted high, emotions overwhelming her as salvation was granted.

“Come, woman! Are ye daft?” Dylan called to her. “Keevan, ye better show the daft lass the way to the Hall.”

Keevan gave a Highland whoop as he flew down the steps to get to the gate. Spying the lady he said, “Misses, yer tae follow me to the Hall”, and then graced her with his most courtly bow.

The woman asked with chattering teeth, “What is your name, laddie?”

“Me mam calls me Keevan, and me da called me Owen, befur he died in a cattle raid against Clan Ross.”

“You have two names? Why, if I may ask?”

“Oh, not at all! Me mam favored Keevan, sayin’ it was a manly name, and not as common as ‘Owen’. Da thought Keevan sounded like a girls name. Since da is in heaven with the Lord, mam calls me Keevan. What are you called?”

“I am called many things, laddie, although some are better than others!” she said with a chuckle.

By then, the boy and woman had reached the great Hall, bursting with all sorts of people trying to collectively stay warm.

The Great Hall was generally the heart of the castle. But this heart was black and cold-- black from the smoke that lingered in the air and cold from the tiny snow drifts that came from cracks in the stone wall. Looking around, she noticed that there were windows situated in each wall, covered with a thin animal membrane that tried in vain to keep the cold and moisture out, but let the light in. It failed in all accounts. Torches set into iron sconces every ten feet on the walls flickered with golden light. The bard looked up, noticing rough timbers darkened by neglect and smoke running the length of the ceiling, with a deteriorating war banner attached to each one. Instead of bright colors that usually graced the formerly proud banners, the only clear shade was gray, in all its hues, from dark charcoal to pale silver. What must have once been the heralds or devices were now globs of indistinguishable threads and spider webs. Cobwebs littered every corner, and the rushes that covered the floor needed to be changed badly. Soaked in urine, saturated with vermin and littered with bones of previous meals, one had to choose carefully where to step, lest something unexpected find its way to the bottom of their foot, be it covered in leather, rag, or calloused skin. Directly opposite of the door was a dais set with a large oak table and heavy chairs, for those above the salt. Those below, made do with benches and the floor.

In the largest of the chairs sat a man, thin and pale. His brown eyes, once full of luster, now dull, lifeless. Reptilian almost in they way they surveyed the room, like a predator ready to attack. His lips wore a sneer-thin, pinched and not content. He had a full head of hair, long and trailing, although it was slicked down from rarely being washed. It may have once been blonde, but now it was the color of muck. This unpleasant looking man who wore thread-bare velvets, covered in furs that had seen better days, had to be the infamous Lord Günter Fergus.

He was known throughout the Highlands as a man not to be trifled with. Although he was short of stature, he made up for his deficiency with a temper that showed no bounds when stoked. His mother descended from Nordic berserkers, his father, a Highland lordling; neither race was known for their docile ways.

Next to the man was a painfully emaciated woman, with a slim face set with hard lines. Her hair was a bit cleaner than the man’s beside her, since the color was evident in the smoky light. It was palest of gold. Her eyes, lusterless in this unhappy place, were an amber hue. If she had but hope to feed on, she would have been attractive. Her dark gray woolen dress matched the dank stone of the keep, rendering her almost invisible when she stood against the wall, her only relief being the dirty lace at her cuffs. This had to be Lady Anne, Günter’s wife. Known throughout the highlands as a shoddy chatelaine, she rarely entertained the wives of other chieftains who had a better sense of domestic responsibility.

Keevan walked ahead of the still-cloaked woman, bringing her before Lord Fergus. With a flourish, he presented the bard. The shrouded woman sank into a curtsy before the lanky man.

“Well, wench! Who are you?" A loud belch rumbled from his innards as he continued, "Well, speak up!” His voice, deep and booming made almost everyone flinch, for they knew what to expect, should this woman displease the Lord. She knew naught what could happen; setting of the rapacious man-at-arms upon her person, or the setting of the dogs, where she would be stripped down to her chemise, hands bound behind her, and tied with meat. Günter would spare the meat off his table for this diversion. It would not be the first time that the dogs had a better meal than the poor souls at Dunloch Keep.

From the depths of the hooded cape came her voice. “My Lord Fergus, I am naught but a simple woman. I have a repute of being a fair storyteller, and would share a story if I could but have a pallet before the fire this night and a loaf of bread.” She spoke gently but firmly. She could plainly see that Lord Fergus was indeed in a foul mood. She had to tread lightly; else her journey from England would be for naught.

“Am I to believe that a haggard woman such as yourself, be the teller of such grand tales to warrant such a price as a bed and food? Are you mad, wench? I’d have your name before I cast you out the gates, so if in fact you are well known, I may boast about it the next time I lift my tankard!” He lifted his filthy goblet and took a swig of its contents, as if to accentuate his statement.

“Lord Fergus, I have told tales to the King of England. I only left his court so that I may find a warm place to live out the rest of my days in peace. So far, I haven’t attained that goal, but it is not for lack of trying, I assure you. I would make a wager with you. Are you game?”

“Ye've been to the Sassenach's court? You don't look like it, but you speak verra well. Aye, woman, I be game. What would you wager?”

“I wager my song.”

“Your song? How so? How can your song be of any worth to me?” His brow darkened, possibly with a newly devised torture. “Do you think that words spewed from a woman’s mouth to be worth anything?” He laughed.

“If you like my song, I can stay for as long as I wish. If you like it not, then by all means, I shall leave this keep this very night. Are you willing?” The hooded figure spoke softly.

“Willing? Aye, I suppose I can drink my ale and listen. I have naught to lose, for if you stay, you shall work. Be it on your back to the plowmen or in the fields, you shall toil and earn your keep.”

“Then my lord, with your blessing, I shall share my song.”

The woman walked over to the fire pit, to a vacant bench and removed her cloak, draping it on half of the bench to dry. She looked squarely in the face of Dunloch's lord, revealing a heart shaped face with startling eyes of royal purple that pierced the room as she surveyed the peasants who were the main throng. She was about thirty winters old, but still youthful. Smiling, the bard reached around her back and brought forth a small lap harp of carved oak, which had been tied securely to her back with leather throngs. Her dark green tunic dress was damp, and being so close to the fire, began to steam. Sitting primly upon the bench, she quickly tuned the small harp. The bard's long hair hung limply around her shoulders and back, dripping fat beads of water onto the floor around her as she readied herself for the performance of her life.

“I would ask all of you in the Hall, if you believe in the Otherkin?” The bard’s voice lowered, became deeper, but was loud enough for all to hear without straining their ears.

A chorus of “Aye!” sounded as she surveyed her audience of dirty peasants and children. Günter and Anne remained silent.

The bard began to pluck the strings of her harp, bringing forth a sprightly tune. “The Otherkin, as you know, comprised of the Fey, Elves, Pixxies, Sprites and Brownies. They look like us; talk like us. If they hid their ears, or lowered their eyes, you could not tell them apart from your fellow man. All of them were bonded through Nature and Magick. Other than that, they have little in common. However, if you trek through the woods on a misty night, you may hear the harp, drum or the reedy wail of the pipes. Sometimes, you will hear the singing that the Otherkin do. May I sing one of their songs passed down from my Grandmother, who was friend of the Fey?”

Again, they enthusiastically called out “Aye,” and so the woman smiled.

Fingering the strings of her instrument, she wove a beginning for the song. In an ethereal voice, she began to sing in harmony to the harp she played, this time a more somber and deeper tune that gathered everyone's attention. Every babe and child, adults both young and old, gazed raptly at the woman who created Magick with sound. The music began to seep though the stones of the keep, to swirl about the guards on duty outside. Further still, it pushed, to the castle's village, where those who were not in the hall could hear it on the wind, the enchanting melody of the Celtic harp. Down through the smoke holes in the thatched cottages, the sound crept, gathering the attention of everyone under Fergus' rule.

“Call the spirits to you on this eve,
Call the wind, rain, forest and fire
Come with me as we take our leave
Follow the path laid, and never tire…”

She paused, for all who listened hung onto her every word, captivated by the spell she wove through the song. A wry smile graced the bard’s face as she thought with glee, I still have my Magick! My powers are diminished, but intact! She noted that every face was blessed with a blissful expression. They seemed not to care that she was not singing as they wove back and forth in their seats, listening to a song that was not being sung. Almost everyone had a rapt look to their faces, all eyes closed as the sound washed over them. Fergus however, still had his eyes open. Continuing, she sang sweetly, letting the words weave around each person, seducing them all into a more courteous greeting.

”Can you see through the veil?
Walk upon the hill and dale...
Into the Hidden Realm I dwell...
Never to return, for I am Otherkin now…
Allow me to guide you to the Third realm,
where all is not as it seems....
Come play upon the mushroom with me,
dart through the dandelion fluff...”

The woman stopped singing and looked at her assembly. They were enthralled. They were completely and utterly under her enchantment. “Lord Fergus? Are you pleased with my song? Do you not want to have me here at your table every night to tell you such wondrous tales of excitement? Tales of the Crusades, saints, even the old Celtic sagas of your ancestors whenever you desire to hear them?”

“Aye. We welcome you with smiles.” When he finished speaking, every face in the Hall beamed toothily at the woman in unison.

“I thank you. Are you going to bathe soon?” The stench emanating off him reminded her of old stale haggis, making the bard gag.

“Aye. I shall do that posthaste. Anne, will you order me a bath?” The pitch in Fergus’ voice changed dramatically, to an almost pleading and most pleasant tone.

“Aye Günter. Shall I bathe you?” Anne smiled coyly at her filthy and lice-ridden spouse.

“Aye-“

The woman interrupted. “You may stop with the ‘Aye’ “.

“Yes, lady.”

“You may call me Auld Nana. By no other name will I be known. Might I have my trencher? Cold storms are known to increase hunger, I dare say.”

Lord Fergus signaled to a silent serving wench to bring a trencher laden with watery stew to the woman. Digging in the pocket of her filthy apron, she thrust a crusty spoon in Auld Nana’s face, then set it next to the trencher and gifted the diner with a smile of accomplishment. With a lopsided curtsy, the lass backed away from the bard.

Auld Nana seized the spoon and wiped it on her skirt--hoping it rid it of the gunk-- dug into the slop and took a bite. She quickly chewed and tried to swallow the sludge. It was more or less flavorless, with a hint of rancid onion, without texture of any kind while resembling regurgitated pap and had a not-so-faint foul odor rising from it. Resting her spoon on the table, she looked at the lord of the keep and spoke up.

“Lord Fergus, I would suggest for the health of the keep that you find a competent cook. This is not fit for dogs.” She helped herself to the wedge of hard cheese and loaf of bread that was upon the table.

“It shall be so, Auld Nana.”

“Good. One last thing before you retire. I am one of you. I speak like a peasant. I have lived here all my life. I have been a storyteller here since you were but a child.”

“Yes, Auld Nana, you tell such wonderful stories.”

“Yes, I do, don’t I?” With a smile on her face, Auld Nana knew without a doubt that the spell was woven into completion.

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Author's Note:

I started writing this almost 20 years ago and never finished. Found a back up and now I'm working through it and backing up the newly-edited chapters here on steemit.

My new year's resolution is to finish this novel. Wish me luck!
-Duhiki

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Thank you for reading! If you’d like more of the story, help yourself to the rest of the posted chapters:

Prologue | One | Two