A/N: I wrote this after several requests for a period Kurtbastian piece. Inspired by the Kurtbastian Hiatus Project prompt "historical - other" since it falls in the 1200's.
This is kind of Harlequin style - emphasis on the drama and less on historical accuracy, though I did consult clan maps, clan websites, historical map sites, and dialect guides in an attempt to be as close as possible. Also, I wrote the dialogue to give readers a taste of the accent without tripping over it. I hope it works :)
EDIT*** I've pared down the dialogue in the hopes of making it more accessible to me readers for whom English may not be their first language. Please give it another try if you've already read it and had problems with it and tell me what you think.
Kurt steers his midnight Friesian, Elliot, up and over the crest of the final knoll, following his course at a slow walk, not eager to arrive at his destination. He knows not how a man, about to become a bridegroom, should feel as he journeys to the home of his would-be husband, but Kurt, dressed in his ceremonial tartan and sash, perched in a new leather saddle (apparently a wedding gift from his groom), fears he may be sick. This illness began as a twinge in his stomach as he traveled farther and farther from his father's castle - as he watched it become a spot in the distance, watched it disappear behind the green Highland hills - only to develop into a vile nausea, making him unable to sleep comfortably at night, causing him to eat very little, and filling his mouth with the tang of a constant acid that rose up his throat and burned away at his tongue. After that, eating became but a chore, as he hadn't a taste for anything.
The air feels cooler on this part of the continent than in the land he called home. It hangs heavy with the icy water that kisses the shore not a day's ride from this overlook. The grass laid out beneath his horse's hooves is remarkably green here – dense and luxurious, like a fine plush blanket he could sink down into. Not like the short, lime green grass where he comes from.
Not like in the Highlands.
The loch further on feeds the flora here. The trees grow taller, the heather thicker, beholding a startling violet coloration to their petals, the soil richer, more fertile, bursting to give life to seed and animal alike. It is not in the nature of water to travel to high ground, so perhaps the Lowland barbarians have this felicity in their corner, but Kurt's father always said that living in the Highlands put them closer to God.
And Kurt needs God to watch over him, more than ever.
The thought of Kurt's father brings a grim set to his face and tears to his eyes – tears he would show no one, but as he travels alone, he allows a scarce few to fall.
Kurt didn't want to leave his Da with no one to care for him – no wife to tend to him, no other children to bring him comfort. Being advanced in years and with his heart paining him, Kurt fears that his Da has naught but one or two winters left. It seems asinine that at this tenuous time in his sire's life, Kurt is being sent away. This union wasn't by any choice of Kurt's. The whole matter had been decided before Kurt even heard rumor of it, in secret conferences held behind closed doors. But when the day came to depart, Kurt showed his sire no frown nor worry. He put on a strong face, stood straight and tall, and mounted his stallion with pride, taking off for the Lowlands with all the bearing he could muster.
The bearing befitting a lord.
But days later, here he sits atop his horse, a shiver of fright taking over where the chill of the cold left off. The animal beneath him treads without command, over land where many of Kurt's kin fought and died during dark times, during the war between the clans - their precious blood spilt, heads lobbed off and skewered on spikes, lined up along this very ridge as a warning to those who would follow.
Too much blood has fed this grass. It is time for this feud to be done before another terrible battle starts, for day after day, raid after raid, there seems to be one looming just beyond the horizon.
In theory, this wedding between him and…God above! Kurt doesn't even know the man's name!…should end the conflict, seal the bond between the clans, wash away the blood, and make these lands safe again for his people. But they aren't safe for the moment, and regardless of Kurt's upcoming nuptials, much of the Lowlands is considered forbidden, which is why Kurt's escort - two armed men of his father's choosing - made the journey with him as far as the border, and from there Kurt was left to ride the remainder alone.
Tis considered an act of good faith for Kurt to continue his journey unescorted and unarmed.
Kurt sees it as foolish, but yet again he had no say, and now that he is on his own, entering the tree line of an unknown and savage country, Kurt feels uneasy, on edge, picturing assassins behind every trunk, poised in the branches, ready to take his life - either out of revenge or for a purse of gold, it matters not.
Kurt wraps the leather reins around his hands to keep him steady, but it helps for little when he trembles down to his bones.
Kurt stays on the alert, but his mind wanders a trifle, for he cannot help wondering what manner of beast his father has shackled him to – some scoundrel, a preening wretch who will rank Kurt twelfth after his band of ready whores. Or maybe a toothless, decrepit old man, twisted and infirm, wanting to get a swain for his bed before he hurries off to meet his maker.
His father knows and chose not to tell, which imbues Kurt with not an inch of confidence.
But his father loves him. He would not pick unwisely for him…unless he had no choice.
Maybe the matter lay less in his father's hands than Kurt realizes.
Though his new husband may turn out to be unfavorable, Kurt has to admit the land out here is splendid. The more of it he sees, the more that he thanks the angels who guard him that he will have this to escape to, these gorgeous rolling hills and acres of blessed beauty to ride his horse over from sun up to sun down, as he expects to entertain his new lord little if he has any say in the matter.
His body may be traded for peace, but not his heart. That belongs to him and him alone.
Past midday, the trees ahead of him part, and there it stands – the castle of the Baron Colquhoun.
Kurt's horse comes to an unbidden halt as his master's legs tighten around him. Kurt can hardly breathe in its presence, and at once, he wants to turn his stallion around and ride full speed for home.
This vision his eyes hold is not of a castle. It is a ruin – a haphazard heap of rock and stone piled one on top the other, creating a mass that rises high and tilts in such a treacherous way that Kurt fears for the lives of those within. It seems fit overall more for livestock than it does for a chief and his clan, but even then only by a fraction, and only in a case of dire need. This ancient stronghold might actually be held upright by wishes and prayers instead of by any competent mortar, which Kurt finds commendable since, even with his steadfast belief in a higher power, he has not faith enough to keep such a structure erect. Kurt's shock at this monstrosity is overwhelmed only by his confusion. Surely his father didn't mean for Kurt to live here. He would not stand for his son and heir being forced to make due with such detestable accommodations, not at any price. This must be some trick, a test of Kurt's loyalty, to see if he will go through with the marriage. And when he has made good on his promise, his new lord and husband will spirit him away to their true home for having proven himself a worthy spouse.
Or, Kurt's life could be over, this rundown shambles his prison until the day he dies and rots within its crumbling walls, which may be sooner than he expected. Then they shall entomb him here, simply wait until the place collapses with his cadaver inside, swallowing him whole.
Kurt's body becomes leaden, immovable as iron as he stares upon his new home, the want to cry, to curse, to scream suddenly an abundant need, but he dare not. He will do nothing to disgrace his sire or his people by behaving like a brat – unmannered and spoilt. He will ride down to the gates of his appointed hell with his head held high, march through to the hall, and confront the man who would so shamefully pass himself off as a noble and provide this for his husband as insult.
Kurt fixes a stern expression to his face and keeps a weather-eye cast ahead, past the castle, out toward the horizon. He occupies his mind as he approaches, doing everything in his power not to stare at the stark grey towers marring the soothing periwinkle blue of the sky above with their jagged turrets, unkept and broken, a disgrace to the Colquhoun name, not to mention his own.
Ah, but the Colquhoun name will soon be his own, and he refuses to see it dishonored. He will find this Baron Colquhoun and make his intentions known. This folly ends tonight – Kurt will see to it.
He will demand it done, have this place returned to its former glory – if ever there was any to begin with - or else he cannot rightly call himself his father's son.
As Kurt rides nearer the seemingly abandoned wreck of a castle, he can see it is in a greater state of decay than he perceived from afar, the entirety of the fortress slowly being engulfed by the land it stands upon. The stones at the base show cracks that Kurt suspects run straight through to the foundation. He grimaces. The cellars must leak unendingly, and flood during the rainy season, the walls crawling with poisonous black mold from floor to ceiling. He finds evidence to that in the moat, which has barely a drop of water in it, filled to the brim with dark, stagnant mud.
It's an effective deterrent in Kurt's case. It would be enough to keep him away.
"Oh, Elliot," Kurt says into the neck of his beloved horse. "Why have I been doomed to live in this forsaken place? What tis it I've done to anger heaven so?"
Kurt searches for a sentry on the wall to announce his arrival, or for any lookout on the watch tower who will at least command the drawbridge be lowered, but there is none – not a single human being on the grounds without or within. He leads Elliot around the outskirts of the outer wall, in search of a way inside. There seems to be none – no way across the moat, no niche for him to enter should he make it there, and not a person anywhere to send up a call. He discovers on his second pass, as he comes back around, a narrow plank, brown as the mud beneath it, with width enough for a single man to make a way across if they turn their body sideways and slide foot after foot. Kurt looks down at his bright white shirt and immaculate tartan, and sighs. He dismounts his horse.
He sees no way that he won't end up in the moat, as good as his luck's been lately.
Kurt walks up to the plank hovering a mere inch above the foul bog. The end has been rammed into the earth of this bank and looks secure, though he cannot see the end on the opposite bank. He puts a cautious foot to the wood. The plank waggles to and fro till Kurt steadies it. He slides a bit forward, then adds a second foot behind, listing like a boat during a storm, eyes wide and fearful till his stomach cramps with his efforts to make it stop. He takes in a deep breath of relief as he finds his balance, reluctant to move from the position he had struggled so hard for. But he knows he must.
Go back or go forward, and he knows he cannot go back.
"I am Kurt MacKenzie of the Clan MacKenzie, Highland born son of the Chief, and I will conquer this crossing…" He forces his left foot forward, sliding it across the board. "I will conquer this castle…" He brings his right foot to follow. "I will conquer this baron and take my place by his side…" Kurt grunts as he slides further. There is no bright sun at this hour of day to burn Kurt's fair skin, yet he sweats beneath his shirt, starting at the shoulder that bears the weight of his tartan sash, perspiration running down his back and gathering at his hips. The plank gives an abrupt lurch and Kurt heaves forward, knees knocking together as he goes rigid, becoming one with the wood to keep from losing his footing. He repeats his mantra over again, hoping that the words give him the strength to make it across.
"I am Kurt MacKenzie…of the Clan MacKenzie…Highland born son of the Chief…and I will conquer this crossing…I will conquer this castle…I will conquer this baron and take my place by his side…"
Kurt sees the bank within reach of his leg - just another step and he should be able to make it with only his leather shoes sacrificed to the effort.
"That's…ugh…the first reparation…oompf!…this baron will need…umf…to make," Kurt mutters. "For not…having the common decency…to-aaaaaaah!"
An eardrum-splitting squeal rends the air as behind Kurt something like the form of a large, grime-soaked pig bounds from the moat and up onto the plank, bowing it in the center, dragging it below the level of the mud. Kurt feels his foot dip under and he scrambles for the bank, barely making it before the animal dives back into the moat and paddles for shore. The plank snaps back with a resounding dull twang, vibrations sending droplets of muck jettisoning Kurt's way. When the disturbance fades, Kurt glances down at his clothes and exhales with a prayer of thanks that he managed to avoid the shower of dirt unscathed.
A few spots. Nothing that cannot be blotted out, he thinks as he straightens his sleeves. He stands up straight and feels his drenched foot squish down into his shoe. That, however, is unaccepta—
The moment of silence is torn to shreds as a larger, more human-esque creature emerges from the mud, breaching out of the moat and reaching for the pig, flailing to grab at it and missing it by a hair.
"Shite!" the mud man bellows, watching the animal scrabble onto the land and bolt away. "That be the third fuckin' time this…" The man shakes his head like a hound, clearing the mud from his ears, sending it raining Kurt's way. Kurt flattens himself as close to the castle wall as he can manage without actually touching it to avoid a second spray.
"Watch yourself!" Kurt barks.
The man turns his head to look at Kurt, a scowl on his face that transforms into a wicked grin when he notices the pristinely-dressed man, standing in a recess, shielding his fine clothing from the sludge ever-present around them.
"Come again?" the man says, his body sinking below the surface of the mud with his folded arms on the wood plank holding his head and shoulders above.
"Take care, you. I'm to be lord of this…" Kurt looks around at the weathered stone behind him and almost whimpers with despair, "castle, and I have no need to be tackled free of my senses by the likes of ye."
It wasn't normally in Kurt's nature to behave like a pretentious snob. At home, he did his best to remain humble, and was beloved by his clan because of it – because aside from his occasional high-maintenance, he was a kind and compassionate man, a trait his father attributed with pride to Kurt's poor deceased mother. But Kurt's father had warned him about the men of the Lowlands, how they take all for themselves and care nothing for others. He warned Kurt and he reminded Kurt that he was a lord, even if he was to carry that title in the Lowlands. Kurt had to show the scum of the earth bastards that lived there that he wouldn't be pushed around.
The man in the moat smiles at Kurt's scolding, rising from the mud as if he were born of it.
"Forgive my state of undress, my lord, as I were chasing down a boar what's been plaguing the lambs." The man stood more fully, revealing a shirt that had been once white, slathered in mud and most likely dung.
Had he once been wearing a proper kilt or stockings, they were lost to him now.
His shirt helps little in keeping him modest.
Kurt averts his eyes with an irritated and affronted gasp.
"Could ye possibly be possessed of somethin' to cover your nethers?" he snaps.
"Why?" the man asks, opening his arms wide, causing the shirt to rise up his thighs a sliver, almost exposing him to God and country. "I've nothin' that ye have not beheld before."
"Nay, just in smaller quantity, I wager."
Kurt expects the man to be furious at this jab at his endowments, but it only makes the knave's smirk brighter.
"Ooo," he coos, approaching as Kurt turns his head to face away, negotiating the narrow plank as though he has done it dozens of times before. "That's quite a mouth on ye."
"Not that ye'll ever know," Kurt hisses, backing a blind step away. "And careful, swine. My tartan be worth ten of ye."
"Is that so?"
"Aye," Kurt says with an emphatic nod as the man closes in. "Ten of ye, your kin, and all of your filthy possessions combined."
"And are ye sure of that?" the man asks, his voice soft, almost inviting.
"Oh, of that I be quite sure," Kurt returns icily, cursing himself when his voice shakes. The man looks to says something back when a third voice enters the fray.
"Have ye caught it yet?" the feminine voice from above yells down to the mud-covered man below.
"Nay, Elspeth," the man hollers back, his eyes not removed from Kurt's blushing face. "Not yet."
Kurt looks upward to catch sight of the woman, though mainly to hide his blazing cheeks, and he hears the man in front of him chuckle. His laugh is a smooth, melodic sound that carries with it heat – a heat that hits those places Kurt keeps carefully hidden, especially from the likes of bastards like this.
"Mind ye, make haste, lad," the woman replies. "We've got company arrivin'…oh…" The woman – leaning halfway out of a high window - spies Kurt huddled against the wall. The window cuts her at the mid-thigh, and when she leans forward, Kurt fears she will topple out. She smiles warmly at him, bobbing him an elegant, if awkward, curtsy. "Oh, m'lord. You're here. And I see ye have a'ready met."
Now that he has full view of her, Kurt remembers this woman. He recalls her accompanying the emissary who visited his father's estate to arrange his match (he realizes that, of course, in retrospect). She seemed a pleasant enough woman, though at the time finely dressed, which is why when she looks down upon him, wearing what appears to be a drab pewter shift, her hair covered in a cap stained off-white with age, she is nigh unrecognizable.
"Aye, we have," Kurt sniffs. "If tis of import that I meet your gamekeeper before my intended, then I guess I shoulda be glad. Shall I be meeting the kitchen staff next?"
The portly woman looks at Kurt agog, the air around them still as she begins to understand his words, and then she laughs, hearty and from her belly, as if Kurt had finished telling the bawdiest tale she has ever heard in her life.
"M'lord," she says, lifting her apron to her eyes to wipe away her amused tears, "you've got yourself a feisty one there, lord. Ye keep an eye on that one - dressed like a prince, but with the wit of the devil, he has."
Kurt takes his turn to gawk, for he hasn't a single notion what she's talking about. Lord? She's not addressing him. Had his betrothed walked on to the scene without his knowing? Kurt turns his head in search of him, but no one else can he see. Just the woman above him, and the rogue before him, moving toward Kurt, stalking him like prey, keeping a keen eye locked to Kurt's surprised face.
"Nay," the insufferable man says. "Ye have it wrong. I be not the gamekeeper. I be the man yer gonna marry."
Kurt stares back into the man's green eyes, green as the grass surrounding them, green as if they had sprouted from the soil of this land, and beautiful as the day is long. But that will not protect him from Kurt's ire as he readies to tear into the man for his ludicrous claim, preparing to promise him the flogging of his life. But for all his inappropriate swagger, Kurt can see no lie in this man's eyes, and it steals his bravery away.
"Wh-what?" Kurt asks, breathless when he prayed he wouldn't be, but he can't help it. Those eyes hold him prisoner. They know more than they're telling.
"Aye," the woman says from the window, dismissing both men with another laugh. "Ye be in the presence of Sebastian, Chief of the Clan Colquhoun, Laird of Loch Lomond."
Kurt looks at the man covered in mud - the man whose shirt clings to him in sinful, tempting ways, the smile on his smug face nearly splitting his face in two. He looks like a demon, with gleaming white teeth and shining eyes, muscular limbs on full display, sun-kissed skin covered in mud except for a spot at his neck that glitters with a silver chain hanging askew, the crest of a noble plastered against his collarbone.
Holy hell, Kurt thinks. Tis him to be certain – Kurt's soon-to-be husband.
"Dearest God in all the heavens," Kurt breathes, rolling his eyes back with a low groan. "Please strike me dead where I stand."