A Love Unveiled

Chapter Eight

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.