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  MACKENZIE’S LASS

  The Scottish Lasses, Book 3

  by

  MacKENZIE’S LASS

  Copyright © 2016 by Glynnis Campbell

  Excerpt from NATIVE GOLD

  Copyright © 2013 by Glynnis Campbell

  Glynnis Campbell – Publisher

  P.O. Box 341144

  Arleta, California 91331

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938114-38-0

  Contact: [email protected]

  Cover design by Tanya Straley

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Learn more about Glynnis Campbell and her writing at www.glynnis.net

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  More Books by Glynnis Campbell

  About Glynnis Campbell

  Contact Information

  From the Jewels

  Sneak Peek at NATIVE GOLD

  Dedication

  For Sandy Easson

  And all the rest of the lovely folks

  I’ve met in Scotland

  Who’ve opened their arms and hearts

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to:

  Eleanor Muir, Visitor Experience Manager at Stirling Castle,

  Sandy Easson, Tudor Chef at Stirling Castle,

  Finlay Lumsden, Manager of Campbell Castle,

  Nicky Saunders, Madrigal Singer,

  Christian Kane and Rachel McAdams

  Chapter 1

  December 16, 1566

  Stirling Castle, Scotland

  Through the smoky haze of the crowded roasting room, Tristan MacKenzie frowned at the turnbrochie dozing by the fire.

  Turning the spit for hours on end was tiring. The spit was heavy. The fire was hot. The lad had been up since well before dawn. But the only way to earn your keep in the castle kitchens was to do your job.

  There were other lads more than willing to take on the task for the room and board that came with it. Tristan himself had cranked a spit for two years before working his way up through the ranks of the kitchens.

  “Easson!” he snapped. “Look sharp!”

  The lad bolted upright in wide-eyed panic and resumed turning the handle on the spit. Campbell, the older lad feeding the fire, leered at him.

  “The queen’s countin’ on ye,” Tristan chided.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Tristan examined the four roasting geese, giving one of the legs a jiggle with his heat-callused fingers. The meat didn’t appear to be burned. God willing, the fowl would be basted and succulent for dinner at midday, for the queen was counting on Tristan as well.

  The baptism of Queen Mary’s son on the morrow was to be the most significant event since her return to Scotland. She’d spared no expense, borrowing funds from the merchants of Edinburgh to pay the cost, which was rumored to be over twelve thousand pounds.

  Originally, the baptism had been planned for October. But the queen had fallen ill—so ill that for a time it was feared she might die. By God’s grace, she’d recovered, but further delays were caused by the conflicting schedules of the various ambassadors.

  Meanwhile, the queen had moved the court three times. Tristan and the other cooks had packed and unpacked nearly two dozen carts of kitchen wares with each journey. Each location offered unique challenges. He’d never liked the layout of the kitchens at Craigmillar. And they’d hardly stayed long enough at Holyrood to lay a good fire.

  At least they were home now. Tristan could find his way around the Stirling kitchens with his eyes closed. And, thanks to the master cook, Thomas Chalmers, the larders were well-stocked.

  This morn, Tristan was making his usual rounds, supervising the kitchen staff. He nodded his approval of the blanched almonds and sampled a bite of custard. He stopped to dip his little finger into a pot of steaming ginger sauce for a quick taste.

  At that moment, the master cook tromped into the room, waving away the smoke as he shouted over his shoulder. “Ye fetch those eggs straightaway, Sinclair, or I’ll show ye the back o’ my hand!”

  Tristan smirked. Thomas Chalmers was a full foot shorter than Tristan and about as round as he was tall. He was all bellow and no bite. In all the time Tristan had been an apprentice to the master cook, he’d never seen the man lay a hand on anyone.

  Tristan closed his eyes to savor the gentle heat of ginger on his tongue. Then he spoke to young Chris Lamb, who was stirring the sauce. “Try a wee bit more salt.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Thomas wiped his pudgy hands on his soiled apron. “Ah, MacKenzie, just the man I need.”

  Tristan straightened. He took pride in knowing he was the master cook’s right-hand man.

  “The waterways were closed again last night.” Thomas paused to sample the ginger sauce himself. “We’re short on trout for dinner. Who can ye spare to go fish in the firth?”

  Tristan perused the room. Ten workers chopped and scalded, plucked and roasted, stirred and basted with practiced efficiency. He couldn’t really spare any of them.

  “I’ll find someone,” he promised.

  Thomas smacked his lips, then murmured, “He’s right, Chris, just a wee bit more salt.” To Tristan he said, “We’ll need half a dozen—about so big.” He held his hands apart, indicating a good twelve inches. Then he snapped his fingers at Patrick Rannald, who was headed for the bakehouse. “Pattie! How many loaves o’ pandemain can ye have for me by supper?” And he was off again.

  Tristan sighed. All the kitchen lads were busy. He supposed he’d have to go to the firth himself.

  “Bloody hell,” he grumbled under his breath as he untied his apron and tossed it aside. “I’m a cook, not a fisherman.”

  But he couldn’t very well refuse the master cook. He’d worked under Thomas Chalmers for five years in the cuisine de common, preparing meals for the castle. Now that there was a good chance Thomas would be promoted to the cuisine de bouche, cooking for the queen herself, Tristan stood in line for a promotion as well…if he could prove he was worthy.

  And if his worth depended on fishing on a frosty morn when he’d much rather be overseeing the toasty kitchens, he supposed that was just the price he had to pay.

  He bundled up in his woolen cloak, grabbed an empty basket, and hoisted the hefty fishing pole propped against the wall over
his shoulder.

  By the time he tromped down the hill to the firth, the sun had just begun to stretch its yellow fingers across the grassy braes of Stirling. Tristan’s breath made plumes in the crisp air as he clambered down the muddy slope.

  The banks of the firth were scarred from the clandestine activity of the last few nights. The reason for closing the waterways was supposed to be a secret. But word traveled fast among the staff of the castle. Everyone knew about the nightly shipments of guns and artillery from Edinburgh.

  The renowned Bastian Pagez was the grand architect of the three-day baptism festivities. He’d assured everyone concerned that the munitions were only for visual effect. He’d devised such spectacles before in France, to enormous acclaim. But this was to be the first fireworks display ever orchestrated in Scotland.

  Considering the amount of gunpowder that had been delivered, Tristan hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

  He took off his boots and stockings and rolled up his trews. Then he slipped into the shadows under the great stone bridge, where the trout tended to hide. He prayed this wouldn’t take long. His stomach was growling. He’d neglected to grab a barley loaf from the bakehouse to break his fast.

  Digging in the mud, he found a fat worm. He baited the hook and lowered the line into the murky depths of the firth. Then he waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Chapter 2

  Mery Graham threw back the hood of her brown worsted cloak. She skipped down the road ahead of the others, smiling in delight at the breathtaking glen below. The wide silver ribbon of the Firth of Forth wound through the grassy expanse. Houses with smoking chimneys huddled together along the cobbled lanes. Steam rose from the wet stones and naked branches.

  It was said that Stirling was like a giant kilt pin clasping together the Lowlands and the Highlands. Situated between the majestic peaks to the north and the rolling hills of the south, this expansive, wooded valley looked like a beautiful gem set into that pin. Especially this morn, where everything the sun touched turned to gold.

  She glimpsed the castle on the far side of the firth and stopped to catch her breath. The imposing structure dominated everything around it. It appeared to be carved into the mountain. Its soft golden towers rose in stark contrast to the darker rock below, like heaven rising above hell. She couldn’t wait to see what it looked like inside.

  She glanced back along the road. What was taking everyone so long? True, the other minstrels were several years older than she was. They’d probably been to Stirling a dozen times. Still—for heaven’s sake—they were going to perform for the new prince. Surely that deserved at least a little more enthusiasm.

  This would be the second time she’d sung in the presence of Queen Mary. Three years ago, the minstrels had performed at the Campbell Castle for the wedding of the Earl of Argyll, where the queen had been a guest.

  After their brilliant performance, they’d been invited to sing all over Scotland. Mery had sung in the households of Scottish nobles from Edinburgh to Inverness. But this would be the first time she’d performed for the queen in her home at Stirling Castle.

  Again she glared back at her eight companions—four men, three women, and one packhorse—and shook her head. What dawdlers and woolgatherers they were this morn.

  She couldn’t wait for them any longer. Picking up her russet skirts, she swept down the road, descending to the great stone bridge that crossed the firth.

  From the middle of the bridge, Stirling Castle looked even more impressive, rising up in regal splendor. It was a shame her kinfolk weren’t here to see it.

  None of the Grahams had ventured far from their Highland home of Nairn. They were simple folk with simple wants—peat for their fire, bread on their table, and fish in their nets. Her Pa had made a decent living off of his boat. And her Ma had raised five upstanding sons who’d given her not a moment’s worry.

  And then Mery had come along.

  For Mery, life was an adventure. Her Ma said she’d come out of the womb asking questions. Mery never walked when she could run. She never looked before she leaped. She was curious and fearless. Her Da claimed she was intrepid to a fault.

  Her brothers knew there was almost nothing Mery wouldn’t do on a dare. So naturally they’d encouraged her daring. She’d climbed the tallest tree in the village, stolen the neighbor’s cattle, and ventured across frozen lochs, all at the prodding of her siblings.

  Her parents despaired of ever taming her wild nature.

  But Mery didn’t want to be tamed. And she had no intention of being confined to Nairn. She had lofty dreams that were languishing in the remote fishing village. She didn’t want to become a fisherman’s wife. She didn’t want to look at the same gray sky every day. She thirsted for something more—for music and art, culture and adventure. She longed to explore the wide world. She wanted to dance and sing and live.

  Once, her Ma had confided in Mery that she too had had such dreams. She’d given up on them. And now she said it was too late.

  But it wasn’t too late for Mery. There was still time for her to seize the day. Her Ma had told her to trust her feelings. Her heart, she said, would never lead Mery astray.

  So when Mery’s Da informed her he’d chosen a husband for her and expected her to settle down and start popping out bairns, he shouldn’t have been surprised when she ran away with the first band of traveling minstrels to pass through Nairn. He should have realized that holding Mery back from her destiny was as futile as keeping the firth from flowing to the sea.

  With her Ma’s blessing and, for propriety’s sake, telling the minstrels a wee lie—that she wasn’t a maiden, but a young widow—Mery had been following that destiny for four years now. The minstrels—Harry, Brian, Davy, Christopher, Elspeth, Anne, and Ginny—treated her like a cousin.

  And what grand adventures Mery had had. Unafraid, she embraced each new experience with enthusiasm. She was a quick study, hungry to learn. She absorbed everything around her. It wasn’t long before she was singing circles around her fellow minstrels.

  Leaning over the stone wall of the bridge, she peered down into the water drifting lazily past. It was probably icy cold. Her brothers would have goaded her into jumping in. They were always getting her into trouble.

  They were the ones who’d taught her that naughty song when she was a wee lass and dared her to sing it for her parents.

  It had been a long time since she’d thought about that. It was a pretty song, an old song—Quam pulchra es—based on biblical text. But that text was the lusty Song of Solomon—wildly inappropriate words coming out of the mouth of a six-year-old lass.

  Atop the water, a leaf floated toward her, passing under the bridge. As she crossed to watch it emerge again on the other side, the old song began to wind around her ears. Before long, she was humming it under her breath.

  She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the winter sun, welcoming the meager warmth on her brow as she sang softly.

  Opening her eyes again, she continued to sing, louder now, as she gazed at the awakening landscape and the distant empty streets of Stirling.

  “Et ubera tua botris,” she sang to the firth. Your breasts are like clusters of grapes.

  Since no one was about, she clapped one hand to her bosom and leaned over the bridge wall to serenade the water with heartfelt devotion.

  When she got to the line, “dilecte mi, egrediamur in agrum,” my beloved, let us go out into the fields, she extended one arm in dramatic entreaty.

  She was at full volume by the time she reached the lyrics, “Ibi dabo tibi ubera mea,” there I will give you my breasts, and had just taken a breath to belt out the last alleluia when a harsh bark from under the bridge interrupted her.

  “Faith! Can ye not be quiet?”

  She gasped and retreated in surprise from the edge.

  “Ye’re scarin’ the fish,” the man added in a growl.

  At first, she was mortified. She hadn’t expected anyone to
be up and about at this time of day. She certainly hadn’t meant for anyone to hear her…particularly considering the suggestive lyrics of that song.

  But then she grew angry. Scaring the fish? What was that supposed to mean?

  Clenching her fingers in her skirts and steeling her jaw, she approached the edge again. “Show yourself, sir,” she demanded.

  “What?”

  “I said, show yourself. I’d like to see what manner o’ cowardly troll hides under a bridge to insult passersby.”

  There was a pause. Then he yelled up, “I don’t have time for this. Be off with ye.”

  Her eyes widened. “How dare ye!” She was truly livid now. The Highland brogue she usually tried to hide came out thick now. “Ye clearly dinna ken talent when ye hear it. I’ll have ye know I’m on my way to sing for the queen herself.”

  That got his attention. He came out from under the bridge with his fists on his hips to stare up at her.

  She instantly wished she’d left well enough alone.

  The man was hardly a troll. In fact, he was striking enough to make her breath catch. He had messy chestnut hair, a square-jawed face, and a steely gaze. He was broad-shouldered, thick of forearm, and unapologetically manly, which was emphasized by the fact that his doublet was unfastened and his linen shirt untucked. His trews were rolled up to his knees. His muscular calves and feet were bare and flecked with mud. But despite his rumpled appearance and challenging glower, he was the most appealing man she’d ever seen.