Ailsa (A Medieval/Renaissance Romance)

Chapter 1

Here's yet another story for you! I hope you enjoy it. :) There's only a little bit up yet, but I write pretty much every day so I promise it won't be long before I update it again. Please like and comment if you would like to see more! :)

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Chapter 1

Ailsa darted through the kitchen, weaving through the kitchen staff, sticky bun in hand, her long, straight red hair flowing behind her. “Ach, lass! Heavens above! Get out of the kitchen 'fore ye cause a disaster!” The little girl of five summers only giggled harder and edged towards the door. Then she squealed loudly as a big man swooped her up in his arms. “Da! I got a sticky bun!” The man pretended to be shocked. “Aye, that ye do! But ye cannae eat it right now, for it's almost suppertime, lassie. And- Oy, those fingers are sticky!” Alisa giggled even harder, her green eyes sparkling. Her father laughed and put her down, wiping his now sticky cheek. “Shall we go clean up before supper, then? I promise to play for ye before we eat if yer a good wee lassie and save the sticky bun for AFTER supper.” Ailsa squealed, then ran to do as her father asked.

Soon afterwards, her father sat by the massive hearth in the great hall which crackled with a arm fire. Laird McNeil was a strong man, with red hair just like his daughter's and eyes greener than the grass outside. But his hair was curly, unlike his daughter's who had taken after her mother. “Shall I play a song for yer mother, lass?” He asked softly as he pulled out the old violin, adjusting the strings. Ailsa nodded. “Play a happy tune for her, da, so she can dance in heaven!” He smiled at her, then pulled the bow across the strings. A beautiful melody came forth, causing everyone bustling about in the hall to stop a moment to listen. Ailsa lay in front of the heart on her stomach, chin resting on her hands. When he finally put down the bow, she sat up next to him. “Da, will ye teach me to play as you do?” He wrapped his large arm around her. “Of course, my wee lassie. But first, we must have supper. Then I'll teach ye how to play me fiddle.”

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Scotland, 1503 AD

Ailsa jolted out of her daydream. She'd been thinking about her father again. “Ailsa! Yer needed in the kitchen. Now!” Groaning, she sat up on the sacks of flour that she had dozed off upon. She smiled bitterly; she had once roamed this very kitchen as a carefree girl, and now she was a slave in her own home. “AILSA!” “I'm coming!” She rushed to the kitchen, only to be slapped by the cook. “Laird McMillan wishes you ta bring him his supper straightaway. He said he'll be in his bedchamber. Now go and do yer duty!” Ailsa grabbed the tray and hurried off towards the laird's room. Her simple brown dress was too short for her now, barely reaching the tops of her bare ankles. She had outgrown her shoes long ago, but no new ones were provided for her. Her red hair lay long and straight down her back, ending at her waist. Her once sparkling green eyes were dulled with sorrow and exhaustion.

She reached the door of the laird's bedchamber and knocked. “'Tis Ailsa with yer meal as requested, my Laird,” she said. The door opened and the laird beckoned her in. “Ye will stay with me a while.” It was not a request. She bowed her head and sat the tray on the small table in the room, then sat gingerly down on the edge of the hearth. She did not like this man; he made her feel very uncomfortable. Every since she had turned 15 summers and started forming a woman's figure, he had stared at her in way that seemed very improper. He had even tried to kiss her once. Fortunately he was often away fighting in the wars against the barbarians, though now at 17 summers she was getting more and more concerned by his unwanted attentions and blunt words.

“What can I do for ye, my laird?” He leered at her. “Well lass, ye know there's many things I'd like ye to do with ye, but I like my lasses willing when possible. When will ye see the benefits of my proposal?” She inwardly shuddered. Last time he'd had her in his room, he had promised her a better life if she would become his mistress. He'd promised her nice clothes, a better room, lighter duties, and better treatment, if only she would willingly come to his bed whenever he called. “'Tis not much I ask of ye,” he said in a crooning voice. “After all, I could take ye by force; but I'd much rather have ye willingly.” He eyes ran over her thin body, and he ran his fingers over her cheek; she flinched and pulled away. He dropped his hand in anger.