Castle of McLeod
Lord Emerson McLeod paced the enclosure of his grand hall, his brooding thoughts bringing about a continuous treading along the stone dais beneath his feet.
He was a statuesque man of reasonable size, sporting a thick mane of black hair and eyes equally dark that corresponded with a long, shaggy beard; his harsh appearance alone had struck fear in many but in just a year’s time the number of adversaries had grown to an alarming rate despite his fearsome disposition that generally was reason alone to keep enemies at bay.
He was renowned for his abundant currency and tenacity merged of iron that had provided him ample prestige and a monumental band of mercenaries that had been entirely loyal to him, but in a fleeting turn of political events his impressive artillery had dwindled precariously due to countless attacks by Norman invaders, leaving his stone walls weakened.
In fear of losing his lands and keep to a Norman, he had personally sought the one called Conqueror and in a desperate attempt to keep his lands, he declared his allegiance; vowing to serve his new King to the utmost degree so as long as he was to remain Lord of McLeod keep.
With much relentless persuading, the Norman King reluctantly agreed to grant him his appeal, but with his request came a severe price, a price that would surely see him asunder, but he had little choice in the matter, ‘twas this or he would lose all that which belonged to him.
The bargain arranged between he and the Conqueror himself had prompted his irregular pacing. He was not a man accustomed to fear and even now the foreign feeling sat heavily in his belly, churning over and again as he replayed their words of agreement in notion.
He heard a sudden scuffle outside the doors of the hall and froze to a standstill as they swung wide and his messenger came forth, his elongated face taut with apprehension. “Milord-“
“Macaulay has arrived?” his throat was thick with foreboding as the words seem to weigh on his tongue.
His servant nodded, “Shall I show him in, milord?”
He nodded and regained his pacing. He had dreaded this very moment the day the agreement was arranged. There was no turning back; he would do anything necessary to ensure his status, even if that meant coming face-to-face with the acclaimed Fallon “The Fury”.
Since the Conqueror’s rise, he had heard much speculation on the notorious Norman warrior that had fought diligently by William’s side.
Emerson felt an unsettling tremor pass through his body. “The Fury” was known for dismantling men with one cleave of his blade. He had heard the dreaded name in the winds that whisked over the hills; the name of a man believed to be indestructible and otherworldly.
It was said that the Norman had encountered death itself and prevailed. He was called by many names but “The Fury” was most fitting for it ‘twas rumored that his temperament, when provoked, cued a blind haze of red and all rationality fled for naught but destruction lay in wake.
Emerson inhaled a deep breath, straightening his spine in an attempt to appear undaunted as the doors of the hall opened wide; revealing a man of colossal stature and eyes an unnatural gold and a countenance of suppressed rage.
He forced a slight grin to his face as he stepped down from the dais and motioned to a chair, “Laird Macaulay, please make use of anything that appeals to you.”
The Norman’s face darkened grimly as he said, “There is naught of this place that remotely appeals to me, McLeod. I have but one interest of matter and ‘tis that reason alone that I have come. You claim it was of grave importance so do me the courtesy of cutting the minimal details and explain for my presence here.”
McLeod tampered down a sudden flare of irritation at the Norman’s brazenness. He had to keep in mind that this was not just an unspecified Norman but the Fallon “The Fury”, the blade of William the Conqueror.
“I have pledged loyalty to your King.”
Those golden eyes narrowed doubtingly. “The Conqueror does not show lenience unto his enemy.”
“I am your enemy no longer.” McLeod assured.
“You claimed this was a matter concerning your land and it would appear that my King has not stripped you of them which would mean an agreement was arranged.”
McLeod nodded and folded his arms behind his back to still the trembling. “We McLeod’s are an esteemed and feared unity; my keep has not been breached for nearly a century. I have an army of formidable size. I am an asset to this country.”
“Your self-praise is wasted on me.” Macaulay growled. “What does this have to do with me?”
McLeod continued, “My lands have been unapproachable for some time but since the Conqueror’s reign, I have had countless attacks and I fear I am unable to withstand much more. I pledged my allegiance to your King in exchange for the right to keep my lands and title.”
A golden brow arched, “You were born a Saxon and yet, you abandon your heritage so carelessly? That is not honor.”
McLeod’s eyes hardened, “I do what is necessary.”
He snorted in ridicule, “You may have pledged your loyalty to my King, but time will reveal the truth of your words.”
“That is why you are here.” McLeod retorted, “You are here to test the truth of my words.”
Fallon stiffened, feeling a sudden uneasiness but he said nothing as he waited.
“Your King has much faith in you, Fallon “The Fury”, so much faith that he would seal you to a Saxon.”
Fallon felt a sudden feeling of entrapment. “What nonsense do you speak?”
McLeod turned and began a leisure pace, “To ensure my loyalty, the King has ordered an arranged marriage.” He paused and met those feral, gold eyes. “You, Fallon “The Fury” are ordered by your King to marry my daughter, the Lady Rosalind, to guarantee my sincerity.”
He felt his anger rising as his hands curled tightly into balls of fists. “My King has not informed me of any of this.”
“It was your King that ordered it about. I am much against it as you are, Macaulay but as much as it sickens me to admit; I am desperate and need a means to keep my clan intact.”
Three fierce strides brought “The Fury” to loom above him and his face reddened with unmasked fury. “If you speak with a false tongue-“ he said in a disquieting tone, “-I will return with haste to sever it without qualm.”
McLeod felt his face pale considerably beneath the gold-inflamed glare. “I speak the truth.” And than added quickly, “Give me but one moment.”
He slipped cautiously by the enraged warrior, feeling as if his very body scorched to the touch with the violence streaming through him. How would he ever cope with sealing his daughter to such a man?
Fallon felt every muscle in his body teeming with disbelief mixed with rage. How could William bind him to a Saxon with out his consent?
He had no desire to marry. Even as he thought this, Alana’s face flickered to mind. He growled inwardly for the mere thought was infuriating. He could not seem to rid himself of her memory.
He was not a man construed for matrimony! He was built specifically for war; had been trained for that alone since he was a lad.
Yet, in the back of his head, the thought of a woman to call his own, bearing him children gave him reason to pause and again her face came to mind.
So absorbed in his thoughts, he had not heard the doors opening until McLeod called him to present. “Macaulay, I wish to present your betrothed, Lady Rosalind.”
He turned around to survey the woman revealed to him. The girl, not nearly a woman, seem to shrink with fear beneath his angry stare. She was fairly tall and slender with curves of little interest to him. Her hair, swept into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck was as black as a raven’s wing. Her sloe eyes seem to study him with a mixture of appreciation and fear.
She held her hand to him, expecting him to take it. He stared down at her hand, unmoved. He thought of another woman with hands so small, so gentle in their tending and quickly banished it.
Without a word, he swept past his betrothed with her hand still hovering in the air and a panicking McLeod as he stormed from the hall, the door slamming with deafening force.
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