“Are you homesick, my lady?” Roger asked.
She
sighed. “You could not know. No one not of the Highlands could know what it means to a Scot.”
“My grandmother was a Scot, so perhaps that qualifies me to have some understanding of your ways.”
Her head came up abruptly. “Your grandmother! What was her name?”
“A MacPherson of MacAlpin.”
Bronwyn smiled. It was good to even hear the familiar names once again. “MacAlpin. ’Tis a good clan.”
“Yes. I spent many evenings listening to stories at my grandmother’s knee.”
“And what sort of stories did she tell you?” Bronwyn asked cautiously.
“She was married to an Englishman, and she often compared the cultures of the two countries. She said the Scots were more hospitable, that the men didn’t shove the women into a room and pretend they had no sense as the English do. She said the Scots treated women as equals.”
“Yes,” Bronwyn agreed quietly. “My father named me laird.” She paused. “How did your English grandfather treat his Scots wife?”
Roger chuckled as if at some private joke. “My grandfather lived in Scotland for a while, and he knew my grandmother to be a woman of intelligence. He valued her all his life. There was never a decision made that was not made by both of them.”
“And you spent some time with your grandparents?”
“Most of my life. My parents died when I was very young.”
“And what did you think of this non-English way of treating women? Surely, now that you are older, you’ve learned that women are only of use in the bed, in creating and delivering children.”
Roger laughed out loud. “If I even had such a thought, my grandmother’s ghost would box my ears. No,” he said more seriously, “she meant for me to marry the daughter of a cousin of hers, but the child died before our marriage. I grew up calling myself MacAlpin.”
“What?” She was startled.
Roger looked surprised. “It was in the marriage contract that I’d become a MacAlpin to please her clan.”
“And you’d do that? I mentioned to Sir Thomas that my husband must become a MacArran, but he said that was impossible, that no Englishman would give up his fine old name for a heathen Scots name.”
Roger’s eyes flashed angrily. “They don’t understand! Damn the English! They think only their ways are right. Why, even the French—”
“The French are our friends,” Bronwyn interrupted. “They visit our country as we do theirs. They don’t destroy our crops or steal our cattle as the English do.”
“Cattle.” Roger smiled. “Now there’s an interesting subject. Tell me, do the MacGregors still raise such fat beasts?”
Bronwyn drew her breath in sharply. “Clan MacGregor is our enemy.”
“True,” he smiled, “but don’t you find that a roast of MacGregor beef is more succulent than any other?”
She could only stare at him. The MacGregors had been the enemies of the MacArrans for centuries.
“Of course, things may have changed since my grandmother was a Highland lass,” Roger continued. “Then the favorite sport of the young men was a swift moonlight cattle raid.”
Bronwyn smiled at him. “Nothing’s changed.”
Roger turned and snapped his fingers. “Would you like something to eat, my lady? Sir Thomas has a French chef, and he has prepared us a feast. Tell me, have you ever eaten a pomegranate?”
She could only shake her head and look at him in wonder as the baskets were unloaded and Roger’s squire served the meal on silver plates. For the first time in her life she had the thought that an Englishman could be human, that he could learn, and desired to learn, the Scots’ ways. She picked up a piece of pâté, molded into the shape of a rose and placed on a cracker. The events of the day were a revelation to her.
“Tell me, Lord Roger, what do you think of our clan system?”