The Countess of Buchan

By Raedene Jeannette Melin

Torn from her home and forced to marry a vicious lord. Can a young lady outmaneuver a ruthless English king?

Scotland, 1303. Isabella MacDuff is sixteen years old and the sister of the revered mormaer of Fife. Her family has the power to crown kings. But when King Edward of England invades, she loses it all.

Her moth

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skjaldmaer Publishing
• Release date: Nov 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999253271

Raedene Jeannette Melin

Raedene Jeannette Melin is an award-winning fiction writer and author of the new novel To Crown A King. Born in British Columbia, Canada, she holds a BA in History and a Master's in Integrated Studies. Her debut novel, Las Hermanas, published in 2018, won the National Indie Excellence Award for adventure fiction and placed as a finalist in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Infatuated with trees and fresh mountain air, Raedene lives in Salmon Arm with her husband and two dogs. Find Raedene on Facebook and Instagram or follow her on Twitter @RJMBooks

Book preview

Part One

1303, Fife, Scotland

The priest’s voice faded as he led the procession down the road. Standing outside the castle walls, Isabella watched her brother Donnchadh walk ahead of the cart that carried their mother’s washed and wrapped body. Johanna, the former Countess of Fife, was dead. She would be taken north to Cupar Abbey and buried beside her husband. Isabella’s eyes followed the wagon. As it moved out of sight, her mind filled with thoughts of her father.

Also named Donnchadh, her father’s rule as mormaer of Fife had been short. It had not been God’s doing, but as she stood there, staring down the now-empty road, she doubted God objected to her father’s brief time on earth. She had no memory of him, but to hear the men and women of Fife tell it, he had been a horrible lord. Obsessed with wealth and power, his cruelty had known no bounds – so much so that it had been his own kinsmen who had cut him down along the Pittillock burn fourteen years ago. Isabella had been a year old at the time of her father’s murder. When her brother had been born a few months later, he had become mormaer the moment he had taken his first breath.

Isabella moved her gaze from the road to the village in the distance. Much to Fife’s relief, her fourteen-year-old brother was nothing like their father. Donnchadh, the fourth of his name, was kind and thought only of the well-being of others. To Isabella, it seemed as though God was making amends for the brutality of his predecessor – all the love and benevolence their father had lacked had been poured into his son.

The footsteps of a heavy-set man hindered by a slight limp sounded on the ground behind her. Isabella did not need to look to know who it was. Sir Michael Wemyss’ gait was as familiar to her as the castle that towered at her back.

She glanced over as he stopped beside her. He was short and stocky with grey hair covering almost the entirety of his head. His almond-coloured eyes were small and his lips were thin, making his nose appear too big for his face. To call him handsome would be dishonest, but what outward beauty he did not have, he more than made up for in loyalty and devotion. He had long served her family, the MacDuffs of Fife. She did not know a time without him. Steadied by his presence, she looked back out to the village beyond.

Your mother was… His voice trailed off. He cleared his throat as he stared at the thatched roofs in the distance. She will be missed.

Isabella smiled softly, not bothering to call Wemyss out on his lie. He knew what he had said was not true.

While Johanna had not been cruel like her husband, years of marriage to a terrible man had taken its toll. She had cared for nothing and for no one, not even her own children. Once her son’s birth had removed the burden of countess from her shoulders, Johanna had spent the rest of her life waiting to die. The sweating sickness had given her what she wanted. Isabella had watched her mother shiver and grow delirious in her bed. She had not prayed once for her recovery. Instead, the only plea to the saints Isabella had made was for death to come and take her mother quicker.

No, the mormaerdom would not miss their former countess. The overwhelming feeling running through Isabella and the surrounding land was relief.

A gust of wind pushed open the thick cloak around Isabella’s shoulders. The fabric flapped back and forth. She made no move to close it, enjoying the feel of fresh air dancing across her skin. At peace for the first time in days, she exhaled in contentment and glanced up at the sky. Clouds covered the whole of it. The sun strained to break through. A gathering of hooves rumbling in the distance caught her attention. Curious, she lowered her gaze.

Wemyss’ eyes were already on the road leading south. The thundering sound grew louder with each passing moment. Villagers walking toward the castle paused in bewilderment to look behind them. The ground shivered, the blades of grass trembling, as a large group of mounted men emerged on the path. A flag rippled through the air above the rider at the front. The blood-red banner tainted the sky. Fear gripped Isabella’s throat. Heat draining from her cheeks, she reached out and clutched Wemyss’ arm.

He had already turned his head, sending a shrill whistle back to the castle. Shouts rang out from atop the wall as Isabella kept her eyes on the approaching army. The people along the road were no longer still. Dropping whatever they carried and abandoning their carts, they fled for the castle and the walls that would protect them. Panic streaked their faces. Dust kicked up about their bolting feet. Isabella struggled to comprehend what was happening. She seemed unable to move. Wemyss grabbed her elbow. Breaking her from her stupor, he spun her around and steered her in through the gate.

Terrified faces streamed past her as they hurried through the bailey. Isabella glanced behind her. The sun had finally pushed its way through the clouds. A small stream of light beamed down on the land below. A glint of gold caught her eye. Her stomach dropped as a new wave of dread washed over her. She stared in disbelief at the crowned man leading his army.

She did not need to be near King Edward of England to feel his intimidating presence. She, along with everyone else, knew his reputation. He vanquished his enemies and conquered kingdoms. He slaughtered burghs, took children hostage, and showed those who opposed him no mercy. The English king had been trying to overthrow Scotland for longer than Isabella could remember, and now he was at her gates. The portcullis slammed shut behind her. She flinched and turned to Wemyss.

My brother, she said, the words thick in her throat. Will he return in time?

Wemyss did not answer, a grim flicker of doubt flashing across his face. People sprinted past them into the tower. A baby’s frightened cry split the swelling noise. Watching a young boy cling tightly to his mother’s skirts, his eyes wide and his lips trembling, Isabella’s despair deepened. MacDuff Castle had less than a hundred men to defend it. They were trained, many of them knights, but their scrambling footsteps and nervous shouts told her of their uncertainty. Wemyss’ continued silence answered her question. Donnchadh and the other men of Fife who had gone to bury her mother could not help them now. Despair filled her chest. Leaning against Wemyss’ steady hold on her arm, Isabella stepped into the keep.

No one lingered near the entrance. They walked with the women and children toward the back of the fortress. Wemyss let go of her arm. Isabella shivered at the sudden absence of warmth on her elbow. She wrapped her arms around herself and glanced at the people nearby. Not many villagers had made it into the castle before the gates had been shut.

She wondered what King Edward would do once he reached them. Would he keep his focus on the fortress? Or would he turn and lay waste to the town?

They stopped at the end of the hallway. The door to the cellar stood open. Wemyss stepped through, but Isabella paused and looked back. Muffled voices from the bailey drifted up into the air. The corridor was empty. Suddenly afraid of being left behind, Isabella turned and hurried after the others into the dark.

She could see nothing, but she did not need to. She simply trailed her fingers along the wall as she walked down the spiral staircase. She had lived in MacDuff Castle her whole life. She knew every inch of the stronghold that loomed up along the edge of the North Sea. The air grew cold and damp as she descended. She heard no one else ahead of her. Worried, she increased her pace and rounded the last bend. Two darkened silhouettes stood waiting up ahead.

Wemyss did not speak as Isabella stopped before him. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment before she looked at the man next to him.

Sir John St John towered above her inside the passageway. Though she was taller than most others her age, the knight always made her feel small. Isabella could not make out his features in the dark, but she knew them well. Coal-coloured hair adorned his head. Large bony hands rested at his sides. As one of Fife’s greatest knights, his presence in the cellar made her unease grow. He should