A HIGHLAND TALE 8/?
BY LEELEE AND SEEKERONE
RATING: NC-17 at least. 
CATEGORY: Sc/Sk, Mulder/O, and then who knows?
COMMENTS:  Thanks to Sylvie for superb meticulous beta.  This is a 
better story because of you and any remaining errors are all ours. 
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully face the penalties for their little 
excursion.
SPOILERS:  Don't think so.  Sort of our own little AU.
DISCLAIMERS:  Guess what?  Skinner, Mulder and Scully aren't ours.  
(I know, I know, you're SHOCKED!) But most of the rest of the cast 
are unique to us, thank you very kindly.
ARCHIVE: We'd love it.  As long as you take the whole thing and let 
us know so we can come visit.
WARNING: While this chapter is more plot than smut, the whole series 
is definitely NC-17+. Steamy sex, spanking, an orgy and so on. 
FEEDBACK: Worshipped, adored, read and reread again and again.  Drop 
us a note and let us know what you think:  clueseek@swbell.net   
Viceyy@aol.com
And, until we get our long delayed web site up, if you'd like to have 
new chapters sent right to you, send an e-mail to: slswa-
subscribe@yahoogroups.com and subscribe to our broadcast list.

Chapter 8

The lookout in the watchtower squinted when he saw the mounted party 
off in the distance.  Donald shivered in the cold damp autumn wind as 
he tried to protect his eyes with an upraised hand. It was his first 
time to stand the watch alone.  A younger son, he had come to serve 
at the Castle only last year, and Captain Jamie himself had assigned 
him the day's watch.  He grinned at the memory of it so far.  Isabel 
had brought him half a cold pheasant and a mug of ale for luncheon.  
They had escaped the damp mist by snuggling behind the stone merlons, 
where in wartime the archers stood. Donald sighed at the happy 
memory.  They had made sweet love and laughed about all the little 
things that lovers giggle over.  He paused to shake his head and 
droplets of the damp drizzle flew in all directions.  It wasn't fair 
that buxom little blonde was a poor relation with no dowry.  He 
needed to marry well or he'd wind up a tenant crofter like his da'.  

He abruptly jerked back to watchfulness.  Yes! There! At the tree 
line. Horses and riders coming through the mist and drizzle. The clan 
banner snapped in the breeze.  It was the Lady!  Donald alerted the 
clan waiting restlessly below in the bailey. "They comin' and they're 
na' ridin' hard.  Sum ar' even walking their horses. So, mayhap 
they've found them," he hollered to the people below. 

His happy bellow echoed off the old, gray stonewalls and startled 
chickens scratching for worms around the wet flowers. One of flock 
immediately flew through the open kitchen window with a loud squawk.  
The cook considered that a good omen and so made it a part of the 
evening meal.  
 
There was a quick shout of relief from the waiting crowd, and several 
of the maids laughed and hugged each other. They knew if Lady 
Rhiannon's son was still missing, she wouldn't be taking it easy on 
the horses.

A short figure in a brown monk's robe fell to his knees in the mud by 
the well.  The wind ruffled the cuff of black hair around his tonsure 
while a drop of cold rain slipped down his cowl. He began fingering 
his small silver rosary, whispering a prayer of thanksgiving for the 
safe deliverance of the heir. The blonde housemaid, Isabel, that was 
her name the monk remembered, dutifully crossed herself. Then she 
quickly ran to the kitchen for tankards of warm mulled wine for the 
cold returning travelers. 

The rest of the clan started clapping and shouting, but the cheers 
came to an abrupt halt when the hunting party clattered into the 
courtyard. The tension in the group was strong enough to blight any 
celebration. The horses blew gray clouds and steam rising from their 
warm bodies was clearly visible in the damp air.  Even the returning 
hounds, muddy from their hunt, seemed subdued, and quietly headed for 
their kennels. 

The outlander girl was thrown over the freesword's saddle and splayed 
across his thighs.  She wasn't tied, but when she tried to get down, 
he swatted her bottom hard enough to make the water fly from her 
dirty dress. She twisted up to glare at him.  She seemed to calling 
him every obscenity in her repertoire - under her breath, of course.

The scribe was bound in chains and riding behind Jamie, his iron 
collar clearly marking him for what he was. But the Captain's 
broadsword was not in his heavy leather baldric. The thick black belt 
hung diagonally across his chest like always, but the scabbard was 
empty. 

In fact, Jamie was sitting ramrod straight and stiff in the heavy 
leather saddle, unlike the relaxed grace of someone who had ridden 
horses all his life. The fair skin of his face was an angry red and 
he chewed on his lower lip. Raindrops glistened on the heavy fur 
cloak he wore.

The kitchen scullion, Meig, was the first to notice that the 
Captain's sword was tied to their Lady's saddle. She always watched 
Jamie, ever since the night he had taken her and the laundress to his 
bed.  She grinned at the memory and felt herself grow warm and wet. 
He pleasured them both till cock crow. But today, it looked like 
trouble for the man. 

She nudged Naoghas, the cook, and pointed silently to the misplaced 
weapon.  Both of them caught a quick look at Rhiannon's face and 
peeked back at Jamie.  A few worried glances were exchanged and 
suddenly, everyone quickly found something to do. The adults 
whispered as they walked away, shooing the children ahead of them. It 
was clear that their Lady's anger was not just for the outlanders. 

The big bay courser was only sweating slightly from the double burden 
of his Lady and the heir.  From her rigid posture to her clenched 
jaw, it was obvious that Lady Rhiannon was also in a rare taking. Her 
dark hair had worked loose from her widow's cap and hung down her 
back. Impatiently, she tossed a damp strand over her shoulder. Lord 
Bruce, who was riding a pillion behind her, glared at her back, his 
frown a mirror image of his mother's.

"Slide down, Bruce," she ordered.  "Fergus, help me," she commanded 
as the old groom stepped forward to hold her courser's bridle.  He 
nodded as he caught her around her waist and lifted her down.  Odd 
doings.  Usually, it was Captain Jamie who helped her dismount.  

The Lady paused to jerk at her long skirts that were tangled in the 
newly fashionable sidesaddle. Then, with an extra hard pull, she 
ripped the hem. When the dark green velvet tore, the Lady swore like 
a harlot under her breath. "Stable the horses. They get extra grain 
tonight.  Then, see that this tack is cleaned properly."  

Fergus stopped rubbing his gnarled hand over the horse's warm velvet 
nose and stared at her in disbelief. He had been caring for the 
McKinnon horses since before Rhiannon was born. "Lack wit," he merely 
grunted in response as he led the big horse away. 

"And, then bring my whip and marking iron to the great hall." The 
groom paused on his way to the stables, glancing back at her in 
surprise. The big bay butted his shoulder, impatient for his stall 
and the promised grain. The Lady was rarely known to use a whip on 
her horses, much less on anyone else. 

"Ye heard me," she snapped.  Fergus nodded obediently as he glanced 
over the rest of the party with sympathy.  The young laird was fine 
but looked as upset as his mother.  The runaway scribe and girl both 
appeared exhausted, wet, dirty and maybe, a little scared.  Fergus 
sighed.  If they had any sense, they'd be very scared, he thought, 
shaking his head.  

"Mother, I told you already. . ." Bruce began with an impatient stamp 
of his foot.  The chill wind rumpled his kilt and goose bumps 
appeared on his short legs.  Rain droplets dotted his long eyelashes.

"As this matter bears on the whole clan, I'll hear your tale in the 
hall.  Bring the scribe, and Captain. Ye, too freesword," Rhiannon 
ordered as she brushed the wet mud clinging to her gown.  "I would 
hear each of you swear to the truth of your witness." 

She noticed the scullion slipping away to the kitchen and frowned at 
the muted cloak that vanished through the side doorway. Had Jamie let 
his little amusements with the two sluts interfere with duties to the 
garrison?  The thought of him in bed with the women aroused a white 
hot fury in her she could barely contain.  

Rhiannon glared at the Captain now, and her tones became even more 
clipped,  "I would hear how two people could take the McKinnon out of 
the castle and me own guards na' even notice it."  She turned and 
stomped toward the main building, her boots clumping on the innocent 
cobblestones.

Her attention was suddenly caught by the stranger in her 
courtyard. "And who the devel ar' ye'?" she demanded of the young man 
in the damp, brown robes standing wide-eyed by the well.

"I'm . . . Uh . .  I'm Father Hew," he stammered as he stared at the 
tall woman in front of him. "I've . . .uh. . .come ta' take Father 
Bryan's place. God rest his soul," he quickly crossed himself 
piously.  "That is, if ye'll have me."

The Lady gave him a hard glare and he immediately dropped his eyes as 
was befitting a priest.  It was unseemly for a man sworn to God to 
look directly at a woman. "Ye write a fair hand?" she snapped, 
stripping off her damp gloves.

"Aye, my Lady," he gulped nodding as he studied the wet cobblestones 
at his feet.

"Then, come. Ye'll make a record o' this since me scribe will be 
facing judgment." She paused for a moment, glancing over the party 
following her.   Fox wouldn't meet her eyes either, but the 
freesword's leman glared right back at her.  The girl had a smear of 
mud on her damp, pale face that she ignored as she pushed her short, 
red hair behind her ear.  The ragged wet dress the whore wore was 
nearly in tatters and she shivered in the cold.  Rhiannon remembered 
Skinner admitting that the girl only had one.  A small part of the 
Lady's mind made note that no one in her household should be in such 
need.  But she would deal with that later, after the truth was 
settled, she decided.

"Rauf, take the gal to the dungeon.  She is the freesword's 
responsibility. He shall plead her case and answer fer her 
punishment. Come.  This shall be settled now."  With a silken rustle 
of her wet fur overmantle, she led the group into the great hall.


Judgment in The Great Hall

Rhiannon settled in her heavy oak chair at the head table. She tried 
to control her swirling emotions as she arranged her cloak for extra 
warmth. She had always prided herself on being a fair and just 
mistress of the castle and the clan. Facing unknown danger to her son 
had overwhelmed her.  She was ready to explode. They all needed to 
learn a lesson, including the young boy who was the most important 
thing in her world. 

Isabel brought her a tankard of hot mulled wine.  "Have Iorcall stir 
up the fire and light the torches. And, the priest needs the clan 
book.  Bring it from the chapel, along with quills and ink." 

Isabel nodded and hurried away.  She wondered what she'd missed while 
getting the wine for her Lady, but well a day, Donald would tell her.

The clan filtered in but stayed in the shadows.  The scribe, the 
freesword, Jamie and Young Bruce stood rigidly in front of the 
platform.  The blues and greens of their kilts were muted in the dim 
light. 

"Sit there, Father." Rhiannon commanded.  The priest obediently sat 
on a small wooden bench at the end of the table, flexing his chapped 
fingers in the cold room.  The blonde maid laid a heavy book on the 
old tilted writing stand, placing two long quills beside it. Isabel 
glanced around, looking for Donald among the soldiers standing in the 
great hall.  
 
"I will need more light, my daughter, it grows too dark to write." 
The priest whispered to Isabel, not wishing to draw the Lady's 
attention to him.  Wordlessly, the maid set out a small inkpot as he 
opened the clan record book. She brought a rush light and placed it 
on the heavy damask cloth covering the table. Births, weddings, 
fines, tithes, purchases, judgments, punishments and deaths were all 
entered, he noted, although the recent ones where in a poor hand.  

"Lord Bruce, heir to the honor of the Clan McKinnon.  Stand forth and 
be accounted," came the ringing tones of the Lady seated at the 
center of the table.

He stepped forward and stood in front of her. His small body was 
erect and proud. The heat of the fire was beginning to dry his damp 
kilt, his mother noted with approval.  She fought against the 
feelings she had whenever she saw any defiance in him. By our sweet 
Lady, he was so like his father, she thought. With all the potential 
to be just as arrogant, courageous, troublesome and resilient. 

Not waiting for her permission to speak, he began to explain all that 
had happened. She didn't believe his excuse about ordering Fox out 
for a walk to study plants. But in watching him speak, she saw 
quickly what he had planned. By speaking the lie out in the middle of 
the hall, Bruce was daring her to call him on it. The boy was defying 
her, knowing that she had two choices. Accept what he was saying or 
call him a liar, shaming him in front of the people that he would one 
day lead.  

Rhiannon leaned her head against the back of her chair and closed her 
eyes. She would not risk her son's immortal soul by asking him to 
swear to the story. 
The Lady fought against tears that threatened to fall. Bruce's act of 
defiance and courage warmed her heart like nothing else ever had. He 
would be the Laird of this clan and a good one too, if she was any 
judge of it. He had inherited the spirit he needed from his father to 
become The McKinnon. She rolled her shoulders, feeling as though a 
great weight was lifted from her.

Of course, she WAS still his mother.

"Enough," she finally said. "You've stated your case, and I will 
accept it as the truth." Bruce's face lit up in a childish smile of 
delight and she fought the urge to pull him onto her lap.

"However," she stated in a firm voice, so he would understand she was 
serious. "The Laird of the Clan must also take the consequences for 
his people's actions and their failures.  You will hear my judgments 
for the others here, and know that you also bear part of the 
responsibility for their punishments.  I order you to go with our new 
priest and spend the night in holy prayer. Pray for your father's 
soul, and for God to give you the wisdom to be a fair and HONEST 
leader of this clan."

Bruce looked upset. The miniature heir stubbed his toe against the 
rushes and mumbled his agreement. She gestured to him to stand by the 
priest at the end of the table.

"Sir Jamie, Captain of the Guard of the McKinnons, come forth and 
answer for your failure," she cried out.  The hall suddenly became 
still as everyone held their breath. Jamie pushed forward from where 
he stood by the freesword.

"I stand here, my Lady," he said gravely, his whole body taut with 
anger.

"You hold for my castle and the safety of the heir. Yet this morning, 
he was allowed to leave this hall, escorted only by a slip of a girl 
and an outlander. Is this true?" Rhiannon's temper was building 
again, her clenched fist suddenly pounded on the table.

"Yes, my Lady," he admitted.

"Furthermore, your men did not know that he was gone until the alarm 
was raised.  Is this also true?" she demanded. 

Isabel gasped in sudden shock at the words, quickly slapping her hand 
over her mouth, her eyes wide in disbelief. The realization of why no 
alarm had been raised swept over her.  The lookout had not left his 
post, but his mind had certainly not been on watching the coming and 
goings of the clan folk.  

Jamie dropped his eyes and nodded in assent.

"Whatever discipline you give the guards, the ultimate responsibility 
is yours. You are my constable. And you failed to protect the heir," 
her voice was harsh as she reminded him of his sworn duties.  She 
paused to sip from the tankard, and collect herself.  This must be a 
fair judgment, Rhiannon, she told herself. No more, but no less.  
Forget your anger.  

"They were gone from Terce, until we found them at None. You shall 
receive four stripes for every hour he was gone. The crime was 
against my house and I will carry out the chastisement.  For keeping 
discipline and order, the punishment shall be carried out in my 
solar. Go, now and await me."  Rhiannon gestured to the whip lying on 
the table. 

Jamie glared at her a moment more, his green eyes catching the 
firelight like the stained glass in the chapel. But then, as if 
recognizing his failure and her right to the sentence, he picked up 
the lash and walked to the wide stairway leading to the Lady's 
chambers.

Rhiannon paused, gathering herself before she looked toward the end 
of the table.  This was an important lesson for young Bruce as well.  
There were always consequences for any action, and the ultimate 
responsibility lay with those in charge.  The boy was pale and 
chewing on his thumb.  Jamie was his friend and tutor in archery and 
combat. His actions had resulted in his mentor getting a beating.

Skinner and the scribe had been whispering softly. No doubt something 
about their strange world back in Dee of Cee.  Rhiannon overheard the 
mercenary accuse the scribe of running off, again.  By Saint Thomas, 
if he'd deserted the soldier before in time of need, it was a wonder 
he was alive to tell it. 

"Freesword," Rhiannon called out suddenly.  Instantly, the whispers 
stopped as both men seemed to recall where they were.  Skinner 
stepped forward and looked down at her.

"The leman is your responsibility, Outlander.  If, as my son says, he 
and the scribe were studying plants, a kitchen wench still has no 
business away from her work." Rhiannon watched the interplay between 
the two men as the scribe stepped forward to speak and Skinner told 
him to shut up. "I will not risk my men chasing after some fool girl 
who's chosen to runaway in nigh on winter.  If she is tired of your 
protection, she may petition me for relief."

Skinner growled deep in his throat, glared at Mulder once more, and 
then faced Rhiannon again.  "Dana is mine.  And, if she was led 
astray in this foolishness, I will punish her for it."

"Indeed you will, Freesword. You will go to the dungeon now and give 
her the beating she deserves.  Since this is her first error while in 
my castle, I will be merciful.  You will use only your hand," the 
Lady ordered.  

Fox began an immediate protest, but was silenced by a harsh voice 
from the dim sidelines.  "Beggin' yur pardon, mi Lady," Angus stepped 
forward into the torch light around the table. "He's sweet on the 
little whore.  He'll na hit her'n hard enough to teach her th' 
lesson."

Rhiannon stifled her dislike of the little soldier.

He was filthy dirty in mind and body, she noted as he blatantly 
scratched at what she only hoped was a flea bite.  But he had raised 
a formidable point, one that she couldn't ignore in front of the rest 
of the clan.  "Then, Angus, you shall watch.  If the beating is not 
strong enough, you may step in." Angus grinned and began to rub his 
grimy hands as if anticipating revenge on the wench who had shamed 
him earlier.  

Both Skinner and Fox began to protest loudly, when the Lady raised 
her hand for silence.  "In any case, this was her first offense.  No 
blood shall be shed by either party.  Is that clear?" 

Skinner reluctantly nodded and turned toward the guard house and the 
dungeon stairs. Angus followed at a safe distance.  A part of 
Rhiannon mentally shook herself.  The last judgment would be the 
hardest.

"Stand forth, Scribe,"  Rhiannon's voice was frost.  As he moved into 
the rush lights, she noticed that Fox was swallowing convulsively. He 
stood in front of the table, the manacles around his wrists linked to 
the iron collar at his neck.  The chains clinked loudly in the still 
room as he shivered in the cold. She remembered again how he looked 
in her bed.  How soft his lips felt against her breast. How he 
whimpered when she rode him to his release.  Even now, he had the 
ability to stir her blood. 

"You were charged with my son's learning, and thus with his safety.  
I dinna think I have to say again that this trust was no' kept. You 
have disappointed me, Scribe.  You endangered and nearly lost a 
precious child."  His hazel eyes grew large in the dim light.  Her 
hard words seemed to have struck home with him.  

"What did I tell ye the first night, yer punishment would be for 
running away before your bond debt was paid?" she demanded.  She 
suddenly rose to stand behind the table and stared intently at him. 
Leaning over the damask covered board, she felt the fine cloth under 
her hands.  Odd how delicate silk could feel rough at times.  The 
only sound in the chamber was the scratch of the priest's quill as he 
noted the transgressions in the clan's record book.
 
"You said," Fox whispered, looking down at the iron rod laying on the 
cloth in front of him, and then gathered himself.  "You said you'd 
whip my ass and put your brand on me." He stood straight, staring at 
her, his own hazel eyes cavernous and pleading for sympathy.  
 

The Lady said nothing, merely gestured toward the marking iron.  Fox 
slowly picked it up.  "My solar. Now!" came the echoing order.

End of Chapter 8